In Line of Duty

I

IT’S one bell, sir.’

‘Thanks, Saunders.’

‘And it’s dirty on top, sir. Blowing great guns.’

‘Right! Thanks.’

Behind the sailorman at the door Mr. Cramer could see the heavy rollers curling white against the blackness of the winter’s night, and a dampness of the spray, swirling on the wind, entered and touched his cheeks. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and rose to his feet when the door closed and the light came on again. It had been extinguished when the contact over the door had been broken, so that the whereabouts of the destroyer could not be disclosed to any enemy submarine that might be lurking in the vicinity.

A violent lurch threw him against the bunk. Regaining his balance, he braced himself with his legs wide apart, and, taking his oilskins from their hook on the bulkhead, slowly pulled them on.

‘Dirty,’ he mused, aloud. ‘Might even say it was bloody dirty. A fine night on which to be sent down into the locker.’

On the stroke of eight bells he extinguished the light, opened the door, and stepped cautiously out on to the deck. A fillip of spray struck him full in the face, blinding him; a hurricane gust flattened him against the deck house, where he clung to the storm rail, breathless and, for a moment, afraid.

‘Is that you, sir?’ a voice inquired at his elbow.

‘Yes, Saunders.’

‘Eight bells, sir. It’s not so bad once you get out into it, sir. Seen worse nights, sir. Off Cape Hatteras in a northeaster. Glad, though, I’m not aft on station by the depth charges.’

‘Hm! Yes, Saunders.’

‘Good night, sir.’

Mr. Cramer did not answer. The destroyer, twisting like an eel, sank into the trough. A wave leaped out of the night, towered high upon the beam, and, with a roar like thunder, broke in a smother of foam at his feet. He slipped on the slanting deck and, clinging to the life lines stretched fore and aft, fought his way forward until the protection of the bridge was gained.

‘Is that you, Cramer?’ a voice, boisterous and hearty, greeted him from behind the windshield.

He took a deep breath to quell the wild thumping of his heart and to hide, if possible, the tremor in his voice.

‘Yes, sir! Cramer, sir!’ he shouted, feeling his way into the shelter. ‘ It’s a — it’s a fearful night, sir.’

He pressed close to the other, away from the bite of the spray.

‘It’s a beast of a night, I’m thinking,’ Mr. Smalls, the senior watch keeper, remarked. ‘But it does a man good! Sends the blood coursing through your veins. And just so long as this old tub does n’t break her back and send us to the bottom we’ll be all right.’

‘I’ve been thinking that myself, sir,’ Cramer stammered.

Mr. Smalls pricked up his cars and, turning away from the eye of the wind, peered toward his subordinate as if to see his features through the sodden murkincss.

‘You’ve been thinking what?’ he demanded, curtly.

‘I — I — nothing, sir,’ Cramer answered.

For a while neither of them spoke. The driving spindrift beat a deafening rat-a-tat on the iron shield as it flung down the wind. A squall screeched overhead and was gone, leaving behind a perceptible lull.

‘How long have you been commissioned?’ Mr. Smalls asked.

‘Six months, sir. I applied for shore duty, or duty on one of the capital ships, but instead they sent me across to join the destroyer patrol. Said they were short of officers, so many had been killed. I’ve never been in a small ship before, sir.’

‘You’ll get used to them,’ Mr. Smalls shouted, and asked, after a brief pause, ‘What’s the matter with them anyway?’

‘Nothing, sir. Only she seems so small to be out in a night like this.’

He paused abruptly and clutched the rail as the destroyer dived into the bosom of a sea. Broken water gurgled and growled as it freed itself into the ocean again. A whiplash of spray fell upon the bridge.

In the lull that followed, Mr. Smalls said, ‘Don’t let the size of the vessel worry you. She’s staunch and tight and can take any weather that cares to come along. She’s hove-to now until the sea moderates, or a call for help comes in. There’s no danger from the submarines. They’ll be well down below the surface nursing their torpedoes until the gale sheers off. This is a night off for us — get darned few of them nowadays.’

‘I wish I felt about it all as you do, sir.’

