



Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen




[Illustration: cover art]

The Thick of the Fray
at Zeebrugge



BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
LIEUT. R.A.F.

No boy alive will be able to peruse Mr. Westerman's pages
without a quickening of his pulses."--Outlook.

  Winning his Wings: A Story of the R. A. F.
  The Thick of the Fray at Zeebrugge: April, 1918.
  With Beatty off Jutland: A Romance of the Great Sea
      Fight.
  The Submarine Hunters: A Story of Naval Patrol Work.
  A Lively Bit of the Front: A Tale of the New Zealand
      Rifles on the Western Front.
  A Sub and a Submarine: The Story of H.M. Submarine
      R19 in the Great War.
  Under the White Ensign: A Naval Story of the Great
      War.
  The Dispatch-Riders: The Adventures of Two British
      Motor-cyclists with the Belgian Forces.
  The Sea-girt Fortress: A Story of Heligoland.
  Rounding up the Raider: A Naval Story of the Great
      War.
  The Fight for Constantinople: A Tale of the Gallipoli
      Peninsula.
  Captured at Tripoli: A Tale of Adventure.
  The Quest of the "Golden Hope": A Seventeenth-
      century Story of Adventure.
  A Lad of Grit: A Story of Restoration Times.

LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD.. 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.



[Illustration: THE U-BOAT DIVED SO ABRUPTLY THAT HER RUDDERS AND
TWIN-SCREWS WERE CLEAR OF THE WATER (Frontispiece)]



The Thick of the Fray
at Zeebrugge
April, 1918


BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Author of "Winning His Wings"
"With Beatty off Jutland"
"The Submarine Hunters"
&c. &c.



_Illustrated by W. Edward Wigfull_



BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY



  Contents

  CHAP.

     I. BOUND NORTH
    II. STRAFED
   III. COUNT OTTO
    IV. TORPEDOED
     V. IN THE WHALER
    VI. A PRISONER OF WAR
   VII. M.-L. 4452
  VIII. ON PATROL
    IX. AT ZEEBRUGGE
     X. PREPARATIONS
    XI. THE LONE AIR-RAIDER
   XII. ST. GEORGE'S EVE
  XIII. THE ATTACK ON THE MOLE
   XIV. THE NIGHT OF NIGHTS
    XV. THE PASSING OF M.-L. 4452
   XVI. THE RETURN FROM ZEEBRUGGE
  XVII. "GOOD OLD 'VINDICTIVE'!"
 XVIII. OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH
   XIX. THE GREAT SURRENDER



  Illustrations


  THE U-BOAT DIVED SO ABRUPTLY THAT HER RUDDERS
  AND TWIN-SCREWS WERE CLEAR OF THE WATER
                                   Frontispiece

  "ENGLISCH OFFIZIER-PIG!" HE SHOUTED. "WE YOU
      TAKE PRISONER"

  THE BIPLANE HAD GOT INTO A SPINNING NOSE-DIVE

  THE PILOT THREW A BOMB FULL IN THE FACE OF A
      PRUSSIAN UNTER-LEUTNANT

  "SHE'S GOING, LADS!" SHOUTED BRANSCOMBE




THE THICK OF THE
FRAY AT ZEEBRUGGE




CHAPTER I

Bound North


"Wonder if she'll do it in time," thought Sub-lieutenant Alec Seton,
R.N., as he stolidly paced the stone-paved platform. For the
twentieth time in the last two hours he had consulted his wristlet
watch and compared it with the smoke-begrimed station clock. "A
proper lash-up if she doesn't."

It was 1.40 a.m. on a certain Monday in March of the year of grace
1918. Seton, warned by telegram to rejoin his ship, H.M. Torpedo-boat
Destroyer _Bolero_, had been handicapped by reason of the Sunday
train service. Due to report at Rosyth at 10 a.m. he found himself at
midnight held up at Leeds with the unpleasant prospect of having to
wait until 1.50 a.m. before the mail train took him on to Edinburgh.

Seton had been spending part of a well-earned spell of leave at his
parents' house in the Peak District. An urgent message demanded his
recall before half the period of leave had expired, which was no
unusual occurrence in war-time. What was exasperating was the fact
that the wire had been delivered at 6 p.m. on Sunday, and even by
rushing off and catching the first available train Alec found, on
perusing the time-table and consulting various railway officials,
that it would be impossible to arrive at Edinburgh before twenty
minutes minutes to eight on Monday morning. That left, only a little
more than two hours to continue his journey to Inverkeithing and then
on to Rosyth. Even then he had no idea where the _Bolero_ was lying,
whether she was alongside the jetty or on moorings out on the Forth.
To say the least it was "cutting things a bit fine", but it was a
point of honour that, if humanly possible, Seton should report
himself on board at the hour specified.

"An' we were going into dock for eighteen days for refit," mused the
Sub. "Wonder what's butted in to upset things? Some stunt over the
other side, or only another sea-trip out and home again, without
catching sight of a measly Hun. By Jove, I'm hungry. I'm experiencing
an unpleasant feeling in a certain sector of the front."

Vainly he regretted that on his hasty departure he had omitted to
provide himself with refreshment. Counting on finding a
restaurant-car he had been disappointed; while, on arriving at Leeds,
he found it impossible at that hour to get a meal at an hotel. The
sight of half a dozen Tommies in full field-kit emerging from a
Y.M.C.A. refreshment-room, and dilating upon the excellence of the
hot coffee and cakes, filled him with envious desires, which,
however, did little to satisfy the cravings of the inner man.

"Ah, I've no belt to tighten," he soliloquized grimly. "Six or seven
more hours to go, and not a chance of a snack. Hallo, what's this?
Out of tobacco, too, by Jove." Very ruefully Alec surveyed his worn
and trusted pouch. Only a pinch of dried dust remained.

"The last straw," he muttered. "Must grin and bear it, I suppose. I'd
rather be keeping middle watch somewhere in the North Sea."

A truck, propelled by an undersized man, came into view. The truck
was surmounted by a green box with glass panels and brass rails. From
a small funnel steam was issuing. Already half a dozen belated
passengers were crowding round the new arrival.

"A perambulating coffee-stall," declared Alec. "My luck's turned."

Two minutes later he was sampling the wares of the itinerant vendor.
The result was not only disappointing but repugnant, for the
beverage, termed coffee by the man presiding over the stall, bore a
strong resemblance to greasy water, while the cake was more like
sawdust than war-bread at its worst.

Disgustedly Alec left his purchase practically untouched, and resumed
his tedious beat up and down the draughty platform, until the
long-expected night mail train pulled up at the station.

Through the steam-laden atmosphere Alec made his way, trying to find
an unoccupied compartment. Foiled in this direction he edged along
the corridor until he almost cannoned into a uniformed attendant.

"All sleeping compartments engaged, sir," replied the man; "but I'll
find you a smoker with only one other passenger. This way, sir."

He threw open the blind-drawn sliding door, and switched on one of
the four electric lights. One of the seats was unoccupied. On the
other was stretched a somnolent figure almost completely enveloped in
a large fawn rug, bedizened with the Railway Company's monogram. The
sleeper's face was turned towards the partition. On the rack overhead
were two weather-beaten portmanteaux, and a naval cap with a
tarnished R.N.V.R. badge.

Alec slipped half-a-crown into the attendant's hand.

"No thanks," he replied in answer to the man's inquiry; "I'll be
quite comfortable in the circs. Sorry there isn't a tobacco-stall on
the train."

He stowed his gear to his satisfaction, patted his empty
tobacco-pouch to make sure for the fifth time that it was empty, and
then contemplated his soundly-sleeping companion.

"Since it seems that I've a mouldy messmate," he soliloquized, "the
best that I can do is to follow his example and turn in."

Switching off the solitary light Alec stretched himself upon the
seat, using his great-coat as a pillow. He was asleep before the
train left Leeds.

Beyond a slight return to wakefulness as the train pulled up at
Carlisle, Alec slept soundly until the first gleam of dawn began to
steal through the carriage windows.

He glanced at his wristlet watch. It was half-past five. Sitting up
he stretched his cramped limbs.

"By Jove, I am hungry," he muttered. "Won't I make up for it when I
get aboard."

Almost the next moment all sense of physical discomfort vanished, as
he caught sight of the wonderful vista that met his view. The train
was climbing the steep ascent of the hills of Roxburgh. Snow lay deep
upon the ground, while the peaks were only partly visible in the grey
morning mists. Alec had seen many varieties of scenery in widely
different parts of the world, but, as an admirer of nature, he was
never tired of "viewing the land".

"Magnificent!" he murmured enthusiastically. "It's worth a night in
the train. I've seen the Peak of Teneriffe at sunrise, but our
country takes a lot of beating."

A swirling cloud of steam beat against the window pane, momentarily
obscuring the outlook. Before it cleared Alec was astonished to hear
his name shouted in boisterous tones.

"Alec Seton, by all the powers! What, in the name of all that's
wonderful, brings you here?"

Seton's "mouldy messmate" was sitting up and rubbing his eyes--a
bronzed, shock-headed youth, who looked, despite his uniform, little
more than a schoolboy. His features expanded into a broad grin of
whole-hearted delight as he extended a large, horny hand.

For a brief instant Alec was at a loss to recognize his
fellow-traveller, then--

"Branscombe, my festive buccaneer."

Guy Branscombe, Sub-lieutenant, R.N.V.R., was one of those war-time
productions whose existence, as members of the "band of brothers"
under the White Ensign, has been amply justified. He had been a
candidate for Osborne, but had failed to satisfy the examiners. Now,
taking advantage of his undoubted skill as an amateur yachtsman, he
was doing good service both in deep-sea and coastal navigation. These
two branches are widely distinct. Generally speaking, officers of the
"pukka" navy are indifferent navigators in coastal waters. Inside the
"five fathom line" they often lack the confidence that the skilled
amateur possesses. Thus the Admiralty soon found the need to accept
the offers of British yachtsmen to take command of the shoal of
"M.-L.'s"--otherwise Coastal Motor-Launches--the war record of which
showed that official confidence had not been misplaced.

In the early days of the war the newly-constituted Motor-Boat Reserve
was frequently a subject for ridicule. "Harry Tate's Navy", as it was
called, figured in cheap comic papers, and was spoken of jestingly by
misinformed critics. True, there were incompetents, who managed to
obtain temporary commissions on the strength of baneful influence;
but these were soon weeded out, and the zealous, hard-working men
remained to "carry on". For the first three years of war the M.-L.'s
were rarely if ever in the limelight. Not that they wanted to be;
they were content to work whole-heartedly as units of the Great
Silent Navy, until even official reticence and the muzzle of the
Press Censor failed to hide from public notice the stirring deeds of
the officers and men of the puny but doughty M.-L.'s.

"I'm taking over M.-L. 4452," explained Branscombe, when the two men
had settled down to the contents of a Thermos and biscuits--for the
R.N.V.R. man had taken the precaution to fortify himself amply
against the discomforts of long railway journeys. "She's a brand-new
hooker, just handed over at Dumbarton by the contractors. We're bound
south for----" He hesitated. Alec looked at him inquiringly and
raised his eyebrows.

"Dover?" asked the R.N. sub.

"Yes--Dover," replied Guy.

"Lucky blighter," rejoined Seton "Wish I had the chance. There's
always something doing in the 'Wet Triangle'. Up here with the Grand
Fleet it's the usual out-and-in stunt, with no chance of tumbling
across anything more than a Fritz or a mine. Absolute boredom, and
all because the Huns won't come out. Now at Dover--any stunt on?"

"Can't say, old man," replied Branscombe with perfect truth. As a
matter of fact the R.N.V.R. officer was "in the know". Great
operations, as to which all concerned were bound to secrecy, were
impending; the risk was great, and the chance of honour
correspondingly so; and since success depended upon a sphinx-like
silence the secret was being well kept. Branscombe even knew of a
case in which two life-long chums were shipmates for three weeks, and
although each was detailed off for duty in the forthcoming operations
neither hinted to the other that it was his luck to be chosen for the
stunt.

The conversation turned into other channels, talking "shop" being
tabooed as far as possible, and punctually to time the two chums
found themselves on Waverley Station platform with ten minutes to
wait for the train that was to take them to their
destination--Inverkeithing and Rosyth.




CHAPTER II

Strafed


"Mornin', Seton," was Lieutenant-Commander Dick Trevannion's greeting
as Alec reported himself on board H.M.T.B.D. _Bolero_. "Had a long
journey, eh? Sorry, old bird; but there's one consolation: We're
bound south. Evidently the Admiral thinks we are in need of
recuperation in a warmer climate. No, don't look so infernally
joyful. We're not off up the Straits, if that's what you think. It's
a convoying job."

Seton looked glum. He couldn't help it. Of all the tasks that fall to
the lot of the ubiquitous navy convoying is one of the worst. The
speed of the escorting destroyer or destroyers must perforce be
limited to that of the slowest old tramp in the convoy, and in the
days of shortage of shipping there were plenty of old hookers that in
other circumstances would be being broken up in a shipbreaker's
yards. Mule-headed skippers, ignoring peremptory signals, would haul
out of line; superannuated engines would break down at particularly
inopportune moments--when night was falling and a heavy sea running.
Then the faces of the officers commanding H.M. ships comprising the
escort would turn an apoplectic purple, and white anger would surge
under their great-coats; but to little purpose. Acting on the
precepts embodied in the song, "Sailors Don't Care". the horny-handed
mercantile marine would just carry on in its own sweet way,
contemptuously indifferent to naval orders, mines, U-boats, and other
disquieting incidents on the High Seas in the Year of Grace 1918.

"What sort of a circus have we, sir?" asked Seton.

"Usual lot," replied Trevannion as he offered his subordinate a
cigarette. "Coastwise tramps an' a couple of hookers for the 'Beef
Trip'. We're to escort the latter to the North Hinder, and then put
into Harwich to await instructions."

The suggestion of the Beef Trip made the outlook a little more
promising. The term is applied to boats running between Great Britain
and Holland and carrying live cattle for the ultimate sustenance of a
hungry population. Many and many a time the Huns tried to intercept
the Anglo-Dutch traffic. Raids from Borkum and Zeebrugge by swift
German torpedo-boats made the trip a fairly exciting one, and the
chances of out-escorting destroyers bringing the Huns to close action
were always both possible and probable. It was a change from spending
months of comparative inactivity at Scapa Flow, where in the piercing
cold of the Northern climes the mammoth fleet of Britain lay waiting
in vain for another opportunity of Der Tag. Only once before had the
chance offered, and then night and mist had robbed the
Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Fleet of his opportunity of
annihilating von Scheer's Command.

At eight bells the _Bolero_ cast off from the buoy and proceeded down
the Forth, her ensign floating proudly from her diminutive mizzen
mast. Past the giant hush-ships lying off Rosyth she glided,
threading her way through a multitudinous assortment of craft that
the Royal Navy has taken as its own: brand-new light cruisers,
monitors with huge 17-inch guns, hogged-backed P-boats, mine-layers,
coastal M.-B's, X-barges, and other weird types of naval
architecture. Under the northern span of the Forth Bridge the
_Bolero_ passed, exchanging signals with the little station on the
rock that supports the central pier; then, settling down to a modest
twenty-five knots, she shaped a course towards the cluster of vessels
awaiting her off Leith and Portobello Roads.

The convoy was, as the Lieutenant-Commander anticipated, a motley
crowd. There were rusty-sided tramps, tramps fantastically decorated
with dazzle; tramps large and small, wall-sided and with high and low
freeboards. Nevertheless, with all their shortcomings, they formed
part of the arteries of Empire, manned as they were by British
seamen, whom the piratical Huns failed utterly to intimidate by
threats of ruthless murder and sinking without a trace.

The short spring day was drawing to a close before the convoy weighed
and shaped a course towards the frowning Bass Rock. Ahead steamed a
destroyer, two more were on each flank of the long-drawn-out line,
while astern, as a sort of whipper-in, came the _Bolero_, her turbine
engines running at quarter speed.

As Officer of the Watch for the first watch Alec Seton had his work
cut out. Almost every quarter of an hour the engine-room had to be
telegraphed to, either to increase or decrease speed slightly, while
the Morse flashing-lamp was practically in constant use, calling upon
this vessel to close station or that to increase distance by so many
cables.

And so the weary watch went on. The wind, hitherto off-shore, had
suddenly veered to the south-east and blew with considerable violence
right in the teeth of the convoy. Even at reduced speed the _Bolero_
was "shipping it green" right over her raised fo'c'sle, while
stinging showers of icy spray lashed viciously against the canvas
dodgers and rattled like hail against the plate-glass windows of the
chart-house.

There was a marked change in the Sub's appearance, as he crouched
under the lee of the dodger. His hitherto slim figure looked podgy,
and for a good reason.

Underneath his great-coat he wore his monkey-jacket, three sweaters,
and a muffler. Oilskin trousers tucked into and turned over the tops
of his sea-boots, and a weather-beaten cap rammed well down over his
eyes completed his watch-keeping kit. With him stood the signalman
and quartermaster, both enveloped in duffel suits.

On deck everything was battened down, for the glass was falling
rapidly and giving every indication of a sharp, if short, blow before
very long. Already the wind was moaning dismally through the wireless
aerials, and causing the bridge canvas to bag in a double series of
almost inflexible bulges.

At six bells (10 p.m.) the signal was given to the convoy to alter
course eight points to port. Then ensued an anxious time, some of the
vessels obeying with alacrity, others dallying in the carrying out of
their instructions. With the wind now abeam, the lumbering craft
rolled horribly, while the long, lean destroyers, which largely rely
upon steadiness by reason of their speed, were constantly rolling
rail under. Torn clouds of reeking smoke from the vessels to
windward, mingled with icy spray, swept over the _Bolero_, whose
position on that account was the most undesirable of the escorting
craft.

"It's Fritz's chance, absolutely," thought Alec. "A U-boat could be
lying awash a cable's length away and we shouldn't spot her. And it's
a dirty night to have to stand by a sinking tramp."

"There's something on our port bow, sir," reported the look-out,
stretching a glistening oilskin-enshrouded arm in the direction
indicated.

"Yes, by Jove," ejaculated Seton. "It's a dirty Fritz. Starboard two,
quartermaster, and let her have it."

It was for one thing fortunate that the _Bolero_ was running at
greatly reduced speed, otherwise the lurking U-boat might have been
passed unnoticed.

The submarine had evidently been compelled to rise to recharge
batteries, the heavy sea notwithstanding. Her hydrophones had given
indication of the presence of the convoy, and the latter's recent
change of course had set the vessels slightly abeam and at gradually
reducing distance. The kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat, quick to grasp
the situation, had waited until the escorting destroyers on the
convoy's port hand had passed, and was now manoeuvring to fire a
torpedo at the rearmost tramp--which also happened to be the largest.
Owing to the darkness it was almost impracticable to make use of the
periscope, so the German submarine remained awash in order to take a
direct bearing on her intended victim.

In the shortest possible time the gun's crew of the for'ard 3-inch
quick-firer were ready. At a bare two hundred yards the target was
one that could not be easily missed and the gun-layer knew his job
thoroughly.

Too late the astounded and terrified Huns sought to submerge. Before
the last Teuton gained the quick-action watertight hatchway the
_Bolero's_ gun barked viciously. Fairly through the conning-tower at
a height of a couple of feet above the tapering armoured deck the
high-velocity shell passed. Exploding, it blew the top of the
conning-tower to pieces, killing the kapitan-leutnant, the
quartermaster, and two of the crew.

The doomed U-boat began to sink, clouds of oil-laden vapour issuing
from the jagged base of the conning-tower; but even that was not
enough. It is the practice of the U-boat hunters to make doubly sure.

At increased speed, and with slight port helm, the _Bolero_ scraped
past the up-tilted stern of her victim. Resisting the temptation to
ram her with the destroyer's knife-like bows, Seton held on his
course, while right aft a couple of petty officers were busily
engaged in allowing a wire to run out. Attached to the wire was a
powerful depth-charge--one of two ready for instant use.

Fifty--sixty--seventy--eighty fathoms, the P.O. brought his hovering
finger down smartly upon the firing-key of the battery.

He performed the act without emotion, although it meant sealing the
death-warrant of a score or more of human beings. To him it was
merely the performance of duty: frequency of opportunity had made it
matter of routine.

With a stupendous roar a column of water, showing greyish-white
through the darkness, was hurled a couple of hundred feet into the
air. The _Bolero_, as the tremendous wash created by the explosion
met and overrode the crested waves, shook violently from stern to
stem, while fragments of metal, hurled upwards to an immense height,
fell all around her.

For some minutes it seemed as if the fury of the wind was subdued by
the blast of displaced air, while astern the waves subsided in a
rapidly-increasing circle under the influence of tons of heavy oil
liberated from the shattered wreck of the modern pirate.

"Hard a-starboard, quartermaster!"

Alec's voice quivered with excitement. It was the first Hun that he
had bagged, although the _Bolero_ had claimed more than one before
Seton had been appointed to the destroyer.

Telegraphing first for "half-speed", then "stop", and "half-speed
astern", Seton brought her to a standstill almost in the centre of
the vast patch of oil. As he did so he became aware of the fact that
Lieutenant-Commander Trevannion, picturesquely rigged out in
gaily-striped pyjamas, service cap, great-coat, and sea-boots, was
standing beside him on the bridge.

"Good bag that," remarked the Lieutenant-Commander in dispassionate
tones, as if Fritz-strafing was a less exciting occupation than
hunting rats. "You've ordered the buoy to be let go, I see. Right-o,
carry on!"

The nun-buoy, to which was attached a line terminating in a sinker,
was dropped over the side to mark the position of the ill-fated Hun
submarine, in order that divers could make subsequent examination, of
the shattered hull, and fix her identity.

Meanwhile the _Bolero_ had switched on her search-lights, and was
sweeping the surface of the oily sea on the off-chance of sighting
survivors. It was practically a matter of form, since previous
experience told that rarely does a single member of a
depth-charge-shattered U-boat live to tell the tale.

"Something on the starboard bow, sir," reported one of the
lookout-men. "Looks like a corpse, sir."

Leaning over the bridge guard-rails Alec followed the direction
indicated by the man's outstretched arm. Something black was floating
on the sullen, oil-covered water. It was the body of a man clad in
black oilskins, and wearing an inflated life-belt. Even as the Sub.
looked, the man feebly waved his arm.

"Away duty boat!" shouted Seton.

There was an orderly rush to man the boat. Although the man was an
enemy and a despicable one at that, the British seamen gave little or
no heed to that. There was a chance to save life, and the bluejackets
meant to do it.

With a resounding splash the boat dropped into the water. The patent
disengaging-gear was slipped, and the men gave way with a will.
Within fifty seconds of the time the order was given to lower away,
the sole survivor of the U-boat was hauled into the destroyer's boat.

With the greatest celerity the boat returned alongside. The falls
were hooked in and the order given to "haul away roundly". Almost
before the boat's keel was clear of the water the _Bolero's_ triple
propellers began to thresh, and the destroyer, gathering way, resumed
her station astern of the convoy.




CHAPTER III

Count Otto


"By Jupiter, old man!" exclaimed little Browning, surgeon-probationer
of the destroyer, as he met Seton on the termination of the latter's
watch. "We've netted a fine bird. The skipper's as pleased as a dog
with two tails."

"One of the most recent types of U-boats?" asked Alec, as he
proceeded to divest himself of a portion of his heavy clothing, and
to kick off his sea-boots.

"Better than that, my festive," replied the medico, as he deftly
filled a tin mug with hot tea--a task not easily accomplished when a
destroyer is rolling horribly in a sea-way. "The Hun we fished out is
none other than Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert."

"Explain," said Alec, as he took the proffered cup and gratefully
drained its contents. It mattered nothing that the cup was old and
battered, and that the dregs left by the previous user were floating
in the highly-brewed beverage. In such circumstances one cannot be
too fastidious.

"What! Not heard of Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert?" asked
Browning in mock dismay. "I thought everyone in the destroyer patrol
knew of him. He's the fellow who torpedoed the _Bentali_."

"_Bentali_? Of course, I remember," replied Seton. "A hospital ship
homeward-bound from the Dardanelles. Didn't cotton on to the fellow's
tally, though. I'm jolly glad we've collared him. Wonder what they'll
do with him?"

"Do with him?" echoed the doctor. "Why, put him ashore, send him in a
comfy first-class railway carriage to a cushy home for fortunate Hun
pirates. Feed him up; let him take a daily jaunt into the nearest
town for the benefit of his health and to prevent boredom. Allow his
friends to visit him, and all that sort of tosh. My word, we English
are a rummy race! We carry our humane principles too far, and Fritz
takes it as a sign of weakness."

"It's innate chivalry, I suppose," remarked Seton.

"Innate foolishness!" corrected Browning with asperity. "If you saw a
poisonous snake lying across your path would you pick it up, wrap it
in your pocket-handkerchief, and take it out of harm's way? I'd as
soon do that as molly-coddle a Hun. I've seen them and their dirty
work, my festive, long before you took to the noble pastime of
Fritz-strafing."

Meanwhile the subject of the discussion was reclining more or less at
ease upon a settee in the _Bolero's_ ward-room. A fractured
collar-bone, several minor contusions, and a shock to the nervous
system summed up the extent of his injuries. The destroyer's
surgeon-probationer, notwithstanding his vehement denunciations of
von Brockdorff-Giespert and all his kind, had used all his skill in
mitigating the pirate's injuries; and now, slightly under the
influence of morphia, the Count was pondering over the situation and
wondering whether it would have been preferable to have perished with
his crew rather than be taken alive by enemies.

Von Brockdorff-Giespert believed, and with good reason, that he was
on the Black List of the British Admiralty. In the Fatherland he used
to boast of the fact, but different surroundings are apt to change a
fellow's tune, and now he was beginning to feel truly sorry for
himself.

