H.M.S Part 3

"Oh, help! If that cag's going to start, I'm off. Good-night, sir."

"I must go too, Jim," said the guest, with a startled glance at the clock. "Where did I leave my coat?"

The Senior Engineer rose and followed them out, hearing as he pa.s.sed through the door an unwearying voice by the stove--"I know a chap on Beatty's staff, and he says they'll fight next spring or summer."

THE GUNLAYER.

"_Hit first--hit hard--and keep on hitting_, is a good rule, but what I want to impress on you is that in this war the last part of that rule is the most important. The enemy shoots remarkably well--at a target--but he does not appear to stand punishment well himself. It is remarkable how the German shooting falls off once he gets a few big sh.e.l.ls aboard him, and up to date it has been noticeable that our own practice is, up to a certain point, improved by our being hit. It is just a matter of sticking power...."

The Gunnery Lieutenant paused in his lecture and sighed. "Would these pasty-faced beggars stick it?" He had had a week to train the crew--most of them raw hands--of the latest and fastest light cruiser, into a semblance of war efficiency, and the effort was tiring him. They were so very new and unintelligent, and he had had to go over the A B C of gunnery with them as if they had never been through their course before joining. Seven bells struck, and he dismissed the cla.s.s and sent them shuffling and elbowing out of the flat.

They had been stationed at the guns three hours and had seen nothing.

This was their second day out, and the first nervousness and feeling of shyness at being in enemy waters was wearing off. The mist that had been with them since dawn was clearing away too, and the gunlayer of No. Five straightened his back and stretched himself against the shield. This was a silly game, he decided. Two cables astern the knife-edge stem of a sister ship was parting their wake into two creamy undulating waves which seemed to spoil the mirror-like surface of what the German wireless has with inimitable humour termed "The fringe of the English barred zone," or as their Lordships more drily put it, "The mouth of the Bight."

The gunlayer spat carefully over the side and felt in his cap-rim for a cigarette. He calculated that he would make the "f.a.g," with care, last till breakfast. Fourteen days in commission had at any rate taught him that the art of shortening up the frequent spells of boredom consisted in a judicious mixture of tobacco and thinking, and as smoking was barred under heavy penalties during the dark hours, his brain had been somewhat overworked since four. As he fumbled for his matches he froze suddenly still as a bugle blared "Action stations!"

from the bridge above him. He heard the beginnings of the clatter of men closing up and the hum of activity along the deck, but till the cold shiver had pa.s.sed from him he could not move. His one idea was that this was _real_, and he would give anything to be out of it. Then in a flash he was at his sights, his hands on the focussing-ring and his head close up to the telescope, in fear that others might see something in his face that he did not want them to see. For exactly the same reasons some hundred other men on the upper deck were becoming feverishly busy, but before the last note of the bugle had died the guns' crews were over their stage fright, and were, with perhaps a little more care and intelligence than they had shown at drill, closing up to their guns.

The gunlayer of No. Five stepped to one side and looked out on the beam. The mists had cleared, and far to the east he could see a line of little smoke puffs that could only mean one thing--ships in station and burning high-speed fuel. The cruiser heeled a little, and the smoke dots swung from abeam to nearly ahead as she turned, and he lost sight of them behind the shield of the next gun. He wanted to go forward and watch them. It seemed worse to have it hanging over him like this. He did not know if he would be quite ready if the ship turned suddenly to bring his gun to bear and he should see the enemy at close range, and no longer as little brown smoke blurs.

The sight-setter, a boy of seventeen, spoke to him and he looked round.

The boy's face was rather white, and his lips trembled a little. The gunlayer woke up at the sight, and broke into a pleased grin.

"Only little beggars," he said, "hardly enough to make a mouthful.

Don't you make no blinkin' errors this morning, my lad, or I'll land you one you'll be proud of!"

The speech cheered him up, and he began to believe he _might_ come out of it alive--with luck. The ship was travelling now. The white water raced past at a dizzy speed, and a great sloping V of bubbling foam followed them fifty yards astern. Every few seconds a quivering vibration started from forward and travelled through the hull--reminding him of a terrier waiting at a rat-hole. He wanted to smoke--there would be just time for a cigarette--but although he was afraid of death, he was afraid of the Gunnery Lieutenant more. He snuggled down to the shoulder-piece and began working his elevating wheel slowly. There was little roll on the ship, and he realised thankfully that there was going to be no difficulty about keeping his sights on. The oblong port in the shield through which his telescope pa.s.sed worried him: it seemed so unnecessarily big. That was just like the Admiralty designers, he thought--so long as they didn't have to stand behind the hole they didn't care how big it was. Why, it would let a six-inch sh.e.l.l through! He felt quite a grievance about it.

Then, with a heel and an increase of vibration the ship turned. Lord!

there they were--one--two--three--four--five of them--going like smoke, too. He pressed close to his telescope, and the enemy sprang into view--many times magnified. The boy sight-setter in a cracked voice repeated an order, and he heard the quick shuffle of feet and the word "Ready" come like a whip-crack from behind him. The leading enemy danced in the heat-haze as his telescope swayed up and down her foremast. It all depended on him and a few others now. The responsibility worried him. The gun's crew behind him were invisible, but he felt that their eyes were glued to his back, and that they were wondering if he was going to make good.

