With Beatty off Jutland: A Romance of the Great Sea Fight

A cold grey morning in April somewhere in the North Sea; to be more exact, 18 miles N. 75° W. of the Haisborough Lightship.

Viewed from the fore-bridge of H.M. torpedo-boat destroyer Calder, there was little in the outlook to suggest that a state of war had existed for twenty months. The same short steep seas, the same lowering sky, the almost unbroken horizon towards which many anxious glances were hourly directed in the hope that "they" had at last come out.

Two cables' distance from the Calder, a typical trawler, with dense columns of smoke issuing from her funnel, was forging slowly ahead. Another vessel of a similar type was steaming in almost the opposite direction, and on a course that would bring her close under the stern of the almost motionless destroyer. From the galley funnel of each trawler a trail of bluish smoke was issuing, the reek as it drifted across the Calder's deck indicating pretty plainly the nature of the "hands'" breakfast. Of the crew of either craft no one was visible, the helmsman in each case sheltering in the ugly squat wheel-house on the bridge.

Acting Sub-lieutenant Sefton brought his binoculars to bear upon the nearmost trawler. The action was merely a perfunctory one. He knew both trawlers almost about as much as their own crews did, and certainly more than their respective owners in pre-war times. For close on fifty hours, watch in and watch out, the Calder had been dancing attendance on these two almost insignificant specimens of the North Sea fishing-fleet--the Carse o' Gowrie and the Dimpled Lassie, both registered at the port of Aberdeen.

Carrying bare steerage-way, the destroyer glided slowly past the Dimpled Lassie's port quarter. From the trawler's stern a flexible wire hawser led beneath the foaming wake of the propeller, dipping with a sag that did not gladden the heart of the young officer of the watch.

"Any luck yet?" shouted Sefton through an enormous megaphone.

At the hail two men's heads appeared above the bulwarks aft, while a greatcoated figure came in view from behind the storm-dodgers of the trawler's bridge.

"Not the least, sir," replied the master of the Dimpled Lassie, Peter M'Kie, skipper R.N.R. "Are we right, sir?"

The acting-sub had a few minutes previously taken an observation. The destroyer was playing the part of nursemaid to the two trawlers, for although both skippers could find their way, even in thick weather, almost anywhere in the North Sea, solely by the aid of lead-line and compass, neither had the faintest experience in the use of the sextant.

"Ought to be right over it," replied Sefton. "Carry on, and trust to luck."

The trawlers were "creeping" with grapnels. Not for mines, although there was always a possibility of hooking one of those fiendish contrivances. That was a risk that the tough fisherman faced with an equanimity bordering on fatalism. Mine-sweeping they had engaged upon almost continuously since the notable month of August, 1914. Now they were on particular service--a service of such importance and where so much secrecy was imperative that these two Scottish trawlers had been sent expressly from a northern base to scour the bed of the North Sea in the neighbourhood of Great Yarmouth, where there were Government craft for disposal in abundance.

Sefton replaced his binoculars, and, turning, found that his superior officer had just come on deck and was standing at his elbow.

Lieutenant Richard Crosthwaite, D.S.O., the "owner" of the destroyer, was one of those young officers who had made good use of the chances that the war had thrown in his way. Specially promoted for good work in the Dardanelles, he found himself at a comparatively early age in command of a destroyer that had already made a name for herself in the gallant but ill-starred operations against the Turks.

"Well, Mr. Sefton?" he asked.

"Nothing much to report, sir," replied the acting-sub. "But we'll get it yet," he added confidently.

Evidently "it"--hardly ever referred to by any other designation--was more elusive than Crosthwaite had imagined. A shade of disappointment flitted across his tanned features. The task upon which the trawlers were engaged was a matter of extreme urgency. At Whitehall anxious admirals awaited the news that "it" had been fished up; but "it", reposing serenely on the bed of the North Sea, had resolutely declined to receive the embraces of a couple of heavy grapnels.

