CHAPTER XV

The Passing of M.-L. 4452

"Lucky blighters!" ejaculated Lieutenant Farnborough, referring enviously to the M.-L.'s told off to rescue the crews of the block-ships. "They're on the move, by Jove!"

"Wish we were on the same game," added Branscombe covetously. "I suppose we can't log an imaginary signal ordering us in support?"

"Brilliant idea of yours, old man," replied Farnborough. "Half a mind to try the wheeze."

M.-L. 4452, having for the time being completed her smoke-screen task, was "lying off", an interested spectator of the dash of the block-ships into Zeebrugge Harbour.

Other M.-L.'s had been detailed to cover the retirement of the old _Vindictive_ and the two ex-ferry boats--if they were fortunate enough to draw away from the inferno of fire and shot, shell and poison gas; but Farnborough's command, together with six other M.-L.'s, was to stand by as a reserve rescue vessel.

The _Thetis_ and her consorts had vanished into the smoke-laden harbour. After them dashed the small motor craft detailed for the rescue of the crews of the block-ships.

"It's like sending half a dozen wasps to tickle the tongue of a bad-tempered lion," remarked Branscombe. "Lucky bounders!"

"Harry Tate's Navy is well up to-night," added Farnborough grimly. "I'd like to see some of those funny bounders who tried to pull our legs taking on this business. Guess they'd have the wind up. Hello, here's one of 'em!"

Zigzagging through the smoke, dodging shells that landed exactly on the spot where she had been two or three seconds previously, came a M.-L., her decks packed with human beings. The destroyers pushed forward to screen her from the wrathful Huns. Listing badly and well down by the stern, the brave little craft had dared, and had come back, scarred with honourable wounds, from the gates of hell.

Then came another, also bearing a heavy deck cargo of rescued men. As she passed within a hundred yards of M.-L. 4452, the latter gave her a rousing, cheer.

A comparatively long interval elapsed. No more M.-L.'s came into view. A rocket, soaring aloft above the smoke, announced that the _Vindictive_ was recalling her storming- and demolition-parties. It was a way of announcing that all that could be done was done, and nothing else was left but to withdraw from the action.

"There's our number!" exclaimed Farnborough, as a light blinked through the murk.

It was a stretch of imagination on the part of the Lieutenant in command of M.-L. 4452. Whether he saw the signal, or only imagined that he did, made little difference. There was an opportunity of making a dash into the harbour, and Farnborough jumped at it.

The engine-room telegraph-bell clanged loudly as the Lieutenant ordered "Full speed ahead both engines". M.-L. 4452, hitherto waltzing to and fro in a seemingly erratic manner, quivered under the pulsations of the powerful motors. Zigzagging, she leapt, forward towards the partly demolished lighthouse at the Mole-head.

Standing just behind his superior officer, Branscombe began to taste the sensation of going into action. At first the experience was far from pleasant, especially when the beam of a powerful search-light swung round and steadied itself full upon the swiftly moving M.-L.

"Our number's up," thought Branscombe, for he felt absolutely certain that a salvo of hostile shells would follow within a few seconds. Fritz would be sure to let fly with a veritable tornado of "hate" upon the brilliantly-lighted target.

Unaccountably Branscombe's surmise was not realized. Beyond a few chance missiles that hurtled wide of the mark not a shot came from the Mole-head batteries. Out of the dazzling light into comparative darkness dashed the M.-L., rolling heavily in the confused swell at the harbour-mouth.

"Hard-a-port!"

Round swung No. 4452 just in time to escape collision with one of her sisters. Silhouetted against the ruddy glare an officer, megaphone in hand, leant over the rail of the returning M.-L.

"Cutter adrift. . . ." he shouted, and the rest of his words were lost in the din.

Farnborough raised his hand in acknowledgment. He understood; somewhere in that turmoil of strife a boat had had to be abandoned--a cutter with some of the survivors of the block-ships--otherwise the official in command would not have gone to the trouble of reporting it. Loss of material counted for nought that night. The sacrifice of His Majesty's stores mattered not at all, provided the main object of the operations was achieved; but with human life at stake all that could be done to effect a rescue must be attempted.

Rounding the Mole-head so closely that the extremity of her signal yard-arm almost scraped the masonry as she rolled to starboard, M.-L. 4452 gained the wreck-strewn harbour. Narrowly averting collision with a water-logged barge, part of the net defence works that the block-ships had rammed, the speedy little craft held on.

