Chapter V (3)

The talk drifted out and turned to other topics. ‘178’ was due in to-morrow, and her patrol and herself and her officers were also discussed with much freedom. Later the ward room was closed, and the _Parentis_ went to sleep, but still with one eye open, and watchful to guard the charges that lay alongside her.

Next day Carruthers and Johnson went out on patrol, and in the late afternoon a new boat arrived, fresh and hot from the dockyard, commanded by one Singleton, an officer well known to the boat captains of the _Parentis_.

Raymond and Austin had a day off, rather an unexpected favour in the case of the former, who had only just returned from re-fit, and decided to spend it in the country. They left early and caught a train after breakfast for the sleepy little town of Langton, some twenty miles distant. After the noise and bustle of a shipbuilding and mining centre, the pleasant peace of the English country came as a welcome change, and they lay back in their carriage and drank in great gulps of the fresh morning air as the local rattled sedately on. A fine summer day and the hedges alongside the railway, and the fields all gold, brown, and green, with little cottages nestling among them, and level crossings with children who waved sitting on the gates, and horses grazing, and reaping machines, and white high loads. Hayricks and little villages, small woods and distant spires. Imagine all this under the heel of an invader! The woman in the blue print apron standing outside the cottage, the children playing with the farmer’s old dog among the barley sheaves, imagine them with the Germans in possession ... butchery, rape, and at the best robbery and ill-treatment, and yet Belgium....

It didn’t bear thinking of. There was no possibility of invasion or wanton destruction. It hadn’t happened for hundreds of years, but then ... it must have been the same when the horsemen rode in and the old muzzle-loaders blared out, and men died and women shrieked and children clung to their mothers’ skirts, wide eyed and amazed.

It might happen, it might come to pass, and the very security of England was the worst danger of all. A hundred thousand troops landed overnight and the result ... fields laid waste, and killing and disasters, the soul of the English country changed to its very core. It might have happened two years ago, but not now. At a moment’s call the sleeping country could spring to life, and armed men, as if born of dragons’ teeth, would appear to repel the invader, armed not with shields and stabbing spear, but with machine-guns and the deadly howitzer. England had found herself. Not for a hundred years had she so proved her soul to herself and to the world. The call came, and slowly but surely the old spirit, latent for a century, revived and had its being, openly once more and for all the world to see....

The train drew up with a jolt, and Austin broke the silence with a casual remark.

‘Pretty little station. See those wild roses growing by the lamp-post there. Reminds you of pre-war days, doesn’t it?’

Outside, the good old-fashioned station fly rumbled them over the cobbles and into the High Street, where the women stared at the uniforms, and a small boy shouted something and ran after them. Then lunch at the one and only, called rather grandly the Imperial Hotel, albeit an old place, relic of the coaching days, though with a new master and up-to-date methods. Old prints on the walls of the ‘Fox Hunt,’ old furniture, and beer in pewter tankards reminded one of the ancient glories of the place, when the London mail would roll in with a tootling of horns and shouting of postboys, and be off again amid good-byes and handshakes, and ‘Write soon when you get to London,’ from mother, and a ten shilling tip from father, while little Alfred sucked his finger and stared.

The lunch consisted of the cold roast beef of England, and salad and cheese and fruits, and afterwards they wandered out into the sunshine, and up the High Street, tenanted now by only a few loafers, outside the Red Lion, and a boy or two on bicycles by the local post office.

The market square offered but few attractions, and the friends wandered through the town, which ended as abruptly as the bow of a ship, and out into the country beyond.

After his recent experiences Raymond found the situation almost too deep for words, and they trudged on, smoking their pipes, for the most part in silence.

Presently they topped the summit of a little hill and looked back on the town, a smudge of gray and brown buildings against the blue sky, the church spire in the centre, and the smoke curling lazily up in the afternoon haze. Away to the eastward was a thin strip of blue, where lay the sea and ships and submarines and war.

They turned their backs to it. For one day at least they would forget it, and Germany and War and sudden death.

Later on came tea taken in the garden of a little cottage which modestly displayed the card ‘Teas’ in a window, where they were served by the good lady’s daughter with home-made bread and cake and jam, and then lay back and smoked and thought of things and men and the country and England. Then they paid the bill, stroked the cat, gave the child some pennies, and wandered on at peace with the world, themselves, and everything.

They started back towards Langton, but the sound of bells drew them from the main road to where a little ivy-covered church nestled lonely and almost forgotten by the wayside. They took off their caps and went in. After the glare outside they blinked and groped in the dusk of the church until the light grew better and they saw where they had strayed.

‘I say,’ said Raymond, ‘this is a Catholic Church; hadn’t we better----’

‘That’s all right,’ said Austin. ‘We’ll sit here a minute.’

They found a pew and looked round them. Up by the altar a priest was standing with his back towards them. Two boys in surplices were standing near. Then an organ burst out somewhere, and the few worshippers took up the refrain and sang the _Tantum Ergo_.

The two men knelt down.

Later a bell rang and the old priest bent down over the altar. He raised something in his hands. Infinite quiet, the sound of heart beats, and the lists of the parish killed in action stood out sharply on either side of the sanctuary. The priest was moving away with the boys before him.

The organ crashed out again, and Raymond caught the words:--

‘_Quoniam confirmata est super nos misericordia ejus: et veritas Domini manet in aeternum._’

‘The truth of the Lord remaineth for ever.’

