"The man hasn't found his sea-legs yet," thought Sefton; then aloud he asked: "Well?"
"None left, sir," replied the seaman, and, having delivered his message, he pitched upon his face.
Sefton had to let him lie there. The sub could not leave the bridge. Even Crosthwaite had to be left alone until the destroyer was out of action.
It would have been a futile task to attempt to take the Calder back between the enemy lines. With no other offensive weapons than her comparatively light 4-inch quick-firers, she would be unable to do any serious damage to the huge armoured ships, while at the same time she would be exposed to an overwhelming fire as she passed abeam of the German battleships and light cruisers.
So into the darkness, beyond the glare of the search-lights, Sefton took the destroyer, with the intention of making a wide sweep and rejoining the British fleet. Of how the Calder's consorts were faring he knew nothing, except that the action was being briskly maintained. Occasionally the foggy night would be rent by a vivid red glare that outclassed the almost continuous flashes of the guns, which illuminated the low-lying clouds like incessant summer lightning. The roar of the ordnance was simply indescribable. It seemed impossible that a man could go through it without having his ear-drums burst by the terrific air-beats of the appalling detonations.
A dark shape loomed through the darkness almost athwart the Calder's track. Only a quick movement of the helm avoided collision with the floating object, which, as the Calder swept by, revealed itself as a large destroyer.
On deck she was little better than a wreck. Bridge, conning-tower, funnels, masts, and boats had vanished utterly. Her guns, wrenched from their mountings, pointed upwards at grotesque angles through their shattered shields. Where the torpedo-tubes had been was a jagged hole still spanned by one arc of the gun-metal racer. This much was visible in the reflected glare of the distant search-lights as the Calder swept by with her guns trained abeam should the vessel still be capable of offence.
A score of men, mostly engine-room ratings, were gathered amidships on the shattered deck of the crippled vessel. They had desisted from the work on which they were engaged, and were gazing mutely at the destroyer that might be instrumental in giving them the coup de grâce.
"What ship is that?" roared Sefton through a megaphone, the intervening distance being less than twenty yards.
"His Majesty's destroyer Yealm," was the reply, flung proudly through the darkness.