CHAPTER VIII
On Patrol
Punctually to the appointed minute, M.-L. 4452 cast off and proceededseaward. Her sister ships had preceded her, and were running insingle column line ahead. It was a pitch-dark night. The sea was assmooth as the proverbial mill-pond. Shoreward the land was enshroudedin darkness, not a light being visible. Viewed from a short distance,the Kentish coast, normally defined by lines of twinkling lights, butnow looming faintly against the sombre sky, looked more like adesolate land than a populous corner of England, literally linked bya chain of seaside towns.
The M.-L.'s were under way without navigation lights, only a smalllamp astern of each enabling those following to keep station. Thelittle craft were cleared for action, for it had been known thathostile torpedo-boats had approached within a few miles of the portof Dover.
Branscombe, standing by the quarter-master in the little wheel-house,fully realized the danger of the operation. He revelled in it,notwithstanding the fact that the M.-L.'s were passing over one ofthe most heavily-mined portions of the sea adjoining the BritishIsles. A few fathoms beneath the boat's keel were mines in hundreds,that, in conjunction with nets and other elaborate devices, formed animpregnable barrier to the passage of German U-boats. As long as themines remained anchored and submerged they were dangerous only to thetype of craft they were intended to destroy; but after the heavy blowof the last few days there was a possibility, nay, a probability,that some would break adrift and float on the surface, a menace tothose who had lawful business upon the waters, a prospect sufficientto stimulate the imagination--if not to get on the nerves--of thehardiest mariner.
It was almost on this very spot twelve months previously thatBranscombe had ordered the gun's crew to open fire at what he took tobe a periscope, but what, on closer examination, proved to be aderelict boat-hook; while on another occasion the Sub, inexperiencedin those days, saw a large dark object slither under the water. Tohis excited imagination it could be nothing less than a U-boat,hurriedly diving to escape detection. Ordering full-speed ahead,Branscombe steered straight for the rippling swell, and detonated adepth charge on the spot where the submarine had vanished. A badlymutilated porpoise came up in the cascade of foam.
The Sub was badly chipped for some considerable time over the affair,but it was excusable. The M.-L.'s motto is to hit and hit hard atanything of a suspicious nature. Explanations, if necessary, canfollow later, but one has to take no chances with Fritz and all hisdirty tricks.
It speaks well for the courageous temperament of the British sailorthat he has stuck it for more than four years, living in momentarydanger of being blown sky-high by an unseen mine or by a torpedo froma lurking foe, and yet is able to laugh and joke unrestrainedly withhis comrades, and to take the keenest interest in sport. During thewhole period of the war, the British navy faced dangers and thrived;while the Huns, having no traditions to hold up, and running littlerisk, as they rarely put to sea beyond the shelter of their ownminefields, were slowly but surely drifting to moral suicide thatculminated in mutiny and the disgraceful surrender of Germany'sfleet.
In spite of the unrestricted U-boat campaign, there was a constantstream of merchantmen passing round the Forelands to and from LondonRiver. Those outward bound were making for the Downs, there to awaitescort to the convoy. All these ships, fantastically camouflaged andsteaming without lights, made navigation doubly difficult, and it wasnot until North Foreland was several miles astern and the M.-L. outof the recognized sailing routes that Branscombe began to feel moreat ease.
"Eight bells, sir," reported Anderson, wireless man, and ex-bankclerk.
Being in the war zone, and at night, the actual striking on theship's bell was dispensed with.
"Very good," replied the Sub, and turning to another man he asked himto inform the Captain.
In five minutes the man returned.
"I've been trying to get the skipper on deck, sir," he reported, "butI'm afraid it's no use. It's not only his ankle that's causingtrouble but his back is rather badly bruised. Moving about afterlying down has made matters worse."
Guy picked up a signal pad and wrote a message, telling Farnboroughnot to worry but to take things quietly; meanwhile, he (Branscombe)would carry on, reporting anything unusual.
It was against regulations for both officers to leave the deck at thesame time; hence Guy had to send down a chit. This done he preparedfor at least a twenty-four hours' "trick".