The Count was a kapitan-leutnant of the unterseebooten service, and
held a staff appointment at the newly-constructed German base at
Zeebrugge. The post was given him as a reward for his zealous
services to the All-Highest having claim to the destruction of 60,000
tons of Allied mercantile shipping. Most of his victims he sank
without warning, and in several instances without leaving a trace,
while his despicable act of torpedoing the hospital ship _Bentali_ on
a dark night and in a very heavy sea was the crowning act of a long
list of piratical outrages.

While every other country regarded the act with every expression of
horror, kultured Germany hailed the deed with acclamation. It showed
the thoroughness of Teutonic frightfulness: that Germany meant
business. Count Otto received the Iron Cross with swords, and the
Ordre pour le Merite. Nevertheless he deemed it advisable for his
health's sake to give up active submarine work, and become
permanently attached to the Zeebrugge station for shore duties.

Unfortunately for him, he had a slight difference with the naval
governor of the modern pirate base, and the latter revenged himself
by ordering von Brockdorff-Giespert to sea in U 292--not in actual
command, but as adviser to the proper kapitan-leutnant, a
swash-buckling Prussian, of the name of von Bohme.

U 292 was on her trials when the end came with dramatic suddenness.
Von Bohme had no intention of attacking until he had thoroughly
tested the sea-going and manoeuvring capabilities of his new command;
but the temptation of sinking one of the convoy of merchantmen was
too strong.

Von Brockdorff-Giespert's mental and physical activities were
completely suspended for a period of twelve minutes following the
sudden destruction of U 292. At the time of the catastrophe he was
standing in the compartment immediately under the base of the
conning-tower. On the impact of the British shell he formed the hasty
but correct impression that the strafed Englander had scored. He
attempted to gain the open air by means of the conning-tower
hatchway, but the water-tight lid in the floor was immovably shut and
secured. Water was pouring in through the started rivet-holes and
buckling plates. Below, the nerve-racked Germans were rushing
to-and-fro in blind panic, colliding with each other in the dark,
confined space, for the impact of the shell had put the
electric-lighting dynamos out of action.

It was not too much to say that von Brockdorff-Giespert was seized by
the contaminating panic. He was no longer a kapitan-leutnant of the
submarine staff, but a mere Hun struggling fiercely for life in a
wholehearted, selfish desire to avoid a death to which thousands of
his fellow-Huns had been condemned under similar circumstances.

Then came the paralysing shock, and the tremendous roar of the
exploding depth-charge. Rolling completely over, the doomed U-boat
began to fill rapidly. Struggling for life, half-immersed in the
oil-tinged swirling water, gasping in the black, petrol- and
nitric-acid-laden fumes, von Brockdorff-Giespert gave himself up for
lost. His senses deserted him.

In an insensible condition he was whirled, by a curious whim of fate,
through a gaping hole in the U-boat's bilge. While the rest of his
companions in piracy were caught like rats in a trap in their metal
tomb, the Staff-kapitan-leutnant was impelled to the surface. Well it
was for him that he wore a life-saving waistcoat. He had worn it day
and night during the trip; surreptitiously lest any of the crew
should make merry at the arrogant Junker's expense. It helped to save
his life: the _Bolero's_ boat completed the task.

Daybreak found the rescued Hun comfortably in bed in one of the
officers' cabins--comfortable as far as could be expected while
suffering from a broken collar-bone and various minor bruises and
contusions. He was glad to find himself alive, but in his innate
arrogance he could find neither means nor desire to express his
gratitude to his rescuers. Nor was he exactly comfortable in his
mind. That little incident of the hospital ship _Bentali_ persisted
in recurring. There might be awkward questions asked. But never mind:
the English would be afraid to take reprisals upon him. They looked
like losing the war, consequently they would treat their prisoners
with consideration lest vengeance overtook them.

It was a truly Prussian view, and one almost implicitly believed in
throughout Germany. It accounted for the humane treatment of German
prisoners in England. Only those who are bound to win can, according
to Prussian ideas, override all the articles of the Geneva
Convention, With them war was a demonstration of
brutality--relentless and pitiless. The vanquished was expected to
receive no mercy. When the Huns were worsted they hardly expected
clemency, and when, as prisoners of war, they received both clemency
and a certain amount of consideration they could only put it down to
the faint-heartedness of their captors, who, knowing that they were
on the losing side, were anxious to ingratiate themselves with
victorious Prussia.

"By Jove! What a pity we've hauled him out of the ditch!" exclaimed
Seton, after he had visited the prisoner and had courteously inquired
after his health. "The fellow looked at me as if I were a Boche
conscript. I'd like to have him in the ship's company for a week--no,
I wouldn't. I wouldn't like to think that my men would have to endure
his precious society for five minutes."

So for the next forty-eight hours Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert
was left severely alone by the officers of H.M.S. _Bolero_, the one
exception being the doctor, whose efforts for his injured enemy were
untiring.

At last the slowly-moving convoy passed Yarmouth and sighted the Cork
Lightship off the entrance to Harwich Harbour. Here the unwieldy
tramps were practically immune from hostile action, for the air was
stiff with aircraft and airships, while for miles round the sea was
dotted with swiftly-moving destroyers, M.-L.'s, and
submarine-chasers. It was no place for Fritz to show his nose, and to
his discretion, if not to his credit, he left the approaches to
Harwich severely alone.

A wireless telegraphist, holding a folded slip of buff paper, ran up
the bridge-ladder, and saluting Alec, who had just taken over as
Officer of the Watch, handed him message.

"Wireless just gone through, sir," he reported. "General signal to
the convoy."

Seton took the proffered signal-pad, read the message, and elevated
his eyebrows. Long experience in naval matters had taught him never
to show unwonted surprise at any order that might come through at any
hour of the day or night. But this, on the face of it, seemed
remarkable.

Briefly, the convoy was to be split up, the major portion going into
Harwich to await further orders. Four of the slowest tramps, escorted
by the destroyers, _Bolero_ and _Triadur_, were to proceed to the
Nord Hinder Lightship, there to stand by until instructions were sent
to the destroyers by the S.N.O.

"Wonder if the tramps are Q-boats after all," soliloquized Alec. "One
doesn't know t'other from which in these jolly old times. . . . Chance
of luring Fritz and seeing a bit of life, eh, what?"

Five minutes later the convoy acted according to orders, the two
destroyers and their sluggish charges shaping an easterly course
through the mine-infested North Sea.




CHAPTER IV

Torpedoed


"Port five--steady."

"Port five it is, sir."

Alec Seton, sheltering under the lee of the bridge dodger, raised his
binoculars and peered steadfastly through the gloom. It was night.
Patches of fog were ganging around with irritating persistency, as if
bent on following and hampering the _Bolero's_ movements. There was
just sufficient headwind to throw cascades of icy cold spray over the
destroyer's flaring bows. The breeze whistled mournfully through the
rigging, while aft a long trail of black smoke, beaten down by the
heavy atmosphere, hung sullenly over the short, vicious seas.
According to reckoning the Nord Hinder lay 5 miles east by north.

It was not idle curiosity that had prompted Seton to order the course
to be altered. Less than a mile away was something showing black and
ill-defined even to the powerful night-glasses. It might be anything
from a derelict tramp to an abandoned boat. It might be a German
submarine or a sea-going torpedo-boat flying, or rather supposed to
be flying, the craven Black Cross Ensign of Germany.

Whatever it was, it was Seton's duty to investigate, taking proper
precautions in the event of the object turning out to be a hostile
warship.

There was also the possibility--almost the probability--that the
strange craft, if a craft it were, might be a British or Allied
vessel. In any case, before the _Bolero_ could open fire she had to
establish the national identity of the stranger. A Hun was under no
such obligation. He could open fire indiscriminately, not caring
whether his target were a hostile or a neutral vessel.

Again Alec raised his binoculars. By this time the _Triadur_ and the
convoy were two or three miles to the sou'east. The _Bolero's_ crew
were at action stations, ready at the word of command to let loose
every quick-firer that could be brought to bear upon the enemy craft.

"What do you make of her?" inquired the Lieutenant-Commander, who,
acquainted with the alteration of course, had joined his subordinate
on the bridge.

Before Seton could express his opinion the question was answered. Two
vivid flashes stabbed the darkness, while a few seconds later a
couple of shells burst two hundred yards beyond the British
destroyer.

Almost immediately the _Bolero_ returned the compliment. Her salvo
hit exactly on the spot that her gun-layers aimed at--but it pitched
into and partly dispersed a cloud of smoke. The wily Fritz had been
approaching stern foremost, and directly the German boat fired she
went full speed ahead, at the same time releasing an enormous
smokescreen.

From the British Senior Officer's ship a message flashed:

"Stand in pursuit; will remain by the convoy."

It was an order after Lieutenant-Commander Richard Trevannion's own
heart, and of that of every member of the ship's company.

Telegraphing for full speed ahead, Trevannion stood in pursuit. Boat
for boat the British destroyer had the advantage both in speed and
armament, but already the Hun had gained in distance, and, taking
advantage of the smoke screen, was now nothing but an indistinct blur
in the night. It remained for the _Bolero_ to keep her quarry within
sight, and then the momentarily increasing speed would begin to tell.

Firing steadily with her pair of fo'c'sle quick-firers the _Bolero_
held on. Her whole frame vibrated under the pulsations of her
powerful engines. The wind no longer whistled through the scanty wire
rigging: it absolutely shrieked. At times the for'ard guns' crews
were knee-deep in water, as the destroyer literally punched her way
through the waves.

"A near one, Sir," exclaimed Alec, as a shell burst within twenty
yards of the _Bolero's_ port quarter, some of the splinters cutting
jagged holes in the two after funnels.

Trevannion smiled grimly.

"Yes, Fritz can shoot straight sometimes," he replied. "No casualties
aft, I hope?"

A signalman ran aft to make inquiries.

"No, sir," he replied on his return; "the after quick-firer's
crew----"

A terrific detonation, almost instantly followed by an enormous
column of water, interrupted the signalman's remarks anent the after
quick-firer's gun's crew. The _Bolero_ seemed to be lifted clean out
of the water; then she listed heavily to starboard. Clouds of
flame-tinged smoke, mingled with hissing jets of steam, were issuing
from the engine-room.

"Fritz has bagged us, my festive!" remarked Trevannion, when the two
officers recovered their senses, of which the sudden explosion had
temporarily deprived them. "A fair deal: we've nothing to complain
about. See that our involuntary guest, Count Otto What's-his-name, is
not overboard."

The Lieutenant-Commander spoke with the admiration of a true
sportsman. For once a U-boat had fulfilled her legitimate purpose by
torpedoing a warship. The destroyer had taken the risk, and she had
fallen a victim to the powerful Schwartz-Kopff torpedo.

It was apparent to every man on board that the _Bolero_ was doomed.
The German torpedo-boat had acted the part of a decoy, and had lured
the British destroyer athwart the track of a lurking unterseeboot. At
a range of three hundred metres the kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat
felt sure of his prey; so much so that he decided that one torpedo
was enough.

Hit abaft the boiler-room, the _Bolero_ was practically broken in
twain. Her watertight bulkheads were holding, but had been badly
strained. Even at the most sanguine estimate it was doubtful whether
the bow and stern portions would be able to keep afloat for more than
twenty minutes.

Meanwhile there was much to be done. While the signalmen were sending
up rockets and firing Verey lights--for the concussion had put the
wireless completely out of action--the task of getting away boats
and rafts was proceeded with. The wounded were first lifted into the
boats, for the explosion had taken heavy toll of the heroes of the
engine-room and stokeholds. Already the Lieutenant-Commander had
thrown overboard the confidential signal-books and log. Impassively
he stood upon the bridge, awaiting the end. His duty was almost done.
By virtue of the glorious and imperishable traditions of the British
Navy he stood at his post until the last man was clear of the sinking
ship.

Deftly, and without the faintest suspicion of panic, the crew took to
the boats and rafts. The survivors of the engine-room staff, coming
straight from the heated and confined space below, were
ill-conditioned to withstand the bitter coldness of the night.
Lightly-clad they stuck it, accepting with grimly-expressed thanks
the offers of additional clothing from their better-clad messmates.

From the first it was apparent that the boats and Carley rafts were
insufficient to accommodate all the ship's company, yet not a man
moved out of his turn. Donning lifebelts, those who were unable to
take to the boats, without risk of overcrowding and endangering the
lives of their messmates, prepared for their long swim, confident
that help would be assuredly forthcoming to "hike them out of the
ditch".

"Pull clear, men!" shouted Trevannion. "Good luck!"

Standing at the head of the bridge-ladder, and holding on to the
stanchion-rail, for the destroyer was listing excessively, Seton
watched the scene with feelings akin to admiration. For himself he
cared little, or rather, in the grim excitement of the destroyer's
last throes, his mind was fully occupied with the episode of the
final moments.

"Jump for it, Seton!" shouted the Lieutenant-Commander.

Alec shook his head.

"I'll stand by till you're ready, sir," he replied, proffering a
life-belt to his superior.

Trevannion waved it aside with a grave, gesture of refusal. To him,
as captain of the ship, it seemed unbecoming that he should don the
life-saving device.

"Thanks," he replied. "I'm a good swimmer. I'll find something to
hang on to. By Jove! Seton, the men are simply splendid."

The end came with startling suddenness. With two successive reports
the sorely-tried bulkheads gave way under the terrific pressure of
water. In a smother of foam the riven hull sagged until bow and stern
reared themselves in the air to such an extent that to Alec it seemed
as if the two extremities would meet. Then, with a sickening
movement, the _Bolero_ plunged to the bed of the North Sea.

Seton's first sensation of the plunge was that of intense cold. The
moment he felt himself off his feet he struck out to clear the
wreckage. In spite of his efforts he found himself being drawn back
as surely as if he were held by a chain. Down, down, down! Would the
horrible descent never end? He held his breath, struggling the while
to force himself to the surface. Already his lungs felt on the point
of bursting.

"Good heavens! I'm foul of something," was the thought that flashed
through his mind.

It seemed like an eternity, that slow and remorseless suffocation in
the icy-cold water. His eyes were wide open, but he could see
nothing. Involuntarily he gasped; an inrush of water followed; a
moment of intense irritation, and then a period of utter insouciance.
His senses were deserting him. In a vague sort of way he realized
that he was drowning.

Suddenly the downward movement was arrested. Caught by the upward
rush of air from a burst compartment Seton was impelled to the
surface with incredible speed. He was conscious of being shot almost
clear of the water, of a rush of life-giving air into his partly
water-logged lungs; then of striking out almost automatically.

The sea was horribly cold. Hampered by the weight of his clothes,
for, with the exception of his great-coat and sea-boots, he had
"taken to the ditch" fully-clad, it was a hard struggle for Seton to
keep himself afloat.

With a noise like a small pistol-shot the water hitherto pressing
against his ear-drums dispersed, and his sense of hearing was
restored. Above the hissing of the waves he could hear shouts of
encouragement and cries for aid from his struggling shipmates. There
were swimmers all around him. Some men were clinging to oars and
pieces of floating wreckage. Others were supporting their less robust
comrades, while a few dauntless spirits were singing, or rather
trying to sing, in order to convey the impression that they still had
their "tails up".

Someone pushed an empty water-beaker almost in Alec's face, with a
jerky invitation to "Hold on to that, chum."

"Thanks," gasped Seton breathlessly.

"Lumme, if it ain't our sub-lootenant," exclaimed his benefactor.
"Goin' strong, sir? Shall I stand by and give you a hand?"

Seton was glad of the moral assistance, although he continued to hang
on to the barrel with little effort. For some moments neither man
spoke.

"Bout time the old _Triadur_ showed up sir," remarked the bluejacket.
"Sure I won't forget to-night, an' it's me birthday. You all right,
sir?" he added anxiously.

"Quite," replied Alec untruthfully, but with a dogged determination
to refuse to acknowledge that things were not going at all well with
him. An ominous numbing sensation in his arms and legs told him
plainly and unmistakably that the icy cold water was beginning to
take effect.

Almost directly after he had given his assurance, Alec relaxed his
grasp of the beaker and without an effort disappeared beneath the
surface.




CHAPTER V

In the Whaler


Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert's feelings were far from
comfortable when the crash of the _Bolero's_ quick-firers told him
unmistakably that the destroyer was in action.

With his broken collar-bone and other injuries he was practically
helpless, while to make matters worse, as far as he was concerned,
his captors had put him under lock and key. Evidently these English
meant to take no risks, he soliloquized.

It was no exaggeration to state that he was in a blue funk. At one
moment he cursed the German vessel for replying to the British
destroyer's fire; at another he hoped and prayed that the former
would draw out of range. Not once did he express a wish that the
Black Cross Ensign might prove victorious.

With the perspiration oozing in large beads on his bullet forehead he
lay and quaked, his mind torn with agitated thoughts. He remembered
vividly--the reminiscence was frequently in his mind--how on one
occasion, when he was in command of a U-boat, he had taken out of a
badly-damaged boat an old, white-haired British merchant skipper. It
was not by reason of the call of humanity that he had done this: it
was part of a cool, calculated plan of action whereby the Huns vainly
thought that, with British captains and engineers detained on board
the submarines as hostages, the hunters would hesitate to sink the
modern pirates. It was but one of the many instances in which the Hun
miscalculated the spirit of Britain. Von Brockdorff-Giespert's
submarine was being chased by a particularly aggressive P-boat. A
depth charge was exploded so near that the hunted U-boat reeled and
quivered under the shock. By sheer good luck Count Otto's command
escaped, and the Hun commander lost no time in taunting his captive.

"Are you not glad you weren't blown up by your fellow-countrymen?" he
asked.

The old skipper shook his head.

"I'm downright sorry," he replied boldly.

"Sorry our fellows didn't do you in. My sole regret would have been
that I should have to go to Davy Jones' locker in such rotten
company."

Filled with a violent passion von Brockdorff-Giespert swore at and
threatened the imperturbable Englishman. He gave him no credit for
his patriotism. To the Hun such a standpoint was incomprehensible. He
could only attribute it to the crass stupidity of the schweinhund
Englander. Yet, somehow, Count Otto rather admired the old skipper in
the present juncture. He envied his calm demeanour. The bronzed face
and white hair of the old man haunted him.

Then came the terrific impact of the Boche torpedo. Flung completely
out of his bunk von Brockdorff-Giespert lay inertly upon the floor
for nearly a couple of minutes. At length, regardless of his
injuries, he staggered to his feet and battered the locked door with
his open palm, the while bellowing for assistance.

To be drowned like a rat in a trap: it was a fate inconceivable to a
member of the Prussian nobility--a junker of the first water. He
redoubled his cries as the doomed destroyer listed more and more. Had
he but known it he might well have saved his breath. His shouts were
drowned by the hiss of escaping steam and the inrush of water.

At length through sheer exhaustion he ceased his cries, yet he sobbed
like a child in his rage and terror. It seemed an eternity, but in
reality only three minutes elapsed between the time of the explosion
and the unlocking of his prison door.

"Blow me, ain't the Boche got the wind up?" remarked one of the
bluejackets to his raggie, as the pair lifted the now speechless Hun
from the cabin floor, over which the water was rising swiftly, and
carried him up the narrow companion-way to the deck.

Very carefully and tenderly the men lifted their enemy into the first
boat to be cleared away. In the company of half a dozen badly wounded
and scalded men the men pushed off, deeply laden for the high sea
that was running.

Placed in the stern sheets and supported by a rolled canvas awning
von Brockdorff-Giespert could watch with every roll of the boat the
last throes of the British destroyer. Had he not been in peril of
being thrown into the sea by the swamping of the boat he might have
gloated over the scene. As it was he watched and waited, fervently
hoping that before long he would be transferred to a larger and more
seaworthy craft.

For several seconds following the final plunge of the torpedoed
vessel silence reigned. The wind lulled, the waves were quelled under
the influence of the widely-spreading oil. It seemed as if Nature
were paying homage to the departed destroyer. Then the silence was
broken by shouts of encouragement and exchange of rough, almost
incomprehensible banter by men struggling for their lives.

In spite of their efforts--for there were only two oars
available--the whaler drifted considerably to leeward of the rest of
the boats. Even the Carley rafts were lost to sight in the darkness.

Presently a voice hailed.

"Boat ahoy! Can you take an officer on board?"

The stroke boated his oar and peered into the faces of the men lying
in the stern-sheets before replying.

"Right-o," he replied.

"No, don't," expostulated von Brockdorff-Giespert. "Already the boat
is overcrowded. It is madness."

"Shut up!" growled the man, a first-class petty officer. "Are you
running this show, or am I? If it weren't for the likes o' you the
likes of us wouldn't be in this bloomin' fix."

"But----" persisted the Count.

"Dry up," growled the petty officer, "or into the blinkin' ditch you
go pretty sharp! Toss them two overboard, mate," he continued,
addressing another seaman. "They won't want any more suppers."

It was no time for respect to the dead when the fate of the living
was at stake. Without ceremony the corpses of two men who had died of
injuries were given to the waves, while willing hands hauled the
senseless form of Sub-lieutenant Alec Seton into the boat.

"Look alive!" shouted the bowman to Alec's rescuer, who, on noticing
the Sub relax his grasp of the beaker, had promptly dived and brought
the young officer to the surface. "Stroke ahead; I'll give you a
hand."

"Too many in the boat already, mate," was the reply. "I've a mother
living in Lowestoft, and I'll have a shot at swimming there. How
far--eighty miles?"

Without further ado the chivalrous bluejacket turned and began
swimming away from the boat.

"'Ere, no you don't!" shouted the bowman, and with a quick movement
he engaged his boat-hook in the neck of the bluejacket's jumper.
"Plenty of room in the stalls, mate. Two blokes wot booked seats
ain't taking 'em up."

"Is that jonnick?" asked the swimmer suspiciously.

"Proper jonnick," asserted the other.

"Good enough," rejoined Alec's rescuer, and suffered himself to be
hauled over the gunwale into a place of at least temporary safety.

For nearly two hours the boat continued to drift in spite of the
dogged efforts of the two oarsmen. The breaking of an oar made
matters worse, and all that could be done was to keep the whaler
stern-on to the waves. Where were the rest of the _Bolero's_ crew,
and how they fared, were merely matters for speculation.

Meanwhile the whaler's crew were unremitting in their attention to
their disabled messmates, two of the men chafing Alec's numbed limbs
in the hope of restoring him to consciousness. In this they
succeeded, and presently the Sub opened his eyes.

"Quite all right, sir," said one of the men reassuringly in answer to
Alec's unspoken question. "Just you lie quiet, sir. It'll be dawn
very soon, and then we'll be picked up."

"How did I come to be picked up?" asked Alec.

"Just hiked on board like any old bundle done up ugly, sir," replied
the man. "In a manner of speaking you didn't care whether it was
Christmas or Easter."

"I remember," continued the Sub. "A bluejacket--Saunders is his name
was--standing by when I was hanging on to the beaker. Where is he?"

"Having a caulk on the bottom-boards, sir. He's as right as
ninepence; but we've had to heave four of the hands overboard. They
were pretty far gone when we put them into the boat."

Tediously the night passed. Signs of other movements were absent,
with one exception. That was about three in the morning when a
sea-plane of unknown nationality passed high overhead. Even her
presence would have passed unnoticed, for the whine of the wind
completely muffled the noise of the motors, had not the pilot started
to use his flashing lamp. Apparently he was calling up a sister
sea-plane in code, for the message was unintelligible to the whaler's
crew. Nor was there, as far as they could see, any response.

Gradually the dawn began to gain mastery in the south-eastern sky. A
rosy hue crept upwards from the misty horizon, betokening a spell of
wet and stormy weather. Already the whaler's crew had all their work
cut out to prevent the boat being swamped. They were baling
incessantly with the solitary baler and their caps. With the increase
of wind, and consequently heavier sea, it was doubtful whether the
boat could survive, since there was nothing of which to make anything
in the nature of a sea-anchor.


[Illustration: "ENGLISCH OFFIZIER-PIG!" HE SHOUTED. "WE YOU TAKE
PRISONER"]


Yet not for one moment did a single British member of the party show
signs of being dismayed. Even the badly wounded men cracked jokes
with their comrades, while others, whose injuries were of a slighter
nature, insisted on being allowed to take their turn at baling.

Von Brockdorff-Giespert, on the other hand, looked the picture of
misery and despair. He grumbled incessantly, asserting, with true
Hunnish arrogance, that he was being neglected by his captors. It was
not until he was sternly threatened, if he did not hold his tongue,
that the Count began to realize that there was a limit beyond which
even he must not go when in the company of British tars.

"There's a craft of sorts," announced the bowman, who, maintaining a
precarious perch on the thwart, was scanning the horizon.

"Away on the starboard bow. Think she is coming this way."

"Wave your scarf, Lofty," suggested another member of the crew.

The man began to unwrap his "comforter". Then very abruptly he sat
down.

"We'll hang on a little longer, mates," he said in a low voice. "I
don't quite like the look of her. Strikes me she's a Fritz."

"By smoke, you're right!" exclaimed another, taking a cautious view
of the oncoming craft. "A dirty U-boat. Lie down all hands. 'Ere, you
blinkin' Fritz, none of your capers. Stow it!"

Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert, on hearing of the approach of
what was apparently a German submarine, was making an effort to stand
up and attract his compatriots' attention.

"It is time for me to do as I like," he replied, sneeringly.

"Is it? Then you're jolly well mistaken," retorted the stroke of the
whaler, as he ostentatiously spat upon his hands and gripped a
boat-stretcher.

The German's beady eyes contracted, and, thinking that discretion is
ever the better art of valour, he shrugged his shoulders, and then
winced with pain.

