CHAPTER XXXI
MONITORS IN ACTION
Under a screen of smoke from a far-flung line of destroyers the "Anzac" picked up her steamboat's crew. Being under fire, she could not hoist in the picquet-boat. Wind and tide being favourable, the boat was cut adrift. Unless sunk by a chance shot, she could be recovered when the monitors withdrew at the conclusion of the bombardment.
"Fire-control platform, Mr. Tressidar," ordered the captain when the sub. reported himself in the conning-tower. "Mr. McTulloch has just been sent down—badly wounded. Look alive—we want the range of Battery 45 pretty quickly."
The monitor had ceased firing, owing to the smoke from the intervening destroyers. It also gave the guns a chance to cool, for they had been firing continuously for the last two hours.
Through the acrid-smelling smoke that wafted from below the sub. made his way to one of the oblique legs of the tripod mast. One glance showed that it was no longer possible to gain the lofty platform by that means, for the metal tube was torn half-way through by a shell, a dozen or more of the metal rungs of the ladder had been shorn away, and the steel was still unbearable to the hand owing to the heat generated by the terrible impact.
Fifteen feet above the sub.'s head dangled the frayed end of the rope by which the officer he was about to relieve was lowered from the fire-control platform. McTulloch, seriously wounded by a fragment of shell, had hardly gained the deck ere another sliver of steel had cut away his means of descent.
Crossing to the second inclined leg of the tripod mast, Tressidar found that the steel ladder was comparatively intact. The metal tubing of the mast had been dented in several places and perforated more than once. The metal, too, was hot, but not to the same extent as was the damaged leg.
Up through the drifting smoke the sub. made his way, the whole fabric of the mast trembling under the continuous discharge of the heavy ordnance.
When half-way up he felt a terrific jar, accompanied by a roar that outvoiced the noise of the guns. The smoke was torn by lurid flashes; fragments of metal hurtled past him or struck the mast with a sound like that of a heavy hammer clanging on an anvil.
Temporarily blinded by the glare and partly stunned by the concussion, Tressidar hung on like grim death. It was the triumph of muscles over mind, for the action was purely automatic. Out swung the tripod mast till the leg by which he was ascending was perpendicular, although normally inclined thirty degrees to the vertical line. From beneath him dense clouds of black and yellow smoke vomited from the superstructure, to the accompaniment of the crackling of flames and the groans of the wounded.
A hostile shell had scored a direct hit, partially wrecking the after-end of the superstructure, making a clean sweep of the gear, including the two anti-aircraft guns.
Tressidar was yet to know this. He was merely aware that the Huns had "got one home." He wondered whether he was still alive, until the mist cleared before his eyes and he found himself still clinging to the slippery rungs.
At last he reached the small platform at the head of the two sloping legs where they joined the higher and vertical "stick" of the tripod. Ten feet above him was the oval aperture leading to the fire-control platform. Hitherto the metal tube had formed a defence between him and the direct line of fire—a moral protection rather than a real one, since the metal was not proof against heavy shell-fire. But now, owing to the vertical rungs being on the fore-side of the mast, he was directly exposed to the fire of the shore batteries, and the Hun had a nasty habit of using shrapnel in conjunction with the high-explosive shells.
Another crash this time high above his head. For the moment he thought that the fire-control platform had been swept out of existence, for a raffle of spars, wire-rigging, and splinters of metal tumbled past him, some of the debris so close that he felt the "windage" on his cheeks.
Instinctively he ducked. When he raised his head again, he saw, to his relief, that his appointed post still remained—at least the "deck" of the fire-control platform was intact. The shell had struck the topmast, cutting it in twain and bringing the wireless aerials with the severed portions as it fell to augment the debris already lumbering the deck.
The destroyers had now forged ahead. Their smoke no longer screened the "Anzac" from the enemy. The monitor's guns, elevated to an angle of thirty degrees, were pointed shoreways, but neither sent forth its fifteen hundred pounds of death-dealing shell.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Tressidar. "They're waiting for someone to register."
Spurred by the thought, he redoubled his energies, swarmed up the remaining rungs of the ladder, and squeezed through the narrow aperture on the deck of the fire-control station.
The sight which met his gaze was a terrible one. The metal roof had been ripped through as easily as if it had been made of cardboard; a dozen jagged holes were visible in the sides. The delicate instruments were shattered almost out of recognition.
Huddled in one corner was the gunnery lieutenant. At his feet lay a seaman; another was lying inertly across the body of the first. Seated on the floor was Eric Greenwood with his head resting on his drawn-up knees. The A.P. had been struck by a fragment of shell that had inflicted a nasty scalp-wound. Partly stunned by the concussion and blinded by the blood that streamed from the wound, he was just able to recognise his chum.
"A clean wipe out," he muttered weakly. "Everything blown to blazes. No use hanging on here, old man."
