Chapter X: “stand By!”

Two days later the _Conklin_ was steaming at twenty knots through the shallow waters of the North Sea. It’s a vile stretch of ocean in the best of weather, and the best of weather did not fall to their lot. The short, sharp waves drenched the decks, and the destroyer rolled and staggered and shook. Life that day was, in The Pickle’s phraseology, “nothing to write home about.” Drenched with icy spray, choked with the fumes of the black oil smoke that hugged the deck, wrapped in mist, the lookouts were a cold and unhappy lot. No, not unhappy, though, for big events impended and spirits were high.

Ahead and behind eight other destroyer craft were keeping the _Conklin_ company. Four American and five British ships comprised the little flotilla that, hidden from each other by the wet and dreary mist, were speeding eastward toward the enemy’s stronghold. “Heligoland” was the word on every lip that morning, for, although the bulletin told them nothing, their destination was no secret. They were off for a raid!

Of late German destroyers and submarines had been far too active against allied and neutral shipping in the North Sea, and the enemy must be taught a lesson. And for the teaching nine of the fastest and most powerful destroyers had been picked from the two navies and had rendezvoused the day before off The Helder. And now, lithe grayhounds of the sea, they were darting eastward for their prey.

Heligoland, that grim ocean fortress that stands thirty miles off the German coast, is to-day a veritable Gibraltar. Fortified at a cost of $50,000,000, it bristles with eleven-inch guns and forms an impregnable defense to the German bases behind it, and provides on its southward side a safe harbor for ships. In clear weather it must be given a wide berth by the enemy, but when the North Sea fogs close down about it, even its sharp eyes――giant searchlights that range for miles out to sea from the summit of the great cliffs――are powerless. And hidden by mist a destroyer may, if she chooses to dare the mines and nets that surround the rock, creep close under the guns without detection.

It was still early morning when the attacking ships reached the edge of the protected area and abandoned formation, for it is in the early hours of the day that the gray mists are thickest. The plan of the raid had been prepared beforehand, and now every unit knew its duty. The _Conklin’s_ nose swung more to the north, in the direction of the Bight, that twenty-mile channel leading northward from the mouth of the River Elbe. Once a gray phantom hung on her starboard for a minute and then was dissolved in the all-encompassing mist. Lookouts strained their eyes as never before, their life-belts strapped about them. The engines roared and the seas dashed over the bows, making the decks a welter of water. Every gun crew was at its station; had been there for an hour, ever since the order of “Stand by!” had come in the chill darkness of early dawn.

Eastward a distant gun boomed and was followed by a second. One of the raiders had come in contact with the enemy. But from the _Conklin_ not so much as a flash was to be seen. The firing grew continuous, a steady roar of sound. The _Conklin_ was going more slowly now, for mines lay about her and the narrow channel she must keep to was winding and uncertain. A half hour passed. The firing in the distance diminished. Then a heavier gun spoke, this time more to the north and nearer. The foretop lookout saw the rosy flare of it a few miles distant. Smaller, sharper guns barked in answer and a new engagement began. But the mysterious fog hid it as it hid aught else from the straining eyes on bridge and deck of the _Conklin_.

At the guns men murmured impatience. Were they to be the only ones without a bid for glory? What was the Old Man up to? Why didn’t he plunge across there and get a finger in the pie before it was all gone? But the Old Man was paying scant heed to the fortunes of the consorts. His eyes were glued to a chart and his lips never moved save to issue orders to the helmsman. Slowly but inexorably the destroyer crept on and on through the mist, her sharp nose twitching this way and that as the steering cables groaned under deck and the rudder moved from side to side. Eight knots now, and scarcely seeming to have headway in the tumbling, leaping seas. From a bow lookout came a warning cry:

“Mine close aport!”

The _Conklin’s_ nose twitched to starboard and the lookout’s hair stirred under his woolen cap as the floating engine of destruction was cleared by a few scant yards. Once more a similar warning came, and again the destroyer swerved aside just in the nick of time. A spotter amidships on the starboard side swore afterwards that the mine scraped the _Conklin’s_ plates!

