Billy Barcroft, R.N.A.S.: A Story of the Great War
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. "Mightjust as well see about something to eat."
He made his way towards the cornmarket. Here the traffic was at itsheight. Nobody would have thought that twelve hours ago a Zeppelinhad sought to terrorise these Lancashire folk with a display of"frightfulness," and that within two hundred yards a devastatedstreet bore testimony to the Huns' feeble efforts.
"By Jove, if this had been Karlsruhe or Berlin, wouldn't the Kaiserbe shedding floods of tears!" thought Billy. "Good old Britishpublic. 'Carry on, carry on--we'll come out top-dog all in goodtime'--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 latestwar news. It was cheerful enough, in all conscience:
"Two Zeppelins Down. Official."
"Brief and to the point," exclaimed Billy. "Gives a fellow quite anappetite for lunch. Wonder if any of our crowd scored the winninghits?"
Ten minutes later, while awaiting lunch, Billy bought a paper stilldamp from the press.
"Honours even!" he exclaimed. "The R.F.C. bring down one gas-bag inLincolnshire; our fellows bag another twenty miles off the Yorkshirecoast. Hullo! Here's the fly on the ointment: one of our seaplanesmissing."
He glanced casually at the rest of the news, which consisted mostlyof ambiguous and contradictory Allied and enemy reports from thevarious fronts, a couple of columns of local news and a similarspace devoted to racing and football. The whole of the front pagewas 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 pageadvertisement of this trash. The back page, I presume, is taken upwith photographs of engaged nonentities that are not of the faintestpossible interest to decimal ought-ought-one of the readers."
But the young officer was only partly right. In one column was anitem 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 hardlyrealise the truth of the bald statement. It seemed incredible. Neverbefore, during the "Hippodrome's" commission, had a seaplane set outon a particular duty and failed to return. Fuller was a thoroughlycapable man; Kirkwood--yes--there was nothing to complain about theway in which he carried out his duties. Had he, Billy, not been onleave the possibilities were that Kirkwood would have flown withhim.
Barcroft was essentially of a sanguine nature. He had picturedseveral 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 rareoccasions that a fighting man has a presentiment that he will gounder.
"I'm frightfully sick that I wasn't on board instead of being onleave," thought the flight-sub. "Just my rotten luck. Wonder whathas happened to Fuller and Kirkwood? Missing. Perhaps; but I'llstake my all on Fuller. He'll turn up trumps right enough."
Nevertheless Barcroft spent a miserable afternoon. He felt toounsettled to carry out his original programme of calling at MillView. The desertion of Butterfly he had practically forgotten. Allhe wanted to do was to go home and await news of his missing chums.
* * * *
Meanwhile Peter Barcroft, having completed his precious proofs tothe accompaniment of a choice selection of literary profanity, setout to post the result of his labours.
It was a good mile to the nearest pillar-box, which was on thesummit of the hill overlooking Blackberry Cross, and was cleared atthe early hour of four p.m.
"Nice walk on a fine day," commented Peter, "but there'll be troublewhen it blows, rains or snows. A bit of a change from having apillar-box outside one's door, and where one can post at ten in theevening with the absolute certainty of the letter being delivered inTown the next morning. Wonder if I'll meet Billy on his way back?"
He whistled for the two dogs and, checking their impetuosity, walkedbriskly down the lane.
"Pity the car's crocked," he soliloquised. "Might have taken Billyround and shown him the country. By Jove, this air is fine! Makes afellow glad to be alive. Hope Billy will have fine weather whilehe's here."
His plans for the entertainment of his sailor son were interruptedby his being nearly run down by a cyclist postman, who, turningsharply from the high road into the lane leading to Ladybird Fold,managed to miss the occupier of that delectable spot by a fewinches.
"Sorry, sir."
"Don't mention it," replied Peter affably. "A miss is as good as amile. Anything for me? You're early this afternoon."
"A telegram for you, sir; postmaster he sent me with it, seeing it'son my way home and there'll not be a lad at t'office."
Peter took the orange-coloured envelope and opened it. Within was aform bearing the words:
"Report for duty at Rosyth immediately."
"No answer," said Peter shortly; then "You might put this in thepost for me," handing the man the stamped envelope.
Barcroft Senior retraced his steps. Dashed to the ground were thecastles in the air he was building concerning Billy's programme."Jolly rough luck," he decided, that a youngster's leave should becurtailed in that off-hand manner.
Then he realised that there was a higher claim. His son waswanted--urgently. Personal considerations were nothing compared withthe exigencies of the Senior Service in wartime.
