[Illustration: cover art]

The Thick of the Fray

at Zeebrugge

[Illustration: THE U-BOAT DIVED SO ABRUPTLY THAT HER RUDDERS AND TWIN-SCREWS WERE CLEAR OF THE WATER (Frontispiece)]

The Thick of the Fray

at Zeebrugge

April, 1918

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Contents

THE THICK OF THE

FRAY AT ZEEBRUGGE

CHAPTER I

Bound North

"Wonder if she'll do it in time," thought Sub-lieutenant Alec Seton, R.N., as he stolidly paced the stone-paved platform. For the twentieth time in the last two hours he had consulted his wristlet watch and compared it with the smoke-begrimed station clock. "A proper lash-up if she doesn't."

It was 1.40 a.m. on a certain Monday in March of the year of grace 1918. Seton, warned by telegram to rejoin his ship, H.M. Torpedo-boat Destroyer Bolero, had been handicapped by reason of the Sunday train service. Due to report at Rosyth at 10 a.m. he found himself at midnight held up at Leeds with the unpleasant prospect of having to wait until 1.50 a.m. before the mail train took him on to Edinburgh.

Seton had been spending part of a well-earned spell of leave at his parents' house in the Peak District. An urgent message demanded his recall before half the period of leave had expired, which was no unusual occurrence in war-time. What was exasperating was the fact that the wire had been delivered at 6 p.m. on Sunday, and even by rushing off and catching the first available train Alec found, on perusing the time-table and consulting various railway officials, that it would be impossible to arrive at Edinburgh before twenty minutes minutes to eight on Monday morning. That left, only a little more than two hours to continue his journey to Inverkeithing and then on to Rosyth. Even then he had no idea where the Bolero was lying, whether she was alongside the jetty or on moorings out on the Forth. To say the least it was "cutting things a bit fine", but it was a point of honour that, if humanly possible, Seton should report himself on board at the hour specified.

"An' we were going into dock for eighteen days for refit," mused the Sub. "Wonder what's butted in to upset things? Some stunt over the other side, or only another sea-trip out and home again, without catching sight of a measly Hun. By Jove, I'm hungry. I'm experiencing an unpleasant feeling in a certain sector of the front."

Vainly he regretted that on his hasty departure he had omitted to provide himself with refreshment. Counting on finding a restaurant-car he had been disappointed; while, on arriving at Leeds, he found it impossible at that hour to get a meal at an hotel. The sight of half a dozen Tommies in full field-kit emerging from a Y.M.C.A. refreshment-room, and dilating upon the excellence of the hot coffee and cakes, filled him with envious desires, which, however, did little to satisfy the cravings of the inner man.

"Ah, I've no belt to tighten," he soliloquized grimly. "Six or seven more hours to go, and not a chance of a snack. Hallo, what's this? Out of tobacco, too, by Jove." Very ruefully Alec surveyed his worn and trusted pouch. Only a pinch of dried dust remained.

"The last straw," he muttered. "Must grin and bear it, I suppose. I'd rather be keeping middle watch somewhere in the North Sea."

A truck, propelled by an undersized man, came into view. The truck was surmounted by a green box with glass panels and brass rails. From a small funnel steam was issuing. Already half a dozen belated passengers were crowding round the new arrival.

"A perambulating coffee-stall," declared Alec. "My luck's turned."

Two minutes later he was sampling the wares of the itinerant vendor. The result was not only disappointing but repugnant, for the beverage, termed coffee by the man presiding over the stall, bore a strong resemblance to greasy water, while the cake was more like sawdust than war-bread at its worst.

Disgustedly Alec left his purchase practically untouched, and resumed his tedious beat up and down the draughty platform, until the long-expected night mail train pulled up at the station.

Through the steam-laden atmosphere Alec made his way, trying to find an unoccupied compartment. Foiled in this direction he edged along the corridor until he almost cannoned into a uniformed attendant.

"All sleeping compartments engaged, sir," replied the man; "but I'll find you a smoker with only one other passenger. This way, sir."

He threw open the blind-drawn sliding door, and switched on one of the four electric lights. One of the seats was unoccupied. On the other was stretched a somnolent figure almost completely enveloped in a large fawn rug, bedizened with the Railway Company's monogram. The sleeper's face was turned towards the partition. On the rack overhead were two weather-beaten portmanteaux, and a naval cap with a tarnished R.N.V.R. badge.

Alec slipped half-a-crown into the attendant's hand.

"No thanks," he replied in answer to the man's inquiry; "I'll be quite comfortable in the circs. Sorry there isn't a tobacco-stall on the train."

He stowed his gear to his satisfaction, patted his empty tobacco-pouch to make sure for the fifth time that it was empty, and then contemplated his soundly-sleeping companion.

"Since it seems that I've a mouldy messmate," he soliloquized, "the best that I can do is to follow his example and turn in."

Switching off the solitary light Alec stretched himself upon the seat, using his great-coat as a pillow. He was asleep before the train left Leeds.

Beyond a slight return to wakefulness as the train pulled up at Carlisle, Alec slept soundly until the first gleam of dawn began to steal through the carriage windows.

He glanced at his wristlet watch. It was half-past five. Sitting up he stretched his cramped limbs.

"By Jove, I am hungry," he muttered. "Won't I make up for it when I get aboard."

Almost the next moment all sense of physical discomfort vanished, as he caught sight of the wonderful vista that met his view. The train was climbing the steep ascent of the hills of Roxburgh. Snow lay deep upon the ground, while the peaks were only partly visible in the grey morning mists. Alec had seen many varieties of scenery in widely different parts of the world, but, as an admirer of nature, he was never tired of "viewing the land".

"Magnificent!" he murmured enthusiastically. "It's worth a night in the train. I've seen the Peak of Teneriffe at sunrise, but our country takes a lot of beating."

A swirling cloud of steam beat against the window pane, momentarily obscuring the outlook. Before it cleared Alec was astonished to hear his name shouted in boisterous tones.

"Alec Seton, by all the powers! What, in the name of all that's wonderful, brings you here?"

Seton's "mouldy messmate" was sitting up and rubbing his eyes—a bronzed, shock-headed youth, who looked, despite his uniform, little more than a schoolboy. His features expanded into a broad grin of whole-hearted delight as he extended a large, horny hand.

For a brief instant Alec was at a loss to recognize his fellow-traveller, then—

"Branscombe, my festive buccaneer."

Guy Branscombe, Sub-lieutenant, R.N.V.R., was one of those war-time productions whose existence, as members of the "band of brothers" under the White Ensign, has been amply justified. He had been a candidate for Osborne, but had failed to satisfy the examiners. Now, taking advantage of his undoubted skill as an amateur yachtsman, he was doing good service both in deep-sea and coastal navigation. These two branches are widely distinct. Generally speaking, officers of the "pukka" navy are indifferent navigators in coastal waters. Inside the "five fathom line" they often lack the confidence that the skilled amateur possesses. Thus the Admiralty soon found the need to accept the offers of British yachtsmen to take command of the shoal of "M.-L.'s"—otherwise Coastal Motor-Launches—the war record of which showed that official confidence had not been misplaced.