Boom--Br-r-room--Boom! That was the next ahead. It sounded a rotten salvo. Was she ranging--or would they all start now? He saw no splashes by the ship in his sights. Was it a complete miss, or was it fired at another enemy?

Boom--B-r-_room_! That was a better one. Weren't _they_ going to do anything? As he wondered, the enemy cruiser flashed like a red helio, and he gasped in admiration at the simultaneous firing of her battery.

A great sheet of white shut out the view in his telescope, and a deafening crack announced the bursting of a short salvo. _Wow_-ooo!

Something whined overhead, and his own gun spoke--rocking the shield, and making him flinch from the sights. _Gawd!_ had he fired with the sights on, or were his eyes shut? Anyhow, the men behind him did not seem to notice anything wrong. The breech slammed viciously, and the word "Ready" came on the instant. "_Clang_"--something hit the shield and glanced upwards as his gun spoke again. He knew he hadn't had the sights on then--he hadn't been ready,--how the h.e.l.l could a man keep the sights on with this going on? Behind him a man began a scream, a scream which was cut short suddenly with the crack of a bursting H.E.

sh.e.l.l and the whistle and wail of splinters. Gawd! this was chronic--the ship must be getting it thick. The enemy swung into his telescope field again, and he saw the throbbing flame jerk out and vanish from her upper deck.

B-r-r-_oom_! That was a better salvo. He must have been on the spot that time--another one--no, he was aiming high then. Still, it didn't matter. They'd all be dead soon and n.o.body would know who'd fired well or badly. Right abreast the enemy's bridge a great spout of water shot up, and behind it he saw the yellow sheet of flame that told of half a broadside going home. "He _must_ keep his sights on"--"_Must_ keep his sights on." His gun rocked as it fired, and he swore under his breath at the delay before the crew reloaded. Were they all wounded?

They might be--as he estimated at least three full salvoes had been aboard since the first shot. The enemy swung out of his field of view again, and he took his eye from the telescope a moment. What the h.e.l.l was the ship turning for? The flagship must be crazy--just when we were hitting, too. He froze to his eye-piece again, and saw the familiar bridge and curved stem of his target as before. A haze of purplish-grey smoke was over her forecastle, and as he fired again he saw the flash of another salvo along her side. What was it "Guns" had said? _The one that sticks it out._ Why couldn't they load quicker behind him? They seemed so slow. The target vanished suddenly in a pall of brown smoke, and he lost her for a moment, his sights swinging down with the gentle motion of the ship. He saw splashes rise from the sea, but heard no whine and hum of splinters following. There she was again! And there was another salvo in the same place. A voice from behind him said something, and he barked a profane response,--a demand for quicker loading. The voice replied with, "Stick it, Jerry--you're givin' 'er b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell!" And he realised suddenly that the hitting now seemed to be all one way, and that his target was on fire from the bow to the forward funnel. His sights swung off again, and a moment later his gun brought up against the forward stops with a b.u.mp. He raised his head and looked round. Their next astern was on the quarter now, and they must have all turned together towards the enemy. The bow gun still banged away, sending blasts of hot air back along the deck, but no reply seemed to be coming. The gunlayer scrambled up on the shield and looked ahead to the east. A blur of smoke hid the enemy--a great brown greasy cloud--and he dropped on his knee to the heel that announced another change of helm. Round they came--sixteen points--and he had a view of the Flagship, with a long signal hoist at her masthead, tearing past in her own wake.

"What the h.e.l.l--ain't we going to finish it? What's the game?" a chorus of voices spoke from the deck below him, and then came the "still" of a bugle and the pipe, "Sponge out and clean guns--clear up upper deck. Enemy is under the guns of Heligoland."

"Well, who cares for Heligoland?" said the gunlayer--and on the words he came down from his perch on the gunshield with a run. A roar like a twelve-inch salvo and a huge column of tumbling water a hundred yards on the beam had answered him. The next sh.e.l.l pitched in their wake--then another well astern, and they were out of range. He suddenly realised that he was thirstier than he had ever been before, and started forward to the water-tank. As he moved, a hand clutched his arm and he found the boy sight-setter at his side, a fountain of words, dancing with excitement.

"My Christ! that was fine. _Gawd_--what a show, hey? An' you that cool, too. I didn't 'alf shake, till I looked at you, an' saw you was laughin'. We didn't 'alf brown 'em off, did we? an' they----"

"Aw, go chase yerself," said the gunlayer. "That weren't nothing. Wait till you sees a battle, my son--and you won't think nothing o' to-day."

As he turned to lift the drinking-cup he glanced at the clock and saw with amazement that it was seven-fifteen. With a vague memory of having done so before, he fumbled in his cap-lining for a cigarette.

A WAGE SLAVE.

The c.o.xswain nodded to the boy messenger and reached for his cap.

"All right, my lad--'ook me down that lammy. What's the panic, d'ye know?"

