Some Naval Yarns Part 4

"From 'ere I can see the purtiest gal I ever laid eyes on."

Business, then, of a movement in every cot. Eyes were all front, gazing in the direction of a golden-haired beauty, who blushed a deep pink when she realised how many pairs of eyes from the train were focussed on her.

Soon h.o.r.n.y hands were being kissed in her direction. Shyly, she sent a kiss or two back, and then retired to the shadows.

As I said before, the train is considered a s.h.i.+p. It is a case of going to "Sick Bay" and of "out pipes" at nine o'clock. They talk of "darkening the s.h.i.+p" when the blinds are pulled and the lights covered.

We arrived at Hull when it was dusk, and at the station was, among other persons, Lady Nunburnholme, whose husband is the chief owner of the Wilson Line of steams.h.i.+ps, and who takes a deep interest in the ambulance trains and the sailors' hospital in her town. No matter at what hour one of the Royal Naval trains is due, Lady Nunburnholme is at the depot, always eager to have a word with the men, and give them cigarettes and cheer them up.

By error, that evening a clergyman or naval chaplain, who had been hurt on a wars.h.i.+p, was put in the coach with the men. The surgeon made the discovery, and said he would have the padre moved into the officers'

quarters at the next stop.

"I'm a humbug," said the cheery pastor. "There's nothing wrong with me.

Just go ahead looking after the men."

Plymouth was to be the next stop. We were due there at half-past seven o'clock the following morning. At midnight the chief surgeon walked through the train to see that all was well, and he was attracted by a man coughing. He directed that something be given to this patient.

"Don't want to have one man keep half a dozen awake needlessly," said the surgeon.

Then there was an officer who could not go to sleep. He was a medical case, suffering from rheumatism. But what kept him awake was the thought that he might lose his s.h.i.+p. There was a sailor who had fallen on his vessel, knocked four of his teeth out, and cut his head. Why he had to go to "Sick Bay" for such a trifle was beyond him. In the dark hours of the early morning one might have seen the faithful surgeon again going through his train, speaking in whispers to those who lay awake, asking them if there was anything they needed and what pain they had.

"I've got pains all over me, and me 'ead feels scorchin' with the bangin' that's goin' on inside," said one man.

"That's a grumble to get a drink," said the surgeon, who told the man to try to go to sleep.

Devons.h.i.+re was the scene of gladsome suns.h.i.+ne when the train steamed into the station, delivered certain patients, and picked up others for another port. In his anxiety to get a truck out of the way to permit the stretcher-bearers uninterrupted pa.s.sage to the ambulances, a porter tipped over six and a half dollars' worth of milk. The patients grinned at this, and the Surgeon-General on the platform appeared to be sorry that so much good milk had gone to waste.

The terminus of the train was reached at half-past seven in the evening.

There the coaches were cleared of all patients and the train split in two to permit of traffic pa.s.sing. The train-surgeon, having delivered the valuables of the patients, walked with me to the naval barracks, where for the first time in thirty-six hours he had a chance to really rest.

"Chin-chin," said he, lifting his gla.s.s. "Another run over, and the Germans have not come out yet for the real fight."

X. A TRIP IN A SUBMARINE

The man who craves excitement is apt to get his fill for a while after a trip in a British submarine under the North Sea. He may dream of the experience for many nights afterwards, and the lip of the conning-tower well seems to get higher and higher until the water rushes over like an incipient Niagara--then he awakens.

The wind was blowing about 30 knots when I boarded the mother s.h.i.+p of the submarines in the English East Coast port. It was an unsettled sort of morning, and just after I had walked over two narrow planks to the under-sea craft, aboard which I was to make a cruise under the North Sea, the sun shot forth a widening streak of blurred silver like a searchlight on the prancing green-grey waves. With care, the two-striper skipper gave his orders to get the submarine under way, and soon he stuck her nose at the east. One felt the frost in the air, and fingers grasping the canvas s.h.i.+eld of the conning tower were benumbed.