Crosthwaite, after giving a searching glance to windward, stepped to the head of the ladder. An alert bos'n's mate, awaiting the signal, piped the starboard watch. Saluting, Sefton gained the deck and went aft, his mind dwelling on the prospects of breakfast and a much-needed sleep.

The ward-room, a scantily-furnished apartment extending the whole width of the ship, was showing signs of activity. From one of the adjoining dog-boxes, termed by courtesy a cabin, a short, full-faced, jovial-featured man had just emerged, clad in regulation trousers and a sweater. His curly light-brown hair was still wet, as the result of his ablutions, a slight gash upon the point of his chin betokened the fact that he had tempted fate by shaving in a stiff seaway, and by the aid of an ordinary razor dulled by the penetrating salt air.

"Oh, it's quiet down here----" he began singing in a ringing baritone.

"No need to rub that in, Pills," exclaimed a drawling voice. "The fact is patent to all. Can't you give us 'They don't run Corridor Cars on our Branch Line' by way of a change?"

Thereon hung a tale: something that took place when Jimmy Stirling first joined the mess at the Portsmouth Naval Barracks as a Probationary Surgeon, R.N.V.R.

"I called attention to the fact that it was quiet down here with deliberate intent, my festive Box-spanner," retorted the surgeon. "At last, after weeks of expostulation, your minions have succeeded in quelling that demon of unrest, the steam steering-gear. For the first time for a fortnight I have slept serenely, and, thanks to that blessed balm, I feel like a giant refreshed. Now, how about it?"

He made a dive into the adjoining cabin, where the engineer-lieutenant was in the act of struggling with a refractory collar. The next instant the two men lurched into the ward-room engaged in what looked to be a mortal struggle.

Cannoning off the stove, sweeping a sheaf of books from the wall, glissading from the cushioned lockers, the high-spirited officers tackled each other with mock-serious desperation until, with a violent heave, the athletic doctor deposited his engineering confrère fairly upon the table. With a series of crashes, cups, saucers, tureens, teapot, coffee-pot, eggs and bacon sidled in an indescribable state of chaos upon the floor.

"Time!" exclaimed Sefton authoritatively. "Look here, you fellows. I haven't had my breakfast, and I suppose you haven't had yours? Not that it matters to me. And, Pills, has your supply of bromide run out?"

The combatants separated and began taking stock of the damage.

"You logged a gale of wind last night, I hope, Sefton?" asked the engineer-lieutenant in tones of mock anxiety. "Must account for this smash-up, you know---- Any luck? Have they got it?"

The acting-sub, now that conversation had reverted to the inevitable "it", was bound to admit that the preceding night's labours had been fruitless. The possibilities of the recovery of the much-desired "it" monopolized the attention of the occupants of the ward-room until the steward, outwardly stolidly indifferent to the unsympathetic treatment of his labours, provided another repast.

They were boyish and high-spirited officers on H.M.T.B.D. Calder. Their pranks were but an antidote to the ceaseless strain of days and nights of watch and ward.

"To get back to things mundane," persisted the engineer-lieutenant as the trio sat down to their belated meal, "will they find it?"

"It is my firm belief that they will," replied Sefton decisively. "Even if we have to mark time about here for another month."

"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated the surgeon piously, "I pine for fresh water. Your vile condenser-brewed fluid is simply appalling, my festive Box-spanner. And I yearn for newspapers less than a week old."

The engineer-lieutenant glared defiance at his medical confrère. He knew perfectly well that the water on board was brackish and insipid, but it was condensed under his personal supervision. Any disparaging remarks upon his métier--even if uttered in jest--touched him to the quick.

A resumption of the "scrap" seemed imminent, when a bluejacket, tapping at the ward-room door, announced: "Captain's compliments, sir; they've just hooked it."

Instantly there was a wild scramble on the part of the three officers to gain the deck, all other topics of interest vanishing before the all-important information.