It was not a time for Tressidar to attend to his chum. Seizing the voice-tube communicating with the conning-tower, he reported the destruction of the registering gear. There was no response. He was talking to empty air, for both voice-tubes and telephone-wires had been severed; and since the target was invisible, the "Anzac's" huge guns were practically useless without the directing force in the fire-control station.
Risking death, Tressidar looked out over the side of his precarious perch. The monitor was circling slowly to port. The fire that had broken out in the superstructure was practically under control, thanks to the copious stream of water played upon it by the "Downton" pumps; but the deck looked a veritable shambles. Owing to her low, armoured freeboard the "Anzac" had escaped injury 'twixt wind and water, but almost everything on deck that was not protected had disappeared in a veritable holocaust. The single funnel, partly shot through, had buckled about fifteen feet close to the deck, the bent portion resting against the after-leg of the tripod mast and swaying dangerously with each roll of the ship.
The turret, scarred by several glancing hits, was still intact, although hardly a vestige of grey paint remained; while the two guns had shed their coats through the tremendous heat generated by the sustained firing. The bridge had been swept clean away; only a few bent and twisted stanchions remained. With its disappearance the top of the conning-tower was revealed, the massive steel plating showing signs of a complete fracture that extended from the edge about to the centre of the elongated, domed roof.
The sight was not an encouraging one. It was evident that the "Anzac" had received a terrible hammering and was no longer able to keep her station.
Tressidar next devoted his attention to the rest of the flotilla. The remaining monitors had fared considerably better. One, however, had lost her tripod mast, while damage to topmasts and wireless masts seemed pretty general. They had succeeded in breaking down most of the resistance on the part of the enemy, for with few exceptions the shore batteries were silent. Aided by wireless from the seaplanes that serenely hovered over the German defence, the monitors' guns had wrought terrific destruction upon the fixed positions amongst the sand-dunes. Most of the hostile shells came from mobile batteries, which were more difficult to locate; but as their guns were limited in weight and calibre, these were puny when compared with the monster weapons that the monitors had succeeded in silencing.
All this Tressidar took in almost at a glance. He had two tasks to perform: to rescue the A.P. from his perilous position and to inform the conning-tower of the state of the registering apparatus.
Mentally he compared the present situation with that on board the "Heracles," when he had to take Midshipman Picklecombe down from the fore-top. Eric Greenwood was a hefty man, whereas the midshipman was a mere slip of a youth. The "Anzac" was still under fire—a desultory one, but none the less nerveracking—while the "Heracles" was not subjected to the attentions of hostile shells when she was on the point of turning turtle. Again, there was a vast difference between the ratlines of the cruiser and the slippery steel rungs of the monitor's tripod mast.
"It's more than a one-man job," decided Tressidar reluctantly. "There isn't enough rope to lower him down. I'll nip below and get assistance."
The A.P. was now unconscious. He had fallen sideways, his head resting on his arm Even as Tressidar bent over him he became aware that the whole fabric of the fire-control platform was collapsing. The tripods, already damaged, had given way under the strain and were toppling overboard.
Throwing his left arm round Greenwood's inert body and hanging on like grim death to a steel handrail, Tressidar braced himself to meet his impending fate. The platform was inclining slowly but surely. Already his feet were wedged against the now almost horizontal side. Through the shattered roof he could see the water.
"There'll be a deuce of a smash," he thought. "Wonder if I can jump clear before we're trapped?"
The triple mast had buckled, but its fall was retarded by the strain upon the metal tubing. Instead of snapping off like a carrot, it was as though the tripod was held by a stiff and rusty hinge.
For perhaps five seconds the fall was retarded, then with a quick movement the bulky top-hamper lurched with a sickening movement until it brought up across the broad deck, with the metal box in which the sub. and his chum were penned hanging seven or eight feet over the side.
Bruised and shaken, Tressidar retained his alertness of mind and body. Without relaxing his grip upon his chum he scrambled through the partly demolished roof. It was the only way, since the aperture in the floor was too small for a hurried exit, especially when burdened with a helpless comrade.
Not knowing how he did it, the sub. found himself perched on the mast with the A.P. clasped tightly to his back. Now it was that his gymnastic training proved of service, for, in spite of his burden, he walked the outboard part of the now almost horizontal mast and dropped lightly to the "Anzac's" deck—the only unwounded executive officer of the crippled monitor.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE "ANZAC'S" DAY
On deck a few smoke-begrimed seamen were engaged in directing hoses upon the still smouldering wreckage of the superstructure; others were unbattening the armoured hatches and clearing away some of the debris.
Handing Greenwood to the care of two of the men, Tressidar made his way to the conning-tower, with the intention of reporting himself to the captain.
The entrance, protected by a section of armoured plate set vertically, was blocked with wreckage. The sub. put out his hand to steady himself as he surmounted the obstruction. To his surprise the metal wall was hot, almost unbearably so. The impact of the shell that had cracked the dome of the conning-tower had generated intense heat to the rest of the structure.