Three men stood in line on the aft hatch while the submersible glided through the port waters. Four other sailors were getting a last good lungful of fine fresh sea air for'd. At the conning tower were the commander, his helmsman, and a young lieutenant--the boss of the torpedoes. Now and again another officer popped up his head through the conning-tower well, and that opening to the boat's bowels appeared just about large enough for his broad shoulders. The nose of the shark-like craft pa.s.sed through white-caps as steadily as a s.h.i.+p on a calm ocean.

"Hands for'd, sir," announced the junior lieutenant.

The commander mumbled an answer, and the men were ordered to close the for'd hatches, and soon the iron doors were screwed down. The gas engines shot off black smoke into the curdling wake of the vessel's twin propellers, and as we surged along into the uninteresting sea the skipper sang out to have the aft hatches shut. The well-disciplined bluejackets instantly obeyed the order, and the iron slabs banged to, and I knew that those men were busying themselves in their particular work of seeing that everything was ready for submerging.

The commander of the submarine was an agile man, about 5 feet 7 inches tall. His face looked tired, and there were lines about his eyes, which were only for his s.h.i.+p. I do not think that he had the chance to give me a look--a real look--all the time I was aboard. There was always something which needed his attention. I found that the speed we were making against the wind closed my eyes, for there is very little protection on the conning tower of a submarine; and that alone might have given the commander that tired look. But I gathered afterwards that the eyes are strained a good deal in looking for enemy craft. There, in the distance, was the port whence we had emerged, and we now were out on the breast of the sea in war time. Two miles off our port bow was a grey vessel, to which our skipper gave his attention for a while. She was a British destroyer plunging through the water at 22 knots.

The sun had disappeared behind a bank of clouds, but there were still streaks of blue in the sky. The commander shot his gaze aft, to starboard, port, and before him. Although we were heading straight out to sea, the skipper was ever on the alert.

"Motors ready?" asked the commander of the sub-lieutenant, whose head showed up from the well after communicating with the engine-room chief artificer.

"Motors ready, sir," was the answer, and the younger man wrung his cold hands.

By that time England's coast was a hazy outline. But on we cut through the waves until England disappeared, and soon after the real thrill came--the thrill of going down under an angry ocean. The gas engines were stopped, and the way on the craft was allowed to carry her a good distance, following the order from the commander.

That officer looked around, and signalled to a British destroyer--another of the wars.h.i.+ps ploughing the waters of the North Sea. A sailor expert signalman used his arms as semaph.o.r.es, and an answer soon was received by our skipper.

On the engine-room telegraph of the submarine is a word that does not figure on the apparatus of other types of wars.h.i.+ps: it is "Dive." The commander told me that we were going down very soon. I observed that the destroyer had turned around and was heading out to sea. We were almost at a stop, when our skipper told me to get into the conning-tower well and to be down far enough to give him room. It must be realised that immediately after the order to submerge has been rung in the engine-room the conning-tower hatch is closed. Hence the commander and his helmsman have no time to lose when the submarine is going under, as it takes forty-five seconds to submerge an under-sea craft, and at times, if pressed, it can be accomplished in thirty seconds.

Up to that time I had not devoted much attention to the inside of the conning-tower hatch, beyond glancing at the bra.s.s ladder. Soon I discovered that there were two ladders, and that the distance to the inside deck of the boat was about twice as great as I had imagined.

After I had taken my foot off the last rung of the ladder and stepped on the chilled, wet canvas-covered iron deck, my head was in a whirl at the sight of the bowels of bra.s.s and steel. The skipper had set the arrow at "Dive," and we were going down and down--a motion which is hardly perceptible to the layman.

The activity below and the intricate mechanism of the craft caused me to think more of what the men were doing than of my own sensations. I wondered how one man could learn it all, for the skipper must have an intimate knowledge of all the complicated machinery of his vessel. There were engines everywhere and little standing room--at least, that is how it appeared on the first glance, and even afterwards it was clear that no adipose person could hope to survive aboard a submarine.