There was soon no doubt as to the type and nationality of the
approaching craft. She was a U-boat. She was running on the surface.
On the platform in the wake of the elongated conning-tower stood two
men in black oilskins. At times completely enveloped in clouds of
spray, they were intently searching the horizon either on the watch
for likely prey or else keeping a sharp look-out for the dreaded
British submarine-hunters.

"Looks like giving us the go-by after all," whispered one of the
whaler's men, as the U-boat bore broadside on at a distance of about
three-quarters of a mile.

"Let her," added his mate fervently. "Us don't want to see the likes
of she just now. I'd give a month's pay to have her at yon range for
twenty seconds."

"O, Lud!" exclaimed another with a grunt "she's starboarding helm.
She's spotted us, lads!"

Clearly the whaler's crew were "in the soup", for the U-boat had
altered course and was bearing down upon the luckless British seamen.
Four or five hands made their way for'ard of the German craft's
conning-tower, and in a few seconds a 4.7-inch gun rose from its
place of concealment. Quickly the sinister weapon was manned and
trained full at the helpless boat's crew.

"Murderous swine!" exclaimed the bowman, shaking his fist in futile
defiance of the pirates.

Moments of intense suspense followed, yet the Huns refrained from
opening fire. It might have been a matter for precaution that the
quick-firer was trained upon the whaler; but, on the other hand,
there was abundant evidence in the past to prove that the modern
pirates had no scruples about murdering in cold blood the survivors
of torpedoed merchantmen.

The while the officers outside the conning-tower were still busy with
their binoculars. One of them kept the whaler under observation,
while the other, evidently fearing a trap, swept the waste of water
in case the periscope of a British submarine were watching Fritz with
a view to blowing him to atoms.

Raising himself with his uninjured arm, Count Otto von
Brockdorff-Giespert shouted something in German. The distance was
still too great to enable the U-boat's officers to understand. This
time the Count was not called to order, for the whaler's crew knew
only too well that the tables had been turned.

Slowing down, and then reversing her engines, the U-boat came to a
standstill within twenty yards of the survivors of the _Bolero_.

"Vot boat is dat?" hailed the U-boat's unter-leutnant. "Vere you
from? Vot is der name of der schip you vos come from?"

"Better tell him civil-like," suggested the bow-man. "So here goes."

But von Brockdorff-Giespert again took up his parable. Speaking
volubly, he quickly explained matters to his satisfaction. Although
none of the British seamen understood German, the purport of the
Count's words were sufficiently plain to them.

Interpolated with numerous "Ja, Herr Kapitan" from the obsequious
unter-leutnant of the U-boat, von Brockdorff-Giespert gave a string
of orders. The whaler was then commanded to come alongside, and the
Count was assisted on board the submarine.

"Now," thought Alec, "he's out of it. Wonder if the dirty dogs are
going, to turn a machine-gun on us, or ram the boat."

His natural curiosity was quickly satisfied, for the unter-leutnant,
stepping to the rail, leered down into the boat.

"Englisch offizier-pig!" he shouted. "You der hospitality of Zherman
U-boat must make. We you take prisoner."




CHAPTER VI

A Prisoner of War


The Sub-lieutenant made the best of a bad job. Although weak with
exhaustion and exposure to the elements, he held his head high as he
was taken on board the submarine.

The coxswain and stroke of the whaler, who had assisted their young
officer, were curtly ordered back. The U-boat was not engaged upon an
errand of mercy. It was the British officer who was wanted for a
definite purpose. The men did not count. In the eyes of the Germans
the hapless British seamen were almost beneath notice, although in
other circumstances the Huns would have feared to have met them in
fair fight.

As he gained the bulging deck of the pirate craft, Seton, steadying
himself by the guard-rail, turned to bid good-bye and good luck to
his men. Guessing his intention the unter-leutnant gave a curt order.
Instantly two German sailors laid hold of the British officer; and
without ceremony took him below.

In the act of descending the vertical ladder, Alec caught sight of
Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert and the kapitan of the U-boat.
Both were vastly enjoying the British officer's discomfiture. Count
Otto, in spite of his injuries and dishevelled appearance, was
smoking a cigar and holding a steaming cup of "coffee substitute".

"I owe this young Englishman a debt," he remarked grimly to the
commander of the U-boat. "I will take good care that I repay it with
interest."

It was the Prussian touch all over. Von Brockdorff-Giespert totally
ignored the fact that his foes had saved his life. He attributed his
misfortunes mainly to Sub-lieutenant Seton, as if the latter had been
actuated by feelings of personal animosity rather than sheer devotion
to duty. Already the Hun had made up his mind to inflict every
possible indignity upon the prisoner.

Confined in a cramped, ill-ventilated and ill-lighted compartment in
close proximity to the wireless-generator-room, Seton strained his
ears in the hope of finding out what had happened to his whaler's
crew. The purr of the electric motors and the noise of men's voices
echoing and re-echoing in the interior of the huge metal cylinder
deadened all sounds from without.

The U-boat was submerging. Apparently she had not used her guns upon
the boat, for the recoil of the weapons would have been noticeable.
There was, however, the horrible possibility that, before diving, the
submarine had deliberately rammed the boat. Or, perhaps the Huns had
shot down every man in the whaler by rifle and pistol. That was one
of Fritz's little stunts--cold-blooded butchery.

After a while Alec thought it was time to look after himself, since
his captors evidently had no intention of attending to his personal
comfort. The warmth of the cell caused the moisture to steam from his
saturated clothes. Divesting himself of his garments he wrung them
out, and began to exercise his limbs to ward off the numbness that
assailed them.

Presently the door of his cell was thrown open and a seaman appeared
carrying a bowl of hot soup.

"Can I have my clothes dried?" asked Alec.

"It's not my work to dry the clothes of a schweinhund," replied the
fellow in English. Then he pointed to the Sub's wristlet watch.

"For that I will dry your things," he added.

"Right," replied Alec. "It isn't going, though. The water's spoilt
it."

"That is to be expected," rejoined the German, picking up the
saturated garments. Then waiting until Alec had handed over his
watch, he went out, to return presently with a canvas suit,
rust-marked and greasy.

"In case Herr Kapitan sends for you," explained the man, and without
another word he again backed out of the compartment and locked the
door.

While waiting for the soup to cool, the Sub, with feelings of
repugnance, put on the loaned suit. It felt damp and clammy and smelt
vilely. As for the soup it was little better than dish-water, greasy
and unpalatable, while with deliberate intent an excessive quantity
of salt had been put into the liquid. Nevertheless Alec took a
considerable quantity, for he was desperately famished, and the hot
concoction warmed his chilled body, for even in the warm atmosphere
cold chills were persistently passing over him.

For several hours--how long Alec had no accurate idea--the U-boat ran
submerged. As far as he could estimate it was about noon when she
came to the surface, only to dive again very quickly, to the
accompaniment of a couple of bombs from a British sea-plane. Although
wide of the mark the explosion of the missiles gave the submarine a
nasty shaking up, so much so, that the startled Huns allowed their
craft to rest on the bed of the North Sea until nightfall before
resuming their course.

It was during this period of enforced detention that Alec was
summoned to be examined by Kapitan-leutnant von Kloster.

Clad solely in his borrowed canvas suit, unshaven and unkempt, Alec
felt his position keenly. He realized that it was a hard matter to
preserve his dignity, when his appearance was like that of a greaser
of a third-rate tramp.

Attended by two stolid German seamen the prisoner was taken to the
kapitan's cabin. Seated on a settee by a narrow folding table were
Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert and Kapitan-leutnant von Kloster.
The former was rigged out in a uniform that evidently was von
Kloster's, judging by the fact that the Count was lightly-built and
his borrowed garments fitted him like a sack. His injured arm was in
a sling, while, as the result of his immersion and subsequent
prolonged stay in the whaler, he had contracted a very bad cold.

Von Kloster, on the other hand, was stout, florid-featured, and
well-groomed. He had the typical Prussian "square head", the contour
of the back of his head and neck forming practically a straight line.
His moustache he wore with the points upturned after the fashion set
by his Imperial master.

On a camp-stool at the other end of the table sat the unter-leutnant,
Kaspar Diehardt, a very young and very bumptious Prussian. His
bulging forehead contrasted vividly with his insignificant, receding
chin, while his watery blue eyes belied the suggestion that he could
ever become an efficient leader of men.

With paper and ink in front of him he sat gnawing the end of his
quill pen, as if his thoughts were constantly of the ever-present
danger that threatened those who go down into the sea in German
submarines.

In his broken English von Kloster demanded Alec's name, rank, the
vessel to which he belonged and her approximate position when
torpedoed.

"You may yourself think fortunate that no lies you haf told,"
remarked his interrogator. "All this information I haf. Now, tell me:
for what reason was der _Bolero_ an' oder schips off der Nord
Hinder?"

"That I cannot tell you," replied the Sub.

"Do you know?"

"I refuse to answer this question."

The Kapitan-leutnant addressed several words to his subordinate, the
latter writing diligently for some moments.

It was an acute period of suspense for Seton. The silence was only
broken by the scratching of the temporary secretary's pen, while the
Count and von Kloster kept their eyes fixed on the prisoner. Alec was
beginning to feel the effects of the salt soup. A burning thirst
gripped his throat.

"Now, you have time had," continued his inquisitor. "Will you
answer?"

Seton shook his head. Even if he wanted to speak his parched tongue
seemed unequal to the task. But that was not the reason. At all
costs, he determined to refuse to give any information likely to be
of service to the enemy.

"Answer!" shouted Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert, bringing his
fist down upon the table and wincing at the effort.

"Water!" gasped Alec.

The Kapitan-leutnant gave an order to one of the men. The fellow
saluted and went out, presently to return with a carafe full of
water, and a glass. Very deliberately von Kloster filled the glass
almost to the brim and offered it to the prisoner. Then, as Seton
stepped eagerly forward to take the liquid, the Kapitan-leutnant
withdrew the glass.

"After you spoken haf, not before," he reminded with tantalizing
cunning.

"I see you to blazes first!" Alec said hoarsely, with an effort.

"Ach, goot!" rejoined von Kloster sneeringly. "We shall see. I leave
der matter in der hands of mine chief."

"Quite so," assented Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert. "I may tell
you, prisoner, that the information you refuse to give is already at
our disposal. How remains our affair? I can tell you this with
absolute certainty: either you will remain a prisoner of war until
the end of hostilities, or you will not leave this U-boat alive.
Rescue is entirely out of the question. Hence it does not matter
whether I tell you a British naval secret. Those tramp steamers you
were escorting were decoys. It was the intention of the British
Admiral to sacrifice those ships in the hope that our torpedo-boat
flotilla at Zeebrugge would be lured out to bite a tempting bait.
While our boats were engaged thus, your destroyers were to attempt a
raid upon our new naval base, which, like Antwerp in the time of
Napoleon, is a pistol aimed at the heart of England. Unfortunately
for you, the plan miscarried. Instead of our torpedo flotilla
appearing, some of our _unterseebooten_ were lying at the rendezvous,
and, as a result, you are here."

He paused to watch the effect of his words. Not a muscle of the Sub's
face moved. Outwardly his face was an imperturbable mask, although he
was suffering the torments of acute thirst.

"And, since you are, like many others of our enemies, very curious to
know what is developing at Zeebrugge," continued the Count, "it will
afford me great pleasure there to offer you hospitality--of a kind. I
mean to provide you with quarters and rations in a comfortable post
on the Mole of Zeebrugge. If your pestering compatriots come flying
over and drop bombs, and you happen to fall a victim, the
responsibility is theirs, not mine. If, again, you are anxious to
exchange your quarters for others beyond the Rhine, you have but to
answer a few questions and the transfer will take effect."

Then, finding that Seton was apparently quite indifferent to this
proposal, von Brockdorff-Giespert lost all control of his temper.

For fully two minutes he raved and threatened both in English and
German. Had it not been for his injuries he would doubtless have
struck his prisoner in the face. At length, after giving various
instructions to von Kloster and Unter-leutnant Diehardt, he ordered
the prisoner to be removed.

"The rascals look like being right," thought Alec on finding himself
again in the cell. "Either this U-boat returns to Zeebrugge, or she
does not. If she doesn't, it means that she'll be strafed properly.
The Huns seem keenly alive to the possibility."

The Sub had not been very many minutes alone, when the seaman
returned with his clothes. Giving a sort of superior smile, the
fellow placed the bundle on the floor, and, without a word, backed
out and relocked the door.

A brief examination showed that the Hun had broken the compact. He
had Alec's wristlet watch, but no attempt had been made to dry the
things. The uniform and underclothes were almost as wet as when Alec
had arrived on board the U-boat.

Two hours later the submarine blew her ballast tanks and rose to the
surface. The electric-motors were cut off, and the surface
petrol-engines started and coupled up. All immediate danger was past,
and the U-boat once more shaped a course for Zeebrugge.

Presently Seton was given another bowl of so-called soup and a piece
of black bread. One taste of the former was sufficient. It was
excessively salt. The bread, too, had a saline taste, and was as dry
as sawdust, but Alec derived some relief to his burning throat by
slowly chewing the unpalatable substance.

"And I've to thank the British Navy for this," thought Alec,
critically regarding the black war bread. "Evidently efficacious, if
Fritz and all his kind are compelled to carry on with this. Hallo!
What's the game now?"

For the U-boat had suddenly commenced to submerge once more, the
steep diving angle indicating that the action was not entirely
voluntary on the part of her nerve-racked pirate crew.




CHAPTER VII

M.-L. 4452


"And the run across to Ostend?" inquired Sub-lieutenant Guy
Branscombe of M.-L. 4452.

"A wash-out," replied his superior officer, Lieutenant Frank
Farnborough.

Branscombe expressed no surprise at the information. During the war
there were innumerable instances of orders being given, of plans
carefully laid, and preparations made sometimes for weeks in advance,
then, at the last hour, they would be countermanded. In Service
parlance the abandonment of any particular project is generally
referred to as a "wash-out".

M.-L. 4452 was lying in the outer harbour of Ramsgate. It was dead
low water, but sufficient for the M.-L. to lie afloat alongside the
eastern arm of the stone pier that towered twenty-five to thirty feet
above the deck of the trim little craft.

She had had a quick, uneventful run round from the Firth of Forth,
and upon reporting at Dover had been ordered to lie in Ramsgate
Harbour, owing to certain activities in progress at the former base.
It was on the cards that M.-L. 4452, in company with five sister
ships, was to take part in important operations off the Belgian
coast--operations requiring courage and discretion, and far from
being devoid of great risk to life and limb.

For her size the M.-L. was a comfortable packet. True, she rolled
heavily in a seaway and was unhandy on her helm when running at slow
speed. Built of wood and equipped with two powerful eight-cylinder
motors, she could attain a speed of twenty-six knots.

For'ard she carried a 3-inch quick-firer. In the wake of the
gun-mounting rose the wheel-house, surmounted by a small but powerful
searchlight. Her single mast supported a complex array of wireless
gear and a cross-yard with necessary signalling halyards. On the
slightly raised deck-house was a dinghy in chocks, the davits being
swung inboard. The boat was made of thin sheet iron, with water-tight
compartments fore and aft and was sufficiently light to enable two
hands to haul her up and down a beach. Judging by the dents and
bulges in the dinghy's sides she had already been called upon to do
useful work.

Right aft fluttered the White Ensign, an emblem under which few if
any, of the motor-boat officers ever dreamt of sailing prior to the
eventful August, 1914.

On either side and slightly in advance of the ensign staff, M.-L.
4452, like a hornet, carried her sting in her tail; for here were two
powerful depth charges, capable of shattering the plating of a U-boat
within a radius of fifty or sixty yards from the source of the
explosion.

Below, the M.-L. was provided with ample accommodation--far more than
the casual outside observer would give her credit for.

The crew, consisting of seven hands, were berthed for'ard. Then came
the store rooms and wireless and hydrophone rooms. Abaft were the
galleys, the ward-room one opening into the officers' living
quarters.

The ward-room was a picture of cosiness. The M.-L.'s skipper had seen
to that, for he had been sufficiently long in the Service to know the
ropes. A few gallons of white enamel, drawn from the dockyard store,
had worked wonders on the walls and ceiling of the ward-room, while
the beams and timbers had been painted a dark brown to represent oak.
The result was that the place resembled the interior of an
old-fashioned half-timbered house, while, to carry out the scheme,
the electric lamps were encased in cardboard, cut in the fashion of
eighteenth-century lanterns.

Opening out of the ward-room were the two-bunked sleeping quarters
for the officers, also enamelled tastefully and effectively. At the
present time these were in a somewhat disordered state, oilskins,
sea-boots, and pilotcoats dumped promiscuously, bearing a silent
testimony to the fact that M.-L. 4452 had encountered heavy weather
in the Straits of Dover.

Frank Farnborough, lieutenant and skipper of the M.-L., was a tall,
slimly-built man of twenty-five. In civil life he was a consulting
engineer, who was just beginning to make a name for himself when war
broke out. His chief pastime was yachting, and in his little
weatherly nine-ton yawl he had visited and was well acquainted with
every port and haven between the Humber and the Lizard, and had a
nodding acquaintance with the Dutch and Belgian coast and that of
France from Dunkirk to Brest.

On the formation of the Motor Boat Reserve he had joined on as an
ordinary deckhand, but it was not long before his experience and
ability gained him a commission.

His sub, Guy Branscombe, has already been introduced.

Every man of the crew was an amateur yachtsman. In private life they
were respectively barrister, mining engineer, Manchester merchant,
two ex-public schoolboys, a stockbroker, and a bank clerk. The
barrister, senior in point of age, was ship's cook, he having
voluntarily taken on the job, and, considering it was doubtful
whether he ever made even a cup of tea for himself prior to 1914, he
did remarkably well.

The discipline on board would have turned the hair of a pukka R.N.
officer grey; but still there was discipline of sorts. They had been
shipmates since 1916, turning over from another M.-L., that had
perished gloriously in an endeavour to assist a torpedoed liner, when
4452 was received from the contractors.

Altogether they were a jovial, hard-working band of comrades. The men
had as much yachting as they wanted, summer and winter alike, with
the excitement of hunting Fritz or the chance of bumping on a
drifting mine thrown in. Yet, far from being fed-up, for they
realized that life on an M.-L. was infinitely preferable to
foot-slogging in the infantry, their zest was enhanced rather than
dimmed.

Only a few minutes before the skipper's return, Branscombe had been
talking with Able Seaman Brown, R.N.V.R., and stockbroker.

"As a matter of fact, sir," remarked Brown, "I'm seriously thinking
that after the war--if the war is ever going to end--I'll buy an
M.-L. There'll be hundreds on the market and I guess the Admiralty
will be lucky if they get 300 pounds a piece for them."

"And what then?" asked the Sub. "You may be a budding millionaire,
but no man in ordinary circumstances could afford to run one of these
hookers."

"That's where you are mistaken, sir, I fancy," replied A. B. Brown.
"These packets will be purchasable after the war for a matter of a few
hundred pounds. I'd take out the engines and sell them. They'd come
in handy for electric light plant for a country house or something of
that sort. Then I'd get a single 40-60 H.P. Kelvin motor, which uses
paraffin instead of petrol, and couple up the twin screws. That's my
little castle in the air for after the war, sir."

"Tea ready?" enquired the skipper. "No? Well, there's time to give
the dogs a run ashore."

He eyed the twenty-five foot vertical ladder somewhat dubiously. It
was strong enough, but a considerable portion towards the lower end
was slippery with seaweed and slime. Then he whistled to two large
sheep-dogs who were coiled up in the stern sheets of the dinghy.

Peter and Paul were recognized members of M.-L. 4452's complement.
They belonged to Frank Farnborough but had been adopted by every
individual on board. Both animals had been violently seasick on the
first occasion when they put to sea, but from that time onwards, blow
high or blow low, they behaved like seasoned sons of the sea.

"Send 'em up in a bowline," suggested Branscombe.

"Hardly good enough," objected the Lieutenant. "I'll carry them up,
one at a time."

Placing Peter on his back and holding on to one paw, Farnborough
began his somewhat hazardous climb. All went well for the first half,
and then a catastrophe occurred. It was owing to a large ginger cat
that was prowling along the very edge of the quay. Peter spotted her,
and began barking. The feline arched her back and spat defiance. This
insult was more than the sheep-dog could stand. He began to struggle
furiously. His master's admonition to "shut up" was ignored. The next
instant Farnborough's feet slipped on the slimy rung, and, hampered
by the heavy animal, he fell upon the deck.

It was a drop of about twelve feet, but sufficient to make the
Lieutenant writhe. His right ankle was badly sprained, while, to make
matters worse, he had struck his back against the edge of the raised
cabin-top. Peter, unhurt, but genuinely concerned, began to lick his
master's hand.

"Nothing much," declared Farnborough in answer to Branscombe's
inquiry. "Bit of a twist to my ankle, that's all. Lucky thing old
Peter wasn't hurt, the silly old ass!"

One of the men, taking each dog in turn under his arm, made the
ascent in safety, and the now docile animals went off to visit a
great friend--the cook at the Naval Base Canteen.

"I'll have to turn in for half an hour or so," declared Farnborough.
"My ankle is giving me socks. It'll be all right soon. What? Go to
the medico for a little thing like that? No, thanks; besides, we are
under orders to sail at eight."

"Not the stunt?" asked Branscombe.

"No, laddie; I said it was a wash-out," replied the skipper. "It's
coming off all in good time; can take your affidavit on that. . . .
By Jove! that was a bit of a twister," he added with a wry smile as
he carefully lowered himself down the steep companion ladder to the
ward-room. "Quite all right, though. A little embrocation will soon
set matters right."

Having laid himself on his bunk, Farnborough drew an envelope from
the inside breast-coat pocket of his monkey-jacket.

"Here you are!" he remarked, giving his sub the contents of the
envelope. "Usual thing. You might see that the dogs are on board
before we start. I'll get you to take the old hooker out, old man."

Guy Branscombe scanned the typewritten orders. They were marked
"Confidential", which is a word that in Service matters may mean a
lot, or nothing. Often orders of the most trivial character are so
marked, possibly by a minor official who wishes to magnify the
importance of his particular work. Consequently, there is a tendency
to under-estimate the significance of the word "Confidential". It is
another instance of "Familiarity breeds contempt".

However, in this case the orders were important. M.-L.'s 4452, 4453,
4454, and 4455 were to proceed on patrol between certain positions. A
reference to the chart showed that the limits were from a point six
miles north-west of the mouth of the Scheldt to a point five miles
due north (true) of the Sandettie Bank Lightship. Three large
destroyers from the Dover patrol were to act as covering vessels,
while a couple of monitors, each armed with a single 17-inch gun,
were to keep Fritz on thorns by lobbing a few shells with uncanny
accuracy upon the fortifications of Zeebrugge.

The special task of the M.-L.'s was to keep a look-out for a squadron
of bombing aeroplanes, which were engaged in liberally plastering the
Mole and canal locks of Zeebrugge with tons of high explosives.
Should a seaplane become disabled and be compelled to alight on the
sea, then the handy little craft would speed to the rescue, in spite
of the fact that they were within range of the long-distance German
guns on the Belgian coast.

"All plain sailing?" asked Farnborough. "Good! If you'll take her
out, and call me at eight bells, I'll be eternally grateful to you.
So the old hooker's going to have her baptism of fire."




CHAPTER VIII

On Patrol


Punctually to the appointed minute, M.-L. 4452 cast off and proceeded
seaward. Her sister ships had preceded her, and were running in
single column line ahead. It was a pitch-dark night. The sea was as
smooth as the proverbial mill-pond. Shoreward the land was enshrouded
in darkness, not a light being visible. Viewed from a short distance,
the Kentish coast, normally defined by lines of twinkling lights, but
now looming faintly against the sombre sky, looked more like a
desolate land than a populous corner of England, literally linked by
a chain of seaside towns.

The M.-L.'s were under way without navigation lights, only a small
lamp astern of each enabling those following to keep station. The
little craft were cleared for action, for it had been known that
hostile torpedo-boats had approached within a few miles of the port
of 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 of
the most heavily-mined portions of the sea adjoining the British
Isles. A few fathoms beneath the boat's keel were mines in hundreds,
that, in conjunction with nets and other elaborate devices, formed an
impregnable barrier to the passage of German U-boats. As long as the
mines remained anchored and submerged they were dangerous only to the
type of craft they were intended to destroy; but after the heavy blow
of the last few days there was a possibility, nay, a probability,
that some would break adrift and float on the surface, a menace to
those who had lawful business upon the waters, a prospect sufficient
to stimulate the imagination--if not to get on the nerves--of the
hardiest mariner.

It was almost on this very spot twelve months previously that
Branscombe had ordered the gun's crew to open fire at what he took to
be a periscope, but what, on closer examination, proved to be a
derelict boat-hook; while on another occasion the Sub, inexperienced
in those days, saw a large dark object slither under the water. To
his 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 a
depth charge on the spot where the submarine had vanished. A badly
mutilated 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 at
anything of a suspicious nature. Explanations, if necessary, can
follow later, but one has to take no chances with Fritz and all his
dirty tricks.

It speaks well for the courageous temperament of the British sailor
that he has stuck it for more than four years, living in momentary
danger of being blown sky-high by an unseen mine or by a torpedo from
a lurking foe, and yet is able to laugh and joke unrestrainedly with
his comrades, and to take the keenest interest in sport. During the
whole period of the war, the British navy faced dangers and thrived;
while the Huns, having no traditions to hold up, and running little
risk, as they rarely put to sea beyond the shelter of their own
minefields, were slowly but surely drifting to moral suicide that
culminated in mutiny and the disgraceful surrender of Germany's
fleet.