Within lay the bodies of the captain, first lieutenant, and three seamen. One of the latter had been struck on the temple with a sliver of steel that had entered the narrow slit in the armoured walls. The rest of the occupants were stunned, as effectually as if each had been hit on the head with a club, for blood was trickling from their mouths and nostrils.
It was no time to render assistance. A glance ahead showed that the "Anzac" was still describing a vast curve. Already she had turned more than nine points and was again drawing within range of the invisible shore-batteries.
Grasping the wheel of the steam steering-gear, the sub. attempted to steady the vessel on her helm. There was no response. The mechanism was no longer in order.
The voice-tube communicating with the engine-room was fortunately intact, although the telegraph-indicator had been shattered by the tremendous concussion. On enquiry, Tressidar learnt that the main steam-pipe of the port engine had been fractured by a shell that had entered the engine-room, although the main force of the explosion had been directed against the coal in the wing bunkers. Down below, the artificer engineers and engine-room ratings were toiling desperately, placing copper sheathing on the fractured pipe and making it secure by means of "lagging" and rope.
Only the starboard engine was running, with the result that, in the absence of control of the helm, the monitor was circling aimlessly.
The sub. tried another voice-tube. To his satisfaction he was answered by the chief quartermaster.
"Hand wheel party present?" enquired Tressidar.
"All present, sir," was the reply.
"Then connect up and stand by."
Quickly the change was made, and once more the battered monitor was under control.
By this time Tressidar had discovered that he was actually in command. Reports from the carpenter's crew revealed the satisfactory news that the "Anzac" was still sound below the water-line, while the engine-room staff expressed their belief that the defects in their department could be temporarily made good within half an hour.
Men were busily engaged in ridding the deck of the wreckage of the tripod mast, which they did by the simple yet drastic expedient of completely severing the legs by means of gun-cotton charges.
Although the training-gear of the turret was undamaged, a glancing shell had snapped six feet off the chase of one of the 14-inch guns, rendering it useless for further service. The other gun was intact, but so furious had been the firing that only three rounds remained.
With the destruction of the aerials and the dislocation of the delicate apparatus, communication by wireless was no longer possible; nor was there any spar from which a signal might be flown. Sound signals, too, were useless, since the deafening cannonade between the other monitors and the shore outvoiced all other noises.
A patrol-boat presently dashed up and drew close alongside the damaged monitor, and asked if any assistance were required.
"You might take our wounded," replied Tressidar. "We've a number of casualties And we should like instructions from the flagship. No; we are still under control and capable of making five knots. There is no necessity for a ship to be detached to tow us."
As quickly as possible the wounded officers and men were transhipped, the patrol-vessel meanwhile wirelessing the senior officer and requesting instructions for the "Anzac," stating that she was no longer able to resume her station in action.
The reply was: "Proceed to Harwich under own steam." There was no mention of a destroyer being sent as escort.
When, at length, the engine-room repairs were effected, the sorely battered monitor, looking little better than a mass of scrap-iron above the low deck, forged slowly ahead on her homeward voyage. The survivors, having washed and changed, were piped to dinner, the principal item of the menu being "Zeppelins in the clouds," namely, sausages served with gravy.
"Rather ominous," thought Tressidar amusedly, as he overheard the men discussing the food "Ominous for the Huns, though."
Two hours later the rest of the flotilla was out of sight, although the dull rumble of gunfire proclaimed that the bombardment was still maintained. At four in the afternoon the North Hinder Lightship was sighted. From that point westwards there were no sea-marks, the Galloper and other light vessels off the Suffolk coast having been withdrawn.
Slowly the "Anzac" steamed, her rate being considerably less than Tressidar had anticipated. With the loss of the major portion of the funnel and the weak spot in her main steam-pipe her horse-power had fallen appreciably.
Night came on and with it a mist. Stellar observations were no longer possible. Navigation depended solely upon dead reckoning on a compass course and the constant use of the lead.
At midnight Tressidar, having previously instructed the quartermaster of the watch to awaken him should anything occur, lay down on the deck in the wake of the conning-tower. In less than a minute he was sleeping fitfully, the drums of his ears throbbing with the reaction after the deafening cannonade.
It seemed to him that he had been asleep but a few seconds when he was awakened by a dull, grinding noise and the quartermaster shouting to the engine-room for "hard astern."
The "Anzac" was aground.
"The men in the chains reported fourteen fathoms not a minute ago, sir," said the quartermaster. "The water must have shoaled like the roof of a house."
The hull was throbbing under the pulsations of the engines as the twin screws lashed cascades of phosphorescent water past the monitor's bulging sides. The ship showed no tendency to slide off. She had struck hard.
The sub. ordered the engines to stop. He knew that it wanted two hours to low water. Further attempts to get the monitor off must be deferred until after quarter flood, which would be at four forty-five in the morning.
Fortunately the sea was calm. There was little wind. At some distance away the sullen rollers were breaking heavily on the shoal. Since the monitor was not making water and lay on the lee side of the submerged bank, there was little danger. Provided the wind did not spring up, she would float without damage with the rising tide.