Then telegraphs became busy and the destroyer leaped forward again through sea and fog. Fifteen knots! Twenty! Twenty-six! A darker shape emerged from the grayness ahead and to port. The _Conklin_ No. 3 gun broke the long silence. Somewhere a warning siren screamed eerily. Then a flare of rose-pink gleamed to port and, as the _Conklin’s_ guns awoke, a shell screamed overhead. They knew then where they were, and every heart leaped with the thrill of that knowledge. They had crept through the mine field, and now they were plunging straight for the anchored ships in the wide-mouthed harbor, straight under the giant guns of Heligoland!

It was suicide, and they all knew it, from the Old Man on the bridge to the last oiler far below the wet, fog-draped deck, and every man of them gloried in it! Rushing on, firing until the gray shape was lost in fog, the destroyer kept her course. Other shapes emerged now, ahead to starboard, aport――shapes small and shapes gigantic, vanishing at the vagaries of the mist, suddenly looming again. Every gun fired at sight of a target. The water dashed over the stern as a shell plunged into the waves. Here and there glares of quick, vivid light broke the gray wall. The _Conklin_ went on and past, hurling her shells incessantly. Suddenly, ahead, a big gun spoke from the cliffs. And then another. The sounds dwarfed all other sounds. The _Conklin_ whirled in a confusion of churning water and headed seaward again. Fair in her path lay the grim mystery of a huge cruiser, her funnels and masts high above the diminutive enemy. Straight on went the _Conklin_――a wasp attacking a bulldog! The cruiser’s small guns beat a tattoo against the _Conklin’s_ deck and hull. A great shell from the shore batteries howled past. The destroyer, every funnel spouting smoke, raced past the cruiser so close that the dim lights behind open ports showed to the gun crews and they aimed for them. Roaring, firing, cheering, the _Conklin_ blazed her way by. At the guns men worked in a sweating frenzy, shouting grimly when a shell went home, laughing as grimly when the enemy got home on them. Then they were past, and astern a fearful rending of steel and timber shook the air and a wild uprush of flame and flying débris was visible for an instant. And then the gray gloom closed in again, hiding the tragedy!

“Lyddite explosion,” said the Old Man, briefly.

“One cruiser less in the Kaiser’s navy,” exulted the junior.

Below deck, men groaning from wounds heard and forgot their pain. At the guns they cheered wildly. They were handling ammunition now in the dark, for the lighting circuit had been broken. But the shells still came up and the guns still barked――all save No. 4, which would never speak again. Shot-riddled, one funnel gone, badly gashed forward above the water line, and dented in fifty places, the _Conklin_ rushed on into a new danger. As the anchored ships dropped astern a torpedo sped across the destroyer’s bow. The submarines were in the game at last! Zig-zagging from side to side, doubtful of the channel, the _Conklin_ raced ahead with every boiler roaring. Behind them the big guns boomed, dropping shells into that narrow path through which they must steer. Grimly firing from the stern at the fleeting, shadowy shape of an enemy destroyer, the _Conklin_ sought escape. Behind her a great gray battle cruiser was slowly settling beneath the waves and many an enemy ship was nursing her wounds, and only a miracle, it seemed, could deliver the _Conklin_ from the enemy’s vengeance.

And yet the moments passed, and the great shells that went moaning into the sea failed of their mission. If torpedoes were launched from the skulking U-boats they, too, missed their target. Once, close aboard, an upheaval of the sea and a dull concussion showed where an anchored mine had been exploded, perhaps by torpedo, perhaps by shell. The _Conklin_ held her life in her hands now. Around her lay unseen death, behind her coursed destroyers and submarines. But it was as the God of Battles willed it, and the gallant little ship, never slowing her engines, plunged fearlessly forward, turning and twisting. Sweaty, smoke-grimed lookouts peered from the bows and shouted hoarse warnings. On the battered bridge the officers stood tensely and waited. And then, somehow, she was through the mines and past the nets and the gray mist was beckoning her to its arms. Back, where the great grim fortress towered above the sea, the guns boomed and growled with diminishing fury. And, maimed and scarred, with a toll of dead and dying below the long, drenched deck, the _Conklin_ sped proudly westward, the Yankee ensign still fluttering in triumph from the masthead.

THE END

Transcriber’s Notes:

――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

――Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
follow the text that they illustrate.

――Printer’s, punctuation, and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.

――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.