In spite of the unrestricted U-boat campaign, there was a constant
stream of merchantmen passing round the Forelands to and from London
River. Those outward bound were making for the Downs, there to await
escort to the convoy. All these ships, fantastically camouflaged and
steaming without lights, made navigation doubly difficult, and it was
not until North Foreland was several miles astern and the M.-L. out
of the recognized sailing routes that Branscombe began to feel more
at ease.

"Eight bells, sir," reported Anderson, wireless man, and ex-bank
clerk.

Being in the war zone, and at night, the actual striking on the
ship's bell was dispensed with.

"Very good," replied the Sub, and turning to another man he asked him
to inform the Captain.

In five minutes the man returned.

"I've been trying to get the skipper on deck, sir," he reported, "but
I'm afraid it's no use. It's not only his ankle that's causing
trouble but his back is rather badly bruised. Moving about after
lying down has made matters worse."

Guy picked up a signal pad and wrote a message, telling Farnborough
not 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 the
same time; hence Guy had to send down a chit. This done he prepared
for at least a twenty-four hours' "trick".

Rapidly the booming of the heavy guns grew louder and louder. The air
trembled under the terrific reverberations of the contesting
ordnance, for Fritz was not backward in replying to the fire of the
British monitors.

Peter and Paul, to whose sensitive nerves the continuous concussions
did not appeal at all, had abandoned their post in the dinghy, and
had retired to the comparative shelter of the after sleeping-cabin.
The fact that the ladder was almost vertical and seven feet in height
did not trouble them. They merely settled the matter by jumping,
alighting on Branscombe's bed, where they made themselves as
comfortable as possible in the distressing circumstances.

Presently dense masses of smoke on the horizon betokened the presence
of the monitors. Each, her presence screened by artificial fog
emitted from the attendant destroyers, was firing with her 17-inch
gun at extreme elevation, dropping tons of H.E. shells upon an
invisible target, while seaplanes, hovering overhead, recorded by
means of wireless the result of each discharge.

Within a mile of the unwieldy floating batteries the M.-L. altered
course, keeping parallel to the invisible shore. It was an inspiring
scene. In the rifts of the smoke-screen could be discerned the tripod
masts, enormous top-hamper and up-trained guns of the monitors. With
every shot the vessels heeled, until, with the return list, their
gigantic "blisters" or anti-torpedo devices were exposed above the
oily 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 ricochetted
three or four times before finally plunging to the bed of the North
Sea.

The whine of a high-velocity shell, as it passed a few feet above the
wheel-house of M.-L. 4452, gave Branscombe warning that he, too, was
under shell fire. A direct hit with one of those monsters would mean
utter annihilation to the wooden hull of the M.-L. and to her crew as
well. Nevertheless the little flotilla had to "carry on". Orders to
patrol on a certain course had to be implicitly obeyed. The "small
fry" under the White Ensign had to take similar and often greater
risk 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 the
depth charges stowed astern; but the impact played havoc with the
ward-room, completely demolishing the roof and knocking two gaping
holes in the raised sides. Well it was that her crew were at action
stations, for not a man received as much as a scratch.

At the pre-arranged hour the monitors "packed up". Lowering the
muzzles of their guns and bringing the weapons in a fore-and-aft
position, they steamed slowly out of range under cover of a really
colossal smoke-screen. For nearly twenty minutes the Huns liberally
"watered" the spot where the bombarding force had been, until their
observation balloons--for they were afraid to send their aeroplanes
out--reported that once more the British ships had withdrawn. That
evening Berlin would be cheered by the report that a prolonged and
determined 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 the
destroyers still holding on, in case a swarm of German torpedo-boats
should issue from their lairs and pounce down upon the lightly-armed
patrol-boats, No. 4452 and her consorts remained to watch for the
returning seaplanes.

With their customary inclination to make "a show", the "spotting"
aircraft had gone inland upon the termination of the bombardment in
the hope that a Hun airman or two would try conclusions in aerial
combat. Failing an encounter, they proceeded with great deliberation
to drop bombs upon certain railway junctions, aerodromes, ammunition
dumps, and other objects of military importance.

Over the placid sea patches of genuine sea-fog were stealing, as if
Nature was bent upon showing man that, after all, his efforts at
maritime camouflage were puny compared with hers. At intervals there
was a clear view of the horizon; at others it was difficult to see a
cable's length ahead.

From the Belgian shore the thunder of the heavy guns had ceased, but
the air rumbled with the distant ceaseless cannonade on the Ypres
salient. There was no mistaking the noise. For nearly four years the
dwellers on the south-east coast of England and the seafarers in the
vicinity of the Straits of Dover had heard it. By this time its
monotonous rumble hardly raised a comment, save when at times it rose
to a crescendo of hate. And yet that incessant rumble was the
death-knell of thousands of the flower of the British Empire and its
gallant Allies, and, no less, that of the Hunnish invaders.

Out of a broad patch of clammy fog glided M.-L. 4452 into a blaze of
perfect 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 hand
down heavily upon the quartermaster's shoulder. "A Fritz; and we've
got him cold!"

There was no mistake this time. Porpoises and floating boat-hook
staves might be taken for U-boats, but the long, low-lying hull of
the German submarine and its twin periscopes could not possibly be
mistaken for anything but what they were, She was running on the
surface 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 former
public schoolboy tore aft. They knew their job: to release the deadly
depth charges and to stand by the firing key, by means of which the
electric circuit was completed and the explosive detonated. All out,
the M.-L. made straight for her intended victim, her quick-firer
giving the U-boat a preliminary show by way of encouragement. The
shell missed the conning-tower by inches. Before the breech-block
could be opened, the still-smoking cylinder ejected and another
charge inserted, the U-boat dived so abruptly that for a few seconds
her rudders and twin-screws were clear of the water.

"Starboard . . . at that!"

Branscombe, his eyes fixed upon the surface-swell of the now
submerged pirate, waited until the M.-L. was crossing the path of the
frantically-diving Hun.

"Let go aft!"

With a smother of foam, the metal canister toppled from its cradle
into the milk-white wake of the swiftly-moving M.-L. The drum, on
which the insulated wire was wound, began to revolve rapidly as
fathom after fathom was paid out.

The Sub stepped from the wheel-house and raised his hand. Then, with
a quick decisive motion, he brought it down to his side. At the
signal, the key of the firing-battery was pressed home.

"Bon voyage, Fritz!" murmured Branscombe, as with an ear-splitting
report a column of mingled smoke and foam rose quite two hundred feet
into 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 agitated
water. One of the crew made ready to let go the mark-buoy to indicate
the position of the sunken U-boat. He waited for the order, but
Branscombe gave no word of command. Gripping the stanchion-wires, the
Sub leant over the side and watched. Then his look of elation gave
place to an expression of acute disappointment--like that of a needy
man 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 depth
charge had carried out its pre-ordained mission. Not a vestige of oil
floated on the surface of the sea. There were dead fish in hundreds,
killed by the terrific explosion, but not a scrap of debris that by
any stretch of the imagination could be attributed to the strafed
U-boat.

Up pelted M.-L. 4453, closely followed by No. 4454. The skipper of
the 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 gave
orders for the former course to be resumed. "I wish to goodness I'd
blown the beastly thing to bits."

But, had Guy known that his chum, Alec Seton, was on board the
submarine, he might not have expressed himself thus. He would still
have done his level best to strafe the U-boat, Seton notwithstanding.
It would have been a case of duty before everything; but it would
have been an unpleasant task.




CHAPTER IX

At Zeebrugge


It would be no exaggeration to state that Alec Seton "had the wind up
badly" when the U-boat dived suddenly. He knew what it meant right
enough; only on this occasion the positions were reversed. Instead of
being the hunter he was the hunted, and, what was worse--worse from a
strictly personal point--he was being strafed by some of his own
friends, men who, from long practice, had been uncannily adept in
sending German submarines on their last, long voyage.

Had he been on board a British submarine, and had been chased by a
pack of Hun torpedo-craft, he would have borne the situation with
comparative calm, knowing that it was part of the game, and that both
sides could hit unpleasantly hard. But, a captive in an enemy craft,
unable to lift a finger to help himself, Seton had good cause for
being in a mild state of funk.

It seemed to him that the U-boat was diving almost horizontally, for
he slid heavily against the for'ard bulkhead. Then, with a
disconcerting roll, the boat regained an even keel. Men were
shouting, hand-wheels and levers were being manipulated with
undisciplined haste. There was no doubt about it: Fritz was having a
sticky time, and taking his medicine badly.

Then came the muffled detonation of M.-L. 4452's depth charge. The
U-boat, caught by the underwater undulations, rolled and pitched
alarmingly. Gear was carried away, and clattered noisily across the
steel platforms, the electric lights went out, water began to hiss
in--fine but high-pressured jets through the buckled plates and
started rivet-holes. In the darkness there was no telling whether the
U-boat was plunging to the bed of the North Sea.

A sudden impulse prompted Seton to thrust his shoulder against the
steel door. In calmer moments he might have reflected upon the
needlessness of it. If he had to drown, he might just as well remain
in solitude as spend his last moments in the company of a crew of
panic-stricken Huns.

The door resisted the impact, but unaccountably the lock gave.
Stumbling over the raised threshold, the Sub found himself brought up
against a number of complicated valve wheels and tubes. There he hung
on and waited.

Already some of the crew had produced electric torches. The pumps
were set to work to keep the slight but none the less dangerous
influx of water under control. Von Kloster, his eyes fixed upon the
depth gauge, was bellowing out orders, while the unter-leutnant was
feverishly attending to the wheel operating the horizontal rudders.
Right aft, the sweating engineers were trying to coax the
electrically-driven engines into action.

By degrees the Huns, realizing that they were not immediately going
on a visit to Davy Jones, began to calm down. A petty officer, making
his way aft, flashed his torch upon Alec. The latter, still clad in
the dinghy canvas suit, was easily mistaken for one of the crew, for
the petty officer, pointing for'ard, gave a curt order.

Seton had not the faintest notion of what the Hun said, but the
gesture was unmistakable. Entering into the fun of the affair, the
Sub, squeezing through a small oval-shaped aperture in one of the
transverse bulkheads, found himself in the bow torpedo-room.

At that moment, the artificers having renewed the blown-out
fuse-wires, the electric lamps were lighted. Alec was alone in the
compartment. In front of him were the twin torpedo-tubes, which
differed from the British ones in one important detail. Instead of
the breech piece being secured by six butterfly nuts, the German
method was to employ an intercepted thread cam-action, similar to
the breech-block mechanism of a quick-firing gun. Above the tubes
were six oiled steel torpedoes, each ready to be "launched home" into
the tubes.

"By Jove! What an opportunity!" thought Alec, giving a cursory glance
to reassure himself that he was alone. "A gorgeous chance to do the
dirty on Fritz!"

Picking up a heavy adjustable spanner, Seton set to work quickly and
deftly. To each of the rudders of the torpedoes he gave a slight and
almost imperceptible twist. In the excitement of launching home and
firing the deadly missiles, the Hun torpedo men would almost to a
certainty overlook the slight but important bend in the delicately
adjusted metal fins.

"Good enough!" declared Alec. He felt like a schoolboy engaged in
ragging an unpopular fellow's study. It was time to make himself
scarce before his presence was detected.

His luck was in. Without encountering anyone he regained his cell and
closed the door.

"Now Fritz can use his tin-fish as often as he likes," he thought
gleefully. "He's welcome to puzzle his brains to find out why the
blessed things won't run true, for it's a dead cert. they won't."

It was a matter of three or four hours before the U-boat again rose
to the surface. Her batteries were running low. If again obliged to
submerge before regaining her base she would be compelled to rest
helplessly on the bottom of the sea, since her underwater propulsion
powers were almost nil.

When the sailor reappeared with Alec's unappetizing meal--black
bread, acorn coffee, and sausage of doubtful origin--the German
looked suspiciously at the door.

"You haf with the lock played tricks," he declared.

"Must have been the concussion," said Alec. "It was a nasty shock,
wasn't it?"

The fellow scowled with sullen anger.

"Schweinhund Englander," he muttered. "I go tell der kapitan."

He put the food upon the floor and went to the door. Then, half
turning, he inquired:

"Vot you give me, if I not tell der kapitan?"

Seton laughed outright. His sense of humour was tickled.

"Carry on, Fritz!" he replied. "It's your German temperament, I
suppose. You can't help it. So put that in your pipe and smoke it."

The Hun looked puzzled.

"Put vot in mine pipe? Haf you any tobacco?" he asked almost
pleadingly.

"'Fraid you can't understand, Fritz," rejoined Seton. "You'll get
nothing more out of me, so hook it!"

The man went out still puzzling over the idiomatic expression that
Alec had purposely employed. Yet he did not report the incident of
the tampered lock to the kapitan. A little later an artificer came
and secured the door, and once more Seton was a close prisoner.

With her pumps going continuously to keep under the steady inflow of
water--for, in spite of "stoppers" and patches applied to the gaping
plates, she leaked badly--the U-boat passed between the ends of the
moles and entered Zeebrugge Harbour. Owing to injuries she had
sustained, it was considered desirable to pass through the lock gates
and take her up the Bruges Canal for repairs. Although the locality
was not a healthy one, there was less risk of the U-boat being
smashed by British guns or bombs than had she remained at Zeebrugge.
Accordingly the returned pirate craft was temporarily berthed
alongside the Mole in order to land certain members of her crew and
also spare stores before proceeding.

Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert was the first to step ashore.
There was a smile of satisfaction on his face: he made no attempt to
conceal his joy at leaving the badly-strained U-boat, and he mentally
vowed that, if the matter were left to him, it would be a long time
before he went on a voyage again. He would be quite content to
exercise his valuable submarine knowledge ashore, and let the U-boat
commanders put his theories to the test.

Two-thirds of the crew, including Unter-leutnant Kaspar Diehardt,
also landed. They showed little enthusiasm on their stolid faces, for
they knew perfectly well that there was no respite for them. Owing to
the shortage of skilled submariners, they would be promptly drafted
to other U-boats, and be sent to sea again on their ruthless and
inglorious task of attempting to wipe out of existence the British
Mercantile Marine. Practically all the German submarine service
suffered in the same way. Constantly employed, exposed to perils seen
and unseen, ill-fed on very inferior food the men were already on the
high-road to mutiny.

Guarded by a couple of armed men, Sub-lieutenant Alec Seton was taken
ashore. Still clad in the loaned canvas suit and carrying his
saturated uniform in a bundle under his arm, Seton set foot for the
first time upon the now historic Zeebrugge Mole.

He made good use of his eyes during his progress. It was part of his
training to do so. He had seen aerial photographs of the place, but
these, useful though they were, conveyed but a slight idea of the
formidable nature of the German defences.

The stone wall, rising full thirty feet above low water-mark, was of
massive construction. It had been additionally protected by concrete
works and thousands of sand-bags. There were emplacements for heavy
guns by the dozen, and for quick-firers by the hundred, while
machine-guns bristled everywhere. There were plenty of evidences of
the activity of the British guns and aeroplanes, for the wall had
been repaired in fifty different places. Some of the havoc played by
bombs was of recent origin, men, both Belgian and German, being
employed to make good the damage. Almost abreast of the berth where
the returned U-boat was lying was a hole twenty feet in diameter, and
perhaps a dozen feet deep, while the wall on the seaward side was
bulging ominously under the strain.

At intervals, beneath the level of the outside parapet, several
block-houses had been built on the Mole, machine-guns commanding the
roadway on the breakwater. Evidently the Huns expected a landing, and
with true Teutonic thoroughness were taking precautions accordingly.

Within the harbour were swarms of small craft of all
types--ocean-going torpedo-boats, patrol-boats, submarines, lighters,
suction-dredgers, captured merchantmen, and paddle-wheelers. All,
more or less, showed signs of being badly mauled, for, almost daily,
British sea-planes swarmed overhead and let the Huns know that they
meant to make things hot for the pirates' nest.

At the present moment the guns were silent. Nevertheless, it was easy
to see that Fritz was on thorns. Above the town floated four
observation balloons; a Black Cross aeroplane flew discreetly along
the sea-front, ready to hark back to its hangar on the first sign of
the dreaded British sea-planes. From an elevated wooden tower on the
extremity of the Mole, signalmen, brought specially from Kiel, swept
the horizon with their telescopes. Anti-aircraft gunners were
continually standing by, while in bomb-proof shelters artillerymen
awaited telephonic orders to man their guns, should a 17-inch salvo
from the monitors beyond the horizon announce that yet another strafe
was beginning.

Against the base of the parapet were bundles of barbed wire, one end
of which was securely fixed to stout ring-bolts in the granite wall.
On the inner edge of the Mole were massive iron posts, each post
being abreast a corresponding roll of wire. This was a part of the
German defences, for at night the wire was stretched across the Mole
roadway, forming twenty or more barriers, in which narrow gaps were
left to enable men to move to and fro. These barbed-wire defences
were augmented by live wires, the whole forming a truly formidable
obstacle should any attempt be made to storm the Mole.

All this Seton was freely permitted to see. His captors intended that
he should do so, otherwise they would have bandaged his eyes. It was
part of von Brockdorff-Giespert's scheme. Confident in his belief
that the prisoner would never leave Zeebrugge until the conclusion of
a victorious German peace, the Count spared no pains to humiliate and
intimidate his captive.

Presently the guards halted at a distance of less than eighty yards
from the head of the Mole. Here was an abandoned big-gun emplacement.
The seaward aperture had partly collapsed, leaving a gap of about
four feet in width and two in height. This had been prevented from
completely caving in by several thick steel bars fixed at four-inch
intervals, the whole forming an impassable grille. The gun had been
removed from the emplacement, leaving a space of twenty-five feet by
twelve, and eight feet between the stone floor and the steel-girdered
and concrete reinforced roof. The door was of steel, and furnished
with three slits for rifle-fire. Within was a plank-bed with a straw
mattress, a wooden stool, a shelf holding tin plates and cups, and a
couple of blankets. This was Alec Seton's cell.

"Evidently the old brigand is keeping his word," thought the Sub as
he was roughly bidden to enter and the door locked upon him. "He said
he'd leave me to the attentions of our bombing 'planes and long-range
guns. Ah, well! It's no use moaning about it. Make the best of a bad
job, Alec, my boy, and keep a stiff upper lip. Many a man's been in a
tighter hole than this before to-day and has lived to tell the tale.
Never say die till you're dead."

And, with a series of similar trite maxims running through his head,
Seton prepared to shake down in his new abode as a guest of the
Imperial German Government.




CHAPTER X

Preparations


"Jolly rotten luck that _Bolero_ business," remarked Lieutenant
Farnborough, commanding M.-L. 4452.

The M.-L. lay alongside the oil-fuel jetty in Dover Harbour. A week
had elapsed since the stunt off Zeebrugge. Farnborough was still far
from fit. His sprained ankle was much better, but the injury to his
back caused him considerable inconvenience and pain on movement. Yet,
eager not to miss the opportunity of participating in the impending
big operations at Zeebrugge and Ostend, he sturdily refused the more
prudent course of reporting sick, and carried on as usual.

It was a calm, moonlit evening, following a hard blow. There was a
fairly heavy sea running in the Channel, while in the Wick, or
portion of Dover Harbour enclosed by the new Admiralty breakwater, a
long swell was setting in, causing the destroyer and other vessels at
the buoys to roll heavily. The "gush" was even communicated to the
small basin at the north-eastern end of the harbour, where half a
dozen M.-L.'s and two P.-boats lay in somewhat dangerous proximity to
thousands of tons of highly-inflammable oil fuel.

No. 4452 was rolling slightly, her large coir fenders grunting and
groaning as they ground against the massive timbers of the pier, the
deck of which towered thirty feet above the little craft. Beyond and
above, looming ghostly in the cold moonlight, were the rugged chalk
cliffs crowning the venerable Dover Castle.

Sub-lieutenant Guy Branscombe, deep in a novel, merely shrugged his
shoulders. His skipper's words had as yet failed to penetrate his
understanding. Farnborough knew the Sub's peculiarity. In his spells
of off-duty Branscombe was a regular book-worm. Farnborough, on the
other hand, was prone to conversation, but he had an unsatisfactory
victim in his sub, who was able to defend himself against inopportune
interruption by entire absorption in the book of the moment.

Presently, after a lapse of a minute or more, Branscombe removed his
pipe.

"What's that about the _Bolero_?" he asked.

"Torpedoed," replied the Lieutenant.

"Lost off the Nord Hinder last Friday week."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Branscombe. "I know a fellow on that destroyer.
Any casualties?"

"'Fraid so," answered Farnborough. "Night, rough sea, and all that
sort of thing, you know. An officer and seventeen men
missing--presumed drowned. Here you are, my boy!"

He handed Branscombe a copy of an Admiralty confidential circular
giving details of the disaster. A month later the casualty list would
be communicated to the Press together with a bald statement that "one
of H.M. destroyers was torpedoed and sunk in the North Sea on the
night of so and so". It would have to be left to one's imagination,
and perhaps the simple narrative of a survivor, to picture the end of
a gallant vessel, for "the Navy doesn't advertise", especially in
war-time.

"Good Heavens!" ejaculated Branscombe; "I knew Seton awfully well.
Old school chum of mine. His people lived close to my home. An' I
came up in the train with him to Rosyth just before we commissioned;
he envied me my stunt because of the extra excitement and risks," he
added reminiscently. "Poor old Seton!"

The news hit Branscombe badly. In the senior service men get to know
each other more than in the army. The camaraderie of the sea is a
real thing. Friendships made afloat are generally of a lasting order,
especially during a two years' commission, by the end of which time
there is hardly a secret between "chummy" officers.

And into the midst of the big band of brothers stalked Death--far too
frequently during the Great War. Men went singly, in dozens, and in
hundreds, nobly doing their duty to King and Country. Some died in
the knowledge that their passing was witnessed by their comrades;
others went unheard and unseen, with none able to tell with any
degree of accuracy of the manner of their going.

"Rough luck," murmured Farnborough sympathetically. "Did I ever come
across him?"

"Not to my knowledge," replied the Sub, "and to my belief you never
will."

"Strange things happen at sea," rejoined the Lieutenant. "There's
nothing to prove that Seton's been done in. However, to change the
subject, you might cast your eye on this. You'll have to commit the
thing to memory."

The "thing" was a close-lined, typewritten document endorsed
"Strictly Confidential". Branscombe gave a low whistle as he read the
title. It was "Orders for Coastal Motor-Launches for the impending
operations off Ostend and Zeebrugge".

For some considerable time past a series of rehearsals for the
contemplated bottling up of the two Belgian ports had been taking
place. One of the first steps was to pick and choose the men; the
second was to train them. Volunteers for a certain mysterious and
hazardous business were called for. Hundreds were required, thousands
offered themselves. Bluejackets and stokers from the Grand Fleet, men
from that Corps d'Elite, the Royal Marines, were accepted to form
landing parties; destroyers from the Dover Patrol were merged into
the scheme, together with several M.-L.'s; co-operation by the Royal
Air Force was secured, pilots and observers from the old Royal Naval
Air Service offering themselves in shoals.

The next step was the training. The operations were to be of a vast
and complex nature, every division, sub-division, and individual
working in harmony and unison with the rest. Should one link in the
chain of preparation be faulty and not detected, should one division
fail to do its allotted part, the whole enterprise might be in
jeopardy.

To facilitate matters, relief plans of Zeebrugge and Ostend were
prepared, every known detail being inserted, while daily corrections
and additions were made, based upon aerial photographs and observers'
reports.

In a remote and secluded spot in Kent, a full-size model of the
portion of Zeebrugge Mole, alongside which it was proposed to place
the vessels bearing the storming-parties, was constructed, so that
the attackers would know exactly what was required of them. To be
able to surmount a thirty-feet wall and to know the obstructional
difficulties which lay on the other side was an asset; it certainly
made things easier and gave a feeling of confidence to the
attacking-party. But there was one element that could not be
estimated exactly, but only guessed at and allowed for--the presence
of German troops on the actual Mole.

To land seamen and marines on the Mole the old cruiser _Vindictive_
was prepared. A sister ship to the ill-fated _Gladiator_, the
_Vindictive_ had long ceased to count as an effective ship of the
Royal Navy. To all outward appearances her days were over. She was
fit only for the shipbreaker's yard. Any further expenditure upon her
was a waste of public money. These were a few of the many criticisms
passed upon this and similar vessels, when it was proposed
drastically to cut down the number of non-effective vessels on the
navy list.

But in spite of her years--for she was old as far as steel vessels
go--the _Vindictive_ was fated not only to prove of important service
but to cover herself with honour and glory, not once but twice, and
to end her days in a glory of heroism that will for ever be written
on the pages of the world's history.

Step by step the plans were worked out. Landing demolition-parties on
the Mole was but a subsidiary operation. So was that of smashing the
wooden bridge connecting the Mole with the mainland, and thus
hampering the arrival of German reinforcements.

The climax of the operations was the bottling up of Zeebrugge and
Ostend by means of old cruisers filled with concrete.

A few years ago the world was thrilled by the exploits of Lieutenant
Hobson, of the U.S.A. Navy, when he attempted to bottle up Cevera's
fleet in Santiago Harbour. Newspapers devoted columns of copy to
chronicle and dilate upon the heroic deed; yet, without detracting
from the merits of the achievement, the attempt was comparatively
easy compared with the task before the British Navy at Zeebrugge and
Ostend.

Hobson, with a small volunteer crew, took an old tramp steamer
through the narrow entrance to Santiago Harbour. Within was a
demoralized Spanish fleet. The forts were ill-armed and ill-served.
Hobson carried out his instructions, but the actual result was a
partial failure. The sinking of the block-ship did not prevent
Cevera's fleet from issuing from the harbour and literally
sacrificing itself to the guns of the powerful American fleet.

