A Naval Venture: The War Story of an Armoured Cruiser

T. T. Jeans

A Naval Venture

The War Story of an Armoured Cruiser

Published by Good Press, 2022

goodpress@okpublishing.info

EAN 4064066097165

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER I

Table of Contents

The "Achates" goes to Sea

On one miserably wet and cheerless afternoon of February, 1915, the picket-boat of H.M.S. Achates lay alongside the King's Stairs at Portsmouth Dockyard, whilst her crew, with their boat-hooks, kept her from bumping herself against the lowest steps. The rain trickled down their glistening oilskins, and dark, angry clouds sweeping up from behind Gosport Town on the opposite side of the harbour, and scudding overhead, one after the other, in endless battalions, made it certain that a south-westerly gale was raging in the Channel.

At the top of the steps, with his back to the wind and rain, his feet wide apart, and his hands in his pockets, was the midshipman of the boat, in oilskin, sou'wester, and sea-boots. This was Mr. Vincent Orpen—commonly known as the Orphan—not very tall, but sturdy and broad-shouldered in his bulky oilskins. Between the brim of his dripping sou'wester and his turned-up collar showed a pair of very humorous eyes, a determined-looking nose and mouth, and a pair of large ears reddened by the cold and rain.

He was waiting to take the Captain—Captain Donald Macfarlane—off to Spithead, where the Achates lay, ready for sea, but this absent-minded officer had very probably forgotten the time or place where the boat was to meet him.

Near by, taking shelter in the lee of the signalman's shelter-box, the marine postman and a massive, friendly dockyard policeman were standing with the rain dripping off them.

Presently the midshipman splashed across to them and spoke to the postman.

The Captain did say King's Stairs; didn't he?

King's Stairs at two o'clock, sir; I heard him myself; King's Stairs at two o'clock, and it's now past the half-hour. He was only a-going up to the Admiral's office, he said; just time for me to slip outside to the post office and back again, sir.

Down below, in the picket-boat, Jarvis, the coxswain, an old, bearded petty officer—a Naval Reserve man—was grumbling to one of the crew: The Cap'n can't never remember nothink—he'll forget hisself one o' these fine days.

This ain't a fine day, the young A.B.—Plunky Bill—answered cheekily.

Stow it! I'll give yer 'fine day' when we gets aboard: I knows it ain't. We'll get a fair dusting-down going out to Spithead, and a good many of you youngsters'll wish you'd never come to sea when we gets out in the Channel to-night.

I 'opes we ain't going back to the mine-bumping 'bizz' in the North Sea, a-waiting for to be terpadoed, Plunky Bill said presently, viciously shoving the picket-boat's dancing stern off the wall with his dripping boat-hook.

That's about our job, growled Jarvis. Better blow up yer swimmin'-collar when you gets aboard, and tie it around yer bloomin' neck.

A precious lot of good they collars be—with sea-boots and oilskins on, and the water as cold as charity.

Nobody's askin' you to wear it. When you feels you wants to drown, quick, just 'and it over to me—I don't. Dare say you ain't got no one to miss yer; I 'ave—a missus and six kids, growled the coxswain.

Just then the trap hatch of the stokehold flapped up, and out of the small square opening emerged the bare head of the stoker of the picket-boat—an old, grey-headed Naval Reserve man, who actually wore gold spectacles, the effect of which on his coal-begrimed face was very quaint. He looked round him in a patient, dignified manner, and sniffed at the wind and rain.

There was a shout from the top of the steps, and Mr. Orpen, with his hands to his mouth, called down: Keep out of the rain, Fletcher—don't be an ass!

The old man did not hear; but one of the boat's crew for'ard bawled out to him: 'Ere, close down yer blooming 'atch—chuck it, grandpa—shut yer face in—the Orphan's a-singing out to yer—'e's nuts on yer 'ealth, 'e is. The old stoker, wiping his rain-spotted spectacles, meekly obeyed, pulled the hatch over his head, and disappeared from view.

Then the postman, with his big, leather letter-bag, clattered down, splashing the puddles on the steps. The Cap'n's coming at last, he said, and stowed himself away under the fore peak.

Down came Mr. Orpen, jumped aboard, and took the steering-wheel. A moment later, and after him came the tall, gaunt figure of the Captain, the rain trickling off the gold oak-leaves on the peak of his cap, dripping off his long, thin nose and running down his yellowish-red moustache and pointed beard. His greatcoat was glistening with raindrops, and his trousers beneath it were soaked and sticking to his thin shins.