In the early days of the war the newly-constituted Motor-Boat Reserve was frequently a subject for ridicule. "Harry Tate's Navy", as it was called, figured in cheap comic papers, and was spoken of jestingly by misinformed critics. True, there were incompetents, who managed to obtain temporary commissions on the strength of baneful influence; but these were soon weeded out, and the zealous, hard-working men remained to "carry on". For the first three years of war the M.-L.'s were rarely if ever in the limelight. Not that they wanted to be; they were content to work whole-heartedly as units of the Great Silent Navy, until even official reticence and the muzzle of the Press Censor failed to hide from public notice the stirring deeds of the officers and men of the puny but doughty M.-L.'s.

"I'm taking over M.-L. 4452," explained Branscombe, when the two men had settled down to the contents of a Thermos and biscuits—for the R.N.V.R. man had taken the precaution to fortify himself amply against the discomforts of long railway journeys. "She's a brand-new hooker, just handed over at Dumbarton by the contractors. We're bound south for——" He hesitated. Alec looked at him inquiringly and raised his eyebrows.

"Dover?" asked the R.N. sub.

"Yes—Dover," replied Guy.

"Lucky blighter," rejoined Seton "Wish I had the chance. There's always something doing in the 'Wet Triangle'. Up here with the Grand Fleet it's the usual out-and-in stunt, with no chance of tumbling across anything more than a Fritz or a mine. Absolute boredom, and all because the Huns won't come out. Now at Dover—any stunt on?"

"Can't say, old man," replied Branscombe with perfect truth. As a matter of fact the R.N.V.R. officer was "in the know". Great operations, as to which all concerned were bound to secrecy, were impending; the risk was great, and the chance of honour correspondingly so; and since success depended upon a sphinx-like silence the secret was being well kept. Branscombe even knew of a case in which two life-long chums were shipmates for three weeks, and although each was detailed off for duty in the forthcoming operations neither hinted to the other that it was his luck to be chosen for the stunt.

The conversation turned into other channels, talking "shop" being tabooed as far as possible, and punctually to time the two chums found themselves on Waverley Station platform with ten minutes to wait for the train that was to take them to their destination—Inverkeithing and Rosyth.

CHAPTER II

Strafed

"Mornin', Seton," was Lieutenant-Commander Dick Trevannion's greeting as Alec reported himself on board H.M.T.B.D. Bolero. "Had a long journey, eh? Sorry, old bird; but there's one consolation: We're bound south. Evidently the Admiral thinks we are in need of recuperation in a warmer climate. No, don't look so infernally joyful. We're not off up the Straits, if that's what you think. It's a convoying job."

Seton looked glum. He couldn't help it. Of all the tasks that fall to the lot of the ubiquitous navy convoying is one of the worst. The speed of the escorting destroyer or destroyers must perforce be limited to that of the slowest old tramp in the convoy, and in the days of shortage of shipping there were plenty of old hookers that in other circumstances would be being broken up in a shipbreaker's yards. Mule-headed skippers, ignoring peremptory signals, would haul out of line; superannuated engines would break down at particularly inopportune moments—when night was falling and a heavy sea running. Then the faces of the officers commanding H.M. ships comprising the escort would turn an apoplectic purple, and white anger would surge under their great-coats; but to little purpose. Acting on the precepts embodied in the song, "Sailors Don't Care". the horny-handed mercantile marine would just carry on in its own sweet way, contemptuously indifferent to naval orders, mines, U-boats, and other disquieting incidents on the High Seas in the Year of Grace 1918.

"What sort of a circus have we, sir?" asked Seton.

"Usual lot," replied Trevannion as he offered his subordinate a cigarette. "Coastwise tramps an' a couple of hookers for the 'Beef Trip'. We're to escort the latter to the North Hinder, and then put into Harwich to await instructions."

The suggestion of the Beef Trip made the outlook a little more promising. The term is applied to boats running between Great Britain and Holland and carrying live cattle for the ultimate sustenance of a hungry population. Many and many a time the Huns tried to intercept the Anglo-Dutch traffic. Raids from Borkum and Zeebrugge by swift German torpedo-boats made the trip a fairly exciting one, and the chances of out-escorting destroyers bringing the Huns to close action were always both possible and probable. It was a change from spending months of comparative inactivity at Scapa Flow, where in the piercing cold of the Northern climes the mammoth fleet of Britain lay waiting in vain for another opportunity of Der Tag. Only once before had the chance offered, and then night and mist had robbed the Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Fleet of his opportunity of annihilating von Scheer's Command.

At eight bells the Bolero cast off from the buoy and proceeded down the Forth, her ensign floating proudly from her diminutive mizzen mast. Past the giant hush-ships lying off Rosyth she glided, threading her way through a multitudinous assortment of craft that the Royal Navy has taken as its own: brand-new light cruisers, monitors with huge 17-inch guns, hogged-backed P-boats, mine-layers, coastal M.-B's, X-barges, and other weird types of naval architecture. Under the northern span of the Forth Bridge the Bolero passed, exchanging signals with the little station on the rock that supports the central pier; then, settling down to a modest twenty-five knots, she shaped a course towards the cluster of vessels awaiting her off Leith and Portobello Roads.

The convoy was, as the Lieutenant-Commander anticipated, a motley crowd. There were rusty-sided tramps, tramps fantastically decorated with dazzle; tramps large and small, wall-sided and with high and low freeboards. Nevertheless, with all their shortcomings, they formed part of the arteries of Empire, manned as they were by British seamen, whom the piratical Huns failed utterly to intimidate by threats of ruthless murder and sinking without a trace.

The short spring day was drawing to a close before the convoy weighed and shaped a course towards the frowning Bass Rock. Ahead steamed a destroyer, two more were on each flank of the long-drawn-out line, while astern, as a sort of whipper-in, came the Bolero, her turbine engines running at quarter speed.

As Officer of the Watch for the first watch Alec Seton had his work cut out. Almost every quarter of an hour the engine-room had to be telegraphed to, either to increase or decrease speed slightly, while the Morse flashing-lamp was practically in constant use, calling upon this vessel to close station or that to increase distance by so many cables.

And so the weary watch went on. The wind, hitherto off-shore, had suddenly veered to the south-east and blew with considerable violence right in the teeth of the convoy. Even at reduced speed the Bolero was "shipping it green" right over her raised fo'c'sle, while stinging showers of icy spray lashed viciously against the canvas dodgers and rattled like hail against the plate-glass windows of the chart-house.

There was a marked change in the Sub's appearance, as he crouched under the lee of the dodger. His hitherto slim figure looked podgy, and for a good reason.

Underneath his great-coat he wore his monkey-jacket, three sweaters, and a muffler. Oilskin trousers tucked into and turned over the tops of his sea-boots, and a weather-beaten cap rammed well down over his eyes completed his watch-keeping kit. With him stood the signalman and quartermaster, both enveloped in duffel suits.

On deck everything was battened down, for the glass was falling rapidly and giving every indication of a sharp, if short, blow before very long. Already the wind was moaning dismally through the wireless aerials, and causing the bridge canvas to bag in a double series of almost inflexible bulges.