But the unpleasant fact was apparent that Tressidar had run his ship ashore—a far more serious case in the eyes of My Lords than if the monitor had been lost in action.
With dawn the mist dispersed. By observations the sub. discovered that the "Anzac" had bumped on the Galloper Shoal. He had not made sufficient allowance for the cross set of the tide, and instead of passing between the Outer Gabbard and the Galloper, the monitor had "smelt out" the latter, with ignominious if not serious results.
No other vessel was in sight. With her boats destroyed, the "Anzac" had no means of laying out an anchor astern. Even if she had, the steam capstans were useless, having suffered with the rest of the deck gear during the bombardment. The monitor would have to get off under her own steam.
Tressidar was still searching the horizon with his telescope when one of the seamen raised a warning shout:
"Zepp. dead ahead, sir."
There was no mistaking the form of the immense rigid airship. Flying at a height of two thousand feet, she was heading in a direction that would bring her almost immediately above the stranded monitor. The belated night-raider, returning from a visit to the Midlands, had allowed dawn to overtake her before she was more than a few miles from the Suffolk coast.
There was little time to be lost, for the hostile airship was moving through the air at a rate of nearly fifty miles an hour. Without doubt she would do her best to destroy by means of bombs or aerial torpedoes the stranded British monitor.
At the word of command the gun's crew manned the sole workable weapon—the 14-inch turret-gun. Up from the magazine by means of the hydraulic loading-tray a huge shell was hoisted. It was one of the remaining three—a new type of gigantic shrapnel, similar to those fired with disastrous results on the Turks by the super-Dreadnought "Queen Elizabeth." For once, at least, a 14-inch gun was to be used as an anti-aircraft weapon.
Under the sighting hood the captain of the turret directed the training of the huge but docile piece of ordnance. The target was an easy one as regards bulk, for the gun-layer could plank shell after shell with unerring accuracy into an invisible target fifteen miles away; but, on the other hand, there was the speed and great elevation of the Zeppelin to be taken into consideration.
Anxiously Tressidar watched the chase of the sixty odd tons of metal, as the muzzle of the weapon, moving as smoothly as a billiard cue, reared itself into the air. For an instant it seemed to hesitate, then with a flash and a deafening roar the gun spoke. A mushroom of black smoke, 'twixt which the course of the projectile could be followed, leapt from the recoiling weapon.
"Too high," muttered the sub. disappointedly, as the trail of smoke from the tracer of the shell mounted higher and higher, until it looked to be far above the flimsy target.
The next instant he felt like cheering madly and doing an impromptu hornpipe, for the shell had exploded above and within a very short distance of the doomed Zeppelin. Had it done so at ten times the distance the result would have been much the same.
Literally riddled with fragments of metal and smitten with the full force of the blast from the explosion, the airship began to drop with fearful rapidity, her ends curling upwards like a writhing worm. Then, like a flash of lightning, the whole of the buckled fabric burst into flames, the disintegrated fragments falling with a series of splashes into the sea.
For quite a minute after the collapse of the air-raider there was silence on board the monitor. The dramatic suddenness of the whole affair could at first hardly be realised. Then a rousing cheer burst from the throats of the depleted ship's company. The "Anzac" had created a war-record—bringing down a Zeppelin with a 14-inch gun.
CHAPTER XXXIII
A SPLINTER OF SHELL
Almost before the cheering died away an alert seaman raised the warning cry of "Submarine on the starboard quarter."
He had just caught a glimpse of the pole-like periscopes of a submarine ere they vanished beneath the surface of the placid sea.
Of her nationality there could be no doubt. A British one would have had no occasion to submerge, since the stranded monitor flew the White Ensign from a spar temporarily set on end and lashed to a stanchion in lieu of her demolished ensign-staff.
The "U" boat was evidently standing by to cover the flight of the Zeppelin should any cruiser stand in pursuit, for the airship was flying comparatively low, instead of the usual altitude of ten thousand feet, when annihilated by the "Anzac's" fire. Having witnessed the destruction of the Zepp., the "U" boat had approached the monitor with the intention of avenging the loss of the air-raider. She had no idea that the "Anzac" was aground, for by this time she was almost waterborne and lay on practically an even keel; while, since the whole of the sandbank was submerged, there was no indication of shallow water.
Nevertheless it seemed as if the monitor would fall an easy prey to the German torpedo, for there was not a single gun that could be brought to bear in the direction of the submarine.
Tressidar was not kept long in suspense. The feather-like wake of the approaching weapon was clearly visible as the torpedo made unerringly towards the immovable target.
"Stand clear there, aft!" shouted the sub.
Those of the crew who had been watching the approach of the submerged weapon promptly scurried across the deck so as to be as far from the point of impact as possible. Of serious damage to the monitor there was little fear, owing to the complex nature of her bulging sides. The loss of twenty feet of side plating would matter but little, since the buoyancy of the monitor would not be appreciably altered.
But the expected explosion did not occur. Set to run at a depth of twelve feet, the torpedo struck the sandy bottom at a distance of between eighty and a hundred yards short of the target.
