Chapter XV: Recalled by Wire

"SHE'S off home, sir," said the smith. "Don't you fash yousen about 'er. The cart? Run it in 'ere. 'Twill be all right."

Billy paid for the shoeing and walked slowly down the street.

"No good going to see Betty at lunchtime," he soliloquised. "Might just as well see about something to eat."

He made his way towards the cornmarket. Here the traffic was at its height. Nobody would have thought that twelve hours ago a Zeppelin had sought to terrorise these Lancashire folk with a display of "frightfulness," and that within two hundred yards a devastated street bore testimony to the Huns' feeble efforts.

"By Jove, if this had been Karlsruhe or Berlin, wouldn't the Kaiser be shedding floods of tears!" thought Billy. "Good old British public. 'Carry on, carry on--we'll come out top-dog all in good time'--that's the spirit."

A crowd outside the window of a news office attracted his attention. He crossed the road in order to read a broadsheet giving the latest war news. It was cheerful enough, in all conscience:

"Two Zeppelins Down. Official."

"Brief and to the point," exclaimed Billy. "Gives a fellow quite an appetite for lunch. Wonder if any of our crowd scored the winning hits?"

Ten minutes later, while awaiting lunch, Billy bought a paper still damp from the press.

"Honours even!" he exclaimed. "The R.F.C. bring down one gas-bag in Lincolnshire; our fellows bag another twenty miles off the Yorkshire coast. Hullo! Here's the fly on the ointment: one of our seaplanes missing."

He glanced casually at the rest of the news, which consisted mostly of ambiguous and contradictory Allied and enemy reports from the various fronts, a couple of columns of local news and a similar space devoted to racing and football. The whole of the front page was taken up with an advertisement of somebody's Autumn sale.

"Rot!" commented Billy forcibly, "They talk about paper shortage, cut down the paper by a third, and yet accept a whole page advertisement of this trash. The back page, I presume, is taken up with photographs of engaged nonentities that are not of the faintest possible interest to decimal ought-ought-one of the readers."

But the young officer was only partly right. In one column was an item of "Stop Press News" printed in blurred type:--

"The Missing Airmen: Admiralty report that missing seaplane was
piloted by Flight-lieutenant John Fuller, with Assist.-Paymaster
Robert Kirkwood as observer."

For some moments Billy stared vacantly at the paper. He could hardly realise the truth of the bald statement. It seemed incredible. Never before, during the "Hippodrome's" commission, had a seaplane set out on a particular duty and failed to return. Fuller was a thoroughly capable man; Kirkwood--yes--there was nothing to complain about the way in which he carried out his duties. Had he, Billy, not been on leave the possibilities were that Kirkwood would have flown with him.

Barcroft was essentially of a sanguine nature. He had pictured several of his brother-officers coming a "crash," but never himself. It is the same sort of spirit that pervades the men in the trenches. Others might "go west" but not themselves. It is only on rare occasions that a fighting man has a presentiment that he will go under.

"I'm frightfully sick that I wasn't on board instead of being on leave," thought the flight-sub. "Just my rotten luck. Wonder what has happened to Fuller and Kirkwood? Missing. Perhaps; but I'll stake my all on Fuller. He'll turn up trumps right enough."

Nevertheless Barcroft spent a miserable afternoon. He felt too unsettled to carry out his original programme of calling at Mill View. The desertion of Butterfly he had practically forgotten. All he wanted to do was to go home and await news of his missing chums.

* * * *

Meanwhile Peter Barcroft, having completed his precious proofs to the accompaniment of a choice selection of literary profanity, set out to post the result of his labours.

It was a good mile to the nearest pillar-box, which was on the summit of the hill overlooking Blackberry Cross, and was cleared at the early hour of four p.m.

"Nice walk on a fine day," commented Peter, "but there'll be trouble when it blows, rains or snows. A bit of a change from having a pillar-box outside one's door, and where one can post at ten in the evening with the absolute certainty of the letter being delivered in Town the next morning. Wonder if I'll meet Billy on his way back?"

He whistled for the two dogs and, checking their impetuosity, walked briskly down the lane.

"Pity the car's crocked," he soliloquised. "Might have taken Billy round and shown him the country. By Jove, this air is fine! Makes a fellow glad to be alive. Hope Billy will have fine weather while he's here."

His plans for the entertainment of his sailor son were interrupted by his being nearly run down by a cyclist postman, who, turning sharply from the high road into the lane leading to Ladybird Fold, managed to miss the occupier of that delectable spot by a few inches.

"Sorry, sir."

"Don't mention it," replied Peter affably. "A miss is as good as a mile. Anything for me? You're early this afternoon."

"A telegram for you, sir; postmaster he sent me with it, seeing it's on my way home and there'll not be a lad at t'office."

Peter took the orange-coloured envelope and opened it. Within was a form bearing the words:

"Report for duty at Rosyth immediately."

"No answer," said Peter shortly; then "You might put this in the post for me," handing the man the stamped envelope.

Barcroft Senior retraced his steps. Dashed to the ground were the castles in the air he was building concerning Billy's programme. "Jolly rough luck," he decided, that a youngster's leave should be curtailed in that off-hand manner.

