Читать книгу When the Allies Swept the Seas - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 5

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Big events were in the air. Somewhere in the Pacific were two large German merchant cruisers, the Zeitun and Iltis, each as heavily armed as the Galloway—perhaps more so.

Off the Brazilian port of Pernambuco the Galloway fell in with H.M.S. Ajax and co-operated with her in lying in wait for a German vessel; but the latter must have got wind of the trap that was awaiting her, since she failed to put in an appearance. This was all to the good, since it eventually meant the inglorious end of the Graf Spee.

At about two bells of the forenoon watch on the fourteenth of December—a day he had since had good cause to remember—Brian Cardyke and Stan Lorne were engaged in the prosaic yet necessary task of swabbing C deck in company with half a dozen of their messmates. It was a warm day, the wind, contrary to its usual south-easterly direction in these latitudes, was nor’west and light. Rigged out only in singlets and white trousers rolled above the knee, Brian and his messmates paddled bare-footed in the copious stream of water that flowed over the deck from the hoses.

Suddenly came the hail that land was in sight right ahead. So clear was the atmosphere that the distant land, nearly thirty miles away, looked considerably nearer as the needle-like peaks of a barren, precipitous mass of volcanic rock stood out sharp and black against the skyline, the lower portion of the island being yet below the horizon.

“What land is that?” asked Brian of his opposite number, Tom Buddock.

Still working his rubber squeegee, Buddock straightened his back and shaded his eyes with his disengaged arm.

“Trinidad, chum,” he replied briefly.

“But I say,” protested the lad, “aren’t you trying to pull my leg? This isn’t the West Indies.”

“Never said it was, chump-head,” rejoined the man. “There’s more’n one Portsmouth in the world, ain’t there? Wish it was that Trinidad; I could do with a drop o’ leaf in Port o’ Spain. There ain’t nothin’ to write ’ome about over that lump o’ rock.”

“We’re making for it, anyway,” continued Brian. “What’s the idea?”

“Blest if I knows,” replied Buddock, winking solemnly at a third member of the party. “Best nip on the bridge—an’ ax the Owner.”

Brian shook his head. Young as he was, he was too old a bird to be caught by that kind of chaff.

“I guess I will!” declared Stan unexpectedly.

He would have gone had not his messmates restrained him. His democratic mind couldn’t understand why those in authority on board should not confide in their crew and “put them wise” on matters such as these.

Nevertheless it was soon evident that something was in the air. On the upper bridge, Captain Nottingley, the navigating commander and a group of subordinate officers and signalmen were scanning the rapidly rising island with their glasses.

As a precautionary measure the crew were sent to action stations. The guns were cast loose and trained abeam; splinter nets triced up in the wake of the gunshields; hoses were connected up and sand sprinkled on the decks to ensure a firm foothold for the hands working the guns. Already the bridge and other exposed parts of the ship had been festooned with loops of heavy hempen hawsers to mitigate the danger of flying pieces of metal, while the shrouds had been “frapped” with similar cordage as a safeguard against being shot away.

Brian and Stan’s station was at 3 P quick-firer on C deck, they being part of the reserve crew for that particular gun. Arriving at his post, Brian found that already the telephone from the bridge to the gun was being tested and that a heap of “present-use” ammunition—steel shells and brass cartridge-cases all in one—were being placed in the wake of the 4.7-inch weapon.

“Is this practice or the real thing?” he asked himself, and found himself hoping that it was the “real thing” and that it wasn’t. He tried to keep cool, yet his heart persisted in thumping violently and there was an indescribably dry sensation in his throat.

From where he stood Brian could command a view of the side of the island that the Galloway was approaching; yet, so far, there was no sign of another vessel of any sort.

Then, to Cardyke’s surprise, the hands were piped to dinner! After all, then, the alarm had been a false one.

But no!

“Look lively, lads, and get a good bellyful before you give the Germans one!” bawled a petty-officer, as the lightly-clad hands bolted for the mess-deck.

“Who is she? What is she?” asked Brian of several of his messmates, but the question remained unanswered, drowned in the babble of voices and the clatter of tin plates, knives and forks.

The men ate hurriedly, keeping up a fire of conversation, for the most part on any subject except that of the probable action. Two able seamen seated opposite to Cardyke were engaged in a hectic argument concerning the exact date on which a certain murderer paid the penalty for his crime. On Brian’s left an elderly man was deploring the fact that the house into which he had recently moved was just beyond the penny fare stage of the Pompey trolley-buses. Others were discussing the merits of the respective goalkeepers of Portsmouth and Plymouth Argyle teams. Here and there a few remained silent, thinking, perhaps, of their wives and families.

As fast as each man finished eating he produced pipe or cigarette for the customary “three draws and a spit” before the expected summons came.

Stan Lorne, on Brian’s right, offered his chum a “gasper”.

“Think we’ll——” began Cardyke, but the other made a deprecatory gesture with his hand.

“I’d rather not think,” he replied. “Time for that when it’s over.”

