CHAPTER X

Preparations

"Jolly rotten luck that _Bolero_ business," remarked Lieutenant Farnborough, commanding M.-L. 4452.

The M.-L. lay alongside the oil-fuel jetty in Dover Harbour. A week had elapsed since the stunt off Zeebrugge. Farnborough was still far from fit. His sprained ankle was much better, but the injury to his back caused him considerable inconvenience and pain on movement. Yet, eager not to miss the opportunity of participating in the impending big operations at Zeebrugge and Ostend, he sturdily refused the more prudent course of reporting sick, and carried on as usual.

It was a calm, moonlit evening, following a hard blow. There was a fairly heavy sea running in the Channel, while in the Wick, or portion of Dover Harbour enclosed by the new Admiralty breakwater, a long swell was setting in, causing the destroyer and other vessels at the buoys to roll heavily. The "gush" was even communicated to the small basin at the north-eastern end of the harbour, where half a dozen M.-L.'s and two P.-boats lay in somewhat dangerous proximity to thousands of tons of highly-inflammable oil fuel.

No. 4452 was rolling slightly, her large coir fenders grunting and groaning as they ground against the massive timbers of the pier, the deck of which towered thirty feet above the little craft. Beyond and above, looming ghostly in the cold moonlight, were the rugged chalk cliffs crowning the venerable Dover Castle.

Sub-lieutenant Guy Branscombe, deep in a novel, merely shrugged his shoulders. His skipper's words had as yet failed to penetrate his understanding. Farnborough knew the Sub's peculiarity. In his spells of off-duty Branscombe was a regular book-worm. Farnborough, on the other hand, was prone to conversation, but he had an unsatisfactory victim in his sub, who was able to defend himself against inopportune interruption by entire absorption in the book of the moment.

Presently, after a lapse of a minute or more, Branscombe removed his pipe.

"What's that about the _Bolero_?" he asked.

"Torpedoed," replied the Lieutenant.

"Lost off the Nord Hinder last Friday week."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Branscombe. "I know a fellow on that destroyer. Any casualties?"

"'Fraid so," answered Farnborough. "Night, rough sea, and all that sort of thing, you know. An officer and seventeen men missing--presumed drowned. Here you are, my boy!"

He handed Branscombe a copy of an Admiralty confidential circular giving details of the disaster. A month later the casualty list would be communicated to the Press together with a bald statement that "one of H.M. destroyers was torpedoed and sunk in the North Sea on the night of so and so". It would have to be left to one's imagination, and perhaps the simple narrative of a survivor, to picture the end of a gallant vessel, for "the Navy doesn't advertise", especially in war-time.

"Good Heavens!" ejaculated Branscombe; "I knew Seton awfully well. Old school chum of mine. His people lived close to my home. An' I came up in the train with him to Rosyth just before we commissioned; he envied me my stunt because of the extra excitement and risks," he added reminiscently. "Poor old Seton!"

The news hit Branscombe badly. In the senior service men get to know each other more than in the army. The camaraderie of the sea is a real thing. Friendships made afloat are generally of a lasting order, especially during a two years' commission, by the end of which time there is hardly a secret between "chummy" officers.

And into the midst of the big band of brothers stalked Death--far too frequently during the Great War. Men went singly, in dozens, and in hundreds, nobly doing their duty to King and Country. Some died in the knowledge that their passing was witnessed by their comrades; others went unheard and unseen, with none able to tell with any degree of accuracy of the manner of their going.

"Rough luck," murmured Farnborough sympathetically. "Did I ever come across him?"

"Not to my knowledge," replied the Sub, "and to my belief you never will."

"Strange things happen at sea," rejoined the Lieutenant. "There's nothing to prove that Seton's been done in. However, to change the subject, you might cast your eye on this. You'll have to commit the thing to memory."

The "thing" was a close-lined, typewritten document endorsed "Strictly Confidential". Branscombe gave a low whistle as he read the title. It was "Orders for Coastal Motor-Launches for the impending operations off Ostend and Zeebrugge".

For some considerable time past a series of rehearsals for the contemplated bottling up of the two Belgian ports had been taking place. One of the first steps was to pick and choose the men; the second was to train them. Volunteers for a certain mysterious and hazardous business were called for. Hundreds were required, thousands offered themselves. Bluejackets and stokers from the Grand Fleet, men from that Corps d'Elite, the Royal Marines, were accepted to form landing parties; destroyers from the Dover Patrol were merged into the scheme, together with several M.-L.'s; co-operation by the Royal Air Force was secured, pilots and observers from the old Royal Naval Air Service offering themselves in shoals.

The next step was the training. The operations were to be of a vast and complex nature, every division, sub-division, and individual working in harmony and unison with the rest. Should one link in the chain of preparation be faulty and not detected, should one division fail to do its allotted part, the whole enterprise might be in jeopardy.

To facilitate matters, relief plans of Zeebrugge and Ostend were prepared, every known detail being inserted, while daily corrections and additions were made, based upon aerial photographs and observers' reports.

In a remote and secluded spot in Kent, a full-size model of the portion of Zeebrugge Mole, alongside which it was proposed to place the vessels bearing the storming-parties, was constructed, so that the attackers would know exactly what was required of them. To be able to surmount a thirty-feet wall and to know the obstructional difficulties which lay on the other side was an asset; it certainly made things easier and gave a feeling of confidence to the attacking-party. But there was one element that could not be estimated exactly, but only guessed at and allowed for--the presence of German troops on the actual Mole.

To land seamen and marines on the Mole the old cruiser _Vindictive_ was prepared. A sister ship to the ill-fated _Gladiator_, the _Vindictive_ had long ceased to count as an effective ship of the Royal Navy. To all outward appearances her days were over. She was fit only for the shipbreaker's yard. Any further expenditure upon her was a waste of public money. These were a few of the many criticisms passed upon this and similar vessels, when it was proposed drastically to cut down the number of non-effective vessels on the navy list.

