by Ruskin Bond
There was some little excitement when it became known that one of the members of the battery had been left behind in Crissolles. The missing man was an NCO who had somehow failed to hear the alarm and had looked out of his deserted loft to see German infantry in the yard below him. He dropped through the window on the other side and ran for it, catching us up some hours later by sheer good luck.
Here was a crossroads, and a mounted figure, a staff officer. I could see the red tabs and the gold braid. The whole brigade halted dead behind us as the Major stopped to receive orders. Two torches played eagerly over maps at the saddlebows. Noyon, said the Major. Roye, said the staff officer, very stiffly and brusquely. That way, said the Major. This way, said the staff captain, pointing. Under no circumstances, said the Major; the line of retreat lay so-and-so and so-and-so and so on, and he would take full responsibility. A new note had come into his voice, hard and authoritative; the staff officer could do what he liked, but this particular brigade was going this way and no other way.
We drew on, leaving the staff captain with his gold braid and red tabs standing in the shadows out of our way. Good old Major!
The signposts told us that we had left Noyon behind us a little way now. Soon it would be captured, a great town full of shops and the like, now merely an incident of the night to us, a passing memory of a word on the signposts. We were concerned more with the strange noises on our left. Since leaving Crisssolles we had heard them continuously, a loud rumbling of transport that seemed to be coming nearer, as though the road upon which the unknown army travelled ran parallel with our own. As the roar grew louder, one thought only filled our minds—the Jerries were cutting us off ! Their road was converging upon ours, and sooner or later it would join at a fork, and we should be done for. Why didn’t we trot and make a dash for it?
The Major told me then to ride back for Corporal G, hand over my horse to him and send him up ahead for orders. I did so very reluctantly; I didn’t want to lose my grey, and besides it meant having to ride on the waggons or a gun-limber, which was very uncomfortable. But the mare was handed over, Corporal G galloped off to report to the Major, and we all heard him riding off alone into the darkness. Now the noise on our left was positively alarming in its closeness.
Then, suddenly, the level rumble of our own column changed to the heavier thundering of guns and waggons driving faster and faster on the echoing road. The waggon I was sitting on got under way at a rare pace, making me hold on tight to the hand rail. Round a wide bend we careered before entering on a long straight stretch which promised a gallop. And gallop we did. It was half a mile or more to the next bend, and here it was that the other road met ours, running into it from the shadows. And at a fork, bolt upright in his saddle, with rifle levelled at the livid face of a French general, sat Corporal G, holding back a whole division of flying Frenchmen that we might get out first.
Morning came while we were still on the road. The pace had dropped some hours since to a monotonous walk. We went on, half asleep in our saddles, hungry, thirsty, gnawing at mouldy bits of biscuit hunted up from our pockets, chilled through and through with the bitter wind of the March dawn. We rode through deserted hamlets and now and again a larger village, its main street crowded with the vehicles and horses of the armies in retreat with us—there were long delays while the disorder of traffic was sorted out somehow and sent on its weary way again; then we were alone once more on the road as the dawn showed us a wide view of open country. At nine o’clock, still breakfastless, we dropped into action near the village of Lagny. All day the guns kept up their barrage on the roads that we had ourselves traversed during the night. The ranges were very short; that fact we realized without caring much for its significance, for we were very tired and moved about as in a dream.
Late afternoon saw the usual spectacle of the infantry retiring. Small parties of them threaded their way past our guns, some slightly wounded, all dropping with fatigue. They asked for something to eat, but we had nothing ourselves and they carried on resignedly. Two or three of the Staffords flung themselves down by the guns, utterly worn out and unable to go any farther. From them we got news of the proximity of the German infantry, news which made us wonder why the Jerries did not make one clean sweep with their cavalry and cut off the last scattered remnants of the Fifth Army. There was no one at all in the line.
‘Did you see anything of a staff officer on the road?’ asked one of the infantrymen, a corporal.
