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CHAPTER XIV
THE NORTH SEA

I

There were many different topics of conversation in the wardroom of the Mariner. The seven members of the mess talked learnedly upon dozens of subjects, no matter whether they knew much about them or not. Nothing was too abstruse. They discussed the Mendel theory, atavism, and how onions acquired their flavour and violets their scent with as much zest and freedom as they argued about the possibilities of a German invasion of Britain, and the rights and wrongs of universal service. Conversation frequently became strident, and heated argument occasionally gave way to flat contradiction; while contradiction sometimes terminated in a babel in which every one aired opinions to which nobody listened. One can hardly expect anything else when seven men of widely divergent views and ideals, and with different characters and temperaments, live cheek by jowl in the same small ship. The subjects most often brought under discussion, however – the hardy perennials, so to speak – were:

(1) Whether or not the High Sea Fleet of his Imperial Majesty the Emperor of all the Germans was likely to emerge into the North Sea.

(2) Former ships.

(3) The iniquities of one Harry Smith, officers' steward of the second class.

Opinions on No. 1 varied, and need not be entered into here; but No. 2 provided them with many hours' conversation.

'When I was in the old Somerset, in nineteen-nine,' somebody would start the ball rolling, 'we had a fellow who' —

'By George, yes!' continued some one else; 'that reminds me of the Saturn in China in nought-five. Did you ever hear the yarn about the watch-keeper who' – And straightway the floodgates of reminiscence were opened.

It was perfectly natural, for there were seven of them, and among them they had served his Majesty or his predecessors for nearly eighty years. Moreover, they had been in every imaginable type of ship, in many different parts of the world, and had never been shipmates before. Five of the seven we have already met. The other two were Augustus Black, the surgeon-probationer of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and George Bonar, the midshipman of the Royal Naval Reserve. Of them, more anon.

Topic No. 3, the sins and omissions of Harry Smith, came up for consideration at least twice daily. He was an unkempt individual, with long black hair and sallow complexion, who had just entered the service. Before deciding to serve the King he had, or had not, been a shining light in a livery and bait stable. He may have been an excellent ostler, but did not scintillate as an officers' steward. Nominally he was supposed to assist Watkins, the senior steward, who, under the supervision of Mr Menotti, did for the officers as regards their messing. Watkins himself was all that could be desired, but the redoubtable Harry frequently 'did for' the members of the mess in more senses than one.

The galley, where all the cooking was done, lived forward, and though it must have been painful for Smith to fall on the slippery steel deck on the way aft with the joint for the evening meal, it was still more annoying for seven officers with healthy appetites to discover that their leg of mutton, together with its dish, had flopped gracefully overboard and had sunk to the bottom of the harbour. On one occasion the dish of bacon for breakfast came to grief; whereupon Smith, trusting that nobody was looking, gathered up what remained on the deck, and replaced it in the dish with his fingers. But the eagle eye of the first lieutenant was upon him, and there was trouble.

Besides being the food-carrier to and from the galley, Smith acted as the wine steward in Watkins's absence, was supposed to clean and wash up the table silver and crockery, and to keep a watchful eye upon the table-napkins and tablecloths. It was unfortunate that he poured the sherry into a decanter half-full of port; but he was forgiven, for the mixture, under the guise of 'madeira,' was offered to, and accepted as a quid pro quo by, unsuspecting dockyard employees who had provided the first lieutenant with – well, certain things which he required for the ship. Smith was not pardoned for losing the upper half of an expensive silver-plated entrée-dish, for breaking or losing in ten days no fewer than seventeen tumblers, four plates, two cups, and a butter-dish, or for using the best damask table-napkins as dishcloths or for boot-polishing, for all those articles had to be accounted for. Wooten was also extremely annoyed one Sunday morning when, on going the rounds, he discovered the hairbrushes and celluloid dickey of the culprit, together with one toothbrush, a shirt, six raw and juicy chops done up in newspaper, some emery-paper, knife-powder, and three loaves of wardroom bread, nestling side by side in the same cupboard. No! Harry Smith, though undoubtedly a feature of the ship, and a source of abundant and animated conversation, was not an acquisition.

'Let's get rid of the blighter!' some one suggested.

They tried to, but the only substitute available was a callow, pimply faced youth who, before the war, had been a railway porter.

'Lord!' laughed the skipper, 'if he comes we sha'n't have any crockery at all at the end of a fortnight.'

And so Smith remained.

Augustus Black was a medical student at one of the London hospitals who had volunteered his services on the outbreak of war. The powers that be had accepted his offer, enrolled him in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve as a surgeon-probationer, provided him with the sum of twenty pounds wherewith to purchase the necessary uniform, and presently desired him to repair forthwith to his duties on board H.M.S. Mariner.