I forgot to bring my waterproof, he said. I'm not late, am I? and nodding cheerfully, he stepped into the boat.

Mr. Orpen saluted. Shall I carry on, sir?

The Captain nodded again; Jarvis shouted out orders; the boat's bows were shoved off, the engines thumped, and the picket-boat, starting on her stormy passage to Spithead, bumped the steps with her stern—the last time, had she known it, that she would ever touch England.

The crew dived down below under the fore peak and shut the hatch on top of them, for they knew well what was coming. It came right enough.

Directly the picket-boat left the shelter of the harbour mouth she began to reel and stagger as she steamed along Southsea beach, past the ends of the deserted piers, with the sea on her beam, washing over her and jostling her. Then she turned round the Spit Buoy, and head on to the wind and rain, plunged her way through the short seas, diving and lifting, throwing up clouds of spray which smacked loudly against the oilskins of the midshipman at the wheel and the coxswain hanging on by his side.

As one wave came over the bows, rushed aft along the engine-room sides and swirled round their feet, and its spray, tossed up by the fo'c'sle gun-mounting and by the funnel, covered them from head to foot, Jarvis roared: Better ease her a bit, sir.

But the Orphan was enjoying himself hugely. He knew the old boat; he knew exactly what she could stand, and he was not going to ease down until it was absolutely necessary, or until Captain Macfarlane made him; and the Captain was still sitting in the stern-sheets, tugging, absent-mindedly, at his pointed yellow beard, apparently having forgotten where he was, and that if only he went into the cabin he could keep dry.

The picket-boat throbbed and trembled and shook herself, butted into a wave which seemed to bring her up all standing, swept through it or over it, then charged into another; and as the battered remnants of the waves flung themselves in the Orphan's face and smacked loudly against his oilskins he only grinned, shook his head, and peered ahead from beneath the turned-down brim of his sou'wester.

Jarvis, the coxswain, was not enjoying himself. He hated getting wet—that meant a bout of rheumatics, and he had a missus and six kids.

Gradually the picket-boat fought her way out to the black-and-white chequered mass of the Spit Fort, until the four funnels and long, grey hull of the Achates showed through the rain squalls beyond.

A solitary steamboat, on her way ashore, came rushing towards them—a smother of foam, smoke, and spray; and as she staggered past, only a few yards away, with the following seas surging round her stern, Orpen waved a hand to the solitary figure in glistening oilskins at her wheel—a midshipman pal of his from another ship—who waved back cheerily and disappeared to leeward as a squall swept down between the two boats.

A nice little trip he'll have, off, sir—if he don't come back soon, the coxswain shouted when the last wave's spray had run off the brim of his sou'wester and he'd caught his breath. It's breezin' up every minute, sir!

Once past the Spit Fort, the picket-boat was in deeper water; the seas became longer, not so steep, and she took them more easily. Orpen needed only one hand now to keep her on her course, and in ten minutes he steered her under the stern of the Achates, and brought her alongside the starboard quarter.

The Captain, dripping with water, jumped on the foot of the ladder as a wave swung the picket-boat's stern close to it. Half-way up the ladder a sudden humorous thought struck him, and, bending down, he called out: You did not ease down all the time, did you, Mr. Orpen?

No, sir, Orpen sang back, grinning with the happiness of everything. He didn't worry in the least—so long as the Captain didn't mind—that he had, by forcing his boat through the seas, wetted him to the skin, and kept him wet for the last twenty minutes.

The officer of the watch shouted Hook on! and the picket-boat was hauled ahead under the main derrick, until the big hook dangling from the purchase swung above the boat. The crew made the bow and stern lines fast; Fletcher, the old stoker, drew himself up on deck and lowered the funnel, steam roared away from the escape; one seaman struggled with the ring of the boat's slings, holding it chest-high; another waited his opportunity, when a wave lifted the picket-boat, to seize the big hook hanging above him; the ring was slipped over it; the midshipman waved his hand and shouted; the slings tautened as the order up purchase and topping lift was given; a last wave lopped over the bows, and with a jerk she was hoisted clear of the water and quickly swung inboard.