A cable's length on the port beam the Carse o' Gowrie was backing gently astern in order to close with her consort. The Dimpled Lassie was pitching sluggishly. Way had been taken off her, while over her squat counter the wire hawser attached to the Lucas grapnel was "straight up and down" under the steady strain of some heavy and still submerged object.

From the destroyer's bridge a signalman was semaphoring rapidly by means of hand-flags. The Dimpled Lassie replied. The man had just finished delivering the message to Lieutenant-Commander Crosthwaite when Sefton and the other officers gained the bridge.

"There's no doubt about it now," declared Crosthwaite breezily. "They've just reported that the thing is two fathoms off the bottom. The Carse o' Gowrie is going to help take the strain."

"Hope it won't carry away, sir," remarked Sefton.

"Never fear! Where the patent grapnel grips, it holds. What water have we?"

A cast with the lead gave 19 fathoms, the tide having risen 7 feet. The tidal current was setting south-east a half east, with a velocity of 1-? knots.

"Tide'll be slacking in half an hour," said the skipper. "The less strain we get the better. Signalman!"

"Sir?"

"Ask the Dimpled Lassie to report the state of the dynometer."

Promptly came the reply that already the strain on the grapnel hawser was 2-? tons.

"And the breaking strain is four, sir," Sefton reminded his chief.

"We'll get it all right," reiterated Crosthwaite. "Never fear."

His optimism was justified when forty-five minutes later the grapnel sullenly bobbed above the surface, holding in its tightly-closed jaws the bight of a large submarine electric cable.

"Let's hope we've hooked the right one," muttered the engineer-lieutenant.

"You atom of despondency!" exclaimed Stirling.

"I state a possibility, not a probability, Pills," rejoined Boxspanner. "It's a three-to-one chance, you know."

Already a number of artificers, who had been temporarily detailed for duty on board each of the trawlers, were hard at work in connection with the retrieved cable. What they were doing in connection must remain a matter of conjecture, but the fact was patent that the success or otherwise of unremitting toil depended upon the next few minutes.

Impatiently the young lieutenant-commander of the Calder awaited a further signal announcing the result of the investigations. When it came it was highly satisfactory.

"Thanks be for small mercies!" ejaculated Crosthwaite fervently. "Signal M'Kie and tell him to take due precautions in case a ground swell sets in from the east'ard."

The cable was one of three that in pre-war time connected the little Norfolk fishing-village of Bacton with the German island of Borkum. Two more ran from Borkum to Lowestoft, the whole system being partly British and partly German controlled.

Immediately upon the declaration of war the telegraph cables had been severed, both in the neighbourhood of the British coast and in the vicinity of the German island fortress. To all intents and purposes it seemed as if the cables were nothing more than useless cores of copper encased in gutta-percha, rotting in the ooze on the bed of the North Sea.

Yet in spite of the most stringent precautions on the part of the British Government to prevent a leakage of news, the disconcerting fact remained that, thanks to an efficient and extensive espionage system, information, especially relating to the movements of the Grand Fleet, did reach Germany.

Various illicit means of communication were suspected by the authorities, and drastic, though none the less highly necessary, regulations were put into force that had the effect of reducing the leakage to a minimum.

Simultaneously a campaign was opened against the use of wireless installations. Undoubtedly wireless played its part in the spies' work, but its efficacy was doubtful. It could be "tapped"; its source of agency could be located. However beneficial in times of peace, it was a two-edged weapon in war.

For a long time the British Government failed to unravel the secret, until it was suggested that the submarine cables had been repaired. And this was precisely what had been done. The Huns had promptly repaired their end of one of the Bacton-Borkum lines, while a German trawler, disguised as a Dutch fishing-boat, had grappled the severed end just beyond the British three-mile limit.