‘You will! In time. The first hundred years are the worst, like in most things. A man feels uneasy until he’s had his baptism of fire — or a bellyful of salt water. It’s like falling in love with a pretty woman. You never can tell how you’re going to come out of it. But you do! ’

Cramer laughed. Neither the wild ravings of the storm nor the laboring of the destroyer seemed so terrible in the presence of his superior.

‘Will the Commander be up, sir?’ he asked.

‘I’ll see when I go below. I hardly think so, though. He is n’t overfond of dirty weather. Can you see all right now?’

‘Yes, sir. Quite all right, sir.’

‘Good! Only the watch keepers are on deck. Usual orders. Sound the general alarm should you sight anything suspicious. Good night, Cramer.’

‘Good night, sir.’

Mr. Cramer felt the murk wraith press close about him when his senior officer left the bridge. Peer as he might from behind the windshield, all he could see was the snarling, white-crested combers. At times they resembled the blurred lights of approaching vessels and he was reassured only when he remembered that vessels sailed in darkness through the submarine zone. Then there were times when it seemed as if the water were breaking over a partly submerged wreck. Spray blinded him, confused him. He pulled the sou’wester down over his forehead to protect his eyes from the torturing pin pricks of water. He clutched the rail with hot moist hands.

II

Mr. Smalls swung down the ladder from the bridge and, groping his way along the wind-swept deck, reached the door of the Commander’s cabin, which he opened and entered. The Commander, pipe in mouth, was sitting jammed in the corner of the settee playing cribbage with the surgeon, who was balancing precariously on a chair. Between them they supported the table against the capering of the destroyer.

‘Everything is O.K., sir,’ Mr. Smalls reported, taking off his sou’wester and wiping the salt from his face, which glowed a healthy red. ‘She’s taking quite a bit of water, but otherwise she’s lying snug.’

‘Hmm!’ the Commander mumbled. He reached over and shifted the pegs on the cribbage board. ‘I got you that time, Doc.’

The surgeon laughed. He had been winning every night for a week.

‘What’s that you reported?’ the Commander asked, looking from beneath his bushy eyebrows at Mr. Smalls.

‘ Everything O.K., sir. Weather moderating, if anything.’

‘ Hmm. Good! How is young Cramer making out?’

‘A little nervous, sir. He has n’t cast loose the apron strings yet. But there’s the makings of a fine officer in him.’

The Commander nodded and, striking a match, puffed at his pipe. ‘His father had the guts of a lion. We were shipmates in the old days.’ He toyed with the cards lying before him on the table, passed his eyes over them. ‘Do you think I can leave him up there until this game is played out? I’m always at my best when the wind’s howling.’

‘Yes, sir,’Mr. Smalls stated. ‘He’ll be all right. There’s nothing moving to-night, in this weather.’

‘Right. Good night.’

‘Good night, sir.’

Mr. Smalls donned his sou’wester and went out. The Commander picked up his cards and the game continued. The surgeon gained and held the lead. Oblivious of the shrieking of the gale, they shuffled the cards and played, and shifted the pegs along the board.

Suddenly the lights within the cabin were extinguished. The weather door opened, banged back on its hinges. A gust of wet wind entered and swept the cards to the deck.

‘Damn!’ shouted the Commander. ‘Who’s there?’

The lights flashed on and revealed a wireless operator, bareheaded and streaming with water, standing respectfully just inside the door.

‘Have you left all your bloody brains in the office from which you were recruited?’ thundered the Commander, swinging round toward the operator, whose pale face showed his fright. ‘ What do you mean by entering by the weather door?’

‘I — I’ve got a message, sir,’ the operator stammered.

‘Message be damned! What gives it the privilege of entering by the weather door?’

‘It’s an SOS, sir.’

The Commander turned toward the surgeon.

‘Did you ever hear the like of it?’ he shouted. ‘An SOS can come in and blow our cards all over the place!’

The surgeon threw back his head and guffawed.

‘It’s war time, sir. Perhaps there’s a little real work for us to do.’

The Commander snorted and turned again toward the wireless operator.

‘Here!’ he said, gruffly. ‘Give me the message and get out. Remember in future, the weather door’s for fools and admirals.’

The wireless operator handed over the message, mumbled that he was sorry, and left the cabin.

‘ Pick up the cards and deal them out, Doc,’ the Commander said. ‘I’ll be ready for you as soon as I look into this.’