At six bells (10 p.m.) the signal was given to the convoy to alter course eight points to port. Then ensued an anxious time, some of the vessels obeying with alacrity, others dallying in the carrying out of their instructions. With the wind now abeam, the lumbering craft rolled horribly, while the long, lean destroyers, which largely rely upon steadiness by reason of their speed, were constantly rolling rail under. Torn clouds of reeking smoke from the vessels to windward, mingled with icy spray, swept over the Bolero, whose position on that account was the most undesirable of the escorting craft.

"It's Fritz's chance, absolutely," thought Alec. "A U-boat could be lying awash a cable's length away and we shouldn't spot her. And it's a dirty night to have to stand by a sinking tramp."

"There's something on our port bow, sir," reported the look-out, stretching a glistening oilskin-enshrouded arm in the direction indicated.

"Yes, by Jove," ejaculated Seton. "It's a dirty Fritz. Starboard two, quartermaster, and let her have it."

It was for one thing fortunate that the Bolero was running at greatly reduced speed, otherwise the lurking U-boat might have been passed unnoticed.

The submarine had evidently been compelled to rise to recharge batteries, the heavy sea notwithstanding. Her hydrophones had given indication of the presence of the convoy, and the latter's recent change of course had set the vessels slightly abeam and at gradually reducing distance. The kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat, quick to grasp the situation, had waited until the escorting destroyers on the convoy's port hand had passed, and was now manoeuvring to fire a torpedo at the rearmost tramp—which also happened to be the largest. Owing to the darkness it was almost impracticable to make use of the periscope, so the German submarine remained awash in order to take a direct bearing on her intended victim.

In the shortest possible time the gun's crew of the for'ard 3-inch quick-firer were ready. At a bare two hundred yards the target was one that could not be easily missed and the gun-layer knew his job thoroughly.

Too late the astounded and terrified Huns sought to submerge. Before the last Teuton gained the quick-action watertight hatchway the Bolero's gun barked viciously. Fairly through the conning-tower at a height of a couple of feet above the tapering armoured deck the high-velocity shell passed. Exploding, it blew the top of the conning-tower to pieces, killing the kapitan-leutnant, the quartermaster, and two of the crew.

The doomed U-boat began to sink, clouds of oil-laden vapour issuing from the jagged base of the conning-tower; but even that was not enough. It is the practice of the U-boat hunters to make doubly sure.

At increased speed, and with slight port helm, the Bolero scraped past the up-tilted stern of her victim. Resisting the temptation to ram her with the destroyer's knife-like bows, Seton held on his course, while right aft a couple of petty officers were busily engaged in allowing a wire to run out. Attached to the wire was a powerful depth-charge—one of two ready for instant use.

Fifty—sixty—seventy—eighty fathoms, the P.O. brought his hovering finger down smartly upon the firing-key of the battery.

He performed the act without emotion, although it meant sealing the death-warrant of a score or more of human beings. To him it was merely the performance of duty: frequency of opportunity had made it matter of routine.

With a stupendous roar a column of water, showing greyish-white through the darkness, was hurled a couple of hundred feet into the air. The Bolero, as the tremendous wash created by the explosion met and overrode the crested waves, shook violently from stern to stem, while fragments of metal, hurled upwards to an immense height, fell all around her.

For some minutes it seemed as if the fury of the wind was subdued by the blast of displaced air, while astern the waves subsided in a rapidly-increasing circle under the influence of tons of heavy oil liberated from the shattered wreck of the modern pirate.

"Hard a-starboard, quartermaster!"

Alec's voice quivered with excitement. It was the first Hun that he had bagged, although the Bolero had claimed more than one before Seton had been appointed to the destroyer.

Telegraphing first for "half-speed", then "stop", and "half-speed astern", Seton brought her to a standstill almost in the centre of the vast patch of oil. As he did so he became aware of the fact that Lieutenant-Commander Trevannion, picturesquely rigged out in gaily-striped pyjamas, service cap, great-coat, and sea-boots, was standing beside him on the bridge.

"Good bag that," remarked the Lieutenant-Commander in dispassionate tones, as if Fritz-strafing was a less exciting occupation than hunting rats. "You've ordered the buoy to be let go, I see. Right-o, carry on!"

The nun-buoy, to which was attached a line terminating in a sinker, was dropped over the side to mark the position of the ill-fated Hun submarine, in order that divers could make subsequent examination, of the shattered hull, and fix her identity.

Meanwhile the Bolero had switched on her search-lights, and was sweeping the surface of the oily sea on the off-chance of sighting survivors. It was practically a matter of form, since previous experience told that rarely does a single member of a depth-charge-shattered U-boat live to tell the tale.

"Something on the starboard bow, sir," reported one of the lookout-men. "Looks like a corpse, sir."

Leaning over the bridge guard-rails Alec followed the direction indicated by the man's outstretched arm. Something black was floating on the sullen, oil-covered water. It was the body of a man clad in black oilskins, and wearing an inflated life-belt. Even as the Sub. looked, the man feebly waved his arm.

"Away duty boat!" shouted Seton.

There was an orderly rush to man the boat. Although the man was an enemy and a despicable one at that, the British seamen gave little or no heed to that. There was a chance to save life, and the bluejackets meant to do it.

With a resounding splash the boat dropped into the water. The patent disengaging-gear was slipped, and the men gave way with a will. Within fifty seconds of the time the order was given to lower away, the sole survivor of the U-boat was hauled into the destroyer's boat.

With the greatest celerity the boat returned alongside. The falls were hooked in and the order given to "haul away roundly". Almost before the boat's keel was clear of the water the Bolero's triple propellers began to thresh, and the destroyer, gathering way, resumed her station astern of the convoy.

CHAPTER III

Count Otto

"By Jupiter, old man!" exclaimed little Browning, surgeon-probationer of the destroyer, as he met Seton on the termination of the latter's watch. "We've netted a fine bird. The skipper's as pleased as a dog with two tails."

"One of the most recent types of U-boats?" asked Alec, as he proceeded to divest himself of a portion of his heavy clothing, and to kick off his sea-boots.

"Better than that, my festive," replied the medico, as he deftly filled a tin mug with hot tea—a task not easily accomplished when a destroyer is rolling horribly in a sea-way. "The Hun we fished out is none other than Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert."

"Explain," said Alec, as he took the proffered cup and gratefully drained its contents. It mattered nothing that the cup was old and battered, and that the dregs left by the previous user were floating in the highly-brewed beverage. In such circumstances one cannot be too fastidious.

"What! Not heard of Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert?" asked Browning in mock dismay. "I thought everyone in the destroyer patrol knew of him. He's the fellow who torpedoed the Bentali."

"Bentali? Of course, I remember," replied Seton. "A hospital ship homeward-bound from the Dardanelles. Didn't cotton on to the fellow's tally, though. I'm jolly glad we've collared him. Wonder what they'll do with him?"

"Do with him?" echoed the doctor. "Why, put him ashore, send him in a comfy first-class railway carriage to a cushy home for fortunate Hun pirates. Feed him up; let him take a daily jaunt into the nearest town for the benefit of his health and to prevent boredom. Allow his friends to visit him, and all that sort of tosh. My word, we English are a rummy race! We carry our humane principles too far, and Fritz takes it as a sign of weakness."

"It's innate chivalry, I suppose," remarked Seton.

