CHAPTER VII

M.-L. 4452

"And the run across to Ostend?" inquired Sub-lieutenant Guy Branscombe of M.-L. 4452.

"A wash-out," replied his superior officer, Lieutenant Frank Farnborough.

Branscombe expressed no surprise at the information. During the war there were innumerable instances of orders being given, of plans carefully laid, and preparations made sometimes for weeks in advance, then, at the last hour, they would be countermanded. In Service parlance the abandonment of any particular project is generally referred to as a "wash-out".

M.-L. 4452 was lying in the outer harbour of Ramsgate. It was dead low water, but sufficient for the M.-L. to lie afloat alongside the eastern arm of the stone pier that towered twenty-five to thirty feet above the deck of the trim little craft.

She had had a quick, uneventful run round from the Firth of Forth, and upon reporting at Dover had been ordered to lie in Ramsgate Harbour, owing to certain activities in progress at the former base. It was on the cards that M.-L. 4452, in company with five sister ships, was to take part in important operations off the Belgian coast--operations requiring courage and discretion, and far from being devoid of great risk to life and limb.

For her size the M.-L. was a comfortable packet. True, she rolled heavily in a seaway and was unhandy on her helm when running at slow speed. Built of wood and equipped with two powerful eight-cylinder motors, she could attain a speed of twenty-six knots.

For'ard she carried a 3-inch quick-firer. In the wake of the gun-mounting rose the wheel-house, surmounted by a small but powerful searchlight. Her single mast supported a complex array of wireless gear and a cross-yard with necessary signalling halyards. On the slightly raised deck-house was a dinghy in chocks, the davits being swung inboard. The boat was made of thin sheet iron, with water-tight compartments fore and aft and was sufficiently light to enable two hands to haul her up and down a beach. Judging by the dents and bulges in the dinghy's sides she had already been called upon to do useful work.

Right aft fluttered the White Ensign, an emblem under which few if any, of the motor-boat officers ever dreamt of sailing prior to the eventful August, 1914.

On either side and slightly in advance of the ensign staff, M.-L. 4452, like a hornet, carried her sting in her tail; for here were two powerful depth charges, capable of shattering the plating of a U-boat within a radius of fifty or sixty yards from the source of the explosion.

Below, the M.-L. was provided with ample accommodation--far more than the casual outside observer would give her credit for.

The crew, consisting of seven hands, were berthed for'ard. Then came the store rooms and wireless and hydrophone rooms. Abaft were the galleys, the ward-room one opening into the officers' living quarters.

The ward-room was a picture of cosiness. The M.-L.'s skipper had seen to that, for he had been sufficiently long in the Service to know the ropes. A few gallons of white enamel, drawn from the dockyard store, had worked wonders on the walls and ceiling of the ward-room, while the beams and timbers had been painted a dark brown to represent oak. The result was that the place resembled the interior of an old-fashioned half-timbered house, while, to carry out the scheme, the electric lamps were encased in cardboard, cut in the fashion of eighteenth-century lanterns.

Opening out of the ward-room were the two-bunked sleeping quarters for the officers, also enamelled tastefully and effectively. At the present time these were in a somewhat disordered state, oilskins, sea-boots, and pilotcoats dumped promiscuously, bearing a silent testimony to the fact that M.-L. 4452 had encountered heavy weather in the Straits of Dover.

Frank Farnborough, lieutenant and skipper of the M.-L., was a tall, slimly-built man of twenty-five. In civil life he was a consulting engineer, who was just beginning to make a name for himself when war broke out. His chief pastime was yachting, and in his little weatherly nine-ton yawl he had visited and was well acquainted with every port and haven between the Humber and the Lizard, and had a nodding acquaintance with the Dutch and Belgian coast and that of France from Dunkirk to Brest.

On the formation of the Motor Boat Reserve he had joined on as an ordinary deckhand, but it was not long before his experience and ability gained him a commission.

His sub, Guy Branscombe, has already been introduced.

Every man of the crew was an amateur yachtsman. In private life they were respectively barrister, mining engineer, Manchester merchant, two ex-public schoolboys, a stockbroker, and a bank clerk. The barrister, senior in point of age, was ship's cook, he having voluntarily taken on the job, and, considering it was doubtful whether he ever made even a cup of tea for himself prior to 1914, he did remarkably well.

The discipline on board would have turned the hair of a pukka R.N. officer grey; but still there was discipline of sorts. They had been shipmates since 1916, turning over from another M.-L., that had perished gloriously in an endeavour to assist a torpedoed liner, when 4452 was received from the contractors.

Altogether they were a jovial, hard-working band of comrades. The men had as much yachting as they wanted, summer and winter alike, with the excitement of hunting Fritz or the chance of bumping on a drifting mine thrown in. Yet, far from being fed-up, for they realized that life on an M.-L. was infinitely preferable to foot-slogging in the infantry, their zest was enhanced rather than dimmed.