To the recovered end was fixed a light india-rubber-covered cable. This would be sufficiently strong to outlast the duration of the war, the scarcity of gutta-percha and the enormous weight of the finished cable being prohibitive. It was paid out from the trawler with considerable rapidity, the end being buoyed and dropped overboard some miles from the spot where the original cable used to land. In the inky blackness of a dark winter's night a boat manned by German agents disguised as British fishermen succeeded in recovering the light cable and taking it ashore. Here it was a brief and simple matter to carry the line to a cottage on the edge of the low cliff, burying the land portion in the sand.

For nearly eighteen months the secret wireless station had been in active operation. News culled from all the naval bases by trustworthy German agents was surreptitiously communicated to the operators in the little unsuspected Norfolk cottage and thence telegraphed to Borkum.

For the task of recovering the cable the utmost skill, caution, and discretion were necessary. The vessels detailed for the work were sent from a far-off Scottish port with orders to make no communication with the shore; while to protect them from possible interference the Calder had been detached from the rest of the flotilla to stand by and direct operations.

The Dimpled Lassie was indeed fortunate in finding the cable in a comparatively short space of time, and, what was more to the point, in locating the right one of the three known to be in close proximity. Contrast this performance with that of the cruiser Huascar in the Chilean-Peruvian War. That vessel tried for two days in shallow water to sever the cable at Valparaiso. The officer in charge had himself assisted to lay that particular cable, but picked up the one communicating with Iquique and severed that by mistake.

The only "fly in the ointment", as far as Lieutenant-Commander Crosthwaite was concerned, was the anticipated fact that the Calder would have to dance attendance upon the trawlers for an indefinite period. Once the mild excitement of grappling for the cable was over, the Calder was in the position of those who "serve who only stand and wait". It was a necessary task to "stand by", but with vague rumours in the air of naval activity on the part of the Huns, the officers and crew of the destroyer would infinitely have preferred to be in the thick of it, rather than detained within a few miles of the Norfolk and Suffolk coast.

When at length interest in the proceeding had somewhat abated, Sub-lieutenant Sefton went below to make up long arrears of sleep.

He had not turned in many minutes when Doctor Stirling gave him a resounding whack on the back.

"Wake up, you lazy bounder!" exclaimed the surgeon. "Didn't you hear 'Action Stations'? We've got the whole German fleet coming for us."

"No such luck," protested Sefton, until, reading the serious look in the medical officer's eyes, and now conscious of a commotion on deck as the ship's company went to action stations, he started up, leapt from his bunk, and hurriedly scrambled into his clothes.

Upon gaining the deck Sefton found that Stirling had exaggerated the facts--he generally did, as a matter of fact. Just looming through the light haze were half a dozen large grey forms emitting tell-tale columns of smoke; for, combined with the lack of Welsh steam coal and inferior stoking, the Huns generally managed to betray their whereabouts by volumes of black vapour from their funnels.

The ships were now steaming in double column, line ahead, and, having left Smith's Knoll well on the starboard hand, were running on a southerly course to clear Winterton Ridge.

"Off to Yarmouth, I'll swear," declared Crosthwaite. "The bounders have got wind of the fact that our battle-cruisers are well up north."

The Calder was now approaching the two trawlers. Grasping a megaphone, the lieutenant-commander hailed the skipper of the Carse o' Gowrie.

"German battle-cruisers in sight," he shouted. "You had better slip and clear out."

The tough old Scot shaded his eyes with a hairy, tanned hand and looked in the direction of the hostile craft.

"I'll bide here, if ye have nae objection, sir," he replied. "After all this fuss, fetchin' the cable an' all, I'm nae keen on dropping it agen. Maybe they'll tak no notice of us, thinking we're fisherfolk."

"The probability is that they'll sink you," said Crosthwaite, secretly gratified at the old man's bravery, and yet unwilling to have to leave the trawlers to their fate.

"If they do, they do," replied the skipper unmoved. "It wouldna be the first by many a one. But sin' we hae the cable, here we bide."

Old Peter M'Kie was of a similar opinion. Sink or swim, he meant to stand by. The Carse o' Gowrie and the Dimpled Lassie were to remain with the fished cable, since it was just possible that the Germans might take them for ordinary trawlers, as the boats showed no guns.