They stepped out into the sunlight and blinked in the glare of the high road.

* * * * *

Later, the return to the base and the motor ride to the harbour, and the steamboat off to the _Parentis_. A return to the world of men and ships, where the war was the essence of life and the main topic of conversation. The ward room was discussing the newly-arrived boat which was to take the place of Blake’s.

Singleton was a man of merry moods, and kept them going with stories of his struggles with the contractors and the trials he had been through while his boat had been building.

‘A hell of a lot of work,’ he concluded, ‘and didn’t get any “command money” for seven weeks either.’

‘_And_ had a fine fat time of it ashore, I bet,’ remarked the Staff Paymaster lightly.

‘Not so bad, not so bad, but nothing to write home about. Not married, you know. Found things pretty dull in the evening.’

‘Ah,’ said the Engineer Commander, ‘I married ten years ago, and haven’t spent more than a fortnight at a time with my wife ever since. Some people have all the luck.’

‘I agree with Mr Punch,’ chimed in the Torpedo Lieutenant. ‘As regards to marriage I could say three words--The first is “don’t,” the second is “don’t,” and the third is “don’t.” With my knowledge of the world my opinion is worth considering.’

‘Had a good day?’ asked the First Lieutenant of Austin, disregarding the Torpedo Lieutenant’s remark.

‘Very. Just wandered about in the country and smoked and thought and took in the view. Later on we got into a small church where they were having benediction or something. Made you feel all funny to hear it.’

‘I can’t imagine much shaking you,’ said the Fleet Surgeon. ‘You must have been in a very thoughtful mood.’

‘I suppose I was. It was the quiet and the country and the rabbits and things. Little things, you know, but things that count sometimes.’

‘----And when I got my periscope up,’ said a voice from the other side of the ward room, ‘I saw Fritz had manned his guns and was letting the tramp have it for all he was worth. Fairly potting him he was. So I kept well to leeward of father tramp, and then dodged suddenly round the bow and fired.’

‘Did you get him?’ asked Seagrave’s voice.

‘By good luck, yes. Right amidships. Then I went down, and came up for a look ten minutes later. There wasn’t any submarine there, but the tramp saw my periscope and thought I was Fritz, and gave me hell for about thirty seconds until I got well down out of harm’s way. I bet the skipper reported having sunk a U-boat.’

‘You got your shift shortly afterwards, didn’t you?’

‘Two months or so,’ replied Singleton. ‘Since then I’ve been one of the idle poor and lived on the fat of the land, or such fat as I could acquire owing to the Food Controller. Glad to be back at work, though. It gets pretty mouldy sitting in a dockyard and hoping the war won’t be over before you get to sea again.’

‘When are you doing a patrol?’

‘Day after to-morrow, I expect. Bit of a rush, isn’t it? Have to move round in the meantime and see things in order, as I don’t know much of her little ways yet, though she’s seemed all right so far.’

Boyd was comparing notes with the new navigator and discussing the possible vagaries of magnetic compasses in submarines. Seagrave drifted off with the new ‘Sub,’ and later on a bugle sounded overhead and six bells struck. Somebody came to the door and reported eleven o’clock, and the ward room emptied itself.

Raymond wandered up on to the quarter-deck and leant over the rail and gazed at the anchored Fleet. Behind him the officer of the watch was padding up and down, and by the gangway the quartermaster and corporal of the watch were talking in low tones. The side boy looked at him curiously.

‘Britain’s sure shield’ was keeping her silent watch. Beyond lay the big ships, and beyond them again a host of merchant vessels, supply ships, colliers, and hospitals. Outside, the Destroyers would be keeping their never-ceasing patrol, and the trawlers and mine-sweepers would be bobbing to the north-east swell. The wind caught him chillily, and he shuddered and turned up his collar.

A voice sounded from for’ard, high up on the bridge, then one bell struck, and he turned and went below.

THE SEAGULLS

Seagulls, seagulls!
Birds of the air and sea!
Seagulls, seagulls!
Have you a word for me?
Have you a word of my boy out there,
Who left my heart and my cottage bare,
Who left his mother and did his share;
Tell me birds of the sea and air,
Have you a word for me?

Seagulls, seagulls!
Birds of the wind and wave!
Seagulls, seagulls!
Back from the sailor’s grave.
Have you a word from my man who died,
Out in the track of the cruiser’s stride,
Where death’s the price of a nation’s pride;
Tell me birds of the wind and tide,
How did my man behave?

Mourners, mourners!
Mothers of men and boys!
Mourners, mourners!
Death never quite destroys.
Rather think of the deeds they wrought,
Out in the dark where the squadrons fought;
Think of their deaths as the price that bought
Freedom and honour, and hail the thought,
Sorrows are future joys.

‘FOR THOSE IN PERIL ON THE SEA’

This is a story of the early days of submarines, and the whole affair happened a long while ago--some years before the War, in fact--beyond which milestone the memory of modern man now rarely attempts to wander. The first news I received on the subject was from the centre sheet of a morning paper, an extract from which ran as follows:--

‘H.M. Submarine “02” was lost in the Channel whilst exercising
on Tuesday, 16th inst. There are only two survivors, Lieut.
Allison, R.N., the second in command, and Stoker 1st Class P. W.
Howell. All hope has been abandoned for the remainder of the
crew, as “02” has now been under water for more than 58 hours,
and the divers report that it will be impossible to lift her for
another two days. Lieut. Belton, R.N., the captain, was the son
of Admiral Belton, K.C.B., R.N., etc.’

