CHAPTER VIII

On Patrol

Punctually to the appointed minute, M.-L. 4452 cast off and proceeded seaward. Her sister ships had preceded her, and were running in single column line ahead. It was a pitch-dark night. The sea was as smooth as the proverbial mill-pond. Shoreward the land was enshrouded in darkness, not a light being visible. Viewed from a short distance, the Kentish coast, normally defined by lines of twinkling lights, but now looming faintly against the sombre sky, looked more like a desolate land than a populous corner of England, literally linked by a chain of seaside towns.

The M.-L.'s were under way without navigation lights, only a small lamp astern of each enabling those following to keep station. The little craft were cleared for action, for it had been known that hostile torpedo-boats had approached within a few miles of the port of Dover.

Branscombe, standing by the quarter-master in the little wheel-house, fully realized the danger of the operation. He revelled in it, notwithstanding the fact that the M.-L.'s were passing over one of the most heavily-mined portions of the sea adjoining the British Isles. A few fathoms beneath the boat's keel were mines in hundreds, that, in conjunction with nets and other elaborate devices, formed an impregnable barrier to the passage of German U-boats. As long as the mines remained anchored and submerged they were dangerous only to the type of craft they were intended to destroy; but after the heavy blow of the last few days there was a possibility, nay, a probability, that some would break adrift and float on the surface, a menace to those who had lawful business upon the waters, a prospect sufficient to stimulate the imagination--if not to get on the nerves--of the hardiest mariner.

It was almost on this very spot twelve months previously that Branscombe had ordered the gun's crew to open fire at what he took to be a periscope, but what, on closer examination, proved to be a derelict boat-hook; while on another occasion the Sub, inexperienced in those days, saw a large dark object slither under the water. To his excited imagination it could be nothing less than a U-boat, hurriedly diving to escape detection. Ordering full-speed ahead, Branscombe steered straight for the rippling swell, and detonated a depth charge on the spot where the submarine had vanished. A badly mutilated porpoise came up in the cascade of foam.

The Sub was badly chipped for some considerable time over the affair, but it was excusable. The M.-L.'s motto is to hit and hit hard at anything of a suspicious nature. Explanations, if necessary, can follow later, but one has to take no chances with Fritz and all his dirty tricks.

It speaks well for the courageous temperament of the British sailor that he has stuck it for more than four years, living in momentary danger of being blown sky-high by an unseen mine or by a torpedo from a lurking foe, and yet is able to laugh and joke unrestrainedly with his comrades, and to take the keenest interest in sport. During the whole period of the war, the British navy faced dangers and thrived; while the Huns, having no traditions to hold up, and running little risk, as they rarely put to sea beyond the shelter of their own minefields, were slowly but surely drifting to moral suicide that culminated in mutiny and the disgraceful surrender of Germany's fleet.

In spite of the unrestricted U-boat campaign, there was a constant stream of merchantmen passing round the Forelands to and from London River. Those outward bound were making for the Downs, there to await escort to the convoy. All these ships, fantastically camouflaged and steaming without lights, made navigation doubly difficult, and it was not until North Foreland was several miles astern and the M.-L. out of the recognized sailing routes that Branscombe began to feel more at ease.

"Eight bells, sir," reported Anderson, wireless man, and ex-bank clerk.

Being in the war zone, and at night, the actual striking on the ship's bell was dispensed with.

"Very good," replied the Sub, and turning to another man he asked him to inform the Captain.

In five minutes the man returned.

"I've been trying to get the skipper on deck, sir," he reported, "but I'm afraid it's no use. It's not only his ankle that's causing trouble but his back is rather badly bruised. Moving about after lying down has made matters worse."

Guy picked up a signal pad and wrote a message, telling Farnborough not to worry but to take things quietly; meanwhile, he (Branscombe) would carry on, reporting anything unusual.