"No, _I_ dunno. Sez 'e, 'Tell 'im to come up. I want 'im at the wheel,' 'e sez. An' I come along an'----"

"All right--'ook it, and don't stand there blowin' down my neck."

The c.o.xswain jerked his "lammy" coat on, and clumped heavily out of the mess, chewing a section of ship's biscuit (carefully and cunningly--for the shortage of teeth among torpedo c.o.xswains amounts almost to a badge of office) as he went.

"What's up, Jim--steam tattics?" asked the Torpedo Gunner's Mate--another Lower Deck Olympian--looking up from a three-day-old 'Telegraph.'

The c.o.xswain grunted in response. It is not the custom of the Service to answer silly questions. The reason the question was asked at all may be put down to the fact of the 'Telegraph' being not only old but empty of interest.

As he reached the upper deck he b.u.t.toned his coat and felt in his pockets for his mittens. It was very cold--a cold accentuated by the wind of the Destroyer's pa.s.sage. There was no sea, but it was pitch-dark, with a glint of phosphorus from water broken by the wakes of six "war-built" T.B.D.'s running in line ahead at an easy twenty-four knots. The c.o.xswain could never, in all probability, have explained his reasoning, though the fact that the speed had been increased was noticeable; but he knew, as he swung up the ladders to the unseen fore-bridge, that he had not been sent for a mere alteration of course. His brain must have received some telepathic wave from the ship's hull which told him that the enemy had had something to do with the break in his watch below.

His sea-boots ceased their noisy clumping as he reached the bridge, and he was standing by the helmsman with a hand on the wheel before the man had noticed his arrival. With an interrogative grunt he stepped to the steering pedestal as the man moved aside, and he stood peering at the dimly lit compa.s.s card, and moving the wheel a spoke or two each way as he "felt" her.

"North Seventy East--carryin' a little starboard," said the dark figure beside him, and he accepted the "Turn-over" with another characteristic growl--

"That you, Pember? Follow the next ahead and steer small." The Commander had spoken, the white gleam from his scarf showing for a moment in the reflected compa.s.s light.

"Next ahead and steer small, sir." He leaned forward and watched the blue-white fan of phosphorus that meant the stern-wave of the next ship. Low voices spoke beside him, and the telegraphs whirred round and reply-gongs tinkled. Half, or perhaps a quarter, of his brain noticed these things, but they were instantly pigeon-holed and forgotten. He was at his job, and his job was to hold his course on the next ahead. Without an order, nothing but death would cause him to let his attention wander from his business. He heard the sub-lieutenant a few feet distant crooning in a mournful voice--

"How many miles to Babylon?"

"Three score and ten."

The back of his brain seized the words and turned them over and over.

Babylon was in the Bible--he wasn't sure where it was on the map though. How much was three score and ten? Three twenties were sixty, and--"_Action Stations_"--Babylon slid into a pigeon-hole, and he relaxed for a second from his rigid concentration on the next ahead.

He straightened up, stretching his long gaunt body, and a suspicion of a smile lit his face. Then he resumed his peering, puckered att.i.tude, oblivious to everything but that phosph.o.r.escent glow ahead.

The glow broadened and brightened, and he felt the quiver beneath his feet that told of a speed that contractors of three years ago would have gaped at. A vivid flash of yellow light lit up the next ahead and showed her bridge and funnels with startling clearness against the sky. By the same flash he saw another big destroyer on the bow crossing the line from starboard to port. His own bow gun fired at the instant the detonations of the first shots reached him, and in the midst of the tearing reports of a round dozen of high-velocity guns, by some miracle of concentration, he heard a helm order from the white scarf six feet away. The little fifteen-inch wheel whirled under his hand, and with a complaining quiver and roll the destroyer swung after her leader to port. In the light of a continually increasing number of gun-flashes he saw the next ahead running "Yard-arm to Yard-arm" with a long German destroyer, each slamming sh.e.l.l into the other at furious speed. He gave a side-glance to starboard to look for his opposite number on the enemy line--and then came one of those incidents which show that the Navy trains men into the same mental groove, whether officers or c.o.xswains.

The enemy destroyer was just turning up to show her port broadside.

She was carrying "Hard-over" helm, and her wheel could hardly reverse in the time that would be necessary if----. The c.o.xswain antic.i.p.ated the order he knew would come--antic.i.p.ated it to the extent of a mere fraction of port-helm and a savage grip of the wheel. The order came in a voice that no amount of gun-fire could prevent the c.o.xswain from hearing just then. "_Hard-a-port!_ _Ram her_, c.o.xswain!" The enemy saw and tried to meet the charge bow-on. There was no room between them for that, and he knew it. His guns did his best for him, but a man intent on his job takes a lot of killing at short range. Two sh.e.l.ls. .h.i.t and burst below the bridge, and the third--the c.o.xswain swung round the binnacle, gripping the rim with his left hand. His right hand still held the wheel, and spun it through a full turn of starboard helm. The stiffened razor-edge bow took the enemy at the break of the p.o.o.p, and went clean through before crushing back to the fore bulkhead. At the impact the shattered c.o.xswain slipped forward on the deck and died with a smashing, splintering noise in his ears--the tribute of war to an artist whose work was done.