The Mystery Ship 10

The Mystery Ship 10

"Dunno, sir they comes and goes all hours of the day and night, an'

not havin' no names painted on 'em, and bein' all disguised-like, I

can't tell no more'n a nooborn baby."

 

The duty-boat rubbed gently alongside the stone steps of the jetty.

Von Preussen stepped ashore, returned the sentry's salute, and

inquired the way to the adjutant's office.

 

"X-barges?" queried the adjutant. "None this side. We used to borrow

'em from the dockyard, but we transferred most of our observation

balloons more than a month ago, and so we don't require the barges.

But now you are here, come and have lunch. It's close on one-thirty."

 

"Many fellows here?" asked the spy, as he accompanied his host across

the wide parade-ground to a long wooden hut used as the mess.

 

"Twenty," was the reply. "All old R.F.C. and R.N.A.S. men. Most of

them have been here for quite a long time. It's a posh station, and

once here a fellow doesn't want to be transferred elsewhere."

 

In the absence of the commanding officer, the head of the table was

taken by the major. On his right sat the adjutant. Next to him was

placed von Preussen, who on his right had a youngster who looked

barely eighteen, yet he wore a captain's uniform, embellished by the

ribbons of the D.S.O. and M.C.

 

The lunch was liberal and appetising. Deft-handed girls in W.R.A.F.

uniforms were kept busily employed in attending to the wants of

twenty odd ravenous officers, for the keen northern air, combined

with plenty of out-door activity, created vast appetites.

 

As the meal progressed, conversation, at first desultory, grew in

volume and interest. Although "shop" figured largely, strictly

official matters were rigidly tabooed. Von Preussen had again to

confess that from his point of view he was getting precious little

change out of the entertainment.

 

"Did you say you were from Calshot?" inquired the officer on the

spy's right.

 

"No--from Sheerness," replied von Preussen, devoutly hoping that none

of the men present had been stationed there recently.

 

"Who said Calshot?" inquired an indignant voice lower down the table.

"Beastly hole!"

 

"What's that?" demanded the major.

 

"Had to spend a night there, sir," was, the reply. "Forced landing.

They gave me a cubicle that was more like a condemned cell. Concrete

walls and floor dripping with moisture; not even a mat on the floor;

a bedstead without a mattress and only two blankets. No other

furniture. In the morning I had the worst breakfast I ever had on

this side of the North Sea. Filthy margarine, rancid bacon and weak

tea; and they took jolly good care to make me plank down half a

dollar on the nail for my breakfast. Ugh! Makes me shudder to think

of it."

 

"Sheerness," remarked the captain, returning to the attack. "You must

know Smithers, then? A big, fat chap, with a mole just under his eye.

He's been quartermaster there since '16."

 

Von Preussen acknowledged that he knew the quartermaster. He could

not very well have denied it in the face of his inquisitor's remarks.

 

"And Tomlinson?" continued the latter. "Suppose he's still there, but

I haven't heard from him recently. A short, very dark-featured old

bean, with a very dry sense of humour. Plays 'pack and brag' every

available five minutes, and uses most atrocious language when he's

put out and when he isn't."

 

"Tomlinson was sent to Dunkirk last month," declared von Preussen

mendaciously; then, eager to change what was a most distasteful and

embarrassing topic, he inquired:

 

"Is there a decent theatre at Auldhaig?"

 

"Not bad," replied Captain Cumberleigh--for that was the name of

von Preussen's heckler. "'Maid of the Mountains' is on to-night. Seen

it? Then, by Jove, you must, you priceless old thing!" he exclaimed

effusively. "No, we won't take a refusal. We've booked a box, and you

simply must come. After your fruitless journey to inspect those

X-lighters, you owe yourself some relaxation. And I say, Jefferson,"

he continued, addressing a lieutenant across the table, "we'll take

Fennelburt out fishing this afternoon, just to kill time. Fine sport

just off the harbour."

 

"I ought to be on my way back," protested von Preussen, as he weighed

up the possible advantages and disadvantages of remaining at Auldhaig

Air Station.