Rapidly the booming of the heavy guns grew louder and louder. The airtrembled under the terrific reverberations of the contestingordnance, for Fritz was not backward in replying to the fire of theBritish monitors.
Peter and Paul, to whose sensitive nerves the continuous concussionsdid not appeal at all, had abandoned their post in the dinghy, andhad retired to the comparative shelter of the after sleeping-cabin.The fact that the ladder was almost vertical and seven feet in heightdid not trouble them. They merely settled the matter by jumping,alighting on Branscombe's bed, where they made themselves ascomfortable as possible in the distressing circumstances.
Presently dense masses of smoke on the horizon betokened the presenceof the monitors. Each, her presence screened by artificial fogemitted from the attendant destroyers, was firing with her 17-inchgun at extreme elevation, dropping tons of H.E. shells upon aninvisible target, while seaplanes, hovering overhead, recorded bymeans of wireless the result of each discharge.
Within a mile of the unwieldy floating batteries the M.-L. alteredcourse, keeping parallel to the invisible shore. It was an inspiringscene. In the rifts of the smoke-screen could be discerned the tripodmasts, enormous top-hamper and up-trained guns of the monitors. Withevery shot the vessels heeled, until, with the return list, theirgigantic "blisters" or anti-torpedo devices were exposed above theoily surface of the calm sea.
It was by no means a one-sided game. Projectiles were "straddling"the monitors, some falling hundreds of yards beyond their objective,and hurling columns of foam high into the air, as they ricochettedthree or four times before finally plunging to the bed of the NorthSea.
The whine of a high-velocity shell, as it passed a few feet above thewheel-house of M.-L. 4452, gave Branscombe warning that he, too, wasunder shell fire. A direct hit with one of those monsters would meanutter annihilation to the wooden hull of the M.-L. and to her crew aswell. Nevertheless the little flotilla had to "carry on". Orders topatrol on a certain course had to be implicitly obeyed. The "smallfry" under the White Ensign had to take similar and often greaterrisk than their huge and powerfully armed and protected sisters.
Up and down the limits of their patrol the little M.-L.'s carried on.No. 4453, always the unlucky one, was struck by a ricochetting shell.Fortunately the missile did not explode, nor did it detonate thedepth charges stowed astern; but the impact played havoc with theward-room, completely demolishing the roof and knocking two gapingholes in the raised sides. Well it was that her crew were at actionstations, for not a man received as much as a scratch.
At the pre-arranged hour the monitors "packed up". Lowering themuzzles of their guns and bringing the weapons in a fore-and-aftposition, they steamed slowly out of range under cover of a reallycolossal smoke-screen. For nearly twenty minutes the Huns liberally"watered" the spot where the bombarding force had been, until theirobservation balloons--for they were afraid to send their aeroplanesout--reported that once more the British ships had withdrawn. Thatevening Berlin would be cheered by the report that a prolonged anddetermined attack upon Zeebrugge by strong enemy forces had failed,with heavy losses inflicted upon the attackers.
But the task of the M.-L.'s was by no means accomplished. With thedestroyers still holding on, in case a swarm of German torpedo-boatsshould issue from their lairs and pounce down upon the lightly-armedpatrol-boats, No. 4452 and her consorts remained to watch for thereturning seaplanes.
With their customary inclination to make "a show", the "spotting"aircraft had gone inland upon the termination of the bombardment inthe hope that a Hu
n airman or two would try conclusions in aerialcombat. Failing an encounter, they proceeded with great deliberationto drop bombs upon certain railway junctions, aerodromes, ammunitiondumps, and other objects of military importance.
Over the placid sea patches of genuine sea-fog were stealing, as ifNature was bent upon showing man that, after all, his efforts atmaritime camouflage were puny compared with hers. At intervals therewas a clear view of the horizon; at others it was difficult to see acable's length ahead.