Now I knew Allison. I knew him well, and I scented the chance of gaining a little more information on the subject than could be gleaned from the morning paper, but I deemed it wise to wait a little and not rush things too much. His photograph, a rather blotchy affair, appeared in more than one penny pictorial, and I felt sure of my man. However, I went wisely about my business, and put the matter away in an upper brain pigeon-hole, to be produced at the right moment.

I waited a good long while, six weeks, to be exact, until I felt sure that Allison’s survivor’s leave would be a thing of the past, and then I sallied out and bought the current Navy List. I’ve said it all happened long before the War, when those who took an interest in the movements of naval officers could satisfy their thirst in the leaves of the Blue journal. Nowadays these things are altered, and the Navy List, which grows and increases monthly, is kept locked up with the other secret books in the confidential safe.

In its mystic pages I found what I wanted. John Hugh Allison (Lieut.) was ‘for command of Submarine “90” (building).’ I knew what that meant. He’d had his leave all right and been appointed to a new boat, as yet uncompleted, and was standing by to superintend the work of the dockyard, and to take her to sea as captain when she was finished.

I thought a while and concocted a piece of villainy. Then I sent the following telegram: ‘Commanding Officer, H.M. Submarine “90.” Congratulate you on your promotion. When may I come and marvel?’

He fell into the trap (did I say that the telegram was reply paid?), and sent the cryptic answer: ‘Many thanks. Come Monday, and be damned.’

The telegram was handed in at Portsmouth, so I knew at once at what yard the boat was being built, and Monday morning saw me hustling down from London full of my fell intentions.

I knew I shouldn’t get into the yard even in peace time, so I hung round outside till a villain in a working rig appeared carrying a coil of wire. He bore on his cap-ribbon the legend ‘H.M. Submarines,’ and I marked him from afar. It appeared that the ‘Captain’ was living at the Royal Arms Hotel, and thither I hied me and demanded that he be produced.

He wasn’t in. He was still down in the mystic dockyard and wouldn’t be back till lunch, so I made myself comfortable in a corner of the smoking-room and awaited what the gods might give.

In due course the gift appeared, in a ragged uniform, and wearing a harassed expression. On seeing me he uttered a roar of appreciation (he was quite twenty-five), and caused drinks to be produced with the celerity of a conjuror.

Then we lunched and discussed many things, from cocoa to spots under the sun, but never once did I refer to the subject that was in my mind; but after the meal was over I asked him how he liked his new boat and what he thought of her.

‘Oh, not so dusty for a first command; you wouldn’t like to see over her, would you?’ He eyed me tentatively.

‘Rather a long way to the dockyard, isn’t it?’ I hazarded.

‘Oh, be a sport,’ he continued. ‘I’d like you to see her, you know. You’re the first civilian to come and see me here.’

‘All right,’ I agreed, ‘I’ll come, but don’t be too long-winded over it.’

Then I smiled the smile of the evil-doer, and followed him in silence to the penny tram. Under his protecting wing I was borne into the yard, and presently came on ‘90,’ where she was being whacked and riveted and hammered into shape.

It was like all other visits to dockyards, and secretly I was rather glad when it was over, but I had gained my host’s confidence in me and felt well pleased with my afternoon’s work.

We had tea at Southsea, and talked over old times and many other things, and then returned once more to the hotel and dinner. I refused all invitations to the Hippodrome afterwards, having my purpose in view, and when we reached the coffee and liqueur stage I felt that the psychological moment had arrived. I didn’t rush things, however; I led up to it gently, and let him have it in small doses till he swallowed the bait.

Hard and uphill work, but it came off in the end.

He had been explaining some of the advantages his new command had over the older boats he had served in, and I felt the time was ripe.

‘How does she compare,’ I hinted, and ended with a lowered voice, ‘with poor old “02”?’

He coloured a bit and hesitated, and I thought that all was lost, then,--

‘Taking her all round,’ he answered slowly, ‘“02” wasn’t in the same street. She was a good old packet, though.’ He sighed.

I passed the port again and waited.

‘It might have happened to any type of boat, you know, really,’ he continued. ‘It was a sheer bit of bad luck.’

It was coming, and I nodded in silence.

‘I’ve never been able to quite make out how it happened,’ he went on. ‘Whether poor old Belton made a mistake, or the Dutchman got scared and put his helm over.’

‘The Dutchman?’ I queried.

‘Norwegian tramp bound out for the Atlantic. Off Portland we were. We’d been told off with a T.B. for practice attacks, and were in shallow water at the time, about ten fathoms. About ten o’clock in the morning it was, and lovely weather too. The T.B. was away on ahead of us, and just before we dived we noticed a steamer about six miles off coming towards us down Channel. I remember pointing her out to Belton. Then we went under, and I was busy for’ard with the “fish.” Belton had taken careful bearings of the tramp, and I’m not sure whether he got so interested in his attack that he didn’t pay enough attention to her, or whether the tramp suddenly saw the T.B.’s flag and banged the helm over. I think it was a bit of both.

‘We’d been diving about half an hour when the skipper ordered me to “flood the tubes,” and about five minutes later I got the order “stand by.” You know how those old boats were, the way the sluice door worked and so on?’

I nodded and sipped my drink.

