Chapter 9 -The Warrior's Gallant Stand

"What do you think we are up against?" asked Sefton, taking advantage of a lull in the firing to put the question to his companion in the fire-control station.

"Something big," replied the other, wiping a thin layer of coal dust and particles of burnt cordite from the lenses of his binoculars. "With this rotten mist hanging around, one has to be jolly careful not to pitch a salvo into one of our own craft. Wish to goodness I'd remembered to bring my camera along. By Jove! Wouldn't the old Defence make a fine picture when she opened fire?"

"I'll fetch it for you," volunteered Sefton.

His companion looked at him in astonishment.

"I mean it," continued the sub. "We won't be in action again for quite ten minutes, unless those Huns take it into their heads to alter course--which I don't fancy will be at all likely."

He pointed to five faint objects scurrying farther away through the patches of haze. They were German light cruisers, which, having had a taste of the salvoes of the leading ships of the First Cruiser Squadron, had thought it prudent to sheer off.

"Then look slippy, old bird," said the other. "I'm rather keen on getting the thing; I'd go myself if I were not here on duty with a capital D. I'll pass the word for the covers to be left open for your return."

Gaining the shrouds, Sefton descended cautiously, for already fragments of exploding shells had cut through several of the wire strands, and had played havoc with the ratlines.

Gaining the fore-bridge, he descended the ladder to the superstructure, and, passing in the wake of the trained-abeam turrets, reached the only hatchway leading to the main deck that had not been closed with an armoured lid.

'Tween decks the air was hot and oppressive. The confined space reeked with cordite fumes. Through the brown haze a streak of yellow light played upon the deck--a beam of sunlight entering through a jagged shell-hole in the ship's side.

Farther along, a party of sick-bay men were lowering a stretcher through a hatchway. On the stretcher was strapped a wounded petty officer, one of whose legs had been shattered below the knee.

The man was struggling violently, and expostulating in no mild terms. Ignorant of his terrible injuries, he was insisting on being allowed to return to his station and "have another smack at the Huns".

"Can't go no farther this way, sir," announced a marine, recognizing the sub, and knowing that he was new to the ship. "Bulkhead doors are shut. There's a way round past the issue-room, sir, down this 'ere ladder."

The "issue-room" was open. An electric lamp illuminated the irregular-shaped space, which on one side was bounded by the convex base of the after turret, a 6-inch wall of hard steel.

Sefton could hear voices raised in loud and vehement argument: two assistant ship's stewards were discussing the respective merits of music-hall favourites.

A third voice joined in the discussion--that of one of the ship's boys.

"'Taint neither the one or t'other," he began. "I was a-saying----"

"Then don't say it, but get on with your job," interrupted the first speaker. "Those casks look a regular disgrace. You haven't polished the brasswork for more'n three days, and it's captain's rounds to-morrow."

The next instant came a regular avalanche of flour-sacks, casks, copper measures, and other paraphernalia pertaining to the ship's steward's department. Across the raised coaming of the doorway tripped the three occupants of the issue-room, landing in a struggling, confused heap at Sefton's feet.

From a distance of nearly nine miles an 11-inch shell had hit the Warrior abreast of the after turret. It was some little time before it was realized that the damage was slight.

The first to pick himself up was the ship's steward's boy.

"Guess you don't want me to carry on with that there polishing job," he remarked nonchalantly, as he heaved the winded petty officer to his feet and indicated the debris of the brass-bound casks.

Sefton lost no time in fetching the camera from the gun-room. Slinging it round his neck, he gained the upper deck, and began his ascent to the fire-control platform.

"Thanks," said his companion, as the sub handed the precious apparatus to him. "You're only just in time. Those light cruisers have altered helm 16 points. Looks fishy, by Jove! They've something behind them to back them up."

It was now nearly six o'clock. Already the Defence was hurling shells at the leading German light cruiser at 14,000 yards, the range momentarily decreasing as the two squadrons closed.

The Huns were certainly not devoid of pluck, although, as Sefton's chum had remarked, they evidently had some card up their sleeves.

For the next fifteen minutes the Warrior and her consorts were at it "hammer and tongs", directing a furious fire into the head of the approaching column. One of the hostile cruisers, hit by a double salvo from the Warrior and the Defence, capsized and sank. Another, burning fiercely in three different places, hauled out of line.

"Great sport, isn't it?" exclaimed Sefton's companion, setting down his range-finder, for the distance had now decreased to 5000 yards, so that the gun-layers were able to trace their weapons independently of orders from the fire-control.

Suddenly and unexpectedly a salvo of heavy shells hurtled through the haze, and, with deadly precision, riddled the flagship Defence through and through. Her masts and funnels went by the board, flames burst from her for'ard, 'midships, and aft, while with her engines disabled she dropped slowly astern.