"It shows Billy is of some importance," he decided proudly. "Theywouldn't trouble to recall him if he were otherwise. Hang it all! ifhe doesn't turn up within the next half-hour he'll miss the 4.45from Tarleigh, and that will put him in the cart as far as theScotch express is concerned. I'll go and meet him and hurry himalong."
Peter Barcroft was not usually given to changing his mind in thiserratic fashion, but perhaps present circumstances were sufficientexcuse. He had not seen his son for some twelve months previous toBilly's belated arrival at Ladybird Fold fourteen hours ago. Of thatfourteen hours six had been employed by making up arrears of sleep,and another five by Peter's own act of sending his son intoBarborough. Of the remaining time father and son had spent hardly anhour alone--and there were such a lot of things that Peter wanted totell his boy. Then, as a coping-stone to the series ofdisappointments, Billy had not seen his mother, as Mrs. Barcroft wasnot expected home until the evening.
While Peter was walking along the high road, Billy on his homewardjourney took the path across the fields, and on the former's returnwas sitting comfortably in front of the fire.
"Hullo! how did I miss you?" was Peter's greeting. He wasconsiderably puzzled as to how Billy had contrived to reach homewith the donkey without passing him on the road. "I've a telegramfor you."
"About Fuller?" asked the flight-sub eagerly.
"No," replied Mr. Barcroft. "Why should he want to wire? It's yourrecall, my boy; and it's too late for the train that catches theScotch express. She's leaving Tarleigh station now."
"Something in the wind, I'll swear," declared Billy, searching invain for a time-table. "Fuller's missing. You've heard me mentionhim several times. Went after one of the returning Zeppelins andhasn't been seen since. Only the other day----"
"What are you disarranging my desk for?" interrupted his father. "Atime-table? Here you are. Next train from Tarleigh is at 7.5. Thatwill catch a connection at Barborough and land you at Edinburghabout 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 fatherphilosophically. "You'll be able to see
your mother. She arrives bythe same train you leave by. It will only be for a couple ofminutes. Better luck next time." Tea over, Billy began hispreparations for the journey north. With the assistance of Mrs.Carter his greatcoat was made sufficiently presentable until hecould borrow a uniform from an obliging shipmate.
At the station the flight-sub's meeting with his mother was, asPeter had predicted, only of a brief duration, delayed until theguard's in patient exhortation of "Take your seat, sir, if you'regoing," brought it to a close.
"Good-bye, my boy!" said Barcroft Senior as his son lowered thewindow of the now closed door.
"I say, pater!" exclaimed Billy, suddenly remembering something inhis pocket. "Here, take this. It will interest you. Forgot all aboutit before this."
Peter took the proffered paper--a copy of the document found on thebody of the dead German airman, setting a price upon BarcroftSenior's head.
The train was on the move. Billy, with his head and shoulders stillprotruding through the window, waved farewells to his parents,then----
"Dash it all!" he shouted. "Butterfly--the donkey--ran away. Cleanforgot to mention it."
But Peter merely shook his head. The rumble of the train made thewords quite inaudible.
It was nearly seven in the morning when Flight-sub-lieutenantBarcroft arrived at Rosyth, after a long and tedious journey. Mistswere hanging over the waters of the Firth of Forth. Even the loftystructure of the Forth Bridge was hidden by the grey bank of vapour.Service craft of all sizes and descriptions were feeling their wayup and down the broad estuary, making the welkin ring with thediscordant braying on their syrens and foghorns.
"Have you seen anything of the 'Hippodrome's' boat?" inquired Billyof 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 SeventhDestroyer Division, The Ninth's just off, sir."
Barcroft rapidly reviewed the situation. Experience had taught himthat there are often two ways of doing things in the Service--theofficial and the non-official. To be strictly in accord with theprecedent he should have reported himself to the Admiral, giving hisreasons why he missed his ship and getting a smart "rap over theknuckles." On the other hand he might be able to enlist thesympathies of one of the officers of the Ninth Destroyer Divisionand get a passage--provided the boats were proceeding to the samerendezvous. 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 thejetty where the destroyers were berthed he overtook a lieutenantcommander, whom he recognised as Terence Aubyn, a particular friendof Flight-lieutenant Fuller.
"By all means," replied Aubyn when Barcroft had explained thecircumstances and requested a passage. "We're pretty certain to fallin with the 'Hippodrome,' although I have as yet no idea of theposition of the rendezvous. In fact, I have a couple of her men onboard now. They got adrift in a copper punt last night, and wereonly 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 brisklyup the steeply sloping "brow" to the quarter-deck of the destroyer"Audax."
And thus Flight-sub-lieutenant Barcroft found himself on board oneof the newest type of destroyers bound for an unknown rendezvoussomewhere in the North Sea.