Part 3

‘I don’t know. Some beggar who hasn’t paid for his washing, I suppose. But we’re certainly going to get it in the neck.’ The rolling of the boat at this depth and the gurgling of the water in the vent pipes was a sufficient warning of the state of the weather, and they set to work lashing all portable gear in place and preparing for the expected wetting on coming to the surface.

‘We’d better have dinner before we rise, hadn’t we?’ asked Boyd, struggling into a pair of oilskin trousers. ‘Everything will be all over the shop, and I’ve got some pretty good soup on hand to-night. Main drain loungers and water.’

‘Yes. Six-thirty will do,’ replied the captain, ‘and we’ll rise at seven. You might see about it, Seagrave.’

The ‘Sub’ departed to the engine-room to confer with his chief minion, and Raymond turned to the navigator.

‘We’ll put her on the course for home now, I think. We’re only about fifteen miles off Fritz’s coast as it is, and we shan’t make much against this.

‘All right. It’s just on half-past six now. I’ll set the course and then shake dinner up.’

In the engine-room the E.R.A.’s were bustling round the engines, and in the middle of dinner the report came forward, ‘Engines ready, sir.’ The atmosphere was getting fuggy, and everything seemed sticky, though there was no difficulty in breathing yet.

‘We’re certainly in for it,’ said Raymond. ‘We shan’t get home before daylight, and I shall let her go slowly most of the time if it’s too bad. Now then, ten to seven; shake it up with that cheese, Boyd, and let’s get busy.’

A messenger appeared holding a bundle in his hand, which he offered to the captain.

‘What the devil’s that thing?’ demanded Raymond. ‘Take it away. I don’t want your dish swabs here.’

‘It’s your shirt, sir,’ replied the youth, without a smile.

‘That nasty looking thing?’ replied the skipper, seizing it and holding it at arm’s length. ‘Just look at the straits I am reduced to. However, it’s better than this prickly lammy coat I’ve been wearing.’

‘Seven o’clock, sir,’ said Seagrave, looking at his watch.

‘Right. Diving stations!’ ordered Raymond, struggling into the garment as he hoisted the periscope. ‘Blow 1, 2, and 3 main ballast. Pump three thousand out of the auxiliary.’

‘Start the pump on the auxiliary. Open 1, 2, and 3 Kingstons,’ shouted the ‘Sub.’

Up she came, the depth-needle hurrying back to zero. She was in surface trim now, and, carefully opening the hatch, Raymond, Boyd, and the helmsman, clad in oilskins and sea-boots, clambered on deck, the latter carrying the Sperry repeater.

‘One,’ shouted the captain down the hatch, as a great spout of white water showed forward. Then later, ‘two ... three. Upper deck control. Open the vents!’

The tanks were out and the air was churning up the sea outside.

Hoskins shut off the blows, and at Seagrave’s orders all vents and Kingstons were closed.

‘Engines!’ bellowed Raymond, ‘two fifty revs.’

With a fizz and a bang they were off, the smell of the petrol on starting pervading the bridge in spite of the strong wind.

It was a dirty night. Even a fair-sized vessel would have felt it, and to ‘123’ the sea was dangerously heavy.

The sun had just set, the sky was overcast, and rain was beginning to fall. The north-westerly wind was still increasing in force and raising a sea that caught them just before the beam.

Night fell, bringing pitch darkness and torrents of rain in its wake. The sea was quite steep now, but the wind was steady. Great rollers came out of the darkness, hit the submarine’s starboard side, broke over her in a deluge of spray, and vanished again to leeward.

The superstructure was hardly ever out of water, and now and again a sea swept right over the conning-tower, drenching to the skin the unfortunate men who were hanging on for dear life.

About nine o’clock Raymond eased her down to two hundred revs.

‘She’s not doing much,’ he said, turning to Boyd; ‘not more than about four knots. Can’t afford to smash things up. We’d better get right home, and in this sea we shan’t be there before daylight. Tell Seagrave to call me at four o’clock. He’s got a charge on of five hundred in series, and they’re getting the air up as well. He’ll see to that in the middle watch, though.’

He went below, letting the conning-tower hatch fall behind him, but not quite closing it (for the greedy engines needed air to run on), and prepared to lie down on his bunk.

