A Watch-dog of the North Sea

H.M.S. "POMPEY"

A bugle-call
rang out shrill and clear in the wintry air.

"Thank goodness—at last," murmured Eric Greenwood. "That's an end to 'Action Stations' for the time being. Let me see. Tomorrow coal ship, next day make up the money. Payment on Friday, and ten to one there'll be half a gale of wind—and paper money is a strafed nuisance."

Thus musing, Assistant Paymaster Greenwood, R.N.R., completed his preparations for vacating the fore-top of H.M.S. "Pompey," where he had been acting as assistant to the lieutenant in charge of the fire-control arrangements.

The fore-top, a caged-in structure measuring roughly eight feet by eight, was situated ninety feet above the upper deck. In long-range actions it took the place of the conning-tower as "the brains of the ship," for in that limited aerial perch seven officers and men, all working with a common set purpose, were able to direct salvoes of death-dealing missiles with uncanny accuracy to a target invisible to the guns' crews at their stations behind six inches of Krupp steel.

"Carry on, old man," said Vickers, the lieutenant, indicating a small trap-hatch in the floor of the top. "Be careful; there's ice about."

Greenwood had already made up his mind to be careful. A man who, up to within fifteen months ago, had led an eminently sedate existence as a bank clerk does not take to work aloft with the same agility and confidence inspired by years of training at Osborne and Dartmouth.

At the outbreak of war Eric Greenwood was a ledger clerk at a bank in a quiet Devonshire country town. The notion of serving under the White Ensign had never occurred to him, even in his wildest dreams, until the Admiralty called for additional accountant officers for the Royal Naval Reserve. Eric promptly sent in his application. It was curtly acknowledged; and then followed weeks of tedious, sickening suspense, until, when hope seemed dead, the bank clerk received an envelope marked "O.H.M.S.," the contents of which transformed him into an acting assistant paymaster, R.N.R.

After a short term at the Naval Barracks at Devonport, Greenwood was sent to a small base on the east coast of Scotland. It seemed as if he were fated to remain ashore until the termination of the war, when, to his unbounded satisfaction, he was appointed to H.M.S. "Pompey."

The "Pompey" was an armoured cruiser of 14,000 tons, armed with two 9.2-in. and fourteen 6-in. guns, in addition to several weapons of lighter calibre. Although by no means a modern vessel, she was generally considered to be a "tough nut" and able to give a good account of herself on The Day—that long-expected and long-deferred event—when the Germans finally made up their minds to decide by ordeal of battle whether they could attempt to wrench the trident of sea-power from Britannia's grasp.

Lieutenant Vickers's caution was necessary, for as the A.P. lowered himself through the narrow opening, his feet came in contact with the ratlines of the wire-shrouds. They were slippery with ice, for it had been drizzling, as it almost always did in the North Sea when it was not blowing a gale, and the moisture settling on the rigging had frozen hard.

The ship was rolling considerably. At one moment the starboard shrouds were almost perpendicular, at another they inclined at such an angle that Greenwood was almost lying on his face at full length upon a gigantic wire net. Clouds of eddying, pungent smoke enveloped him, for the vessel had a following wind. The keen blast seemed to cut him like a knife in spite of his bulky, additional clothing.

The young officer descended rapidly. He was anxious to gain the deck for two reasons. He wanted to warm himself by the wardroom fire; he was also aware that a destroyer had a few hours previously sent on board a batch of mails—the first for nearly a fortnight. After thirteen days of patrol work without being in touch with land, the prospect of receiving letters from home was one that outweighed all others, unless, perhaps—harrowing thought!—the mail-bag was a blank so far as Eric was concerned.

"Hello, old bird! A trifle nippy up in your little perch!" exclaimed a voice as Greenwood stepped over the threshold of the wardroom door.

The speaker was a tall, broad-shouldered sub-lieutenant, Ronald Tressidar by name. Between these two there existed a friendship that was almost of lifelong duration, for their respective homes were in the same Devonshire town. Of recent years they had seen little of each other. Their careers were set upon totally different lines till by a pure coincidence they found themselves appointed to H.M.S. "Pompey."

"Beastly cold," agreed Greenwood as he made his way to the letter-rack. Thanks be! There was a goodly sheaf of envelopes bearing his name. Eagerly the A.P. possessed himself of his correspondence and sought a chair in the sadly depleted wardroom, for upon the outbreak of hostilities the cosy atmosphere of the place had given way to a state of almost Spartan simplicity.

Silence reigned. The rest of the officers off duty were literally devouring their greetings from home or else were burying their heads between the pages of newspapers that were at least three days old.