Up on the quarter-deck the Captain was talking to the Commander—a wiry little man with a weather-beaten face and a grim, hard mouth. Same old job, sir? he asked.

The Captain nodded ruefully. "It's all the poor old Achates is fit for."

You're pretty well soaked, sir. Rather a wet passage off?

I forgot to go into the cabin, the Captain laughed.

We're ready for sea, sir. I shortened in, as you were rather late.

Was I? the Captain's eyes twinkled. Right you are! I'll be up again in a minute. I must get into dry things, or the Fleet Surgeon will be on my tracks—and he disappeared below.

In half an hour the Achates was under way and steaming out into the Channel and the gale.

This ended her week's rest—the second rest since the war broke out, six months before. Now she was off again to the North Sea, with its constant gales, its mine-fields, its enemy submarines, and the grim delight of frequent hurried coalings.

It was not a very pleasing prospect.

CHAPTER II

Table of Contents

The Gun-room of the Achates

Having seen his picket-boat safely landed in her crutches on the booms, the Orphan dived down below to the gun-room to dry himself in front of the blazing stove there.

The gun-room was a long, untidy place on the starboard side of the main-deck, just for'ard of the after 6-inch-gun casemate. A long table, covered with a red cloth, of the usual Service pattern, and rather more than usually torn and stained with grease, occupied most of the deck space, and was now laden with plates, cups and saucers, and, down the middle, in one gorgeous line, tins of jam, loaves of bread, fat pats of butter, and slabs of splendidly indigestible cake.

Long benches, covered with leather cushions, were fixed each side of it, whilst a few chairs, in various stages of decay, were drawn up round the stove and the upset copper coal-box. The after bulkhead of this sumptuous abode was occupied by midshipmen's lockers—rows of them one above the other—and from the half-open locker doors peeped boots and books, woollen helmets, sweaters, and safety waistcoats.

Along the foremost bulkhead was a corticine-covered sideboard with drawers for knives, forks, and spoons, cupboards for bottles, and a cosy gap for a barrel of beer. Above the sideboard, at either end of it, there were two little sliding-doors in the bulkhead, for the plates and food to be passed in from the pantry beyond, and for the dirty plates to be passed out. Between these two sliding-hatches, pictures of beautiful ladies taken from the last Christmas Number of the Sketch had been gummed on to the bare expanse of dirty-white paint, and gave an air of brightness and refinement to an otherwise somewhat depressing interior.

The outer bulkhead—the outer side—the ship's side—had been white—once. Along it were five scuttles, at present closely screwed up, and the tail ends of waves occasionally swished angrily across them. In the spaces between these scuttles, war maps, most of them torn and ragged, had been pasted to the iron-work, and one or two pin-flags still managed to hold fast, though the vast array that had once fluttered across them had long since disappeared.

At each end of the inner bulkhead was a door leading out into the half-deck, and between them were more lockers, the roaring, smoking stove, its brass chimney, and the upset coal-box. Behind the brass chimney hung a tattered green-baize notice-board on which were pinned a few dusty long-forgotten gun-room orders; whilst from hooks above it hung a cheap alarum clock and five damaged wrist-watches, each in its strap, and each labelled with an official report of the scrap during which it had met its honourable fate.

Newspapers and magazines littered untidily the corticine-covered deck; a gramophone box, a couple of greatcoats, and a green cricket bag lay piled in one corner near the lockers; some sextant boxes and two pairs of sea-boots filled another.

Overhead, between the deck beams, wooden battens were fixed, and above them squeezed a motley assortment of greatcoats, golf-bags, cricket pads, and oilskins. Almost anywhere in the gun-room you could put up your hand without looking, and pull down an oilskin or a greatcoat, which, of course, was most convenient, unless you pulled down half a dozen golf-clubs on your head at the same time, when naturally the convenience was not so noticeable.

When the Orphan came in, throwing his wet sou-wester and oilskin into the corner on top of the gramophone box, the only other gun-room officer there was the China Doll—the Assistant Clerk. Only just caught he was, a very youthful young gentleman of, so far, unblemished reputation, with a pink-and-white face, and a trick of opening and shutting his very big and very blue eyes so exactly like a doll that he had been christened China Doll directly he had joined the Honourable Mess.