For another twenty yards it ploughed through the sand, until its delicate rudders were damaged by tearing through the comparatively hard substance. Then with an erraticity that torpedoes have been known to display, the weapon made a sharp curve, and rising to the surface continued its undecided way like a hydroplane, its course being marked by a line of spray in its wake.
Again the monitor's crew cheered—this time ironically. The shoal that had proved a stumbling-block was now guarding the stranded craft in no uncertain manner.
After a lapse of a quarter of an hour the submarine cautiously poked her periscopes above the surface, although quite half a mile from the spot where she had previously dived. Once more she fired a torpedo, with almost the same result, for instead of turning on impact with the shoal, the weapon struck nose first into the sand and remained there.
The commander of the "U" boat was evidently puzzled. He could not understand why the two torpedoes should have missed the mark; he was also at a loss to account for the fact that the British vessel had not attempted to open fire.
Nevertheless he was wary. With the idea of drawing the monitor's fire, he released one of the communication buoys, towing it a hundred yards astern of the submerged craft. The resistance of the buoy caused a decided feather of foam that could not escape the eyes of the crew of the monitor. At the end of five minutes the buoy was drawn under the surface and taken on board the "U" boat again, by means of an automatic winding machine and a system of "air lock" doors. Examination showed that the relatively easy target was untouched.
Hence the commander of the German submarine came to the correct conclusion that the monitor was not capable of defence. Again the periscopes appeared above the surface and a prolonged examination of the British vessel was made. The German officers soon came to the decision that it was safe to rise and attack the monitor by shell fire, provided the "U" boat kept on the starboard quarter of her enemy.
"There she is, sir!" reported a petty officer to Tressidar, as the "U" boat rose to the surface at a distance of nearly two miles off.
Glasses were brought to bear upon the submarine, and it was then seen that the Germans were preparing to use their two "disappearing" guns. To reply was impracticable, for the submarine was well beyond effective rifle-range, and the sole serviceable turret gun could not be trained sufficiently abaft the beam to bear upon the enemy.
"Action stations!" was the order. Since the crew were without present means of offence or defence, all they could do was to take cover behind the armoured parts of the ship and "take their gruelling "; but every moment the tide was rising, and before long it would be possible to back off the shoal, turn and bring the gun to bear upon the Hun.
With little delay the "U" boat opened fire. The first half-dozen shells flew either above or wide of the monitor, but presently the small but relatively powerful missiles began to find a mark.
From his post in the conning-tower, which, in spite of the fractured dome, was proof against the small-calibre shells, Tressidar watched his opportunity. He made no effort to get the "Anzac" off the shoal until he felt certain that she would glide off without difficulty. Then, he hoped, there would be time to train the 14-inch gun on the submarine before she had a chance to trim for diving—and only two rounds for that particular weapon remained.
The gun, already loaded, was trained as far aft as possible, so that the moment the monitor swung round it could be brought to bear.
A leadsman, risking the flying fragments of shell, ran forward and, throwing himself at full length upon the low fo'c'sle, took soundings.
"By the mark two less a quarter," he announced.
"Good," muttered the sub. "That's what we want."
An order to the engine-room and the twin propeller began to churn up water and sand. With hardly a jar the monitor glided astern—and struck again, this time by the heel.
"Full speed ahead port engine; starboard, easy astern," shouted the sub. through the voice-tube; then, in his eagerness to see whether the vessel would answer to her helm, he left the shelter of the conning-tower.
The next instant he felt as if he had hit his head violently against a door-post. Thousands of lights danced before his eyes. Vainly he clutched for support. His fingers closed upon empty air. He was dimly conscious of falling on the deck and of someone throwing his arms around his waist, and then everything became a blank.
* * * * *
When Tressidar recovered consciousness he found himself lying on a cot that had been brought upon deck and lashed down on the aft-side of the shell-torn superstructure.
Standing by were two sick-bay stewards, who, in the absence of a doctor, had been attending to their youthful "skipper."
Almost the first thing of which the sub. became aware was the fact that the monitor was again under way. The steady roll combined with the subdued thud of the engines proclaimed the pleasing news. Also the firing had ceased, which tended to prove that the "U" boat had either been sunk or had taken herself off.
"Have we settled her?" were Tressidar's first words.
"She's done for, sir," replied the second quartermaster. "Only——"
"Only what?" asked the sub. anxiously, for the face of his informant had disappointment written on every feature.
"We were just out of it, sir. Turret gun was about to bear when the 'U' boat went bang. One of our seaplanes did the trick, sir; only we were within a brace of shakes of plugging her with a 14-inch shell at the same time. Didn't spot her at that distance until she planked a bomb fairly on the strafed Hun's conning-tower—and she was only about a hundred and fifty feet up when she let rip. That's the worst of those seaplanes, sir; always nosing in where they ain't wanted, if you don't mind my saying so," he added apologetically and at the same time with a tinge of professional jealousy.