Only a few minutes before the skipper's return, Branscombe had been talking with Able Seaman Brown, R.N.V.R., and stockbroker.

"As a matter of fact, sir," remarked Brown, "I'm seriously thinking that after the war--if the war is ever going to end--I'll buy an M.-L. There'll be hundreds on the market and I guess the Admiralty will be lucky if they get 300 pounds a piece for them."

"And what then?" asked the Sub. "You may be a budding millionaire, but no man in ordinary circumstances could afford to run one of these hookers."

"That's where you are mistaken, sir, I fancy," replied A. B. Brown. "These packets will be purchasable after the war for a matter of a few hundred pounds. I'd take out the engines and sell them. They'd come in handy for electric light plant for a country house or something of that sort. Then I'd get a single 40-60 H.P. Kelvin motor, which uses paraffin instead of petrol, and couple up the twin screws. That's my little castle in the air for after the war, sir."

"Tea ready?" enquired the skipper. "No? Well, there's time to give the dogs a run ashore."

He eyed the twenty-five foot vertical ladder somewhat dubiously. It was strong enough, but a considerable portion towards the lower end was slippery with seaweed and slime. Then he whistled to two large sheep-dogs who were coiled up in the stern sheets of the dinghy.

Peter and Paul were recognized members of M.-L. 4452's complement. They belonged to Frank Farnborough but had been adopted by every individual on board. Both animals had been violently seasick on the first occasion when they put to sea, but from that time onwards, blow high or blow low, they behaved like seasoned sons of the sea.

"Send 'em up in a bowline," suggested Branscombe.

"Hardly good enough," objected the Lieutenant. "I'll carry them up, one at a time."

Placing Peter on his back and holding on to one paw, Farnborough began his somewhat hazardous climb. All went well for the first half, and then a catastrophe occurred. It was owing to a large ginger cat that was prowling along the very edge of the quay. Peter spotted her, and began barking. The feline arched her back and spat defiance. This insult was more than the sheep-dog could stand. He began to struggle furiously. His master's admonition to "shut up" was ignored. The next instant Farnborough's feet slipped on the slimy rung, and, hampered by the heavy animal, he fell upon the deck.

It was a drop of about twelve feet, but sufficient to make the Lieutenant writhe. His right ankle was badly sprained, while, to make matters worse, he had struck his back against the edge of the raised cabin-top. Peter, unhurt, but genuinely concerned, began to lick his master's hand.

"Nothing much," declared Farnborough in answer to Branscombe's inquiry. "Bit of a twist to my ankle, that's all. Lucky thing old Peter wasn't hurt, the silly old ass!"

One of the men, taking each dog in turn under his arm, made the ascent in safety, and the now docile animals went off to visit a great friend--the cook at the Naval Base Canteen.

"I'll have to turn in for half an hour or so," declared Farnborough. "My ankle is giving me socks. It'll be all right soon. What? Go to the medico for a little thing like that? No, thanks; besides, we are under orders to sail at eight."

"Not the stunt?" asked Branscombe.

"No, laddie; I said it was a wash-out," replied the skipper. "It's coming off all in good time; can take your affidavit on that. . . . By Jove! that was a bit of a twister," he added with a wry smile as he carefully lowered himself down the steep companion ladder to the ward-room. "Quite all right, though. A little embrocation will soon set matters right."

Having laid himself on his bunk, Farnborough drew an envelope from the inside breast-coat pocket of his monkey-jacket.

"Here you are!" he remarked, giving his sub the contents of the envelope. "Usual thing. You might see that the dogs are on board before we start. I'll get you to take the old hooker out, old man."

Guy Branscombe scanned the typewritten orders. They were marked "Confidential", which is a word that in Service matters may mean a lot, or nothing. Often orders of the most trivial character are so marked, possibly by a minor official who wishes to magnify the importance of his particular work. Consequently, there is a tendency to under-estimate the significance of the word "Confidential". It is another instance of "Familiarity breeds contempt".

However, in this case the orders were important. M.-L.'s 4452, 4453, 4454, and 4455 were to proceed on patrol between certain positions. A reference to the chart showed that the limits were from a point six miles north-west of the mouth of the Scheldt to a point five miles due north (true) of the Sandettie Bank Lightship. Three large destroyers from the Dover patrol were to act as covering vessels, while a couple of monitors, each armed with a single 17-inch gun, were to keep Fritz on thorns by lobbing a few shells with uncanny accuracy upon the fortifications of Zeebrugge.

The special task of the M.-L.'s was to keep a look-out for a squadron of bombing aeroplanes, which were engaged in liberally plastering the Mole and canal locks of Zeebrugge with tons of high explosives. Should a seaplane become disabled and be compelled to alight on the sea, then the handy little craft would speed to the rescue, in spite of the fact that they were within range of the long-distance German guns on the Belgian coast.

"All plain sailing?" asked Farnborough. "Good! If you'll take her out, and call me at eight bells, I'll be eternally grateful to you. So the old hooker's going to have her baptism of fire."