The Thick of the Fray at Zeebrugge, April 1918 Page 5

  CHAPTER V

  In the Whaler

  Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert's feelings were far fromcomfortable when the crash of the _Bolero's_ quick-firers told himunmistakably that the destroyer was in action.

  With his broken collar-bone and other injuries he was practicallyhelpless, while to make matters worse, as far as he was concerned,his captors had put him under lock and key. Evidently these Englishmeant to take no risks, he soliloquized.

  It was no exaggeration to state that he was in a blue funk. At onemoment he cursed the German vessel for replying to the Britishdestroyer's fire; at another he hoped and prayed that the formerwould draw out of range. Not once did he express a wish that theBlack Cross Ensign might prove victorious.

  With the perspiration oozing in large beads on his bullet forehead helay and quaked, his mind torn with agitated thoughts. He rememberedvividly--the reminiscence was frequently in his mind--how on oneoccasion, when he was in command of a U-boat, he had taken out of abadly-damaged boat an old, white-haired British merchant skipper. Itwas not by reason of the call of humanity that he had done this: itwas part of a cool, calculated plan of action whereby the Huns vainlythought that, with British captains and engineers detained on boardthe submarines as hostages, the hunters would hesitate to sink themodern pirates. It was but one of the many instances in which the Hunmiscalculated the spirit of Britain. Von Brockdorff-Giespert'ssubmarine was being chased by a particularly aggressive P-boat. Adepth charge was exploded so near that the hunted U-boat reeled andquivered under the shock. By sheer good luck Count Otto's commandescaped, and the Hun commander lost no time in taunting his captive.

  "Are you not glad you weren't blown up by your fellow-countrymen?" heasked.

  The old skipper shook his head.

  "I'm downright sorry," he replied boldly.

  "Sorry our fellows didn't do you in. My sole regret would have beenthat I should have to go to Davy Jones' locker in such rottencompany."

  Filled with a violent passion von Brockdorff-Giespert swore at andthreatened the imperturbable Englishman. He gave him no credit forhis patriotism. To the Hun such a standpoint was incomprehensible. Hecould only attribute it to the crass stupidity of the schweinhundEnglander. Yet, somehow, Count Otto rather admired the old skipper inthe present juncture. He envied his calm demeanour. The bronzed faceand white hair of the old man haunted him.

  Then came the terrific impact of the Boche torpedo. Flung completelyout of his bunk von Brockdorff-Giespert lay inertly upon the floorfor nearly a couple of minutes. At length, regardless of hisinjuries, he staggered to his feet and battered the locked door withhis open palm, the while bellowing for assistance.

  To be drowned like a rat in a trap: it was a fate inconceivable to amember of the Prussian nobility--a junker of the first water. Heredoubled his cries as the doomed destroyer listed more and more. Hadhe but known it he might well have saved his breath. His shouts weredrowned by the hiss of escaping steam and the inrush of water.

  At length through sheer exhaustion he ceased his cries, yet he sobbedlike a child in his rage and terror. It seemed an eternity, but inreality only three minutes elapsed between the time of the explosionand the unlocking of his prison door.

  "Blow me, ain't the Boche got the wind up?" remarked one of thebluejackets to his raggie, as the pair lifted the now speechless Hunfrom the cabin floor, over which the water was rising swiftly, andcarried him up the narrow companion-way to the deck.

  Very carefully and tenderly the men lifted their enemy into the firstboat to be cleared away. In the company of half a dozen badly woundedand scalded men the men pushed off, deeply laden for the high seathat was running.

  Placed in the stern sheets and supported by a rolled canvas awningvon Brockdorff-Giespert could watch with every roll of the boat thelast throes of the British destroyer. Had he not been in peril ofbeing thrown into the sea by the swamping of the boat he might havegloated over the scene. As it was he watched and waited, ferventlyhoping that before long he would be transferred to a larger and moreseaworthy craft.

  For several seconds following the final plunge of the torpedoedvessel silence reigned. The wind lulled, the waves were quelled underthe influence of the widely-spreading oil. It seemed as if Naturewere paying homage to the departed destroyer. Then the silence wasbroken by shouts of encouragement and exchange of rough, almostincomprehensible banter by men struggling for their lives.

  In spite of their efforts--for there were only two oarsavailable--the whaler drifted considerably to leeward of the rest ofthe boats. Even the Carley rafts were lost to sight in the darkness.

  Presently a voice hailed.