‘The T.I. and I brought her to the ready and reported, and then came the stillness that immediately precedes a shot; you know, everybody waiting for the order.

‘“Stand by” Belton called again, and then to the coxswains, “when I fire, forty feet.”

‘It was just then that I thought I heard a sound, the rumbling noise of a train in a tunnel or the screw of a steamer close to. I imagined it was the T.B., and I remember thinking that Belton was taking her rather close to the target. The noise got louder and louder, and the men began to look at one another, and then I heard the skipper’s voice from the control room.

‘“Flood the auxiliary,” he shouted, and I knew by his voice that something was wrong. “Take her down,” he cried, “lively now.”

‘Then I heard an E.R.A. calling for a wheel-spanner, and I ran aft to find that the Kingston had jammed and they couldn’t open it, and all the time the noise was getting louder and louder. We flooded the buoyancy and speeded up, and she was just going down (you know we always carried a light trim in those old boats) when the rumbling grew into a roar and there was a terrific clang for’ard and a rush of water, and we knew that some one’s propeller had cut clean through the skin. The lights went out and there was another bang and spout of water in the after compartment, and down we went.

‘“Control room, men,” yelled Belton. “Close the engine-room bulkhead.”

‘Somebody brought it to, and as the engine-room wasn’t pierced we knew we had that much buoyancy at any rate, and with the water pouring in in sheets we hit the bottom and the men tumbled into the control room and banged the doors. There was a good four feet of water there by then, and we’d filled the bilge.

‘Luckily some one had brought an emergency lamp with him, and we switched it on down there in the darkness. The depth-gauge was steady at 48 feet, and the crew was packed in that small air-lock. We could hear the water rising on both sides of us, and spurts of it came through the watertight doors. Then by-and-by the sound ceased, and we knew that save for the engine-room and the control room the boat was full up to the hatches.’

‘My God,’ I grunted involuntarily, as Allison paused to drink.

‘We mustered the crew,’ he continued, ‘and found that two were missing: a stoker named Howell who had been on watch doing some job or other in the engine-room, and had been shut in when the bulkhead door was closed, and the T.I., who had been with me at the tubes.

‘The stoker, of course, would be all right so far, and as it happened he saved himself and is in hospital now recovering from shock. The T.I., we knew, was dead. He must have tripped over something in the darkness on his way aft, and the door had been closed before he could get to it. Poor devil, there was a gash about two feet long in the hull, and he must have watched the water rising till it jammed him up against the arch of the roof and drowned him as it rose.

‘Poor old Belton looked anxious; he had the lives of all of us on his hands, and the men just stood round and said nothing.

‘We blew what we could, but she hadn’t got a central control like we have in the later boats, and of course nothing happened. The depth-gauge stuck at 48 feet, and the air was getting bad already. There were fourteen of us in the control room--a space about seven feet by nine.

‘I was standing by one of the bulkhead doors, and was the first to suspect it. I didn’t say anything till I was sure, and smelt and smelt again till there was no doubt about it. The water had got to the batteries, and chlorine gas was creeping through the doors.

‘There was only one way out of it, and that was the old conning-tower dodge. We reckoned we had about half an hour to live, as the gas was only coming in slowly, and we might be able to save the lot if the air didn’t give out first.

‘You know the shaft of the conning-tower that leads down into the control room has two hatches, one at the top, opening out on deck, and the other at the bottom where the shaft breaks out into the skin of the hull. The space between was just big enough for a man to stand, and forms an air-lock.

‘I wanted Belton to go up first, but of course he wouldn’t have it. He insisted that an officer must go first to test the working of it, and if all went well to explain technically when he reached the top what was the matter with us. As he was the captain I had to go.’

Allison broke off and shuddered at the remembrance, and it was some time before he continued.

‘I pushed up the lower lid and climbed into the conning-tower, and as I held the flap I looked down on the little crowd of upturned faces. “Good luck, George,” said Belton, he always called me George, “and good-bye.”

‘Then I closed the lid and stood there in the narrow space with only the upper hatch between me and 40 feet of water. I don’t quite know how I felt, but I felt afraid, and I waited a minute before I opened the sea-inlet, and the water poured into the shaft. It was all dark, of course, and I had the feeling that now at least I had burnt my boats. The arrangement was that after I had gone up, and the upper lid had been closed again from the control room, they were to pump the shaft out and the next man up would open the lower lid and take my place, and they were to give me four minutes to do it.

‘The water rose up to my thighs, and in that narrow space I could feel the air compressing terribly on my ears and mouth, and I climbed up till my head was touching the upper lid. Up came the water again, up to my chest, and I waited with one hand on the releasing gear of the lid.

‘When it reached my chin I couldn’t stand it any longer and let the hatch fly. I don’t know what happened then, but the bubble of compressed air must have shot me clean up. I remember the feeling of pressure and dark water and bursting lungs, and then I was up in the glorious sunlight that I hadn’t expected to see again.

‘Somebody grabbed me by the collar (I was told afterwards it was the T.B.’s boat I was hauled into), and I just managed to tell them how it was with the poor devils below. Then I fainted and came to in hospital, and that’s all about it.’

He drew a long breath.

‘The others?’ I hinted.

‘Oh, the tramp stood by, and her name and so on was taken, but she wasn’t held to blame, as nothing could be proved. Belton was the only man who could have spoken, but, as you know, they didn’t get the boat up for days.’

‘But why was it some of the others couldn’t follow you up?’