He was engaged busily toasting bread in front of the stove with the long gun-room toasting-fork, and this was probably his most important duty on board—the duty of making toast for seven-bell tea; the first piece for the Sub-lieutenant, the second for the senior snotty, and the third for that very senior officer—his very senior officer—the Clerk—Uncle Podger.

He had just finished the first piece as the Orphan entered, and looked up, blinking his eyes excitedly.

What's the news, Orphan? Did the Captain tell you what we're going to do?

Late again, China Doll; five minutes after seven bells, and only one piece of toast ready; you'll catch it when the others come along.

In spite of his protests the Orphan grabbed that piece of toast, buttered it and began eating it, standing in front of the stove whilst the China Doll hurriedly began to toast another slice, between the Orphan's legs, and implored him for news of where the ship was going, and what she was to do. But the Orphan was much too busy eating to take any notice; and just as the first slice disappeared and he was licking his fingers, he heard a clattering of sea-boots down the ladder from the deck, and as four dripping snotties poured in, he seized the toasting-fork, pushed the China Doll on one side, and calmly finished toasting the second slice.

These four new-comers were the Pink Rat, Bubbles, the Hun, and Rawlins. The Pink Rat was the senior snotty—a small-sized youngster whom anyone could spot as the Pink Rat, because he had a thin, sharp, ferrety-looking face, very pink complexion, beady eyes, prominent teeth, and long mouse-coloured hair brushed straight back from his forehead and plastered down with grease. Bubbles was half as big again as the Pink Rat, with a fat, red, honest face, creased with continual chuckling, and a fat, red neck which always seemed to swell over his collars. He had something wrong with his nose, and couldn't breathe through it very well, so that when he was laughing—he generally was—he used to throw his head back, open his mouth to breathe, and make the most extraordinary bubbling noises. The Hun, the third to enter, looked a very gentle snotty, very refined and quiet—quiet, that is, compared with the others. He was not big or strong; but when he once was roused he would always join the weaker side in a scrap, and then became so violently excited that whatever he gripped he gripped with all his might—like a wild cat. He had nearly choked Bubbles once; and the Pink Rat never forgot how, at another time, he had nearly pulled out a handful of his hair. He always apologized afterwards. Rawlins, whose proper name was Rawlinson—the last of these four—was a brawny youth with an odd hatchet-shaped head, quite as good-natured as Bubbles, and the least talkative member of the Honourable Mess. He was always willing to look out for a pal's watch or boat duty, in itself enough to make anyone very popular.

The Pink Rat, Bubbles, and Rawlins, seeing no toast waiting for them, dashed at the China Doll, charged him into a corner, threw their wet oilskins over him, and fell in a heap on top.

Toast must be ready! they yelled as they allowed him to get up.

I can't make it fast enough when the Orphan's here, alone; look at him—that's his second.

The Orphan had just taken a huge bite out of the new piece; with a rush they threw themselves on him; in the mêlée of feet, legs, and chairs the China Doll captured the toasting-fork, stuck another bit of bread on it, and crouched in front of the fire again.

The general scramble was terminated by the noise of the pantry hatch sliding back, and an enormous, purple-faced marine servant, in his shirt-sleeves, pushed in a big teapot.

Come along, Barnes, cut us some more bread; open a tin of 'sharks'; where've you put my biscuits? they called at him.

By this time the third piece of toast was done to a turn; and the Pink Rat, in the absence of the Sub, on watch, was just going to claim it, when in came Uncle Podger—the Clerk—a broad-shouldered, squat youth, with a breezy, cheery countenance, and ruffled hair, who had been promoted to the exalted rank of Clerk exactly three weeks before, and had, therefore, been just a year and three weeks in the Service.

His arrival was greeted with shouts of Uncle Podger, your minion is slack again at the toast business. The China Doll must be beaten.

The Assistant Clerk dodged the Pink Rat and wriggled free, squealing out that this piece was for the Sub.

He'll beat me if it isn't ready. He'll be down from the bridge in a minute, he laughed, and took shelter behind his superior officer, explaining that he'd done one for the Sub, and the Orphan ate that; another for the Pink Rat, and the Orphan had eaten that too; the Sub must have this, mustn't he?

Then this is the third, Uncle Podger said with mock gravity. You were wrong, my young subordinate, very wrong indeed, to give away those other pieces; this one is mine. He gently removed the beautifully browned bread from the prongs of the fork.

Yes—sir, said the China Doll, dropping his eyelids and pretending to be very humble.

