CHAPTER X
Preparations
"Jolly rotten luck that _Bolero_ business," remarked LieutenantFarnborough, commanding M.-L. 4452.
The M.-L. lay alongside the oil-fuel jetty in Dover Harbour. A weekhad elapsed since the stunt off Zeebrugge. Farnborough was still farfrom fit. His sprained ankle was much better, but the injury to hisback caused him considerable inconvenience and pain on movement. Yet,eager not to miss the opportunity of participating in the impendingbig operations at Zeebrugge and Ostend, he sturdily refused the moreprudent course of reporting sick, and carried on as usual.
It was a calm, moonlit evening, following a hard blow. There was afairly heavy sea running in the Channel, while in the Wick, orportion of Dover Harbour enclosed by the new Admiralty breakwater, along swell was setting in, causing the destroyer and other vessels atthe buoys to roll heavily. The "gush" was even communicated to thesmall basin at the north-eastern end of the harbour, where half adozen M.-L.'s and two P.-boats lay in somewhat dangerous proximity tothousands of tons of highly-inflammable oil fuel.
No. 4452 was rolling slightly, her large coir fenders grunting andgroaning as they ground against the massive timbers of the pier, thedeck of which towered thirty feet above the little craft. Beyond andabove, looming ghostly in the cold moonlight, were the rugged chalkcliffs crowning the venerable Dover Castle.
Sub-lieutenant Guy Branscombe, deep in a novel, merely shrugged hisshoulders. His skipper's words had as yet failed to penetrate hisunderstanding. Farnborough knew the Sub's peculiarity. In his spellsof off-duty Branscombe was a regular book-worm. Farnborough, on theother hand, was prone to conversation, but he had an unsatisfactoryvictim in his sub, who was able to defend himself against inopportuneinterruption by entire absorption in the book of the moment.
Presently, after a lapse of a minute or more, Branscombe removed hispipe.
"What's that about the _Bolero_?" he asked.
"Torpedoed," replied the Lieutenant.
"Lost off the Nord Hinder last Friday week."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Branscombe. "I know a fellow on that destroyer.Any casualties?"
"'Fraid so," answered Farnborough. "Night, rough sea, and all thatsort of thing, you know. An officer and seventeen menmissing--presumed drowned. Here you are, my boy!"
He handed Branscombe a copy of an Admiralty confidential circulargiving details of the disaster. A month later the casualty list wouldbe communicated to the Press together with a bald statement that "oneof H.M. destroyers was torpedoed and sunk in the North Sea on thenight of so and so". It would have to be left to one's imagination,and perhaps the simple narrative of a survivor, to picture the end ofa gallant vessel, for "the Navy doesn't advertise", especially inwar-time.
"Good Heavens!" ejaculated Branscombe; "I knew Seton awfully well.Old school chum of mine. His people lived close to my home. An' Icame up in the train with him to Rosyth just before we commissioned;he envied me my stunt because of the extra excitement and risks," headded reminiscently. "Poor old Seton!"
The news hit Branscombe badly. In the senior service men get to knoweach other more than in the army. The camaraderie of the sea is areal thing. Friendships made afloat are generally of a lasting order,especially during a two years' commission, by the end of which timethere is hardly a secret between "chummy" officers.
And into the midst of the big band of brothers stalked Death--far toofrequently during the Great War. Men went singly, in dozens, and inhundreds, nobly doing their duty to King and Country. Some died inthe knowledge that their passing was witnessed by their comrades;others went unheard and unseen, with none able to tell with anydegree of accuracy of the manner of their going.
"Rough luck," murmured Farnborough sympathetically. "Did I ever comeacross him?"
"Not to my knowledge," replied the Sub, "and to my belief you neverwill."
"Strange things happen at sea," rejoined the Lieutenant. "There'snothing to prove that Seton's been done in. However, to change thesubject, you might cast your eye on this. You'll have to commit thething to memory."
