Part 4

The same feeling seemed to express itself in the others’ faces, but this might be only his imagination. No one spoke of ‘159,’ in fact they all seemed to leave her severely alone. But there was a general feeling in the air that all was not well, and it seemed evident, though no word was actually spoken, that everybody fully realised the fact that she was now sixteen hours late, and a boat that is sixteen hours overdue in war-time ... well, things _may_ have happened.

Once he made a casual remark to his neighbour on the matter. His answer was merely a nod between mouthfuls, so he dropped the subject and said no more about it.

But for all that, he was becoming convinced that something had taken place ... out there. ‘Snatcher’ Shelldon and he had been friends since their _Britannia_ days. His surroundings looked unfamiliar and a sickening anxiety came over him. ‘How could the others go on eating when perhaps?...’

He pulled himself together and made a pretence at a meal. ‘Mustn’t give way to morbid imaginings,’ he told himself.

The meal over he sat apart and tried to collect his thoughts and enumerate various minor mishaps that might have delayed the boat. No, he could think of none that would account for it under the circumstances.

At one-thirty work was resumed, and he plunged into a fever of exertion to take his thoughts off the subject. He made up his mind he wouldn’t come on deck before four o’clock, when work ceased for the day, and then either the sight of ‘159’ would dispel all doubts or else he had no more to hope for.

But at four o’clock, when the hands were piped to tea, there was still no news, and shortly after ‘evening quarters’ two destroyers slipped quietly out of the harbour. Those who noticed their departure thought nothing of it at the time, and only wondered why the Captain’s temper seemed the worse for wear.

By dinner time it was evident that every one in the mess was awake to the fact that a boat was missing, and in fine weather, too. Nobody mentioned her; they all kept studiously off the subject, but the conversation was subdued and everybody’s nerves seemed slightly on edge. Many of them had friends among the absent officers, and no one liked to voice the general opinion, although it would have been a relief if some one had.

It was not a cheery meal, and they were all glad when it was over.

Thus it was left to Private Boon to rush in where angels feared to tread.

‘That’s three of ’em less to lay for,’ he said.

* * * * *

Two days later the captain of the depot sat alone in his after-cabin.

He was bending over the writing-table, surrounded by envelopes, paper, and accessories, but his thoughts did not seem to flow. He sat staring in front of him with unseeing eyes and chewing the end of his pen.

At last he sighed and addressed himself to his task. Three letters he was writing, to anxious women who were waiting and hoping beyond hope, two wives and a lonely mother, to tell them that they might hope no longer. This kindly old gentleman was compiling the missives which were to bring anguish and sorrow to the hearts of those who waited.

They were more than junior officers to him. One was the son of an old comrade and the others had served long under his command. To them he had been, no doubt, rather a terrifying person with four gold stripes on his sleeve, but to him, they were his boys; he had been through it all himself, he was training them, and he was proud of them. Above all came the Service, and he had trained them for the good of the Service. A kindly word now and again and a sharp reprimand when needed had been the secret of his successes, and beneath his gruff exterior he had a warm feeling towards them. Now he had lost them and his work was to do over again.

His hand was about to bring grief unspeakable to their dearest and....

He finished his letters; the few kindly, sympathetic words that were to be almost death-blows on the morrow, and as he raised his head from the table and glanced into the mirror he saw the face of a tired old man.

* * * * *

Blake picked up the photograph and held it close to the electric light. As he studied the honest face it depicted, his memory flew back to the _Britannia_ days when Shelldon and he had started their careers. They had been the same term and had gone through all their early trials and tribulations together. Later, ‘Snatcher’ had spent one or two holidays with him, and years afterwards the friendship had been cemented by his engagement to Blake’s sister.

He remembered the wedding, and how as best man he had put in one of the hardest day’s work in his life. He smiled as he recalled his friend’s delight when first he had been promoted to captain of a boat, and he put down the photograph and sighed.

‘It seemed so cold-blooded. To go out and just disappear. No trace, nothing. Blown to pieces on a mine probably. He could picture the scene. The men quietly reading and talking and then suddenly a blinding crash and nothing more. If some one could only have seen them. But the two destroyers that went in search had only found a patch of oil. Just went out and disappeared. And Molly....’

A knock sounded at the door.

‘Come in,’ he called, hastily stowing the photograph away.

