The Thick of the Fray at Zeebrugge, April 1918

by Percy F. Westerman

  CHAPTER XV

  The Passing of M.-L. 4452

  "Lucky blighters!" ejaculated Lieutenant Farnborough, referringenviously to the M.-L.'s told off to rescue the crews of theblock-ships. "They're on the move, by Jove!"

  "Wish we were on the same game," added Branscombe covetously. "Isuppose we can't log an imaginary signal ordering us in support?"

  "Brilliant idea of yours, old man," replied Farnborough. "Half a mindto try the wheeze."

  M.-L. 4452, having for the time being completed her smoke-screentask, was "lying off", an interested spectator of the dash of theblock-ships into Zeebrugge Harbour.

  Other M.-L.'s had been detailed to cover the retirement of the old_Vindictive_ and the two ex-ferry boats--if they were fortunateenough to draw away from the inferno of fire and shot, shell andpoison gas; but Farnborough's command, together with six otherM.-L.'s, was to stand by as a reserve rescue vessel.

  The _Thetis_ and her consorts had vanished into the smoke-ladenharbour. After them dashed the small motor craft detailed for therescue of the crews of the block-ships.

  "It's like sending half a dozen wasps to tickle the tongue of abad-tempered lion," remarked Branscombe. "Lucky bounders!"

  "Harry Tate's Navy is well up to-night," added Farnborough grimly."I'd like to see some of those funny bounders who tried to pull ourlegs taking on this business. Guess they'd have the wind up. Hello,here's one of 'em!"

  Zigzagging through the smoke, dodging shells that landed exactly onthe spot where she had been two or three seconds previously, came aM.-L., her decks packed with human beings. The destroyers pushedforward to screen her from the wrathful Huns. Listing badly and welldown by the stern, the brave little craft had dared, and had comeback, scarred with honourable wounds, from the gates of hell.

  Then came another, also bearing a heavy deck cargo of rescued men. Asshe passed within a hundred yards of M.-L. 4452, the latter gave hera rousing, cheer.

  A comparatively long interval elapsed. No more M.-L.'s came intoview. A rocket, soaring aloft above the smoke, announced that the_Vindictive_ was recalling her storming- and demolition-parties. Itwas a way of announcing that all that could be done was done, andnothing else was left but to withdraw from the action.

  "There's our number!" exclaimed Farnborough, as a light blinkedthrough the murk.

  It was a stretch of imagination on the part of the Lieutenant incommand of M.-L. 4452. Whether he saw the signal, or only imaginedthat he did, made little difference. There was an opportunity ofmaking a dash into the harbour, and Farnborough jumped at it.

  The engine-room telegraph-bell clanged loudly as the Lieutenantordered "Full speed ahead both engines". M.-L. 4452, hithertowaltzing to and fro in a seemingly erratic manner, quivered under thepulsations of the powerful motors. Zigzagging, she leapt, forwardtowards the partly demolished lighthouse at the Mole-head.

  Standing just behind his superior officer, Branscombe began to tastethe sensation of going into action. At first the experience was farfrom pleasant, especially when the beam of a powerful search-lightswung round and steadied itself full upon the swiftly moving M.-L.

  "Our number's up," thought Branscombe, for he felt absolutely certainthat a salvo of hostile shells would follow within a few seconds.Fritz would be sure to let fly with a veritable tornado of "hate"upon the brilliantly-lighted target.

  Unaccountably Branscombe's surmise was not realized. Beyond a fewchance missiles that hurtled wide of the mark not a shot came fromthe Mole-head batteries. Out of the dazzling light into comparativedarkness dashed the M.-L., rolling heavily in the confused swell atthe harbour-mouth.

  "Hard-a-port!"

  Round swung No. 4452 just in time to escape collision with one of hersisters. Silhouetted against the ruddy glare an officer, megaphone inhand, leant over the rail of the returning M.-L.

  "Cutter adrift. . . ." he shouted, and the rest of his words were lost inthe din.

  Farnborough raised his hand in acknowledgment. He understood;somewhere in that turmoil of strife a boat had had to be abandoned--acutter with some of the survivors of the block-ships--otherwise theofficial in command would not have gone to the trouble of reportingit. Loss of material counted for nought that night. The sacrifice ofHis Majesty's stores mattered not at all, provided the main object ofthe operations was achieved; but with human life at stake all thatcould be done to effect a rescue must be attempted.

  Rounding the Mole-head so closely that the extremity of her signalyard-arm almost scraped the masonry as she rolled to starboard, M.-L.4452 gained the wreck-strewn harbour. Narrowly averting collisionwith a water-logged barge, part of the net defence works that theblock-ships had rammed, the speedy little craft held on.

