Part 6

Still there was no sign from the depths, and Jenkins slowly lowered his glass again.

‘He’s missed us, I think,’ he said. ‘We must have given him the slip.’

‘A bit too quick for him,’ remarked Burton complacently.

Save for themselves the ocean seemed untenanted, and there lay the harbour a bare two miles ahead.

‘Don’t crow till you’re out of the wood, though,’ went on the skipper. ‘He may have us yet.’

Then suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, his eye caught a glint in the water.

‘Hard-a-starboard!’ he snapped. ‘Over with it!’

Too late! A flash of white and creamy bubbles told where one torpedo had rushed across the bow. The other shot clean under the Torpedo Boat, was lost for an instant, and reappeared on the other side like an arrow from a bow. Two cables away they broke surface, and the red peace-heads bobbed up and down as witnesses of the attack.

‘Got us, by Jove!’ roared Jenkins. ‘A beautiful shot! Steady the helm! Stop her!’

Still there was no sign of ‘123,’ and with her engines going astern the _Zero_ gradually lost her weigh and came to a standstill.

The boat was called away and Burton despatched to retrieve the spent torpedoes, and presently a dark wedge-shaped object pushed up above the surface and revealed itself as the submarine’s periscope standard. The bridge, the gun, and finally the superstructure appeared, and she was up from the eighty foot dive which she had undertaken to increase the realism of the attack. An enemy who had seen the torpedoes on their mission would have taken the warning and cast about for his assailant, if he had not been blown to a better world.

She lay on the surface about half a mile off, menacing and silent. The figures were seen moving on her bridge, and she slowly dropped alongside, while her telescopic mast went up in sections and the White Ensign was hoisted to the peak.

‘Beautiful shot!’ shouted Jenkins, as she came within hailing distance. ‘A real ripper! One went just ahead and the other right underneath me. That depth you set them at was about right and they ran straight. If I’d been a Hun you’d have blown me to smithereens.’

‘Did you see me?’ howled Raymond.

‘No fear. Never saw a vestige of periscope. In fact, I thought you’d missed me.’

‘That’s good. I nearly broke surface once, and I was afraid it would be no use carrying on. Will you bring the “fish” in and I’ll take ’em from you when we get alongside the _Parentis_?’

‘Yes, all right. I’m picking them up now. See you later.’

Raymond started the motors and ‘123’ drew ahead. Presently Burton returned with the torpedoes, which were carefully hoisted, and as the boat was swung to the davit-heads the _Zero_ got under weigh. Ahead in a cloud from her exhaust was the submarine, on her gas engines now, and putting her best screw forward for the harbour. Permission to enter was sought and granted from the Flagship in hoists of coloured bunting and the exercise was over.

As the _Zero_ gathered speed the captain looked up from the chart table.

‘This is where we come in, I think,’ he said with a grin; ‘shove her on to full.’

Down below the telegraph clanged and the small craft shook herself like an expectant terrier. Then she began to feel the added impetus and rapidly overhauled her slower rival. The Heads of the harbour entrance opened out as they approached, and the trawler at the gate hoisted the clearance signal. Beyond, the masts and funnels of the Fleet could be seen, and away to the southward an Admiralty collier was punching along with her cargo of diamonds for the ever hungry bunkers.

As they buzzed past their recent enemy, Jenkins gave an order to the signal boy, and that ingenuous youth began waving the semaphore arms with evident enjoyment.

‘Will report your return,’ he spelt out.

A pause followed. Then a figure was seen to clamber to a position of vantage on the submarine’s standard and there was a flash of red and yellow bunting.

‘What does he say?’ asked Raymond, when the message came to an end.

The boy saluted. ‘“123” to _Zero_, sir, “Your signal not understood. Will report sinking of _Zero_ by torpedo on my arrival at base.” Eleven twenty-five, code time, sir.’

‘What did I tell you, Burton?’ laughed the captain. ‘It’s no good trying to get to windward of Raymond. He’s always undefeated to the end.’

‘Precocity, I call it,’ said the other, who was bitterly grieved at the downfall of Jenkins’s attempt to score off the wily ‘hate-boat.’