He tore open the flap of the envelope and, spreading the message flat on the table, read aloud: —

‘Steamship Monklight position approximately one hundred miles south Fastnet Rock. Disabled by shell fire from submarine before dark. Have lost sight of submarine, but believe she is submerged close to, waiting to finish us at daylight. Have on board two hundred and one survivors from steamship Muniston. Must have immediate assistance.

‘Cramer, Master’

He looked up and across the table at the surgeon, a question in his eyes.

‘I wonder if that’s young Cramer’s brother. He quit the navy for the transport service. More excitement, he reckoned, and no red tape. He’s damnably vague, Doc. One hundred miles south of the Fastnet Rock. . . . One hundred miles! Jove, Doc! That’s in our patrol! ’

He rose from the settee, walked over to a chart that was pinned to the bulkhead, measured roughly with a pencil he took from his pocket, nodded to himself, and walked back to the table.

‘ I should judge she lies sixty miles in the wind’s eye from us, though it’s difficult to estimate. We have n’t had a position — an accurate one, I mean — for a couple of days, and most likely he’s in a similar fix. Dead reckoning is not very reliable when you’re dodging about like we’ve been. She’ll be lying without lights, too — wallowing about.’

‘How soon can we make her, d’you think?’ the surgeon asked.

The Commander furrowed his brows and scribbled a few figures on the table top.

‘ Heaven only knows, with a sea like this running. Six hours, perhaps — mebbe more.’ He looked up at the clock on the bulkhead. ‘Jove!’ he exclaimed. ‘Almost ten o’clock! Have we been playing all that time?’ He mused for a moment. ‘Sixty miles away and eight hours in which to make it. That would put us in her vicinity at dawn. Time enough. The submarine will be under the surface, but she’ll get busy with the first streaks of light.’

The surgeon sighed happily. ‘I suppose we’ll get busy, too,’ he said. ‘I’m just bursting for a thrill.’

‘Hmm! Thrill!’ sniffed the Commander. ‘You might get more than you bargained for.’

He rose to his feet, grasped a stanchion as the destroyer heeled heavily over, waited until she came back to an even keel, then walked quickly over to the forward bulkhead and took the speaking tube from its hook. A rush of air whistled through it as the plug was extracted. He put the mouthpiece to his lips and blew sharply.

‘Yes, sir! Signalman, sir!’ a hoarse voice answered.

‘Call the officer of the watch,’ the Commander said.

There was a moment of waiting.

‘Sir!’ came down the tube.

‘Ah! That you, Cramer?’ the Commander asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good! Increase to half speed. Let me know how she stands it. Maintain course to the sou’west. There’s a vessel in distress to the sou’ard of the Fastnet. I’ll be up shortly. Keep your eyes skinned. Repeat!’

Mr. Cramer obeyed. The Commander snapped the mouthpiece back into its place, returned the tube to its bracket on the bulkhead, and lurched across his cabin to the settee.

‘Come on, Doc,’ he said, ‘deal them out. I had you on the run. A few more games and you can go to your bunk while I go up into the weather.’

III

Mr. Cramer passed word down into the engine room to increase to half speed; then, hugging the oilskins closely about his person, he stepped from the wheelhouse and fought his way into the shelter of the windshield. There was a wild fluttering within his heart, and his eyes, red-inflamed from the incessant battering of the spray, peered timorously through the howling darkness toward the bow. The destroyer, feeling the urge of her engines, reared and dived, shook until it seemed that every rivet in her hull would be loosened, then heeled dangerously, scooped up the sea, and recovered with water gushing from her in a million cascades. He wondered how long she could withstand the terrific battering. It seemed to him that at any moment she would break up and founder.

But five bells struck — six — and nothing happened. In one hour more it would be midnight and he would be relieved. The thought was like a beacon shining through the murk wraith of his fears. He counted the seas that leaped before the bows — one, two, fifteen to the minute — and calculated how many more there were to come before his watch was over.

Seven bells struck! Four hundred and fifty seas! Midnight lay close ahead! Then out of the darkness there leaped a wall of water. The destroyer reared like a colt on its haunches, dived quivering throughout her length, and vibrated to a resounding crash. Water, live water, struck the deck beneath his feet until it felt as if it would be wrenched from the angle irons that supported it. Spray flung against the windshield, pinnacled high, and, falling, half drowned him.

