Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1142 page)

“And if you hit a mine?” I asked.

“You go up — but you hadn’t ought to hit em’, if you’re careful. The thing is to get hold of the first mine all right, and then you go on to the next, and so on, in a way o’ speakin’.”

“And you can fish, too, ‘tween times,” said a voice from the next boat. A man leaned over and returned a borrowed mug. They talked about fishing — notably that once they caught some red mullet, which the “common sweeper” and his neighbour both agreed was “not natural in those waters.” As for mere sweeping, it bored them profoundly to talk about it. I only learned later as part of the natural history of mines, that if you rake the tri-nitro-toluol by hand out of a German mine you develop eruptions and skin-poisoning. But on the authority of two experts, there is nothing in sweeping. Nothing whatever!

A Block in the Traffic

Now imagine, not a pistol-shot from these crowded quays, a little Office hung round with charts that are pencilled and noted over various shoals and soundings. There is a movable list of the boats at work, with quaint and domestic names. Outside the window lies the packed harbour — outside that again the line of traffic up and down — a stately cinema-show of six ships to the hour. For the moment the film sticks. A boat — probably a “common sweeper” — reports an obstruction in a traffic lane a few miles away. She has found and exploded one mine. The Office heard the dull boom of it before the wireless report came in. In all likelihood there is a nest of them there. It is possible that a submarine may have got in last night between certain shoals and laid them out. The shoals are being shepherded in case she is hidden anywhere, but the boundaries of the newly discovered mine-area must be fixed and the traffic deviated. There is a tramp outside with tugs in attendance. She has hit something and is leaking badly. Where shall she go? The Office gives her her destination — the harbour is too full for her to settle down here. She swings off between the faithful tugs. Down coast some one asks by wireless if they shall hold up their traffic. It is exactly like a signaller “offering” a train to the next block. “Yes,” the Office replies. “Wait a while. If it’s what we think, there will be a little delay. If it isn’t what we think, there will be a little longer delay.” Meantime, sweepers are nosing round the suspected area — ”looking for cuckoos’ eggs,” as a voice suggests; and a patrol-boat lathers her way down coast to catch and stop anything that may be on the move, for skippers are sometimes rather careless. Words begin to drop out of the air into the chart-hung Office. “Six and a half cables south, fifteen east” of something or other. “Mark it well, and tell them to work up from there,” is the order. “Another mine exploded!” “Yes, and we heard that too,” says the Office. “What about the submarine?” “
Elizabeth Huggins
reports...”

Elizabeth’s
scandal must be fairly high flavoured, for a torpedo-boat of immoral aspect slings herself out of harbour and hastens to share it. If
Elizabeth
has not spoken the truth, there may be words between the parties. For the present a pencilled suggestion seems to cover the case, together with a demand, as far as one can make out, for “more common sweepers.” They will be forthcoming very shortly. Those at work have got the run of the mines now, and are busily howking them up. A trawler-skipper wishes to speak to the Office. “They” have ordered him out, but his boiler, most of it, is on the quay at the present time, and “ye’ll remember, it’s the same wi’ my foremast an’ port rigging, sir.” The Office does not precisely remember, but if boiler and foremast are on the quay the rest of the ship had better stay alongside. The skipper falls away relieved. (He scraped a tramp a few nights ago in a bit of a sea.) There is a little mutter of gun-fire somewhere across the grey water where a fleet is at work. A monitor as broad as she is long comes back from wherever the trouble is, slips through the harbour mouth, all wreathed with signals, is received by two motherly lighters, and, to all appearance, goes to sleep between them. The Office does not even look up; for that is not in their department. They have found a trawler to replace the boilerless one. Her name is slid into the rack. The immoral torpedo-boat flounces back to her moorings. Evidently what
Elizabeth Huggins
said was not evidence. The messages and replies begin again as the day closes.