 

"Rot, you conscientious old blighter!" said Cumberleigh boisterously.

"In any case, you wouldn't get further than Edinburgh to-night. We'll

fix you up with a cabin, and you'll be all O.K., old bean!"

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IX

 

HOW THE LIGHTERS FARED

 

 

"HOPE the brutes won't konk," thought Sub-lieutenant Jock McIntosh,

R.N.V.R., as he dispassionately surveyed the unlovely outlines of

X-lighters 5 and 6.

 

After being second-in-command of a crack M.L., McIntosh felt no

violent enthusiasm over his job--to take the two cumbersome craft to

a strange port eighty odd miles along the coast. At a maximum speed

of five knots, it meant a sixteen hours' run; but McIntosh, knowing

the vagaries of the X-lighters' motors, refrained from being sanguine

on the matter.

 

It was one of the jobs that fall to all branches of the Navy. With a

strange crew, and not having navigated a lighter before, McIntosh was

taking on "some stunt." He had charts and navigating instruments, but

he would have felt easier in his mind had he possessed "local

knowledge" of this part of the coast. On an M.L., where he was under

a competent officer, navigation was fairly simple as far as the Sub

was concerned; but now the whole responsibility of getting his

charges safely into port rested on his shoulders.

 

It was the morning of von Preussen's visit to Auldhaig. The fog had

dispersed. In its wake had sprung up a fresh southerly breeze, which

in turn gave indications of decreasing in velocity before noon.

 

Stopping to give his final instructions to the coxwain of No. 6, and

impressing upon him to follow at a cable's length in her consort's

wake, McIntosh boarded the lighter which for the nonce was to be the

leading craft. Already the twin heavy oil engines were "warming up,"

making the decks quiver, and filling the air with oil-laden smoke.

 

Making his way aft to the rough wooden hut that served as a

wheel-house, the Sub gave the signal to the engine-room staff to

"stand by."

 

"Rummiest packets that ever sailed under the White Ensign," he

soliloquised, as his eye caught sight of the dingy bunting floating

from the yard-arm of the lighters' stumpy masts. "Ah, well; it's all

in a day's work."

 

He gave the telegraph lever another jerk.

 

"Cast off!" he shouted.

 

Sluggishly the deeply-laden barge gathered way. She had a freeboard

of barely ten inches--a fact that portended wet decks before long.

 

Having satisfied himself that No. 6 was following, McIntosh devoted

his attention to shaping a course out of harbour, undergoing a dozen

mental thrills as his unwieldy packet scraped past buoys and showed a

decided tendency to commit suicide across the steel stems of a couple

of anchored cruisers.

 

Once clear of the harbour, the Sub called to a seaman.

 

"Take her," he ordered, handing over the wheel. "Keep her as she is:

south a half west."

 

"South a half west it is, sir," replied the man in the time-honoured

formula of the sea.

 

Free to devote his attention to other things, McIntosh secured the

storm-flap of his oilskin coat and, leaving the shelter of the

wheel-house, looked towards the following boat.

 

No. 6 was coming along well. The "bone in her teeth" glistened white

as she pushed her snub nose through the waves. Both craft were

"taking it green" as the water flowed over the tarpaulined hatches

and surged along the broad waterways.

 

"We'll carry our tide for another hour," he said to himself. "Then

it'll be a slow job. One thing, we can't have every blessed thing in

life, but I hope to goodness nothing goes wrong."

 

He glanced ahead. In an incredibly short space of time, the bold

outlines of Dunkennet Head had vanished. Dead to windward haze,

possibly fog, was bearing down. It was something that McIntosh had

not bargained for. The glass had shown indications of fine weather,

but unfortunately it was not capable of indicating the approach of

mist.

 

"Hazy ahead," he remarked to the petty officer.

 

"Yes, sir," was the reply. "Will you be altering course a point or

so, sir? There's a nasty set of the tide inshore about these parts."

 

"Yes," decided the Sub, and gave the necessary instructions to the helmsman.