‘On horseback?’ I remembered the staff captain.
‘Yes.’
‘We saw one last night trying to direct traffic. That one you mean?’
‘That’s the bloke. He tried to direct us, but we lynched him. He was a Jerry.’
With the disappearance of the infantry, we knew it would not be long before we, too, took the road again. Another night of travel faced us. Already we were a good forty miles from St Quentin and it looked as though we should be on the run for a few more days at least, as there seemed no sign of a stand being made anywhere. At nightfall, therefore, we limbered up to retire, and this time we trusted there was to be a sleep at the end of the march. We could not go on much longer without food or sleep.
We arrived in Thiescourt village at midnight. The rattle of the guns on the pave woke us out of our doze, and we looked around expectantly, thinking that here at last was the long-awaited billet where we should sleep for at least twenty-four hours. But the place was alive with other artillery and infantry and transport of all kinds, crowded wheel to wheel in the main square in a solid block of traffic that moved this way and that way and yet did not move at all. Behind us more and more horses and wagons poured into the village to add to the congestion. It was like a jam of logs on a Canadian river, waiting for someone to move the key-log.
Eventually we scrambled through amid the curses of those who were squeezed against our wheels as we pulled put. The bottleneck of Thiescourt, where we had been stuck for over an hour, released us into the starlit night, and we rode on again muffled up against the cold. They followed six solid hours of the road, with billets as far away as ever and the horses on the point of collapse.
Three days later there was a strange sight to be seen in a field on the outskirts of Arsy village, near to Compiegne: the sight of a whole brigade of Field Artillery, horses and men, fast asleep in full marching order. The Great Retreat, so far as we knew, was over at last; the line had been stabilized at Amiens and the threatened drive through to Paris stopped just in time.
And so we slept. From three o’clock in the afternoon until the stars came out to look at us, there on the grass we lay like drugged men, every bone in our bodies aching from the rigours of ten days and nights of rearguard actions and hasty retirements and the endless journeyings through the night, famished, unwashed, in the main street of Compiegne with only the promise of rest that afternoon keeping us from falling out of our saddles; and now we were safe at last. We slept, and slept, and slept.
Escape From a Sunken Submarine
T.C. Bridges and H. Hessell Tiltman
The courage and fortitude with which all these men, in the practical darkness of the slowly flooding compartment, faced a situation more than desperate, was in accordance with the very highest traditions of the Service.
These words are quoted from a report received by the Admiralty from the Commander-in-Chief of the British Fleet in Chinese waters, with regard to the loss of the submarine, Poseidon, and the whole report was read by the First Lord of the Admiralty before a crowded House of Commons on a day in July 1931. The First Lord added, amid cheers, that suitable recognition of those concerned was under consideration by the Admiralty.
The Poseidon, one of the large and powerful P Class of submarines, was built in 1929 by the firm of Armstrong-Vickers, She was two hundred-and-sixty-feet long, had a surface speed of 17.5 knots, and was fitted with eight 21 inch torpedo tubes. Her displacement was one thousand four hundred and seventy five tons.
With her three sister ships
, Perseus, Pandora and Proteus, she was commissioned at Barrow on 20 March 1930. She was manned equally from Portsmouth, Devonport and Chatham, and the four submarines left Portsmouth on 12 December 1930, on a fifteen-thousand-mile voyage to the eastern seas, where they were to replace vessels of the L Class. In old days submarines were always escorted on long voyages by surface ships, but these four P Class submarines were considered powerful enough to look after themselves, and voyaged without escort.
The voyage was marred by a mishap, for, when only five days out, the Proteus and the Pandora came into collision. They were, however, only slightly damaged, and were able to reach Gibraltar, where repairs were effected. The flotilla then proceeded to Chinese waters, and made its way to Weihaiwei, the naval and coaling station on the north-east coast of the Chinese province of Shantung.