"Innate foolishness!" corrected Browning with asperity. "If you saw a poisonous snake lying across your path would you pick it up, wrap it in your pocket-handkerchief, and take it out of harm's way? I'd as soon do that as molly-coddle a Hun. I've seen them and their dirty work, my festive, long before you took to the noble pastime of Fritz-strafing."

Meanwhile the subject of the discussion was reclining more or less at ease upon a settee in the Bolero's ward-room. A fractured collar-bone, several minor contusions, and a shock to the nervous system summed up the extent of his injuries. The destroyer's surgeon-probationer, notwithstanding his vehement denunciations of von Brockdorff-Giespert and all his kind, had used all his skill in mitigating the pirate's injuries; and now, slightly under the influence of morphia, the Count was pondering over the situation and wondering whether it would have been preferable to have perished with his crew rather than be taken alive by enemies.

Von Brockdorff-Giespert believed, and with good reason, that he was on the Black List of the British Admiralty. In the Fatherland he used to boast of the fact, but different surroundings are apt to change a fellow's tune, and now he was beginning to feel truly sorry for himself.

The Count was a kapitan-leutnant of the unterseebooten service, and held a staff appointment at the newly-constructed German base at Zeebrugge. The post was given him as a reward for his zealous services to the All-Highest having claim to the destruction of 60,000 tons of Allied mercantile shipping. Most of his victims he sank without warning, and in several instances without leaving a trace, while his despicable act of torpedoing the hospital ship Bentali on a dark night and in a very heavy sea was the crowning act of a long list of piratical outrages.

While every other country regarded the act with every expression of horror, kultured Germany hailed the deed with acclamation. It showed the thoroughness of Teutonic frightfulness: that Germany meant business. Count Otto received the Iron Cross with swords, and the Ordre pour le Mérite. Nevertheless he deemed it advisable for his health's sake to give up active submarine work, and become permanently attached to the Zeebrugge station for shore duties.

Unfortunately for him, he had a slight difference with the naval governor of the modern pirate base, and the latter revenged himself by ordering von Brockdorff-Giespert to sea in U 292—not in actual command, but as adviser to the proper kapitan-leutnant, a swash-buckling Prussian, of the name of von Bohme.

U 292 was on her trials when the end came with dramatic suddenness. Von Bohme had no intention of attacking until he had thoroughly tested the sea-going and manoeuvring capabilities of his new command; but the temptation of sinking one of the convoy of merchantmen was too strong.

Von Brockdorff-Giespert's mental and physical activities were completely suspended for a period of twelve minutes following the sudden destruction of U 292. At the time of the catastrophe he was standing in the compartment immediately under the base of the conning-tower. On the impact of the British shell he formed the hasty but correct impression that the strafed Englander had scored. He attempted to gain the open air by means of the conning-tower hatchway, but the water-tight lid in the floor was immovably shut and secured. Water was pouring in through the started rivet-holes and buckling plates. Below, the nerve-racked Germans were rushing to-and-fro in blind panic, colliding with each other in the dark, confined space, for the impact of the shell had put the electric-lighting dynamos out of action.

It was not too much to say that von Brockdorff-Giespert was seized by the contaminating panic. He was no longer a kapitan-leutnant of the submarine staff, but a mere Hun struggling fiercely for life in a wholehearted, selfish desire to avoid a death to which thousands of his fellow-Huns had been condemned under similar circumstances.

Then came the paralysing shock, and the tremendous roar of the exploding depth-charge. Rolling completely over, the doomed U-boat began to fill rapidly. Struggling for life, half-immersed in the oil-tinged swirling water, gasping in the black, petrol- and nitric-acid-laden fumes, von Brockdorff-Giespert gave himself up for lost. His senses deserted him.

In an insensible condition he was whirled, by a curious whim of fate, through a gaping hole in the U-boat's bilge. While the rest of his companions in piracy were caught like rats in a trap in their metal tomb, the Staff-kapitan-leutnant was impelled to the surface. Well it was for him that he wore a life-saving waistcoat. He had worn it day and night during the trip; surreptitiously lest any of the crew should make merry at the arrogant Junker's expense. It helped to save his life: the Bolero's boat completed the task.

Daybreak found the rescued Hun comfortably in bed in one of the officers' cabins—comfortable as far as could be expected while suffering from a broken collar-bone and various minor bruises and contusions. He was glad to find himself alive, but in his innate arrogance he could find neither means nor desire to express his gratitude to his rescuers. Nor was he exactly comfortable in his mind. That little incident of the hospital ship Bentali persisted in recurring. There might be awkward questions asked. But never mind: the English would be afraid to take reprisals upon him. They looked like losing the war, consequently they would treat their prisoners with consideration lest vengeance overtook them.

It was a truly Prussian view, and one almost implicitly believed in throughout Germany. It accounted for the humane treatment of German prisoners in England. Only those who are bound to win can, according to Prussian ideas, override all the articles of the Geneva Convention, With them war was a demonstration of brutality—relentless and pitiless. The vanquished was expected to receive no mercy. When the Huns were worsted they hardly expected clemency, and when, as prisoners of war, they received both clemency and a certain amount of consideration they could only put it down to the faint-heartedness of their captors, who, knowing that they were on the losing side, were anxious to ingratiate themselves with victorious Prussia.

"By Jove! What a pity we've hauled him out of the ditch!" exclaimed Seton, after he had visited the prisoner and had courteously inquired after his health. "The fellow looked at me as if I were a Boche conscript. I'd like to have him in the ship's company for a week—no, I wouldn't. I wouldn't like to think that my men would have to endure his precious society for five minutes."

So for the next forty-eight hours Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert was left severely alone by the officers of H.M.S. Bolero, the one exception being the doctor, whose efforts for his injured enemy were untiring.

At last the slowly-moving convoy passed Yarmouth and sighted the Cork Lightship off the entrance to Harwich Harbour. Here the unwieldy tramps were practically immune from hostile action, for the air was stiff with aircraft and airships, while for miles round the sea was dotted with swiftly-moving destroyers, M.-L.'s, and submarine-chasers. It was no place for Fritz to show his nose, and to his discretion, if not to his credit, he left the approaches to Harwich severely alone.

A wireless telegraphist, holding a folded slip of buff paper, ran up the bridge-ladder, and saluting Alec, who had just taken over as Officer of the Watch, handed him message.

"Wireless just gone through, sir," he reported. "General signal to the convoy."

Seton took the proffered signal-pad, read the message, and elevated his eyebrows. Long experience in naval matters had taught him never to show unwonted surprise at any order that might come through at any hour of the day or night. But this, on the face of it, seemed remarkable.

Briefly, the convoy was to be split up, the major portion going into Harwich to await further orders. Four of the slowest tramps, escorted by the destroyers, Bolero and Triadur, were to proceed to the Nord Hinder Lightship, there to stand by until instructions were sent to the destroyers by the S.N.O.

"Wonder if the tramps are Q-boats after all," soliloquized Alec. "One doesn't know t'other from which in these jolly old times. . . . Chance of luring Fritz and seeing a bit of life, eh, what?"

Five minutes later the convoy acted according to orders, the two destroyers and their sluggish charges shaping an easterly course through the mine-infested North Sea.

CHAPTER IV

Torpedoed

"Port five—steady."

