The Mystery Ship: A Story of the 'Q' Ships During the Great War

by Percy F. Westerman

  CHAPTER XXIX

  WHO FIRED THAT TORPEDO?

  IT was close on eight o'clock on a clear October evening that KennethMeredith, promoted to Lieutenant-Commander R.N.V.R., and having thedistinctive letters D.S.C. tacked on to his name, was pacing thecrowded departure platform at King's Cross.

  Six months was a big chunk out of a man's life--six months ofcomparative idleness, spent partly in Haslar Hospital, partly in aconvalescent home on the South Coast, and latterly at his own home.But carving fantastic-shaped pieces of shell--which, being German byorigin, showed decided tendencies to produce gangrene--out of apatient and allowing the wounds to heal takes time, especially whenthe fragments are lodged in close proximity to the spine. For someweeks it was touch and go, but Meredith's record of clean living andhigh vitality were in his favour. And now he found himself at King'sCross, bound north to take command of M.L. 1497, attached to thefleet at Scapa Flow.

  Only once since that memorable May evening when he travelled south ina hospital train had Kenneth been in London. That was a fortnightago, when he had business at the Admiralty. Just outside the oldentrance he encountered a burly, bearded man with one arm in a slingand the D.S.O. ribbon on his breast. It was Morpeth, very much downin the mouth despite the fact that he had been decorated by hisSovereign. The grievance was that "Tough Geordie's" sea-days wereover. Neither the Royal Navy nor the Mercantile Marine has a use fora one-armed man. It was useless to remind My Lords that Nelson wasone-armed, besides possessing only one eye. _Autres temps, autresmoeurs_. So Morpeth was given a pension for wounds and sent out tojoin the vast and ever-increasing throng of wounded heroes, to jogalong as best he might on a sum that, taking into consideration thelow purchasing power of a "Bradbury," was barely sufficient to keephis head above water.

  Apart from that chance meeting, Meredith had heard from Morpeth buttwice. The R.N.R. officer was a bad correspondent at the best oftimes, and now, hampered by physical disabilities, he simply couldnot bring himself to put pen to paper.

  It was different as far as Wakefield was concerned. Wakefield, too,had passed through some critical moments during his prolonged stay inhospital, but from the first, even though he had to correspondthrough the medium of a hospital nurse, he never failed to keep intouch with his late subordinate and brother-in-arms. He had beenawarded the Distinguished Service Cross, and had been appointed toM.L. 1499, also attached to the Scapa Flow Base.

  The two R.N.V.R. officers had arranged to travel north together; butthe hour fixed for the departure of the train was drawing nigh, andWakefield, who usually made a point of being half an hour too earlyrather than half a minute too late, had not yet put in an appearance.

  Already Meredith had secured a doubleberth sleeping compartment andhad handed his compact kit over to the care of the guard. Thepassengers were exclusively Naval, Military, or Air Force.Bluejackets, holding their scanty kit in black silk scarves, wereconversing with khaki-clad Tommies equipped with rifles and bayonets,"tin-hats" and other paraphernalia associated with that delectableregion known as "The Front." There were men, too, clad in tropicaluniform and wearing sun-helmets, whose appearance contrasted vividlywith a party of fur-clad Engineers about to leave for NorthernRussia. Amongst the officers, who for the most part had alreadysecured their seats and had bought evening papers from theloud-yelling newsboys, could be seen every diversity of uniform.Naval rig predominated, but there were khaki-clad infantry officers,kilted Highlanders, R.A.F.'s in gorgeous if unserviceable light blue,slouch-hatted Australians and Canadians, flat brim-hatted NewZealanders, and a solitary subaltern of an Indian regiment wearing aturban. One and all were going to be shed from the crowded train atvarious stopping-places between King's Cross and Thurso, theirdiverse ways governed by an all-absorbing factor--to break for everthe menace of Prussian Kaiserism.

  Everywhere a cheerful spirit pervaded. The end was in sight. Afterover four years of desperate fighting, in which there were darkperiods when it seemed as if Germany was having much her own way,there were unmistakable signs that the Hun was "cracking up." On thenaval side things had been going steadily worse with her since theglorious operations that resulted in the blocking of Zeebrugge andOstend. Almost from that time the submarine menace paled. Convoys ofmerchantmen were continuously arriving unscathed at British ports; ahuge American army had been successfully transported across theAtlantic, and the U-boats had been powerless to say them nay.Rumours, that were subsequently confirmed, were in the air that theHun High Seas Fleet had been ordered out to commit _felo-de-se_ underthe guns of the Grand Fleet, and that the crews had declined tosacrifice their lives even to please the whim of the archcannon-fodder provider, the Emperor Wilhelm.

  And on land things were no better for the Hun. His stupendous attemptto break through at Arras had failed. Another desperate effortagainst Paris had resulted in his masses being thrown back dispiritedand disorganised. All along the line between the North Sea and theSwiss Frontier the field-grey troops were being pushed back, whileelsewhere their allies--Turkish, Austrian, and Bulgarian--werepractically "down and out."