The Night Patrol

Return now to the inner harbour. At twilight there was a stir among the packed craft like the separation of dried tea-leaves in water. The swing-bridge across the basin shut against us. A boat shot out of the jam, took the narrow exit at a fair seven knots and rounded in the outer harbour with all the pomp of a flagship, which was exactly what she was. Others followed, breaking away from every quarter in silence. Boat after boat fell into line — gear stowed away, spars and buoys in order on their clean decks, guns cast loose and ready, wheel-house windows darkened, and everything in order for a day or a week or a month out. There was no word anywhere. The interrupted foot-traffic stared at them as they slid past below. A woman beside me waved her hand to a man on one of them, and I saw his face light as he waved back. The boat where they had demonstrated for me with matches was the last. Her skipper hadn’t thought it worth while to tell me that he was going that evening. Then the line straightened up and stood out to sea.

“You never said this was going to happen,” I said reproachfully to my A.B.

“No more I did,” said he. “It’s the night-patrol going out. Fact is, I’m so used to the bloomin’ evolution that it never struck me to mention it as you might say.”

Next morning I was at service in a man-of-war, and even as we came to the prayer that the Navy might “be a safeguard to such as pass upon the sea on their lawful occasions,” I saw the long procession of traffic resuming up and down the Channel — six ships to the hour. It has been hung up for a bit, they said.

Farewell and adieu to you, Greenwich ladies, Farewell and adieu to you, ladies ashore! For we’ve received orders to work to the eastward Where we hope in a short time to strafe ‘em some more.

We’ll duck and we’ll dive like little tin turtles, We’ll duck and we’ll dive underneath the North Seas, Until we strike something that doesn’t expect us, From here to Cuxhaven it’s go as you please!

The first thing we did was to dock in a mine-field, Which isn’t a place where repairs should be done; And there we lay doggo in twelve-fathom water With tri-nitro-toluol hogging our run.

The next thing we did, we rose under a Zeppelin, With his shiny big belly half blocking the sky. But what in the — Heavens can you do with six-pounders? So we fired what we had and we bade him good-bye.

SUBMARINES

I

The chief business of the Trawler Fleet is to attend to the traffic. The submarine in her sphere attends to the enemy. Like the destroyer, the submarine has created its own type of officer and man — with language and traditions apart from the rest of the Service, and yet at heart unchangingly of the Service. Their business is to run monstrous risks from earth, air, and water, in what, to be of any use, must be the coldest of cold blood.

The commander’s is more a one-man job, as the crew’s is more team-work, than any other employment afloat. That is why the relations between submarine officers and men are what they are. They play hourly for each other’s lives with Death the Umpire always at their elbow on tiptoe to give them “out.”

There is a stretch of water, once dear to amateur yachtsmen, now given over to scouts, submarines, destroyers, and, of course, contingents of trawlers. We were waiting the return of some boats which were due to report. A couple surged up the still harbour in the afternoon light and tied up beside their sisters. There climbed out of them three or four high-booted, sunken-eyed pirates clad in sweaters, under jackets that a stoker of the last generation would have disowned. This was their first chance to compare notes at close hand. Together they lamented the loss of a Zeppelin — ”a perfect mug of a Zepp,” who had come down very low and offered one of them a sitting shot. “But what
can
you do with our guns? I gave him what I had, and then he started bombing.”

“I know he did,” another said. “I heard him. That’s what brought me down to you. I thought he had you that last time.”

“No, I was forty foot under when he hove out the big un. What happened to
you
?”

“My steering-gear jammed just after I went down, and I had to go round in circles till I got it straightened out. But
wasn’t
he a mug!”

“Was he the brute with the patch on his port side?” a sister-boat demanded.

“No! This fellow had just been hatched. He was almost sitting on the water, heaving bombs over.”

“And my blasted steering-gear went and chose
then
to go wrong,” the other commander mourned. “I thought his last little egg was going to get me!”

Half an hour later, I was formally introduced to three or four quite strange, quite immaculate officers, freshly shaved, and a little tired about the eyes, whom I thought I had met before.

Labour and Refreshment

Meantime (it was on the hour of evening drinks) one of the boats was still unaccounted for. No one talked of her. They rather discussed motor-cars and Admiralty constructors, but — it felt like that queer twilight watch at the front when the homing aeroplanes drop in. Presently a signaller entered. “V 42 outside, sir; wants to know which channel she shall use.” “Oh, thank you. Tell her to take so-and-so.” ... Mine, remember, was vermouth and bitters, and later on V 42 himself found a soft chair and joined the committee of instruction. Those next for duty, as well as those in training, wished to hear what was going on, and who had shifted what to where, and how certain arrangements had worked. They were told in language not to be found in any printable book. Questions and answers were alike Hebrew to one listener, but he gathered that every boat carried a second in command — a strong, persevering youth, who seemed responsible for everything that went wrong, from a motor cylinder to a torpedo. Then somebody touched on the mercantile marine and its habits.