In the case of Ostend and Zeebrugge, the Huns were equipped with the
most modern instruments of warfare. Everything that science could
devise was at their command. The Belgian ports were formidable
fortresses possessing natural and artificial defences of a stupendous
character. No doubt the Boche, despite strenuous efforts on the part
of the British to ensure secrecy, had a good inkling of what was
being contemplated, and would take steps accordingly.

The vessels told off to attempt the bottling operations were obsolete
third-class cruisers. They were to approach at night under their own
steam, enshrouded in artificial fog, gain an entrance, if possible,
and then sink themselves in the fairways of the two harbours. This
act of maritime _felo-de-se_ was to be accomplished by exploding
charges in their holds. Officers and men had to be employed to
navigate the vessels; engineer officers, E.R.A.'s, and stokers were
necessary to keep up a head of steam; their task accomplished, they
themselves had to be rescued, if possible.

It was here that the little M.-L.'s were again to prove their worth.
On a given signal they were to dash into the harbour, range alongside
the sinking block-ships, and dash out again with the rescued
crews--provided the boats survived the maelstrom of fire that was
sure to greet them.

"We're up against a tough proposition, my lad," remarked Farnborough,
as he cut a chunk of navy plug and shredded it between his horny
palms. Four years ago horny hands and plug tobacco were ill
acquainted with Frank Farnborough, but a man's manners and customs
undergo a considerable change in four years of war. Now he prided
himself on the toughness of his palms and thoroughly enjoyed the
tobacco.

"We are," assented Branscombe; then, after a pause, he added: "but I
wouldn't miss it for anything."

"Nor I," added the Lieutenant. "If there's to be another blessed
medical examination, I'll thug, poison, or bluff the whole of the
medical branch of the navy. I'll go somehow, this idiotic sprain
notwithstanding."

Branscombe made no remark. Much as he admired the grit and tenacity
of his chief, he knew that at a time when every ounce of strength,
both mental and bodily, were required, a man, handicapped by a stiff
back, would not only be a trouble to himself but to the crew. Under
the most favourable conditions the Lieutenant would not be fit in
less than a week--and that with constant rest. He was too energetic
to rest, and the stunt was timed to take place on the forthcoming
Thursday.

The eventful day came at last. The sea was calm, the wind light.
Gleefully, almost boisterously, the major portion of the
storming-party boarded the _Vindictive_. The rest were told off to
two Mersey ferry-boats--the _Iris_ and _Daffodil_. Monitors were
making ready to proceed at slow speed; destroyers and M.-L.'s were
fussing noisily around, awaiting the Admiral's order to carry on.

Farnborough, dissembling his hurt, was in the wheel-house, with
Branscombe close at hand. Anxiously they watched the aneroid. For
days it had been remarkably steady, but now, just after noon, it
commenced to fall. Weather was a tremendous factor. With anything
like a sea it would be practically impossible to lay the ships with
the landing-parties alongside the Mole, while the chance of being
able to set in position even a single gangway was out of the
question.

There might be time before the weather broke, but the prospect was
disquieting. Uneasily, men scanned sea and sky. Everyone hoped that
the approaching storm would be deferred until the morrow.

Overhead, "Blimps" and sea-planes buzzed like wasps round a jam-jar.
Ill betide the Hun who dared to make a cut-and-run raid upon Dover.
Not a German airman must have an inkling of the assembly of the
strange, ill-assorted armada in Dover Harbour.

With the dipping of the sun beneath the western horizon the flotilla
put to sea. Meteorological reports from Zeebrugge and
Ostend--obtained in some mysterious manner by the British
Admiralty--reported slight fog and a faint ground-swell. That
ground-swell presaged a storm--it was a race between armed might and
Nature.

The M.-L.'s were at the tail of the flotilla. Their role would come
last. It was imperative that they should be preserved intact until
the critical moment. Their motors had to be kept absolutely in tune,
for engine trouble meant disaster, not only to the crippled M.-L.,
but possibly to her consorts.

An hour and a half sped. Slowly, yet in perfect order, the strange
assembly of warships lessened the distance between them and the
invisible Belgian coast. Already the glare of the hostile
search-lights could be discerned.

"Another three hours, my lad, and we'll be seeing life," declared
Farnborough; "and death," he added in an undertone.

Almost as he spoke, a general wireless signal was sent from the
Flagship. Decoded, the orders were brief and explicit:

"Operations abandoned owing to adverse weather conditions. Ships to
return to Dover."




CHAPTER XI

The Lone Air-Raider


Apart from the actual fact that he was a prisoner, Alec Seton's
captivity on the Mole at Zeebrugge was far from irksome. He had an
almost uninterrupted view of the interior of the harbour, and seaward
his range of vision in clear weather embraced a wide arc of the
horizon. So confident were the Huns of the impossibility of Seton's
escape that they allowed him to see almost everything that was going
on, his gaolers actually pointing out various details, and gloating
over the effects upon their prisoner.

It was only when a bombardment or a raid was expected that the
seaward window, or rather aperture, was closed. This was effected by
lowering a heavy slab of metal, after the fashion of an old-time
gun-port. It was a precaution against signalling on the part of the
captive. But without light or matches, or even a looking-glass as a
heliograph, it was difficult to see how Seton could have accomplished
the 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 reduced
Germany to the verge of starvation. Generally speaking, the demeanour
of his guards was harsh and tyrannical. Misled by their officers, the
rank and file of the Boche armies believed that Germany was already
within measurable distance of emerging triumphant from the world-wide
contest. This, to a great extent, explained the domineering manner of
Seton's guards, although there were some who, guessing the truth,
bore in mind possible consequences should the relative positions of
captor and captive be reversed.

Life at Zeebrugge was not lacking in excitement. Every time a U-boat
returned there were demonstrations; every time a U-boat set out she
departed in almost sullen silence. The men loathed their task--not on
account of the craven nature of their work, but by reason of the
peril it entailed. Dozens of Hun submarines had left Zeebrugge never
to return. Of the manner of their loss, none on that side of the
North Sea knew. They could only conjecture. The secret lay with the
British Navy, and the very mystery that enshrouded the vanished
unterseebooten added to the terror of the crews of those boats that
had hitherto escaped destruction.

Occasionally, and it was a rare occurrence, German sea-going
torpedo-boats would leave the harbour at sunset. Before dawn they
would be back with riddled funnels and shell-swept decks. Fritz had
learned that it was decidedly unhealthy to try conclusions with the
Dover Patrol.

And the raids: rarely a day and night passed but sea-planes and
aeroplanes, sometimes singly but more often in flights, soared over
the pirates' lair. Unruffled by the lurid and discordant greetings of
the German "antis", the airmen would hover over their objective, and
then, to make doubly sure of their target, dive down to within two
hundred feet of the ground.

Cheering was the sight to the captive Sub-lieutenant, but the
experience was none the less nerve-racking. More than once heavy
bombs dropped within fifty feet of Seton's cell. The massive masonry
of the Mole trembled like an aspen leaf; the air was laden with
pungent vapours that caused Alec to gasp for breath. At the spot
where the heavy missile dropped a hole twenty feet in diameter had
been made.

Seton had hoped that during one of these aerial visitations a portion
of the wall of his cell might have been demolished, and that, during
the confusion that followed the explosion, he might have been able to
escape. 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 temporarily
stunned, his chances of getting away unnoticed were of the remotest
nature.

Regularly, and as often as the rules set down by the Huns permitted,
Seton wrote home, but no reply came. Reluctantly he was forced to
come to the conclusion that the Germans were fooling him--the letters
were 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 of
those reported "missing" whose fate remained a mystery to their
friends, until, on rare occasions, the missing man was able to effect
his escape and to return home, to the consternation and surprise of
his relatives, who had long thought of him as dead.

It was during one of the raids that Alec witnessed a daring stunt on
the part of a young R.A.F. pilot. All that morning the Huns had been
loading mines on board three new mine-laying submarines, the work
being performed under a camouflaged canvas screen. Either a Belgian
had managed to send the information over to the British Admiralty, or
else aerial observers had noticed a difference in their photographic
views of the harbour during the last few days. In any case, the
solitary airman knew of the operations in progress.

In the grey dawn the British machine swooped down from a bank of
clouds. With his engine cut out, he dived steeply. Too late the
German anti-aircraft guns opened their hymn of hate. At two hundred
and fifty feet the pilot released his cargo of bombs. A miss was
almost an impossibility.

With an appalling, deafening roar, the three U-boats disappeared,
together with nearly two hundred Germans engaged in loading their
dangerous cargoes. For a radius of a hundred yards the havoc was
terrific. Far beyond that area the damage wrought was severe.

With the roar of the explosion still dinning in his ears, Alec saw
the gallant airman disappear in a cloud of smoke mingled with
far-flung debris. Hurled like a dried leaf in an autumnal gale the
British biplane was seen to be turning over and over, in spite of the
engines running all out, and the efforts of the pilot to keep his
'bus under control. Momentarily, through rents in the blast-torn
cloud, Seton watched the man whose work had been accomplished, and
whose 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 a
spinning nose-dive. Her tail-piece had been hit by a fragment of
metal, and wisps of dark-brown canvas were streaming in the wind.

Although falling with great velocity, the biplane appeared to be
dropping slowly. It seemed as if the pilot was bound to crash upon
some houses, a short distance from the lock-gates of the Bruges
Canal. To make matters worse, her petrol-tank caught fire, her
downward course being marked by a trail of bright yellow fumes.

Then, falling headlong behind a tall building, the sea-plane was lost
to sight.

"Hard luck!" murmured Seton sympathetically. "The fellow took no
chances of missing; but, by Jove, it was certain death!"

Accustomed though he was to see men slain in the heat of battle, the
catastrophe to the daring airman had a depressing effect upon the
Sub. He rejoiced in the knowledge that the pilot's effort had not
been in vain. He felt proud of the man who had given his life for his
country; but, at the same time, the spectacle was a gruesome one.

Almost mechanically Seton stood at the open window. There was no
doubt about the moral and material effect of the enormous damage.
Swarms of German troops were being hurried up to clear away the
debris and to repair the damage by the dock-side, for a large section
of the wall was in danger of sliding bodily into the basin. Seamen
were strenuously engaged in shifting damaged vessels from the
locality, while Red Cross men, armed as usual in the German way with
short swords and revolvers, were carrying away the maimed victims of
the raid.

As Alec watched, he became aware of a babel of angry voices. A
dispatch-boat had just tied up close to the head of the Mole, and the
object of the hostile demonstration was in the act of landing.

Although not of an excitable nature, Seton could hardly refrain from
giving a hearty British cheer. Actually he gave a whoop of
encouragement, for, marched off in charge of a file of marines, was
the airman who had played havoc with the submarine mine-layers.

Limping badly, and with a rent in his flying-helmet, the captured
pilot marched with head erect and set lips, unmindful of the angry
demeanour of the German spectators. Alec could imagine him muttering
grimy:

"I've had a thundering good run for my money. Now try and get even
with me, you blighters--if you can!"


[Illustration: THE BIPLANE HAD GOT INTO A SPINNING NOSE-DIVE]


It was a brief and passing pageant of British character: indomitable
even in disaster. Then, surrounded by the fixed bayonets of his
guards, 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 deliberately
acquired during his incarceration, in order that he could hear
English spoken. "Jolly lad, the airman fellow; wasn't done in after
all!"

Shortly afterwards the soldier told off to give Seton his meals came
in with the Sub's meagre breakfast. As the Hun left, either by
accident or design, a folded newspaper slipped from underneath his
field-grey tunic.

Directly the door was closed and locked, Alec pounced upon the paper
like a hungry dog at a bone. Half-expecting to find a journal printed
in German, which would be practically useless to him, Seton was
delighted to discover a soiled and crumpled edition of a Belgian
newspaper, partly in French and partly in Flemish.

Flemish he knew nothing of, but he was a tolerable French scholar. As
he read, his face grew long. Every scrap of news was nothing more nor
less than a record of German triumphs. Paris was on the brink of
capitulation; the British were thrown back upon a narrow strip of
Picardy, bordering on the English Channel; the Ypres salient was
flattened out; while the small American army had suffered a heavy
reverse, and its surrender was but a matter of a few hours. The naval
news recorded a succession of U-boat triumphs, the bombardment of
several British seaports, and lastly, the failure of a determined
attempt to blockade Zeebrugge.

"We know with absolute certainty," he read, "that a few nights ago
strong English forces left Dover with the object of making an attack
upon 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 in
disorder, with the loss of several of their large cruisers."

"Tosh!" exclaimed Alec. "This wretched rag is a 'plant'. Printed by
the Huns in order to put the wind up the Belgian population. Fritz is
a cunning swab, but it won't work here."

He tore the offending rag into small pieces, and threw the fragments
through the barred window. It was slight--almost
paltry--satisfaction, but it afforded him some gratification to see
the lying paper scattered to the winds.

A key grated in the lock. Alec started like a school-boy detected in
some slight indiscretion.

"The bounders have been spying upon me!" he thought; "I said it was a
plant. Hang it all! why worry? Believe my nerves are going to
blazes."

The next moment the door was thrown open, and Unter-leutnant Kaspar
Diehardt 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 several
strong arms, the British pilot was bundled unceremoniously into the
cell.




CHAPTER XII

St. George's Eve


The "downed" airman was undoubtedly feeling the after effects of his
crash. His forehead was swathed in a bloodstained linen-substitute
bandage made of paper. He had been deprived of his leather
flying-coat, triplex glasses, and fur-lined boots. Even his tunic had
been taken from him. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, disclosing a
pair of badly-scorched arms, while in his fiery descent his eyebrows
had been singed, notwithstanding the protection afforded by his
goggles.

He eyed Alec curiously. Although the latter greeted him with a smile
and an outstretched hand, the pilot evinced no enthusiasm. There was
a distinctly stand-offish manner about him that put a damper on the
Sub's advances.

"By Jove! That was a fine stunt of yours," remarked Seton, as a
preliminary to a friendly conversation.

"Think so?" queried the other with a slight drawl.

"Rather!"

"'Umph!"

The attempt fizzled out. Both men stood silent, contemplating each
other like a couple of boxers about to engage in a bout.

"Can I do anything for you?" asked Seton.

"No, thanks."

Another interval of silence. Alec was wondering how to pass the time
with such a mouldy messmate. He had rejoiced at the prospect of
companionship, but his realizations in that respect were falling far
short of his anticipations.

The day wore on. The new arrival spent most of his time in possession
of the open window, while Alec resumed his vigil at the seaward
aperture of the cell until the midday meal was brought in.

Suddenly the Sub felt a hand laid upon his shoulder, and the pilot's
voice speaking peremptorily:

"Who and what are you?"

Seton told him his name and rank.

"You'll take your oath on it. Proper jonnick?"

"Proper jonnick," declared the somewhat mystified naval officer.

"Good enough!" continued the R.A.F. pilot with a laugh. "Had to be on
my guard, don't you know? Thought you were a Boche agent."

"Thanks," said Alec. "And what gave you that impression, may I ask?"

"Natural caution, that's all," answered the pilot. "Fritz has a nasty
habit of putting a Boche in with a fellow as a sort of room-mate,
merely to try and pick his brains, don't you know? Don't say it isn't
done, 'cause it is. Your opening remark about my little stunt rather
strengthened my suspicion."

"And what made you alter your opinion?"

"A fairly long period of observation," replied the pilot. "What
settled it was the way you were taking your soup or skilly. Beastly
rotten stuff, but a Hun couldn't take it silently--you did."

"You're sure you're not mistaken?" asked Alec facetiously.

"Certain sure," rejoined the other. "My name? Oh, just Smith! When a
fellow wants to be specially polite he addresses me as
Allerton-Smith. But, by Jove, what a rotten crib to be shoved into!
How long have you been here?"

Seton told him.

"Doesn't say much for my skill in egg-dropping," continued the pilot.
"Our fellows have got hold of the idea that the Huns have a large
petrol-store close to the head of the Mole. Consequently I've tried
my level best to bomb the place, and apparently you into the
bargain."

"Then I can assure you that you weren't far wide of the mark," said
Alec. "Several times you rather put the wind up me, to say nothing of
rudely disturbing my beauty sleep."

"Is that so--then I apologize," declared Smith. "All the same it is a
bit gratifying to know that I do get near the mark sometimes."

"You did early this morning, at any rate." said Seton. "Those U-boats
went up beautifully."

"And so did I," added the pilot. "Haven't quite got over the rotten
sensation yet. Wonder my 'bus wasn't pulverized with solid stuff
flying up. The air seemed stiff with bits of submarines. Funny thing
happened--but perhaps I'm boring you?"

"Not at all," Alec hastened to assure him. "What happened?"

"Well, the old 'bus was whirling like a piece of straw. I was hanging
over the side of the fuselage, when I saw a huge piece of metal
rising, up to meet me--awfully weird sensation. Thought my number was
up for a dead cert, when the chunk of stuff seemed to stop still, and
then drop and disappear."

"How was that?" asked the Sub.

"Simply that my old 'bus was just a few feet above the highest point
reached by the up-flung metal before gravity won the tug-of-war,
don't you know. Then I came tumbling down, doing a sort of
_splitasse_ all over the place. Thought I was going to crash right on
top of a house when the 'bus sort of pulled herself together,
flattened out and then made a fairly decent sort of landing in the
middle of the canal, which wasn't bad for a machine without a tail.
Next thing I remember was being hauled on board a boat and taken off
to the head of the Mole. Why the Boches wanted to do that puzzles me.
It wasn't out of consideration for you, old bird."

"Evidently not," remarked Seton. "It's my belief, strengthened by a
hint from von Brockdorff-Giespert, that we are here as a species of
cock-shies for our own fellows. By the by, have you met von
Brockdorff-Giespert?"

"The U-boat staff-bloke? Rather!" replied the pilot. "He tried to
pump me, and, finding that was no go, tried to put the screw on.
There was nothin' doin'."

The pilot paced up and down the limits of his prison-cell like a
caged animal. Then suddenly wheeling, he asked:

"Ever thought of doing a bunk?"

"Many a time," replied the Sub. "That's as far as it went. Even
supposing I got clear of this show, what's to be done? Not a chance
of finding a boat, and putting to sea."

"Putting to sea!" repeated the airman. "That's all you sailors think
about. The Huns know it too, and directly you were missed they'd send
out torpedo-craft as far as they dared go to look for you. No, it's
inland--that's the wheeze. It would put the Boches off the scent, and
a fellow would stand a fighting chance of getting across into
Holland."

"We're still behind iron bars--and massive ones at that," Seton
reminded him.

"Quite so," admitted Smith. "There are other means; this was a
gun-emplacement."

"So I believe."

"I know for a fact," declared the pilot. "The Huns constructed half a
dozen for big guns to be directed seaward. The old R.N.A.S. knocked
them about so badly that Fritz abandoned the idea. Now, does that
suggest anything?"

"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

"The guns must have been served when they were in position."

"Admitted."

"And Fritz may make plenty of blunders, but he's no fool. Having
placed the guns in position in well-concealed emplacements, he
wouldn't send the ammunition along in the open. He'd connect the
emplacements by passages to run the stuff up on tram-lines. You can
take it from me, my festive, that if we dug down we'd break into a
tunnel already provided for our edification."

"Sounds feasible," admitted Seton.

"Then when shall we start?" asked the pilot.

"Now," decided the Sub promptly.

Both men were warming to their work. Even if the desired result were
not forthcoming, it was something to occupy their minds, and to ward
off the deadly monotony.

"We'll have to go slow," cautioned Seton. "The floor looks pretty
solid, and we've no tools."

"Haven't we, by Jove!" exclaimed Smith, producing a steel
marline-spike of about nine inches in length. "I saw this beauty in
the boat that brought me across the harbour, and, thinking it might
come in useful, I annexed it. We'll start with this stone; it looks
slightly wonky."

While one listened at the door for the sentry, the other tackled the
cement. Working in turns, they succeeded at the end of three hours'
work in prising the slab from its bed. Underneath was a quantity of
rubble, bordered on one side by a stone slab.

"We're breaking into the old trap-hatch," declared the pilot. "We
must clear this rubble and get rid of it. I vote we carry on till
supper-time, and then stand by till midnight. It will be a slow
business at first."

Handful by handful the rubble was removed, and thrown cautiously
through the window on the seaward-side of the Mole. Before supper
was brought in, the stone slab that formed the only barrier between
the cell and the arch of the communication gallery was exposed.

In good time the upper slab was replaced and dust rubbed into the
exposed joints, so that the gaoler would not notice anything was
amiss.

"To-night's the night," remarked Smith, as the two prisoners partook
of their frugal, unappetizing meal. "We'll have a jaunt ashore, if
nothing else."

"What day is it?" asked Alec. "I've lost all count of time."

"Twenty-second of April," replied the pilot.

"Good enough!" exclaimed Seton joyfully. "St. George's Eve--a good
omen."

As night fell the two officers prepared to renew their task. If
Smith's surmise were correct, the actual business of breaking out of
their cell seemed a fairly simple matter. Seton wondered why he had
not thought of a similar plan before. Then he reflected that, had he
done so, and had the work of getting clear of the Mole been
successful, he would most certainly have attempted to make for the
open sea. The idea of bluffing the Hun by going inland and thence
across the Dutch frontier had never occurred to him.

Nevertheless the whole business was fraught with peril. The men were
liable to be shot at sight by the sentries; if recaptured they might
also be executed as spies, since they were not in uniform. Without
doubt Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert would not be backward in
taking any steps to make it decidedly unpleasant for them should they
have the ill-luck to be recaptured.

Directly the rounds had made their usual inspection and had taken
their departure, Alec and his R.A.F. comrade set to work. With only a
marline-spike and two pairs of hands, the task of removing the
cemented-in stone was a tedious and formidable one. They had to
proceed cautiously and silently, lest the alert sentries detected the
grating of cold steel against hard cement.

At intervals they desisted to listen. It was quite possible that the
communication-tunnel might still be in use, in which case it was
falling out of the frying-pan into the fire with a vengeance, and at
the expense of a terrific amount of hard and purposeless toil.

"Wonder how goes the time," gasped Smith, pausing to straighten his
aching back and to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. "Getting
on for midnight, I should say."

"No fear; it's not much past eight o'clock," replied Alec. "I'll just
see."

He went to the seaward aperture and gazed skywards. The night was
dark and calm. The stars shone brilliantly, although obscured here
and there by patches of mist. In the northern sky the Great Bear
flamed in stellar splendour. By its position with relation to the
Pole Star, Alec was able to confirm his surmise with a fair degree of
accuracy.

"It's certainly not nine yet," he reported. "We've eight hours of
darkness; ought to do something in that time. By Jove, this cement's
hard! Wonder if it came from England?"

He took the marline-spike from his companion. It was wet and sticky.
The pilot's hands, hitherto well kept and unused to hard manual
labour, were almost raw. Alec's were not much better, while every
muscle in his body and limbs was aching with the unwonted exertion.

Yet doggedly they continued their work, each man relieving the other
at, roughly, a quarter of an hour's interval. The stone was beginning
to show signs of working loose.

"Wonder if any of our fellows will be over to-night," remarked the
airman. "We don't give Fritz much rest."

"It's been quieter to-day than ever since I've been here," said Alec.
"You were the last fellow to come over."

"And stay here," added the other grimly. "Hope Fritz doesn't think
that one man being brought down will put the others off. If so, he's
vastly mistaken."

"I wish there would be a big raid or bombardment," declared the Sub.
"We'd have to run the risk of being strafed; but, on the other hand,
Fritz would be much too busy to worry about us. What's the weight of
this stone: three-quarters of a hundredweight?"

"Quite," replied Smith promptly. He had been mentally calculating the
cubic capacity and weight of that wedge-shaped piece of stone for
hours past. "It's not the weight that matters so much. It's the
awkward shape of the brute."

For the next ten minutes the two toilers were silent. Every jab with
the now-blunted marline-spike was telling. The stone was almost ready
for removal.

"Hist!" whispered Seton, holding up a warning hand. Although it was
night, the stars enabled the men, accustomed to the sombre
conditions, to see with comparative ease.

"What is it?" whispered Smith.

In reply Seton inserted the point of the spike into a crevice and
pressed his ear lightly against the blunt end. His suspicions were
not ill-founded. The metal, acting as a transmitter of sound, enabled
him to detect footsteps in the corridor beneath.

"Rough luck," remarked the pilot in a low tone.

"We'll stand fast for a bit," decided Seton. "It may be that it's
only a patrol or a party drawing stores. It's not far from midnight
now."

As he spoke a gun barked a few yards off, quickly followed by another
and another, until the masonry quivered and swayed with the terrific
detonations.

Both men made their way to the window, which, unaccountably, their
gaolers had not closed by means of the metal shutter.

Seaward avast bank of fog--whether natural or artificial the watchers
had no means of telling--was punctured by rapid and vivid flashes of
light. Star-shells and search-lights illumined the sky. Shells were
screeching and bursting everywhere, until the sea and sky seemed
blotted out with smoke and far-flung columns of spray.

Suddenly Seton gripped his companion's arm, causing him to wince with
pain, and pointed to an indistinct grey mass looming through the fog.
It was a vessel, blazing away with quick-firers and heading straight
for the Mole.

"Thank God for that sight!" ejaculated Alec fervently. "This is the
beginning of St. George's Day with a vengeance."




CHAPTER XIII

The Attack on the Mole


"It all depends upon the weather," remarked Lieutenant-Commander
Farnborough. "This is absolutely the best we've had, and our third
attempt--three for luck."

It was a quarter to five on the afternoon of Monday, the 22nd of
April. The main force of the vessels operating against Zeebrugge and
Ostend were on the point of starting from the concentration base,
upon their hazardous enterprise.