It was against regulations for both officers to leave the deck at the same time; hence Guy had to send down a chit. This done he prepared for at least a twenty-four hours' "trick".

Rapidly the booming of the heavy guns grew louder and louder. The air trembled under the terrific reverberations of the contesting ordnance, for Fritz was not backward in replying to the fire of the British monitors.

Peter and Paul, to whose sensitive nerves the continuous concussions did not appeal at all, had abandoned their post in the dinghy, and had retired to the comparative shelter of the after sleeping-cabin. The fact that the ladder was almost vertical and seven feet in height did not trouble them. They merely settled the matter by jumping, alighting on Branscombe's bed, where they made themselves as comfortable as possible in the distressing circumstances.

Presently dense masses of smoke on the horizon betokened the presence of the monitors. Each, her presence screened by artificial fog emitted from the attendant destroyers, was firing with her 17-inch gun at extreme elevation, dropping tons of H.E. shells upon an invisible target, while seaplanes, hovering overhead, recorded by means of wireless the result of each discharge.

Within a mile of the unwieldy floating batteries the M.-L. altered course, keeping parallel to the invisible shore. It was an inspiring scene. In the rifts of the smoke-screen could be discerned the tripod masts, enormous top-hamper and up-trained guns of the monitors. With every shot the vessels heeled, until, with the return list, their gigantic "blisters" or anti-torpedo devices were exposed above the oily surface of the calm sea.

It was by no means a one-sided game. Projectiles were "straddling" the monitors, some falling hundreds of yards beyond their objective, and hurling columns of foam high into the air, as they ricochetted three or four times before finally plunging to the bed of the North Sea.

The whine of a high-velocity shell, as it passed a few feet above the wheel-house of M.-L. 4452, gave Branscombe warning that he, too, was under shell fire. A direct hit with one of those monsters would mean utter annihilation to the wooden hull of the M.-L. and to her crew as well. Nevertheless the little flotilla had to "carry on". Orders to patrol on a certain course had to be implicitly obeyed. The "small fry" under the White Ensign had to take similar and often greater risk than their huge and powerfully armed and protected sisters.

Up and down the limits of their patrol the little M.-L.'s carried on. No. 4453, always the unlucky one, was struck by a ricochetting shell. Fortunately the missile did not explode, nor did it detonate the depth charges stowed astern; but the impact played havoc with the ward-room, completely demolishing the roof and knocking two gaping holes in the raised sides. Well it was that her crew were at action stations, for not a man received as much as a scratch.

At the pre-arranged hour the monitors "packed up". Lowering the muzzles of their guns and bringing the weapons in a fore-and-aft position, they steamed slowly out of range under cover of a really colossal smoke-screen. For nearly twenty minutes the Huns liberally "watered" the spot where the bombarding force had been, until their observation balloons--for they were afraid to send their aeroplanes out--reported that once more the British ships had withdrawn. That evening Berlin would be cheered by the report that a prolonged and determined attack upon Zeebrugge by strong enemy forces had failed, with heavy losses inflicted upon the attackers.

But the task of the M.-L.'s was by no means accomplished. With the destroyers still holding on, in case a swarm of German torpedo-boats should issue from their lairs and pounce down upon the lightly-armed patrol-boats, No. 4452 and her consorts remained to watch for the returning seaplanes.

With their customary inclination to make "a show", the "spotting" aircraft had gone inland upon the termination of the bombardment in the hope that a Hun airman or two would try conclusions in aerial combat. Failing an encounter, they proceeded with great deliberation to drop bombs upon certain railway junctions, aerodromes, ammunition dumps, and other objects of military importance.

Over the placid sea patches of genuine sea-fog were stealing, as if Nature was bent upon showing man that, after all, his efforts at maritime camouflage were puny compared with hers. At intervals there was a clear view of the horizon; at others it was difficult to see a cable's length ahead.