Raymond entered with an air of studied indifference.

‘Hope you’re not busy, old man,’ he said with forced gaiety.

‘No, no. I’m not doing anything. Come in.’

‘Good. I wanted to know if you would lend me your T.I. to-morrow. Mine’s gone sick and I’ve got a job of work on hand I want finished.’

‘Yes, of course, you can. Take him and bless you. I’ll send a chit to my “Sub” about it.’

Raymond hovered with the door-knob in his hand, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and left quietly.

Out in the flat, he faced his friend’s cabin, and raising his fists in the air, called Heaven to witness.

‘Oh, Bloody War!’ he exclaimed.

* * * * *

‘As a general rule, mind you, I don’t ’old with officers, but ’e was a gentleman.’

The speaker spat over the side to emphasise his point, and relapsed into silence.

The lower deck sat round in small knots and coteries and smoked for the most part without unnecessary speech. The pipes were going, the evening was dark and still, and the lower deck was in a contemplative mood.

‘Yes,’ continued the Seaman Gunner, ‘’im and ’is mates was gentlemen.’

‘Pal o’ mine, Mick ’Ardy, was in ’er,’ quoth the S.T. ‘Fust trip in a submarine, too. Out fer trainin’. ’Ard I calls it.’

‘Strewth,’ said a voice out of the darkness, ‘we was on ’er patrol last trip. Bit o’ luck we didn’t come a kisser.’

‘It was that,’ put in the signalman. ‘We’re doo out to-morrow.’

Once more silence. Three bells struck and a bugle sounded from a distant battleship.

‘I’d like to know wot ’appened,’ said the voice out of the darkness. ‘Struck a mine likely. When I come into submarines, my old woman she sez to me----’

‘Stow it,’ growled the Seaman Gunner. ‘Only the other day, ’e sez, “’Bout time,” ’e sez, “you went up for Leading Seaman. I want to see you gettin’ a ’ead. I’ll ’elp you through,” ’e sez.’

‘Wot I think,’ said the Stoker, ‘is, strike me pink. If I don’t pulverise the first ruddy ’Un I meets, Gawd strike me pink.’

‘Pipe down,’ shrilled the bos’n’s mate.

* * * * *

Private Boon was busy. He stood in his shirt-sleeves in the midst of a chaos of his own making.

Outside the cabin was a sea-chest of generous proportions, and in the bunk he had placed a tin uniform case, a helmet case, and divers bags and portmanteaux.

He was a careful packer, but his methods were unique. He liked to see things round him, and after the manner of an inquisitive terrier, he began to strip the drawers of their contents and strew garments high and low. The table, the chairs, and the bunk was soon piled high, and when the last drawer gaped void and empty he surveyed his handiwork with the eye of a connoisseur.

But he showed himself a past master of the art when he began packing the uniforms in the tin case. Every article was carefully shaken, brushed and folded, and reverently placed in its appointed spot. This portion of his labours completed, he dealt with the sea-chest, and by that time the collection round the cabin had materially decreased.

Having finished the clothes at last, he turned to the more personal objects, scrutinising each one before finally disposing of it.

‘Ash tray, silver too,’ he soliloquised. ‘Give ’im by a girl likely. ’Air brushes, monogram an’ all. Nice bit o’ work. Books, letters, fountain pen. I think that’s the lot.’

His eye caught a small silver frame standing on the table forlorn and forgotten.

‘’Ullo, photograph.’ He held it to the light. ‘Nice-looking young woman, _and_ a kid. Might be ’is Missis. P’raps it is, poor gell!’

He locked the cases and looked round the cabin.

‘Nothin’ forgot. No. I think that’s all this time.’

With much laboured breathing he wrote the owner’s name and address, and, carefully tacking the card on the lid of the sea-chest, stood back to admire the result.

‘Effects of the Late Lieutenant Shelldon, R.N.----’

Through the open port the sound of an order floated, and the churning of twin screws. It was ‘147’ going to sea.

A Sub-Lieutenant and a Midshipman stood on the quarter-deck of a neighbouring battleship.

* * * * *

Said the ‘Sub,’ aged twenty, to the ‘Snotty,’ aged nineteen, ‘I bearded the Commander in his den to-day, and flopped in my application.’

‘Did you? What did he say?’ inquired the Midshipman.