But in spite of her years--for she was old as far as steel vessels go--the _Vindictive_ was fated not only to prove of important service but to cover herself with honour and glory, not once but twice, and to end her days in a glory of heroism that will for ever be written on the pages of the world's history.

Step by step the plans were worked out. Landing demolition-parties on the Mole was but a subsidiary operation. So was that of smashing the wooden bridge connecting the Mole with the mainland, and thus hampering the arrival of German reinforcements.

The climax of the operations was the bottling up of Zeebrugge and Ostend by means of old cruisers filled with concrete.

A few years ago the world was thrilled by the exploits of Lieutenant Hobson, of the U.S.A. Navy, when he attempted to bottle up Cevera's fleet in Santiago Harbour. Newspapers devoted columns of copy to chronicle and dilate upon the heroic deed; yet, without detracting from the merits of the achievement, the attempt was comparatively easy compared with the task before the British Navy at Zeebrugge and Ostend.

Hobson, with a small volunteer crew, took an old tramp steamer through the narrow entrance to Santiago Harbour. Within was a demoralized Spanish fleet. The forts were ill-armed and ill-served. Hobson carried out his instructions, but the actual result was a partial failure. The sinking of the block-ship did not prevent Cevera's fleet from issuing from the harbour and literally sacrificing itself to the guns of the powerful American fleet.

In the case of Ostend and Zeebrugge, the Huns were equipped with the most modern instruments of warfare. Everything that science could devise was at their command. The Belgian ports were formidable fortresses possessing natural and artificial defences of a stupendous character. No doubt the Boche, despite strenuous efforts on the part of the British to ensure secrecy, had a good inkling of what was being contemplated, and would take steps accordingly.

The vessels told off to attempt the bottling operations were obsolete third-class cruisers. They were to approach at night under their own steam, enshrouded in artificial fog, gain an entrance, if possible, and then sink themselves in the fairways of the two harbours. This act of maritime _felo-de-se_ was to be accomplished by exploding charges in their holds. Officers and men had to be employed to navigate the vessels; engineer officers, E.R.A.'s, and stokers were necessary to keep up a head of steam; their task accomplished, they themselves had to be rescued, if possible.

It was here that the little M.-L.'s were again to prove their worth. On a given signal they were to dash into the harbour, range alongside the sinking block-ships, and dash out again with the rescued crews--provided the boats survived the maelstrom of fire that was sure to greet them.

"We're up against a tough proposition, my lad," remarked Farnborough, as he cut a chunk of navy plug and shredded it between his horny palms. Four years ago horny hands and plug tobacco were ill acquainted with Frank Farnborough, but a man's manners and customs undergo a considerable change in four years of war. Now he prided himself on the toughness of his palms and thoroughly enjoyed the tobacco.

"We are," assented Branscombe; then, after a pause, he added: "but I wouldn't miss it for anything."

"Nor I," added the Lieutenant. "If there's to be another blessed medical examination, I'll thug, poison, or bluff the whole of the medical branch of the navy. I'll go somehow, this idiotic sprain notwithstanding."

Branscombe made no remark. Much as he admired the grit and tenacity of his chief, he knew that at a time when every ounce of strength, both mental and bodily, were required, a man, handicapped by a stiff back, would not only be a trouble to himself but to the crew. Under the most favourable conditions the Lieutenant would not be fit in less than a week--and that with constant rest. He was too energetic to rest, and the stunt was timed to take place on the forthcoming Thursday.

The eventful day came at last. The sea was calm, the wind light. Gleefully, almost boisterously, the major portion of the storming-party boarded the _Vindictive_. The rest were told off to two Mersey ferry-boats--the _Iris_ and _Daffodil_. Monitors were making ready to proceed at slow speed; destroyers and M.-L.'s were fussing noisily around, awaiting the Admiral's order to carry on.

Farnborough, dissembling his hurt, was in the wheel-house, with Branscombe close at hand. Anxiously they watched the aneroid. For days it had been remarkably steady, but now, just after noon, it commenced to fall. Weather was a tremendous factor. With anything like a sea it would be practically impossible to lay the ships with the landing-parties alongside the Mole, while the chance of being able to set in position even a single gangway was out of the question.

There might be time before the weather broke, but the prospect was disquieting. Uneasily, men scanned sea and sky. Everyone hoped that the approaching storm would be deferred until the morrow.

Overhead, "Blimps" and sea-planes buzzed like wasps round a jam-jar. Ill betide the Hun who dared to make a cut-and-run raid upon Dover. Not a German airman must have an inkling of the assembly of the strange, ill-assorted armada in Dover Harbour.

With the dipping of the sun beneath the western horizon the flotilla put to sea. Meteorological reports from Zeebrugge and Ostend--obtained in some mysterious manner by the British Admiralty--reported slight fog and a faint ground-swell. That ground-swell presaged a storm--it was a race between armed might and Nature.

The M.-L.'s were at the tail of the flotilla. Their rôle would come last. It was imperative that they should be preserved intact until the critical moment. Their motors had to be kept absolutely in tune, for engine trouble meant disaster, not only to the crippled M.-L., but possibly to her consorts.

An hour and a half sped. Slowly, yet in perfect order, the strange assembly of warships lessened the distance between them and the invisible Belgian coast. Already the glare of the hostile search-lights could be discerned.

"Another three hours, my lad, and we'll be seeing life," declared Farnborough; "and death," he added in an undertone.

Almost as he spoke, a general wireless signal was sent from the Flagship. Decoded, the orders were brief and explicit:

"Operations abandoned owing to adverse weather conditions. Ships to return to Dover."