A sliver of shell brought her mast down with a run, at the same time blowing her search-light over the side. Branscombe's cap vanished through the broken glass of the wheel-house; a hot stabbing pain in his forehead caused him to raise his hand to his head. His fingers were wet, sticky and red. A piece of flying metal had seared his forehead.

The Sub hardly realized that he had been hit. An inch nearer and the wound might have been fatal, yet his narrow escape hardly troubled him.

"Mind that gear doesn't foul our prop!" he shouted to one of the crew--the man who had intended to buy an M.-L. for pleasure-cruising in those dim, far-distant halcyon days "after the war".

"Aye, aye, sir."

The man made his way to the side, where a raffle of wire was trailing over the splintered deck. The next instant his feet gave way under him and he sank inertly upon the deck.

In a trice Branscombe gripped him under the arm-pits and hauled him into the frail shelter of the wheel-house. One glance was sufficient; Brown, A.B. and ex-stockbroker, would never see the Stock Exchange again, nor would he be able to put his carefully-laid after-the-war plans into execution.

Another of the crew sprang forward, axe in hand. A few vigorous blows sufficed to cut the tangle of broken gear clear. His immediate reward was a machine-gun bullet through the left arm just above the elbow.

It was a hot time for M.-L. 4452. Apparently the other boats had completed their particular tasks, for, as far as the drifting smoke permitted, the harbour was clear of them. Fritz was hurling plenty of "hate" at the solitary little craft, and only her speed and handiness saved her from annihilation.

"No sign of the abandoned cutter," yelled Farnborough. "We'll hook it--if we can."

Hard a-starboard went the helm. With the port propeller running full-speed ahead and the starboard one half-speed astern, M.-L. 4452 spun round almost in her own length, just missing an undesirable acquaintance in the shape of a 6-inch shell that ricochetted and threw up a terrific column of spray within six feet of her bows.

Compared with the dash into the harbour the return journey was a horrible nightmare. The haunting possibility of being knocked-out recurred tenfold. The crew of the M.-L. no longer had their faces to the foe, they were literally running for safety, and exposed to blows in the back without being able to raise a finger in self-defence.

"There's the boat, by Jove!" exclaimed Branscombe.

"Where? How's she bearing?" asked the Lieutenant, for he was partly blinded by blood flowing from a gash in his forehead. Like his Sub, Farnborough hardly realized that he had been hit.

Telegraphing for "easy" and then "stop" the skipper brought his craft to a standstill within boat-hook stave's length of a water-logged dingy. Clinging to the partly submerged gunwale were two men.

"She's not a cutter, you juggins!" exclaimed Farnborough. "I believe those fellows are rotten Huns."

He was about to telegraph for "Full-speed-ahead both engines", when Branscombe gripped his arm.

"It's old Seton, by smoke!" he shouted, in order to make himself heard above the din.

Quickly the well-nigh exhausted men were assisted over the side, Seton minus a little finger, and the R.A.F. officer with a bullet wound completely through his left shoulder.

It was no time for explanations. Like a thing endowed with life M.-L. 4452 leapt forward. She was now on the point of repassing the badly-damaged lighthouse on the Mole-head. Here Huns, no longer in danger of being strafed by the _Vindictive's_ landing-parties, were frantically blazing away with their quick-firers and machine-guns. A 4.1 shell fired at point-blank range furrowed the fore-deck and, without exploding, passed completely through the side a few inches above the water-line. Another blew the M.-L.'s "tin" dinghy into the sea, davits and all; while a third, striking the stern, smashed the quadrant of the steering-gear and blew off the head of the rudder.

M.-L. 4452 began to describe a large circle, her head falling off until she pointed straight for the Mole. To attempt to keep her on her course by means of the helm was an impossibility, for not only had the spare tiller--for use when as sometimes happened the steering-wires and chains carried away--shared the fate of the davits, but the rudder-head itself was bent and twisted by the explosion of the shell.

Immediately the ship was hit Branscombe made his way aft to investigate and report. He was back in the wheel-house just in time to find Farnborough and the coxswain lying motionless on the floor, and the M.-L., left to her own devices, circling to port.

The helm useless, Branscombe realized that he had to steer by means of the twin screws. Under ordinary conditions it was a tricky job, but the difficulties were now increased tenfold. A partly-disabled boat, nearly half her complement out of action; a dark, fog-enshrouded night with occasional bursts of dazzling light from search-lights, star-shells, and the flashes of guns; a short, confused sea, and the constant danger of ramming, or being rammed by, other craft manoeuvring without lights.