On June 9, 1931, manoeuvres were being carried out, and at midday the Poseidon was about twenty-one miles out from port and some distance from the rest of the squadron when she was rammed by the steamer, Yuta. The Yuta was a British built ship of about two thousand tons, but owned and manned by Chinese.
The Yuta struck the Poseidon on the starboard side with such terrible force that her heavy bow drove right through the steel side of the submarine. The force of the collision rolled the submarine over, flinging every one in her off his feet, and drove her almost under water. As the Yuta reversed her propellers and drew clear, the sea poured into the breach in the Poseidon’s side, and within two minutes the submarine had disappeared. At the time of the collision the submarine had been running on the surface, so fortunately her conning-tower was open and twenty-nine of the crew, including five officers, managed to scramble out, and fling themselves into the sea. These were all picked up by boats lowered by the Yuta.
The rest, trapped helplessly in the bowels of the ship, were most of them, drowned at once. The exceptions were six men, who at the time of the accident were in the forward torpedo flat. These were Petty Officer Patrick Willis, who was torpedo gunner’s mate, Able-seaman Locock, Able-seaman Holt, Ableseaman Nagle, Leading-seaman Clarke and a Chinese steward, Ah Hai.
Their feelings may be imagined when they were all flung off their balance by the deadly shock of the collision, and when they heard the screech of torn steel, all knew what had happened. From a distance came the echoed shout, ‘Close watertight doors,’ and all picked themselves up and sprang to obey. The bulkhead was buckled by the force of the collision, the door stuck, and it took the combined efforts of all the men to force it back into position. Willis took charge. ‘Stick to it,’ he told them; ‘it may save the ship.’ But within a few moments all knew that there was no chance of this, for the submarine lurched heavily to starboard, and she shot to the bottom with terrible speed.
It was a moment of absolute horror for the six men in that low-roofed, air-tight compartment. They were far out to sea, they knew the water was deep, but none knew exactly how deep. To make matters worse, the shock of the collision had cut off all electric lights, and they were in black and utter darkness. With a slight jar the submarine struck bottom and settled on the soft mud, luckily in an upright position. For a few moments there was complete and deadly silence; then a beam of light cut through the blackness. Willis had found an electric torch and switched it on. His first care then was for the bulkhead door. A small amount of water was leaking through, but not enough to cause alarm. The danger was from suffocation. The air in this confined space would not last six men for very long. Willis knew that although every effort would be made to reach them by the surface ships, which included the aircraft carrier, Hermes and the cruisers, Berwick and Cumberland, a considerable time must elapse before divers could descend, and he was aware that if their lives were to be saved all must depend upon their own efforts.
There was just one hope. The Poseidon, like all modern submarines, carried the Davis rescue gear. This consists of a sort of gas-mask with a coat that slips over the head. It is Provided with a cylinder containing enough oxygen to last the Wearer for forty-five minutes. When the tap of the oxygen cylinder is turned, the garment expands like a balloon. Wearing this apparatus, a man can rise to the surface from any depth where the pressure is not sufficient to crush him.
Then why not step out at once and go up to the top is the question which will occur to a good many of our readers.
It seems simple enough, but in point of fact the difficulties of escaping from a closed steel shell, such as that in which Willis and his companions were imprisoned, are very great. The submarine lay at the bottom of water more than one hundred feet deep, and the pressure on the hatch, which was their only way out of the compartment, was enormous. The combined muscle power of a score of men could not have lifted that hatch a single inch, and, as Willis knew, the only way in which to open it was to equalize the pressure.
Some of the men knew this as well as Willis, but others did not fully understand, so as they stood there in the thick, stuffy darkness, Willis carefully explained it to them. Then he hesitated.
‘We’re in a pretty tight place. Hadn’t we better say a prayer, lads?’ he suggested. Nods gave consent, and as all stood with bared heads, Willis uttered a brief prayer for divine help, and the others responded, ‘Amen.’
Then Willis took command.
