CHAPTER XI
The Lone Air-Raider
Apart from the actual fact that he was a prisoner, Alec Seton'scaptivity on the Mole at Zeebrugge was far from irksome. He had analmost uninterrupted view of the interior of the harbour, and seawardhis range of vision in clear weather embraced a wide arc of thehorizon. So confident were the Huns of the impossibility of Seton'sescape that they allowed him to see almost everything that was goingon, his gaolers actually pointing out various details, and gloatingover the effects upon their prisoner.
It was only when a bombardment or a raid was expected that theseaward window, or rather aperture, was closed. This was effected bylowering a heavy slab of metal, after the fashion of an old-timegun-port. It was a precaution against signalling on the part of thecaptive. But without light or matches, or even a looking-glass as aheliograph, it was difficult to see how Seton could have accomplishedthe feat.
His food was poor and meagre. This was hardly the fault of the Huns,since the admirable blockade by the Allied fleets had already reducedGermany to the verge of starvation. Generally speaking, the demeanourof his guards was harsh and tyrannical. Misled by their officers, therank and file of the Boche armies believed that Germany was alreadywithin measurable distance of emerging triumphant from the world-widecontest. This, to a great extent, explained the domineering manner ofSeton's guards, although there were some who, guessing the truth,bore in mind possible consequences should the relative positions ofcaptor and captive be reversed.
Life at Zeebrugge was not lacking in excitement. Every time a U-boatreturned there were demonstrations; every time a U-boat set out shedeparted in almost sullen silence. The men loathed their task--not onaccount of the craven nature of their work, but by reason of theperil it entailed. Dozens of Hun submarines had left Zeebrugge neverto return. Of the manner of their loss, none on that side of theNorth Sea knew. They could only conjecture. The secret lay with theBritish Navy, and the very mystery that enshrouded the vanishedunterseebooten added to the terror of the crews of those boats thathad hitherto escaped destruction.
Occasionally, and it was a rare occurrence, German sea-goingtorpedo-boats would leave the harbour at sunset. Before dawn theywould be back with riddled funnels and shell-swept decks. Fritz hadlearned that it was decidedly unhealthy to try conclusions with theDover Patrol.
And the raids: rarely a day and night passed but sea-planes andaeroplanes, sometimes singly but more often in flights, soared overthe pirates' lair. Unruffled by the lurid and discordant greetings ofthe German "antis", the airmen would hover over their objective, andthen, to make doubly sure of their target, dive down to within twohundred feet of the ground.
Cheering was the sight to the captive Sub-lieutenant, but theexperience was none the less nerve-racking. More than once heavybombs dropped within fifty feet of Seton's cell. The massive masonryof the Mole trembled like an aspen leaf; the air was laden withpungent vapours that caused Alec to gasp for breath. At the spotwhere the heavy missile dropped a hole twenty feet in diameter hadbeen made.
Seton had hoped that during one of these aerial visitations a portionof the wall of his cell might have been demolished, and that, duringthe confusion that followed the explosion, he might have been able toescape. But second thoughts "knocked his theory into a cocked hat".The concussion that would break down the granite wall would certainly"do him in". Even if it did not, and his senses were not temporarilystunned, his chances of getting away unnoticed were of the remotestnature.
Regularly, and as often as the rules set down by the Huns permitted,Seton wrote home, but no reply came. Reluctantly he was forced tocome to the conclusion that the Germans were fooling him--the letterswere never sent. This was the case, for, as in similar instances,Alec's name was never sent in as a prisoner of war. He was one ofthose reported "missing" whose fate remained a mystery to theirfriends, until, on rare occasions, the missing man was able to effecthis escape and to return home, to the consternation and surprise ofhis relatives, who had long thought of him as dead.
It was during one of the raids that Alec witnessed a daring stunt onthe part of a young R.A.F. pilot. All that morning the Huns had beenloading mines on board three new mine-laying submarines, the workbeing performed under a camouflaged canvas screen. Either a Belgianhad managed to send the information over to the British Admiralty, orelse aerial observers had noticed a difference in their photographicviews of the harbour during the last few days. In any case, thesolitary airman knew of the operations in progress.
In the grey dawn the British machine swooped down from a bank ofclouds. With his engine cut out, he dived steeply. Too late theGerman anti-aircraft guns opened their hymn of hate. At two hundredand fifty feet the pilot released his cargo of bombs. A miss wasalmost an impossibility.
With an appalling, deafening roar, the three U-boats disappeared,together with nearly two hundred Germans engaged in loading theirdangerous cargoes. For a radius of a hundred yards the havoc wasterrific. Far beyond that area the damage wrought was severe.
With the roar of the explosion still dinning in his ears, Alec sawthe gallant airman disappear in a cloud of smoke mingled withfar-flung debris. Hurled like a dried leaf in an autumnal gale theBritish biplane was seen to be turning over and over, in spite of theengines running all out, and the efforts of the pilot to keep his'bus under control. Momentarily, through rents in the blast-torncloud, Seton watched the man whose work had been accomplished, andwhose efforts were now directed to save himself--if he could.