He paused to apply a match to his cigarette.

“Like being in a dentist’s waiting room,” he added. “That’s the worst part of the business.”

Above the hubbub of the crowded mess-deck rang the shrill notes of a bugle, sounding General Quarters.

It was now five minutes to twelve.

“Race you on deck for a limer, Jim!” exclaimed Draper, a strapping bluejacket, sight-setter of No. 3 S gun.

“Done!” replied his raggie, elbowing Brian aside, and joining in the helter-skelter rush for C Deck.

The inconsequence of the incident impressed itself on Cardyke’s mind. Here were two men in the prime of life hurrying to their action stations, to face death maybe, yet the loser in the race had pledged himself to stand the winner a glass of beverage made from fresh limes. An enterprising marine had laid in a stock of the fruit when the ship was in the West Indies and was doing a brisk trade selling “soft drinks” at a penny a glass, accounts to be settled monthly.

The massive teak ladder groaned under the weight of the confused mass of humanity as the hands jostled and swayed in their impetuous rush to their action stations. Before long some would descend the ladder slowly, painfully. Others would also descend—but they would be carried down.

Arriving at his station, Brian fell in with the rest of the reserve crew in the wake of the gun-shield. Then he looked ahead, to find that the island was considerably nearer than when last he had seen it. Against the dark background could be discerned the masts and funnels of a large vessel anchored off the south-western extremity of Trinidad. She flew no colours. On her far side were four smaller masts which might or might not belong to a couple of German cruisers lying in wait for the approaching British armed merchant-liner.

On the Galloway’s bridge her gallant captain was keeping the as yet unknown vessels under close and anxious observation. There were no other armed British craft within two hundred miles of Trinidad, nor was there reason to believe that there were any vessels flying the Red Duster. It was safe to conclude that the larger vessel was either the Zeitun, the Iltis or even the pocket-battleship Deutschland, all of whom were known to be using the Island of Trinidad as a coaling base. As for the hidden craft, they might be enemy cruisers that both in speed and armament would be more than a match for the Galloway.

It was now that Captain Nottingley displayed the true “Nelson touch”. Only the previous day the Admiralty had issued orders, that were communicated by wireless to every vessel concerned, to the effect that henceforth auxiliary cruisers were to work in conjunction with regular cruisers for the purpose of capturing enemy armed vessels in the outer seas. They were never to engage singly a hostile ship of the pocket-battleship class.

“Until I discover what she is, how can I decline or accept an engagement?” asked the Galloway’s captain whimsically. “Signalman, make the International EC.”

While the yeoman of signals was toggling the hoist—EC signifying “What ship is that?”—Captain Nottingley turned to one of his officers.

“I fancy the circumstances warrant the use of a brand-new ensign,” he remarked.

“The largest we have, sir?”

“Make it so,” was the Owner’s response, and in a few seconds White Ensigns were hoisted at both mastheads and also at the staff right aft.

Yet the stranger made no attempt to hoist her colours. The Galloway’s signal was ignored. The question was repeated both by Aldis lamp and searchlight, but without eliciting any response.

“I recognize her, sir,” declared one of the R.N.R. lieutenants. “She’s the Zeitun. I saw her in B.A. (Buenos Aires) on her first trip. She had three funnels then, but the aft one was only a ventilator. She’s unshipped it. It looks as if she’s trying to disguise herself as a Union Castle boat.”

Just then there were signs of activity from the enemy craft. One pair of smaller masts began to move. For some seconds the British officers waited and watched in anxious suspense. One of the vessels hidden under the Zeitun’s lee was beginning to back clear; was she a German cruiser?

A rounded counter, with the froth from the propellers underneath, came slowly into view. No light cruiser had a stern like that. Presently she revealed herself as a small collier. Stopping and then forging ahead, she shaped a course for the south-east, hoisting the “Star-spangled Banner” as she increased her distance.

Soon after, the second small craft also cast off and proceeded in a north-easterly direction, while the Zeitun weighed, backed away from the anchorage and proceeded to follow the collier that was flying American colours.

“She’s legging it!” exclaimed a man standing close to Brian.

A loud report made the lad think that the action had begun. It was merely a blank cartridge as a warning to the German as to what she might expect.

Still no answer. The Zeitun was making off at full speed.

Then Brian saw the German suddenly alter course to starboard, steady her helm and approach the Galloway at three points on the latter’s bows.

As she did so, a small Black Cross Ensign—“defaced” by a Swastika—was hoisted.

“Eight-five-o-o,” droned the voice of the range-finding petty-officer. “Eight-two-five-o ... eight thousand!”

At that range, roughly four and a half miles, a projectile was purposely fired across the Zeitun’s bows. With its characteristic whine, decreasing in pitch as the distance increased, the shell sped on its way, throwing up a tall column of spray as it ricocheted close enough to deluge the hostile vessel’s fo’c’sle.

It was now twelve minutes past noon, and the memorable duel had begun.