There were dozens of similar vessels out that night engaged in the same work. Frail little M.-L.'s, manned by amateur yachtsmen of yesterday, were achieving wonders. Men from the Clyde, the Solent, and the East Coast, whose knowledge of the sea was confined to a few days or weeks of summer cruising under favourable conditions, were proving their worth as fighters of the Empire. Experience gained in those dainty little yachts, snow-white of deck and glittering with burnished brass, was put to good use in those squat, grey-hulled M.-L.'s. It was on St. George's Day that the practically unknown R.N.V.R., unostentatiously at work as a unit of the great Silent Navy, suddenly leapt upon the pinnacle of fame.

A dense pall of smoke drifted down and enveloped M.-L. 4452. Branscombe had to steer solely by his sense of direction. He was one of those men who instinctively could find his way through a dense fog. At the back of his mind there was ever an impression--rarely, if ever, at fault--of the direction in which lay the north. The compass was useless: the same blow that had struck down the skipper and the coxswain had wrecked the binnacle.

The while the din was simply terrific. The air trembled under the violent, irregular pulsations of sound as guns large and small, exchanged their mutual "hate".

With all his work cut out to keep the vessel on her course Branscombe gripped both handles of the engine-room telegraph, and peered through the smoke-laden night. Feelings almost akin to panic assailed him. He was no longer a fighting man dashing into the fray, but a fugitive--a human being endeavouring to escape from all the terrors of the jaws of hell, as exemplified by the hitherto considered impregnable harbour of Zeebrugge.

"If the motors konk out we're dished," he thought, as he listened to detect any ominous sound from the pulsating engines. The vibration was excessive, far more than is usual even with a heavily-powered M.-L., but apparently the staunch little craft was still maintaining her speed.

"She's making water badly, old man," exclaimed a voice.

Branscombe turned his head to find Seton standing behind him.

"Think she'll last out?" inquired Branscombe.

"Another hour--that's all I can give her," was the reply. "The stern-post was badly strained when the rudder-head carried away."

"Auxiliary engine running?" inquired the M.-L.'s Sub speaking through the voicetube to the engineer.

"No, sir," came the answer. "The mag's six inches under water,"

That meant that the power bilge-pumps were useless. The hand-pumps were hopelessly jammed long ago. The search-light in being shot away had done that damage. There were no means now of checking the steady flow of water through the gaping seams.

By this time M.-L. 4452 had drawn out of range of lighter quick-firers. Shells from heavy guns still hurtled overhead, unseen but unpleasantly audible. Occasionally a huge projectile would ricochet close to the little boat as a grim reminder that other perils beside foundering were still present.

Presently Branscombe fancied that the M.-L. was turning to starboard. A glance astern at the foaming wake was sufficient to confirm his suspicions. Altering the starboard telegraph to easy astern, and then stop, the R.N.V.R. Sub awaited developments. His fears were realized. Only the port engine was running, the other had "konked".

"Ignition, sir," reported the engineer in reply to Branscombe's inquiry. "I'll try and get her going in a few moments."

The fact that the little engine-room staff had been working knee-deep in oily water, and that the electric light had failed, added to the difficulties of the strenuously-engaged men. While one held an electric torch in position, the other was busily engaged in fitting new sparking-plugs--even if only to keep the motors running another quarter of an hour.

Branscombe signalled for the port engine to be stopped. It was worse than useless to run on one engine, since the M.-L. would circle aimlessly and possibly drift nearer the Belgian coast.

The M.-L. was rolling sluggishly. She always did roll heavily, but the motion was totally different. It suggested a lack of liveliness, and the gurgling sound of tons of water surging to and fro 'neath decks told its own tale.

M.-L. 4452 was foundering--slowly, but nevertheless surely. Her metal dinghy was a mere scrap of riddled galvanized iron. Her life-buoys had either been carried away, or had been shattered by machine-gun fire. Down below were half a dozen life-belts. These with a few wooden gratings were the sole means of supporting the survivors of the crew, all of whom, with the exception of the engine-room staff, were more or less wounded.

A rift in the persistent bank of smoke revealed nothing near at hand. Miles away could be seen search-lights and flashes of guns, as the monitors and destroyers were covering the retreat of the _Vindictive_, _Iris_, and _Daffodil_. Apparently M.-L. 4452 had been carried too far to the nor'ard by the tide. Even if she contrived to keep afloat till dawn, the rising of the sun would expose her to the full view of the exasperated Huns ashore.