The "thing" was a close-lined, typewritten document endorsed"Strictly Confidential". Branscombe gave a low whistle as he read thetitle. It was "Orders for Coastal Motor-Launches for the impendingoperations off Ostend and Zeebrugge".
For some considerable time past a series of rehearsals for thecontemplated bottling up of the two Belgian ports had been takingplace. One of the first steps was to pick and choose the men; thesecond was to train them. Volunteers for a certain mysterious andhazardous business were called for. Hundreds were required, thousandsoffered themselves. Bluejackets and stokers from the Grand Fleet, menfrom that Corps d'Elite, the Royal Marines, were accepted to formlanding parties; destroyers from the Dover Patrol were merged intothe scheme, together with several M.-L.'s; co-operation by the RoyalAir Force was secured, pilots and observers from the old Royal NavalAir Service offering themselves in shoals.
The next step was the training. The operations were to be of a vastand complex nature, every division, sub-division, and individualworking in harmony and unison with the rest. Should one link in thechain of preparation be faulty and not detected, should one divisionfail to do its allotted part, the whole enterprise might be injeopardy.
To facilitate matters, relief plans of Zeebrugge and Ostend wereprepared, every known detail being inserted, while daily correctionsand additions were made, based upon aerial photographs and observers'reports.
In a remote and secluded spot in Kent, a full-size model of theportion of Zeebrugge Mole, alongside which it was proposed to placethe vessels bearing the storming-parties, was constructed, so thatthe attackers would know exactly what was required of them. To beable to surmount a thirty-feet wall and to know the obstructionaldifficulties which lay on the other side was an asset; it certainlymade things easier and gave a feeling of confidence to theattacking-party. But there was one element that could not beestimated exactly, but only guessed at and allowed for--the presenceof German troops on the actual Mole.
To land seamen and marines on the Mole the old cruiser _Vindictive_was prepared. A sister ship to the ill-fated _Gladiator_, the_Vindictive_ had long ceased to count as an effective ship of theRoyal Navy. To all outward appearances her days were over. She wasfit only for the shipbreaker's yard. Any further expenditure upon herwas a waste of public money. These were a few of the many criticismspassed upon this and similar vessels, when it was proposeddrastically to cut down the number of non-effective vessels on thenavy list.
But in spite of her years--for she was old as far as steel vesselsgo--the _Vindictive_ was fated not only to prove of important servicebut to cover herself with honour and glory, not once but twice, andto end her days in a glory of heroism that will for ever be writtenon the pages of the world's history.
Step by step the plans were worked out. Landing demolition-parties onthe Mole was but a subsidiary operation. So was that of smashing thewooden bridge connecting the Mole with the mainland, and thushampering the arrival of German reinforcements.
The climax of the operations was the bottling up of Zeebrugge andOstend by means of old cruisers filled with concrete.
A few years ago the world was thrilled by the exploits of LieutenantHobson, of the U.S.A. Navy, when he attempted to bottle up Cevera'sfleet in Santiago Harbour. Newspapers devoted columns of copy tochronicle and dilate upon the heroic deed; yet, without detractingfrom the merits of the achievement, the attempt was comparativelyeasy compared with the task before the British Navy at Zeebrugge andOstend.
Hobson, with a small volunteer crew, took an old tramp steamerthrough the narrow entrance to Santiago Harbour. Within was ademoralized Spanish fleet. The forts were ill-armed and ill-served.Hobson carried out his instructions, but the actual result was apartial failure. The sinking of the block-ship did not preventCevera's fleet from issuing from the harbour and literallysacrificing itself to the guns of the powerful American fleet.
In the case of Ostend and Zeebrugge, the Huns were equi
pped with themost modern instruments of warfare. Everything that science coulddevise was at their command. The Belgian ports were formidablefortresses possessing natural and artificial defences of a stupendouscharacter. No doubt the Boche, despite strenuous efforts on the partof the British to ensure secrecy, had a good inkling of what wasbeing contemplated, and would take steps accordingly.