From the Belgian shore the thunder of the heavy guns had ceased, but the air rumbled with the distant ceaseless cannonade on the Ypres salient. There was no mistaking the noise. For nearly four years the dwellers on the south-east coast of England and the seafarers in the vicinity of the Straits of Dover had heard it. By this time its monotonous rumble hardly raised a comment, save when at times it rose to a crescendo of hate. And yet that incessant rumble was the death-knell of thousands of the flower of the British Empire and its gallant Allies, and, no less, that of the Hunnish invaders.

Out of a broad patch of clammy fog glided M.-L. 4452 into a blaze of perfect sunshine. The glass windows of her wheel-house were open, since the moisture rendered them almost like frosted glass.

"Look!" exclaimed Branscombe. In his excitement he brought his hand down heavily upon the quartermaster's shoulder. "A Fritz; and we've got him cold!"

There was no mistake this time. Porpoises and floating boat-hook staves might be taken for U-boats, but the long, low-lying hull of the German submarine and its twin periscopes could not possibly be mistaken for anything but what they were, She was running on the surface at a moderate speed of ten knots, as if loath to "crack on" into the bewildering fog-bank that lay athwart her course.

"Stand by, aft!" shouted the Sub.

As if running for a challenge cup, the ex-bank clerk and the former public schoolboy tore aft. They knew their job: to release the deadly depth charges and to stand by the firing key, by means of which the electric circuit was completed and the explosive detonated. All out, the M.-L. made straight for her intended victim, her quick-firer giving the U-boat a preliminary show by way of encouragement. The shell missed the conning-tower by inches. Before the breech-block could be opened, the still-smoking cylinder ejected and another charge inserted, the U-boat dived so abruptly that for a few seconds her rudders and twin-screws were clear of the water.

"Starboard . . . at that!"

Branscombe, his eyes fixed upon the surface-swell of the now submerged pirate, waited until the M.-L. was crossing the path of the frantically-diving Hun.

"Let go aft!"

With a smother of foam, the metal canister toppled from its cradle into the milk-white wake of the swiftly-moving M.-L. The drum, on which the insulated wire was wound, began to revolve rapidly as fathom after fathom was paid out.

The Sub stepped from the wheel-house and raised his hand. Then, with a quick decisive motion, he brought it down to his side. At the signal, the key of the firing-battery was pressed home.

"Bon voyage, Fritz!" murmured Branscombe, as with an ear-splitting report a column of mingled smoke and foam rose quite two hundred feet into the air.

With her helm hard a-port the M.-L. circled rapidly to starboard, and, steadying, passed at slow speed through the patch of agitated water. One of the crew made ready to let go the mark-buoy to indicate the position of the sunken U-boat. He waited for the order, but Branscombe gave no word of command. Gripping the stanchion-wires, the Sub leant over the side and watched. Then his look of elation gave place to an expression of acute disappointment--like that of a needy man who picks up from the gutter what he imagined to be a "Bradbury", only to find that it is a wrapper of a packet of tobacco.

There was nothing--absolutely nothing--to indicate that the depth charge had carried out its pre-ordained mission. Not a vestige of oil floated on the surface of the sea. There were dead fish in hundreds, killed by the terrific explosion, but not a scrap of debris that by any stretch of the imagination could be attributed to the strafed U-boat.

Up pelted M.-L. 4453, closely followed by No. 4454. The skipper of the former raised a megaphone to his lips.

"Any luck?" he asked cheerfully.

"'Fraid not," shouted Guy, trying to hide his chagrin.

"Hard lines," was the sympathetic rejoinder.

"Yes, my luck's out this time," soliloquized Branscombe, as he gave orders for the former course to be resumed. "I wish to goodness I'd blown the beastly thing to bits."

But, had Guy known that his chum, Alec Seton, was on board the submarine, he might not have expressed himself thus. He would still have done his level best to strafe the U-boat, Seton notwithstanding. It would have been a case of duty before everything; but it would have been an unpleasant task.