‘Something must have gone wrong below. Either they couldn’t drain the conning-tower or else the gas got through to them. When they raised her they were all gassed, poor beggars, and I think the doors must have leaked quicker than we’d thought, and I just got up in time.’

‘You said something about a stoker being saved, didn’t you?’

‘That was Howell, who was shut up in the engine-room. It’s an interesting story how he got out. He’s in Haslar Hospital now, if you’d like to go and see him.’

I said I should like to very much.

‘Then I’ll give you this,’ and Allison wrote something on the back of a card, ‘otherwise he may suspect you and tell you nothing.’

‘I’ll go,’ I said, taking the card. ‘His story ought to be rather illuminating.’

‘It will be, I expect. You mustn’t mind his language, though. He’s rather a hard nut.’

‘Don’t think I shall. I’m used to that sort of thing after ten years close acquaintanceship with the Navy.’

Allison laughed.

‘And are you,’ I suggested, ‘really going to stop in submarines after an experience like that?’

‘Why not?’ he laughed again. ‘Because I’m unlucky once it doesn’t follow that I will be again.’

‘And the stoker?’

‘He’s coming back with me as a leading hand. That is if he behaves himself,’ and he glanced at the card in my hand.

‘But when it was all over and you were in the hospital, how did you feel?’

‘I felt a bit bad at first, and then I thought of the rest of them down there, and I felt as if I wanted a drink. The sister wouldn’t let me have one, though, and we had a proper blarney,’ and he broke off into some long story of the hospital.

I saw that it was no more use and that the golden hour was passed. It was no good pressing it, and I was thankful to have gleaned so much.

By-and-by he began to talk about his new boat again.

‘In another month she ought to be ready for trials,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Hope you’ll come and see how she behaves.’

‘I’d like to, but how about you? How will you feel the first time you go down again?’

My host grinned.

‘Can’t say, I’m sure, but if you come, and mind you’ve got to, I’ll let you know at the time, that is if you remind me, and I’m not too busy with contractors’ people and dockyard officials and so on, which I expect I shall be. Some of those dockyard people are blighters, you can’t get half you want out of them.’

‘I’ve noticed that,’ I answered. ‘Engineer-Commanders are hard drivers of bargains sometimes.’

‘Hard drivers! Why I could tell you stories; but no, there isn’t time. I’ve got a long day’s work to-morrow, so I’ll turn in early. See you before you leave?’

He rose to go.

‘One moment,’ I said, ‘before bed, may I read what you’ve written on this card?’

‘Good Heavens, yes,’ he laughed. ‘Good-night.’

On the card in my friend’s neat handwriting were the words: ‘Tell him how you wrenched off the manhole door or you won’t come back in _my_ boat.’

Such is the personal equation of the Naval Officer.

* * * * *

‘He’s in Ward 6,’ the sister told me. ‘Yes, this is visitors’ hour, you’re not breaking the rules,’ and we smiled at each other as she led the way up the cool stone staircase.

I found him sitting in an arm-chair, a young man wrapped in a blanket of some sort, but haggard, and, it may have been my imagination, rather gray for his age.

He eyed me suspiciously, and I handed him the magic card.

‘That’s Mr Hellison,’ he said, grinning broadly; ‘’e always was one for a joke like.’

I sat down and asked him how he was.

‘Not so ruddy,’ he answered, ‘but it give me a fair turn, it did.’

‘And you’re stopping in submarines?’

‘All right, mate, I’ll earn it; I’ll carry out ’is orders, and don’t you fret. I’m goin’ back as a leadin’ ’and, I am.’

I said nothing.

‘It was a fair old show,’ he went on presently, ‘but I come through it all right by a bit o’ luck.’

I congratulated him on his safety.

‘I was on watch in the engine-room, doin’ a job of cleanin’, when it ’appened,’ he continued, ‘and the E.R.A ’ad just gone for’ard for suthing when the bump came. A proper old clang it was, and I ’eard the water simply passing in, in a way o’ speakin’. Then the captain, ’e sung out for the ’ands to muster in the control room, but the lights went out just then, and afore I could get out of the engine-room some one banged the watertight door to, and, as it ’appened, that’s wot saved my life.’

I nodded my interest in his story.

‘We was ’oled in the after compartment as well as for’ard, you see, and them bangin’ that door cut me off from the control room but kept out the water that flooded in between the rest of the bunch and me in the engine-room. I ’eard it risin’ after we ’it the bottom, and the boat took on a bit of a cant.

‘Then I began to get in rather a sweat, as I knew that if I was goin’ to be saved I got to save myself. I come over all funny like at first down there in the dark, and then I ’ad an idea and started right on to work it.

‘First I got ’old of a shifting spanner and fell to work on the man’ole of the No. 4 main ballast tank. That’s under the engine-room, you know, and when I’d got it off the water flopped in a bit owin’ to the shape of the tank.

‘After that I sat down and wondered whether it was worth it or if I could wait a bit and see if they was goin’ to lift the boat, but the waitin’ got on my nerves, and I thought I might as well see it through. So I opened up the No. 4 Kingston, and in come the water through the man’ole door what I’d took off. It rose mighty fast, too, and after it got over the Kingston wheel I knew it was neck or nothin’, as they say, ’cos I could never stop the water comin’ in again if I wanted to. So I climbed up the ladder and ’ung on under the engine-room ’atch and watched the water risin’.