The vessels told off to attempt the bottling operations were obsoletethird-class cruisers. They were to approach at night under their ownsteam, enshrouded in artificial fog, gain an entrance, if possible,and then sink themselves in the fairways of the two harbours. Thisact of maritime _felo-de-se_ was to be accomplished by explodingcharges in their holds. Officers and men had to be employed tonavigate the vessels; engineer officers, E.R.A.'s, and stokers werenecessary to keep up a head of steam; their task accomplished, theythemselves had to be rescued, if possible.
It was here that the little M.-L.'s were again to prove their worth.On a given signal they were to dash into the harbour, range alongsidethe sinking block-ships, and dash out again with the rescuedcrews--provided the boats survived the maelstrom of fire that wassure to greet them.
"We're up against a tough proposition, my lad," remarked Farnborough,as he cut a chunk of navy plug and shredded it between his hornypalms. Four years ago horny hands and plug tobacco were illacquainted with Frank Farnborough, but a man's manners and customsundergo a considerable change in four years of war. Now he pridedhimself on the toughness of his palms and thoroughly enjoyed thetobacco.
"We are," assented Branscombe; then, after a pause, he added: "but Iwouldn't miss it for anything."
"Nor I," added the Lieutenant. "If there's to be another blessedmedical examination, I'll thug, poison, or bluff the whole of themedical branch of the navy. I'll go somehow, this idiotic sprainnotwithstanding."
Branscombe made no remark. Much as he admired the grit and tenacityof his chief, he knew that at a time when every ounce of strength,both mental and bodily, were required, a man, handicapped by a stiffback, would not only be a trouble to himself but to the crew. Underthe most favourable conditions the Lieutenant would not be fit inless than a week--and that with constant rest. He was too energeticto rest, and the stunt was timed to take place on the forthcomingThursday.
The eventful day came at last. The sea was calm, the wind light.Gleefully, almost boisterously, the major portion of thestorming-party boarded the _Vindictive_. The rest were told off totwo Mersey ferry-boats--the _Iris_ and _Daffodil_. Monitors weremaking ready to proceed at slow speed; destroyers and M.-L.'s werefussing noisily around, awaiting the Admiral's order to carry on.
Farnborough, dissembling his hurt, was in the wheel-house, withBranscombe close at hand. Anxiously they watched the aneroid. Fordays it had been remarkably steady, but now, just after noon, itcommenced to fall. Weather was a tremendous factor. With anythinglike a sea it would be practically impossible to lay the ships withthe landing-parties alongside the Mole, while the chance of beingable to set in position even a single gangway was out of thequestion.
There might be time before the weather broke, but the prospect wasdisquieting. Uneasily, men scanned sea and sky. Everyone hoped thatthe approaching storm would be deferred until the morrow.
Overhead, "Blimps" and sea-planes buzzed like wasps round a jam-jar.Ill betide the Hun who dared to make a cut-and-run raid upon Dover.Not a German airman must have an inkling of the assembly of thestrange, ill-assorted armada in Dover Harbour.
With the dipping of the sun beneath the western horizon the flotillaput to sea. Meteorological reports from Zeebrugge andOstend--obtained in some mysterious manner by the BritishAdmiralty--reported slight fog and a faint ground-swell. Thatground-swell presaged a storm--it was a race between armed might andNature.
The M.-L.'s were at the tail of the flotilla. Their role would comelast. It was imperative that they should be preserved intact untilthe critical moment. Their motors had to be kept absolutely in tune,for engine trouble meant disaster, not only to the crippled M.-L.,but possibly to her consorts.
An hour and a half sped. Slowly, yet in perfect order, the strangeassembly of warships lessened the distance between them and theinvisible Belgian coast. Already the glare of the hostilesearch-lights could be discerned.
"Another three hours, my lad, and we'll be seeing life," declaredFarnborough; "and death," he added in an undertone.
Almost as he spoke, a general wireless signal was sent from theFlagship. Decoded, the orders were brief and explicit:
"Operations abandoned owing to adverse weather conditions. Ships toreturn to Dover."