Tressidar smiled. By so doing he became aware of a pain shooting through his head.
"Well, what have I got?" he asked, addressing one of the sick-bay staff.
"Steel splinter embedded in right femur——"
"Right what?" repeated the sub. anxiously. "That's the right thigh, I believe? But my head?"
"All right, sir, as far as we know," reported the man. "No doubt it is the sudden shock to the system, sir; I've known it like that before to-day. We've had to leave the splinter in the wound, sir, but we'll soon have a surgeon on board. We're just approaching Harwich. We've exchanged signals and asked for medical assistance."
"There's a steamboat making for us now, sir, added the quartermaster.
"Any casualties?" enquired Tressidar.
"Five men down, sir. The last half a dozen shells from that submarine tickled us up a lot."
"Very good; see that the doctor attends to them first," said the sub. "Don't say a word about me until they have been dealt with."
"But we have already reported that you've been hit, sir."
"Then annul that part of the signal," ordered Tressidar firmly. "I'm quite comfortable. Now, remember, the men are to be seen first."
By the time the busy fleet-surgeon was free to attend to the sub.'s injuries, Tressidar was far from comfortable. Hot, throbbing pains shot through the wounded thigh. From the waist upwards he felt cold and shivery. More than once he felt as if he were on the point of losing consciousness again.
"It's no use disguising the fact, Mr. Tressidar," said the doctor in answer to the sub.'s point-blank question. "You have had a narrow escape. But for the prompt attention of these men in checking the flow of blood from the femoral artery you would have bled to death."
"Shall I lose my leg?" asked Tressidar, his mind filled with apprehension at the possibility—not so much of being a cripple, as of having to sever his connection with the Service.
"I think not.... No, no operation until we get him ashore.... Yes, up to our eyes in work... quite a big action... we had them this time... Our casualties heavy.... Shotley full up... had to send for additional staff."
These disjointed sentences were what Tressidar overheard in a conversation between the fleet-surgeon and his assistants. "Quite a big action." Not, of course, The Day, but a fairly decent scrap somewhere in the North Sea.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed the sub.
"Here, this won't do," remonstrated the doctor. But the reproof fell upon deaf ears. The sub. had relapsed into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER XXXIV
EXIT OBERFURST
Von Oberfurst awaited the dawn of day with considerable trepidation. For the present he was a free man, but his position was far from enviable. He was hunted, that he knew. Already a hue-and-cry had been raised and the desolate moors were being searched with the utmost diligence and precision.
Having broken out of the prison cell, he had gained the outskirts of the little village and had made his way in a north-easterly direction with the intention of falling-in with the escaped German officers. Soon he was lost in the mist that still hung heavily around the tors. He had neither map nor compass. Both had been taken from him when taken into custody. Without them he was like a ship without a rudder, and having implicitly relied upon them in his previous adventures, he realised his helplessness.
He was hungry and thirsty. The meagre fare provided at the police-station overnight was already forgotten. Food was not to be had, but for drink there were the many moorland rivulets that trickled down to join the waters of the silvery Dart and other rivers that drain the heights of Dartmoor.
At length he was forced to come to the conclusion that he must hide until nightfall—sixteen hours of mental and physical strain. To attempt to proceed in daylight was to court disaster.
Looking around, the spy discovered a number of irregularly shaped rocks partly hidden by bracken. Towards this spot he made, treading warily on stony ground so that his footsteps might not leave traces on the dew-sodden grass. Then carefully, without breaking so much as a solitary stem of bracken, he crept into his place of concealment.
He found himself in a narrow space enclosed by four masses of rock, and sheltered from the sun by the tall bracken. There were hundreds, thousands even, of similar clusters of rocks scattered about this part of the country, where a man provided with food and water could hide for days with little fear of discovery. From his place of concealment he could command an extensive stretch of moorland without showing his head above the skyline. So far as he could see—for the mists were now dispersing—there were no signs of human habitation.
He still retained his automatic pistol. Taken from him at the same time as were his other belongings, it had been carelessly left on the kitchen table in the constable's cottage, and Oberfurst had taken particular pains to repossess himself of the weapon ere he shook the dust of his cell from off his feet.
Having taken stock of his surroundings, the spy stretched himself on the ground, lying on his right side with his face pillowed on his arm. His ear almost touching the ground enabled him to detect sounds quicker than he might otherwise have done. He was badly in need of a rest and sleep, especially as he was contemplating another all-night tramp; but he knew that he was a noisy sleeper, and on that account he feared to run the risk.
Presently a dog barked. The sound came from a long distance. It was a long-drawn, deep bark, that boded no good to the fugitive.
"Those English have brought bloodhounds to track me," he muttered. "Well, I can hold out until I have only one cartridge left. They will never again take me alive."
At almost the next moment he felt himself seized by an almost uncontrollable panic. He started to crawl from his lair and run blunderingly and aimlessly across the open moors, if only to put a greater distance between him and the deep-baying hounds.