Down below a sorry spectacle met his eyes. The beam sea was causing the boat to roll very heavily, and it was impossible to stand upright without holding on to something. Not the roll of a liner this, nor yet of a destroyer, but more the motion of a quickly-moving pendulum. Right over to port she would roll and then, without an instant’s pause, as far over the other way, bringing down a cloud of books and all sorts of gear that had not been properly lashed up.

Whenever a big sea washed clean over her, showers of spray would come down through the small opening in the conning-tower hatch, and once the chest of drawers took charge and slid over on a man who was attempting to sleep on deck.

Seagrave and Raymond were nearly rolled out of their bunks, and the racing of the screws caused an added vibration. Men in wet oilskins relieved from the wheel came below dripping, and everything began to get thoroughly damp and soggy.

At midnight Seagrave went up to the bridge. On first clambering out of the hatch it seemed as if he were entering a very inferno. Boyd, drenched to the skin, turned over the watch to him and hurried below, leaving him alone with the helmsman.

It was still pitch dark and blowing very hard. The rain was pouring down, and she was shipping it green fore and aft, but by-and-by he became more accustomed to it and began to wait for the big ones and dodge them instinctively; however, it was rather a nerve-wracking night, and he hailed with great joy the first glimpse of dawn and with it a moderation of wind and sea.

When Raymond came up at four o’clock, the weather was decreasing; the wind was still fresh, but the sea had gone down, and the boat was running more easily.

Seagrave wasted no time in getting below. He inspected the batteries, took the densities, and was between the blankets in less than ten minutes.

As the light gained strength, Raymond could just make out the faint outline of home, and the sea moderated as they approached the shelter of the bay to the northward.

He increased speed, and by seven-thirty they were in smooth water and only ten miles off the harbour.

Boyd clambered up to the bridge to assist Raymond to take her in, while Seagrave buzzed round the motors and saw all in readiness for entering port.

Nearly all the crew who were not on watch were up on deck; crowded on the conning-tower, round the gun, anywhere where they could keep a safe footing against the now gentle roll and get a breath of fresh air after the trials and stuffy atmosphere of the night below.

Up the hatch came the voice of the cheerful stoker impressing on the signalman that ‘he didn’t want to lose him, but he thought he ought to go,’ as the latter struggled up with his arms full of flags, and, bending on a couple, hoisted them to the yard-arm of the telescopic mast.

‘Entrance signal up, sir,’ he reported.

‘All right,’ said Raymond. ‘What’s that on the starboard bow?’

The signalman clapped his glass to his eye and sucked his teeth.

‘British submarine, sir, approaching the harbour from the northward. I think it’s “159,” sir. She seems to be keeping level.’

Raymond jerked the bell.

‘Three fifty revs!’ he shouted down the hatch. ‘We’ll show her what we can do now. We’ll make Snatcher look old-fashioned.’

The boat jumped ahead, but although the two submarines were on courses converging to the harbour mouth, she showed no signs of gaining on the wily ‘159.’

Raymond frowned. Then he rang the bell again and said,--

‘Ask the chief E.R.A. to speak to me, please.’

Presently Hoskins appeared, accompanied by his eternal dirty face, cheerful grin, and lump of oily waste.

‘Sir?’ he queried.

Raymond didn’t speak. He merely pointed to the offending craft on the starboard beam.

A light of comprehension dawned on the artificer’s face. His grin broadened and he fled below.

Twenty minutes later ‘123’ shot through the harbour-gate a good quarter of a mile ahead of her adversary, and as she passed the piers the captain gave the order ‘harbour stations.’

The coxswain took the helm. It was his prerogative, and entering or leaving port none but he was entrusted with the wheel.

The remainder of the crew who could be spared from below fell in and stood at ease on the superstructure, both forward and abaft the conning-tower, under the orders of Seagrave.

As they passed the first of the big ships lying at anchor, the ‘Sub’ gave a sharp order, and the men came to attention facing towards her, and as the quarter deck drew abeam, Raymond raised his hand in a salute which was answered from the battleship by the officer on the watch.

‘’Bout turn!’ ordered Seagrave, as they passed the next ship, and once more salutes were exchanged.

By now ‘123’ was well up the bay, and the _Parentis_ was visible as the boat threaded her way through the crowded harbour.

‘Finished harbour stations,’ ordered Raymond. ‘Stand by to go alongside.’

Then down the conning-tower hatch,--

‘Motors, group down! Three hundred!’

‘Both engine clutches out, sir,’ came the reply. ‘Three ’undred, sir.’

