Up came the crew of the motor boat, with fire appliances, life jackets, and what not. Fell in. Told off, and then tumbled into their boat. Now comes the boat to the stern, to take the end of a grass line to the adventuring seaplane, by this time well away to leeward. Off dashes the boat at little short of twenty knots, but the line soon proves to be too short, and with a quick turn taken round the mooring bitts on board she is brought up with a sudden and mighty jerk, throwing all the crew on their faces. Fortunately they were too far away for us to hear what they had to say. Another line is procured and bent-on, then away they go again.
A peculiarity of the grass rope species is (and for which reason it is used) that it floats on the surface of the water, which in this case formed the contributory cause to our popularity.
First came the Dreadnought’s picket boat with a four striper on board. The coxswain watching our evolution, sees not the grass line, which he neatly picks up with his prop, and stays put. “Mark one.” Next turn was the pinnace of the Flagship with the Vice Admiral on board. No favouritism is to be shown even if he is a V.A. Neither does the coxswain take warning by the other picket boat, nor see the line, and the next moment we have him securely hooked. Altogether three boats, including our own (by now quite helpless) were attached to our line, which reached by this time half way across a goodly section of Scapa Flow. (Where was Heath Robinson now?) Meanwhile, the erring seaplane having reached the rocks, is now in an advanced state of disintegration, the crew electing to salvage themselves, land on the rocks, light their pipes, and watch the process of disentanglement. The next day we were the recipients of quite a choice selection of signals. But such was life with the Grand Fleet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
DOVER PATROL
Having spent one winter and one summer in this manner, I was not looking forward with pleasurable anticipation to another winter in those latitudes. Darkness at 2 p.m. daylight at 10 a.m., is not funny when there is little or nothing to do. So there were shouts of joy when we heard the good news, with the inevitable introductory preamble “Being in all respects ready for sea,” we “were to proceed with all dispatch” to Liverpool for refit.
With a bit of luck I was going to see the last of that old hybrid, and she was going to see the last of me. A talk with the Skipper. A little judicious strain placed on a few correct strings and then “Would I like an independent command?” Would I not. In due course my appointment to H.M.T.B. 117 came through, just before Christmas day! No matter. I’d willingly sacrifice Christmas Day and a good deal more to get away from that deadly monotony of “Somewhere in the North Sea.”
Life was now worth while. Hectic and hard, but more what I was used to. It wasn’t long before I distinguished myself in the Nore Defence Flotilla by discovering a bank that wasn’t there, and bending my main shaft in consequence. The N.D.F., as we were called, had been given a retreat up Stangate Creek off the Medway, with the parent ship lying at the mouth. One bright and cheery morning, I had difficulty in getting away from my moorings and, as a result, had dropped well “astern of station”. To make up, we were doing about 18 knots (instead of the sternly regulated eight for the creek) when my prop took ground. I quickly took a bearing by the buoys, and noted the position.
So much inshore from those buoys there should have been deep water, according to the chart. Well, there wasn’t, and that was that. Now, should I make the usual statement. “Regret to report having struck wreckage in the Black Deep during the night of so and so,” or should I stick to my guns and say that there was no water there, and chance my arm. Well, wisely or unwisely, I took the latter course, and got my leg pulled unmercifully in consequence. “A new discovery. Lightoller’s bank!” “Ho! Ho! Ho! Had anyone seen Lightoller’s bank?” This in addition to shirty signals from the Flag to “go and find it.”
The Survey Boat had been cruising around for days and the chap in charge happened to have been a shipmate of mine in the old White Star days, Harbord, by name. “Well, Lightoller,” said he, “I’m awfully sorry but I can’t find it.” We sounded, and better sounded. Yes, tons of water, where I had said there wasn’t! and I began to scent a Court of Enquiry.
Finally, and for no reason, Harbord says, “Let’s go off to No. 1 buoy and take a shot. We did, but frankly I don’t know to this day what spirit moved him. When the coxswain gave his reading from his sextant, “No,” says Harbord, “you must be wrong. Here take this sextant and see what you get.” He did. “Why hang it,” said Harbord, “the buoys are all wrong.” And sure enough they were. The dockyard had laid every line of buoys in a wrong position as compared with the chart. Not only was it my turn to do the chuckling, but the Admiral, to signify his annoyance with the dockyard, sent for the Harvey, the big survey ship, and made them take a survey of the whole creek and shift every buoy; whilst I felt my halo increase by a good couple of inches.
About this time London was getting it badly from Zepps. We knew quite well when they were coming over, but so far had been totally unable to prevent them discharging their load of bombs, as, when, and where they wished. Periodically, we of the N.D.F. would get the “Executive Signal” and dash off to take up our respective positions in the estuary of the Thames, in hopes of sighting them.
My pitch was just round the Tongue Lightship, and one such night, after getting “Raid Stations” I blinded out to my position and told the Lightship to put up a small riding light (Her regulation light being a thing of long past.) But a little glimmer would just enable us to keep station and concentrate on listening, instead of dodging sandbanks.
Amongst my signalmen I had a chap who had the most extraordinarily acute hearing. I’ve known him to hear and describe sounds quite outside the ken of anyone on board. I told Number One — in other words the First Lieutenant — to put him on the bridge with nothing else to do but to keep his ears open. Let him sit down, stand up or go where he pleased; for if we were going to have any chance at one of these blighters, we should have to hear him first. All things set; a Tracer in the breech of our one and only anti-aircraft gun, ship just stemming the tide, and I slipped down into my cabin. Not ten minutes later and the Gunner was shouting down the hatchway in a hoarse whisper, “Zeppelin right overhead, sir.” Up on deck like a shot I went, but coming up out of the light, I could see nothing. “There he is, sir,” said the Gunner excitedly, pointing straight up, and there sure enough he was; so close as to blot out the sky, and so directly overhead that the anti-aircraft gun would not bear. In those days they only came within a few degrees of the absolute perpendicular. Everyone in the excitement of the moment had adopted a whisper, for fear we should be heard, I suppose, though what chance there was of that with the row his engines were making, heaven only knows. Calling for the engineer, I told him to give her what steam he could without touching his fires, in case a spark should scare the Zepp away. Slowly we drew out, whilst No. 1 of the gun, with his eyes glued on the telescope waited for the gun sights to “come on.” Everyone was holding their breath, whilst the propeller slowly churned round.
I’d given the order “Action” which the Gunner had supplemented with “Fire when your sights come on.”