CHAPTER VIII--The "Calder's" Second Scoop
Of the mad, desperate, and, above all, glorious race into the gates of amaritime hell Crosthwaite saw but little beyond his immediate front.Since the British destroyers were under the fire of projectiles rangingfrom 11-inch downwards, it was evident that the _Calder's_light-armoured conning-tower would afford little protection, and if itwere hit by a heavy shell the fate of all within would be sealed. So,standing on the starboard extremity of the bridge, thelieutenant-commander took his craft into the second phase of thedestroyer attack.
Up to the present not a single British destroyer had been sunk, althoughsome had been compelled to retire owing to damage received during theirscrap with the hostile torpedo flotilla; but the good start in thisdirection was no longer maintained.
A large destroyer, subsequently identified as the _Nomad_, was struck bya huge projectile almost amidships. A rush of scalding steam, followedby clouds of smoke, announced that the engine-room was wrecked, and thatthe vessel was no longer under control.
Porting helm, the _Calder_ ran past the lee of the crippled destroyer,the smoke from which undoubtedly saved Crosthwaite's command from severepunishment.
For nearly half a mile the _Nomad_ carried way, until she came to a stopbetween the lines. The last Crosthwaite saw of her was the destroyer,still afloat, maintaining a desultory fire, although a stationary targetfor an overwhelming number of hostile guns.
Suddenly Crosthwaite staggered, hurled sideways by an invisible force.The guard-rail, which he was still gripping, was no longer supported bythe stanchions. Falling heavily upon the bridge, he was within an aceof dropping overboard when a signalman gripped him by the ankles.
The lieutenant-commander regained his feet in an instant, barelyconscious of his narrow escape, for a 4-inch shell had passed so closeto him that the windage had capsized him. Crashing aft, the projectiledemolished the short mast supporting the wireless, hurling the fragmentsupon the deck. The White Ensign, which had fluttered from this mastheadduring the action, had blown against the mounting of the after 4-inchgun. Although little more than a riddled piece of bunting, it wassecured by one of the men and lashed to the stump of the mast.
Hardly had the dauntless man completed his self-imposed task whenanother shell struck the _Calder_ obliquely on the port bow.Penetrating the fo'c'sle, it burst with a muffled report, but, insteadof shattering the for'ard part of the destroyer, it emitted dense cloudsof greenish-yellow smoke that eddied through the shattered plating onthe fore-deck and drifted sullenly aft.
In a second Crosthwaite realized the danger. The shell had been filledwith poisonous gas, and just at the time when the ship was gettingwithin torpedo-range, and the men had to direct all their energies uponloosing the 21-inch weapons, the asphyxiating fumes threatened to putthem, at least temporarily, out of action.
With his hands clasped to his mouth and nostrils Crosthwaite awaited thenoxious vapour, hoping that the head wind caused by the rush of thedestroyer through the water would quickly disperse the poison; but withhorrible persistence the deadly smoke hovered betwixt the variousprojections on deck.
He was conscious of the quartermaster and the others on the bridgestaggering, with their fingers frantically gripping their throats. Thesignalman who had previously saved his commanding officer from fallingoverboard was writhing in agony, clawing at whatever came to hand, untilin a frenzy he took a flying leap over the side and sank like a stone.
Left to herself, the _Calder_ began a broad sweep to starboard. As shedid so, the fumes drifted to leeward, yet not before the men standing bythe pair of torpedo-tubes were temporarily overcome by the diabolicalproduct of German _Kultur_.
In vain Crosthwaite attempted to rally the men. It was either now ornever, for, unless the torpedoes were fired, the opportunity would begone. He tried to shout, but no sound came from his tortured throat.Between the eddying clouds of steam and smoke he could discern thetorpedo-men moving like stupefied bees.
With an effort the lieutenant-commander regained his voice. He turnedto the quartermaster, who, although still gasping for breath, had comethrough the terrible ordeal with comparatively slight ill-effects.
"Keep her steady on her helm," exclaimed Crosthwaite, and, literallytumbling down the bridge ladder, he made his way aft to thetorpedo-tubes.
Pushing aside two victims of the poison-gas, one of them the L.T.O., wholay athwart the racer, the lieutenant-commander gripped thetraining-wheel and slewed the pair of tubes until they were nearly broadon the beam. At 2000 yards distance three large battle-cruisersover-lapped, presenting a target nearly 1800 feet in length. To misssuch an objective seemed almost impossible.
With a wrench Crosthwaite dropped the firing-lever of the right-handtube. Through the thin haze that emerged from the metal cylinder, hecaught a glimpse of the gleaming, steel, cigar-shaped missile as itleapt clear and disappeared with a mighty splash beneath the water.Then, changing over to the left-hand tube, he sent the second weapon onits errand of destruction.
A sudden and a totally unexpected swerve of the ship preventedCrosthwaite from observing the result of his single-handed efforts.Instinctively he realized that his presence was again required on thebridge. As he hastened for'ard he almost collided with SurgeonStirling, who, in his shirt-sleeves, had come up from below to aid thesufferers.
Seeing Crosthwaite stagger along with his features contorted and hiscomplexion showing a sickly yellow in spite of the tan, the doctorhurried after him.
"Not this time, Doc," protested the lieutenant-commander with a wansmile, as he lurched forward. His brain was whirling under the strain ofthe awful ordeal, yet he was dimly conscious that something was amiss,and that at all costs he must return to his post.
