Part 1 (1/2)
WITH BEATTY OFF JUTLAND.
by Percy F. Westerman.
CHAPTER I--The Ward-room of H.M.S. ”Calder”
A cold grey morning in April somewhere in the North Sea; to be more exact, 18 miles N. 75 W. of the Haisborough Lights.h.i.+p.
Viewed from the fore-bridge of H.M. torpedo-boat destroyer _Calder_, there was little in the outlook to suggest that a state of war had existed for twenty months. The same short steep seas, the same lowering sky, the almost unbroken horizon towards which many anxious glances were hourly directed in the hope that ”they” had at last come out.
Two cables' distance from the _Calder_, a typical trawler, with dense columns of smoke issuing from her funnel, was forging slowly ahead.
Another vessel of a similar type was steaming in almost the opposite direction, and on a course that would bring her close under the stern of the almost motionless destroyer. From the galley funnel of each trawler a trail of bluish smoke was issuing, the reek as it drifted across the _Calder's_ deck indicating pretty plainly the nature of the ”hands'”
breakfast. Of the crew of either craft no one was visible, the helmsman in each case sheltering in the ugly squat wheel-house on the bridge.
Acting Sub-lieutenant Sefton brought his binoculars to bear upon the nearmost trawler. The action was merely a perfunctory one. He knew both trawlers almost about as much as their own crews did, and certainly more than their respective owners in pre-war times. For close on fifty hours, watch in and watch out, the _Calder_ had been dancing attendance on these two almost insignificant specimens of the North Sea fis.h.i.+ng-fleet--the _Ca.r.s.e o' Gowrie_ and the _Dimpled La.s.sie_, both registered at the port of Aberdeen.
Carrying bare steerage-way, the destroyer glided slowly past the _Dimpled La.s.sie's_ port quarter. From the trawler's stern a flexible wire hawser led beneath the foaming wake of the propeller, dipping with a sag that did not gladden the heart of the young officer of the watch.
”Any luck yet?” shouted Sefton through an enormous megaphone.
At the hail two men's heads appeared above the bulwarks aft, while a greatcoated figure came in view from behind the storm-dodgers of the trawler's bridge.
”Not the least, sir,” replied the master of the _Dimpled La.s.sie_, Peter M'Kie, skipper R.N.R. ”Are we right, sir?”
The acting-sub had a few minutes previously taken an observation. The destroyer was playing the part of nursemaid to the two trawlers, for although both skippers could find their way, even in thick weather, almost anywhere in the North Sea, solely by the aid of lead-line and compa.s.s, neither had the faintest experience in the use of the s.e.xtant.
”Ought to be right over it,” replied Sefton. ”Carry on, and trust to luck.”
The trawlers were ”creeping” with grapnels. Not for mines, although there was always a possibility of hooking one of those fiendish contrivances. That was a risk that the tough fisherman faced with an equanimity bordering on fatalism. Mine-sweeping they had engaged upon almost continuously since the notable month of August, 1914. Now they were on particular service--a service of such importance and where so much secrecy was imperative that these two Scottish trawlers had been sent expressly from a northern base to scour the bed of the North Sea in the neighbourhood of Great Yarmouth, where there were Government craft for disposal in abundance.
Sefton replaced his binoculars, and, turning, found that his superior officer had just come on deck and was standing at his elbow.
Lieutenant Richard Crosthwaite, D.S.O., the ”owner” of the destroyer, was one of those young officers who had made good use of the chances that the war had thrown in his way. Specially promoted for good work in the Dardanelles, he found himself at a comparatively early age in command of a destroyer that had already made a name for herself in the gallant but ill-starred operations against the Turks.
”Well, Mr. Sefton?” he asked.
”Nothing much to report, sir,” replied the acting-sub. ”But we'll get it yet,” he added confidently.
Evidently ”it”--hardly ever referred to by any other designation--was more elusive than Crosthwaite had imagined. A shade of disappointment flitted across his tanned features. The task upon which the trawlers were engaged was a matter of extreme urgency. At Whitehall anxious admirals awaited the news that ”it” had been fished up; but ”it”, reposing serenely on the bed of the North Sea, had resolutely declined to receive the embraces of a couple of heavy grapnels.
Crosthwaite, after giving a searching glance to windward, stepped to the head of the ladder. An alert bos'n's mate, awaiting the signal, piped the starboard watch. Saluting, Sefton gained the deck and went aft, his mind dwelling on the prospects of breakfast and a much-needed sleep.
The ward-room, a scantily-furnished apartment extending the whole width of the s.h.i.+p, was showing signs of activity. From one of the adjoining dog-boxes, termed by courtesy a cabin, a short, full-faced, jovial-featured man had just emerged, clad in regulation trousers and a sweater. His curly light-brown hair was still wet, as the result of his ablutions, a slight gash upon the point of his chin betokened the fact that he had tempted fate by shaving in a stiff seaway, and by the aid of an ordinary razor dulled by the penetrating salt air.
”Oh, it's quiet down here----” he began singing in a ringing baritone.
”No need to rub that in, Pills,” exclaimed a drawling voice. ”The fact is patent to all. Can't you give us 'They don't run Corridor Cars on our Branch Line' by way of a change?”
Thereon hung a tale: something that took place when Jimmy Stirling first joined the mess at the Portsmouth Naval Barracks as a Probationary Surgeon, R.N.V.R.