The lieutenant-commander of the destroyer saw that it was of no use to attempt to shake the resolution of the two skippers. After all, they stood a chance. By remaining quietly, and riding to the raised cable, they certainly had the appearance of fishing boats using their trawl, while any attempts at flight might result in unpleasant attentions from the number of torpedo-boats accompanying the German battle-cruisers.

Accordingly the Calder slipped quietly away, keeping under the lee of the Haisborough Sands to avoid being spotted by the enemy vessels. It was a genuine case of discretion being the better part of valour. Although not a man of her crew would have blenched had orders been given to steam full speed ahead towards the huge German battle-cruisers, Crosthwaite realized that such a step would be utterly useless. Long before the destroyer could get within torpedo-range of the foe, she would be swept clean and sent to the bottom under the concentrated fire of fifty or more quick-firers. Had it been night or thick weather the Calder would no doubt have attempted to get home with her 21-inch torpedoes. The risk would be worth running. But, as matters now stood, it would be sheer suicidal madness on her part, without the faintest chance of accomplishing anything to justify the attempt.

Meanwhile the destroyer was sending out wireless messages reporting the presence of the raiders. Busy in exchanging wireless signals with their far-flung line of covering torpedo-boats, and with a couple of Zeppelins that flew high overhead, the German vessels made no attempt to "jam" the Calder's aerial warning.

Constantly ready for action at very brief notice, the British battle-squadrons were under weigh within a few minutes of the receipt of the Calder's message, and Beatty's Cat Squadron was heading south-east with all possible speed before the first hostile gun thundered against Great Yarmouth.

"They've opened the one-sided ball," remarked Sefton as a dull boom from the now invisible German ships--a single report that was quickly taken up by other heavy weapons--was borne to the ears of the Calder's crew. "And, by Jove, Whit-Monday too."

"Yes," assented the doctor. "And ten to one the beach is crowded with holiday-makers. Before we left port, didn't we see some idiotic report in the papers stating that the East Coast would be ready for holiday visitors 'as usual'?"

"Let's hope the Huns will get cut off again," said the sub. "Another Blücher or two will make them sit up."

"They're too wary," replied the somewhat pessimistic medico. "They've been warned that the coast is clear. Before the submarines from Harwich can come up they'll be off. And with twelve hours of daylight in front of them they'll be back long before our sixth destroyer flotilla can make a night attack."

For nearly twenty minutes the officers and men listened in silence to the furious bombardment. Several of the latter had homes in the town that now lay exposed to the enemy guns. Realizing their helplessness, they could only hope that the damage done was no greater than that of the previous naval attack on the same place, and that this time the Cat Squadron would intercept the raiders and exact a just and terrible retribution.

At length the firing ceased almost as suddenly as it had begun. In vain the destroyer's crew waited long and anxiously for the renewal of the cannonade in the offing that would announce the gratifying news that Beatty had once more intercepted the returning Huns.

At 20 knots the Calder returned towards the position in which she had left the two trawlers. With feelings of relief it was seen that both craft were still afloat and apparently all well.

Suddenly one of the look-outs raised the shout of: "Submarine on the starboard bow, sir!"

Without a moment's hesitation Crosthwaite telegraphed for full speed, at the same time ordering the quartermaster to port helm.

A mile and a half away could be discerned the elongated conning-tower and partly housed twin periscopes of a large submarine, although why in broad daylight the unterseeboot--for such she undoubtedly was--exposed her conning-tower above the surface was at first sight perplexing.

With the for'ard 4-inch quick-firer loaded and trained upon the meagre target the Calder leapt forward at a good 24 knots, ready at the first sign of the submerging of the submarine to send a projectile crashing into and pulverizing the thin steel plating of her conning-tower.