It was now the Warrior's turn to lead the line. As she forged ahead, other enormous shells straddled her, coming in different direction from the tempest of shot that had crippled the Defence.

"By Jove!" ejaculated Sefton. "We're in for it now."

Between the drifting clouds of smoke could be discerned the huge shapes of a dozen large battleships and battle-cruisers, not those of Jellicoe's command, but flying the Black Cross ensign of Germany. On the port side, at less than 4000 yards, were four hostile battle-cruisers. At a similar distance to starboard were at least five battleships of the K?nig class.

The Warrior and Defence, hemmed in by vastly superior numbers, and menaced by guns of far greater calibre, were seemingly doomed to annihilation. All that remained, as far as human judgment went, was to fight to the last and worthily uphold the glorious traditions of the Senior Service.

The Warrior held grimly on her way, battered fore and aft on all sides from the gradually contracting circle of big German ships. In spite of the terrific hail of projectiles rained upon her, the Warrior still maintained a rapid and determined fire. It was against overwhelming odds, and the Huns knew it.

Presently a violent thud caused the already trembling fire-control platform to shake to such an extent that Sefton quite thought the whole concern was about to tumble over the side. A shell had shattered the fore-topmast, the debris falling athwart the steel canopy protecting the range-finding officers. With the topmast came a raffle of gear, including the wireless aerials.

By this time the cruiser was hulled over and over again. Several of her 7-inch-gun turrets had been bodily swept away with their crews; two funnels had gone by the board; the remaining pair, perforated like sieves, were held in position merely by the wire guys. A fierce fire was raging aft, an incendiary shell having landed in the wardroom, while a heavy dose of poison-gas prevented any of the crew from attempting to quench the flames.

Twelve minutes of terrible battering the Warrior stood, until an 11-inch shell, ripping through her 6-inch armoured belt, burst inside the port engine-room, shattering the main steam-pipe.

The scene in the confined space was terrible beyond description. The concussion had shattered every electric lamp, the oil ones were extinguished by the noxious fumes. The floor of the engine-room was flooded to a depth of four inches with scalding water that surged to and fro with each roll of the sorely-pressed vessel, and added to the torments of the men already wounded by the shell explosion.

Yet even in that inferno there were men whose courage did not desert them, and dozens of heroic and never-to-be-recorded deeds were performed in the darkness of the scalding engine-room.

Then the starboard engine-room was swept by the explosion of a shell, increasing to a terrible extent the casualties amongst the courageous "black squad". For nearly two miles the Warrior carried away, until, deprived of the means of propulsion, she lay, a battered hulk, surrounded by her enemies.

It was the story of the Revenge over again, but with a different sequel.

Sefton realized that he and his companions were virtually prisoners in the fire-control platform. Even had they dared to risk descending through that tornado of shrapnel and flying slivers of molten steel, their means of escape was limited to one solitary shroud. The rest, "whipped" into a confused tangle, were trailing over the ship's sides.

Passive spectators, for their work aloft was done, they awaited the end, their eyes fixed upon the German battle-cruisers as at intervals they became visible through the drifting cloud of smoke and steam.

Only two guns of the Warrior were now replying to the hostile fire, barking slowly, yet resolutely, as they sent their projectiles hurtling through the air at the nearmost of the assailants, now but 3500 yards distant.

"By Jove, look!" exclaimed Sefton's chum, pointing with a bandaged hand at a large object looming through the smoke close under the Warrior's stern.

It was the gigantic battleship Warspite.

Tearing along at well over her contract speed, the 27,500-ton leviathan meant business. Receiving a salvo of heavy shells that were intended to administer a coup de grace to the crippled Warrior, and which for the most part rebounded harmlessly from her armour, the Warspite let rip with her splendid 15-inch guns. At the second salvo a German battle-cruiser simply crumpled up and vanished in a cloud of smoke.

Pitted for the first time in this particular engagement against guns of more than their own calibre, the Germans began to fire most erratically. Many of the projectiles fell into the sea. Their shooting, hitherto fairly accurate, became wild and spasmodic. They were learning the truth about modern British gunnery, with British hearts of oak behind the powerful weapons.

But, in spite of her size and superiority of armament, the Warspite did not come off unscathed. At a critical moment her steam steering-gear jammed, and round she circled, straight for the enemy's line. Before the damage could be rectified she was hit several times, losing, amongst other gear, her wireless aerials. While she was still under fire a hostile submarine let off a couple of torpedoes, both of which fortunately missed their mark.

The action had already passed away from the battered Warrior. She had played her part. It remained to save herself from foundering, if she could--a truly herculean task.