On second thoughts he decided to remain and hold his own. Nearer and nearer came the unpleasant sounds, until the spy was able to see the animals.
There were two enormous bloodhounds, unmuzzled, but held in leashes by two powerfully built men, whose heated faces and laboured breathing bore testimony to the strength and speed of the powerful brutes. Behind them rode a sub-inspector and three policemen, neither of whom was armed so far as the spy could see.
Unerringly the bloodhounds followed the invisible track taken by the fugitive until they reached a spot at less than eighty yards from his place of concealment. Here the animals began circling, sniffing the while and almost dragging the arms of their custodians from their sockets.
Breathlessly Oberfurst kept watch. He remembered that he had crossed a small stream close to the place where the hounds were held up. By so doing he had unwittingly destroyed the scent.
"The first stream we've had to cross, worse luck," said the inspector. "I had my doubts concerning the brutes, and now we're baulked."
"They'll pick up the scent on the other side, sir, never fear," rejoined one of the keepers confidently. "It will be a hundred pounds easily earned."
"The fellow's no fool," declared the inspector. "He struck this stream on purpose. I'll warrant he's waded a hundred yards or more up the brook on purpose to do us."
"I wish I had," thought the spy, regarding the dogs with returning apprehension, for he could distinctly see the bloodshot eyes, their heaving, overhung, foam-flecked jaws, and the ivory whiteness of their massive teeth.
"Down stream I should think, sir," said another policeman. "He'll be making for the coast. Ten to one that's the reason why a German submarine was seen hanging about off Bolt Tail."
"Perhaps," admitted the inspector. "In any case it's no use wasting time. Lift one of the brutes over, Tomlins; don't let his feet touch the water. Keep the other this side and see if either picks up the scent afresh."
In his excitement Oberfurst fingered the sensitive trigger of his automatic pistol, remembering only just in time that even the slightest touch was sufficient to fire the weapon. Then, placing the pistol on the ground within easy reach, he waited.
At first the hound that had been taken across the stream showed signs of retrieving the scent. Down went his head, up went his tail he tugged furiously at the leash.
"Good old boy!" exclaimed the inspector encouragingly; but he was doomed to disappointment, for the animal, after making two or three circles, came to a standstill with his nose in the air.
"Thought so," continued the inspector. "The fellow's waded along the stream. Hard lines!—we stood a good chance before the military step in. I hear that nearly five hundred men are being sent from Okehampton and a whole mob of Boy Scouts."
The police, accompanied by the hounds, moved away, disappearing from sight in a southerly direction. Oberfurst had obtained yet another respite.
During the heat of the day he lay close, at times dosing fitfully. Tormented by the extreme warmth of the atmosphere, for there was not a breath of wind and the sun beat pitilessly down upon the rock, famished and parched, he endured and waited for dusk.
During the afternoon numbers of soldiers in extended order passed by. Two of them came within ten paces of the spy's lair, keeping their eyes fixed, not upon their immediate surroundings, but on the distant expanse, as if they expected to get a glimpse of the fugitive as he ran across the gorse-covered moor.
Towards seven o'clock the air echoed and re-echoed with the shrill blast of whistles. The troops, or at any rate the bulk of them, were being recalled. To his intense satisfaction, Oberfurst saw hundreds of rabbits emerging from their burrows and frisking in the slanting rays of the sun. That was almost an infallible sign that they had little to fear from human beings.
Cautiously the fugitive emerged from his place of concealment. His limbs were stiff with remaining for hours in a confined space. Deftly he massaged the muscles of his arms and legs, until he felt their suppleness returning; then, crouching on all-fours, he stole towards the brook that had already done him good service.
Soon he was lapping the clear, running water, taking in copious draughts that cooled his parched throat and gave renewed vitality to his exhausted frame.
"Hands up!"
The words, rapped out peremptorily and unexpectedly, took Oberfurst by surprise. Starting to his feet, he obeyed the order, fully expecting to find himself surrounded by a cordon of khaki-clad men.
Instead, he was confronted by a solitary figure clad in the uniform of a scoutmaster. His challenger was a man of more than middle age, bordering, perhaps, on his sixtieth year. He was tall, sparely built, but well knit and erect. His tanned features formed a striking contrast to his light grey hair.
"You are, I presume, the wanted spy, Otto Oberfurst," continued his captor. "You are, indeed, wise not to attempt to give trouble, for there is plenty of assistance at hand."
As he spoke the scoutmaster produced a whistle. Before he could place it to his lips the spy's arm dropped. Like a flash he had his captor covered with his pistol.
"It is now your turn to 'hands up,'" sneered the German. "Obey instantly, or you are a dead man."
"Perhaps," rejoined the other coolly. "Meanwhile I will do my utmost to raise an alarm. If I fail, your pistol-shot will complete the work."
Looking the spy straight in the face the scoutmaster again raised his whistle. In a flash Oberfurst realised the truth of his opponent's remarks. After all, he was not "out" with the intention of committing unnecessary murder. His sole anxiety was to break through the cordon and put a safe distance between him and the bleak heights of Dartmoor.