So intent was the lieutenant-commander upon his intended prey that he had failed to notice the proximity of a black-and-white can buoy now almost on the starboard bow. It was not until Sefton reminded him of the fact that he realized that the destroyer was doing her level best to pile herself upon the Haisborough Sands--a feat that the German submarine had already accomplished to the rage and mortification of her officers and crew.

Listing violently outwards, the destroyer swung round clear of the treacherous shoal, and for the first time Crosthwaite was aware of the ignominious predicament of the unterseeboot.

"The beggar may have a broadside torpedo-tube," he remarked to his subordinate as he ordered the Calder to be swung round, bows on to the stranded craft, speed having been reduced to give the destroyer more steerage-way. "Give her a round with the for'ard gun. Plank a shell a hundred yards astern."

The shot had the desired effect. The conning-tower hatch was thrown open, and the head and shoulders of a petty officer appeared. For a few moments he hesitated, looking thoroughly scared, then his hands were extended above his head.

In this position of surrender he remained, until, finding that the destroyer made no further attempt to shell the submarine, he emerged from the conning-tower. Two officers followed, and then the rest of the crew--twenty-two all told. The officers stood upon the steel grating surrounding the conning-tower, for the tide had now fallen sufficiently to allow the platform to show above water. The rest of the crew, wading knee-deep, formed up in a sorry line upon the after part of the still submerged hull, and, with uplifted hands, awaited the pleasure of their captors.

"Fetch 'em off, Mr. Sefton," ordered the lieutenant-commander. "Half of 'em at a time."

The sub hastened to order away the boat. As he did so Dr. Stirling nudged him and whispered in his ear:

"Shall I lend you a saw, old man?"

"A saw!" repeated Sefton in astonishment. "What on earth for?"

"Skipper said you were to bring half of them at a time," explained the irresponsible medico with a grin. "Better try the top half of each man first trip."

"That'll do, Pills," retorted the sub. "If it's surgery you're after, you had better do your own dirty work."

"Give way, lads," ordered the sub as the boat drew clear of the steel wall-side of the destroyer.

"We surrender make," declared the kapitan of the submarine as the boat ranged up alongside. "We haf a leak sprung."

"WE SURRENDER MAKE.... WE HAF A LEAK SPRUNG"]

"Sorry to hear it," rejoined Sefton.

"Is dat so?" enquired the perplexed German, mystified at his foe's solicitude.

"Yes," soliloquized the sub. "We would much rather have collared the strafed submarine intact. We didn't bargain for her keel plates being stove in.

"Now then!" he exclaimed. "I'll take eleven of you men first trip."

The coxwain and bowman of the boat deftly engaged their boat-hooks in convenient projections of the submarine's conning-tower, while the specified number of dejected and apprehensive Huns was received on board.

Having delivered the first batch of prisoners on the destroyer, Sefton returned, but, instead of immediately running alongside the prize, he ordered his men to lie on their oars. With the boat drifting at a distance of twenty yards from the unterseeboot, the sub coolly awaited developments.

The Huns--officers and men alike--were far from cool. Gesticulating wildly, they implored the sub to take them off. Never before had Sefton seen a greater anxiety on the part of the Germans to abandon their ship, and in the course of eleven months' service in the North Sea his knowledge of the ways of the wily Hun was fairly extensive.

At length two of the submarine's crew, unable to restrain their panic, leapt overboard and struck out for the boat.

"Stand by with a stretcher, there, Jenkins," ordered Sefton. "Show them what we mean to do. Knock them over the knuckles if they attempt to grasp the gunwale."

"We surrender do, kamerad!" shouted the Huns in dolorous chorus, seeing their companions repelled from the waiting boat.

"Yes, I know," replied Sefton. "You've told me that already. A few minutes' wait won't hurt you. There's plenty of time."

"Back oars!" ordered the sub, as the Germans, terrified beyond measure, slid from the submarine's deck into the water, officers and men striking out frantically.

Thirty seconds later came the dull muffled sound of an explosion. A thin wreath of vapour issued from the open conning-tower.