The exhaust wavered and died away; there was a pause, and then the faint churning aft indicated that the screws were being turned by the electric motors, which were taking three hundred amperes.

With perfect judgment Raymond manœuvred her astern of the _Parentis_, and ‘123’ slid alongside with barely a foot’s clearance.

As she slid by,--

‘Stop both!’ rapped the captain. ‘Group up! Astern both!’

The water bore aft as the propellers checked her way. Heaving lines were thrown fore and aft, ‘123’ thought about it, shuddered, and stopped dead alongside.

‘Stop both. Finished with motors. Make fast fore and aft,’ called Raymond. ‘Is the “Sperry” stopped, Boyd?’

‘Yes, sir. I stopped her when we got on the bearing,’ replied the navigator.

‘Right-oh. Come on the pair of you. Time for a gin and bitters.’

‘Clear up below, coxswain,’ cried Seagrave, as the gang plank went out; and five minutes later the three officers of H.M. Submarine ‘123’ were in the _Parentis’s_ ward room clamouring at the top of their voices for gin, bitters, and baths.

THE MOTHERS

I

We knew them in their infancy, We knew them as our sons; We loved them for their own dear sakes, We bade them man the guns. We knew they’d do their honest best, We prayed that they might live; And proud were we the day we gave The utmost we could give.

II

We saw them go, our cherished ones, We bade them fond farewell; And we, the mothers of our sons, Were left alone ... in hell. O Lord, we humbly pray Thee, Have mercy on the slain; But most of all, have mercy on, The women who remain!

EMPTY SADDLES

‘Chicago high,’ announced the Fleet Surgeon of the _Parentis_, throwing the dice on the ward room table.

‘One hundred, two hundred, three hundred and sixty-four,’ said the Staff Paymaster as he gathered them up. ‘Not so dusty, P.M.O., but watch Little Willie.’

‘Sixty, sixty-four, sixty-six, seventy-two,’ cried the surgeon triumphantly. ‘The worst cut of modern times. Waiter, Mr Ponsonby will provide cocktails.’

‘That shakes your wine bill, Pay,’ remarked the Engineer Commander. ‘Six cocktails makes you sit up and take notice. _And_ don’t forget that you’ve got to shake with old “Snatcher” when “159” gets back. He’s absolutely undefeated, a regular snatcher of drinks at other people’s expense.’

‘You’re probably speaking from bitter experience, Chief,’ asked Blake, one of the submarine captains.

‘I am,’ replied the Engineer, shaking his head. ‘Last time I took him on I got six at “Chicago low,” and he lurked me with a possible. I used to think I was a pretty fair hand at cutting, but I admit that where “159” is concerned I’ve met my Waterloo.’

‘By Jove, yes. She ought to be in by now, unless she’s had bad weather, which isn’t likely. You can usually trust “Snatcher” to sit on the bottom if it comes on to blow. But he ought to be back shortly. I always work it so as to get back in time for a bath before dinner when I’m on the patrol he’s got now.’

‘Look here, P.M.O.,’ protested a voice from the other end of the ward room. ‘These people are ordering more gin. In the interests of public health and the Service I appeal to you, as a medical man, to tell them not to, to put your foot down; in a word, to stop it. They’re going to start the gramaphone and it’s only half-past six, and I can’t stand it.’

‘It looks to me like an advanced case of alcoholic neuritis,’ replied the surgeon gravely, ‘for which the only remedy is a prolonged course of ragtime on the gramaphone at eight a.m. It had better work itself out, that is, unless they include me in their disgusting gin debauch, in which case I don’t mind prescribing something a little less drastic.’

It was the hour before dinner, when every one congregates for a drink before going below to clean and change, and the _Parentis’s_ ward room was crowded. It was large as ward rooms go, and furnished in the usual Service style, with maroon leather chairs and sofas, a long table covered with the green Service cloth, and cases of Encyclopædias and works on Naval history. The walls were adorned with photographs of the various submarines which had been attached to the ship at different times, and formed quite an interesting feature in themselves.

At present the _Parentis_ was depot ship to a large number of boats, and as each boat had three officers, the Marine servants were usually kept pretty busy at cocktail time.

Youngish men mostly, the submarine captains would meet at this hour of the day and discuss ‘shop’ to an extent that maddened the more junior members of the mess. Little scraps of conversation they were, but not without meaning to the uninitiated, and based on the experience of men who sometimes carried their lives in their hands. Periscopes, stern-dives, and the latest class of boat were discussed, coloured with the charm of personal experiences and scraps of idle chaff.