"She's going, old son!" exclaimed Seton, who had been engaged in strapping life-belts round the unconscious forms of Farnborough, Smith, and the coxswain. "Think yourself lucky it's your first swim to-night. It's my second, and the water's beastly cold."

"And it's a long swim to Dover," rejoined Branscombe facetiously. His sense of panic had now entirely deserted him. Practically beyond range of the hostile batteries, save for the chance of an unlucky hit from a long-range gun, he was now just a sailor bent on doing his level best to save his ship from disaster and his crew from drowning.

A couple of hands were told off below to ram every available piece of canvas gear into the broad wedges formed by the transom and the vessel's quarter, since it was here that she leaked badly. The canvas, saturated with oil, certainly checked the inrush, but whether it was possible to keep the M.-L. afloat was a question open to doubt.

Had it been daylight M.-L. 4452 would have presented a forlorn spectacle. Night hid her honourable scars, and toned down the ragged appearance of her shell-swept deck. She had had a gruelling. Holed in a dozen places, her mast, search-light, and most of her deck-fittings blown away, deep down by the stern, she had played her part.

The most strenuous efforts on the part of her engine-room hands were doomed to failure. With a foot of water surging over the beds of the motors, it was impossible to "get a kick" out of either of them. It was a case of both or none if the boat were to be steered at all. Yet, loath to admit failure, the two men toiled, with their hands almost raw and the sweat pouring down their foreheads, in the vain hope that the engines could be made to run once more.

Clad in a sweater, flannel trousers, and an oilskin--gear that he had annexed from the M.-L.'s ward-room--Seton was indefatigable in his efforts to assist Branscombe to save the ship. At his suggestion oil was thrown overboard to quell the effect of the rapidly-rising waves, while a rough-and-ready sea-anchor was rigged up and thrown over the bows to keep her stem-on to the vicious, crested breakers.

The R.A.F. pilot, who had now almost recovered from the effect of his immersion, was working strenuously, passing buckets of water up the hatchway in order to keep down the rising water in the hold. All available hands were doing their utmost, realizing that every moment gained meant an additional chance of preserving their lives.

At intervals Verey-lights were fired to call the attention of any vessel within reasonable distance of the sinking ship; yet minute after minute sped and no succour was forthcoming. Evidently the flotilla, its work accomplished, was on its way to England, and M.-L. 4452 with others would be reported as destroyed by enemy action.

Aft the water was ankle-deep on deck. The rolling became slower and more sluggish. It was now a question of minutes before the gallant little M.-L. made her last plunge.

Wearing their life-belts, the survivors mustered abaft the wheel-house, for Branscombe had given orders for the engineers to abandon the motor-room and fall-in on deck. The wounded and unconscious officer, and two of the deck hands, who were rather badly hit, were laid on deck, and also provided with life-buoys, their comrades volunteering to "stand by" them in the water until the last.

Facing peril, the indomitable British spirit prevailed. Every man of the little crew, save those who were unconscious of their surroundings, kept a stiff upper lip. While making every endeavour to save themselves they were resolved, should things come to the worst, to die bravely, conscious that they had done their duty to the end.

The M.-L.'s bows rose until her forefoot was clear of the water; her stern dipped until a surge of icy water swept for'ard as far as the wheel-house. It seemed as if she no longer had sufficient buoyancy to shake herself clear. Cascades of water poured through the hatchways and the gaping rents in her decks.

"She's going, lads!" shouted Branscombe, stating what was an obvious fact. The incongruity of the remark struck him almost as soon as he had spoken. Then--"Every man for himself, and the best of luck."

Even as they waited for the ship to sink beneath them, a long, dark shape loomed through the darkness. Coming seemingly from nowhere, a destroyer ranged up alongside the sinking M.-L.

"Jump for it, men," shouted a voice through a megaphone.

Under the lee of the destroyer, the M.-L., half water-logged lay comparatively quietly, rubbing sullenly against the large coir fenders hanging over the side of the rescuing vessel.

The wounded were first transferred, then the rest of the crew, Seton and Branscombe being the last to leave. The latter was not empty-handed; under his arm he carried the M.-L.'s smoke-discoloured and tattered White Ensign. The signal code-book he had thrown overboard when it seemed that hope was dead.

Even as Branscombe clambered over the rail M.-L. 4452 gave an almost human shudder and slithered beneath the waves.