The composition of the operating craft was of a truly diverse nature.
Off the Goodwins came the old _Vindictive_, disguised almost out of
knowledge. Her mainmast was down, the massive spar being fashioned
into a huge "bumpkin" to fend her stem off the masonry of the Mole.
On her foremast and above her conning-tower were box-like structures
containing flame-projecting apparatus, Lewis-guns, and other devices
conjured up by the Great War. Along her sides were large "brows" or
gangways, together with a formidable array of hawsers and chains
terminating in specially constructed grapnels.

Astern and in tow of her were _Iris_ and _Daffodil_, two
ferry-steamers well known to the inhabitants of Liverpool and
Birkenhead, and now carrying passengers of a very different sort from
those to which they were accustomed. Following were the block-ships
_Thetis_, _Intrepid_, _Iphigenia_, _Sirius_, and _Brilliant_, the
paddle mine-sweeper _Lingfield_, and five M.-L.'s.

The starboard column was composed of _Warwick_, flying the flag of
Vice-admiral Keyes, _Phoebe_, _North Star_, _Trident_, and
_Mansfield_, the two latter towing two obsolete submarines of the "C"
class. In the port column were destroyers, every vessel towing one or
more coastal motor-boats, while between the columns were about fifty
or sixty M.-L.'s.

M.-L. No. 4452 was told off to operate with the artificial
fog-producing craft. It was to be by no means an uninteresting task,
for, not only was it fraught with danger, but it required great skill
and sound judgment on the part of the small craft concerned to
liberate the thick pall of smoke at the opportune moment and exactly
in the required spot.

Both Farnborough and Branscombe had urgently requested permission to
be allowed to take their M.-L. into the harbour to rescue the crews
of the block-ships; but since practically every M.-L. skipper had
made a similar submission it was obvious that there were to be many
disappointed aspirants to the honour--amongst them the officer
commanding M.-L. 4452.

Cautiously the strange medley of naval vessels proceeded. Several
hours of daylight yet remained--a period during which the flotilla
was in more danger of submarine attack than during the night. There
was also the risk of running over an enemy mine-field, for the Huns,
anticipating naval operations against their Belgian fortresses, had
been known to make lavish use of their mine-laying submarines.
Another factor, which subsequently proved to be a very vital one, was
the position of the buoys. These had been carefully observed by
British air-craft, and, as far as could be judged, were all in their
positions on the morning of the 22nd.

Orders had been given to dispense with wireless signals, while the
use of flags as a means of communication was reduced to a minimum.
But one signal and its reply were fated to be recorded in the pages
of history.

From the Admiral's ship came the stirring message, a clarion call to
which Englishmen had oft-times rallied before: "St. George for
England".

Promptly came the forcible and appropriate rejoinder, "And may we
give the Dragon's Tail a jolly good twist".

Guarded by destroyers and M.-L.'s the _Vindictive_ and the
block-ships proceeded, arriving at a certain rendezvous just as
darkness was setting in. Here the principal actors separated, the
_Sirius_ and _Brilliant_ making towards Ostend, while the others held
on for Zeebrugge.

"How do you feel, old son?" inquired Lieutenant-Commander Farnborough
of his Sub-lieutenant.

"Can hardly describe it," replied Branscombe. "Almost believe I've
got cold feet, but I wouldn't be out of the show for anything."

Branscombe's description of his condition was a figure of speech.
Actually his throat was hot, his tongue was dry, and he could hardly
speak a word in reply to his commander. His heart was thumping
heavily, while his pulse was throbbing at a rate that would have made
a medical man, unacquainted with the circumstances, look astonished.
It was a series of sensations akin to those experienced during the
last five minutes before "Going over the Top".

A few minutes after scheduled time the monitors began their
preliminary "hate", and almost immediately the German guns replied.
It was a preliminary operation only, with a view to distracting the
attention of the Huns from the _Vindictive_ and the block-ships.

Both Farnborough and his Sub were consulting their wristlet watches
almost every fifteen seconds. They wore their watches outside their
thick gloves, for officers and men had to be as fully protected as
possible against the highly-injurious effects of mustard gas.
Together with shrapnel helmets and gas-masks the "get-up" was as
unlike that of the Royal Navy as could be readily imagined.

At 11.40 to the minute--for everything depended upon the operations
being carried out "according to plan"--the coastal motor-boats dashed
in towards the low, flat, sandy shore, and proceeded to lay floats on
which the fog-producing plant was lashed. As the dense black pall of
vapour rose, Fritz opened a heavy fire. Anxious foreboding was
telling upon him. His nerves were very much on edge that night.

Several of the floats were observed to be sunk, while, as ill-luck
would have it, the light wind, hitherto favourable to the enterprise,
changed in direction. Nevertheless, the dauntless little craft went
about their work, nothing but their small size and handiness saving
them from annihilation by the terrifically hot fire maintained by the
enemy.

Sixteen minutes later the _Vindictive_, emerging from the
smoke-screen, sighted the head of the Mole, bearing one and a half
cables on the port-bow. Gathering increased way until her engines
were working at full speed, she steered straight for her appointed
berthing-place, her guns literally belching fire as she forged
through the shell-torn water. It was a gallant sight. Marvellous it
was that the old cruiser was not sent to the bottom, so violent was
the cannonade directed towards her.

St. George's Day, 1918, was but a minute old when, with the shock
practically absorbed by her massive fenders, the _Vindictive_ struck
the Mole a glancing blow. Although her decks were shambles, she was
now fairly protected from the German fire by the masonry of the lofty
breakwater, but by this time her funnels, upper-works, and
flame-projecting huts were riddled.

In the midst of a truly deafening din men dashed from cover to hurl
the grapnels across the parapet of the Mole. At first the attempt was
a failure, for the set of the tide and the scend of the sea caused
the _Vindictive_ first to grind heavily and then swing slightly away
from the wall. To add to the difficulty of the storming-party most of
the "brows" had been shattered by shell-fire. Two only could be run
out, and along them literally lurched the seamen and marines. Swept
by machine-gun fire the passage of the storming-party along those
frail gangways was a heroic one. In cold blood a man would have been
pardoned for hesitating to essay the task. Should any of the men slip
and fall--and several of them did--a hideous death awaited them
between the grinding hull of the ship and the seaweed-covered masonry
of the Mole.

Encumbered though they were with Lewis-guns, bombs, ammunition, and
explosive charges, and carrying rifles and bayonets, the
storming-party continued, one after another, to gain the top of the
parapet, whence a drop of fully fifteen feet had to be risked before
they could reach the fairly broad but much obstructed roadway on the
inner side of the breakwater.

Meanwhile, not only had the _Vindictive_ put alongside the Mole
farther from the mole-head than had been intended, but she
obstinately refused to range alongside. It was the little _Daffodil_
that saved the situation. Bows on, and with her engines continuously
going ahead, the Liverpool ferry-boat forced her big consort up
against the Mole, and thus enabled the rest of the storming- and
demolition-party to land.

A few yards ahead of the now secured _Vindictive_ came the _Iris_. In
the heavy ground-swell she bumped heavily against the hard granite.
Most of her scaling-ladders were smashed to matchwood, and those that
remained were almost too insecure to attempt to use. Yet, in spite of
hostile fire and the hazardous means of ascent, men were not wanting
to risk and give their lives for King and Country.

One of the first to ascend was Lieutenant Claude Hawkings. For a
brief instant he stood upon the parapet, silhouetted against the
glare of the star-shells and the flashes of the guns, striving to
engage one of the large grapnels flung from the deck of the _Iris_.
The next instance he was shot and fell upon the stonework.

Almost simultaneously Lieutenant-Commander G. N. Bradford worked his
way to the top of a derrick used for lifting out a large mole-anchor.
From this precarious perch he leapt down, alighting on all fours on
the parapet. Without an instant's delay he was on his feet again and
tugging furiously at the anchor to secure it. This he did, and in the
moment of success he, too, was shot, his body falling into the water
betwixt the ship and the Mole.

Unfortunately the mole-anchors refused to obtain a grip. Grinding and
bumping, the _Iris_ was unable to land her men. Reluctantly it was
realized that any further attempt at that spot would mean a needless
loss of life, so the cable was slipped and the little ferry-boat ran
alongside the _Vindictive_, where she was able to land the survivors
of her seamen and Royal Marines across the deck of the cruiser.

By this time the storming- and demolition-parties were hard at it,
clearing the head of the Mole and making a mess of German personnel
and material generally. With Lewis-guns and bombs they worked their
way along, destroying wireless stations, clearing out machine-gun
nests, and hurling deadly explosive missiles upon the decks of the
German torpedo-craft lying alongside.

It was by no means a one-sided affair. Caught like rats in a trap the
Huns on the seaward end of the Mole put up a plucky and stubborn
fight, doubtless relying upon the chance of receiving reinforcements
from the shore.

The expected reinforcements never arrived. To enable German troops to
gain the stone portion of the Mole they must needs cross an iron pier
connecting the stonework with the mainland. Bodies of troops were
actually on the way, when it was noticed that a submarine was
approaching at a distance of a mile and a half. Lit up by the glare
of the star-shells the coming submarine presented a tempting target.
Hun 4-inch guns promptly opened fire upon her, but unswervingly the
submarine held on.

This puzzled Fritz completely. Then it occurred to him that the
British submarine was out of her course and that, if she carried on,
she would run aground and become an easy capture. So orders were
given to cease fire and to train two search-lights upon the doomed
craft in order to baffle still further her navigating officer.

But C 3 was not out of her course, nor was her lieutenant in command
at all hazy as to his position. The submarine was laden with
explosives in order to demolish the only means of communication
between the Mole and the shore. It was deemed a task that entailed
the sacrifice of C 3's officers and men; yet, in the hope that a
slight chance of escape offered, the vessel was provided with a motor
dinghy. From the conning-tower the officers could see the viaduct
distinctly, as it stood out against the glare. On it were hundreds of
German troops, many dancing and waving their arms with delight at the
thought of making an easy capture of the bewildered Englishmen.

Now, at a distance of less than a hundred yards, success looked like
becoming realization. Altering helm slightly C 3 charged the viaduct
at full speed, hitting it fairly at right angles. The blunt nose of
the submarine glinted over a horizontal girder, lifting the hull
quite two feet out of the water. Still carrying way, C 3 lurched
forward until the base of her conning-tower brought up against the
massive iron braces of the pier. There she remained hard and fast,
save for the quivering movement imparted by the ground-swell.

Overhead were hundreds of Huns still delirious with glee at their
easy victory; underneath, a handful of cool and resolute Britons
determined to do the job thoroughly and efficiently.

C 3 had been fitted with gyro steering-gear, a device similar to that
of the Whitehead torpedo, to enable her to steer automatically for
her goal after her crew had abandoned her. But, taking no risks on
that score, Lieutenant Sandford, the officer in command, had resorted
to the ordinary methods of steering until the submarine was securely
wedged under the viaduct.

Before the actual impact C 3's crew mustered on deck. In that exposed
position they remained within full view of the enemy; yet, confident
that the submarine's crew would speedily be made prisoners, the
Germans forbore to fire.

The order was then given to ignite the fuses. Having made sure that
the desired explosion would take place, Lieutenant Sandford gave the
word for all hands to embark on the skiff.

Then the disconcerting discovery was made that the skiff's propeller
had received damage. The little motor was useless. All that could be
done was to make use of oars in a race against time. It was a hard
tussle, with the tide boring against the deeply-laden boat. Unless a
certain distance was covered before the explosion took place the men
would share the fate in store for the Huns.

To add to the difficulties the Germans, on finding that the dinghy
was leaving the submarine, opened a furious fire with pom-poms,
machine-guns, and rifles. It was indeed a mystery how the skiff
survived the ordeal. Holed many times, her officer in command twice
wounded, and several of her crew hit, she struggled manfully against
the current, her pumps going all the time to keep the inrush of water
under control.

Yard by yard the little boat drew away from the abandoned C 3. Fritz,
wild with rage at being baulked of the capture of the crew, redoubled
his fire, more men and more machine-guns being brought up to harass
the elusive skiff-dinghy.

By dint of strenuous exertions the boat gained a distance of about
two hundred yards through the bullet-flecked water when, with a
tremendous report, the explosive cargo of C 3 detonated.

In an instant the viaduct went up in a cloud of flame-torn smoke,
taking with it men, guns, and search-lights. The air was full of
falling debris, a great quantity dropping into the water all around
the skiff.

There was not the slightest doubt that C 3's work was accomplished,
while the chances of her crew surviving their hazardous task rose
with a bound.

In the lull that followed, the men made good use of their oars, and
presently, to their relief, the picquet-boat told off to attempt
their rescue was sighted. Quickly the heroic men were taken off and
transferred to comparative safety on board H.M.T.B.D. _Phoebe_.
Meanwhile the demolition-parties on the Mole were hard at work with
Fritz's little contraptions, while the block-ships were preparing for
their _magnum opus_ within the gates of the Huns' stronghold.




CHAPTER XIV

The Night of Nights


"Hurrah! They've laid the ship slap alongside the Mole," reported
Seton from his post of observation at the seaward aperture.

"Sure," agreed Smith. "And it's about time we broke bounds and had a
chip in."

Both men were shouting at the top of their voices, for the noise
without was deafening. The roar of the heavy guns punctuated by the
crash of the quick-firers, the rattle of machine-guns, the hiss of
escaping steam, the grinding of the _Vindictive's_ hull against the
masonry, the cheers and shouts of the storming-parties, and the cries
and groans of the wounded, all united in an indescribable babel of
discord.

Owing to the relative position of the ship and the prisoners'
observation aperture, only a few feet of the _Vindictive's_ stern
could be seen. There was nothing to indicate whether the assault had
been successful. But on the Mole side there were soon evidences that
the British seamen and marines had obtained a footing, and had more
than made good their position.

Grotesquely garbed men were dashing forward in sections, hurling
bombs and using Lewis-guns like fiends possessed. Here and there a
cornered Hun would put up a fight until laid low by bullet or cutlass
thrust. Slowly but surely the British invaders of the Mole were
working their way along.

"No place for us here," yelled Seton. "Our fellows are bombing every
hole they see. It's useless to attempt to tell them who we are, and I
don't fancy being blown to atoms by our own side. We'll have to take
to the tunnel."

"Right-o!" agreed the pilot.

Together they struggled desperately with the refractory stone, until
by dint of great effort they succeeded in raising it on to the floor
of the cell. It was then a matter of comparative ease to enlarge the
hole sufficiently to allow them to effect their escape.

They were not a moment too soon. With the sounds of the conflict
immediately outside their cell, the two men dropped through the
gaping hole, alighting on the stone floor of the corridor eight or
nine feet below.

The tunnel was thick with suffocating fumes. Until the smoke cleared
any attempt at escape in the rear of the storming- and
demolition-parties was out of the question. All that could be done
was to work their way along to the seaward end of the corridor, and
there await developments.

"Wish I had a gas-mask," exclaimed Alec chokingly.

"Same here," agreed the pilot. "Here," he added, pointing to a pile
of what appeared to be short sticks, "take a few, they'll come in
handy."

The acquired articles were bombs of German manufacture, and had
evidently been placed there as a reserve stock.

"Know how they work?" inquired Smith.

Alec shook his head. He understood the mechanism of the Mills'
grenade, but he had never before had an opportunity of handling a
German bomb.

"Simply pass this thing round your wrist and chuck the thing as hard
as you can. The cord is tied to the safety-pin, and the jerk releases
the pin. Quite easy."

"And easy to blow yourself up," added Seton. "All right, carry on!
We'll do our best with the things."

Proceeding cautiously, for they could hear Huns talking in the
tunnel, the two men worked their way along the tunnel for nearly a
hundred yards. Then they paused abruptly and flattened themselves
against the wall.

A few feet farther along, the corridor terminated in a flight of
steps, seven in number, leading upwards to a fairly spacious
casemate. From where Alec and his comrade stood the legs of several
Germans could be seen, the rest of their bodies being hidden by the
curvature of the roof of the tunnel. The men were formed up round a
quick-firing gun of 15 centimetres, or approximately 4.1 inches--a
weapon of great hitting power and rapidity of action.

Evidently they were waiting to train the weapon upon some moving
objective that had not yet entered the arc of fire.

The two officers glanced at each other. Their teeth gleamed in the
dull light, as they exchanged grins of delight. They were no longer
prisoners of the tyrannical Hun, but strong men armed. Providence had
delivered the enemy into their hands, but it would not be a one-sided
contest. The surprise of the attack would compensate for the
inequality of numbers, and there were the survivors and possibly
crews of guns in another casemate to be reckoned with.

Simultaneously both officers took a step forward, and launched their
deadly missiles. The two reports sounded as one, outvoicing in the
confined space the din of the conflict without. Amid the rattle of
metallic splinters could be heard the thud of bodies falling and the
startled squeals of wounded men who find themselves unexpectedly hit.

The rapid crack of an automatic pistol and the splaying of bullets
against the stonework gave Seton and his companion warning that their
work had not been thorough. Through the pall of smoke a Hun--perhaps
more than one--was "letting rip".

Four bombs in quick succession gave the unseen foe his quietus.
Silence reigned in the casemate. The roar of battle without was
increasing in violence.


[Illustration: THE PILOT THREW A BOMB FULL IN THE FACE OF A PRUSSIAN
UNTER-LEUTNANT]


Keeping a sharp look-out for the approach of Hun reliefs along the
corridor, the two officers waited until the pungent fumes had almost
cleared. Then, into the suffocating atmosphere they penetrated.
Ascending the short flight of steps they gained the gun emplacement.
The weapon, trained to the extreme left, was pointing slightly to the
right of the lighthouse, at the extreme end of the Mole extension.
Around it lay the bodies of the crew.

A glance through the sighting-slit in the gun-shield gave Alec a
clue. Seaward the water was swept by search-lights, the giant beams
darting between the sullenly rolling clouds of artificial fog.
Quick-firing guns were blazing away like fury. Apparently a
torpedo-craft attack on the harbour was about to take place.

"Make a job of it while we are about it," shouted Smith, pointing to
a passage on their right. "Another quick-firer in there!"

Through the passage dashed the impromptu bombers, encouraged by their
previous victory. Less than ten yards away was another 15-centimetre
gun. Apparently its crew were either in ignorance of the knocking-out
of the sister-gun, or else they attributed the noise of the bombs to
the explosion of a shell fired from seaward.

In any case the surprise was complete. Two bombs were sufficient to
silence the weapon.

Beyond was yet a third gun. In this instance the task was by no means
so easy, for running along the communication passage came a stalwart
naval gunner--one of a picked crew from the German High Seas Fleet.

It was the two officers' canvas suits--garments so grudgingly
accepted and yet so opportune--that saved them from instant
detection. The Hun, imagining them to be two members of a
working-party, bellowed an incoherent order. In a trice he was
collared in approved Rugby fashion, while a heavy blow behind the ear
reduced him to a state of insensibility.

The scuffle was witnessed by two or three Germans engaged in bringing
up ammunition. Their shouts of alarm roused the rest of the gun's
crew.

Before Seton and his companion, having completed their task of
strafing the Hun gunner, could hurl their bombs, a fusillade of
pistol shots rang out. A bullet grazed Smith's cheek; another
ploughed a furrow through Seton's hair.

The pilot threw a bomb full in the face of a Prussian unter-leutnant.
The missile failed to explode, although it floored the German.
Another Boche picked up the bomb and hurled it back. Ricochetting
against the wall it hurtled past Seton's head and clattered on the
floor of the tunnel ten feet in the rear of the British officers.

There was no time to devote to that. If the sinister missile exploded
it meant an end to the contest, but fortunately it was what was known
as a "dud".

Almost immediately Alec threw a grenade. It exploded within a couple
of seconds of leaving the Sub's hand. When the smoke cleared away,
the gun was deserted, save by the dead and dying. Three Huns who had
escaped the death-dealing missile had promptly leapt through the
embrasure into the sea.

"By Jove, we've put a battery out of action," declared Smith
breathlessly. "What luck!"

"Luck, indeed," agreed Alec, pointing to the unexploded bomb. "If
that beauty had gone up--but it didn't. What's doing now?"

The two men made their way to the embrasure. It was just possible to
squeeze between the steel shield and the granite face of the gun
emplacement.

Without, the scene beggared description. Although the 15-centimetre
guns were silent, hundreds of smaller quick-firers and machine-guns
were letting rip at what was certainly short range. Search-lights
were swinging to and fro across the harbour, star-shells bursting
high aloft turned night into day.

From seaward shells were coming in showers knocking splinters from
the Mole extension on which a Hun battery of six 88-millimetre guns
was rapidly being put out of action.

To the right of the embrasure at which the two British officers had
taken up their post of observation could be discerned a string of
canal barges, moored end to end with anti-torpedo nets between, while
the line of obstruction terminated in a number of net defence buoys,
their position hardly visible even in the strong artificial light.

The while, sounds of conflict on the Mole were distinctly audible,
although from where Seton and his companion stood it was impossible
to see what was taking place. The crash of bombs and the rattle of
machine-guns mingled with British cheers and German guttural shouts.
Whatever was happening it was apparent that the landing-parties were
making things particularly hot for Fritz on Zeebrugge Mole.

Even as the two men looked the object of the Huns' shortened fire
became visible, for, steaming at full speed towards the Mole-head,
were the first of the British block-ships _Thetis_, _Intrepid_, and
_Iphigenia_.

Once more it was a case of the onlookers seeing most of the game. At
the risk of being knocked out by a British shell--for the position of
the now silent 15-centimetre guns was known to the attacking forces,
although the actual bore of the guns was supposed to be but 10.5
centimetres--Seton and his companion stood enthralled at the
spectacle of supreme valour.

Literally into the jaws of Death came the _Thetis_, majestically,
unswerving, and as steadily as if about to pick up moorings at
Spithead. With her quick-firers replying to the storm of German
shrapnel she held on, rounded the Mole-head, and passed within a
cable's length of the battery in which Seton and Smith stood.

Then, with a slight alteration of helm she steered straight for the
barge farthest from the Mole. Down went the barge; on swept the
_Thetis_. Between the net defence she went, tearing buoys and nets
from their anchors and sinkers. Hampered by these obstructions, for
apparently the nets fouled her propellers, the _Thetis_ slowed down
and grounded diagonally across the entrance to the canal and about a
hundred yards from the pier-heads.

Even as she settled, for she had been purposely sunk in the fairway,
the _Intrepid_ came into view. In her case she was late in rounding
the Mole-head, a circumstance that was subsequently explained by the
fact that her surplus watch of stokers, determined not to miss the
scrap, had refused to be taken off by the M.-L.'s. Consequently the
_Intrepid_ went into Zeebrugge Harbour with a complement of 87
officers and men instead of 54, and that meant that if possible 33
extra men had to be rescued by the little M.-L.'s.

Steering for the gap in the net defences made by the _Thetis_ and
judging her position by the latter vessel, hard aground, the second
participator in the marine Balaclava entered the Harbour.

Although receiving a heavy gruelling the _Intrepid_, worthy of her
name, held resolutely to her course, until she grounded heavily in
the centre of the entrance to the canal. Her mission accomplished she
was sunk by orders of her gallant skipper, and thus thousands of tons
of hard cement were firmly embedded in the mud and sandy bottom of
the canal. And now, to make doubly sure of the bottling-up process,
the _Iphigenia_ approached under a heavy fire. She, too, was carrying
far more than her required complement of men, the supernumeraries,
resolutely determined not to be out of the grim business, having
dodged the motor-launches told off to remove them before the ship
made for the harbour.

From their point of observation Seton and Smith watched the
majestically-moving _Iphigenia_. Frequently hidden by driving clouds
of artificial fog, pounded by guns of all calibres, with her
upper-works shot through and through, the third block-ship held on.

Suddenly two shells hit the ship on the starboard side. Following the
blast and smoke of the exploding missiles a dense cloud of steam
poured from her vitals, enveloping the whole of the forepart in
blinding vapour.

"Steam-pipe severed," decided Alec. "Now, what will she do? She's
missing the entrance, by Jove!"

Fortunately, at that juncture the smoke cleared sufficiently to allow
the temporarily blinded navigation-party to realize their mistake.
With her partly-disabled engines going at full speed astern, the
_Iphigenia_ drove between a large dredger and a lighter, sinking the
latter like a stone. Then, driving the rammed barge ahead with her
only starboard engine working, she literally pushed the huge,
unwieldy craft into the canal.

It was tricky navigation, difficult even in times of peace, to
manoeuvre a craft like the _Iphigenia_ in a narrow waterway. Hampered
by smoke, pounded at by guns, and blinded by search-lights and
star-shells, her commander's task appeared to be super-human. Yet
marvels were accomplished that night, and _Iphigenia's_ handling was
one of them. Ably manoeuvred, she narrowly missed colliding with the
sunken _Intrepid_, then coolly and deliberately she was grounded on
the east side of the canal, thus making doubly sure that the hornets'
nest was sealed.

And now, their work completed, the storming- and demolition-parties
from the _Vindictive_, _Iris_, and _Daffodil_ were being withdrawn.

"Time for us to be making tracks, old man," shouted Alec to his chum.
"Our fellows are clearing off the Mole. It's our chance to slip off
with them, without being plugged by an over-excitable marine or blown
sky high by a British bomb."

"Yes, the show's over," rejoined the R.A.F. officer, as the pair
began to retrace their footsteps. "Jolly fine stunt--eh, what?"

Past the silent gun emplacements with the wiped-out crews, the two
officers hastened, and descending the short flight of steps, gained
the communication passage that ran practically the whole length of
the Mole.

For quite two hundred yards they fought their way through pungent
vapours, hoping to find an exit and thus mingle with the
storming-party as the men withdrew to their ships.