  A sliver of shell brought her mast down with a run, at the same timeblowing her search-light over the side. Branscombe's cap vanishedthrough the broken glass of the wheel-house; a hot stabbing pain inhis forehead caused him to raise his hand to his head. His fingerswere wet, sticky and red. A piece of flying metal had seared hisforehead.

  The Sub hardly realized that he had been hit. An inch nearer and thewound might have been fatal, yet his narrow escape hardly troubledhim.

  "Mind that gear doesn't foul our prop!" he shouted to one of thecrew--the man who had intended to buy an M.-L. for pleasure-cruisingin those dim, far-distant halcyon days "after the war".

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  The man made his way to the side, where a raffle of wire was trailingover the splintered deck. The next instant his feet gave way underhim and he sank inertly upon the deck.

  In a trice Branscombe gripped him under the arm-pits and hauled himinto the frail shelter of the wheel-house. One glance was sufficient;Brown, A.B. and ex-stockbroker, would never see the Stock Exchangeagain, nor would he be able to put his carefully-laid after-the-warplans into execution.

  Another of the crew sprang forward, axe in hand. A few vigorous blowssufficed to cut the tangle of broken gear clear. His immediate rewardwas a machine-gun bullet through the left arm just above the elbow.

  It was a hot time for M.-L. 4452. Apparently the other boats hadcompleted their particular tasks, for, as far as the drifting smokepermitted, the harbour was clear of them. Fritz was hurling plenty of"hate" at the solitary little craft, and only her speed and handinesssaved her from annihilation.

  "No sign of the abandoned cutter," yelled Farnborough. "We'll hookit--if we can."

  Hard a-starboard went the helm. With the port propeller runningfull-speed ahead and the starboard one half-speed astern, M.-L. 4452spun round almost in her own length, just missing an undesirableacquaintance in the shape of a 6-inch shell that ricochetted andthrew up a terrific column of spray within six feet of her bows.

  Compared with the dash into the harbour the return journey was ahorrible nightmare. The haunting possibility of being knocked-outrecurred tenfold. The crew of the M.-L. no longer had their faces tothe foe, they were literally running for safety, and exposed to blowsin the back without being able to raise a finger in self-defence.

  "There's the boat, by Jove!" exclaimed Branscombe.

  "Where? How's she bearing?" asked the Lieutenant, for he was partlyblinded by blood flowing from a gash in his forehead. Like his Sub,Farnborough hardly realized that he had been hit.

  Telegraphing for "easy" and then "stop" the skipper brought his craftto a standstill within boat-hook stave's length of a water-loggeddingy. Clinging to the partly submerged gunwale were two men.

  "She's not a cutter, you juggins!" exclaimed Farnborough. "I believethose fellows are rotten Huns."

  He was about to telegraph for "Full-speed-ahead both engines", whenBranscombe gripped his arm.

  "It's old Seton, by smoke!" he shouted, in order to make himselfheard above the din.

  Quickly the well-nigh exhausted men were assisted over the side,Seton minus a little finger, and the R.A.F. officer with a bulletwound completely through his left shoulder.

  It was no time for explanations. Like a thing endowed with life M.-L.
4452 leapt forward. She was now on the point of repassing thebadly-damaged lighthouse on the Mole-head. Here Huns, no longer indanger of being strafed by the _Vindictive's_ landing-parties, werefrantically blazing away with their quick-firers and machine-guns. A4.1 shell fired at point-blank range furrowed the fore-deck and,without exploding, passed completely through the side a few inchesabove the water-line. Another blew the M.-L.'s "tin" dinghy into thesea, davits and all; while a third, striking the stern, smashed thequadrant of the steering-gear and blew off the head of the rudder.

  M.-L. 4452 began to describe a large circle, her head falling offuntil she pointed straight for the Mole. To attempt to keep her onher course by means of the helm was an impossibility, for not onlyhad the spare tiller--for use when as sometimes happened thesteering-wires and chains carried away--shared the fate of thedavits, but the rudder-head itself was bent and twisted by theexplosion of the shell.

  Immediately the ship was hit Branscombe made his way aft toinvestigate and report. He was back in the wheel-house just in timeto find Farnborough and the coxswain lying motionless on the floor,and the M.-L., left to her own devices, circling to port.

  The helm useless, Branscombe realized that he had to steer by meansof the twin screws. Under ordinary conditions it was a tricky job,but the difficulties were now increased tenfold. A partly-disabledboat, nearly half her complement out of action; a dark,fog-enshrouded night with occasional bursts of dazzling light fromsearch-lights, star-shells, and the flashes of guns; a short,confused sea, and the constant danger of ramming, or being rammed by,other craft manoeuvring without lights.

