mine-field into the floating debris. The only two mangled survivors had, however, been picked up by the trawler astern of the ill-fated vessel, which had been literally blown to pieces, nothing remaining afloat when the smoke cleared away except a signal locker and a few timbers.
More than one of the other vessels, whose engines had been stopped immediately the explosion occurred, narrowly escaped drifting down with the tide on to the field of hidden mines, but with the skill and presence of mind gained by similar experiences in the past both the trawler unit and the M.L. flotilla were extricated without further loss.
It was evident from the fact that several of the mines were barely submerged and could be dimly seen from the decks that the work of laying them had been done hastily under the cover of night, and a sense of keen sorrow and disappointment pervaded the vessels of the night guard. Once again climatic conditions had favoured the enemy. In those long winter hours of impenetrable blackness and driving snow no watch, however efficient, could be relied upon to prevent such operations from being occasionally carried out. It was merely the chance of war, but nevertheless it was felt keenly, and the sense of responsibility was not dispelled until some weeks later.
When the
Tired limbs were forced to continued efforts and numbed faculties were goaded afresh. Big ships loomed out of the mists around and were informed of the dangers and directed into the pathways of safety. Trawlers returning from the fishing-grounds of the far north had to be intercepted, local craft piloted round the mine-field in the shallow water close inshore, signals flashed to the outer patrols, and the hours of daylight and activity passed quickly by.
By seven bells in the afternoon watch the dusk of the long winter night began again to settle over the sea, blotting out one patrol from another. On this as on many other similar nights spent in the bitter frost, thick sea fog or flying spume, in waters infested with mines and hostile submarines, certain senses became dulled, though the brain remained alert and the limbs as active as cramp and cold would allow. But the little incidents of those long hours are lost in blurred memories of cries from the look-out, hulls towering out of the blackness, the flashing of Morse lamps, the ceaseless and violent pitching and rolling of a small ship, moments of tense excitement, followed by hours of cold and an utter weariness of the soul.
When the first pale streaks of returning daylight had turned to the fiery red of a frosty sunrise, dirty and unshaven men moved painfully about the slippery decks. The sea had flattened in the night and the snowing had ceased, but twenty degrees of frost had gripped the wet decks and the soaked clothing. As the vessels stood towards the shore weary eyes were turned anxiously on the signal station, but not yet was the recall to be hoisted, for although the seas around had been swept clear of mines, there was still a careful inspection to be made before the area could be reported clear, so that ships might come and go.
When at last a line of flags fluttered to the distant mast-head away on the hill ashore, and the signal-boy read out, “M.L.’s to return to harbour,” there was a feeble cheer.
On a calm, frosty morning some three weeks later the boats of the old night guard, now doing their spell of day duty, discovered a long trail of thick greenish-black oil on the surface leading seawards. It was evident that a hostile submarine had rested during the previous night on the sandy bottom in the shallow water close inshore and, rising to the surface, had made off at daybreak. The trail was followed and information was quickly received from an Iceland trawler, which had passed the submarine on the surface some two hours previous. Ships were concentrated by wireless, and although it did not fall to the lot of the M.L.’s to give the
CHAPTER XVIII
The Casualty
There were duties performed by the new navy which bore no relationship to anti-submarine fighting, or, in fact, to warfare at all, unless it was to the ceaseless battle waged between all who go down to the sea in ships and the elements they seek to master.
One such as this occurred at a little northern seaport in the late winter of 1917, unimportant and scarcely worth relating except as an illustration of the diverse services rendered by men of this great force during the years of national peril.
The gale was at the height of its fury when the March day drew to a close. The whole east coast of Scotland, from John o’ Groats to the mouth of the Tweed, was a study in black and white—the white of foam and the black of rocks. All the minesweepers and smaller patrol ships had been confined to their respective bases for several days, and in a certain small harbour many of the officers and crews of the imprisoned ships were spending their time ashore, in the warmth and cheery comfort of hospitable firesides.
The boisterous day became a wild night. The wind howled and whistled over the barren moors and through the streets of the small fishing town. Houses trembled and chimneys rocked under the blasts. Although a watch on the signal tower and elsewhere was religiously maintained, it was of little value, as all that could be seen in the darkness to seawards was a hazy mist of flying spray which the wind whisked from the surface and carried several miles inland.
Standing back from the sea, and some half-mile from the centre of the little fishing town, stood a substantially built house, more commodious and better furnished than many of its neighbours, which had providentially fallen into the temporary grasp of one of the married officers of the patrol flotilla, who generously kept open house for his less fortunate brothers-in-arms.
On this wild winter night the interior looked excessively cosy and inviting. Before a big blazing fire of logs sat three officers, talking between copious sips of whisky and soda. Their conversation was subdued and their inhalations of cigar smoke long. By their side were the faithful women who had followed them from the comforts of home and the gaieties of the great southern cities to this remote corner of northern Scotland. They too were talking among themselves and knitting for the crews of their husbands’ ships.
This quiet domestic scene would have gone on uninterruptedly until a late hour, for it was seldom that such precious moments of rest and contentment could be snatched amid the ever-recurring duties and the turmoil of war, had it not been for one of the officers who glanced ruefully at his wrist watch and then apologetically informed his host that it was his turn for night duty on the signal tower.
Scarcely had he risen from the fire and moved towards the door of the room, however, before the dull boom of a gun was borne on the howling wind. All stood still and listened. The women ceased their knitting and looked up apprehensively. Then a minute or so later the boom came again, this time in a lull of the storm, and it sounded nearer.
The three officers hurried into the hall to get on oilskins and sea-boots, but almost before this could be done there came a report which echoed sharply through the little town. They knew the sound only too well, for the coast was a dangerous one. It was the reply of the life-boat crew to the call of distress, and with one accord they moved towards the door. Almost instantly it was thrown violently open and the rush of wind and rain extinguished the hall light. For the next few minutes they were struggling against the gale, battling their way to the lofty little signal station, impeded in every movement by driving rain, flying scud, intense blackness and flapping oilskins.