‘Of course the air compressed somethin’ cruel, and when I thought it was enough I shoved away the strong-back and tried to push the ’atch up. It only lifted an inch or so and come down again with a bang, lettin’ in a torrent of water that knocked me off o’ the ladder, and I was swimmin’ about in the engine-room for a bit before I got ’old of it again. The water was within two foot o’ the roof by then and bangin’ me up against it, so I thought ’ere goes, and I give the ’atch a push. Lumme, I don’t rightly know _wot_ ’appened then, but I went up like a cork out of a bubbly bottle, and never knew no more till I woke up one day in this ’ere ’ospital. Mr Hellison, ’e come down and see me, and I’m goin’ back with ’im, and that’s all there is to it.’

The narrator drew a long breath, and paused to watch the effect of his story.

‘Thanks,’ I said simply. There seemed nothing else to say.

He grinned broadly. ‘Wot do you think of it?’ he queried. ‘Sons of the sea and bloomin’ sky-blue ’eroes, wot?’

‘It must have been an awful experience,’ I ventured.

‘Don’t you believe it, mate; “a life on the ocean wave,” and honest Jack the sailor, that’s wot you think,’ and he chuckled at some obscure joke.

‘I tell you, though, I was scared, mind yer. Not at the time: I was too busy savin’ myself then, but afterwards, lyin’ ’ere in bed; wot with me bein’ weak and so on, I used to imagine I was down there in the dark again, and I used to dream about it and wake up in a sweat.’

‘And yet you’re stopping in submarines?’

‘You betcher. Did you ever, when you was a little ’un, think you saw somethin’ in the dark or feel that some one was be’ind you?’

I nodded.

‘Well, _I_ used to, and my mother she always told me, “Phil,” she used to say, “whenever you feels like that, turn round and touch wot’s scarin’ you, and when you feels nothin’ you’ll know it’s all right.” It’s just the same as that. I’ll go back, and once I’m in a boat again I’ll feel as right as a trivet, it’s the bein’ away and thinkin’ that does the damage.’

‘I think I see. You mean it’s the shadow that hurts, not the substance.’

‘You’ve got it, guvnor; that’s wot it is. But ’ere’s the sister comin’, so I guess you’ll ’ave to ’op it.’

‘Your time’s up,’ said the sister, smiling. ‘We can’t allow him to talk too much, and he will keep on talking.’

‘All right, sister, I’ll be a good boy,’ and the patient lay back with closed eyes and snored loudly.

‘Good-bye,’ I said, ‘and thanks so much for what you’ve told me. Anything you’d like: cigarettes and so on?’

‘No, thanks, guvnor, I’m all right,’ said the sleeper, coming suddenly to life; ‘but if you’re seein’ Mr Hellison, give ’im my respects and say I’m ’opin’ to be with ’im before long.’

I promised that I would.

‘Good-bye,’ I said again, ‘and best of luck and a quick recovery.’

The sister was waiting for me at the door, and beckoned impatiently.

As I left the ward I glanced once more towards the patient. He was apparently sound asleep and snoring his loudest, but as I turned away, one eye suddenly opened and closed again in the most unmistakable wink that was ever winked by man or sailor.

* * * * *

It wasn’t until some years afterwards that I heard the end of the story.

I only got wind of it by chance at a dinner party, after the women folk had left us and the port had been round for the second time. It was before the War, and not knowing that there were any Naval guests present I was talking to my neighbour about the Navy, and telling him what I knew of the ‘02’ fatality, when the gray-haired man opposite me broke in.

‘I think I can finish your story for you,’ he said.

‘Finish the story!’ I replied in surprise. ‘Do you know any more details then?’

‘I think I do,’ he said quietly. ‘You see, I was in the T.B. at the time of the accident. I was a captain then, and it was before I retired from the Service, and I went out to see what a periscope looked like, and to prove some of my own pet theories as to the uselessness of these new-fangled things called submarines.’

‘Do tell me,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ll be very quiet if you will.’

‘It’s not a pleasant tale, though. I don’t know if----’

But the other guests, who had heard my account of the survivors’ experiences, clamoured for the story, and the gray-haired man gave way.

‘I went out in the T.B. as a sight-seer, and watched the submarine dive through my glasses with the interest of a child with a new toy. It was the first time I’d seen a boat go under, and I remember wondering what it felt like to be down below. At the same time I noticed a tramp steamer, a Norwegian she was, coming down Channel across our track, and I recollected mentioning it to the captain of the Torpedo Boat.

‘We hoisted a red flag to indicate the danger and continued on our course, keeping a good look-out for the periscope meanwhile, and all the time the tramp kept getting closer and didn’t seem to worry about our warning signals. Then the periscope was spotted, and the next moment the tramp was between us and the submarine’s track. At the last minute the Norwegian seemed to have suddenly realised that something was wrong, and thinking the danger was to do with us, altered her course away from us.

‘Even so, something must have been amiss in the boat, or I think she would have gone clear, but the next moment we saw the wake of the periscope under the steamer’s counter, and then it disappeared for good. The Norwegian stopped in answer to our frantic signals, and we went alongside and hailed the master. He said that his engineers reported that the propeller had struck something, so we took his name and port of registry and got the wireless going.

‘Two T.B.s arrived in a short time with divers and other gear, and the tramp was taken into Portland for examination; but nothing was proved, and she was not held to blame. In those days the submarine signals weren’t generally known as they are now.