No sooner had the engine-room received the order to submerge than the captain followed his helmsman down the conning-tower hatch, and he lost not a second in getting to the periscope--the eye of his vessel. Soon my attention was arrested by the sight of two men sitting side by side turning two large wheels. One kept his eye on a bubble and turned his wheel to control the hydroplanes to keep the craft level, and the other man's eyes also watched a bubble in a level. His share of the work was to keep the vessel at the depth ordered by the commander.

Although I was deeply interested in everything that went on under the sea in that craft, my eyes were continually on the captain, who looked like a photographer about to take the picture of a wilful baby. The skipper's face was concealed behind two black canvas wings of the reflector, which keep the many electric lights aboard from interfering with his view through the gla.s.s. I then noticed a door in the stern of the craft--about amid-s.h.i.+ps--a door which is closed on the sight of danger. To me it looked like a reflection, but you soon find out that you are looking at the engines of the submarine. There, four or five men, ignoring whether they were under the water or on the surface, were concentrated on their work. One mistake, and the submarine and its crew are lost. Hence there is no inattention to duty. Finally, this door was slammed to.

The air below is not much different to what it is when the vessel is on the surface--or not noticeably different until the craft has been submerged for several hours. It is then that the "bottles" or air tanks are brought into play. I walked to the bows of the boat, where a giant torpedo was greased and ready for the shutting of its compartment. The air-tight tube was then locked down, and the missile was ready for its victim. But, as I said, lured as you may be to gaze at the other parts of the wonderful craft, you will find that your gaze comes back to the captain--always at the periscope, hands on those bra.s.s bars that turn the periscope, and eyes glued to the reflector.

"Lower periscope!" he orders. And then: "Raise periscope!" He gives these orders with clearness; not surprising, as no command must be misunderstood when you are 25 or 30 feet under the water.

"Lower periscope!"

A man in a corner, next to one who has charge of the gyroscopic compa.s.s, turns a handle, and the greased steel cylinder sinks until the captain, who had been stretched with toes tipped, now is on bended knees, his hands extended to stop the periscope man from taking the "eye" further down. The captain turns the periscope around, scanning the waters. At his right, when the skipper is facing the bows, is another officer, with his hand on the trigger of what looks like an upward-pointed pistol of bra.s.s and steel. This officer waits for the command to send off the torpedo.

"Lower foremost periscope into the well," ordered the captain. This periscope was not in use and had not been above the surface. It is the duplicate "eye," in case the other is out of order.

"Yes," said the captain, not looking at me, "she's mostly guts below.

Have a look at that destroyer. We are going to send a practice torpedo at her, and she will pick it up and return it when we get back home."

The sleek, lean wars.h.i.+p was knifing the waters at 22 knots. It was like looking at a picture--a moving picture--and all was beautifully distinct. Our commander consulted a card, decided the speed of the wars.h.i.+p, and then again propped his head against the reflector.

"Raise periscope," ordered the two-striper.

For the first time aboard the submarine, there was something akin to silence, except for the swis.h.i.+ng of engines and the continuous buzz of other mechanism.

"Light to starboard," voiced the captain.

"Light to starboard," repeated the helmsman at the compa.s.s.

"Tube ready?" asked the commander, his head hidden between the black flaps of the periscope.

"Tube ready, sir."

The officer at the trigger stood like a starter at a race, his finger on the tongue that was to release the torpedo. It was just as it is in the real moment of moments and a war craft is the target. The men at the two wheels watched their dials and their bubbles, and the helmsman had his nose on the needle. The commander, the gold braid on his cuffs streaked with oil and rust, then had but one thought in his mind--to hit the target. He looked neither to right nor left but was still at the periscope. The wars.h.i.+p was there. We were there, and one could imagine the tiny periscope just above the water. The situation was tense, even if the vessel to be fired at was not an enemy craft.