‘The ‘Subs’ of the boats were either junior Lieutenants or senior Sub-Lieutenants. Earnest, talkative youths, very much alive to the responsibilities of their positions, and the burdens attaching thereto, who ordered their drinks with the abandon of those who have done a hard day’s work and ‘dare do all that may become a man.’

The remainder of the mess was composed of the depot officers: paymaster, surgeon, engineer, and watch-keepers, and the navigators of the submarines. These latter were all Lieutenants of the Royal Naval Reserve, whose ages ranged anywhere from twenty-three to forty; men from the great steamship lines of the Mercantile Marine, who had answered the country’s call at the outbreak of the war.

There was a general buzz of conversation over the room as friends discussed the events of the day and compared notes, before undertaking the more serious business of dinner.

‘I say, you fellows,’ exclaimed Seagrave to a group of brother ‘Subs,’ ‘“159” went to sea without any gin. “Bunty” tried to pull the strings twice, but the mess-man wasn’t having any.’

‘I know,’ chimed in another. ‘I went down the boat before she shoved off to try and get a drink out of him, but when I got there the cupboard was bare.’

‘By the way, aren’t they back yet?’

‘Don’t think so. You’d hear ’em quick enough if they were. They do seem to be a bit late. Probably strafed a Hun.’

‘If they’d done that they’d be back at the double. They hadn’t anything to celebrate it with.’

‘Can’t help their troubles, and if we don’t want to be late for dinner we’d better get moving,’ and, snatching his cap from a pile on the table, the speaker linked arms with a couple of cronies and waltzed out of the room.

‘My opinion,’ said the Torpedo Lieutenant to a circle of boat captains gathered round the fireplace, ‘is that you fellows take life too seriously. Look at me. I work all day. I’m a fine figure of a man.... Now, then, no rude remarks, please. And I come in here in the evening as merry as a cricket.’

‘That’s all right,’ replied one of his listeners. ‘It all depends on one’s definition of the word work. You ought to look it up; you’d find it instructive.’

‘Your pardon, sir. My labours are long and strenuous. I went down three boats to-day and gave my valuable advice on Mark XX torpedoes. But alas! this is a thankless world. I received recompense in only two. The other boat had lost her corkscrew.’

‘Say, Boyd,’ cried a voice at the other end of the room, ‘how did the gyro behave last trip?’

‘A 1. I’m becoming a perfect knut at it. He only rang once. I’ve come to the conclusion that when you know the elements of its construction, it’s as easy as falling off a log. Yes, a cocktail, please, waiter. I had some trouble at first though, but that was my own fault. In fact I composed a song entitled “When the Sperry bell is ringing.”’

‘Mine’s jolly fine now, never makes a murmur.’

‘When you’re quite finished your harangue on work, a subject on which you are grossly ignorant, Torps, perhaps you will pay a little attention to me.’ The voice was Raymond’s.

‘Now, tell me why. Why am I to listen to your fatuous and narrow-minded remarks on a topic that is not only entirely distasteful to me at all times, but altogether beyond the pale at this hour of the evening.’

‘My fatuous remark, as you are pleased to call it, was about to take the form of asking you to have a gin with me, but seeing that----’

‘Kamerad, kamerad. I apologise--for once you talk as a Christian should. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend him your ears. He’s going to do the decent. I can feel it coming on.’

‘At one time, in my palmy days, when I was your age,’ said Raymond, raising his glass, ‘I could go a whole pint of beer without swallowing. But now---- It’s a bit ’ard. Cheer-oh, everybody.’

In the train of the drinks came the Marine servants bearing the table-cloths and silver, and a general move was made for the door.

‘This,’ said the Torpedo Lieutenant as he foraged for his cap, ‘is what I joined the Navy for. To dine and meditate with friends.... Damn it, Pay, you’ve pinched my bonnet.’

* * * * *

Private Boon, R.M.L.I., knocked at his master’s door.

‘Mr Blake, sir. ’Alf-past seven. Your bath’s ready, sir.’

The sleeper awoke, yawned, and threw one pyjama-clad leg over the bunk board.

‘All right. I’ll be out in a minute,’ he grunted.

The private withdrew and Blake turned over and looked at his watch.