In a second he was in the wheelhouse at the speaking tube. The whistle shrieked weirdly as he reached to pull it out.

‘Cramer, sir!’ he shouted into the mouthpiece. ‘She’s taking heavy water, sir. That last one caught her on the forward part of the house. She’ll be breaking herself up if this speed is maintained.’

The Commander sighed with relief. He had thought it was something else. A mine, or a derelict — he was n’t quite sure, the thought had come and gone so quickly. His anxiety disappeared.

‘ It will take more than a sea to smash her up!’ he shouted, with some heat. ‘Keep her as she is going. If she docs smash up you ’ll be drowned — and it is the duty of a naval officer to be either drowned or killed in the pursuance of his occupation. We are now proceeding in answer to a call for help.’

He snapped the mouthpiece back into its socket. He had n’t intended to speak so arrogantly. It was the reaction. . . .

‘I’d better get up on top, Doc,’ he said, quietly. ‘Cramer is slightly uneasy.’

Mr. Cramer heard the click of the speaking tube as it was replaced in its bracket. It was like a slap in the face. The rebuff staggered him. It was n’t that he was afraid, he argued with himself. But he was n’t sure of himself on the bridge, alone, in the gale. He peered at the clock — twenty-five minutes to midnight — and walked toward the wheelhouse door.

‘Something right ahead! ’ The warning cry came from the lookout man on the lee corner of the bridge.

‘What’s that?’ yelled Mr. Cramer, racing out toward the windshield.

‘Something ahead, sir!’ shouted the voice, strangely calm.

‘Where?’ Mr. Cramer shouted to gain time in which to quell the flood of emotion that strove to smother him.

‘Ahead, sir! Collision, sir!’ drawled the voice.

Clinging to the bridge rail, the sou’wester flung from his head, Mr. Cramer stood clear of the windshield peering into the blinding murkiness of the storm. The wind clawed at his clothing; the rain and spindrift lashed upon his eyes, burning them like drops of molten lead; the wind, shrieking past, deafened him. There was something ahead! Close ahead! He peered, seeking it.

Then, in a flash, he saw it. So close that he had almost missed it. A deeper blackness against the blackness of the night. Like a cliff. A long white line of foam, curling, tumbling. Ahead! No, not quite ahead! There was a break, an emptiness, where the white line met the heaping darkness of the sea.

‘Hard aport! Put your helm hard aport! Quick’s the word, quartermaster!’ His voice was so firm he hardly recognized it as his own. ‘That’s right! Over with it!’

He flung the handle of the starboard engine telegraph to ‘Stop.’ He ordered the general alarm sounded. He clung to the rails, watching, waiting!

From deep down in the bowels of the destroyer came the clangor of the engine-room telegraph as the chains raced back and forth over the cogged brass wheels. Steam hissed, whined, shrieked. The general alarm sounded its clanging note. Doors banged open. Voices burst excitedly above the tumult of the storm. The plug blew from the speaking tube and fell, with a metallic clank, to the deck within the wheelhouse.

Higher and higher towered the blackness until it and the night were almost one. The long white line reached out, stopped, and grew shorter on one side.

A voice, as from a distance, said, ‘She’ll make it, sir.’

Mr. Cramer nodded. He knew the lookout man could not see him, but he nodded just the same. He felt a glow of power, of strength.

‘Steady her up as she is now, quartermaster! ’ he shouted, a note of relief, of triumph, in his voice. The danger was past. With an easy swing he flung the engine-room telegraphs back and forth.

‘What’s all the excitement, Cramer? ’ the Commander shouted into his ear. A hint of derision in the voice brought him back to earth.

‘A — a large vessel loomed up right ahead, sir, with no lights on her, sir!’ Cramer yelled, his hands cupped around his mouth. ‘Cleared her by inches. I — I — I thought we wouldn’t make it. She was right under the bow. She’s on the starboard quarter now, sir — seems to be stopped, sir.’

‘What are we doing?’

‘Lying to, sir — going dead slow ahead, sir. I — I — I thought you might want to communicate with her. I believe the wind’s easing, sir.’