The signal boy turned his back sharply and busied himself with his flags, while he hid a smile behind a grimy hand. He was used to this sort of chaff among the gods, but experience had taught him that it was not well to display too keen a sense of humour on these occasions.

Three minutes later, with her engines at a reduced speed, the _Zero_ took the gate and sped on up the harbour. As she passed the big ships the boy pounced on an answering pendant, ran it up to the yard-arm, and glued his eye to the telescope.

‘_Parentis_ to _Zero_,’ he spelt out. ‘Moorings alongside _Parentis_ occupied. Anchor in No. 4 berth.’

‘Down answer,’ he added, and the pendant fluttered to the deck.

‘All right, carry on for’ard, Burton,’ said the captain. ‘She’ll have to come alongside us in the afternoon and take the torpedoes in. Starboard anchor. Forty-five on the windlass.’

Burton departed to superintend the mooring operations, and the Torpedo Boat picked up her berth and let go her anchor without unnecessary fuss.

Meanwhile ‘123’ had followed her into the harbour at a more leisurely gait, observing a discreet decorum now that she was under the paternal eye of the big ships. As she approached the _Parentis_ her gas engines were shut down, and she dropped alongside on her motors and made fast to the trot. Raymond sent for the T.I., and arrangements were made for the parting and overhauling of the torpedoes that had been fired, and also held communion with the coxswain with regard to shifting alongside the _Zero_ for them, after lunch. Boyd shut down the Sperry compass, and by the time Seagrave had seen everything in order the three officers decamped to clean themselves for the meal.

‘A most profitable morning’s work,’ announced Raymond, as they entered the crowded ward room. ‘My congratulations to you, Seagrave, on the way the “fish” ran, and to you, Boyd, for the masterly manner in which you recorded our doings. Who’s having a gin?’

* * * * *

After dinner that evening the captain of the depot came down to the ward room and was hailed with the respectful welcome of a great man and a comrade. Drinks were passed on him, and he was led to an arm-chair near the fire where the boat-captains were discussing their usual topics, ‘shop’ and motor-bicycles. The Torpedo Lieutenant was in good form and regaled his superiors with a lengthy account of his unrewarded struggles to benefit a misguided humanity, and of his abject failure. Austin and Blake brought a discussion on the merits of American Diesel engines to him for a casting decision, and the Staff Paymaster bemoaned the removal of a certain cherished underling to another sphere of utility.

By-and-by, in a lull in the general conversation, the Captain spoke of what was in his mind.

‘How did the attacks go to-day, Raymond?’ he asked. ‘You haven’t told me anything beyond the bare report.’

‘Nothing to tell you, sir. They went pretty well. One came off and the other didn’t.’

‘That’s all rubbish, sir,’ put in Jenkins, who was one of the guests of the evening. ‘I only just saw him the first time, and the second attack defeated me completely. I was absolutely Hunned and never saw a thing.’

The Captain’s eyes twinkled.

‘Not so bad, Raymond,’ he said. ‘Not so bad. A little more practice and you’ll become one of the wonders of the deep.’

‘I don’t know about that, sir,’ laughed Raymond. ‘I ought to have got both attacks in, really, and I only just got him the last time by a fluke.’

The Captain smiled and changed the subject. At the other end of the ward room somebody was playing the piano and the strains of ‘The Admiral’s Broom’ rose in a deep baritone. When the chorus was reached the party round the fire joined in:--

‘I’ve a whip at the mast said he, For a whip is the sign for me, That the World may know, where ever I go, I ride and rule the Sea....’

The good old words filled the room and floated up through the skylight to the silent quarter-deck, where the officer of the watch paced up and down, and the anchored ships showed up as deeper blotches in the darkness. Overhead the wireless buzzed and crackled, and the lapping of the water between the boats alongside sounded like mermaids’ kisses.

A quartermaster on his way forward paused by the open skylight listening to the tinkle of the piano.

‘Strewth,’ he muttered. ‘Orficers ’avin’ a good time,’ and relapsed into silence as a signalman pattered by to relieve his mate on the bridge.

