Читать книгу With Beatty off Jutland - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 7

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Quickly the news of the captured submarine's former activities was flash-signalled to the Calder, and with the least possible delay the information was transmitted by wireless to Great Yarmouth and Harwich.

Until the minefield was located and destroyed it was unsafe for any shipping to proceed to or from Yarmouth Roads.

Questions put to the U boat's crew elicited that the vessel was one of seven operating in conjunction with the raiding cruisers. While the German fleet was bombarding Yarmouth, the submarines--having on account of their slower speed set out on the previous day--proceeded to lay a chain of mines from the Would through Haisborough Gat, and thence to a point a few cables east of the Gorton lightship, thus completely enclosing Yarmouth Roads from the sea. The UC6--that being the designation of the prize--had just completed her task when she sighted the Calder approaching. Miscalculating her position, she had run her nose hard upon the shoal, with the result that her low compartment quickly flooded, thus rendering her incapable of keeping afloat.

It was not long before four mine-sweepers came lumbering northwards from Yarmouth, while others proceeded in different directions to "clear up the mess", as their crews tersely described the dangerous operations of destroying the mines.

The Calder, still standing by, had missed the northern limit of the German minefield by a few yards. Had she held on her former course the probability was that she would have bumped upon a couple of the infernal contrivances--for the mines were dropped in twos, each pair connected by a span of cable to make more certain of a vessel's bows being caught in its bight--and been blown up with the loss of all her crew.

The destroyer had been sent on particular service. Other side issues had demanded her attention, and, with the pluck and resourcefulness of British seamen, her crew had risen to the occasion. To them it was all in the day's work, with one ulterior motive--to push on with the war.

Deftly, the result of months of experience, the mine-sweepers set to work. With little delay the first of the mines was located, dragged to the surface, and sunk by means of rifle-fire. Others were destroyed in quick succession, two exploding as the bullets, made for the purpose of penetrating the buoyancy chambers, contrived to hit the projecting horns of the detonating mechanism.

In two hours, the trawlers having swept the whole extent of the Would, the minefield was reported to be destroyed.

"What damage ashore?" enquired Crosthwaite, as the nearest trawler sidled under the destroyer's stern.

"Precious little, sir, considering," replied the master of the mine-sweeper. "A few buildings knocked about and a score or so of people killed or injured. Might ha' been worse," and he shook his fist in the direction in which the raiders had fled.

Sedately, as if conscious of having modestly performed a gallant service, the mine-sweepers bore up for home, and once again the Calder was left to stand by her prize.

She was not long left alone. A number of motor patrol-boats came buzzing round like flies round a honey-pot. The work of transferring the German prisoners was quickly taken in hand. They were put on board the patrol-boats in batches of half a dozen. It saved the destroyer the trouble of putting into port when she was supposed to hold no communication with the shore.

The last of the motor-boats had brought up alongside the Calder when Sefton recognized the R.N.R. sub-lieutenant in charge as an old friend of pre-war days.

Algernon Stickleton was a man whose acquaintance with the sea was strictly limited to week-ends spent on board the Motor Yacht Club's headquarters--the ex-Admiralty yacht Enchantress--in Southampton Water. Given a craft with engines, he could steer her with a certain amount of confidence. Of navigation and the art of a mariner he knew little or nothing. Tides were a mystery to him, the mariner's compass an unknown quantity. In short, he was a marine motorist--the counterpart of the motor road-hog ashore.

Upon the outbreak of war, commissions in the R.N.R. motor-boat service were flung broadcast by the Admiralty at the members of the Motor Yacht Club, and amongst those who donned the pilot-coat with the gold wavy band and curl was Algernon Stickleton. At first he was given a "soft job", doing a sort of postman's work in Cowes Roads, until the experience, combined with his success in extricating himself, more by good luck than good management, from a few tight corners, justified the experiment of granting a commission to a comparatively callow marine motorist.