‘We’d marked and buoyed the spot where we last saw “02’s” periscope, and the divers were just getting ready for a preliminary survey when a man shot out of the water and right up in the air. He fell back with a plop, and we had a boat out and the body on board inside three minutes. It was Allison, the “Sub” of the boat, and he just managed to tell us how things were and what had happened before he fainted. Then the divers got to work, and we were waiting anxiously for news when another body appeared. It was one of the stokers, and he was in a bad condition with shock, and half drowned. We waited and waited, but nobody else came up, and it was not for days afterwards that the boat was raised, and they were all dead by then----’

The gray-haired man sighed and broke off.

‘I knew Allison,’ I said, breaking the silence that followed. ‘It was he who told me practically all I know about “02.”’

‘Did you?’ said the gray-haired man; ‘and I knew Belton: I knew him very well.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, ‘I hope I haven’t----’

‘Not at all,’ replied my informant. ‘But I think I knew him better than most people, because, you see, he was my son.’

* * * * *

I went home that night and I thought about it. Of Allison the cheery, and Howell the Cockney, and of that lonely old Admiral who’d seen his son die. I thought about it and I wondered. And the result was that I asked myself this question: ‘Why do these men do this, and what keeps them doing it?’ And then the answer came, and the answer is, that in spite of modern machinery, and modern scepticism, and modern commercialism, and all the money grubbing and scoffing of the twentieth century, there is still, thank God, a touch of the loyalty and ideal of honour and patriotism that nerved our fathers of the middle ages. In the ordinary walks of life it is met with but rarely, or if it does exist, it is denied and held to scorn by those who would rather strike in war-time than do an extra hour’s work, and hold self continually in the fore-ground and never cast a thought to State or Country.

And that loyalty and those ideals are always met with in the Navy and the Army, ay, and in the Merchant Service too--that Service who has found her worth and come into her own since this World War began.

And why should these ideals remain in our Services when they have so long left the ranks of civilian life? For the reason that the men of the Services are trained in the same old way and live up to the same ideals as their fathers of centuries ago; only a few of the details have been altered.

For on joining the colours, whether White Ensign or Red Ensign, or his regimental banner, the man whose father may be an agitator or a strike leader learns to forget himself and to work for his surroundings, for good work’s sake, and for the opinion of his superiors.

Thank God that it is so, and that there were those among us who came forward in 1914 and in 1915 without having to be cajoled and eventually forced to do what was our obvious and common duty.

May those who growl at the War and those who ask, as some have been asking, ‘What is the Navy doing?’ gather from these few pages a glimpse of the life of one small branch of the Service to which Britain owes her immunity. And if they are not silent afterwards, then will it be proof that the spirit of England is on the wane, and that her manhood is not what it was in the days of Trafalgar and of Waterloo.

May that day never come, and may Englishmen, ay, and Irishmen, too, when striving to do their duty look to the Navy and her sister Services for their guide-star and example.

AMEN.

Call it a judgment ye who will,
Call it a scourge to punish Man;
Name it a curse that Man must kill,
And suffer God’s eternal ban.
Call it a scourge, a blasting breath,
Borne on the wings of pain and death.

So may it be and ye who think
The Lord’s avenging hand is nigh,
As ye draw near the Silent Brink,
Pray to the Lord who reigns on high.
All ye who use and fear the sword,
Fall on thy knees and pray the Lord.

‘God! Grant the anguish and the blood,
The corpses and the countless biers,
The pain, the misery, the flood,
Of broken hearts and mothers’ tears
May wash away the damning stain,
And cleanse from us the brand of Cain.

‘O God Almighty, Lord of All,
Have mercy on Thy people’s stress;
Hark to Thy people’s pleading call,
Who look to Thee to guide and bless.
Have mercy on us, we who live;
And for our dead ... we pray, forgive.’

FOOTNOTES

[1] When in parallel the batteries are said to be ‘grouped down’; when in series they are ‘grouped up.’

[2] Leading Torpedo Man.

[3] Seaman Torpedo Man.

[4] Engine Room Artificer.

[5] Seamen.

[6] T.I. Torpedo Instructor.

[7] Periscope.

[8] Torpedo or Mine.

[9] Several submarines secured alongside each other to the depot ship.

[10] Periscope.

[11] Crossed anchor. The badge indicating the rating of Petty Officer.

[12] ‘Making’ a switch is switching on. ‘Breaking’ a switch is switching off.

[13] Mines.

[14] Naval Store Officer.

[15] The overhang of the stern.

[16] Senior Naval Officer.

[17] Ampères.

GLASGOW: WM. COLLINS SONS AND CO. LTD.

COLLINS’ :: NEW :: BOOKS

_Large Crown 8vo_, 6s. _net, except where otherwise stated_

THE JERVAISE COMEDY

By J. D. BERESFORD

(Author of ‘GOD’S COUNTERPOINT’)

_The Jervaise Comedy_ is one of Mr Beresford’s lighter books, and the whole action is played within twenty-four hours. Nevertheless, within that time the principal person of the story meets with a series of adventures that changes his whole way of life; while the crisis with which the book opens determines the career of one, at least, of the members of the Jervaise family in whose country house the scene is laid.