The ship's company as a whole were disgustingly healthy; but Black attended to their minor ailments, cuts, and contusions, packed them off to the depot ship or hospital if they became really ill, held what he vulgarly called 'belly musters' once a month or oftener, and gave them lectures on first-aid and personal hygiene. In the ordinary piping times of peace a destroyer carries nothing but a medical chest containing the simpler remedies, together with bandages, splints, tourniquets, and dressings. She has no doctor, and if a man is hurt or becomes ill he is given first-aid or relief by one of his shipmates, and is sent to the depot ship or hospital for treatment as soon as possible. In war, however, when any ship may conceivably be in action at any moment, and when twenty-four hours or more may elapse before wounded men can see a medical officer, valuable lives may be saved if injuries are properly attended to and dressed on the spot. That was why Black and many others like him had been sent to destroyers.

In addition to his other duties, he acted as wine-caterer for the mess, and, since there was no cabin available, slept on a settee in the wardroom, and shaved, bathed, dressed, and kept his clothes and other belongings in the sub-lieutenant's cabin, or wherever else he could find room. His existence must have had its drawbacks and inconveniences; but, being adaptable, he did not seem to mind them, for he was an excellent messmate, always cheerful, and was not in the least addicted to sea-sickness.

Bonar, the R.N.R. 'snotty,' slept in a hammock in the tiny flat outside the officers' cabins, and where he kept his possessions was always something of a mystery. He had been at sea in the mercantile marine before the war, and, in spite of his youth, was a most useful member of society. He helped the sub with his charts, assisted Wooten with his official correspondence, wrote up the fair log, and justified his existence in many other ways.

The authorities realised that life in small ships was sometimes apt to breed staleness; so, though the Mariner and her flotilla were often at sea, and while in harbour were always ready to sail at short notice, officers and men were allowed ashore in the afternoons whenever they could be spared. They were always liable to instant recall, of course, and never got very far from their ships; but this did not prevent them from playing games or otherwise amusing themselves. It did them all the good in the world, and kept them fit and contented.

On board, their amusements were simple. They all read a great deal, and their expenditure on 'sevenpennies,' cheap books at one shilling, and magazines must have put considerable profit into the pockets of the publishers who catered for their needs, notwithstanding the enhanced price of paper and the shortage of labour. One thing all agreed upon was their debt of gratitude to Jack London. They read his books not once, but a dozen times; and, prolific writer though he is, they wished he were more prolific, for there was a snap and a liveliness about his work which appealed to them. In the evenings in harbour the officers either read, argued, listened to the gramophone, played with the doctor's Meccano set, or indulged in ping-pong. It is true that the wardroom of a destroyer is not an ideal place for this game. The table was small; collisions with hanging lamps, furniture, and Harry Smith with his arms full of newly cleaned glasses and cutlery were frequent and sometimes painful; while the balls had an unhappy knack of losing themselves under settees and cupboards. But in spite of these disadvantages the players became expert.

Farther forward the men also contrived to keep themselves happy. They had their band – consisting of a drum, a couple of concertinas, many mouth-organs, and a flute – which disported itself on deck on fine evenings. They also sang loudly and sentimentally; while one versatile person imitated Mr Charles Chaplin, bowler hat, moustache, baggy trousers, and all. They had their racing crews for the whaler and the dinghy, and in the dog-watches were not slow in challenging other destroyers to races. Sometimes they won and sometimes they did not; but the contests always gave the onlookers the opportunity of indulging in ribald and strident remarks at other people's expense.

Amongst the ship's company were a certain number of men who had done their time in the navy, had retired into civil life after their various periods of service, and had either volunteered or been recalled on the outbreak of war. They were all excellent men, just as good as any of their shipmates, while what little rustiness there was about them wore off within a month of their joining the ship. Their experiences and occupations ashore had been varied, to say the least of it.

'Dogo' Pearson, the milkman, has appeared before; but besides him there was an ex-member of the Liverpool police, an Edinburgh fireman, a cattle-puncher from Arizona, and a man who had served as a steward-valet on board a yacht belonging to some rich potentate in the Argentine. Then there was David MacLeod, who hailed from Stornoway; Donald MacIver, from the Orkneys; and Roderick Mackay, from Lerwick. They were all fishermen and members of the Royal Naval Reserve, and naturally were good seamen. Moreover, Wooten found them most useful as reliable weather prophets.

'Well,' he would say to MacLeod on the bridge at sea, 'what d'you make of the weather?'

The Scotsman would look up at the sky and note the direction and force of the wind. 'Sur,' he would answer slowly, 'we'll ha'e a wee bit blaw afore the mornin'.'

'Blow!' Wooten would echo, rather surprised. 'Why d'you say that? The glass is high, and there's a fine enough sky; isn't there?'

