Читать книгу Clipped Wings - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 3

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H.M.S. Baffin, light cruiser, of 9900 tons displacement, 30 knots speed, and armed with seven 7.5-inch and twelve 3-inch guns, was approaching Portsmouth. Already the Nab Tower bore broad on her port beam. Ahead lay the low-lying Portsea Island, upon which Portsmouth is built, backed by the grassy Portsdown Hills with their white chalk-pits standing out clearly in the rays of the midday sun.

The Baffin was a typical unit of the post-War fleet—long, lean, with two funnels of unequal size; a tripod mast with a decidedly ugly raking topmast, and an aftermast that, by reason of its position, should be termed a mainmast, but, on account of its stumpiness, could not reasonably be expected to be so termed. As if to make amends for its insignificance, the aftermast flew a white pennant, streaming yards and yards astern and terminating in a gilded bladder that bobbed and curtsied in the frothy wake of the swiftly-moving vessel.

That streamer—the paying-off pennant—indicated the cruiser’s immediate programme. She was on the eve of completing her two years’ commission.

To the lower-deck ratings that pennant meant home, and with it long “leaf” and freedom from strict discipline, watch on and watch off, divisions, subdivisions, “tricks”, and other items of routine that combine to make up Jack’s working day and night afloat.

The town-bred bluejacket or stoker would probably make for his old haunts and, with a seaman’s typical philosophy, note the fact that many of his former acquaintances were vainly looking for work. Then, at the expiration of his “leaf”, he would shoulder his bundle and return to the depot, thankful that he would have to take no thought for the morrow as to how he was to obtain his next meal.

Then, too, the seaman recruited from the country would make tracks for his native village, there to spend the next few weeks contemplating the dull-witted son of the soil—his companion of boyhood days—plodding at the tail-end of a plough. Quite possibly the labourer was being paid far more than he—the highly-trained product of a mechanical age in which electricity and oil-fed turbine engines have supplanted masts and yards. But, on the other hand, the bluejacket will thank his lucky stars that fate—usually in the guise of a naval recruiting officer—drew him from the unimaginative land and set his course upon the boundless ocean. At all events his outlook on life was not bordered by the hedges that surrounded the fields which the boon companions of his youth tilled from one year’s end to another.

To the officers, “paying off” presented a somewhat different aspect. Working, eating, drinking, and playing together for the space of two years, inevitably thrown into each other’s society owing to the limits of the ward- and gun-rooms, they cannot but form deep attachments for each other. Only those men who have served a commission afloat can thoroughly realize the meaning of the term “band of brothers”.

And now, with the paying off of the ship, they would be scattered. True, they were going home, but the fact remained that some would “go on the beach” for the last time. Officers still in their prime would have to be compulsorily retired to rot ashore, because a conference in America has agreed that there is no longer any necessity for Britannia to rule the waves. For similar reasons junior officers, on the threshold of what had promised to be a long and honourable career, were being politely invited to resign their commissions, the invitation being backed by a hint that if they did not they would be ultimately “fired” as being surplus to the revised establishment.

Amongst the latter was Acting Sub-lieutenant Peter Corbold, a tall, broad-shouldered youth of nineteen or twenty. The only son of a country clergyman, Peter had been maintained at Dartmouth at a sacrifice that had played havoc with his father’s meagre stipend; but, by dint of the strictest economy, the latter had seen his son through the earlier stages of his naval career, until Peter was in a measure self-supporting.

Studious by nature and conscientious in carrying out his duties, Peter Corbold not only passed the successive examinations required by the Admiralty during his midshipman days, but gained high praise in his captain’s reports. In due course, he obtained acting rank of sub-lieutenant and was expecting to be confirmed as such when there came a bombshell in the form of an official memorandum on the reduction of personnel.

It was not a pleasing prospect. Its nearness became painfully apparent as the Baffin approached her home port. In other circumstances, Peter might have looked ahead and fancied himself in command of a destroyer, a light cruiser, or even a battleship, gliding between those chequered circular forts that rise like gigantic inverted buckets from the floor of the anchorage of Spithead. Now that dream was shattered. There remained but the prospect of “the beach”, with a meagre gratuity as a sorry solace for his compulsory abandonment of a naval career.

A deeply-laden Thames barge, beating up on a weather-going tide against a stiff sou’westerly breeze, attracted his attention. Sailing-craft of all sorts and sizes had a fascination for him, and this bluff-browed craft, with her dull-red sprit-mainsail and topsail straining in the wind, made a striking picture as the foam-flecked waves swept completely over her battened-down hatches. The only visible member of her crew was a tubby, blue-jerseyed man, wearing a billycock hat, who stood with legs planted firmly apart at the wheel, happy in the knowledge that the “brass-bound blighters” on the cruiser would have to alter helm—not he.