"He's done himself in this time," exclaimed Alec.
The biplane was falling jerkily and giddily. She had got into aspinning nose-dive. Her tail-piece had been hit by a fragment ofmetal, and wisps of dark-brown canvas were streaming in the wind.
Although falling with great velocity, the biplane appeared to bedropping slowly. It seemed as if the pilot was bound to crash uponsome houses, a short distance from the lock-gates of the BrugesCanal. To make matters worse, her petrol-tank caught fire, herdownward course being marked by a trail of bright yellow fumes.
Then, falling headlong behind a tall building, the sea-plane was lostto sight.
"Hard luck!" murmured Seton sympathetically. "The fellow took nochances of missing; but, by Jove, it was certain death!"
Accustomed though he was to see men slain in the heat of battle, thecatastrophe to the daring airman had a depressing effect upon theSub. He rejoiced in the knowledge that the pilot's effort had notbeen in vain. He felt proud of the man who had given his life for hiscountry; but, at the same time, the spectacle was a gruesome one.
Almost mechanically Seton stood at the open window. There was nodoubt about the moral and material effect of the enormous damage.Swarms of German troops were being hurried up to clear away thedebris and to repair the damage by the dock-side, for a large sectionof the wall was in danger of sliding bodily into the basin. Seamenwere strenuously engaged in shifting damaged vessels from thelocality, while Red Cross men, armed as usual in the German way withshort swords and revolvers, were carrying away the maimed victims ofthe raid.
As Alec watched, he became aware of a babel of angry voices. Adispatch-boat had just tied up close to the head of the Mole, and theobject of the hostile demonstration was in the act of landing.
Although not of an excitable nature, Seton could hardly refrain fromgiving a hearty British cheer. Actually he gave a whoop ofencouragement, for, marched off in charge of a file of marines, wasthe airman who had played havoc with the submarine mine-layers.
Limping badly, and with a rent in his flying-helmet, the capturedpilot marched with head erect and set lips, unmindful of the angrydemeanour of the German spectators. Alec could imagine him mutteringgrimy:
"I've had a thundering good run for my money. Now try and get evenwith me, you blighters--if you can!"
THE BIPLANE HAD GOT INTO A SPINNING NOSE-DIVE]
It was a brief and passing pageant of British character: indomitableeven in disaster. Then, surrounded by the fixed bayonets of hisguards,
the prisoner passed out of Seton's sight.
"The best thing I've seen since I've been in this rotten hole,"soliloquized Alec. He spoke aloud. It was a habit he had deliberatelyacquired during his incarceration, in order that he could hearEnglish spoken. "Jolly lad, the airman fellow; wasn't done in afterall!"
Shortly afterwards the soldier told off to give Seton his meals camein with the Sub's meagre breakfast. As the Hun left, either byaccident or design, a folded newspaper slipped from underneath hisfield-grey tunic.
Directly the door was closed and locked, Alec pounced upon the paperlike a hungry dog at a bone. Half-expecting to find a journal printedin German, which would be practically useless to him, Seton wasdelighted to discover a soiled and crumpled edition of a Belgiannewspaper, partly in French and partly in Flemish.
Flemish he knew nothing of, but he was a tolerable French scholar. Ashe read, his face grew long. Every scrap of news was nothing more norless than a record of German triumphs. Paris was on the brink ofcapitulation; the British were thrown back upon a narrow strip ofPicardy, bordering on the English Channel; the Ypres salient wasflattened out; while the small American army had suffered a heavyreverse, and its surrender was but a matter of a few hours. The navalnews recorded a succession of U-boat triumphs, the bombardment ofseveral British seaports, and lastly, the failure of a determinedattempt to blockade Zeebrugge.
"We know with absolute certainty," he read, "that a few nights agostrong English forces left Dover with the object of making an attackupon Zeebrugge. Large bodies of troops were embarked for the purpose.The fleet was met a few miles off Dover by a flotilla of U-boats,with the result that the English were compelled to retreat indisorder, with the loss of several of their large cruisers."
"Tosh!" exclaimed Alec. "This wretched rag is a 'plant'. Printed bythe Huns in order to put the wind up the Belgian population. Fritz isa cunning swab, but it won't work here."
He tore the offending rag into small pieces, and threw the fragmentsthrough the barred window. It was slight--almostpaltry--satisfaction, but it afforded him some gratification to seethe lying paper scattered to the winds.
A key grated in the lock. Alec started like a school-boy detected insome slight indiscretion.
"The bounders have been spying upon me!" he thought; "I said it was aplant. Hang it all! why worry? Believe my nerves are going toblazes."
The next moment the door was thrown open, and Unter-leutnant KasparDiehardt appeared. Behind him were about half a dozen German seamen.
"Anoder schwein to you company keep, Englander!" he yapped.
The Unter-leutnant made a side pace. Then, propelled by severalstrong arms, the British pilot was bundled unceremoniously into thecell.
The Thick of the Fray at Zeebrugge, April 1918 Page 11