Then he was put through a rapid course of signalling and elementary navigation, and, having "stuck at it", the budding sub-lieutenant R.N.R. was sent to the East Coast on a motor-yacht with the prospect of being given a fast patrol-boat when deemed proficient.

Gone were those halcyon August and September days in Cowes Roads. He had to take his craft out by day and night, blow high or low. Boarding suspicious vessels in the open roadstead hardened his nerves and gave an unwonted zest to his work. At last he was doing something definite--taking an active part in the navy's work.

"My first trip in this hooker, old man," he announced to Sefton, indicating with a sweep of his hand the compact, grey-painted motor craft that lay alongside the destroyer's black hull. "A clinker for speed. She'd knock your craft into a cocked hat. It beats Brooklands hollow. Wants a bit of handlin', don't you know, but I think I brought her alongside very nicely, what?"

The last of the German prisoners having been received on board and passed below to the forepeak, Sub-lieutenant Stickleton prepared to cast off. Touching the tarnished peak of his cap, for months of exposure to all weathers had dimmed the pristine lustre of the once resplendent headgear, he gave the word for the motors to be started.

Then, with one hand on the steering-wheel, he let in the clutch.

Like an arrow from a bow the powerful box of machinery leapt forward. The result was disastrous as far as Stickleton was concerned. Unprepared to counteract the sudden momentum, he was literally "left", for, subsiding upon the short after-deck, he rolled backwards over the transom and fell into the boiling wake of the rapidly-moving motor-boat.

Fortunately he could swim well, and was quickly hauled over the destroyer's side, a dripping but still cheerful object.

Several of the Calder's crew laughed outright. Even Crosthwaite and Sefton had to smile. The sopping R.N.R. officer was quick to enter into the joke against himself.

"Hope I won't get reprimanded for leaving my ship without permission," he remarked facetiously.

"You haven't asked permission to board mine," Crosthwaite reminded him. "It's the custom of the service, you know."

Meanwhile attention was being transferred from the dripping officer to the craft of which he ought to be in command. Evidently her crew were unaware of what had occurred. The bowman was coiling down a rope, two of the deck hands were engaged in securing the fore-peak hatchway, while the rest were down below. The patrol-boat was tearing along at 38 knots, and, owing to the "torque" of the propellers, was describing a vast circle to port.

It was the cabin-boy who first made the discovery that the little craft was without a guiding hand at the wheel. He was down below tidying up the sub's cabin, when he found an automatic cigarette-lighter that Stickleton had mislaid. Anxious to get into his superior officer's good books, for the youngster was the bane of Stickleton's existence on board, the boy ascended the short ladder leading to the cockpit. To his surprise he found no helmsman.

Guessing that something was amiss, he hailed the bowman. The latter, scrambling aft, steadied the vessel on her helm, at the same time ordering the motors to be eased down. He was convinced that Stickleton had been jerked overboard and was swimming for dear life a couple of miles astern.

By this time the Calder bore almost due west, at a distance of six sea miles, for the patrol-boat had described a complete semicircle. For some time the boat searched in vain for her missing skipper, until the coxswain suggested returning to Yarmouth to report the casualty.

"Better get back to the destroyer, George," counselled another of the crew. "Maybe they've got our skipper. Anyway, there'll be no harm done."

Somewhat diffidently, George up-helmed and ordered full speed ahead. He, like the rest of the crew, was, before the war, a paid hand in a racing yacht; keen, alert, and a thorough seaman, but unused to a powerfully-engined boat. Ask him to bring a sailing-boat alongside in half a gale of wind, he would have complied with the utmost skill, luffing at the exact moment and allowing the craft to lose way with her canvas slatting in the breeze without the loss of a square inch of paint. Bringing a "match-box crammed chock-a-block with machinery" alongside was a totally different matter; but, as it had to be done, George clenched his teeth and gripped the spokes of the wheel, determined to die like a true Briton.