"Port five it is, sir."

Alec Seton, sheltering under the lee of the bridge dodger, raised his binoculars and peered steadfastly through the gloom. It was night. Patches of fog were ganging around with irritating persistency, as if bent on following and hampering the Bolero's movements. There was just sufficient headwind to throw cascades of icy cold spray over the destroyer's flaring bows. The breeze whistled mournfully through the rigging, while aft a long trail of black smoke, beaten down by the heavy atmosphere, hung sullenly over the short, vicious seas. According to reckoning the Nord Hinder lay 5 miles east by north.

It was not idle curiosity that had prompted Seton to order the course to be altered. Less than a mile away was something showing black and ill-defined even to the powerful night-glasses. It might be anything from a derelict tramp to an abandoned boat. It might be a German submarine or a sea-going torpedo-boat flying, or rather supposed to be flying, the craven Black Cross Ensign of Germany.

Whatever it was, it was Seton's duty to investigate, taking proper precautions in the event of the object turning out to be a hostile warship.

There was also the possibility—almost the probability—that the strange craft, if a craft it were, might be a British or Allied vessel. In any case, before the Bolero could open fire she had to establish the national identity of the stranger. A Hun was under no such obligation. He could open fire indiscriminately, not caring whether his target were a hostile or a neutral vessel.

Again Alec raised his binoculars. By this time the Triadur and the convoy were two or three miles to the sou'east. The Bolero's crew were at action stations, ready at the word of command to let loose every quick-firer that could be brought to bear upon the enemy craft.

"What do you make of her?" inquired the Lieutenant-Commander, who, acquainted with the alteration of course, had joined his subordinate on the bridge.

Before Seton could express his opinion the question was answered. Two vivid flashes stabbed the darkness, while a few seconds later a couple of shells burst two hundred yards beyond the British destroyer.

Almost immediately the Bolero returned the compliment. Her salvo hit exactly on the spot that her gun-layers aimed at—but it pitched into and partly dispersed a cloud of smoke. The wily Fritz had been approaching stern foremost, and directly the German boat fired she went full speed ahead, at the same time releasing an enormous smokescreen.

From the British Senior Officer's ship a message flashed:

"Stand in pursuit; will remain by the convoy."

It was an order after Lieutenant-Commander Richard Trevannion's own heart, and of that of every member of the ship's company.

Telegraphing for full speed ahead, Trevannion stood in pursuit. Boat for boat the British destroyer had the advantage both in speed and armament, but already the Hun had gained in distance, and, taking advantage of the smoke screen, was now nothing but an indistinct blur in the night. It remained for the Bolero to keep her quarry within sight, and then the momentarily increasing speed would begin to tell.

Firing steadily with her pair of fo'c'sle quick-firers the Bolero held on. Her whole frame vibrated under the pulsations of her powerful engines. The wind no longer whistled through the scanty wire rigging: it absolutely shrieked. At times the for'ard guns' crews were knee-deep in water, as the destroyer literally punched her way through the waves.

"A near one, Sir," exclaimed Alec, as a shell burst within twenty yards of the Bolero's port quarter, some of the splinters cutting jagged holes in the two after funnels.

Trevannion smiled grimly.

"Yes, Fritz can shoot straight sometimes," he replied. "No casualties aft, I hope?"

A signalman ran aft to make inquiries.

"No, sir," he replied on his return; "the after quick-firer's crew——"

A terrific detonation, almost instantly followed by an enormous column of water, interrupted the signalman's remarks anent the after quick-firer's gun's crew. The Bolero seemed to be lifted clean out of the water; then she listed heavily to starboard. Clouds of flame-tinged smoke, mingled with hissing jets of steam, were issuing from the engine-room.

"Fritz has bagged us, my festive!" remarked Trevannion, when the two officers recovered their senses, of which the sudden explosion had temporarily deprived them. "A fair deal: we've nothing to complain about. See that our involuntary guest, Count Otto What's-his-name, is not overboard."

The Lieutenant-Commander spoke with the admiration of a true sportsman. For once a U-boat had fulfilled her legitimate purpose by torpedoing a warship. The destroyer had taken the risk, and she had fallen a victim to the powerful Schwartz-Kopff torpedo.

It was apparent to every man on board that the Bolero was doomed. The German torpedo-boat had acted the part of a decoy, and had lured the British destroyer athwart the track of a lurking unterseeboot. At a range of three hundred metres the kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat felt sure of his prey; so much so that he decided that one torpedo was enough.

Hit abaft the boiler-room, the Bolero was practically broken in twain. Her watertight bulkheads were holding, but had been badly strained. Even at the most sanguine estimate it was doubtful whether the bow and stern portions would be able to keep afloat for more than twenty minutes.

Meanwhile there was much to be done. While the signalmen were sending up rockets and firing Verey lights—for the concussion had put the wireless completely out of action—the task of getting away boats and rafts was proceeded with. The wounded were first lifted into the boats, for the explosion had taken heavy toll of the heroes of the engine-room and stokeholds. Already the Lieutenant-Commander had thrown overboard the confidential signal-books and log. Impassively he stood upon the bridge, awaiting the end. His duty was almost done. By virtue of the glorious and imperishable traditions of the British Navy he stood at his post until the last man was clear of the sinking ship.

Deftly, and without the faintest suspicion of panic, the crew took to the boats and rafts. The survivors of the engine-room staff, coming straight from the heated and confined space below, were ill-conditioned to withstand the bitter coldness of the night. Lightly-clad they stuck it, accepting with grimly-expressed thanks the offers of additional clothing from their better-clad messmates.

From the first it was apparent that the boats and Carley rafts were insufficient to accommodate all the ship's company, yet not a man moved out of his turn. Donning lifebelts, those who were unable to take to the boats, without risk of overcrowding and endangering the lives of their messmates, prepared for their long swim, confident that help would be assuredly forthcoming to "hike them out of the ditch".

"Pull clear, men!" shouted Trevannion. "Good luck!"

Standing at the head of the bridge-ladder, and holding on to the stanchion-rail, for the destroyer was listing excessively, Seton watched the scene with feelings akin to admiration. For himself he cared little, or rather, in the grim excitement of the destroyer's last throes, his mind was fully occupied with the episode of the final moments.

"Jump for it, Seton!" shouted the Lieutenant-Commander.

Alec shook his head.

"I'll stand by till you're ready, sir," he replied, proffering a life-belt to his superior.

Trevannion waved it aside with a grave, gesture of refusal. To him, as captain of the ship, it seemed unbecoming that he should don the life-saving device.

"Thanks," he replied. "I'm a good swimmer. I'll find something to hang on to. By Jove! Seton, the men are simply splendid."

The end came with startling suddenness. With two successive reports the sorely-tried bulkheads gave way under the terrific pressure of water. In a smother of foam the riven hull sagged until bow and stern reared themselves in the air to such an extent that to Alec it seemed as if the two extremities would meet. Then, with a sickening movement, the Bolero plunged to the bed of the North Sea.

Seton's first sensation of the plunge was that of intense cold. The moment he felt himself off his feet he struck out to clear the wreckage. In spite of his efforts he found himself being drawn back as surely as if he were held by a chain. Down, down, down! Would the horrible descent never end? He held his breath, struggling the while to force himself to the surface. Already his lungs felt on the point of bursting.