‘We’ve no time to waste,’ he said. ‘I’m going to open the valves and flood the compartment.’ Some one suggested that if he flooded the compartment he would drown the lot, for the water would rise over their heads, but Willis had already thought that out, and directed two of the men to rig a hawser from one side to the other, so that they could all stand on it. The Chinese boy did not understand how to put on his escape gear, so Seaman Nagle showed him the way of it. Nagle backed up Willis all the way through, and did his share toward keeping up the spirits of the rest of his companions.
The valves were opened, and water began to pore in. The six took up their positions on the hawser below the hatch and waited. Since they had but one torch and no refill, Willis switched it off so as to save light, and there they stood in Stygian blackness while the water bubbled in and rose slowly over the floor beneath them.
The air grew more and more stuffy, and after a time the man next to Willis whispered to him that he thought the oxygen in his flask was exhausted, for he could no longer hear it bubbling. Willis tested his own, and found that it, too, was empty. But he had no idea of allowing that fact to be known. Anything like panic would be fatal at this juncture.
‘It’s all right,’ he answered, lying valiantly; ‘you can’t hear anything in mine, but there is plenty left.’ The minutes dragged by, each seeming like an hour. It was not only the darkness but the intense silence which strained their nerves to the uttermost. Now and then Willis switched on his torch, and glanced down at the water, which, owing to the air pressure, rose very slowly. After two hours and ten minutes had passed, the water had risen above the hawser and was up to the men’s knees, then at last Willis decided that the pressure must be pretty nearly equal, and that it was time to go.
Willis’s first inquiry was for Lovock and Holt, and he was saddened to hear that Lovock had come to the surface unconscious, and died almost immediately. Holt, in a state of exhaustion, had managed to support Lovock’s body until both were picked up.
Willis recovered rapidly, and refused to remain in hospital a day longer than was necessary. At the beginning of September he arrived back in England, and was drafted to the torpedo training school at Portsmouth. Then he began to suffer from sleeplessness. Night after night he lived over again those agonizing hours in the black gloom of the flooded chamber at the bottom of the muddy Chinese sea. He made no complaint, but neurasthenia developed, and he was sent to Netley Hospital.
Meantime a London newspaper started a shilling subscription for the purpose of buying a home for the brave fellow. The response was immediate and generous. Money came from all parts of the country and all parts of the Empire, and a house was bought at Merton, in Surrey, and well equipped and furnished
. There Patrick Willis, with his young wife and baby daughter Julia, has made his home.
Willis has left the navy and found employment in civil life. He is physically fit again, and no doubt in time his nervous system will recover from the strain to which it was subjected.
We began this chapter by quoting from the official report on the Poseidon disaster. We cannot end it better than by repeating the last sentence of that same report:
The coolness, confidence, ability and power of command shown by Petty Officer Willis, which, no doubt, was principally responsible for the saving of so many valuable lives, is deserving of the very highest praise.
Adventure Underground
Sylvia Green
‘But, Trev, you know I loathe crawling about in caves!’ said Judy Hamilton crossly.
She was lying on her back in the pinewoods above the Pyrenean village where she and her brother, Trevor, were spending the summer holidays.
In the hot sun of early afternoon the scent of the pines was wonderful. Judy, replete with one of Madame’s splendid picnics of cold omelette and potatoes and a yard or so of French bread, drowsily sniffed it up, murmuring to herself, ‘Divine!… mmmm…Divine!’
‘Whatever are you snuffling about?’ enquired Trev. ‘Well, as I was saying, the Painted Cave is simply marvellous. It’s an awful bind Marc having to go down to Perpignan to meet his father today, just when we were going to have a good scout round it…’
He paused for a comment, but Judy merely gave an inelegant grunt.
‘Oh, come on, Ju, be a sport!’ he urged. ‘I only want to go and finish looking at the Painted Cave. It really is worth seeing. Besides, you haven’t very far to go, and there’s nothing grisly like slithering through a siphon. In fact it’s really just a walk.’