As the song came to an end a boy operator knocked at the ward-room door and handed a message to the Captain, who read it and put it in his pocket. Another song was beginning, and the singers were clustering round the piano. Duty called him, and as the song reached the noisy stage, he left with a quiet ‘good-night,’ and returned to his lonely quarters.

He was no mean judge of character.

NEPTUNE AND BRITANNIA

I

Neptune asked of Britannia, ‘Whence do your Seamen come? Are they born in the fields or forests, Or born in the city slum? Are they born in the lofty palace, Or born in the marsh or fen? In the name of the Golden Trident, Where do you get your men?’

II

Britannia rose in her armour, Her brazen buckler rang, And the waves of the world were silent, As her seamen’s creed she sang. ‘In the name of the Golden Trident, Which both of us dare to wield, In the name of the Isles of Britain, In the name of the Brazen Shield; In the name of the wives and mothers-- Brave beyond mortal ken, You shall learn how in pride and honour, Britannia rears her men.

III

‘Back in the mists of fable, A ship once put to sea, And she sailed to the dim horizon, For the wind was fair and free. She sailed to the Mighty Pillars Where the floods of the Great Sea ran; Born of the fame that girt her name, The seamen race began.

IV

‘Born of that brave adventure, The latent spark took fire; And down to the sea there followed The sons of the seaman sire. It spread o’er the Isles of Britain, And grew with the birth of guns; Let them beware who challenge there Britannia’s sailor sons.’

V

Neptune laughed as he listened, Laughed till the ocean rolled. ‘Woe to the men of the sea,’ he cried, ‘And woe to the over-bold. Though they may think to have conquered, Still will I have my share; Grant they be shrived.’ With that he dived Down to his ocean lair.

* * * * *

The waves of the deep rolled onward, Swelled in a mighty soar, Tottered and broke in a thunder stroke Upon Britannia’s shore.

PERSONNEL

The next day was Sunday, and as the fine weather still held, the Captain of the depot announced to the First Lieutenant his intention of inspecting the boats. Thence was much heart-burning and striving and a prodigious amount of work, the net result being that the nine boats shone inside and out like the proverbial new pins, and the crews, with the exception of those who were to stand the rounds, clad in ‘Number Threes,’ fell in on their superstructures with vacant ‘attention’ expressions on their usually classic features.

But before this happy result could be arrived at there was much to be done ... and said, for it must be admitted that there were those among the boat captains who held the opinion that inspections were an unnecessary nuisance, carried out with the sole intention of harassing the inspected.

The First Lieutenant of the _Parentis_ had given out the cheery news after breakfast, and a rush had followed on the part of the ‘Subs,’ unusually tidy in their Sunday rigs, to see that their boats were in a fit condition to withstand the piercing gaze of the Captain’s eagle eye. The boat captains learnt the news not without unmixed feelings, and with shrill cries of horror and reproach the unfortunate Number One was hurled from the ward room. Bitter were the reproaches of one, Blake, whose control room had been painted but the day before, while Austin and several others had work going on and improvements under weigh which they didn’t want disturbed. Raymond surveyed the matter with the stony calm of a fatalist, while the Torpedo Lieutenant alone maintained his unruffled serenity and dropped pearls of wisdom for the comfort and instruction of the discomforted captains.