"Good heavens! I'm foul of something," was the thought that flashed through his mind.

It seemed like an eternity, that slow and remorseless suffocation in the icy-cold water. His eyes were wide open, but he could see nothing. Involuntarily he gasped; an inrush of water followed; a moment of intense irritation, and then a period of utter insouciance. His senses were deserting him. In a vague sort of way he realized that he was drowning.

Suddenly the downward movement was arrested. Caught by the upward rush of air from a burst compartment Seton was impelled to the surface with incredible speed. He was conscious of being shot almost clear of the water, of a rush of life-giving air into his partly water-logged lungs; then of striking out almost automatically.

The sea was horribly cold. Hampered by the weight of his clothes, for, with the exception of his great-coat and sea-boots, he had "taken to the ditch" fully-clad, it was a hard struggle for Seton to keep himself afloat.

With a noise like a small pistol-shot the water hitherto pressing against his ear-drums dispersed, and his sense of hearing was restored. Above the hissing of the waves he could hear shouts of encouragement and cries for aid from his struggling shipmates. There were swimmers all around him. Some men were clinging to oars and pieces of floating wreckage. Others were supporting their less robust comrades, while a few dauntless spirits were singing, or rather trying to sing, in order to convey the impression that they still had their "tails up".

Someone pushed an empty water-beaker almost in Alec's face, with a jerky invitation to "Hold on to that, chum."

"Thanks," gasped Seton breathlessly.

"Lumme, if it ain't our sub-lootenant," exclaimed his benefactor. "Goin' strong, sir? Shall I stand by and give you a hand?"

Seton was glad of the moral assistance, although he continued to hang on to the barrel with little effort. For some moments neither man spoke.

"Bout time the old Triadur showed up sir," remarked the bluejacket. "Sure I won't forget to-night, an' it's me birthday. You all right, sir?" he added anxiously.

"Quite," replied Alec untruthfully, but with a dogged determination to refuse to acknowledge that things were not going at all well with him. An ominous numbing sensation in his arms and legs told him plainly and unmistakably that the icy cold water was beginning to take effect.

Almost directly after he had given his assurance, Alec relaxed his grasp of the beaker and without an effort disappeared beneath the surface.

CHAPTER V

In the Whaler

Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert's feelings were far from comfortable when the crash of the Bolero's quick-firers told him unmistakably that the destroyer was in action.

With his broken collar-bone and other injuries he was practically helpless, while to make matters worse, as far as he was concerned, his captors had put him under lock and key. Evidently these English meant to take no risks, he soliloquized.

It was no exaggeration to state that he was in a blue funk. At one moment he cursed the German vessel for replying to the British destroyer's fire; at another he hoped and prayed that the former would draw out of range. Not once did he express a wish that the Black Cross Ensign might prove victorious.

With the perspiration oozing in large beads on his bullet forehead he lay and quaked, his mind torn with agitated thoughts. He remembered vividly—the reminiscence was frequently in his mind—how on one occasion, when he was in command of a U-boat, he had taken out of a badly-damaged boat an old, white-haired British merchant skipper. It was not by reason of the call of humanity that he had done this: it was part of a cool, calculated plan of action whereby the Huns vainly thought that, with British captains and engineers detained on board the submarines as hostages, the hunters would hesitate to sink the modern pirates. It was but one of the many instances in which the Hun miscalculated the spirit of Britain. Von Brockdorff-Giespert's submarine was being chased by a particularly aggressive P-boat. A depth charge was exploded so near that the hunted U-boat reeled and quivered under the shock. By sheer good luck Count Otto's command escaped, and the Hun commander lost no time in taunting his captive.

"Are you not glad you weren't blown up by your fellow-countrymen?" he asked.

The old skipper shook his head.

"I'm downright sorry," he replied boldly.

"Sorry our fellows didn't do you in. My sole regret would have been that I should have to go to Davy Jones' locker in such rotten company."

Filled with a violent passion von Brockdorff-Giespert swore at and threatened the imperturbable Englishman. He gave him no credit for his patriotism. To the Hun such a standpoint was incomprehensible. He could only attribute it to the crass stupidity of the schweinhund Englander. Yet, somehow, Count Otto rather admired the old skipper in the present juncture. He envied his calm demeanour. The bronzed face and white hair of the old man haunted him.

Then came the terrific impact of the Boche torpedo. Flung completely out of his bunk von Brockdorff-Giespert lay inertly upon the floor for nearly a couple of minutes. At length, regardless of his injuries, he staggered to his feet and battered the locked door with his open palm, the while bellowing for assistance.

To be drowned like a rat in a trap: it was a fate inconceivable to a member of the Prussian nobility—a junker of the first water. He redoubled his cries as the doomed destroyer listed more and more. Had he but known it he might well have saved his breath. His shouts were drowned by the hiss of escaping steam and the inrush of water.

At length through sheer exhaustion he ceased his cries, yet he sobbed like a child in his rage and terror. It seemed an eternity, but in reality only three minutes elapsed between the time of the explosion and the unlocking of his prison door.

"Blow me, ain't the Boche got the wind up?" remarked one of the bluejackets to his raggie, as the pair lifted the now speechless Hun from the cabin floor, over which the water was rising swiftly, and carried him up the narrow companion-way to the deck.

Very carefully and tenderly the men lifted their enemy into the first boat to be cleared away. In the company of half a dozen badly wounded and scalded men the men pushed off, deeply laden for the high sea that was running.

Placed in the stern sheets and supported by a rolled canvas awning von Brockdorff-Giespert could watch with every roll of the boat the last throes of the British destroyer. Had he not been in peril of being thrown into the sea by the swamping of the boat he might have gloated over the scene. As it was he watched and waited, fervently hoping that before long he would be transferred to a larger and more seaworthy craft.

For several seconds following the final plunge of the torpedoed vessel silence reigned. The wind lulled, the waves were quelled under the influence of the widely-spreading oil. It seemed as if Nature were paying homage to the departed destroyer. Then the silence was broken by shouts of encouragement and exchange of rough, almost incomprehensible banter by men struggling for their lives.

In spite of their efforts—for there were only two oars available—the whaler drifted considerably to leeward of the rest of the boats. Even the Carley rafts were lost to sight in the darkness.

Presently a voice hailed.

"Boat ahoy! Can you take an officer on board?"

The stroke boated his oar and peered into the faces of the men lying in the stern-sheets before replying.

"Right-o," he replied.

"No, don't," expostulated von Brockdorff-Giespert. "Already the boat is overcrowded. It is madness."

"Shut up!" growled the man, a first-class petty officer. "Are you running this show, or am I? If it weren't for the likes o' you the likes of us wouldn't be in this bloomin' fix."

"But——" persisted the Count.

"Dry up," growled the petty officer, "or into the blinkin' ditch you go pretty sharp! Toss them two overboard, mate," he continued, addressing another seaman. "They won't want any more suppers."

It was no time for respect to the dead when the fate of the living was at stake. Without ceremony the corpses of two men who had died of injuries were given to the waves, while willing hands hauled the senseless form of Sub-lieutenant Alec Seton into the boat.