‘Look out, he’s over there. Said it was all right and he’d see the Captain about it to-morrow.’

‘You lucky beggar. I wish I could get in, but they won’t take us “Snotties.”’

‘Perhaps you’ll get in when you’re my age,’ returned the bearder of Commanders patronisingly.

‘By gum, yes. I hope so. I’ve always wanted to be in a submarine, ever since the Marmora business.’ He gazed across at the _Parentis_. ‘Look, there’s one of them going to sea. Can you see which she is?’

The ‘Sub’ shaded his eyes.

‘“147,” I think. Billings is in her. He’s my term, and he got in without much trouble. I ought to get it in two months or so with any luck.’

‘That’ll mean drinks all round then, that’s one comfort,’ said the Midshipman enviously.

‘Oh, I shan’t mind standing drinks once I’ve got it. Man, you’re practically your own boss there. Think of it, no school or bally drills. You’re not treated as a child like you are here.’

‘I don’t know about that. That picket-boat job I had yesterday wasn’t much of a joke.’

A signalman came through the screen door and approached the Commander, who was conferring with the Boatswain on the other side of the quarter-deck.

‘Signal, sir,’ he reported.

The Commander looked round impatiently.

‘Well, what is it? Read it out.’

‘Flag, General, sir. From two to three p.m. Colours will be ’alf mast owing to the loss of Submarine “159.”’

‘All right. Show it to the Officer of the Watch. Now, about that new manilla, Mr Bostock....’

The signalman saluted and carried on.

THE BOGIE-MAN

I

‘Oh, mother dear, was that a whale?’ the baby porpoise said. ‘Now, hush, my Little Beautiful, it’s time you were in bed.’ ‘Or, mother, could it be a shark that gave me such a fright, Or was it just a phantasy that passes with the night?’

II

‘Now, hush, my Little Beautiful. If you don’t go to sleep, I’ll have to call the Bogie-Man, the Bogie of the Deep. Be good, or he will swallow you; his teeth are sharp and keen, He’s here, he’s there, he’s everywhere. That grisly Submarine!’

‘EXERCISE ATTACKS’

It has already been pointed out that breakfast in the _Parentis_ was a meal of Spartan severity. Moreover, the breakfasters were divided into three distinct classes. During the remainder of the day the members of these different orders descended to the level of the common herd and were as other men. But when the fateful hour of eight a.m. came round again, they picked up the broken threads of their lives, and for one brief hour held chillily aloof from those of other and (according to the point of view) less distinguished bodies.

The most elevated of these orders consisted of those few habitually early risers, who, having shaved and bathed at the grisly hour of 7.15, loomed heavily into the ward room with severe countenances and majestic mien, each a procession in himself. In sepulchral tones they ordered eggs, and taking up a strategic position with their backs to the fire, produced books from their pockets and read in heavy silence, with one eye cocked doorwards whence breakfast would appear.

On the arrival of food they took their seats in awful majesty, nodded to one another across the table, and attacked their eggs without further preamble. The actions of the noble-minded of this earth are often mysteries to its more humble inhabitants. But _Conscia mens recti_ may do these things and prosper.

To arrest public attention, man must be eccentric, but even greatness has its penalties, and of these the discomfort attendant on eccentricity is by no means one of the least.

Consequently the second, and by far the most numerous, school of breakfasters, comprised the ‘plebs’ or rabble, who drifted in at any time between eight-twenty and a quarter to nine, having risen and dressed with decorum, and at the hour when a normal Christian should.

Its adherents held a brighter view of life; occasionally they spoke, and rumour whispered that once in the dim ages, far back in the twilight of history, a member of this low caste has even been known to laugh!

The third and last clan, which was very popular with certain members of the mess, rivalled in fame its more ascetic brethren who aspired to be ‘healthy, wealthy, and wise.’ Its devotees, having remained in bed until the last minute, fled in terror to the bathroom, visions of pyjamas and flying towels, and presently burst wild-eyed into the mess, still buttoning their monkey jackets about them. In panic-stricken tones they ordered food and (if the table had not already been cleared) fell upon the viands in the manner of drowning men to whom help had come when hope had been foregone.

For the remainder of the forenoon the ward room would be filled with the bitter complaints of the less fortunate of these late-comers. Complaints to the effect that ‘they never could get any breakfast in this wretched ship,’ and of the futility and feebleness of the calls given them by their respective Marine servants.