Throwing away the pistol, Oberfurst folded his arms.
"You have won," he remarked simply.
"To avoid further trouble, I will take possession of this little toy," said the scoutmaster.
He stepped forward a couple of paces and bent to pick up the weapon. As he did so, the spy suddenly lashed out with his left foot. Skilled in the Continental style of boxing, he knew exactly how to gauge his distance and kick with the greatest effect.
Taken completely by surprise, the luckless Englishman, who in all good faith had accepted the spy's surrender, dropped like a log, before he had time to utter a sound.
Coolly Oberfurst regained possession of his pistol, fully expecting to find himself assailed on all sides. Agreeably disappointed, he proceeded to strip his unconscious victim of his coat, gaiters, and hat. This done, he dragged the scoutmaster to the spot where the spy had lain in concealment.
"He will not recover consciousness for several hours—if he does at all," soliloquised the spy, with a shrug of his shoulders. "That is his affair, not mine. Now I must assume the character of officer of Boy Scouts. I wish I were more certain of my new duties."
For a couple of hundred yards Oberfurst proceeded cautiously, then, drawing himself erect, he set off at a swinging pace across the moors. Bluff, not concealment, was to be his watchword.
It was now dusk fast emerging into night. Once more the evening mists were rising from the swamps in the valleys. Overhead the stars were beginning to show against the declining after-glow in the north-western sky.
For nearly a couple of miles Oberfurst proceeded without interruption. Everything seemed absolutely still, save for the swish of his boots and gaiters through the bracken. It was as if his pursuers had finally abandoned their quest in the belief that the fugitive had contrived to get clear of the district.
Suddenly a whistle resembling the call of the peewit sounded from a spot almost in front, and out of the gorse rose half a dozen youthful forms clad in the well-known Boy Scout "war-paint."
The spy's first inclination was to take to his heels, but, remembering his resolve and noting the diminutive size of the lads, he stopped.
"What troop do you belong to?" he asked.
"The Endscoombe First, sir," replied the patrol leader. "We're the Peewits."
"Thank goodness I've fallen in with some scouts," rejoined the spy. "I have lost touch with my troop—the Third Oakendene. I suppose you have seen nothing of them?"
The patrol-leader, a sharp-witted Devon lad of about fifteen, "smelt a rat." For one thing, he had never heard of the Oakendene Troop; for another, he was fairly conversant with the disposition of all the scout troops engaged in assisting the military and police to scour the moors.
"I think we can help you, sir," he replied, almost without hesitation. "At any rate, we'll put you on the right path. Will you take charge of the patrol?"
The question was a "feeler." It had the desired effect, for in giving words of command the spy gave himself away. His knowledge of British army drill was comprehensive, but of scouting he knew practically nothing.
The rest of the boys "tumbled" to their patrol-leader's ruse. Without showing suspicion at the unusual orders, they set off in Indian file.
"It's a strange thing that we should lose our scoutmaster and find another who has lost his troop," remarked the patrol-leader. "Of course we may find him a little further on. We're nearly at the Three Bridges road now."
"So I believe," rejoined Oberfurst, whose keen ear had detected the steady tramp of armed men. "In that case you've taken me out of my way. No, I don't blame you, but I'll say 'Good night.'"
He stopped abruptly, determined to give his attentive companions the slip—in a seemingly casual manner if possible, failing that to make a dash for safety.
The patrol-leader waited no longer. A warning succession of blasts upon his whistle rent the night air. Oberfurst found himself confronted by a ring of staves.
His hand flew to his pocket. The patrol-leader caught the dull glint of metal. Like a flash his staff descended upon the spy's wrist. The pistol fell to the ground, while like a pack of hounds the boys threw themselves upon the German.
Of what happened during the next few seconds none of the scouts had a decided opinion. All they knew was that while they were attempting to secure the man as he lay kicking and struggling on the ground there was a muffled report. One of the lads, uttering an involuntary cry of pain, clapped his left hand to his right arm. The spy, after writhing convulsively for a brief instant, ceased to struggle.
Alarmed by the whistle and the pistol-shot, a number of soldiers and police hurried up to find their "man" lying insensible on the ground and the scouts rendering first aid to their wounded comrade.
"Here's the spy, sir," declared the patrol-leader, addressing an army officer. "He shot one of us, so we had to stun him."
The lieutenant bent over the prostrate Hun and flashed a torch-light in his face.
"You're right, sonny," he said. "It means a hundred pounds to you scouts. Hulloa, though! You need not have troubled to belabour him with your poles. He's as dead as a doornail."
Otto Oberfurst had kept his vow not to be taken alive. In the mêlée he had regained possession of his pistol and had sent a shot clean through his brain. The bullet in passing out had lodged in the arm of one of the scouts.
A police inspector joined in the examination.
"Yes," he agreed; "he's saved a file of soldiers a job."
"And has done a pack of lawyers out of a fat sum," added the lieutenant grimly.