  "Boat ahoy! Can you take an officer on board?"

  The stroke boated his oar and peered into the faces of the men lyingin the stern-sheets before replying.

  "Right-o," he replied.

  "No, don't," expostulated von Brockdorff-Giespert. "Already the boatis overcrowded. It is madness."

  "Shut up!" growled the man, a first-class petty officer. "Are yourunning this show, or am I? If it weren't for the likes o' you thelikes of us wouldn't be in this bloomin' fix."

  "But----" persisted the Count.

  "Dry up," growled the petty officer, "or into the blinkin' ditch yougo pretty sharp! Toss them two overboard, mate," he continued,addressing another seaman. "They won't want any more suppers."

  It was no time for respect to the dead when the fate of the livingwas at stake. Without ceremony the corpses of two men who had died ofinjuries were given to the waves, while willing hands hauled thesenseless form of Sub-lieutenant Alec Seton into the boat.

  "Look alive!" shouted the bowman to Alec's rescuer, who, on noticingthe Sub relax his grasp of the beaker, had promptly dived and broughtthe young officer to the surface. "Stroke ahead; I'll give you ahand."

  "Too many in the boat already, mate," was the reply. "I've a motherliving in Lowestoft, and I'll have a shot at swimming there. Howfar--eighty miles?"

  Without further ado the chivalrous bluejacket turned and beganswimming away from the boat.

  "'Ere, no you don't!" shouted the bowman, and with a quick movementhe engaged his boat-hook in the neck of the bluejacket's jumper."Plenty of room in the stalls, mate. Two blokes wot booked seatsain't taking 'em up."

  "Is that jonnick?" asked the swimmer suspiciously.

  "Proper jonnick," asserted the other.

  "Good enough," rejoined Alec's rescuer, and suffered himself to behauled over the gunwale into a place of at least temporary safety.

  For nearly two hours the boat continued to drift in spite of thedogged efforts of the two oarsmen. The breaking of an oar madematters worse, and all that could be done was to keep the whalerstern-on to the waves. Where were the rest of the _Bolero's_ crew,and how they fared, were merely matters for speculation.

  Meanwhile the whaler's crew were unremitting in their attention totheir disabled messmates, two of the men chafing Alec's numbed limbsin the hope of restoring him to consciousness. In this theysucceeded, and presently the Sub opened his eyes.

  "Quite all right, sir," said one of the men reassuringly in answer toAlec's unspoken question. "Just you lie quiet, sir. It'll be dawnvery soon, and then we'll be picked up."

  "How did I come to be picked up?" asked Alec.

  "Just hiked on board like any old bundle done up ugly, sir," repliedthe man. "In a manner of speaking you didn't care whether it wasChristmas or Easter."

  "I remember," continued the Sub. "A bluejacket--Saunders is his namewas--standing by when I was hanging on to the beaker. Where is he?"

  "Having a caulk on the bottom-boards, sir. He's as right asninepence; but we've had to heave four of the hands overboard. Theywere pretty far gone when we put them into the boat."

  Tediously the night passed. Signs of other movements were absent,with one exception. That was about three in the morning when asea-plane of unknown nationality passed high overhead. Even herpresence would have passed unnoticed, for the whine of the windcompletely mu
ffled the noise of the motors, had not the pilot startedto use his flashing lamp. Apparently he was calling up a sistersea-plane in code, for the message was unintelligible to the whaler'screw. Nor was there, as far as they could see, any response.

  Gradually the dawn began to gain mastery in the south-eastern sky. Arosy hue crept upwards from the misty horizon, betokening a spell ofwet and stormy weather. Already the whaler's crew had all their workcut out to prevent the boat being swamped. They were balingincessantly with the solitary baler and their caps. With the increaseof wind, and consequently heavier sea, it was doubtful whether theboat could survive, since there was nothing of which to make anythingin the nature of a sea-anchor.

  "ENGLISCH OFFIZIER-PIG!" HE SHOUTED. "WE YOU TAKEPRISONER"]

  Yet not for one moment did a single British member of the party showsigns of being dismayed. Even the badly wounded men cracked jokeswith their comrades, while others, whose injuries were of a slighternature, insisted on being allowed to take their turn at baling.

  Von Brockdorff-Giespert, on the other hand, looked the picture ofmisery and despair. He grumbled incessantly, asserting, with trueHunnish arrogance, that he was being neglected by his captors. It wasnot until he was sternly threatened, if he did not hold his tongue,that the Count began to realize that there was a limit beyond whicheven he must not go when in the company of British tars.