‘What you fellows really lack,’ he proclaimed from the depths of an arm-chair and between puffs of an after-breakfast pipe, ‘is the power of organisation. The present crisis is an excellent example. At nine a.m. the ‘owner’ announces his intention of inspecting the boats after divisions and prayers, that is at about ten-thirty. Now, mark the result. Nine ‘Subs’ fly at the rate of knots out of the ward room, run round in circles with their hands to their heads, dive down into the boats and begin harassing unfortunate and peace-loving matlows. As regards you people, you’re all completely defeated. You sit here, do nothing, and growl like blazes, when as a matter of fact it doesn’t affect you in the least. The ‘Subs’ do all the work and report when the boats are ready. You then go down and inspect them yourselves, find fault with everything, have the whole place turned upside down, and wait till the dust has settled. At the last minute you have it all put back again as it was before, and stand by for the Captain. Now what you want is organisation. No matter what’s going on you ought to be ready for an inspection at any moment of the day. Mark the ordered routine of my own blameless existence. I rise at eight-thirty each morning as fresh as a lark, and if I’m lucky manage to consume a little breakfast. From then till lunch or cocktail time I maintain a complete and unruffled calm, seated daily in the same arm-chair, unless the claims of the Goddess Work call me to her altars. From lunch until tea I meditate in my bunk, and from tea till dinner I give out hints on the home, and generally instructive and edifying remarks from my present seat of vantage. Bed follows dinner as the fruit follows the flower, and my ordered and well disciplined day is at an end. It will be hard for you, and I foresee many difficulties, but you really must make an effort to follow my example,’ and the Torpedo Lieutenant lay back gasping and mopped his fevered brow with a bandana of barbaric colouring.

‘The point is,’ grumbled Austin, not taking any notice of him, ‘that in war time one can’t keep the boat up to the peace standard. It’s not possible. There’s far too much work to be done, for one thing, and considering the amount of sea time we put in I think we do pretty well in keeping the boats as clean as they are.’

‘That’s the crux of the whole question,’ replied Raymond; ‘in war time the ‘owner’ doesn’t expect to see the boats in the same state of spit and polish as he has been used to in happier times. What he looks for is general efficiency in boats, officers, and men. That’s the reason he and I get on so splendidly. No, don’t heave that book, Jimmy; I’ve got my number one monkey jacket on, and if I have to chastise you I shall get it creased. Hallo! there’s the bugle for divisions. See you later.’

‘I don’t believe in inspections at all in war time,’ said another of the party, as a general move was made for the door. ‘Unfair, I call it. Brings the war home too much.’

Overhead the scurrying of heavily-shod feet and the sound of sharp orders told that the ships’ company was mustering by divisions for the Captain’s inspection, and the boat skippers cleared out to their boats to see that all was in readiness.

Down in ‘123’ the last finishing touches were being applied when Raymond arrived. Everything that brass polish and elbow grease could cause to shine, shone with a satisfactory brilliance, and whatever couldn’t shine was discreetly stowed away and hidden from the vulgar gaze. When all was in readiness, Raymond and the ‘Sub’ made a tour of inspection in search of possible defects or anything that might meet with the disapproval of authority.

‘This hydroplane motor,’ said the latter, putting his hand on a large black object that looked rather like a small mine. ‘It’s been running hot lately. Have to look at it to-morrow. “Owner” won’t know that, though.’

‘Um, no. She doesn’t look too bad. Tell Hoskins to stand the rounds in the engine-room, T.I. in the fore-end, and second coxswain in the control-room.’

‘Very good, sir. Hallo! they’re at prayers,’ he added as the strains of a hymn accompanied by the Marine Band floated down the hatch. ‘Not much longer now. I think she’ll do, sir. Fall the hands in on the upper deck, coxswain.’

The last brass rag and lump of waste were stowed away and the men scrambled up on deck. ‘123’ was a pleasure to the eye and a credit to the makers of liquid metal polish. All down the long tunnel of her inside, from the engines to the torpedo-tube doors, her steel and brass and copper winked and twinkled in the electric light, her white enamel was spotless, and her deckcloths were a glory to behold.

Raymond took a final look round. ‘Good enough,’ he said, as he went up the conning-tower followed by the ‘Sub.’ ‘Now for the ordeal by fire.’

On deck the crew had fallen in in one long single line facing towards the parent ship. Ten men forward of the conning-tower and as many aft, all dressed in their best suits of ‘Number Three,’ and looking remarkably spick and span and on their metal. They were standing at ease now and sucking their teeth in anticipation, after the manner of the A.B. who is in the rattle or otherwise undergoing some order or other. By the gang plank to the next boat, for ‘123’ was the outside vessel, and three of her sisters lay between her and the _Parentis_, stood the coxswain with his boatswain’s pipe in hand, and Raymond took his stand beside him in readiness to receive the Post-Captain on board.