Then he realised that there was a higher claim. His son was wanted--urgently. Personal considerations were nothing compared with the exigencies of the Senior Service in wartime.

"It shows Billy is of some importance," he decided proudly. "They wouldn't trouble to recall him if he were otherwise. Hang it all! if he doesn't turn up within the next half-hour he'll miss the 4.45 from Tarleigh, and that will put him in the cart as far as the Scotch express is concerned. I'll go and meet him and hurry him along."

Peter Barcroft was not usually given to changing his mind in this erratic fashion, but perhaps present circumstances were sufficient excuse. He had not seen his son for some twelve months previous to Billy's belated arrival at Ladybird Fold fourteen hours ago. Of that fourteen hours six had been employed by making up arrears of sleep, and another five by Peter's own act of sending his son into Barborough. Of the remaining time father and son had spent hardly an hour alone--and there were such a lot of things that Peter wanted to tell his boy. Then, as a coping-stone to the series of disappointments, Billy had not seen his mother, as Mrs. Barcroft was not expected home until the evening.

While Peter was walking along the high road, Billy on his homeward journey took the path across the fields, and on the former's return was sitting comfortably in front of the fire.

"Hullo! how did I miss you?" was Peter's greeting. He was considerably puzzled as to how Billy had contrived to reach home with the donkey without passing him on the road. "I've a telegram for you."

"About Fuller?" asked the flight-sub eagerly.

"No," replied Mr. Barcroft. "Why should he want to wire? It's your recall, my boy; and it's too late for the train that catches the Scotch express. She's leaving Tarleigh station now."

"Something in the wind, I'll swear," declared Billy, searching in vain for a time-table. "Fuller's missing. You've heard me mention him several times. Went after one of the returning Zeppelins and hasn't been seen since. Only the other day----"

"What are you disarranging my desk for?" interrupted his father. "A time-table? Here you are. Next train from Tarleigh is at 7.5. That will catch a connection at Barborough and land you at Edinburgh about 4 A.M. How much further to Rosyth?"

"About an hour," replied Billy. "Might do it in time."

"No use worrying about it: that won't help matters," said his father philosophically. "You'll be able to see your mother. She arrives by the same train you leave by. It will only be for a couple of minutes. Better luck next time." Tea over, Billy began his preparations for the journey north. With the assistance of Mrs. Carter his greatcoat was made sufficiently presentable until he could borrow a uniform from an obliging shipmate.

At the station the flight-sub's meeting with his mother was, as Peter had predicted, only of a brief duration, delayed until the guard's in patient exhortation of "Take your seat, sir, if you're going," brought it to a close.

"Good-bye, my boy!" said Barcroft Senior as his son lowered the window of the now closed door.

"I say, pater!" exclaimed Billy, suddenly remembering something in his pocket. "Here, take this. It will interest you. Forgot all about it before this."

Peter took the proffered paper--a copy of the document found on the body of the dead German airman, setting a price upon Barcroft Senior's head.

The train was on the move. Billy, with his head and shoulders still protruding through the window, waved farewells to his parents, then----

"Dash it all!" he shouted. "Butterfly--the donkey--ran away. Clean forgot to mention it."

But Peter merely shook his head. The rumble of the train made the words quite inaudible.

It was nearly seven in the morning when Flight-sub-lieutenant Barcroft arrived at Rosyth, after a long and tedious journey. Mists were hanging over the waters of the Firth of Forth. Even the lofty structure of the Forth Bridge was hidden by the grey bank of vapour. Service craft of all sizes and descriptions were feeling their way up and down the broad estuary, making the welkin ring with the discordant braying on their syrens and foghorns.

"Have you seen anything of the 'Hippodrome's' boat?" inquired Billy of a petty officer on duty on the jetty."

"'Hippodrome's' boat, sir?" repeated the man. "Why, the 'Hippodrome' got under way a couple of hours ago, along with the Seventh Destroyer Division, The Ninth's just off, sir."

Barcroft rapidly reviewed the situation. Experience had taught him that there are often two ways of doing things in the Service--the official and the non-official. To be strictly in accord with the precedent he should have reported himself to the Admiral, giving his reasons why he missed his ship and getting a smart "rap over the knuckles." On the other hand he might be able to enlist the sympathies of one of the officers of the Ninth Destroyer Division and get a passage--provided the boats were proceeding to the same rendezvous. He resolved to put the latter proposition into effect; failing that, he would have to fall back upon the official routine.

His luck was in. As he hurried across the caisson on his way to the jetty where the destroyers were berthed he overtook a lieutenant commander, whom he recognised as Terence Aubyn, a particular friend of Flight-lieutenant Fuller.

"By all means," replied Aubyn when Barcroft had explained the circumstances and requested a passage. "We're pretty certain to fall in with the 'Hippodrome,' although I have as yet no idea of the position of the rendezvous. In fact, I have a couple of her men on board now. They got adrift in a copper punt last night, and were only picked up after the ship had left."

"No further news of Fuller, I'm afraid?" remarked Barcroft.

"Not a whisper," replied the lieutenant-commander as he ran briskly up the steeply sloping "brow" to the quarter-deck of the destroyer "Audax."

And thus Flight-sub-lieutenant Barcroft found himself on board one of the newest type of destroyers bound for an unknown rendezvous somewhere in the North Sea.