‘Um,’ he groaned. ‘Better hurry up, I suppose, or some one will pinch my bath.’

As he slipped on a dressing-gown, a photograph on the table caught his eye.

‘Wonder if “159” has got back yet,’ he mused, as he made his way down the corridor. ‘Ought to be in by now,’ and he disappeared into the bathroom, where sounds of splashing and ‘Miserere’ in a deep bass shortly issued.

On his return he found the private of Marines busy in his room.

‘Is “159” back yet, Boon?’ he asked.

‘Not yet, sir. I’ve got Mr Shelldon’s room ready for ’im. But they ain’t back yet, sir.’

A vague uneasiness crept over Blake. What was ‘Snatcher’ doing that he was twelve hours overdue?

‘Oh, rubbish,’ he told himself as he began dressing, ‘I expect he’s been delayed some way or other. Engines broken down or something.’

‘Yes, boiled eggs in ten minutes’ time, Boon, not too hard, please.’

Breakfast in the _Parentis_ was not what would be called a cheery meal. Conversation was not encouraged, and hilarity of any sort met with frowning disapproval. The sober-minded read newspapers, while their less literary brethren kept their mouths shut except for the necessity of admitting food.

When the more senior members of the mess had got to the first pipe stage, the ‘Subs’ departed to muster their crews, and the navigators drifted off to odd jobs. The captains of boats congregated round the fireplace and discussed plans for the day, while the doctor censored letters and the Staff Paymaster busied himself with the wine books. Gradually the groups broke up and the Marines began tidying the room for the morning.

In the early hours--at six o’clock to be exact--the ship’s company had been fallen in by the officer of the watch, and under the eagle eye of the First Lieutenant had scrubbed the decks and cleaned the brass till the _Parentis_ shone like a new pin. Alongside her, four on one side and five on the other, were her charges, the submarines, at present in a state of ordered chaos due to work of an extensive and all embracing character.

At eight o’clock the crew, mustered in their boats by their respective ‘Subs,’ were told off for the labours of the day, and by five minutes past were all hard at it. The E.R.A.’s were busying themselves in their engine-rooms and the electrical ratings on various jobs that came within their sphere, while the remainder were cleaning all brass and steelwork and were kept at it by the vigilant ‘Subs.’

Navigators were correcting charts and cleaning gyro compasses, and now and again the captains would dodge below to superintend, or two or three of them would hang round a periscope or a torpedo-tube arguing a knotty point or demonstrating the correctness of their theories.

It was a fine warm day, and the _Parentis_ looked like a hen in a gilded coop with her chicks clustered about her. All round her lay the Fleet; picket boats danced across from ship to ship, the sound of a Marine band drifted over from a neighbouring battleship, and the buzz of work rose on the air.

The officer of the watch, resplendent with a sword-belt and telescope, walked the quarter-deck, keeping a general eye on everything that took place. The quartermaster, corporal of the watch, and messengers hung round the gangway, and even the distant bridge was a scene of activity, where a gray-haired yeoman of signals harried his signal staff round the gaudy flag lockers.

Forward an R.N.R. Lieutenant was drilling the boys’ division at physical exercise, and down below the submarine attack ‘teacher’ was being kept busily employed.

A picket-boat approached the gangway. The midshipman who was steering held up four fingers and laid them on his coat-sleeve, and as she swung alongside the gangway party formed up. A tall, erect figure stepped out of the boat, the bos’n’s mate shrilled on his pipe, the quarter-deck came to attention, and the officer of the watch saluted. A Post Captain had come aboard.

The boys’ division fell out and gave place to a squad under torpedo instruction; the Marine detachment paraded, and then the bugle sounded ‘Stand easy.’

Men came up out of the boats to snatch a smoke during the ten minutes’ respite; or laid aside their brass rags and departed to the mess decks. Ten minutes blessed relief before ‘Carry on’ sounded by the diminutive Marine bugler sent them back to their tasks.

Later, the Captain of the depot held his court for defaulters. Then ‘cooks’ was sounded, the rum was served out, and at eight bells, noon, came the welcome dinner call.

Up over the side came the crews, followed in a more dignified manner by the officers, who dived below to their rooms, to wash and don a clean monkey-jacket for lunch.

Blake came up out of his boat, fully expecting to see ‘159’ in her accustomed berth, and it was with quite a shock that he realised that she had not yet returned. It was with a presentiment of something seriously amiss that he presently took his seat at the luncheon-table.