Said one philosopher: “They can’t be expected to take any more risks than they do.
I
wouldn’t, if I was a skipper. I’d loose off at any blessed periscope I saw.”

“That’s all very fine. You wait till you’ve had a patriotic tramp trying to strafe you at your own back-door,” said another.

Some one told a tale of a man with a voice, notable even in a Service where men are not trained to whisper. He was coming back, empty-handed, dirty, tired, and best left alone. From the peace of the German side he had entered our hectic home-waters, where the usual tramp shelled, and by miraculous luck, crumpled his periscope. Another man might have dived, but Boanerges kept on rising. Majestic and wrathful he rose personally through his main hatch, and at 2000 yards (have I said it was a still day?) addressed the tramp. Even at that distance she gathered it was a Naval officer with a grievance, and by the time he ran alongside she was in a state of coma, but managed to stammer: “Well, sir, at least you’ll admit that our shooting was pretty good.”

“And that,” said my informant, “put the lid on!” Boanerges went down lest he should be tempted to murder; and the tramp affirms she heard him rumbling beneath her, like an inverted thunder-storm, for fifteen minutes.

“All those tramps ought to be disarmed, and
we
ought to have all their guns,” said a voice out of a corner.

“What? Still worrying over your ‘mug’?” some one replied.

“He
was
a mug!” went on the man of one idea. “If I’d had a couple of twelves even, I could have strafed him proper. I don’t know whether I shall mutiny, or desert, or write to the First Sea Lord about it.”

“Strafe all Admiralty constructors to begin with.
I
could build a better boat with a 4-inch lathe and a sardine-tin than —  — ,” the speaker named her by letter and number.

“That’s pure jealousy,” her commander explained to the company. “Ever since I installed — ahem! — my patent electric washbasin he’s been intriguin’ to get her. Why? We know he doesn’t wash. He’d only use the basin to keep beer in.”

Underwater Works

However often one meets it, as in this war one meets it at every turn, one never gets used to the Holy Spirit of Man at his job. The “common sweeper,” growling over his mug of tea that there was “nothing in sweepin’,” and these idly chaffing men, new shaved and attired, from the gates of Death which had let them through for the fiftieth time, were all of the same fabric — incomprehensible, I should imagine, to the enemy. And the stuff held good throughout all the world — from the Dardanelles to the Baltic, where only a little while ago another batch of submarines had slipped in and begun to be busy. I had spent some of the afternoon in looking through reports of submarine work in the Sea of Marmora. They read like the diary of energetic weasels in an overcrowded chicken-run, and the results for each boat were tabulated something like a cricket score. There were no maiden overs. One came across jewels of price set in the flat official phraseology. For example, one man who was describing some steps he was taking to remedy certain defects, interjected casually: “At this point I had to go under for a little, as a man in a boat was trying to grab my periscope with his hand.” No reference before or after to the said man or his fate. Again: “Came across a dhow with a Turkish skipper. He seemed so miserable that I let him go.” And elsewhere in those waters, a submarine overhauled a steamer full of Turkish passengers, some of whom, arguing on their allies’ lines, promptly leaped overboard. Our boat fished them out and returned them, for she was not killing civilians. In another affair, which included several ships (now at the bottom) and one submarine, the commander relaxes enough to note that: “The men behaved very well under direct and flanking fire from rifles at about fifteen yards.” This was
not
, I believe, the submarine that fought the Turkish cavalry on the beach. And in addition to matters much more marvellous than any I have hinted at, the reports deal with repairs and shifts and contrivances carried through in the face of dangers that read like the last delirium of romance. One boat went down the Straits and found herself rather canted over to one side. A mine and chain had jammed under her forward diving-plane. So far as I made out, she shook it off by standing on her head and jerking backwards; or it may have been, for the thing has occurred more than once, she merely rose as much as she could, when she could, and then “released it by hand,” as the official phrase goes.