‘Hmm!’ the Commander grunted. ‘You thought so, did you, eh?’

At that moment an oilskin-clad figure swung on to the bridge, halted near the windshield, and peered ahead.

‘Commander, sir?’ It was the voice of Mr. Smalls.

‘Here!’

Mr. Smalls went through the motion of saluting. ‘All hands standing by at stations, sir,’ he reported.

‘ Good!’

The Commander walked over on to the starboard wing of the bridge and gazed toward the dark outline of the strange vessel lying beyond the quarter. A long white line of breaking water told how near she lay.

‘Call her up,’ he ordered. ‘Get her name, port, where bound, and general particulars.’

The order was passed on to the signalman. The light of a small sectional blinker pierced the gloom. A faint answering glimmer shone like a star through the drifting murkiness.

Mr. Cramer put the sou’wester back on to his head as large drops of rain pit-patted on the deck. It was cold against his skin like the chummy nose of a friendly dog. His face was burning up with the lashing of the spindrift and with the mad rush of blood which had flooded to his head in the excitement of the moment that had passed. His moment, he thought, although he could not understand what had governed him, what had compelled him to do as he did. It was beyond his comprehension. It was sufficient to know that an accident had been averted and the wind was dying away, changing the whitecrested seas into long, smooth, steepbosomed swells.

Mr. Smalls left the signalman and walked across into the starboard wing of the bridge.

‘Report, sir,’ he said.

‘Good!’ answered the Commander. ‘What have you got?’

Mr. Smalls flashed a dim light from a bull’s-eye lamp on the signal pad and read: —

’Her name’s the Monklight, sir. Bound Baltimore to London. Cargo steel billets. Chased and disabled by shell fire from submarine before dark. Have survivors of steamship Muniston on board. That’s all, sir.’

A strangled gasp came from Mr. Cramer’s throat. He took a step toward the starboard wing, stepped back.

‘That’s my brother’s ship, sir!’ he cried.

The Commander’s head came out of the darkness toward him, sending a chill to his spine.

‘What the hell’s that got to do with you?’ the Commander shouted. ‘Stand by your telegraphs and mind your own business! ’

Mr. Cramer took three paces backward as though he had been struck in the face. The Commander snorted and turned to Mr. Smalls.

‘Send word across that we’ll take his survivors on board at daybreak. He can send them across in his lifeboats. Instruct the master to make the transfer as expeditiously as possible in case of a torpedo attack. He and his crew can remain by the vessel. We’ll stand by them until a tug and escort arrive from Queenstown. That’s all. Carry on.’ He faced the navigator and continued: ‘Keep all hands on stations. Maintain a distance of four hundred yards from the disabled vessel. Carry on.’

IV

Hours passed as the destroyer circled the Monklight like a collie tending a sheep that had strayed from the flock. Then, to the relief of the watchers, the dawn crept into the sky, a slow dawn held back by the smothering murk of the storm that had passed to the eastward. The Monklight appeared derelict and forlorn, her sides streaked with rust which seemed like ugly, bloody wounds in the graying of the day.

‘Pass word around to keep a sharp lookout,’ the Commander ordered.

Mr. Cramer nodded and obeyed. He did it mechanically, hardly knowing what he did. His thoughts and eyes were on the vessel that lay helpless in the trough.

He saw the sailormen moving about her decks; watched them swing the lifeboats out and lower them to the bulwark rail. Men, and women too, climbed into them. Their voices came across the water in shrill excitement, and quieted, with suspense, when the tackle falls grunted on the sheaves, lowering the boats toward the sea.

‘Have you plenty of knotted lines and ladders hanging over the sides for the people to grab hold of as we steam past?’ the Commander asked, behind him.

‘Everything is ready, sir,’ Mr. Smalls answered.

‘Good!’

The lifeboats were almost in the water. The occupants were scrambling about, fearful of the terrible experience. The officers in charge were shouting orders, and motioning for everyone to sit down.

‘Torpedo on starboard bow, sir!’ The voice of the forward-masthead lookout man came bellowing through the dawn.

Mr. Cramer stood rooted to the spot, stark terror robbing him of the power to move.

The Commander leaped to the forward bridge rail and glanced to starboard. One look was enough!