  There were dozens of similar vessels out that night engaged in thesame work. Frail little M.-L.'s, manned by amateur yachtsmen ofyesterday, were achieving wonders. Men from the Clyde, the Solent,and the East Coast, whose knowledge of the sea was confined to a fewdays or weeks of summer cruising under favourable conditions, wereproving their worth as fighters of the Empire. Experience gained inthose dainty little yachts, snow-white of deck and glittering withburnished brass, was put to good use in those squat, grey-hulledM.-L.'s. It was on St. George's Day that the practically unknownR.N.V.R., unostentatiously at work as a unit of the great SilentNavy, suddenly leapt upon the pinnacle of fame.

  A dense pall of smoke drifted down and enveloped M.-L. 4452.Branscombe had to steer solely by his sense of direction. He was oneof those men who instinctively could find his way through a densefog. At the back of his mind there was ever an impression--rarely,if ever, at fault--of the direction in which lay the north. Thecompass was useless: the same blow that had struck down the skipperand the coxswain had wrecked the binnacle.

  The while the din was simply terrific. The air trembled under theviolent, irregular pulsations of sound as guns large and small,exchanged their mutual "hate".

  With all his work cut out to keep the vessel on her course Branscombegripped both handles of the engine-room telegraph, and peered throughthe smoke-laden night. Feelings almost akin to panic assailed him. Hewas no longer a fighting man dashing into the fray, but a fugitive--ahuman being endeavouring to escape from all the terrors of the jawsof hell, as exemplified by the hitherto considered impregnableharbour of Zeebrugge.

  "If the motors konk out we're dished," he thought, as he listened todetect any ominous sound from the pulsating engines. The vibrationwas excessive, far more than is usual even with a heavily-poweredM.-L., but apparently the staunch little craft was still maintainingher speed.

  "She's making water badly, old man," exclaimed a voice.

  Branscombe turned his head to find Seton standing behind him.

  "Think she'll last out?" inquired Branscombe.

  "Another hour--that's all I can give her," was the reply. "Thestern-post was badly strained when the rudder-head carried away."

  "Auxiliary engine running?" inquired the M.-L.'s Sub speaking throughthe voicetube to the engineer.

  "No, sir," came the answer. "The mag's six inches under water,"

  That meant that the power bilge-pumps were useless. The hand-pumpswere hopelessly jammed long ago. The search-light in being shot awayhad done that damage. There were no means now of checking the steadyflow of water through the gaping seams.

  By this time M.-L. 4452 had drawn out of range of lighterquick-firers. Shells from heavy guns still hurtled overhead, unseenbut unpleasantly audible. Occasionally a huge projectile wouldricochet close to the little boat as a grim reminder that otherperils beside foundering were still present.

  "SHE'S GOING, LADS!" SHOUTED BRANSCOMBE]

  Presently Branscombe fancied that the M.-L. was turning to starboard.A glance astern at the foaming wake was sufficient to confirm hissuspicions. Altering the starboard telegraph to easy astern, and thenstop, the R.N.V.R. Sub awaited developments. His fears were realized.Only the port engine was running, the other had "konked".

  "Ignition, sir," reported the engineer in reply to Branscombe'sinquiry. "I'll try and get her going in a few moments."

  The fact that the little engine-room staff had been working knee-deepin oily water, and that the electric light had failed, added to thedifficulties of the strenuously-engaged men. While one held anelectric torch in position, the other was busily engaged in fittingnew sparking-plugs--even if only to keep the motors running anotherquarter of an hour.

  Branscombe signalled for the port engine to be stopped. It was worsethan useless to run on one engine, since the M.-L. would circleaimlessly and possibly drift nearer the Belgian coast.

  The M.-L. was rolling sluggishly. She always did roll heavily, butthe motion was totally different. It suggested a lack of liveliness,and the gurgling sound of tons of water surging to and fro 'neathdecks told its own tale.

  M.-L. 4452 was foundering--slowly, but nevertheless surely. Her metaldinghy was a mere scrap of riddled galvanized iron. Her life-buoyshad either been carried away, or had been shattered by machine-gunfire. Down below were half a dozen life-belts. These with a fewwooden gratings were the sole means of supporting the survivors ofthe crew, all of whom, with the exception of the engine-room staff,were more or less wounded.

  A rift in the persistent bank of smoke revealed nothing near at hand.Miles away could be seen search-lights and flashes of guns, as themonitors and destroyers were covering the retreat of the_Vindictive_, _Iris_, and _Daffodil_. Apparently M.-L. 4452 had beencarried too far to the nor'ard by the tide. Even if she contrived tokeep afloat till dawn, the rising of the sun would expose her to thefull view of the exasperated Huns ashore.