MacLeod would wag his head wisely. 'I dinna ken why,' he would say. 'The wund'll ha'e gone roond tae the north-east, an'll start blawin' fresh afore the mornin'.'

And blow it invariably did, precisely from the quarter MacLeod had mentioned.

The torpedo coxswain of a destroyer is a very important person indeed. He is always a chief petty officer or petty officer who acts as ex officio master-at-arms of the ship, and as such supervises the discipline, is the mouthpiece between the men and the officers, brings men up for punishment when they have misconducted themselves, and makes out and forwards the punishment returns to the depot ship. This, since serious offences are infrequent in torpedo-craft, is perhaps the least of all his duties. He also performs the work carried out by the ship's steward in a big ship, being responsible, under the supervision of the C.O., for the drawing and issue of all clothing, victuals, and rum, besides keeping the store-books for the same. As these have to be forwarded to the victualling paymaster of the depot ship at certain intervals, this, since it involves no small amount of paper work and much calculation, may be called the most onerous of his tasks.

But the coxswain's chief function, his raison d'être, is to act as a skilled helmsman. He is generally a man of long service and tried experience, who has done all his time in torpedo-craft. He knows, or should know, the individual idiosyncrasies of practically every type of destroyer in the navy; and, this being the case, he is the commanding officer's right-hand man if he is good – and he usually is – and his bête noir if he is bad. He steers the ship going in or out of harbour, when she is moving away from or going alongside a jetty or another ship, during steam tactics and manœuvres, or in action. In short, he is the qualified helmsman whose presence is required at the wheel in any circumstances calling for special skill and knowledge. He draws extra pay for his attainments, and has been through special courses to fit him for his rating; but his value lies in the fact that he has learnt his trade through long experience at sea.

William Willis, the coxswain of the Mariner, was a short, well-covered little man, with a laughing red face and a pair of twinkling blue eyes. He was always laughing, no matter how bad the weather, no matter what happened; while he had the peculiar knack of always appearing on the bridge at the very instant he was wanted, and without having to be sent for. How, when, and where he slept or ate at sea Wooten never discovered; for no sooner had the next destroyer ahead hauled out of the line to avoid a floating mine, or an important signal been made, than Willis, breathing like a grampus, clambered ponderously up on to the bridge and relieved the helmsman. It seemed second nature to him to arrive at the moment he was most needed. One peculiar trait of his was that he never would admit that the weather was really bad.

'Bit rotten, cox'n, eh?' Wooten would remark, shaking the drops of water out of his eyes after a green sea had lolloped over the forecastle and deluged every one on the bridge with spray.

'Not near so bad as I 'ave 'ad, sir,' Willis always answered stolidly. 'When I was in the Boxer we was once 'ove-to for three days in weather like this 'ere.' He occasionally varied the formula by mentioning the Zephyr, the Angler, the Kangaroo, the Albatross, the Garry, the Mohawk, or various others of the destroyers in which he had served; but no matter if the barometer had dropped half-an-inch in an hour, or the wind was blowing with almost hurricane force, or the ship was rolling and pitching to an extent that nobody would have believed possible if he had not seen and felt it, her weather, in the coxswain's opinion, was never so bad as that experienced by the other craft he had been in.

Sometimes, in the days when Wooten was still new to the ship, and before he had come to understand the ways and tricks of handling her – and a destroyer does occasionally take a deal of handling – they got into difficulties. Perhaps they would be going alongside an oiler ³⁴ at dead of night to replenish their fuel, and the wind would get on the wrong bow, and a strong tide sweep the ship the wrong way. Willis rarely talked on the bridge, but then it was that he considered himself entitled to speak.

'Why not try 'er with a touch astern starboard, sir?' would come a hoarse remark. 'Slew 'er stern round – see?' He never spoke as if he were offering advice; he merely made a suggestion, as it were, and oftener than not Wooten acted upon it, and found it good.

Daniel Bulpit, the chief engine-room artificer, Thompson's trusted assistant and second in command, had few peculiarities. He was a hard-working, conscientious, and thoroughly capable west-countryman, who was always cheerful and always obliging. In appearance he was short and thick-set, with a fresh complexion, hair slightly tinged with gray, and blue eyes; and what he didn't know about the Mariner and her internal economy was not worth thinking about. Before joining the destroyer he had been at the College at Dartmouth, teaching the naval cadets their business in the pattern-shop. He had evidently been popular there, for when he went ashore he was frequently recognised and accosted by certain of his 'young gentlemen,' most of whom by this time had attained the dignity and single gold stripes of sub-lieutenants.

