H.M.S. ----. John Bowers QC
just like the Admiralty designers, he thought – so long as they didn't have to stand behind the hole they didn't care how big it was. Why, it would let a six-inch shell through! He felt quite a grievance about it. Then, with a heel and an increase of vibration the ship turned. Lord! there they were – one – two – three – four – five of them – going like smoke, too. He pressed close to his telescope, and the enemy sprang into view – many times magnified. The boy sight-setter in a cracked voice repeated an order, and he heard the quick shuffle of feet and the word "Ready" come like a whip-crack from behind him. The leading enemy danced in the heat-haze as his telescope swayed up and down her foremast. It all depended on him and a few others now. The responsibility worried him. The gun's crew behind him were invisible, but he felt that their eyes were glued to his back, and that they were wondering if he was going to make good.
Boom – Br-r-room – Boom! That was the next ahead. It sounded a rotten salvo. Was she ranging – or would they all start now? He saw no splashes by the ship in his sights. Was it a complete miss, or was it fired at another enemy?
Boom – B-r-room! That was a better one. Weren't they going to do anything? As he wondered, the enemy cruiser flashed like a red helio, and he gasped in admiration at the simultaneous firing of her battery. A great sheet of white shut out the view in his telescope, and a deafening crack announced the bursting of a short salvo. Wow-ooo! Something whined overhead, and his own gun spoke – rocking the shield, and making him flinch from the sights. Gawd! had he fired with the sights on, or were his eyes shut? Anyhow, the men behind him did not seem to notice anything wrong. The breech slammed viciously, and the word "Ready" came on the instant. "Clang" – something hit the shield and glanced upwards as his gun spoke again. He knew he hadn't had the sights on then – he hadn't been ready, – how the hell could a man keep the sights on with this going on? Behind him a man began a scream, a scream which was cut short suddenly with the crack of a bursting H.E. shell and the whistle and wail of splinters. Gawd! this was chronic – the ship must be getting it thick. The enemy swung into his telescope field again, and he saw the throbbing flame jerk out and vanish from her upper deck.
B-r-r-oom! That was a better salvo. He must have been on the spot that time – another one – no, he was aiming high then. Still, it didn't matter. They'd all be dead soon and nobody would know who'd fired well or badly. Right abreast the enemy's bridge a great spout of water shot up, and behind it he saw the yellow sheet of flame that told of half a broadside going home. "He must keep his sights on" – "Must keep his sights on." His gun rocked as it fired, and he swore under his breath at the delay before the crew reloaded. Were they all wounded? They might be – as he estimated at least three full salvoes had been aboard since the first shot. The enemy swung out of his field of view again, and he took his eye from the telescope a moment. What the hell was the ship turning for? The flagship must be crazy – just when we were hitting, too. He froze to his eye-piece again, and saw the familiar bridge and curved stem of his target as before. A haze of purplish-grey smoke was over her forecastle, and as he fired again he saw the flash of another salvo along her side. What was it "Guns" had said? The one that sticks it out. Why couldn't they load quicker behind him? They seemed so slow. The target vanished suddenly in a pall of brown smoke, and he lost her for a moment, his sights swinging down with the gentle motion of the ship. He saw splashes rise from the sea, but heard no whine and hum of splinters following. There she was again! And there was another salvo in the same place. A voice from behind him said something, and he barked a profane response, – a demand for quicker loading. The voice replied with, "Stick it, Jerry – you're givin' 'er bloody 'ell!" And he realised suddenly that the hitting now seemed to be all one way, and that his target was on fire from the bow to the forward funnel. His sights swung off again, and a moment later his gun brought up against the forward stops with a bump. He raised his head and looked round. Their next astern was on the quarter now, and they must have all turned together towards the enemy. The bow gun still banged away, sending blasts of hot air back along the deck, but no reply seemed to be coming. The gunlayer scrambled up on the shield and looked ahead to the east. A blur of smoke hid the enemy – a great brown greasy cloud – and he dropped on his knee to the heel that announced another change of helm. Round they came – sixteen points – and he had a view of the Flagship, with a long signal hoist at her masthead, tearing past in her own wake.
"What the hell – ain't we going to finish it? What's the game?" a chorus of voices spoke from the deck below him, and then came the "still" of a bugle and the pipe, "Sponge out and clean guns – clear up upper deck. Enemy is under the guns of Heligoland."
"Well, who cares for Heligoland?" said the gunlayer – and on the words he came down from his perch on the gunshield with a run. A roar like a twelve-inch salvo and a huge column of tumbling water a hundred yards on the beam had answered him. The next shell pitched in their wake – then another well astern, and they were out of range. He suddenly realised that he was thirstier than he had ever been before, and started forward to the water-tank. As he moved, a hand clutched his arm and he found the boy sight-setter at his side, a fountain of words, dancing with excitement.
"My Christ! that was fine. Gawd– what a show, hey? An' you that cool, too. I didn't 'alf shake, till I looked at you, an' saw you was laughin'. We didn't 'alf brown 'em off, did we? an' they – "
"Aw, go chase yerself," said the gunlayer. "That weren't nothing. Wait till you sees a battle, my son – and you won't think nothing o' to-day."
As he turned to lift the drinking-cup he glanced at the clock and saw with amazement that it was seven-fifteen. With a vague memory of having done so before, he fumbled in his cap-lining for a cigarette.
A WAGE SLAVE
The Coxswain nodded to the boy messenger and reached for his cap.
"All right, my lad – 'ook me down that lammy. What's the panic, d'ye know?"
"No, I dunno. Sez 'e, 'Tell 'im to come up. I want 'im at the wheel,' 'e sez. An' I come along an' – "
"All right – 'ook it, and don't stand there blowin' down my neck."
The Coxswain jerked his "lammy" coat on, and clumped heavily out of the mess, chewing a section of ship's biscuit (carefully and cunningly – for the shortage of teeth among torpedo coxswains amounts almost to a badge of office) as he went.
"What's up, Jim – steam tattics?" asked the Torpedo Gunner's Mate – another Lower Deck Olympian – looking up from a three-day-old 'Telegraph.'
The Coxswain grunted in response. It is not the custom of the Service to answer silly questions. The reason the question was asked at all may be put down to the fact of the 'Telegraph' being not only old but empty of interest.
As he reached the upper deck he buttoned his coat and felt in his pockets for his mittens. It was very cold – a cold accentuated by the wind of the Destroyer's passage. There was no sea, but it was pitch-dark, with a glint of phosphorus from water broken by the wakes of six "war-built" T.B.D.'s running in line ahead at an easy twenty-four knots. The Coxswain could never, in all probability, have explained his reasoning, though the fact that the speed had been increased was noticeable; but he knew, as he swung up the ladders to the unseen fore-bridge, that he had not been sent for a mere alteration of course. His brain must have received some telepathic wave from the ship's hull which told him that the enemy had had something to do with the break in his watch below.
His sea-boots ceased their noisy clumping as he reached the bridge, and he was standing by the helmsman with a hand on the wheel before the man had noticed his arrival. With an interrogative grunt he stepped to the steering pedestal as the man moved aside, and he stood peering at the dimly lit compass card, and moving the wheel a spoke or two each way as he "felt" her.
"North Seventy East – carryin' a little starboard," said the dark figure beside him, and he accepted the "Turn-over" with another characteristic growl —
"That you, Pember? Follow the next ahead and steer small." The Commander had spoken, the white gleam from his scarf showing for a moment in the reflected compass light.
"Next ahead and steer small, sir." He leaned forward and watched the blue-white fan of phosphorus that meant the stern-wave of the next ship. Low voices