  "She's going, old son!" exclaimed Seton, who had been engaged instrapping life-belts round the unconscious forms of Farnborough,Smith, and the coxswain. "Think yourself lucky it's your first swimto-night. It's my second, and the water's beastly cold."

  "And it's a long swim to Dover," rejoined Branscombe facetiously. Hissense of panic had now entirely deserted him. Practically beyondrange of the hostile batteries, save for the chance of an unlucky hitfrom a long-range gun, he was now just a sailor bent on doing hislevel best to save his ship from disaster and his crew from drowning.

  A couple of hands were told off below to ram every available piece ofcanvas gear into the broad wedges formed by the transom and thevessel's quarter, since it was here that she leaked badly. Thecanvas, saturated with oil, certainly checked the inrush, but whetherit was possible to keep the M.-L. afloat was a question open todoubt.

  Had it been daylight M.-L. 4452 would have presented a forlornspectacle. Night hid her honourable scars, and toned down the raggedappearance of her shell-swept deck. She had had a gruelling. Holed ina dozen places, her mast, search-light, and most of her deck-fittingsblown away, deep down by the stern, she had played her part.

  The most strenuous efforts on the part of her engine-room hands weredoomed to failure. With a foot of water surging over the beds of themotors, it was impossible to "get a kick" out of either of them. Itwas a case of both or none if the boat were to be steered at all.Yet, loath to admit failure, the two men toiled, with their handsalmost raw and the sw
eat pouring down their foreheads, in the vainhope that the engines could be made to run once more.

  Clad in a sweater, flannel trousers, and an oilskin--gear that he hadannexed from the M.-L.'s ward-room--Seton was indefatigable in hisefforts to assist Branscombe to save the ship. At his suggestion oilwas thrown overboard to quell the effect of the rapidly-rising waves,while a rough-and-ready sea-anchor was rigged up and thrown over thebows to keep her stem-on to the vicious, crested breakers.

  The R.A.F. pilot, who had now almost recovered from the effect of hisimmersion, was working strenuously, passing buckets of water up thehatchway in order to keep down the rising water in the hold. Allavailable hands were doing their utmost, realizing that every momentgained meant an additional chance of preserving their lives.

  At intervals Verey-lights were fired to call the attention of anyvessel within reasonable distance of the sinking ship; yet minuteafter minute sped and no succour was forthcoming. Evidently theflotilla, its work accomplished, was on its way to England, and M.-L.4452 with others would be reported as destroyed by enemy action.

  Aft the water was ankle-deep on deck. The rolling became slower andmore sluggish. It was now a question of minutes before the gallantlittle M.-L. made her last plunge.

  Wearing their life-belts, the survivors mustered abaft thewheel-house, for Branscombe had given orders for the engineers toabandon the motor-room and fall-in on deck. The wounded andunconscious officer, and two of the deck hands, who were rather badlyhit, were laid on deck, and also provided with life-buoys, theircomrades volunteering to "stand by" them in the water until the last.

  Facing peril, the indomitable British spirit prevailed. Every man ofthe little crew, save those who were unconscious of theirsurroundings, kept a stiff upper lip. While making every endeavour tosave themselves they were resolved, should things come to the worst,to die bravely, conscious that they had done their duty to the end.

  The M.-L.'s bows rose until her forefoot was clear of the water; herstern dipped until a surge of icy water swept for'ard as far as thewheel-house. It seemed as if she no longer had sufficient buoyancy toshake herself clear. Cascades of water poured through the hatchwaysand the gaping rents in her decks.

  "She's going, lads!" shouted Branscombe, stating what was an obviousfact. The incongruity of the remark struck him almost as soon as hehad spoken. Then--"Every man for himself, and the best of luck."

  Even as they waited for the ship to sink beneath them, a long, darkshape loomed through the darkness. Coming seemingly from nowhere, adestroyer ranged up alongside the sinking M.-L.

  "Jump for it, men," shouted a voice through a megaphone.

  Under the lee of the destroyer, the M.-L., half water-logged laycomparatively quietly, rubbing sullenly against the large coirfenders hanging over the side of the rescuing vessel.

  The wounded were first transferred, then the rest of the crew, Setonand Branscombe being the last to leave. The latter was notempty-handed; under his arm he carried the M.-L.'s smoke-discolouredand tattered White Ensign. The signal code-book he had thrownoverboard when it seemed that hope was dead.

  Even as Branscombe clambered over the rail M.-L. 4452 gave an almosthuman shudder and slithered beneath the waves.