THE SEEKERS

By HUGH F. SPENDER

(Author of ‘THE GULF’)

This is a novel dealing with Spiritualism, and the pernicious effects of seances and spook-hunting are illustrated in the history of John Havering. He is one among many ‘Seekers’ in the book, who all in their way endeavour to solve the mystery of the future life. The story has a romantic interest in the love affairs of Irene Hoey and Mary Havering, two strongly contrasted characters, and the plot involves a mysterious murder, which gives the excitement of a detective story to the book. There is also a political interest in _The Seekers_ in the career of Ernest Beaufort, the Leader of the ‘People’s Party’; while the religious interest is to be found in the characters of the Vicar of Siltrop, Peter Silas the Quaker, and Mary Havering.

THE GRAFTONS

By ARCHIBALD MARSHALL

The Grafton family, settled happily in their beautiful country home, Abington Abbey, have reached the point in life where matrimonial developments may be expected to change its easy flow. The father is a well-preserved widower of fifty; two of the daughters are grown up. The story chiefly concerns their love affairs, but deals also with their country neighbours, and the give and take of English country life just before the war. The country around the village of Abington is well supplied with large houses, rectories, and vicarages, and from each of them, as well as from the greater world of London, come people, old and young, agreeable and disagreeable, to play their part in the comedy that centres around the Graftons. The novel also contains scenes laid in Paris, and one in the mountains of Switzerland.

WITHIN THE RIM

By HENRY JAMES

(Author of ‘THE IVORY TOWER,’ ‘THE SENSE OF THE PAST,’ etc., etc.)

The assumption by Henry James of British citizenship was a symbolic act, a unique demonstration to all the world of his devotion to the Allied cause. To that cause also he dedicated the last efforts of his genius. In these moving, poignant pages, the heroism of ravaged Belgium and Fiance, the war effort of Britain, the rich outflow of American philanthropy are enshrined with all the master’s old matchless beauty of thought and form.

THE SKELETON KEY

By BERNARD CAPES

(Author of ‘WHERE ENGLAND SETS HER FEET’)

This story deals with a crime committed in the grounds of a country house, and the subsequent efforts of a clever young detective to discover the perpetrator. There is an amusing love interest and strong characterisation. The scene is laid in Paris and Hampshire.

MR. MISFORTUNATE

By MARJORIE BOWEN

(Author of ‘THE BURNING GLASS’)

The story is of _Young Mr. Misfortunate_ (as Charles Edward Stewart was styled by the Whigs of his time) after the disaster of the ’45 Scottish Expedition to his meeting with Clementina Walkinshaw in 1753.

It opens in Scotland, but is mainly placed in Paris and its environs, in palace and slum, with one change to Venice.

The theme is the little known adventures that led to the downfall of a cause and a man--the most lovable and unfortunate of all the lovable and unfortunate Stewarts.

THE ADVENTURESS

By ARTHUR B. REEVE

An American from Maddox Munitions, Incorporated, the owners of a new war invention--the telautomaton, forms the centre round which this exciting mystery tale is built. In trying to answer the ever-present question ‘Who killed Marshall Maddox?’ the reader is tossed about a sea of conjecture by two strong main currents which continually cross and recross each other and keep him mystified till the end of the book. Scientific inventiveness--at times diabolical in its ruthless ingeniousness, plays no less strong a part than does Paquita, the adventuress. Was the death of Maddox retributive for his double life or was it due to the covetousness of some schemer. It required a detective of Craig Kennedy’s acumen to discover.

UNDER THE PERISCOPE

By LIEUT. MARK BENNETT, R.N.R.

A realistic and detailed picture of life on a submarine during the war, including descriptions of the construction and management of the boat, and the effect of submarine conditions on the crew. All the incidents recorded are founded on fact, and most of them are personal experiences of the author.

_Large Crown 8vo._ 7s. 6d. _net_.

HIS DAUGHTER

By GOUVERNEUR MORRIS

This is the story of an American whose nature is refined in the fire of war. It begins in the easy-going days of travel abroad when young Dayton meets Elizabeth Brown and becomes informally engaged; and goes on to the artist life in Paris when he meets Elise, a joyous young Parisian girl of the lower class. Suddenly called home and prevented by accident from communicating with Elise, he marries Elizabeth with the determination to be true to her. Chance takes him to Paris, and there three things happened: he learns of another daughter, the child of Elise; Maria, Elizabeth’s daughter, dies of typhoid; and the Germans strike. Both he and his loyal wife plunge into the war, and in the ordeals which there confront them the dross of his nature is destroyed.

THE MAN FROM AUSTRALIA

By KATHARINE TYNAN

_The Man from Australia_ is the story of John Darling, who comes from the Antipodes to find his Irish cousins. How he finds them amid tragic circumstances: how he loves his cousin Aileen, over whom the clouds of tragedy hang darkest: how he loses and finds her, is the main theme of the story. The setting is in the Wild West of Ireland.

THE FLOWER OF THE CHAPDELAINES

By GEORGE W. CABLE

The scene is the ‘Vieux Carré’ of New Orleans, the last lingering place of the old Creole atmosphere. There Geoffry Chester, a young lawyer, is struck by the charm of a Creole beauty whom he daily meets on his way to the office. This is a case of love at first sight. On account of the exclusive character of the Creole coterie it seems destined to be limited to sight, but a bookseller consults him about an old manuscript of which Aline Chapdelaines is the owner. The fate of this manuscript in respect to publication and of Chester in regard to matrimony is the theme of a most original romance.

HERITAGE

By V. SACKVILLE-WEST