The patrol-boat had covered but half of the distance back to the Calder when she almost leapt clear of the water. The two deck-hands for'ard were thrown flat, and, sliding over the slippery planks, brought up against the low stanchion rails. A slight shock, barely perceptible above the pulsations of the motors, and the little packet dipped her nose under to the water, shook herself clear, and resumed her mad pelt.

"What's up, George?" sang out the mate.

"Dunno," replied the coxswain. "Guess we've bumped agen' summat."

Then, the dread possibility that he had run dawn his own skipper entering his mind, he decided to return and investigate.

Having had but little experience in the use of the reversing-gear, George slammed the lever hard-to. With a sickening jerk, as if the little craft were parting amidships, the patrol-boat stopped and gathered sternway. A minute later she backed over a large and ever-increasing pool of iridescent oil, through which air-bubbles were forcing their way.

"By Jupiter!" exclaimed one of the crew; "blest if we haven't rammed a strafed U boat."

The man had spoken truly. A German submarine, acting independently of the raiding-squadron, had sighted the Calder, hove-to, at a distance of three miles. Unaware of the presence of the patrol-boat--and the sight of a patrol-boat or a trawler usually gives the German unterseebooten a bad attack of the blues--her kapitan had taken a preliminary bearing prior to submerging in order to get within effective torpedo range. Having judged himself to have gained the required position, the Hun ordered the boat to be again brought to the surface.

At the critical moment he heard the thud of the propellers of the swiftly-moving patrol-boat. He attempted to dive, but too late. The sharp steel stem of the little craft, moving through the water at the rate of a railway train, nicked the top of the U boat's conning-tower sufficiently to penetrate the plating. Before steps could be taken to stop the inrush of water the U boat was doomed. Sinking slowly to the bottom, she filled, the heavy oil from her motors finding its way to the surface in an aureole of iridescent colours to mark her last resting-place.

George, seaman first, and fighting-man next, gave little thought to his involuntary act. The safety of his temporary command came foremost.

"Nip down below and see if she's started a seam," he ordered.

The men, who had been ejected from their quarters by the concussion, hurried to the fore-peak. As they opened the cuddy-hatch the half-dozen terrified German prisoners made a wild scramble to gain the deck.

"Who told you blighters to come out?" shouted George, and, abandoning the wheel, he rushed forward, seized the foremost Hun by the scruff of the neck and hurled him violently against the next man. The floor of the fore-peak was covered with a squirming heap of now thoroughly cowed Huns, to whom the apparition of the stalwart, angry Englishman was more to be dreaded than being shaken like peas in a pod in the dark recesses of their temporary prison quarter.

"Is she making anything?" enquired George anxiously, as he returned to take charge of the helm.

"Hardly a trickle," was the reassuring reply. "Whack her up, mate."

The coxwain proceeded to order full speed ahead, and the little craft tore back to the Calder in order that the news of her skipper's disappearance might be reported.

To the surprise of the patrol-boat's crew they discovered their sub, arrayed in borrowed garments, standing aft and motioning to the boat to come alongside.

It was easier said than done. The coxwain's faith in his capabilities was weak, notwithstanding his resolution. At the first shot he carried too much way, reversing engines when the little craft was fifty yards ahead of the destroyer. The second attempt found him a like distance short, with no way on the boat. At the third he dexterously caught a coil of rope hurled from the Calder, and succeeded in hauling alongside.

"We've just rammed a submarine, sir," reported the coxwain, saluting, delivering the information in a matter-of-fact manner, as if destroying enemy craft in this fashion were an everyday occurrence.

Sub-lieutenant Stickleton having regained his command, the motor-boat piloted the Calder to the scene of her exploit. A diver descended in nine fathoms, and quickly telephoned the confirmatory information that a U boat was lying with a list to starboard on the sand, with a rent in her conning-tower--the indirect result of the involuntary bathe of Sub-lieutenant Stickleton, R.N.R.