By the King's Regulations and Gun-room Instructions, there can be no doubt about it, can there?

No—sir; no possible doubt whatever—no possible, probable, possible doubt whatever.

The Clerk, glaring majestically at his subordinate officer's familiarity, promptly proceeded to butter and then to eat the slice; whilst the others, crowding round the stove with bits of bread on the ends of knives, tried their best to toast them.

Then the Sub did come in—a man of medium height, shoulders broader than Uncle Podger's, a complexion tanned by exposure to the wind and rain, black hair over a broad forehead, thick black eyebrows over deep-set grey eyes which had a knack of looking through and through anyone he spoke to, a thin Roman nose with a bridge that generally had a bit of the skin off (the remains of his last scrap), firm upper lip, a tremendous lower jaw, and a neck like a bull. He came in with his swaggering gait and aggressive shoulders, unbuttoning his dripping oilskin and roaring loudly.

What ho! without! bring hither the toasted crumpet, the congealed juice of the cow, and we will toy with them anon! Varlets, disrobe me, for I am weary with much watching.

Hast a savoury dish prepared for me, you pen-driving incubus, you blot on the landscape? he roared again at the China Doll, who stood with eyes opening and shutting and mouth wide open, watching two of the snotties hauling off the Sub's oilskin.

Where's my toast? he roared ferociously.

Here, sir, and the Assistant Clerk patted the Orphan's stomach, and fled for safety to the ship's office, where he knew he would be safe from instant death, because the Fleet Paymaster, though he would scrap with anyone, at any time, anywhere else, would not allow any skylarking there; nor would the stern Chief Writer, whose sanctum it was; and they had to keep friends with the Chief Writer, or never a pen-nib or a piece of blotting-paper would they get when they ran short of these things.

Two more snotties came into the gun-room after the China Doll had escaped.

These were the Lamp-post and the Pimple, the tallest and the shortest in the Mess—the Pimple a little chap with a broad flat face, and a tiny red nose in the middle of it. He was the Navigator's doggy, and that communicative and ingenious officer was always giving him the latest news—news which he, more often than not, invented himself. The joy of the Pimple's existence was to have some news to tell the others. He was a bully in a very small way, and extremely deferential to the Sub and the ward-room officers.

The Lamp-post was a tall, stooping snotty with sloping shoulders; his clothes were always too small for him, and his long thin arms and legs were always in his own way and in that of everyone else. Set him down at a piano and he was marvellous; the joy of his life was to be asked to play the ward-room piano. He could play anything he had ever heard; and inside his aristocratic head were more brains than the rest of the snotties possessed between them, the only one who did not know that being himself.

The whole of the Honourable Mess—with the exception of the escaped China Doll—being now assembled, seven-bell tea pursued its usual course—a cross between a picnic and a dog-fight—until the bugle sounded man and arm ship, and there was a hurried scramble for oilskins and caps as all, except Uncle Podger, dashed away to their stations.

The ship had now cleared the Isle of Wight and felt the force of the gale. She began to pitch and roll heavily as the heavy seas threw themselves against her starboard bow and rushed along her side.

A minute or two after the man and arm ship bugle had sounded, the China Doll strolled jauntily in and started afresh with his afternoon tea.

When you, Mr. Assistant Clerk, have served as long as I have, commenced Uncle Podger gravely, you may perhaps learn to realize that cheeking your seniors is punishable by death, or such other punishment as is hereinafter mentioned.

Pass us the sugar, Podgy, there's a good chap, grinned that very insubordinate officer, as a lurch of the ship threw the sugar-basin into the Clerk's lap.

Man and arm ship having passed off satisfactorily, the ship went to night defence stations, and the bugle sounded darken ship.

Barnes, the purple-faced marine servant, still in his shirt-sleeves, came in and solemnly closed down the dead-lights, screwing the steel plates over the glass scuttles, and then proceeded to clear away the debris of seven-bell tea.

Most of the snotties now trooped down from the upper deck to warm themselves round the stove.

CHAPTER III

Table of Contents

Ordered to the Mediterranean

Up above, under the fore bridge, the Orphan, looking like an undersized elephant, with all his warm clothes under his oilskins, tramped from port to starboard, and back again round the conning-tower. The crews of his four 6-pounders were clustered round their guns, hunched up in all sorts of winter clothing. Many of them wore their duffel jackets with great gauntleted gloves drawn up over their sleeves, and had already pulled the hoods of their jackets over their heads, giving them the appearance of Eskimo or Arctic explorers; the others were in oilskins padded out with jerseys, jumpers, flannels, and thick vests.