In the warm glow, with his mind fully occupied with thoughts of home and distant friends, Greenwood forgot completely the rigorous period of "Action Stations" in the fore-top. But all things come to an end. Reluctantly the A.P. folded his letters and placed them in his pocket. As he did so he caught Tressidar's eye.

"Anything startling?" asked the sub., taking a vacant place on the lounge within a couple of feet of Greenwood's chair.

"Heaps," replied the A.P. "For one thing, an aeroplane came down on the pater's greenhouse. No one hurt. I can imagine the governor cutting up rough about it. He never could see the humorous side of anything. The mater is still knitting for the troops. I pity the poor fellows who get hold of any of the gear she turns out. Once upon a time in the dire days of my youth she knitted me a pair of socks. I didn't forget to chip her about them, too."

"She makes awfully decent cakes," remarked Tressidar reminiscently.

"She does," agreed the A.P. "And I remember the time when we brought a hammer and a cold chisel to the tea-table and pretended to split the almond paste asunder."

"Wasn't that the cake your sister Doris made?"

"Might have been, now you mention it," said Greenwood. "Talking of Doris, she's now a probationer in the Reserve Nursing Service, and she's appointed to Auldhaig."

"Is that so?" asked Tressidar with ill-feigned disinterestedness. Nevertheless a deep flush overspread his tanned and weather-beaten features. The sub. had always been extremely partial to the girl, but Doris had been in the habit of keeping him severely in his place. That was long before the war.

"Strange that she should be sent to our base," continued Eric. "We may see something of her this Christmas, for I heard the fleet paymaster say that we are likely to remain in harbour until early in the New Year. He had the tip from the engineer-commander, who submitted a list of defects as long as your arm."

As a matter of fact Ronald Tressidar knew more about Doris Greenwood's plans than did her brother, for a letter from the girl was reposing in his pocket. Generally outspoken and communicative in most matters, Tressidar maintained a studious reticence in his chum's presence whenever the subject of Greenwood's nineteen-year-old sister was discussed.

"There's 'Action Stations' again!" exclaimed a lieutenant-commander as a bugle blared on deck.

Instantly there was a rush on the part of the occupants of the wardroom, to the accompaniment of the sharp cracks of the quick-firers.

But before Tressidar gained the deck the danger—at least for the time being—was over. The "Pompey" had ported helm, while at less than twenty yards on the port beam the surface of the water was marked by a pair of diverging lines that indicated the track of a torpedo. By a smart display of helmsmanship the cruiser had escaped destruction.

Already the skipper, who after an arduous night had turned in, was on the bridge, with his feet in carpet slippers and the legs of his pyjama suit showing below the bottom of his great-coat.

"See any signs of a periscope, Mr. Flanders?" he inquired of the officer of the watch.

"No, sir," was the reply. "We opened fire at what turns out to be a floating spar. The torpedo came from broad on our port beam before I ordered the helm to be put hard over."

"Good!" exclaimed Captain Raxworthy. "We'll see if we can't nab her."

In ordinary circumstances a battleship or cruiser that has the good luck to be missed by a hostile torpedo steams off at full speed from the dangerous locality. Should destroyers or patrol boats be in the vicinity, they are brought up at full speed to attempt to intercept the submarine. But on this occasion the "Pompey" was alone in this remote portion of the North Sea.

Contrary to precedent, Captain Raxworthy gave orders for the cruiser to slow down and come to a standstill. At the same time volumes of steam were allowed to hiss through the steam-pipes. All the six-inch and light quick-firers were manned, ready at the first glimpse of the hostile periscope to let fly such a weight of metal that the still submerged hull of the submarine would stand no chance of resisting the powerful shells.

The skipper of the "Pompey" was correct in his surmise. By slowing down and letting off steam the cruiser behaved in much the same way as if she had been actually torpedoed. The crew of the submarine heard the sounds that apparently betokened the cruiser in her death-agonies, and they could not resist the temptation to approach the surface and survey their work through the periscope.

Four hundred yards away on the "Pompey's" starboard quarter a pole-like object shot stealthily above the surface. It wanted the trained eyes of a seaman to discern the ripple of foam that denoted the position. Half a dozen or more of the "Pompey's" crew spotted the expected target.

[Illustration: "A MAELSTROM OF FOAM HID THE SPOT WHERE THE PERISCOPE HAD BEEN VISIBLE"]

The next instant twenty shells were shrieking through the air on their way towards the doomed submarine. A perfect maelstrom of foam, mingled with smoke and fragments of metal hid the spot where the periscope had been visible.

The columns of foam subsided; the smoke drifted rapidly away in the strong breeze; but ominous air-bubbles and an ever-increasing oily patch that had the effect of quieting the crested waves denoted the undisputed fact that yet another
unterseeboot
had shot her last bolt. Eight hours later H.M.S. "Pompey" entered Auldhaig Firth.