‘Hard aport, quartermaster!’ he shouted, ‘Full astern, Mr. Cramer!’

Mr. Cramer grasped the handles of the telegraphs, but he did not throw them over to convey the order which had been given to the engineers waiting in the bowels of the destroyer. His arms froze in their sockets. Somewhere, within his head, there flashed a picture. His eyes saw the long, white wake of the speeding engine of destruction weaving its way like a snake on the gray waters of the morning sea well off the starboard bow and heading toward the Monklight, lying helplessly to port. They saw the lifeboats . . . saw the people . . . saw that they were doomed — unless —

His arms came to life! Resolutely, exultantly, he flung the engine-room telegraph handles to ‘Full Speed.’

‘Steady as you go, quartermaster!’ he yelled, oblivious of the consternation on the faces of those about him. He did not look behind to see if his order was being carried out; instead, his eyes were glued on the white ribbon that was the wake of the torpedo. On, on it raced.

Steam hissed through the pipes as boilers were cut in. The destroyer trembled, vibrated, leaped to life, directly ahead, to cross the track of the hidden menace.

As from a trance the Commander came to action. He reached the engineroom telegraphs in a bound.

‘Blast you!’ he shouted, and heaved Mr. Cramer out of his way with his shoulder. Then, with his hands on the handles of the telegraph, he stopped, staring wide-eyed on to the surface of the sea to starboard. No use to come astern, he knew. Ahead! Ahead! There was a chance. He flung the handles back and forth violently to urge them down in the engine room to greater speed.

‘ Every man for himself when it strikes!’ he shouted. ‘Pass the word along!’

Into the line of the deadly white ribbon the destroyer sped. One hundred feet off her bow it showed, onrushing straight as an arrow. Ninety . . . eighty. . . . It was broad on the beam of the bridge. The Commander ran into the starboard wing. It would catch the poop — yet there was a chance . . .

‘Hard aport! God! Put it over!’ he yelled.

One moment more! All hands looked aft.

‘Get it hard over, quartermaster!’ The Commander’s voice rose to a screech.

The destroyer heeled to starboard as the weight of water pressed upon her rudder. The stern commenced to swing. Mr. Cramer, standing by the rail on the bridge, looked aft and saw it all as through a haze. The torpedo was going clear, proceeding on its way toward the Monklight and the lifeboats lying alongside laden with helpless men and women. He experienced the lethargy of defeat where but a second before was the triumph of death. Then, once again, the picture flashed within his head. Saunders was on the poop standing by the rack of depth charges and looking forward toward the bridge. Mr. Cramer put his whistle in his mouth, blew two long shrill blasts and one short one. The sailorman answered with a wave of his hand, reached forward, released a charge.

The Commander swore. Mr. Cramer laughed, crazily, foolishly. He could feel his head going round and round. He reached up to stop it, but could n’t.

A second of waiting — a long, long second of wailing. Years must be flying past. He was growing old — all his senses were leaving him.

A thunderous detonation! The stern of the destroyer heaved up. Her engines spluttered — raced — steadied! Water, a mass of water, — twenty, fifty, a hundred tons, — rose high into the air, spread out like a gigantic feathered fan, and hid the Monklight from view. Then, as quickly as it had risen, it flopped back into the sea from whence it had come.

Silence again — and daylight. Mr. Cramer clung to the bridge rail and looked out across the sea. The Monklight was there, becoming larger and more distinct every second. The lifeboats, crowded to their gunwales, were being rowed across the water. The torpedo had been destroyed or its course diverted by the explosion of the depth charge. He drew his sleeve across his brow, which was wet with perspiration. He felt weak at the knees and a queer palpitation played within his heart.

‘Drop a circle of depth charges,’ he heard the Commander order. ‘They will scare the submarine off if they do not sink her.’

The course of the destroyer was altered away from the Monklight. Mr. Cramer watched the foam-circling wake, afraid to look around at the man who stood beside him.

‘Good work, Cramer,’ he heard the Commander say, ‘but it was a grave risk to take. Good work, though!’

Footsteps receded behind him. He wanted to look around. He wanted to shout, ‘It’s the duty of a naval officer to be killed in the pursuance of his occupation.’ But what was the use, he thought.

He walked across the bridge and took up his station by the engine-room telegraph.