Suddenly they found themselves confronted by a mass of blackened
rubble, the stones still warm to the touch. A hasty examination
showed that a heavy charge of gun-cotton had blown in the tunnel,
completely cutting off the escape of Alec and his companion.

"Properly dished!" exclaimed Smith disgustedly. "We're trapped!"

"Tails up!" exhorted his companion. "I know of a way. Game for a
swim?"

"Right-o!" replied the R.A.F. officer. "Lead on, old son! It's the
night of nights, isn't it?"




CHAPTER XV

The Passing of M.-L. 4452


"Lucky blighters!" ejaculated Lieutenant Farnborough, referring
enviously to the M.-L.'s told off to rescue the crews of the
block-ships. "They're on the move, by Jove!"

"Wish we were on the same game," added Branscombe covetously. "I
suppose we can't log an imaginary signal ordering us in support?"

"Brilliant idea of yours, old man," replied Farnborough. "Half a mind
to try the wheeze."

M.-L. 4452, having for the time being completed her smoke-screen
task, was "lying off", an interested spectator of the dash of the
block-ships into Zeebrugge Harbour.

Other M.-L.'s had been detailed to cover the retirement of the old
_Vindictive_ and the two ex-ferry boats--if they were fortunate
enough to draw away from the inferno of fire and shot, shell and
poison gas; but Farnborough's command, together with six other
M.-L.'s, was to stand by as a reserve rescue vessel.

The _Thetis_ and her consorts had vanished into the smoke-laden
harbour. After them dashed the small motor craft detailed for the
rescue of the crews of the block-ships.

"It's like sending half a dozen wasps to tickle the tongue of a
bad-tempered lion," remarked Branscombe. "Lucky bounders!"

"Harry Tate's Navy is well up to-night," added Farnborough grimly.
"I'd like to see some of those funny bounders who tried to pull our
legs taking on this business. Guess they'd have the wind up. Hello,
here's one of 'em!"

Zigzagging through the smoke, dodging shells that landed exactly on
the spot where she had been two or three seconds previously, came a
M.-L., her decks packed with human beings. The destroyers pushed
forward to screen her from the wrathful Huns. Listing badly and well
down by the stern, the brave little craft had dared, and had come
back, scarred with honourable wounds, from the gates of hell.

Then came another, also bearing a heavy deck cargo of rescued men. As
she passed within a hundred yards of M.-L. 4452, the latter gave her
a rousing, cheer.

A comparatively long interval elapsed. No more M.-L.'s came into
view. A rocket, soaring aloft above the smoke, announced that the
_Vindictive_ was recalling her storming- and demolition-parties. It
was a way of announcing that all that could be done was done, and
nothing else was left but to withdraw from the action.

"There's our number!" exclaimed Farnborough, as a light blinked
through the murk.

It was a stretch of imagination on the part of the Lieutenant in
command of M.-L. 4452. Whether he saw the signal, or only imagined
that he did, made little difference. There was an opportunity of
making a dash into the harbour, and Farnborough jumped at it.

The engine-room telegraph-bell clanged loudly as the Lieutenant
ordered "Full speed ahead both engines". M.-L. 4452, hitherto
waltzing to and fro in a seemingly erratic manner, quivered under the
pulsations of the powerful motors. Zigzagging, she leapt, forward
towards the partly demolished lighthouse at the Mole-head.

Standing just behind his superior officer, Branscombe began to taste
the sensation of going into action. At first the experience was far
from pleasant, especially when the beam of a powerful search-light
swung round and steadied itself full upon the swiftly moving M.-L.

"Our number's up," thought Branscombe, for he felt absolutely certain
that a salvo of hostile shells would follow within a few seconds.
Fritz would be sure to let fly with a veritable tornado of "hate"
upon the brilliantly-lighted target.

Unaccountably Branscombe's surmise was not realized. Beyond a few
chance missiles that hurtled wide of the mark not a shot came from
the Mole-head batteries. Out of the dazzling light into comparative
darkness dashed the M.-L., rolling heavily in the confused swell at
the harbour-mouth.

"Hard-a-port!"

Round swung No. 4452 just in time to escape collision with one of her
sisters. Silhouetted against the ruddy glare an officer, megaphone in
hand, leant over the rail of the returning M.-L.

"Cutter adrift. . . ." he shouted, and the rest of his words were lost in
the din.

Farnborough raised his hand in acknowledgment. He understood;
somewhere in that turmoil of strife a boat had had to be abandoned--a
cutter with some of the survivors of the block-ships--otherwise the
official in command would not have gone to the trouble of reporting
it. Loss of material counted for nought that night. The sacrifice of
His Majesty's stores mattered not at all, provided the main object of
the operations was achieved; but with human life at stake all that
could be done to effect a rescue must be attempted.

Rounding the Mole-head so closely that the extremity of her signal
yard-arm almost scraped the masonry as she rolled to starboard, M.-L.
4452 gained the wreck-strewn harbour. Narrowly averting collision
with a water-logged barge, part of the net defence works that the
block-ships had rammed, the speedy little craft held on.

A sliver of shell brought her mast down with a run, at the same time
blowing her search-light over the side. Branscombe's cap vanished
through the broken glass of the wheel-house; a hot stabbing pain in
his forehead caused him to raise his hand to his head. His fingers
were wet, sticky and red. A piece of flying metal had seared his
forehead.

The Sub hardly realized that he had been hit. An inch nearer and the
wound might have been fatal, yet his narrow escape hardly troubled
him.

"Mind that gear doesn't foul our prop!" he shouted to one of the
crew--the man who had intended to buy an M.-L. for pleasure-cruising
in those dim, far-distant halcyon days "after the war".

"Aye, aye, sir."

The man made his way to the side, where a raffle of wire was trailing
over the splintered deck. The next instant his feet gave way under
him and he sank inertly upon the deck.

In a trice Branscombe gripped him under the arm-pits and hauled him
into the frail shelter of the wheel-house. One glance was sufficient;
Brown, A.B. and ex-stockbroker, would never see the Stock Exchange
again, nor would he be able to put his carefully-laid after-the-war
plans into execution.

Another of the crew sprang forward, axe in hand. A few vigorous blows
sufficed to cut the tangle of broken gear clear. His immediate reward
was a machine-gun bullet through the left arm just above the elbow.

It was a hot time for M.-L. 4452. Apparently the other boats had
completed their particular tasks, for, as far as the drifting smoke
permitted, the harbour was clear of them. Fritz was hurling plenty of
"hate" at the solitary little craft, and only her speed and handiness
saved her from annihilation.

"No sign of the abandoned cutter," yelled Farnborough. "We'll hook
it--if we can."

Hard a-starboard went the helm. With the port propeller running
full-speed ahead and the starboard one half-speed astern, M.-L. 4452
spun round almost in her own length, just missing an undesirable
acquaintance in the shape of a 6-inch shell that ricochetted and
threw up a terrific column of spray within six feet of her bows.

Compared with the dash into the harbour the return journey was a
horrible nightmare. The haunting possibility of being knocked-out
recurred tenfold. The crew of the M.-L. no longer had their faces to
the foe, they were literally running for safety, and exposed to blows
in the back without being able to raise a finger in self-defence.

"There's the boat, by Jove!" exclaimed Branscombe.

"Where? How's she bearing?" asked the Lieutenant, for he was partly
blinded by blood flowing from a gash in his forehead. Like his Sub,
Farnborough hardly realized that he had been hit.

Telegraphing for "easy" and then "stop" the skipper brought his craft
to a standstill within boat-hook stave's length of a water-logged
dingy. Clinging to the partly submerged gunwale were two men.

"She's not a cutter, you juggins!" exclaimed Farnborough. "I believe
those fellows are rotten Huns."

He was about to telegraph for "Full-speed-ahead both engines", when
Branscombe gripped his arm.

"It's old Seton, by smoke!" he shouted, in order to make himself
heard above the din.

Quickly the well-nigh exhausted men were assisted over the side,
Seton minus a little finger, and the R.A.F. officer with a bullet
wound completely through his left shoulder.

It was no time for explanations. Like a thing endowed with life M.-L.
4452 leapt forward. She was now on the point of repassing the
badly-damaged lighthouse on the Mole-head. Here Huns, no longer in
danger of being strafed by the _Vindictive's_ landing-parties, were
frantically blazing away with their quick-firers and machine-guns. A
4.1 shell fired at point-blank range furrowed the fore-deck and,
without exploding, passed completely through the side a few inches
above the water-line. Another blew the M.-L.'s "tin" dinghy into the
sea, davits and all; while a third, striking the stern, smashed the
quadrant of the steering-gear and blew off the head of the rudder.

M.-L. 4452 began to describe a large circle, her head falling off
until she pointed straight for the Mole. To attempt to keep her on
her course by means of the helm was an impossibility, for not only
had the spare tiller--for use when as sometimes happened the
steering-wires and chains carried away--shared the fate of the
davits, but the rudder-head itself was bent and twisted by the
explosion of the shell.

Immediately the ship was hit Branscombe made his way aft to
investigate and report. He was back in the wheel-house just in time
to find Farnborough and the coxswain lying motionless on the floor,
and the M.-L., left to her own devices, circling to port.

The helm useless, Branscombe realized that he had to steer by means
of the twin screws. Under ordinary conditions it was a tricky job,
but the difficulties were now increased tenfold. A partly-disabled
boat, nearly half her complement out of action; a dark,
fog-enshrouded night with occasional bursts of dazzling light from
search-lights, star-shells, and the flashes of guns; a short,
confused sea, and the constant danger of ramming, or being rammed by,
other craft manoeuvring without lights.

There were dozens of similar vessels out that night engaged in the
same work. Frail little M.-L.'s, manned by amateur yachtsmen of
yesterday, were achieving wonders. Men from the Clyde, the Solent,
and the East Coast, whose knowledge of the sea was confined to a few
days or weeks of summer cruising under favourable conditions, were
proving their worth as fighters of the Empire. Experience gained in
those dainty little yachts, snow-white of deck and glittering with
burnished brass, was put to good use in those squat, grey-hulled
M.-L.'s. It was on St. George's Day that the practically unknown
R.N.V.R., unostentatiously at work as a unit of the great Silent
Navy, suddenly leapt upon the pinnacle of fame.

A dense pall of smoke drifted down and enveloped M.-L. 4452.
Branscombe had to steer solely by his sense of direction. He was one
of those men who instinctively could find his way through a dense
fog. At the back of his mind there was ever an impression--rarely,
if ever, at fault--of the direction in which lay the north. The
compass was useless: the same blow that had struck down the skipper
and the coxswain had wrecked the binnacle.

The while the din was simply terrific. The air trembled under the
violent, irregular pulsations of sound as guns large and small,
exchanged their mutual "hate".

With all his work cut out to keep the vessel on her course Branscombe
gripped both handles of the engine-room telegraph, and peered through
the smoke-laden night. Feelings almost akin to panic assailed him. He
was no longer a fighting man dashing into the fray, but a fugitive--a
human being endeavouring to escape from all the terrors of the jaws
of hell, as exemplified by the hitherto considered impregnable
harbour of Zeebrugge.

"If the motors konk out we're dished," he thought, as he listened to
detect any ominous sound from the pulsating engines. The vibration
was excessive, far more than is usual even with a heavily-powered
M.-L., but apparently the staunch little craft was still maintaining
her speed.

"She's making water badly, old man," exclaimed a voice.

Branscombe turned his head to find Seton standing behind him.

"Think she'll last out?" inquired Branscombe.

"Another hour--that's all I can give her," was the reply. "The
stern-post was badly strained when the rudder-head carried away."

"Auxiliary engine running?" inquired the M.-L.'s Sub speaking through
the voicetube to the engineer.

"No, sir," came the answer. "The mag's six inches under water,"

That meant that the power bilge-pumps were useless. The hand-pumps
were hopelessly jammed long ago. The search-light in being shot away
had done that damage. There were no means now of checking the steady
flow of water through the gaping seams.

By this time M.-L. 4452 had drawn out of range of lighter
quick-firers. Shells from heavy guns still hurtled overhead, unseen
but unpleasantly audible. Occasionally a huge projectile would
ricochet close to the little boat as a grim reminder that other
perils beside foundering were still present.


[Illustration: "SHE'S GOING, LADS!" SHOUTED BRANSCOMBE]


Presently Branscombe fancied that the M.-L. was turning to starboard.
A glance astern at the foaming wake was sufficient to confirm his
suspicions. Altering the starboard telegraph to easy astern, and then
stop, the R.N.V.R. Sub awaited developments. His fears were realized.
Only the port engine was running, the other had "konked".

"Ignition, sir," reported the engineer in reply to Branscombe's
inquiry. "I'll try and get her going in a few moments."

The fact that the little engine-room staff had been working knee-deep
in oily water, and that the electric light had failed, added to the
difficulties of the strenuously-engaged men. While one held an
electric torch in position, the other was busily engaged in fitting
new sparking-plugs--even if only to keep the motors running another
quarter of an hour.

Branscombe signalled for the port engine to be stopped. It was worse
than useless to run on one engine, since the M.-L. would circle
aimlessly and possibly drift nearer the Belgian coast.

The M.-L. was rolling sluggishly. She always did roll heavily, but
the motion was totally different. It suggested a lack of liveliness,
and the gurgling sound of tons of water surging to and fro 'neath
decks told its own tale.

M.-L. 4452 was foundering--slowly, but nevertheless surely. Her metal
dinghy was a mere scrap of riddled galvanized iron. Her life-buoys
had either been carried away, or had been shattered by machine-gun
fire. Down below were half a dozen life-belts. These with a few
wooden gratings were the sole means of supporting the survivors of
the crew, all of whom, with the exception of the engine-room staff,
were more or less wounded.

A rift in the persistent bank of smoke revealed nothing near at hand.
Miles away could be seen search-lights and flashes of guns, as the
monitors and destroyers were covering the retreat of the
_Vindictive_, _Iris_, and _Daffodil_. Apparently M.-L. 4452 had been
carried too far to the nor'ard by the tide. Even if she contrived to
keep afloat till dawn, the rising of the sun would expose her to the
full view of the exasperated Huns ashore.

"She's going, old son!" exclaimed Seton, who had been engaged in
strapping life-belts round the unconscious forms of Farnborough,
Smith, and the coxswain. "Think yourself lucky it's your first swim
to-night. It's my second, and the water's beastly cold."

"And it's a long swim to Dover," rejoined Branscombe facetiously. His
sense of panic had now entirely deserted him. Practically beyond
range of the hostile batteries, save for the chance of an unlucky hit
from a long-range gun, he was now just a sailor bent on doing his
level best to save his ship from disaster and his crew from drowning.

A couple of hands were told off below to ram every available piece of
canvas gear into the broad wedges formed by the transom and the
vessel's quarter, since it was here that she leaked badly. The
canvas, saturated with oil, certainly checked the inrush, but whether
it was possible to keep the M.-L. afloat was a question open to
doubt.

Had it been daylight M.-L. 4452 would have presented a forlorn
spectacle. Night hid her honourable scars, and toned down the ragged
appearance of her shell-swept deck. She had had a gruelling. Holed in
a dozen places, her mast, search-light, and most of her deck-fittings
blown away, deep down by the stern, she had played her part.

The most strenuous efforts on the part of her engine-room hands were
doomed to failure. With a foot of water surging over the beds of the
motors, it was impossible to "get a kick" out of either of them. It
was a case of both or none if the boat were to be steered at all.
Yet, loath to admit failure, the two men toiled, with their hands
almost raw and the sweat pouring down their foreheads, in the vain
hope that the engines could be made to run once more.

Clad in a sweater, flannel trousers, and an oilskin--gear that he had
annexed from the M.-L.'s ward-room--Seton was indefatigable in his
efforts to assist Branscombe to save the ship. At his suggestion oil
was thrown overboard to quell the effect of the rapidly-rising waves,
while a rough-and-ready sea-anchor was rigged up and thrown over the
bows to keep her stem-on to the vicious, crested breakers.

The R.A.F. pilot, who had now almost recovered from the effect of his
immersion, was working strenuously, passing buckets of water up the
hatchway in order to keep down the rising water in the hold. All
available hands were doing their utmost, realizing that every moment
gained meant an additional chance of preserving their lives.

At intervals Verey-lights were fired to call the attention of any
vessel within reasonable distance of the sinking ship; yet minute
after minute sped and no succour was forthcoming. Evidently the
flotilla, its work accomplished, was on its way to England, and M.-L.
4452 with others would be reported as destroyed by enemy action.

Aft the water was ankle-deep on deck. The rolling became slower and
more sluggish. It was now a question of minutes before the gallant
little M.-L. made her last plunge.

Wearing their life-belts, the survivors mustered abaft the
wheel-house, for Branscombe had given orders for the engineers to
abandon the motor-room and fall-in on deck. The wounded and
unconscious officer, and two of the deck hands, who were rather badly
hit, were laid on deck, and also provided with life-buoys, their
comrades volunteering to "stand by" them in the water until the last.

Facing peril, the indomitable British spirit prevailed. Every man of
the little crew, save those who were unconscious of their
surroundings, kept a stiff upper lip. While making every endeavour to
save themselves they were resolved, should things come to the worst,
to die bravely, conscious that they had done their duty to the end.

The M.-L.'s bows rose until her forefoot was clear of the water; her
stern dipped until a surge of icy water swept for'ard as far as the
wheel-house. It seemed as if she no longer had sufficient buoyancy to
shake herself clear. Cascades of water poured through the hatchways
and the gaping rents in her decks.

"She's going, lads!" shouted Branscombe, stating what was an obvious
fact. The incongruity of the remark struck him almost as soon as he
had spoken. Then--"Every man for himself, and the best of luck."

Even as they waited for the ship to sink beneath them, a long, dark
shape loomed through the darkness. Coming seemingly from nowhere, a
destroyer ranged up alongside the sinking M.-L.

"Jump for it, men," shouted a voice through a megaphone.

Under the lee of the destroyer, the M.-L., half water-logged lay
comparatively quietly, rubbing sullenly against the large coir
fenders hanging over the side of the rescuing vessel.

The wounded were first transferred, then the rest of the crew, Seton
and Branscombe being the last to leave. The latter was not
empty-handed; under his arm he carried the M.-L.'s smoke-discoloured
and tattered White Ensign. The signal code-book he had thrown
overboard when it seemed that hope was dead.

Even as Branscombe clambered over the rail M.-L. 4452 gave an almost
human shudder and slithered beneath the waves.




CHAPTER XVI

The Return from Zeebrugge


The destroyer's work that night was not yet accomplished. While the
rescued crew of M.-L. 4452 were hospitably entertained and provided
with hot food and drink and dry clothing, she resumed her patrol off
the Belgian coast. With others the destroyer was on the look-out for
possible survivors, amongst them the crew of the cutter for which
Farnborough was searching when entering Zeebrugge Harbour. It
appeared that the M.-L. that had rescued the crew of one of the
block-ships had the cutter in tow. In the latter were five or six men
who for some inexplicable reason were not transferred to the M.-L.'s
deck. They might have thought that remaining on the boat was safer
than crowding on the M.-L.'s already congested deck. At all events
the men stopped where they were, the cutter was taken in tow and the
dash out of the harbour begun.

Then difficulties arose. The M.-L. was steering badly; the cutter was
sheering violently. It was a question whether the towing-craft could
weather the Mole-head. The parting of the towing-hawser settled the
problem. How it parted no one on the M.-L. knew. It might have been
shot through, or slipped by one of the men in the cutter; but, before
the skipper of the M.-L. realized that it had parted, the cutter was
lost astern in the darkness.

Two hours after the rescue of the crew of M.-L. 4452 the cutter was
sighted and picked up fifteen miles from land. Her undaunted crew had
almost miraculously made their way out of the shell-swept harbour and
were resolutely straining at their oars determined, if not picked up
by a vessel, to make the shores of England.

Zeebrugge had been effectually "bottled up". No longer could skulking
U-boats descend the Bruges Canal and put to sea on their errand of
ruthless and unlawful destruction. A flotilla of Hun torpedo-boats,
too, was rendered useless by the closing of the port.

It was the most brilliant naval episode of the war. Accomplished
under adverse conditions the loss of life, though deplorably heavy,
was less than that of a land battle. The results were greater;
directly, they practically sealed the fate of the U-boat campaign;
indirectly, they made their moral effect fall not only on the Western
Front but all over the vast area affected by the stupendous Battle of
Nations. People, who, owing no doubt to the over-secretive policy of
the Admiralty, were asking: "What is the British Navy doing?" were
silenced. Zeebrugge provided an indisputable answer.

It was hardly to be expected that the old _Vindictive_ and the little
_Iris_ and _Daffodil_ would return from the storming of the Mole, and
arrangements had been made to take off their crews by means of the
motor-launches, should the ships be sunk alongside the strongly
fortified wall.

But they did. Battered, her upperworks riddled like sieves, her decks
resembling shambles with their load of dead and wounded, the
_Vindictive_, with her White Ensign streaming proudly in the breeze,
returned to Dover. One night's work had placed her on the same
pedestal as Nelson's Victory. Proposals were submitted that she
should be preserved as a national relic, and when the question was
raised in the House of Commons the enigmatical reply was made: "The
future of the _Vindictive_ is a matter now under consideration".

Successfully the sealing of Zeebrugge was accomplished; but the
simultaneous operations against Ostend, though brilliant in their
conception and heroic in their attempt, failed to achieve the desired
result.

A sudden change in the direction of the wind, local mists, a dark
night, and the alteration in the position of the important Stroom
Bank buoy all contributed to the glorious failure of a gallant
attempt. Under a heavy fire, the _Brilliant_, making for the supposed
position of Ostend piers, grounded. The _Sirius_, following slowly in
her wake, immediately reversed engines, but, as the ship was already
badly damaged by gun-fire and in a sinking she refused to answer to
her helm. Before she could gather sternway she collided with the
_Brilliant's_ port quarter. In the end, both vessels being hard and
fast ashore, they were blown up, nearly a mile and a half to the
eastward of where they ought to have been had observations been
possible.

Here again, in the work of rescuing the crews of the stranded
block-ships, the M.-L.'s played a successful and daring part. M.-L.
532, in attempting to run alongside, was badly damaged in collision.
M.-L. 276 repeatedly went alongside the _Brilliant_, and in
exceptionally difficult circumstances rescued most of the crew.

M.-L. 283, ranging up alongside the _Sirius_, took off practically
all her crew; then, notwithstanding the fact that her deck was
crowded with men, she took off sixteen of the _Brilliant's_ crew who
had taken to a whaler, which had been sunk by gun-fire.

After the rescuing M.-L.'s had left, it was reported that an officer
and some men belonging to the _Sirius_ were missing. That vessel was
hard and fast aground, and subjected to a furious fire from the
German batteries. It seemed impossible that anyone could remain alive
on board the shattered hulk. But, since there was a very slight
possibility, there was no hesitation on the part of the skipper of
Coastal Motor-Boat No. 10. Under a heavy and accurate fire from
4.1-inch and machine-guns the C.M.-B. made a thorough search for the
missing officer and men, but found no sign of life. Subsequently they
were picked up thirteen miles out at sea, whither they had pulled in
an open boat after the sinking of their ship.

It was no fault on the part of Commander Godsal that had caused the
failure of the operations. Most men would have been content to rest
on their laurels, but not so Godsal. Directly he reported to the
Vice-Admiral at Dover he volunteered to make another attempt upon
Ostend. His offer was accepted, and, while the nation was clamouring
for the _Vindictive_ to be exhibited as a show-ship, her hold was
already being filled with cement in order to use her as a block-ship
to complete the task that the _Sirius_ and _Brilliant_ had failed to
achieve.

It was about a week after the return of the _Vindictive_ to Dover
that Alec Seton and Guy Branscombe were making their way along the
esplanade in the direction of the Lord Warden Hotel, when they were
hailed by Flight-lieutenant Smith.

"Gorgeous news, you fellows!" exclaimed the R.A.F. pilot, who had
made a rapid recovery from the effect of his immersion in the icy
waters of Zeebrugge Harbour. "I'm told off for the coming Ostend
stunt. Got my orders from the Squadron Commander this afternoon."

"Some fellows get all the luck," grunted Branscombe. "'Spose we must
congratulate you; but for Heaven's sake don't rub it in! We're
properly hipped. Nobody up-topsides loves us. We're kind of social
pariahs amongst the lucky dogs of the Dover Patrol. In short, we're
fed up absolutely."

"I agree," added Seton disconsolately.

"What's upset your respective apple-carts?" asked Smith.

"Every mortal thing," replied Seton. "We both volunteered for work
with the _Vindictive_, and all we got was thanks and fourteen days'
leave. There's been a most unholy scramble to take part in the
stunt--fellows tumbling over each other, like a west-end bargain
sale. One fellow puts forward his claim on the grounds that he was on
the _Sirius_, another the _Brilliant_, a third because he got into
Zeebrugge and got out again. The 'Vindictives' naturally want to see
the thing through, and they won't budge--so there you are.
Branscombe's M.-L. is _non est_, and they haven't given him a new
one. I'm pushed out of the destroyer flotilla 'cause I've been
chipped about a bit. The medical board tell me that I want rest--and
it's rest that's driving, me silly. No chance of getting a lift in
your 'bus?"

The pilot shook his head.

"Sorry--nothin' doin'," he replied. "Much as I appreciate what you've
done for me in the past, you have asked me the impossible. I couldn't
smuggle you in a 'plane, you know. Well, I must away. I'm just off to
the Air Station."

"By Jove, Seton!" exclaimed Branscombe, as the pair continued their
way; "that fellow Smith has given us the straight tip."

"What do you mean?" asked Alec.

"Said he couldn't smuggle us."

"Well, what of it?"

"Where's your imagination, old son?" continued Branscombe. "What's to
prevent us doing the stowaway stunt on board the _Vindictive_?"