Seagrave stood by in charge of the crew and Boyd was on the bridge, which was the only remaining unoccupied space on the upper deck. Between them and the _Parentis_ the crews of the other three boats were drawn up in the same manner, and on the other side of the depot-ship were five more boats in a similar state of cleanliness and innocent expressions. They all flew their newest and largest ensigns, and looked very smart and business-like in their Sunday dresses.

The music on the _Parentis_ quarter-deck drew to a close. Three hundred men came to attention and replaced their caps simultaneously, and the chaplain disappeared aft, his surplice waving in the breeze, as the Church pendant fluttered down to the bridge. Another order and the ship’s company faced forward and moved off the quarter-deck, the band, which had struck up a lively march, wheeled in behind the rear division, and the ceremony was at an end.

A dramatic pause followed, and then the figure of Captain Charteris appeared at the port-gangway. The boatswain’s mate of the _Parentis_ and the coxswain of the inside boat, which happened to be Blake’s, twittered on their pipes as he descended, and then he was lost to view in the internals of the boat. He had come alone, unattended by First Lieutenants or other minions, which augered well for the results of the inspection.

Austin, whose boat was next inside Raymond’s, turned round with a laugh.

‘Hope the “old man” doesn’t run up against Blake’s white paint,’ he said. ‘Pretty small chance for us if he does.’

‘Trust Blake to watch that,’ came the answer. ‘He won’t want his precious paint disturbed even by the coat of a full-fledged Captain.’ Once more silence and expectancy, and then the Captain reappeared up the hatch followed by Blake, who looked moist and anxious but happy withal.

‘Seems to be in a good temper,’ whispered Raymond to Seagrave. ‘Look out, here he comes.’

With much saluting and piping Captain Charteris stepped across to the next boat and the ceremony was repeated. When he once more rose to view, however, some ten minutes later, his face appeared clouded and he boarded Austin’s boat with a briskness that evidenced that all had not been well with the vessel he had just inspected.

‘Wonder what’s up,’ murmured Seagrave. ‘He looks a bit sickish about something.’

‘Man in a dirty rig, I expect, or else he asked too many questions,’ replied Raymond. ‘Our turn next.’

At last, after a seemingly interminable interval, the Captain once more rose to view, and joy! the wily Austin had smoothed his ruffled temper. The great man said a few final words, laughed, and turned towards ‘123.’ Blake’s coxswain, pipe to lips, made a scarcely perceptible sign, and then, as the Captain set foot on the gang-plank, he and the coxswain of ‘123’ simultaneously burst into a duet of piping, shrilling, and twittering as each tried to out-do the other.

‘Ship’s company, ’shun!’ shouted Seagrave, as the men sprang to attention; the officers saluted, and Raymond stepped forward to do the honours.

Still the piping continued, rising and falling in regular cadence till the performers were red in the face and near to bursting. Then again that almost invisible sign, this time from Raymond’s coxswain, and the sound of the pipes ceased as if suddenly cut off and smothered with a blanket.

The Captain returned the salute and looked down the line of stolid faces. A student of physiognomy would have seen much food for reflection once he had penetrated the mask of stolid look-your-best that a man at attention always assumes.

In the first place there was Raymond, a tall upright figure, very much the Naval Officer, and just now very much the captain of the boat. Had he been asked why he had joined the Service he would hardly have been able to give a very clear reason. ‘Father wanted me to, you know. Thought I ought to,’ would probably have been his answer, accompanied by much hesitation and a deal of stammering. As a matter of fact he came of a family which boasted members of the Service for many generations back, one of whom had been a Vice-Admiral. As an only son it had seemed nothing less than duty that he should follow in his father’s footsteps and carry the name on in the Service. He was one of the older officers, with a _Britannia_ training, who had entered the Submarine Service as a Lieutenant in the experimental days, and who, after six long years as a junior, had gained his well-earned command several years before the outbreak of war, and had gradually worked his way up to command one of the later classes of submarine, and was even now on turn for a bigger boat. In the ward room he was a witty and pleasant companion. As a submarine captain we are able to judge for ourselves.