The Secret Service Submarine Part 20

Then the inevitable happened. _Der Friesland_ was struck full amids.h.i.+ps.

A wall of white water rose up out of the sea. Above it, in an instant, spread a huge black fan of smoke, dark as ebony against the sun. At that moment, my brother put the helm hard down and we flew off at an angle.

Even as we did so, it seemed that the side of our s.h.i.+p received a terrific blow. We lurched in the conning-tower; we were flung against the starboard wall. There was a nerve-wracking pause, and then, with a jerk, the submarine righted herself, simultaneously as the faintest indication of a mighty explosion fell through the water and came through our armoured walls.

"Too close!" my brother gasped. "I ought to have allowed for these German torpedoes--look, John, look!"

The recoil from the explosion of _Der Friesland_ had nearly sent us to the bottom, but we were righted again, and we saw upon the table, quivering and indistinct, a piteous ma.s.s of unrecognisability, wreathed in black fumes, from which flared out angry bursts of fire, like Vesuvius in eruption. All this horror was sinking--sinking into the table, it seemed. Blazing all over, broken in two, the wreck of the monster went lower and lower in the water.

She was done. Bernard gave a great sob, and then hoa.r.s.e orders rang through the submarine.

Within two minutes we were upon the surface. The hatch was open. My brother and myself stood there, gasping in the sunlight at the ruin we had made. The sea was covered with debris and dotted with the heads of swimming sailors. There was one boat afloat, crammed with men, under whose weight it hesitated, trembled, and sank like a stone, as we looked on.

"Good G.o.d!" I cried, "can't we help them, Bernard?"

"No can do," he answered, in Navy slang. "It can't be done, old soul.

That's that. I'm d.a.m.ned sorry though."

We were rolling in a grey sea, churned by the monster's dying struggles.

It was a desolate waste, patched with horror. Far away, on the port bow, something small and blurred was showing. It was either smoke or the hull of a big s.h.i.+p.

"The first transport!" Bernard said. "We had better be ..."

He did not finish his sentence. Something shrieked overhead like an invisible express train. There was a sound like a clap of thunder, and a fountain of spray rose a hundred yards away from us.

We wheeled round. Not quarter of a mile away, and heading straight for us, we saw two immense, white ostrich feathers, divided as by the blade of a knife. Each instant they grew larger.

One of the convoying destroyers had made a grand detour and was coming for us at the charge.

Then, I cannot say when or how, there was a sound like two great hands clapping together in the air above us. Instantaneously, the plates of the deck and conning-tower rang like gongs, followed by little splas.h.i.+ng sounds, as if someone was throwing eggs.

I had no idea what it was. "What the devil ..." I was beginning, when Bernard explained.

"Shrapnel," he said, and held out his left arm to me. It ended in what looked like a bundle of crimson rags.

"d.a.m.n the blighters!" he said, "they've blown off my left hand. Quick, John, or we shall lose the trick. Your handkerchief!"

I pulled it out mechanically.

"Knot it round my arm--yes--there--just above the wrist. Thank G.o.d you're strong! Now then, you've got to twist it. Got anything for a lever?"

The only thing I could find was a silver-mounted fountain pen, a Christmas present from Doris the year before. I whipped it into the knot of the handkerchief, turned it round and secured it. The whole thing did not take more than ten seconds. I had hardly finished, when Bernard skipped inside the conning-tower. I followed him. The hatchway slid into its place with a clang, and as we heard another terrific explosion above us, I wrenched the rudder lever over, Bernard signalled below to fill the tanks, and through the portholes I saw the welcome green creep up, the light disappear, and felt the gratings sinking beneath my feet. I shouted down for d.i.c.kson--the first name I could think of.

d.i.c.kson max. was up in a second.

"Get the bottle of rum," I said, "the Captain's hurt."

It came. I held it to my brother's lips. He took a little and gave one deep groan.

d.i.c.kson max. stood like a statue. He never asked a question. It was wonderful.

"Who fired that torpedo?" Bernard asked.

"I did, sir. Mr. Scarlett showed me how."

"You will be pleased to know, Mr. d.i.c.kson, that you have sunk the German battles.h.i.+p, _Der Friesland_, with probably a thousand souls on board.

This will be remembered."

"You are hurt, sir?"

"Get down to the torpedo tubes. Load the empty one and stand by for orders."

d.i.c.kson vanished.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"Right as rain. Now then, we've got to find those transports. I took their bearings before we sank. Meanwhile I think we'll get a little deeper, out of harm's way."

He told me what to do. I pulled the necessary lever and spoke orders to Bosustow at the engines. The needle on the manometer quivered and rose.

We went down to thirty feet. Immediately, it seemed as if the world above, the noise of battle, everything, faded away. We were buzzing along in the depths of the sea, just as we had been, intact, unhurt, until I looked at Bernard's hand. He was rather pale, but as pleased in face as if he was just tumbling into the "Sawdust Club" at Portsmouth.

"I say," he said, "won't the daily papers spread themselves over this!"

Somehow or other, a beastly little fly must have got into the conning-tower. It settled on me. I put up my hand to brush it away. My hand came back--pink, and I stared stupidly at it.

"You silly blighter!" my brother said, "didn't you know you'd lost half your ear?"

I suppose we ran, deep under water, at the top speed of which the motors were capable for at least another ten minutes. Adams was called up to the wheel and Bernard went down. I stood where I was until the man below shouted up. "Captain calling for you, sir!"

I tumbled down into the centre of the submarine, looking first aft to where the huge Cornishman, Bosustow, was quietly moving about his engines.

"Forrard, sir," said Bosustow, and I hastened round the gangway towards the bows. Scarlett, the d.i.c.ksons, and Bernard were standing by the torpedo tubes. Bernard turned to me.

"That concussion has snookered our tubes a bit," he said. "You see we aren't quite accustomed to this new German mechanism. Scarlett says, and I quite agree, that it's a toss up if we can make correct aim under water. I think we shall have to go for that transport on the surface."

He looked at me with quick interrogation. I knew what he meant. Already we had done more than anyone in the world would have thought possible.

It was no time for sentimentalism or heroic thoughts, and we knew that, whatever happened, we had earned imperishable fame. We were safe now.

Should we run another risk? That was what my brother was asking me. Even his iron nerve doubted itself for an instant.

"The only thing I can see to do," I answered, "is to let 'em have it in the open--out of the trenches, bayonet attack, what?"

"My own opinion entirely, sir," said Scarlett. "d.a.m.n it, begging your pardon, sir, we've not 'alf give 'em it yet!"

For a moment my brother's glance rested on the two eager boys. Was he justified in flinging them to death after they had done so much, behaved so splendidly?

They knew it. By some intuition, the young devils saw it at once.

"Oh, let's have another smack at them, sir!" they said in chorus.

Without another word, Bernard limped along the gratings and I helped him up into the conning-tower again. We rose to the surface.