  Amongst the naval people the news was received phlegmatically.Rumours of a German naval mutiny had been received before--perhaps itwas a move on Germany's part to throw us off our guard. It seemedimpossible to think otherwise but that the Hun High Seas Fleet wouldput to sea as a forlorn hope. British naval officers generously triedto credit the Germans with a sense of honour approaching their own;hence they could not expect anything else but a big scrap before theend. It would be a foregone conclusion, but it would give the Huns achance to vindicate themselves and the British to clinch theopportunity that they had missed at Jutland.

  While his fellow passengers were discussing the world-wide situationin general and the naval one in particular, Meredith was stillkeeping watch for his chum Wakefield. Almost at the last minuteWakefield hove in sight, cheery and smiling as of yore, having in towa bearded, greatcoated individual whom Meredith recognised as "ToughGeordie Morpeth."

  "Let's get aboard," exclaimed Wakefield briskly. "We can kagafterwards.... Yes; Morpeth's coming along, too.... Never mind abouta porter; we'll sling this gear into the corridor. In you hop,Morpeth. My word! it was a narrow shave, eh, what?"

  The three edged along the corridor, making their way over handbagsand portmanteaux until they came to the compartment Meredith hadsecured.

  "Leave your kit here," he remarked. "I'll find the attendant and getyou a berth, Morpeth. S'pose you're going beyond York?"

  He looked inquiringly at the bearded R.N.R. man, who wore a brand-newuniform under his sea-stained greatcoat.

  "Yes, to Scapa, too," he replied. "I've got a shore berth there.Goodness knows how. Someone put their oar in for me--must have done.Anyhow, it's good money and a chance to get afloat occasionally, so Ijumped at it. 'Fraid it's only for the duration though."

  And he sighed deeply. Like many another man whose heart and soul arewrapped up in his work, he both longed for and dreaded the time when"Fritz chucked his hand in."

  Meredith helped him off with his coat.

  "Jolly strange," remarked Morpeth, "being one-armed; but I'm gettingused to it. Often I can feel my missing fingers--absolute fact."

  He sat down on an upturned suit-case and proceeded to fill hiswell-blackened pipe with a dexterity that surprised his companions."That's a thing I've no use for now," he added, indicating a razorthat Wakefield was removing from a handbag. "Being single-handed, ina manner of speaking, gives me an excuse for not shaving."

  Just then a short, thick-set man in the rig of a commander R.N.R.thrust his head through the doorway.

  "Sorry," he exclaimed apologetically. "Thought there might be avacant berth. Why, dash my wigs, it's 'Tough Geordie'!"

  "Anderson, my lad, delighted! Squeeze in. We'll find a tot ofsomething. I've a flask in my bag. Wakefield, an old chum of mine.And this is a young chum--Meredith by name."

  "Let me see," remarked the commander. "Weren't you in a Q-boat? Yes,I thought so. Had many e
xciting stunts?"

  "A few," replied Morpeth modestly. "One of the rummiest was whenWakefield tried to knock paint off my old hooker with hissix-pounders, and I sank his little M.L."

  "Accidents will happen," quoted Commander Anderson. "I nearly sankone of our own submarines once.... But your missing arm.... and theD.S.O. ribbon--what about that?"

  "A little scrap," explained Morpeth. "I don't know why they gave methe D.S.O., although they said I torpedoed a Hun destroyer. Fordetails ask Wakefield; he's our torpedo expert."

  Wakefield flushed hotly.

  "I don't know what you mean," he expostulated.

  The conversation flowed into other channels, continuing briskly untilsomeone suggested turning in.

  Anderson said good-night, and resumed his interrupted search forsomewhere to lay his head. Morpeth was about to follow Meredith tothe berth the latter had secured for him, when Wakefield called theR.N.R. man back.

  "Say," he remarked, lapsing into one of his Canadian-acquiredexpressions, "what did you mean when you told the merchant I was atorpedo expert?"

  "Tough Geordie's" face wrinkled more than usual, as he playfullyprodded Wakefield in the ribs with the fingers of his remaining hand.

  "You're a sly dog, Wakefield," he chuckled; "but you can't get towind'ard of Geordie Morpeth. Happened to meet one of my ship'scompany at Waterloo this morning, and he told me something that'sbeen puzzling me for months past. You were the blighter who slappedthat torpedo into the Hun torpedo boat; and that's what got me this."

  And he touched the bit of ribbon on his coat.

  "Tut, tut!" expostulated Wakefield. "No; I can't deny it since you'vetaxed me with it. But let the thing drop, Morpeth. If you don't, I'mhanged if I'll take you for a joy-ride in my M.L. as long as I'm atScapa Flow. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, you dear oldthing!"