“Hello, old son!” exclaimed a voice, as a hand descended heavily on Peter’s shoulder. “How would that job suit? ... Hang it all, man; sorry, I didn’t mean that. I forgot.”

The speaker was Sub-lieutenant Havelock de Vere Cavendish, a high-spirited youth, who answered readily enough to such affectionate names as “Weeds”, “Tawny”, “Straight-cut”, “Woodbine”, or any other term that bore any resemblance to the various brands of tobacco.

Cavendish was nearly twelve months senior to Peter Corbold. In height he was a full two inches shorter, and lacked the breadth of shoulder and massive limbs of his chum. Peter’s features were dark, and might be described as ruffled; Cavendish’s were fair and rounded. Peter was essentially a thinker; the other was a man of action, with an impulsive temperament. In short, they had little or nothing in common, as far as build, appearance, and characteristics went, but they were close chums.

“Nothing to apologize for, old son,” rejoined Peter. “There’s no such luck for me—even to the extent of becoming the master of a barge. There’s nothin’ doin’ afloat for a has-been naval bloke nowadays. There are far too many Mercantile Marine fellows on the beach looking for jobs as it is.”

“That’s a fact,” admitted his chum soberly.

Cavendish was one of the lucky ones, although, with his characteristic honesty, he could form no idea why his name should have been “ear-marked” for retention in the Service. He had not shone in his exams. More than once he had got into scrapes, harmless enough, during his career at Dartmouth. Perhaps it was the fearless, almost foolhardy feat he had performed in mid-Atlantic, when he took the Baffin’s second cutter alongside a burning tanker—a German—and rescued seven survivors from a raging inferno, that had been a deciding factor in his retention.

Probably he alone of all the officers knew the precarious state of Peter Corbold’s finances and the gloomy outlook that confronted him. So much he gathered by “putting two and two together”. Peter was not a fellow to moan and whine, but was inclined to reticence on the matter.

“What are you going to do, old thing?” he demanded abruptly.

“Haven’t any plans,” replied Peter. “At least, nothing definite to work upon. Probably I’ll go abroad.”

“Canada or Australia?”

Corbold shook his head.

“No; I’ve been thinking of going to Rioguay,” he replied. “I’ve an uncle out there. Mining engineer—nitrates, I believe, but I’m not sure.”

“Rioguay? Where’s that?” inquired Cavendish. “Somewhere in South America, isn’t it?”

“Quite a flourishing little republic,” declared Peter. “It has been going steadily ahead ever since that little scrap with Brazil. People are mostly of Spanish and Indian descent, of course, but there’s a fair sprinkling of pure Europeans, I’ve been told.”

The shrill notes of a bugle interrupted Corbold’s words. Instantly, every officer and man upon the Baffin’s deck stiffened to attention, the white-helmeted marine detachment drawn up aft presenting arms with the regularity and precision of a well-oiled machine.

The light cruiser had entered Portsmouth Harbour and was now abreast the blackened ruins of what was once the semaphore tower. Ahead and on the starboard bow appeared three tapering masts above a block of yellow-bricked offices. At the mizzen-truck fluttered a white flag with a St. George’s Cross. Quickly the rest of the vessel came into view—a comparatively small black-hulled ship with triple bands of white—lying, not riding to the tide, but in a dry dock, in which she is fated to remain as long as her planks and timbers hold together.

A few seconds later and again the bugle blares out—this time to “carry on”. The Baffin, as does every vessel belonging to His Majesty’s navy that passes that way, has paid her homage to the renowned Victory.

Past the huge building slip—from which, until the Washington Conference left it untenanted and derelict, a ceaseless procession of noble battleships sped to make their first acquaintance with the ocean—the Baffin glided. Then, under port helm, she turned her lean bows towards the gigantic lock through which she must pass to gain her allotted berth. Ahead were warships of every size and condition; battle-scarred capital ships that had borne the brunt of Jutland, gigantic seaplane-carriers, battle cruisers, light cruisers, P-boats, destroyers, and submarines—forlorn, neglected, and condemned to the scrap-heap. No longer did the once-busy dockyard resound to the ceaseless rattle of pneumatic hammers as the “maties” toiled to contribute their not inconsiderable share to the supremacy of the Empire.

“You mark my words, old son,” exclaimed Cavendish, “some day we’ll be sorry we’ve scrapped these ships. We’ll want them pretty badly. People talk of air power being the predominant factor, and that the battleship is a back number! It’s sea power that counts, has counted from the beginning of history, and will do so till the end.”