A new member coming to the mess grasped the situation at his first meal, and felt it a point of unwritten law and honour to continue membership in whichever body chance had happened to place him. He resented those who altered their morning habits and broke through the magic circle, and showed his displeasure by word or look, according to the traditions of the body to which he belonged.

Thus it was that Raymond, who was a member of the ‘plebs,’ having risen unusually early, was met with severe and threatening looks as he took his seat at the table. The fluttering in the dove-cotes was barely stilled when, horror, another intruder arrived on the scene of mastication. As if this were not sufficient outrage in itself, the breakers of the peace seemed in good humour with the world and actually dared to talk! With frigid looks the early risers hastily finished their meal and retired with ruffled dignity.

One only remained whose curiosity had got the better of his wounded feelings. For a while he listened to what the others were saying in the hopes of obtaining a clue to the mystery without having to resort to the self-abasement of asking questions, but as nothing was spoken of that would help him in that direction he was forced to swallow his pride. Presently he looked up from the book he was pretending to read and grunted with disgust.

‘Up early,’ he began, nodding at Raymond.

‘Yes,’ replied that worthy brightly. ‘Practice attacks.’

The curious one sat up and took professional notice.

‘One of the world’s workers this morning, eh? Who’s giving you a run?’

‘Jenkins, here. His T.B.’s alongside now, so I asked him to come aboard and have a drop of breakfast with me.’

‘Now I come to think of it, I heard Jinks’s falsetto when I was in my bath. He made rather a mess of coming alongside, I thought, and I suppose he was mentioning it to any one who cared to listen to him.’

‘Made a mess of it, be blowed!’ cried the irate Jenkins. ‘You try a combination of tide, and a fool at the wheel at seven in the morning, and then you’ll realise what I’ve had to put up with.’

‘I have, my lad, I have. My heart went out to you when I heard the bump. There ought to be an addition made to the lists of “summary punishments,” entitling outraged “Lieutenants-in-command” to seize all helm offenders and cast them instantly into chains.’

‘Blame the Kaiser, he’s the cause of the trouble,’ returned the Torpedo Boat captain sadly. ‘I’m well stocked with “hostility only” people, who never smelt salt water before they sold their farms and came to sea. You wouldn’t believe some of the weird stories I could tell you. Did you ever hear about my gray paint?’

‘I heard some of the most extraordinary rumours. What actually happened?’

‘Oh, it was chronic. Burton, my Number One, was nearly a raving lunatic over it, and hasn’t been the same man since. It quite broke the poor chap down. He’d been trying to mix the right shade for days, and thought he really had hit on it at last. It was all mixed in a whopping great tub ready for slapping on in the morning, and the whole bally lot disappeared during the night.’

‘Great Scott! What the devil happened to it?’

‘Prepare for a shock and I’ll break it to you gently. It had been dumped, jettisoned, thrown over the side, mark you, by an “’ostility only” bloke wot thort it was dirty water, sir, please!’

‘My poor old Jinks. No wonder he wears a careworn look.’

‘All very well for you to laugh, Austin, but it’s these little things that are the bane of one’s existence in the destroyer trade. Upsets of this sort and submarines are about on a par with one another.’

‘We ought to be ready by now,’ said Raymond, rising and going over to the scuttle. ‘Seagrave has been up since dewy dawn getting ready. Yes,’ he continued, looking over his shoulder, ‘he seems to be having a high old time of it by himself, and by the looks of things we’re all ready when you are.’

‘Right-oh. I shove off at eight-thirty, don’t I?’

‘I haven’t had a “dummy run” for ages,’ grumbled Austin. ‘The owner thinks I’m so proficient I don’t need any more, I expect.’

‘Oh, no, my friend,’ laughed Raymond. ‘You’re not his blue-eyed boy by a long chalk. It’s common knowledge that you made such a fiasco of your last one that he doesn’t like to trust you again.’

‘Maybe, maybe,’ replied Austin amiably. (He was one of the best submarine officers in the depot.) ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings.... What’s the stunt to-day, anyway?’

‘Just the usual. Jinks goes out at eight-thirty and buzzes about in a ten mile area. I follow when I’ve digested my food, dive when he least expects it, and attack him in his little sardine tin by short sharp rushes. I shall then be crowned with laurel leaves, which, with my accustomed modesty, I shall refuse to wear.’