"Look alive!" shouted the bowman to Alec's rescuer, who, on noticing the Sub relax his grasp of the beaker, had promptly dived and brought the young officer to the surface. "Stroke ahead; I'll give you a hand."

"Too many in the boat already, mate," was the reply. "I've a mother living in Lowestoft, and I'll have a shot at swimming there. How far—eighty miles?"

Without further ado the chivalrous bluejacket turned and began swimming away from the boat.

"'Ere, no you don't!" shouted the bowman, and with a quick movement he engaged his boat-hook in the neck of the bluejacket's jumper. "Plenty of room in the stalls, mate. Two blokes wot booked seats ain't taking 'em up."

"Is that jonnick?" asked the swimmer suspiciously.

"Proper jonnick," asserted the other.

"Good enough," rejoined Alec's rescuer, and suffered himself to be hauled over the gunwale into a place of at least temporary safety.

For nearly two hours the boat continued to drift in spite of the dogged efforts of the two oarsmen. The breaking of an oar made matters worse, and all that could be done was to keep the whaler stern-on to the waves. Where were the rest of the Bolero's crew, and how they fared, were merely matters for speculation.

Meanwhile the whaler's crew were unremitting in their attention to their disabled messmates, two of the men chafing Alec's numbed limbs in the hope of restoring him to consciousness. In this they succeeded, and presently the Sub opened his eyes.

"Quite all right, sir," said one of the men reassuringly in answer to Alec's unspoken question. "Just you lie quiet, sir. It'll be dawn very soon, and then we'll be picked up."

"How did I come to be picked up?" asked Alec.

"Just hiked on board like any old bundle done up ugly, sir," replied the man. "In a manner of speaking you didn't care whether it was Christmas or Easter."

"I remember," continued the Sub. "A bluejacket—Saunders is his name was—standing by when I was hanging on to the beaker. Where is he?"

"Having a caulk on the bottom-boards, sir. He's as right as ninepence; but we've had to heave four of the hands overboard. They were pretty far gone when we put them into the boat."

Tediously the night passed. Signs of other movements were absent, with one exception. That was about three in the morning when a sea-plane of unknown nationality passed high overhead. Even her presence would have passed unnoticed, for the whine of the wind completely muffled the noise of the motors, had not the pilot started to use his flashing lamp. Apparently he was calling up a sister sea-plane in code, for the message was unintelligible to the whaler's crew. Nor was there, as far as they could see, any response.

Gradually the dawn began to gain mastery in the south-eastern sky. A rosy hue crept upwards from the misty horizon, betokening a spell of wet and stormy weather. Already the whaler's crew had all their work cut out to prevent the boat being swamped. They were baling incessantly with the solitary baler and their caps. With the increase of wind, and consequently heavier sea, it was doubtful whether the boat could survive, since there was nothing of which to make anything in the nature of a sea-anchor.

[Illustration: "ENGLISCH OFFIZIER-PIG!" HE SHOUTED. "WE YOU TAKE PRISONER">[

Yet not for one moment did a single British member of the party show signs of being dismayed. Even the badly wounded men cracked jokes with their comrades, while others, whose injuries were of a slighter nature, insisted on being allowed to take their turn at baling.

Von Brockdorff-Giespert, on the other hand, looked the picture of misery and despair. He grumbled incessantly, asserting, with true Hunnish arrogance, that he was being neglected by his captors. It was not until he was sternly threatened, if he did not hold his tongue, that the Count began to realize that there was a limit beyond which even he must not go when in the company of British tars.

"There's a craft of sorts," announced the bowman, who, maintaining a precarious perch on the thwart, was scanning the horizon.

"Away on the starboard bow. Think she is coming this way."

"Wave your scarf, Lofty," suggested another member of the crew.

The man began to unwrap his "comforter". Then very abruptly he sat down.

"We'll hang on a little longer, mates," he said in a low voice. "I don't quite like the look of her. Strikes me she's a Fritz."

"By smoke, you're right!" exclaimed another, taking a cautious view of the oncoming craft. "A dirty U-boat. Lie down all hands. 'Ere, you blinkin' Fritz, none of your capers. Stow it!"

Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert, on hearing of the approach of what was apparently a German submarine, was making an effort to stand up and attract his compatriots' attention.

"It is time for me to do as I like," he replied, sneeringly.

"Is it? Then you're jolly well mistaken," retorted the stroke of the whaler, as he ostentatiously spat upon his hands and gripped a boat-stretcher.

The German's beady eyes contracted, and, thinking that discretion is ever the better art of valour, he shrugged his shoulders, and then winced with pain.

There was soon no doubt as to the type and nationality of the approaching craft. She was a U-boat. She was running on the surface. On the platform in the wake of the elongated conning-tower stood two men in black oilskins. At times completely enveloped in clouds of spray, they were intently searching the horizon either on the watch for likely prey or else keeping a sharp look-out for the dreaded British submarine-hunters.

"Looks like giving us the go-by after all," whispered one of the whaler's men, as the U-boat bore broadside on at a distance of about three-quarters of a mile.

"Let her," added his mate fervently. "Us don't want to see the likes of she just now. I'd give a month's pay to have her at yon range for twenty seconds."

"O, Lud!" exclaimed another with a grunt "she's starboarding helm. She's spotted us, lads!"

Clearly the whaler's crew were "in the soup", for the U-boat had altered course and was bearing down upon the luckless British seamen. Four or five hands made their way for'ard of the German craft's conning-tower, and in a few seconds a 4.7-inch gun rose from its place of concealment. Quickly the sinister weapon was manned and trained full at the helpless boat's crew.

"Murderous swine!" exclaimed the bowman, shaking his fist in futile defiance of the pirates.

Moments of intense suspense followed, yet the Huns refrained from opening fire. It might have been a matter for precaution that the quick-firer was trained upon the whaler; but, on the other hand, there was abundant evidence in the past to prove that the modern pirates had no scruples about murdering in cold blood the survivors of torpedoed merchantmen.

The while the officers outside the conning-tower were still busy with their binoculars. One of them kept the whaler under observation, while the other, evidently fearing a trap, swept the waste of water in case the periscope of a British submarine were watching Fritz with a view to blowing him to atoms.

Raising himself with his uninjured arm, Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert shouted something in German. The distance was still too great to enable the U-boat's officers to understand. This time the Count was not called to order, for the whaler's crew knew only too well that the tables had been turned.

Slowing down, and then reversing her engines, the U-boat came to a standstill within twenty yards of the survivors of the Bolero.

"Vot boat is dat?" hailed the U-boat's unter-leutnant. "Vere you from? Vot is der name of der schip you vos come from?"

"Better tell him civil-like," suggested the bow-man. "So here goes."

But von Brockdorff-Giespert again took up his parable. Speaking volubly, he quickly explained matters to his satisfaction. Although none of the British seamen understood German, the purport of the Count's words were sufficiently plain to them.

Interpolated with numerous "Ja, Herr Kapitan" from the obsequious unter-leutnant of the U-boat, von Brockdorff-Giespert gave a string of orders. The whaler was then commanded to come alongside, and the Count was assisted on board the submarine.

"Now," thought Alec, "he's out of it. Wonder if the dirty dogs are going, to turn a machine-gun on us, or ram the boat."