Once issue warm clothing to a bluejacket and never will he leave it off, whatever the temperature, unless he is made to do so.

The chirpy little gunner's mate had reported all correct, sir, guns cleared away, night-sight circuits switched on, sir, and four rounds a gun ready.

The Orphan had reported himself to the officer of the watch, on the bridge above him, and now had nothing to do, for the best part of two hours, but walk up and down and keep warm.

They tells me that one of 'em submarines was nosing round these parts two days ago, sir, one of his petty officers said, as he stopped at one gun, looked through the telescope sight, and tested the electric circuit. It ain't much weather for the poor murdering blighters.

It was not. Darkness was rapidly closing in, and the gale howled angrily out of the west, driving masses of dark rain-clouds and a heavy sea before it.

The Achates dipped her fo'c'sle constantly, and when she lifted and shook herself, the spray shot up far above her bridge screens.

The Orphan and his guns' crews on the wind'ard side would feel the ship quiver as a wave thudded against the casemate below them, and then had just time to duck their heads before millions of icy particles of spray soused viciously over them.

Presently the Orphan took shelter in the lee of the conning-tower and leant moodily against it, thinking of the warmth and gaiety of the dance he had been at the night before, also of a certain little lady in white and blue.

In peace time it is depressing enough to leave a cosy harbour, and face a wild winter's night in the Channel; but in war time the chance of blowing up on a mine and the risk of being torpedoed make the strain very considerable.

For the first night and the first day or two, most people are inclined to be rather jumpy; though afterwards this feeling wears off quickly, and one leaves everything to fate and ceases to worry.

Only a few days before, Germany had announced to the world the commencement of her submarine blockade of the English coast, so the Channel was probably already swarming with submarines; though even the Orphan, depressed and miserable as he was then, could not have imagined that these submarines had orders to sink merchant ships and mail steamers at sight and without warning, and that a civilized nation had sunk so low, nineteen hundred years after Christ was born into the world, as to plot the whole-sale murder of inoffensive women and children.

But he was miserable enough without knowing that, and opening up his oilskin coat, practised blowing up his safety waistcoat. Then he wondered whether his guns' crews had their swimming-collars with them—as was ordered—and went from gun to gun, dodging the spray, to find out.

It was quite dark now, the foc's'le and the turret below were invisible, and he had to grope his way along to find the guns' crews by hearing them talk or stumbling against them.

One or two of the men had lost their collars; another had burst his trying how big he could blow it; others had left them down below in their kit-bags or lashed in their hammocks.

Plunky Bill, the cheeky A.B. belonging to the picket-boat, was the only one who had his. The gunner's mate explained that Plunky Bill 'ad a sweet'eart in Portsmouth what was fair gone on 'im, and 'ad made 'im promise to always wear 'is collar.

Plunky Bill evidently thought he had a grievance, and growled out that 'E wasn't going to be bothered with young females, not 'im; a-making 'im look so foolish-like.

Well, they ain't no use, nohow, the gunner's mate grunted, jerking a thumb towards the heavy sea.

Any news, sir? the gunner's mate shouted, when he and the Orphan had regained the lee of the conning-tower, round which solid icy spray swished almost continuously. The Ruskies are giving it to them Austrians in the neck, proper like, ain't they, sir?

Didn't hear any, the miserable Orphan shouted back.

D'you know where we're off to? the other asked.

North Sea again, the Orphan told him.

The gunner's mate had no use for the North Sea—never wanted to see it again, and said so in blood-curdling language.

What about the Dardanelles, sir? he asked a moment later. That's the place I'd like to be in. There's a sight of old 'tubs' gone out there. Any news, sir?

But the Orphan had heard none, and climbed up on the bridge above to have a yarn with the midshipman of the watch—the Pimple.

He was full of schemes for ragging the China Doll.

Patting your 'tummy', Orphan; that was cheek if you like! and the Sub didn't like it either.

The Pimple was very deferential to the Sub—rather too much so; what the Sub did and what he said made up most of the Pimple's daily existence. He'd like us to take it out of the China Doll, wouldn't he?