Alec fairly gasped.

"Fine old hole we'd be in if we were found out," he objected.

"We mustn't be found out--at least until after the stunt is over,"
replied Branscombe; "then it doesn't matter so much. Either we won't
be alive to bear the wigging, or else we'll be tails up. In that case
I don't very much care what happens if we've had our whack of the
fun."

"'Prejudicial to discipline and good conduct'," quoted Seton.

"So are a good many things," argued Branscombe. "In the Service there
are two ways of getting a job done: the official and the
non-official. It's only when you make a mess of things that you are
hauled over the coals. Nothing happened to those fellows who refused
to leave the _Intrepid_ before she went into action. We'd both be
able to do a bit with a quick-firer or a machine-gun."

"It's not a bad scheme," admitted Alec. "How do you propose to go
about it?"

"You leave it to me," declared Branscombe "and I'm open to wager a
month's pay that when the _Vindictive_ sails for Ostend, you and I
will be on board."

"Good enough!" exclaimed Alec.




CHAPTER XVII

"Good Old 'Vindictive'!"


"Clear lower deck, supernumeraries fall-in on the quarter deck."

To the accompaniment of the bo's'un's mates' pipes the order given in
hoarse, strident tones, was repeated in various parts of the ship.

The _Vindictive_, with 200 tons of cement in her after-magazines and
in the upper bunkers on both sides, was lying in Dunkirk Roads in
company with the _Sappho_, which had been hurriedly fitted out at
short notice to act as an additional block-ship in the operations
against Ostend.

Two men clad in bluejackets' working rig heard the order not without
emotion. The instinct to obey--the result of three years' service
under the White Ensign--was strong; but resisting the impulse the two
remained "as you were", sheltering from observation in a corner of a
disused flat abaft the after-magazine.

Clearing out the supernumeraries--men embarked to assist in the
navigation of the _Vindictive_ across Channel--was a slow process.
Again and again alert, lynx-eyed petty officers scoured the ship to
make certain that the additional hands had fallen in. More than once
the flat in which the disguised Seton and Branscombe were concealed
was inspected, but no one thought to pay particular attention to a
heap of empty cement sacks that camouflaged the determined stowaways.
After half an hour of suspense, they felt secure.

"They're gone," whispered Seton, taking a pull at a water-bottle and
passing it on to his companion. "Stuffy show, isn't it? Good thing we
provided ourselves with biscuits and water."

"Hope to goodness the stunt won't be declared off," remarked
Branscombe. "Let's see; we're due to arrive off the Stroom Bank at 2
a.m. That means that we've got to lie low for another four hours. It
wouldn't be safe for us to show up before 1.30 at the earliest."

"No one will notice us if we hang about the main deck," objected
Seton. "I don't want to miss any of the fun. Besides, as soon as the
ship's under way, they wouldn't slow down to send us ashore."

The somewhat erratic pulsations of the _Vindictive's_ engines--for
since the Zeebrugge operations, when her propellers got foul of the
Mole, the hard-worked machinery was far from perfect--announced that
the venerable and historic cruiser was leaving the Roadstead, and the
two chums left their place of concealment and made their way to the
starboard battery on the main deck.

Not a light was shown on board. In the darkness they were
unrecognized as strangers, and boldly mingling with others of the
depleted crew they had the satisfaction of finding that their
carefully laid plan was being carried out without a hitch.

"What's wrong with the old _Sappho_?" inquired a seaman, who was
looking out of the gun port. "She's dropping astern."

"Something wrong with her," agreed his "raggie". "Hope that won't put
a stopper on this little jaunt."

As a matter of fact it very nearly did. The _Sappho_ had hardly
cleared the anchorage when a man-hole joint in the side of her
boilers blew out, instantly reducing her speed to six knots.

"It's all right, mates," announced a petty officer, who was making
his way aft through the battery. "The Admiral has just signalled. We
are to carry on without the _Sappho_."

"The ball's opened," exclaimed several voices, when at 1.43 a.m. the
sound of a furious cannonade was borne to the ears of the
_Vindictive's_ company.

Unlike previous operations there was in this no preliminary
bombardment. For several nights past Ostend had been left severely
alone by our monitors and bombing planes. This had the result of
lulling Fritz into a state of false security, and in consequence the
took-outs were taking things easy.

But now, at a pre-arranged signal, hell was let loose over Ostend.
From the air large bombing machines rained their deadly missiles upon
the batteries and land-approaches to the town. From seaward the
monitors, some with 17-inch guns, opened a furious and accurate
bombardment, while from the battle line in Flanders heavy siege-guns
pounded the hostile batteries on the left flank of the defences.

Almost immediately after the opening of the bombardment patches of
local fog enveloped the approaching flotilla, while the artificial
smoke-screen set up by the coastal motor-boats, although protecting
the _Vindictive_ from direct fire, helped to render her navigation a
difficult matter.

Through the night mists dull flashes showed that the British
destroyers were standing in to engage the batteries, while the Huns,
in a frenzied sort of way, concentrated most of their guns on a
continuous barrage fire across the entrance to the harbour.

It was through this deadly hail of projectiles, large and small, that
the _Vindictive_ was literally compelled to feel her way. As long as
she remained in the smoke-screen she was fairly immune from hostile
fire, but directly she drew near the shore she would be the target of
hundreds of guns.

Peering through a gun-port, which had been additionally protected by
walls of sandbags, Seton noticed a white light showing faintly
through the drifting smoke. It was the calcium light placed at
certain intervals by the British to enable the _Vindictive_ to fix
her position, thus countering the ruse on the part of the Huns that
had succeeded too well in the abortive attack on St. George's
Day--the removal of the recognized navigation buoys.

For a little more than ten minutes the _Vindictive_ held on a course
that ought to have brought her off the entrance to the harbour.
Anxiously those responsible for navigating her kept a sharp look-out,
in the hope of sighting the now familiar piers. Then, as the entrance
was obviously missed, the ship altered course to west'ard, keeping
parallel to the shore and maintaining a speed of only nine knots.

After a while orders were given to alter course sixteen points to
starboard, which meant that the ship would retrace her course and
steer eastwards. Again the elusive harbour was missed, and once more
a course was shaped to the westward.

In the midst of this serious game of maritime blindman's buff--for it
was possible to see only three hundred yards or so owing to the
density of the fog and smoke--the entrance suddenly came into view at
one cable's length distant on the port beam.

It was now neck or nothing. Orders were given to "prepare to abandon
ship", the officers on the bridge retired into the conning-tower in
order to con the ship with the least risk (as if such a condition
were possible), and the _Vindictive_ was steered straight for the
harbour entrance.

Directly the _Vindictive_ sighted the shore the hostile batteries
sighted her. Instantly a terrific cannonade was opened upon the ship.

In the midst of the terrific hammering, which shook the staunch old
vessel from stem to stern, a petty officer came tearing along the
deck.

"You hands fall in abaft the conning-tower," he shouted, addressing
Seton and Branscombe. "Communication's broken down. You're wanted to
convey orders to the engine-room. Look alive!"

There was no delay on the part of Alec and his chum to execute the
order. At last they were doing something useful instead of remaining
inactive in the battery, waiting to take the place of any casualties.

It was a dangerous post, for there was little or no protection
without the conning-tower, which was one of the principal objectives
of the German gunners.

The ship was still forging ahead, slowly but steadily. The air was
thick with fragments of flying metal, as shells burst in, over, and
around her.

At last! Literally making her way through a tornado of shot and
shell, the _Vindictive_ passed between the pier-heads. Smoke, pouring
from her engine- and boiler-rooms, mingled with the vapour from
bursting projectiles. Happen what might, the block-ship was inside
the harbour and success was within reach.

It was now necessary to alter course, and since communication between
the conning-tower and the steering-flat had been interrupted,
Commander Godsal, quitting the doubtful shelter of the conning-tower,
stepped outside and shouted for hard-a-starboard.

By this time the din was absolutely terrific. Seton, standing at the
foot of the bridge-ladder, was unable to hear a word of the captain's
order. He made a rush to ascend and get instructions.

"Pass the word for hard-a-starboard," shouted the captain again.

"Aye, aye, sir!" replied the disguised sub-lieutenant.

He was in the act of descending the ladder when a heavy shell hit the
conning-tower. A hot blast literally blew Alec from the ladder and
hurled him violently against one of the ventilating shafts. Deafened
by the concussion, he strove to regain his feet, but his limbs seemed
devoid of feeling. Wisps of burning woodwork were lying all around.
His canvas jumper was smouldering, yet he lacked the strength to
smother the smoking fabric.

The next impression was that of being lifted from the deck.
Branscombe, seeing his chum's plight, had hurried to the rescue.

"Captain's orders: hard-a-starboard!" exclaimed Seton. "Leave me, old
man, and pass the word."

Branscombe, waiting only to divest Alec of his smouldering jumper--it
was a work of a few seconds only--tore off to the steering-flat.
Promptly the hand-wheel party obeyed, and the cruiser swung round to
port.

It was the last order that the gallant Godsal gave. The shell that
had hurled Seton like a feather in a gale had literally blown the
_Vindictive's_ skipper to atoms. Lieutenant Sir John Alleyne, the
navigating officer, was rendered unconscious by the concussion, which
also gave the occupants of the conning-tower a bad shaking.

Immediately Lieutenant Victor Crutchley assumed command. Everything
depended upon his orders during the next few seconds, for the ship
was still swinging to port and, if her course was not altered, she
would probably ground in a useless position.

Ordering the port engine to full-speed astern, Lieutenant Crutchley
tried to get the ship to swing across the narrow channel between the
piers. Unfortunately the port propeller, which had been badly damaged
at Zeebrugge, refused its allotted task, and the ship's bows grounded
against the eastern pier.

For a few moments it seemed as if the old ship would swing athwart
the channel, but it soon became apparent that she was hard and fast
aground. Nothing more could be done but to sink her as she lay.

The while the _Vindictive_ was subjected to a terrifically hot fire.
The after-control had been completely demolished, killing every man
in it. The upper works were literally shattered, while the decks were
littered with debris and the bodies of slain and wounded men.

"Don't move, old man!" exclaimed Branscombe, who had returned to his
chum. "The order's given to abandon ship. I'll stand by you right
enough."

"You've been hit," said Seton, as he caught sight of a dark,
gradually-increasing stain on the right side of Branscombe's jumper.

"Machine-gun bullet copped me," replied Branscombe. "Nothing much.
Heavens! We've had a hammering, but we're here this time."

"Any sign of the M.-L.'s?" asked Alec after a pause.

"They'll be here in a brace of shakes," replied Branscombe
confidently.

The _Vindictive_ had now settled on the bottom of the harbour with a
slight list to starboard. The Huns were still maintaining a hot fire
merely out of sheer rage. They knew perfectly well that the ship was
sunk, and that no military advantage could be obtained by continuing
to shell her. They were determined to prevent the rescue of her crew.
Massacring survivors of sunken ships is one of the gentle pastimes of
the "Kultured" Hun, and he now was doing his best to keep up his
reputation.

Meanwhile, on board the water-logged cruiser the utmost order was
maintained. In spite of the galling fire, men were coolly searching
for their wounded messmates and removing them to the safest possible
places until the expected rescue craft arrived.

"Here they are!" shouted a score of voices, as a dazzle-painted M.-L.
emerged from the pall of smoke and headed straight for the stranded
ship.

Through the shell-torn water M.-L. 254 raced. Her cool and
calculating R.N.V.R. commander knew his job. He came alongside,
selecting the _Vindictive's_ port side--that nearest the eastern
pier--in which he showed admirable judgment, for in the narrow space
between the ship and the pier the little M.-L. was temporarily
sheltered from direct fire.

"Now, then!" exclaimed Branscombe. "Up with you, old man!"

Assisted by his wounded chum, Seton regained his feet. Desperately
weak, he was able, with Branscombe's assistance, to make his way
along the inclined deck to where the M.-L. lay grinding in the tidal
swell.

Wounded men were being assisted on board the little craft with the
utmost celerity, yet with due care to their desperate condition,
until, with close on forty undaunted survivors of the _Vindictive's_
crew, M.-L. 254, heavily laden and deep in the water, cast off and
backed astern. Great though her task had been to dash into the
harbour, the difficulties that awaited her on her return run were far
greater. Coolness, good judgment, and a special dispensation of
Providence were needed to enable her to escape from the fiery jaws of
the deadly trap.




CHAPTER XVIII

Out of the jaws of Death


Lying at full length upon the deck of the M.-L., Alec Seton underwent
one of the most nerve-racking periods of his life. He could feel the
wooden hull quivering under the pulsations of the powerful
twin-engines, and the jarring thuds as missiles large and small
struck the frail craft. By all the laws of naval warfare, M.-L. 254
ought to have been out of action long ago, for the Huns, finding
their prey slipping through their fingers, redoubled their efforts to
send the little boat to the bottom of the sea.

Machine-gun bullets sang through the air like the hum of a thousand
angry bees. Men, crowded on the M.-L.'s deck, were hit over and over
again. Of her own crew, the First Lieutenant and one of the deck
hands were killed instantly, while the coxswain was badly wounded.
Although three times hit, Lieutenant Drummond, M.-L. 254's skipper,
stuck gamely to his post, cleared the entrance, ordered full speed
ahead, and made for the open sea.

Into the merciful fog ran the little M.-L. Enveloped in mist, her
human cargo was practically safe from fire, but another danger
confronted the band of heroes.

The severe gruelling to which M.-L. 254 had been subjected had
resulted, amongst other injuries, in the forepart being badly hulled
'twixt wind and water. In spite of every effort to stop the leaks,
the M.-L. was settling by the bows.

Speed was promptly reduced in the hope that the inrush of water might
be checked. At the same time sound-signals were made in order to get
in touch with the off-shore destroyers. For nearly half an hour M.-L.
254 crawled along at slow speed without aid being forthcoming. It
seemed as if her deck cargo of human beings--nearly all of them
wounded--would soon be struggling for dear life in the numbing water,
for the metal dinghy was hopelessly damaged and practically all the
life-saving devices had been either swept overboard or destroyed by
shell-fire.

Following the gallant and brilliant blocking operations, the
threatened fate seemed doubly hard, yet with the heroic fortitude of
their race the survivors made light of their difficulties, even
laying odds on the chances of being picked up and cutting grim jokes
upon the situation. They had faith that even in the fog and darkness
the patrols would bear down in time to effect their rescue.

By this time the relative conditions of Seton and Branscombe were
reversed. In spite of a slight wound from a shell splinter, Alec had
practically recovered from his shaking. Although feeling stiff and
bruised, he had regained the use of his limbs; while the wound,
received as he lay upon the M.-L.'s deck, was little more than a
skin-deep gash on his left cheek.

On the other hand, Branscombe, whose injury was more serious than he
cared to admit, was feeling horribly weak from loss of blood. At last
he had to give in and allow his chum to attend to his injuries.

With a knowledge of first aid--although hampered by the
darkness--Alec cut away his chum's jumper. Just below the lowermost
rib on the right side was a small puncture-wound, through which dark
blood was welling sullenly. It was not enough to cause weakness
unless the wound were bleeding internally. Very tenderly Seton turned
his patient over on his side, and made the discovery that the
machine-gun bullet had passed completely through, leaving a rather
ugly wound where it had emerged.

By the help of a first-aid dressing, Alec succeeded in staunching the
flow of blood; then, having done all that he could for the present,
he sat down by his comrade's side and waited.

"We'll take to the ditch together, old son," he remarked. "I'll give
you a hand. 'Sides, it'll soon be dawn, and then we'll be picked up."

Branscombe nodded in outward accord with his chum's plans. He knew
perfectly well that Seton was deceiving him in an attempt to buoy up
his spirits. It was some hours till dawn, and the temperature of the
sea was too low to enable a man to keep afloat for more than twenty
minutes.

"There'll be a fine old jamboree ashore if we are done in," remarked
Branscombe. "I never told a soul that we were going on this stunt;
not even my people."

"Neither did I," added Seton. "Officially we are on leave. That means
we'll be posted as deserters if we fail to report. We were chumps not
to take necessary precautions."

"Agreed," declared Branscombe. "It's the penalty for sailing under
false colours. At anyrate we've been in the thick of the scrap, so
that's some consolation. I say! think you could get me some water? My
throat's like a lime-kiln."

Stepping over the prostrate forms of half a dozen exhausted and
wounded men, Seton made his way to the companion-ladder leading to
the little ward-room. A foot of water was flowing noisily to and fro
over the floor. Abaft the bulk-head was the galley. For want of a cup
Alec took down a small saucepan and held it under the tap of the
water-tank.

The tank was empty. Even its large capacity was not sufficient for
the needs of forty-odd thirsty men.

Foiled and disappointed Alec made for the deck. As he descended the
ladder, a rousing cheer burst upon the night. Out of the fog a large
vessel was bearing down upon the sinking M.-L.

Ten minutes later the survivors of M.-L. 254 and most of the
_Vindictive's_ officers and men were safely on board H.M.S.
_Warwick_, the flagship of Vice-Admiral Sir Roger Keyes, while M.-L.
254, her work accomplished, disappeared beneath the waves.

Equally daring was the brilliant affair of M.-L. 276, commanded, like
M.-L. 254, by a Royal Naval Volunteer Lieutenant. No. 276 followed
the _Vindictive_ into Ostend Harbour, her crew boldly engaging the
Huns on both piers with machine-guns, as if to impress upon the enemy
that they were there and intended to "make a splash". Running
alongside the _Vindictive_, after M.-L. 254 had taken off the
survivors, the crew of the frail little craft shouted and searched
for any possible hands who, in the hurry of abandoning ship, might
have been overlooked. Finding no one, the M.-L. backed away the while
under a terrific fire. In the midst of a hail of shell and
machine-gun bullets the crew of the M.-L. saw a boat floating keel
upwards to which were clinging three men.

These were rescued under most difficult circumstances, for the three
were badly wounded and practically unable to help themselves. It was
afterwards found that one of the rescued was Lieutenant Sir John
Alleyne, on whom the command of the _Vindictive_ had fallen on the
death of the gallant Godsal.

Almost by a miracle M.-L. 276 got clear. Hit in fifty-five places and
with three of her crew casualties, she managed to keep under way
until picked up and taken in tow by the British monitor _Prince
Eugene_.

The heroic ending of the old _Vindictive_ was literally the clinching
of the last nail in the coffin of the Huns' Belgian Coast defences.
St. George's Day had all but completed the work; 10th May, 1918
settled it. From that day the Belgian ports were useless to the enemy
both as torpedo-boat and submarine bases. The Dover Patrol had closed
and secured the Gateway of the Channel against all hostile traffic
both on and under the sea.




CHAPTER XIX

The Great Surrender


"Think the beggars will put up a fight after all?" asked Lieutenant
Alec Seton, D.S.C., as he raised his binoculars to sweep the misty
eastern horizon.

"Not they," replied Lieutenant-Commander Trevannion of H.M.T.B.D.
_Bolero_. "What little stuffing they did have has sunk into their
boots. But, by Jove! I never thought they'd chuck in their hands so
completely. Try to imagine a British seaman showing the white feather
like that--you simply couldn't, for the very good reason that it's
not in his nature. Hullo! The flagship's signalling."

It was a brand new _Bolero_ of which Lieutenant-Commander Trevannion
was skipper; Seton, on promotion, being appointed his
second-in-command. The _Scena_ was in the North Sea some miles to
the east'ard of Harwich; the time, dawn of the 20th day of November,
1918.

"The Day"--der Tag--was at hand. As Beatty had prophesied, the Huns
had to come out, although the manner of their coming was greatly
different from that which had been expected. Everyone was firmly
convinced--it was an erroneous tribute to an upstart navy without a
single tradition--that the German Navy would emerge at the last to
commit _felo-de-se_ under the guns of the Grand Fleet. It seemed
incredible that the array of battleships and cruisers, ostensibly
built to wrest the trident from Britannia's grasp, would tamely
surrender without firing a single shot. But such was the case. The
handing over of the German battleships, cruisers, and destroyers had
already been arranged, and the White Flag Armada was due at Scapa
Flow on the following day.

But the 20th of November was Tyrwhitt's Day--a fitting reward after
four years of anxious watching, mingled with a few glorious scraps
when Fritz did show his nose out of harbour. The first batch of 150
U-boats was due to arrive, officered by recreant Huns who, had they
lived in a different age, would have been promptly hanged in chains
at Execution Dock as common pirates.

So incredible to the British seamen did the tame surrender appear
that many of them fully expected Fritz would put up a fight even for
the sake of "saving his face" in the eyes of the world. After months
of "Kolossal" boasting the Hun would surely not chuck up the sponge
without resistance, even of the most treacherous kind.

But Admiral Tyrwhitt was a man who took no undue risks. Every vessel
of the British squadron appointed to accept the surrender was cleared
for action, while precautions had to be taken, before the U-boats
left Germany, to draw their stings--in other words to remove the
warheads from their torpedoes. In addition the German crews were
ordered to fall-in on deck.

Covered by a hundred guns their fate would have been swift and sure
had they foolishly given way to one act of treachery.

"U-boats in sight bearing E. by N.1/2N., distant three miles," came
the welcome signal.

Very shortly afterwards Seton picked up with his glasses the first of
the long line of German submarines--submarines no longer, since they
were to keep on the surface until they passed into the hands of the
ship-breakers. At the masthead of each flew a flag that throughout
the Great War had never been flown from a vessel under the White
Ensign, a rectangular white flag, bare in its simplicity and craven
in its significance.

There was a fairly high sea running, the waves at times breaking
completely over the approaching U-boats. Direct communication was
impossible without risk of life and limb, so, except in a few
instances, the act of taking over the prizes had to be deferred until
they were within the limits of Harwich Harbour.

Overhead flew some of the gigantic British airships, while the air
was "stiff" with seaplanes stunting daringly in sheer exuberance, for
it was the airman's day almost as much as it was the navy's. Both the
R.N. and the R.A.F., working in perfect co-operation, were
responsible, for the successful climax to their strenuous labours.

As the first of the U-boats drew abreast of Tyrwhitt's flagship, the
head of each of the double line of British light-cruisers and
destroyers turned inwards through sixteen points of the compass;
while each craft in succession, as she drew level with her
corresponding prize, likewise circled, until the long line of German
submarines was shepherded by two formations of British vessels each
in line-ahead.

On board the German submarines there were many anxious faces. For the
most part the officers looked sullen and felt uncomfortable. They
were not altogether too sure of the nature of their reception. Some
had consciences that had developed amazingly during the last few
days. They remembered the hospital ships and unarmed merchantmen that
they had sunk without pity, helpless boats' crews massacred in order
to carry out the policy of _spurlos versenkt_, and now they were
regretting those brutal acts, not because they were brutal, but
because there is such a thing as reprisal. Others, hopeful that
Englishmen would be ready to shake hands and forget the past, were
more cheerful. In any case the war was over, and with it the great
chance of being sent to the bottom by the explosion of one of those
dreadful depth charges.

No fraternization was the British Admiral's order. The hand of the
cowardly Hun was too dirty to be grasped by that of a British tar.
For all time the record of Germany on the sea will remain, and its
effect will be seen in the aloof demeanour of all honest seamen
toward the descendants of the Hun pirates.

On the signal: "Board, and take over the prizes", the boarding
officers rowed off to their "opposite numbers". Seton, in the
_Bolero's_ whaler, ran alongside a large U-boat, whose six-inch guns
and lofty conning-tower proclaimed her to be one of the latest type
of fully 300 feet in length.

Punctiliously the U-boat kapitan-leutnant saluted, then held out his
hand. Returning the salute, but ignoring the proffered welcome, Alec
himself received a surprise, for the German was an old acquaintance,
von Kloster.

The recognition was mutual. The German's sallow features turned
ashy-grey. His frame shook with the emotion of fear. Never had he
expected to come face to face with his former prisoner. He had been
confident in the belief that Seton had been blown to atoms on
Zeebrugge Mole.

"Mercy, mercy!" exclaimed von Kloster. "I vill amends make."

"Stow it!" interrupted Seton brusquely. The exhibition of panic
angered him. "You've nothing to be frightened about. Now, sir, where
are your papers?"

The formal deed of surrender was accomplished, but von Kloster seemed
persistent to make a statement.

"Well, what is it?" asked Alec.

"You Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert remember?" asked von Kloster
in broken English.

"I think I recall the name," admitted Seton grimly. "Where is
the--er--fellow?"

"He is dead," declared the kapitan-leutnant.

He paused, hoping to catch a sign of satisfaction in Alec's face at
the tidings. Seton's features betrayed nothing.

"He opposed to der surrender vos," continued von Kloster. "It vos at
Wilhelmshaven. He would make der unterseebooten put to sea to make
fight, but der seamen make mutiny and threw him into der sea. It vos
Count von Brockdorff-Giespert who order me to you place on der Mole
at Zeebrugge."

"Then he did me a very good turn," rejoined Seton.

The British lieutenant turned on his heel and rapped out an order.
From the ensign staff the black cross of infamy was contemptuously
hauled down by one of the _Bolero's_ men. To the halliards was
toggled another ensign, somewhat similar in design but infinitely
cleaner in its records and traditions.

Seton glanced at his watch, and then at the forest of bare poles of
the surrendered U-boats. In another half minute----

From the flag-ship a single gun boomed. As one, a galaxy of bunting
rose in the grey, misty air, and on each of the surrendered U-boats
fluttered the Black Cross Ensign once again, but with a vast
difference. Floating proudly in the breeze above the flag of beaten
Germany was the emblem of the true Freedom of the Seas--the glorious
White Ensign.



PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
_By Blackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow_





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Thick of the Fray at Zeebrugge, by
Percy F. Westerman

*** 