He was barely in time. The quartermaster was huddled in a heap at thebase of the steam steering-gear column with a ghastly wound in histhigh. The destroyer, left to her own devices, once more was bearingdown upon one of her helpless consorts.
Thrusting the wheel hard over, Crosthwaite found that the vessel wasstill under control. Almost by a hairbreadth she scraped the portquarter of the crippled destroyer, whose decks were literally swept bythe enemy's fire, and resembled a charnel-house. Nothing could be doneto save her, for she was already on the point of foundering. Of her crewnot one visible remained alive. She had fought to the death--a typicalexample of British pluck and endurance against overwhelming odds.
Her last torpedoes fired, the _Calder_ was free to make good herescape--if she could. Receiving a couple of glancing hits as she spedtowards the shelter, she slid past the foremost of the Britishbattle-cruisers, receiving three hearty cheers from the crew.
The second phase of the destroyer operations was over. Although not sosuccessful as had been expected, owing to the formation having beendisturbed by the encounter with the German torpedo flotillas, the dashwas not without definite material gains. _Nomad_ and _Nestor_ had notreturned, and were presumed to be sunk, a surmise that subsequentlyproved to be correct, since a portion of their crews were rescued by theGerman torpedo-craft.
Having brought the _Calder_ safely out of the inferno, Crosthwaite'snext step was to take stock of damages and report to the commander ofhis flotilla.
The wireless was by this time again made serviceable, several of thecrew having worked while under fire on setting up the aerials which hadbeen carried away with the demolition of the after-mast.
Others were busily engaged in putting patches on the gaping rents in thefunnel casings and stopping the shell-holes in the thin plating.Fortunately the engine-room had escaped serious damage, only twocasualties occurring owing to an auxiliary steam-pipe being severed by asliver of shell.
On the whole the _Calder_ had come off lightly. The worst damage topersonnel had been caused by the gas-shell, for, before the fumes haddispersed, six men had lost their lives and ten others had beenincapacitated by the poisonous fumes.
"She's as fit as ever she was in my department," reportedEnginee
r-Lieutenant Boxspanner. "Hope to goodness we shan't be orderedto haul out of it."
"I trust not," replied Crosthwaite. "Must turn a blind eye to some ofthe defects, I suppose. What did it feel like down below?"
Boxspanner shrugged his broad shoulders. It was the first time he hadbeen in action, his appointment to the _Calder_ being of recent date.
"It was all right after the first half-minute or so," replied theengineer-lieutenant. "The racket at first was enough to stun a fellow.I suppose in this job one can get used to anything. Where's Stirling,by the by?"
"Busy," replied Crosthwaite gravely. "Come and see him at work--if youcan stick it."
Well it was that the Admiralty, with their customary promptitude topromote the welfare of the fighting fleet, had lost no time inappointing scores of probationary assistant surgeons to the destroyersimmediately after the outbreak of hostilities. Previously no medicalstaff had been carried on these small craft. A casualty occurring onboard, and accidents in the engine-rooms, were not of unfrequentoccurrence; the patients had to rely upon the well-meant attentions oftheir comrades until they were transferred either to a parent ship or toone of the shore hospitals.
Dr. "Jimmy" Stirling was a man who took life seriously. At times he wasalmost pessimistic, although there were occasions when a sudden spiritof youthful exuberance would take complete possession of him.
In his shirt-sleeves, and with a blood-stained apron that an hourpreviously had been spotlessly white tied closely under his armpits, thesurgeon was working with deliberate haste, performing a seriousoperation at a speed that would have turned a hospital probationer palewith apprehension.
The confined space which had been turned into a sick-bay reeked withchloroform and iodoform. Wounded men were vying with each other in theirefforts to make light of their injuries, whilst those who were able tosmoke aroused the envy of their less fortunate comrades. It wasconsidered "good form" for a patient to utter a rough-and-ready jest athis own case, while grim, but none the less sympathetic, words werebestowed upon their nearest fellow-sufferers. It was a curiousphysiological fact that a man who would have raved at a careless comradefor having accidentally dropped some gear, narrowly missing his head,greeted the information that he would lose his right arm with thenonchalant remark: "Anyhow, when I get home on leaf my missus can't makeme dig the bloomin' allotment."
"Let's get out of this, sir," whispered the engineer-lieutenant."Thought it would take a lot to capsize me, but, by Jove----!"
He backed abruptly, followed by the lieutenant-commander. Stirling, deepin his task, had not noticed their presence.
A barefooted signalman, his blackened face and scorched and torn singletbearing testimony to his part in the "scrap", pattered along theshell-pitted deck, and, saluting, tendered a signal-pad to hiscommanding officer.
Crosthwaite took the paper and read the message scrawled thereon inviolet pencil.
"H'm!" he muttered. "S'pose they want us out of it."
It was an order to the effect that the _Calder_ was to steam to acertain rendezvous, fall in with one of the parent ships, transferwounded, and await further orders. There seemed very little possibilityof the destroyer participating in the night attack upon the Germanfleet--an operation in which the swiftly-moving British vessels mightachieve greater results, even if they failed to surpass the glory theyhad already acquired by their wild, tempestuous dash in broad daylight.
"Almost wish I'd let the damaged wireless go for a bit," musedCrosthwaite as he made his way to the badly-shattered bridge.