‘That’s open to question. Last time Jinks gave me a run I couldn’t get anywhere near him. How many “fish” are you going to fire?’

‘Probably four, I think. It depends whether it’s worth while. You see, I’ve got that patent bow-cap, and as I have to flood all four tubes together, I might as well get rid of the “fish.”’

‘That always seems to me to be a rummy arrangement. Personally I can’t see much advantage in it. Do you find it any good?’

‘It’s handy in one way. If you miss with your first shot, your other tubes are ready for another go.’

‘My dear good chap, you must not be such a Hun. You’ll have to curb these desires for hate. Why should you want to rain “fish” on unfortunate beggars in that way?’

‘Time’s up,’ said the Torpedo Boat captain, pushing his chair back. ‘I’ll get off now. What’s the betting I spot you?’

‘Cocktails when we get back,’ Raymond called after him.

‘I’ll take you,’ said Jenkins, putting his head in through the ward room door. ‘I’ve got a wonderful eye for spotting periscopes.’

‘Mine is the “perisher” you will _not_ spot,’ replied Raymond with dignity. ‘Not if you try ever so. Not if you try with both hands, you won’t.’

‘The youth bores me,’ sighed Jenkins, and fled as the _Naval Annual_ banged up against the bulkhead.

He made his way down the flat, where the Marine sentry stood at stolid attention, and glimpses could be had, through open doors, of those who wrestled manfully with collars, and the air was rent with shrill cries and splashings from the bathroom. Messengers and officers’ servants were bustling about, and there was a general air of early morning energy. At the end of the flat, he stepped up the companion and emerged on the quarter-deck, where he gravely raised his hand to the salute.

‘Hallo, Jinks!’ cried a being, whose sword-belt and telescope proclaimed him the Officer of the Watch; ‘I was surprised to find your packet alongside when I took over at eight o’clock. What’s the game?’

‘I’m giving Raymond a run, and as I’m short of torpedo-lifting gear, I got permission to come alongside and take some in before shoving out of the harbour.’

‘I see. What time are you shoving off though, because “147” will be back in half an hour’s time and she’ll want your berth alongside the trot[9]?’

‘Don’t you worry. I’m off now. If you’d taken careful stock of me you’d have seen the business-like look in my eye.’

‘That’ll be all right then. Good luck. When are you coming aboard to dine with us, by the way?’

‘Any old time when I’m free will suit me.’

‘Well, come to-night, then. Dinner’s at seven-thirty. Cheer-oh.’

H.M. Torpedo Boat _Zero_ lay alongside the outer submarine, and Jenkins had to clamber over the boats to reach his command. Four boats there were, with just a thin plank thrown from one to the other as a means of passage, and it required a little skilful manœuvring to get across in safety. As he made his way over he caught glimpses of their internals down the open hatches, heads bobbed round the conning-towers, and snatches of song rose from the depths. Some of the crew of the outer boat were exchanging insults with the _Zero’s_ men alongside, but at sight of Jenkins they resumed their work with unaccustomed zeal.

The _Zero_ was old, very old, and quite unlovely, but according to her captain, ‘she had her points.’ What these points were no one had ever discovered, for all inquiries were met with the reply that ‘if they couldn’t see them for themselves, he (the captain) was certainly not going to the trouble of pointing them out for their (the inquirer’s) instruction.’ She was small and uncomfortable and resembled an overgrown motor-launch with a whale-back fo’c’sle. Also she was wet in a sea way, and her internal arrangements were not of the most convenient. Nevertheless she was a command, and in her captain’s eye she had no blemish. Later, when he had four stripes on his sleeve, and commanded a battleship, he would look back on her and study her photographs with amusement and a little sorrow, but now, he was very serious about her and very touchy about criticisms. No man dared speak lightly of her since the awful day when ‘Snatcher’ Shelldon had referred to her as ‘a lady of doubtful age.’ The result had been terrific, and from that day nobody had openly questioned the _Zero_ or her capabilities.

As he stepped aboard, Burton, the R.N.R. First Lieutenant, met him and saluted.

‘All ready, sir,’ he reported.

‘Very good, we’ll shove off at once,’ said Jenkins. ‘“123” will follow us in half an hour, so we haven’t got too much time. Stand by to let the lines go.’