His natural curiosity was quickly satisfied, for the unter-leutnant, stepping to the rail, leered down into the boat.

"Englisch offizier-pig!" he shouted. "You der hospitality of Zherman U-boat must make. We you take prisoner."

CHAPTER VI

A Prisoner of War

The Sub-lieutenant made the best of a bad job. Although weak with exhaustion and exposure to the elements, he held his head high as he was taken on board the submarine.

The coxswain and stroke of the whaler, who had assisted their young officer, were curtly ordered back. The U-boat was not engaged upon an errand of mercy. It was the British officer who was wanted for a definite purpose. The men did not count. In the eyes of the Germans the hapless British seamen were almost beneath notice, although in other circumstances the Huns would have feared to have met them in fair fight.

As he gained the bulging deck of the pirate craft, Seton, steadying himself by the guard-rail, turned to bid good-bye and good luck to his men. Guessing his intention the unter-leutnant gave a curt order. Instantly two German sailors laid hold of the British officer; and without ceremony took him below.

In the act of descending the vertical ladder, Alec caught sight of Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert and the kapitan of the U-boat. Both were vastly enjoying the British officer's discomfiture. Count Otto, in spite of his injuries and dishevelled appearance, was smoking a cigar and holding a steaming cup of "coffee substitute".

"I owe this young Englishman a debt," he remarked grimly to the commander of the U-boat. "I will take good care that I repay it with interest."

It was the Prussian touch all over. Von Brockdorff-Giespert totally ignored the fact that his foes had saved his life. He attributed his misfortunes mainly to Sub-lieutenant Seton, as if the latter had been actuated by feelings of personal animosity rather than sheer devotion to duty. Already the Hun had made up his mind to inflict every possible indignity upon the prisoner.

Confined in a cramped, ill-ventilated and ill-lighted compartment in close proximity to the wireless-generator-room, Seton strained his ears in the hope of finding out what had happened to his whaler's crew. The purr of the electric motors and the noise of men's voices echoing and re-echoing in the interior of the huge metal cylinder deadened all sounds from without.

The U-boat was submerging. Apparently she had not used her guns upon the boat, for the recoil of the weapons would have been noticeable. There was, however, the horrible possibility that, before diving, the submarine had deliberately rammed the boat. Or, perhaps the Huns had shot down every man in the whaler by rifle and pistol. That was one of Fritz's little stunts—cold-blooded butchery.

After a while Alec thought it was time to look after himself, since his captors evidently had no intention of attending to his personal comfort. The warmth of the cell caused the moisture to steam from his saturated clothes. Divesting himself of his garments he wrung them out, and began to exercise his limbs to ward off the numbness that assailed them.

Presently the door of his cell was thrown open and a seaman appeared carrying a bowl of hot soup.

"Can I have my clothes dried?" asked Alec.

"It's not my work to dry the clothes of a schweinhund," replied the fellow in English. Then he pointed to the Sub's wristlet watch.

"For that I will dry your things," he added.

"Right," replied Alec. "It isn't going, though. The water's spoilt it."

"That is to be expected," rejoined the German, picking up the saturated garments. Then waiting until Alec had handed over his watch, he went out, to return presently with a canvas suit, rust-marked and greasy.

"In case Herr Kapitan sends for you," explained the man, and without another word he again backed out of the compartment and locked the door.

While waiting for the soup to cool, the Sub, with feelings of repugnance, put on the loaned suit. It felt damp and clammy and smelt vilely. As for the soup it was little better than dish-water, greasy and unpalatable, while with deliberate intent an excessive quantity of salt had been put into the liquid. Nevertheless Alec took a considerable quantity, for he was desperately famished, and the hot concoction warmed his chilled body, for even in the warm atmosphere cold chills were persistently passing over him.

For several hours—how long Alec had no accurate idea—the U-boat ran submerged. As far as he could estimate it was about noon when she came to the surface, only to dive again very quickly, to the accompaniment of a couple of bombs from a British sea-plane. Although wide of the mark the explosion of the missiles gave the submarine a nasty shaking up, so much so, that the startled Huns allowed their craft to rest on the bed of the North Sea until nightfall before resuming their course.

It was during this period of enforced detention that Alec was summoned to be examined by Kapitan-leutnant von Kloster.

Clad solely in his borrowed canvas suit, unshaven and unkempt, Alec felt his position keenly. He realized that it was a hard matter to preserve his dignity, when his appearance was like that of a greaser of a third-rate tramp.

Attended by two stolid German seamen the prisoner was taken to the kapitan's cabin. Seated on a settee by a narrow folding table were Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert and Kapitan-leutnant von Kloster. The former was rigged out in a uniform that evidently was von Kloster's, judging by the fact that the Count was lightly-built and his borrowed garments fitted him like a sack. His injured arm was in a sling, while, as the result of his immersion and subsequent prolonged stay in the whaler, he had contracted a very bad cold.

Von Kloster, on the other hand, was stout, florid-featured, and well-groomed. He had the typical Prussian "square head", the contour of the back of his head and neck forming practically a straight line. His moustache he wore with the points upturned after the fashion set by his Imperial master.

On a camp-stool at the other end of the table sat the unter-leutnant, Kaspar Diehardt, a very young and very bumptious Prussian. His bulging forehead contrasted vividly with his insignificant, receding chin, while his watery blue eyes belied the suggestion that he could ever become an efficient leader of men.

With paper and ink in front of him he sat gnawing the end of his quill pen, as if his thoughts were constantly of the ever-present danger that threatened those who go down into the sea in German submarines.

In his broken English von Kloster demanded Alec's name, rank, the vessel to which he belonged and her approximate position when torpedoed.

"You may yourself think fortunate that no lies you haf told," remarked his interrogator. "All this information I haf. Now, tell me: for what reason was der Bolero an' oder schips off der Nord Hinder?"

"That I cannot tell you," replied the Sub.

"Do you know?"

"I refuse to answer this question."

The Kapitan-leutnant addressed several words to his subordinate, the latter writing diligently for some moments.

It was an acute period of suspense for Seton. The silence was only broken by the scratching of the temporary secretary's pen, while the Count and von Kloster kept their eyes fixed on the prisoner. Alec was beginning to feel the effects of the salt soup. A burning thirst gripped his throat.

"Now, you have time had," continued his inquisitor. "Will you answer?"

Seton shook his head. Even if he wanted to speak his parched tongue seemed unequal to the task. But that was not the reason. At all costs, he determined to refuse to give any information likely to be of service to the enemy.

"Answer!" shouted Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert, bringing his fist down upon the table and wincing at the effort.

"Water!" gasped Alec.

The Kapitan-leutnant gave an order to one of the men. The fellow saluted and went out, presently to return with a carafe full of water, and a glass. Very deliberately von Kloster filled the glass almost to the brim and offered it to the prisoner. Then, as Seton stepped eagerly forward to take the liquid, the Kapitan-leutnant withdrew the glass.

"After you spoken haf, not before," he reminded with tantalizing cunning.

"I see you to blazes first!" Alec said hoarsely, with an effort.

"Ach, goot!" rejoined von Kloster sneeringly. "We shall see. I leave der matter in der hands of mine chief."