From the Belgian shore the thunder of the heavy guns had ceased, butthe air rumbled with the distant ceaseless cannonade on the Ypressalient. There was no mistaking the noise. For nearly four years thedwellers on the south-east coast of England and the seafarers in thevicinity of the Straits of Dover had heard it. By this time itsmonotonous rumble hardly raised a comment, save when at times it roseto a crescendo of hate. And yet that incessant rumble was thedeath-knell of thousands of the flower of the British Empire and itsgallant Allies, and, no less, that of the Hunnish invaders.
Out of a broad patch of clammy fog glided M.-L. 4452 into a blaze ofperfect sunshine. The glass windows of her wheel-house were open,since the moisture rendered them almost like frosted glass.
"Look!" exclaimed Branscombe. In his excitement he brought his handdown heavily upon the quartermaster's shoulder. "A Fritz; and we'vegot him cold!"
There was no mistake this time. Porpoises and floating boat-hookstaves might be taken for U-boats, but the long, low-lying hull ofthe German submarine and its twin periscopes could not possibly bemistaken for anything but what they were, She was running on thesurface at a moderate speed of ten knots, as if loath to "crack on"into the bewildering fog-bank that lay athwart her course.
"Stand by, aft!" shouted the Sub.
As if running for a challenge cup, the ex-bank clerk and the formerpublic schoolboy tore aft. They knew their job: to release the deadlydepth charges and to stand by the firing key, by means of which theelectric circuit was completed and the explosive detonated. All out,the M.-L. made straight for her intended victim, her quick-firergiving the U-boat a preliminary show by way of encouragement. Theshell missed the conning-tower by inches. Before the breech-blockcould be opened, the still-smoking cylinder ejected and anothercharge inserted, the U-boat dived so abruptly that for a few secondsher rudders and twin-screws were clear of the water.
"Starboard . . . at that!"
Branscombe, his eyes fixed upon the surface-swell of the nowsubmerged pirate, waited until the M.-L. was crossing the path of thefrantically-diving Hun.
"Let go aft!"
With a smother of foam, the metal canister toppled from its cradleinto the milk-white wake of the swiftly-moving M.-L. The drum, onwhich the insulated wire was wound, began to revolve rapidly asfathom after fathom was paid out.
The Sub stepped from the wheel-house and raised his hand. Then, witha quick decisive motion, he brought it down to his side. At thesignal, the key of the firing-battery was pressed home.
"Bon voyage, Fritz!" murmured Branscombe, as with an ear-splittingreport a column of mingled smoke and foam rose quite two hundred feetinto the air.
With her helm hard a-port the M.-L. circled rapidly to starboard,and, steadying, passed at slow speed through the patch of agitatedwater. One of the crew made ready to let go the mark-buoy to indicatethe position of the sunken U-boat. He waited for the order, butBranscombe gave no word of command. Gripping the stanchion-wires, theSub leant over the side and watched. Then his look of elation gaveplace to an expression of acute disappointment--like that of a needyman who picks up from the gutter what he imagined to be a "Bradbury",only to find that it is a wrapper of a packet of tobacco.
There was nothing--absolutely nothing--to indicate that the depthcharge had carried out its pre-ordained mission. Not a vestige of oilfloated on the surface of the sea. There were dead fish in hundreds,killed by the terrific explosion, but not a scrap of debris that byany stretch of the imagination could be attributed to the strafedU-boat.
Up pelted M.-L. 4453, closely followed by No. 4454. The skipper ofthe former raised a megaphone to his lips.
"Any luck?" he asked cheerfully.
"'Fraid not," shouted Guy, trying to hide his chagrin.
"Hard lines," was the sympathetic rejoinder.
"Yes, my luck's out this time," soliloquized Branscombe, as he gaveorders for the former course to be resumed. "I wish to goodness I'dblown the beastly thing to bits."
But, had Guy known that his chum, Alec Seton, was on board thesubmarine, he might not have expressed himself thus. He would stillhave done his level best to strafe the U-boat, Seton notwithstanding.It would have been a case of duty before everything; but it wouldhave been an unpleasant task.
The Thick of the Fray at Zeebrugge, April 1918 Page 8