  "There's a craft of sorts," announced the bowman, who, maintaining aprecarious perch on the thwart, was scanning the horizon.

  "Away on the starboard bow. Think she is coming this way."

  "Wave your scarf, Lofty," suggested another member of the crew.

  The man began to unwrap his "comforter". Then very abruptly he satdown.

  "We'll hang on a little longer, mates," he said in a low voice. "Idon't quite like the look of her. Strikes me she's a Fritz."

  "By smoke, you're right!" exclaimed another, taking a cautious viewof the oncoming craft. "A dirty U-boat. Lie down all hands. 'Ere, youblinkin' Fritz, none of your capers. Stow it!"

  Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert, on hearing of the approach ofwhat was apparently a German submarine, was making an effort to standup and attract his compatriots' attention.

  "It is time for me to do as I like," he replied, sneeringly.

  "Is it? Then you're jolly well mistaken," retorted the stroke of thewhaler, as he ostentatiously spat upon his hands and gripped aboat-stretcher.

  The German's beady eyes contracted, and, thinking that discretion isever the better art of valour, he shrugged his shoulders, and thenwinced with pain.

  There was soon no doubt as to the type and nationality of theapproaching craft. She was a U-boat. She was running on the surface.On the platform in the wake of the elongated conning-tower stood twomen in black oilskins. At times completely enveloped in clouds ofspray, they were intently searching the horizon either on the watchfor likely prey or else keeping a sharp look-out for the dreadedBritish submarine-hunters.

  "Looks like giving us the go-by after all," whispered one of thewhaler's men, as the U-boat bore broadside on at a distance of aboutthree-quarters of a mile.

  "Let her," added his mate fervently. "Us don't want to see the likesof she just now. I'd give a month's pay to have her at yon range fortwenty seconds."

  "O, Lud!" exclaimed another with a grunt "she's starboarding helm.She's spotted us, lads!"

  Clearly the whaler's crew were "in the soup", for the U-boat hadaltered course and was bearing down upon the luckless British seamen.Four or five hands made their way for'ard of the German craft'sconning-tower, and in a few seconds a 4.7-inch gun rose from itsplace of concealment. Quickly the sinister weapon was manned andtrained full at the helpless boat's crew.

  "Murderous swine!" exclaimed the bowman, shaking his fist in futiledefiance of the pirates.

  Moments of intense suspense followed, yet the Huns refrained fromopening fire. It might have been a matter for precaution that thequick-firer was trained upon the whaler; but, on the other hand,there was abundant evidence in the past to prove that the modernpirates had no scruples about murdering in cold blood the survivorsof torpedoed merchantmen.

  The while the officers outside the conning-tower were still busy withtheir binoculars. One of them kept the whaler under observation,while the other, evidently fearing a trap, swept the waste of waterin case the periscope of a British submarine were watching Fritz witha view to blowing him to atoms.

  Raising himself with his uninjured arm, Count Otto vonBrockdorff-Giespert shouted something in German. The distance wasstill too great to enable the U-boat's officers to understand. Thistime the Count was not called to order, for the whaler's crew knewonly too well that the tables had been turned.

  Slowing down, and then reversing her engines, the U-boat came to astandstill within twenty yards of the survivors of the _Bolero_.

  "Vot boat is dat?" hailed the U-boat's unter-leutnant. "Vere youfrom? Vot is der name of der schip you vos come from?"

  "Better tell him civil-like," suggested the bow-man. "So here goes."

  But von Brockdorff-Giespert again took up his parable. Speakingvolubly, he quickly explained matters to his satisfaction. Althoughnone of the British seamen understood German, the purport of theCount's words were sufficiently plain to them.

  Interpolated with numerous "Ja, Herr Kapitan" from the obsequiousunter-leutnant of the U-boat, von Brockdorff-Giespert gave a stringof orders. The whaler was then commanded to come alongside, and theCount was assisted on board the submarine.

  "Now," thought Alec, "he's out of it. Wonder if the dirty dogs aregoing, to turn a machine-gun on us, or ram the boat."

  His natural curiosity was quickly satisfied, for the unter-leutnant,stepping to the rail, leered down into the boat.

  "Englisch offizier-pig!" he shouted. "You der hospitality of ZhermanU-boat must make. We you take prisoner."