Gartin, the chief stoker, was a character, and, among other duties, had charge of the engineer's stores and tools. He was a tall man, with shaggy eyebrows, black hair, and a black beard, and, judging from the conversation occasionally heard issuing from the storeroom hatch, took his job very seriously indeed, and regarded most people, certainly all seamen, as disciples of Barabbas.

'Please, will yer let us 'ave the loan of a cold chisel an' a nammer?' once asked Pincher Martin.

The chief stoker glared. He had a rooted antipathy to all men who came to borrow tools, for as often as not they omitted to return them. This necessitated a game of hide-and-seek throughout the ship on the part of Gartin himself; while, when the implements were eventually retrieved, the edges of the chisels were generally found to be jagged, the saws blunt, and the punches broken. 'What d'you want 'em for?' he asked suspiciously.

'Ter cut a length o' three an' a narf wire in 'alves.'

'Ain't got none!' snapped Gartin.

Pincher knew full well that he had. 'We carn't do th' job without 'em,' he expostulated mildly.

'Can't 'elp that; you'll 'ave to do the best you can, or else borrow 'em off some one else. I ain't got no 'ammers nor chisels, I tells you!'

'But I see'd' —

'Can't 'elp what you see'd. I ain't got none; that's flat, ain't it?'

'Well, if yer really 'aven't got 'em I s'pose I'll 'ave ter go an' tell the bloke wot sent me ter borrow 'em,' said Martin with an air of resignation.

Gartin pricked up his ears. ''Oo was it 'oo sent you?'

'Fu'st lootenant,' said Pincher, inventing a polite fiction on the spur of the moment.

'Why didn't you say so afore?' Gartin demanded wrathfully, opening a tool-box. 'Think I'm 'ere to 'ave my time wasted like this? You're quite certain it was th' fu'st lootenant sent you?' He thought he had seen a twinkle in Pincher's eye.

'Well, 'e said 'e wanted the job done this mornin', any'ow,' the ordinary seaman prevaricated.

The chief stoker produced the hammer and the chisel, and handed them across as if he were making a gift of the Crown Jewels. ''Ere you are. Look out you returns 'em. If you don't' – He glared fiercely and shook his head.

'If I doesn't?'

'If you don't I'll take you afore the engineer horficer an' the captin, an' 'ave the price of 'em stopped outa your pay. I'm fed up wi' chasin' people round the ship. They comes to me borrowin' things right an' left, never says so much as "Thank you," an' never troubles to return the gear wot they borrowed. I ain't 'ere to get runnin' round arter seamen wot isn't no better'n a pack o' thieves!'

'I'll look out I returns 'em orl right,' said Pincher, retreating up the ladder with a broad grin all over his face.

'I'll look out you pays for 'em if you don't!' was the chief stoker's final remark.

Pincher retired chuckling, with the tools in his possession. He did not feel the least bit uneasy. Gartin's bark was always worse than his bite, and nobody ever took him really seriously.

Hills, the petty officer telegraphist, was a burly, powerful-looking man of average height. His eyebrows, like Gartin's, were long and bushy, the hair on his head was thick and luxuriant, while his chin, though he shaved every morning regularly, was always bristly and blue by the evening. At sea he spent most of his time in the wireless office abaft the charthouse. It was a tiny apartment, about eight feet by five, and every conceivable nook and cranny, and almost every square inch of the walls and ceiling, was occupied by instruments. Where there was room on the walls Hills had decorated his little den with photographs of his wife, children, relations, and friends, and sundry flamboyant and highly coloured picture post-cards. There was just room for a mahogany slab which served as a table, and a chair bolted to the deck, in which, with a pair of telephone-receivers clipped over his ears, Hills sat enthroned like some mysterious wizard in his cave. The wireless office was soundproof and practically airtight. Its occupant detested draughts, and at sea in winter, when the two small side windows were kept tightly shut, the atmosphere could almost be cut with a knife. In the early mornings, when Hills had had an all-night sitting, and felt peevish and looked dishevelled, his shipmates always said his hairy face assumed a simian aspect, and that he himself reminded them of a gorilla in his cage. It was a libel, but this did not prevent certain irreverent persons from forgathering outside his den at cockcrow, opening the door gently, and then, scratching themselves after the manner of apes, inquiring tenderly as to his health.

''Ullo, "Birdie," 'ow goes the zoo? Wot time does th' hanimals feed this mornin'?'

'Oh, go to 'ell!' 'Birdie' would exclaim irritably. Sometimes he adopted stronger measures, emerged from his lair with a ferocious expression, and, armed with a broom-handle, pursued his tormentors round the forecastle to the accompaniment of yelps of pain and howls for mercy as he belaboured them roundly.

But Hills was popular on board, and was thoroughly good at his work; so, taking things all round, Wooten and the officers had reason to congratulate themselves upon having a good ship's company.