Don't be an ass. Let the China Doll alone—it's too beastly wet and cold to bother about him. What about that cake you 'sharked' off the table? So the Pimple, ever ready to ingratiate himself with anyone, produced a big wedge of gun-room cake out of his greatcoat pocket, and the two of them, crouching under the weather screens, munched away silently.

It was so dark that they could not see the look-out man, who was holding the brim of his sou'wester over his eyes to shield him from the rain and the spray, and trying to pierce the blackness of the stormy night in front of him. Both snotties were startled by a sudden cry from him: Something a-'ead, sir! on the starboard bow, sir! Another look-out also spotted something; everyone tried to see it; the officer of the watch dashed to the end of the bridge and peered through his night-glasses; the gunner's mate, down below, could be heard shouting to the guns' crews to close up; the breeches of the guns snapped to as they were loaded; and the Orphan, stuffing the remnants of the cake in his pocket, scrambled down the ladder.

"There it is, sir! There! there!—I can see it!' came excitedly out of the darkness. Everyone thought of submarines.

Just like one, sir! a signalman bawled to the officer of the watch, who yelled to the Quartermaster hard-a-port, and rushed into the wheel-house to see that he did it.

At that moment a bobbing light began flickering out of the darkness ahead—a signal lamp.

It's the challenge, sir, the signalman shouted.

All right; reply; bring her on her course, Quartermaster. Starboard your helm, hard-a-starboard! shouted the officer of the watch coolly; and as the Achates' bows swung back again, she swerved past a long, black object down below in the water, with its twittering signal light tossed about like a spark from a chimney on a dark night, and by that faint light they could just see the outline of three funnels before the light was shut off and everything disappeared.

It was only a patrolling destroyer. One could not see her rolling, or the seas breaking over her, but one could realize the horrible discomfort aboard her.

Poor devils!—a rotten night to be out in—we nearly bumped into her, thought the officer of the watch, jumping to the telephone bell from the Captain's cabin, which was ringing excitedly.

Nothing, sir; a patrol destroyer; had to alter course to clear her. No, sir, the wind is steady, sir.

It was six o'clock now—four bells clanged below—the first dog-watch was finished, and presently the Pink Rat came up to relieve the Orphan.

Jolly slack on it! grumbled the Orphan as he bumped into him and dived down below.

The easiest way aft was along the mess deck—the upper deck was so dark—and as the Orphan passed through one of the stokers' messes he saw Fletcher, the old stoker of his picket-boat, sitting at a mess table, all alone, under an electric light, his face buried in his hands, and a Bible before him.

What's the matter, Fletcher? you look jolly mouldy, he said, stopping at the end of the table. What's the matter? Bad news?

Yes, sir, he said gently, standing up, one hand pushing his gold spectacles back on his nose, the other marking the place in the book. A letter from my wife. Our last boy's been killed in France, sir. That's the third; he was a corporal, sir.

His old, refined, tired face looked so abjectly miserable that the Orphan did not know what to say. Come and get a drink. That'll buck you up, he stuttered.

But Fletcher shook his head. I'm an abstainer, sir; thank you very much. And the snotty, muttering I'm sorry, went away along the rest of the noisy, crowded mess deck towards the gun-room.

There was comparative quiet there. The Sub and Uncle Podger were sitting in front of the stove, reading.

You know old Fletcher—the stoker of my boat; he's frightfully miserable; he's sitting down in his mess looking awful; he's just heard that his last son's been killed; I wish we could do something for him. The letter must have come when I brought off the postman.

How about a drink? asked the Sub, scratching his head. "I am sorry."

Who's that? asked Uncle Podger; that old chap with the gold specs?

The Orphan nodded.

Fancy having to stick it out—all the misery of it—in a mess deck, with hundreds of chaps cursing and joking all round you, the Sub said. I don't see what we can do to help him.

You've got a cabin, Uncle Podger suggested. Get him down in it; shut him in for an hour. What he wants most is to be alone.

Right oh! said the Sub, springing to his feet. I've got the first watch; he can stay there till 'pipe down'; and he sent Barnes, the purple-faced marine, to find Fletcher and tell him that the Sub-lieutenant wanted him at once in his cabin.

The Sub, swinging his mighty shoulders, stalked down to his cabin, and presently there was a knock outside, and Fletcher peered in. Yes, sir?

"I've just