"Not much of a bust-up that," exclaimed Sefton contemptuously. "It would not have flicked a fly from her deck. Well, I suppose I must take the beggars into the boat."

The lightness of the explosion had also astonished the German officers. Adopting their usual procedure they had fixed three detonators in the hull of the stranded vessel, and upon the approach of the Calder's boat the second time they had lighted the four-minute time-fuses.

Sefton, guessing rightly what had been done, had resolved to give the Huns, not a bad quarter of an hour, but a worse three minutes. He, too, expected to see the submarine's hull disintegrated by a terrific explosion.

On the boat's return to the destroyer with the rest of the prisoners, Sefton made his report to the lieutenant-commander.

"Can't blame them," declared Crosthwaite. "In similar circumstances we would have done the same, but with better results, I hope. Send that petty officer aft; I want to speak to him."

The man indicated was, as luck would have it, the fellow responsible for lighting the fuses. Putting on his fiercest expression, Lieutenant-Commander Crosthwaite sternly taxed him with attempting to destroy the submarine after she had surrendered.

Taken aback, the man admitted that it was so.

"How many detonators?" asked Crosthwaite.

"Three, Herr Kapitan."

"And what time-fuses?"

"Four-minutes," was the reply.

"Then jolly rotten stuff," commented the lieutenant-commander as he motioned for the prisoner to be removed below. "We'll give them another quarter of an hour before we board her."

The stated time passed without any signs of further internal explosions. The Calder made good use of the interval, Harwich being communicated with by wireless, announcing the capture of the prize, and requesting tugs and lighters to be dispatched to assist the disabled U boat into port.

"Now I think it's all O.K.," remarked Crosthwaite. "Sure you're keen on the job?"

Sefton flushed under his tanned skin. His skipper was quick to notice that he had blundered.

"Sorry!" he said apologetically. "Ought to have jolly well known you better. Off you go, and good luck. By the by, take a volunteer crew."

Of the seventy men of the Calder every one would have unhesitatingly followed the sub. Asking for volunteers for a hazardous service was merely a matter of form. There was quite a mild contest to take part in the operations of boarding the submarine.

By this time the falling tide had left nearly the whole extent of the deck dry. There were four hatchways in addition to the conning-tower, each of which was securely fastened. Through the open aperture in the conning-tower Sefton made his way. Below all was in darkness, for with the explosion the electric lamps had been extinguished. A heavy reek of petrol fumes and sulphurous smoke scented the confined space.

The sub switched on the electric torch which he had taken the precaution to bring with him. The rays barely penetrated the smoke beyond a few feet.

"Phew!" he muttered. "Too jolly thick. It is a case for a smoke-helmet."

Back went the boat, returning in a short space of time with the required article. Donning the safety-helmet, one of the bluejackets descended, groped his way to the nearest hatchway and opened it.

An uninterrupted current of fresh air ensued, and in ten minutes the midship portion of the prize was practically free from noxious fumes.

"Blow me, Nobby," exclaimed one of the carpenter's crew, "did you ever see such a lash up? Strikes me they slung this old hooker together in a bit of a hurry."

The shipwright's contemptuous reference to the Teuton constructor's art was justified. The submarine had every appearance of being roughly built in sections and bolted together. Everything pointed to hurried and makeshift work.

Under the engine beds Sefton discovered two unexploded detonators. The one that had gone off was "something of a dud", for the explosive force was very feeble--insufficient even to start any of the hull plating. But it had performed a useful service to the British prize crew: the blast had detached the time-fuses from the remaining gun-cotton charges, and had thus preserved the submarine from total destruction.

Nevertheless Sefton heaved a sigh of relief as the two detonators were dropped overboard. Guncotton, especially German-made stuff, was apt to play peculiar tricks.

The fore and after compartments or sub-divisions of the hull were closed by means of watertight doors in the bulkheads. The foremost was found to have four feet of water--the same depth as that of the sea over the bank on which the vessel had stranded. It was here that the plates had been started when the U boat made her unlucky acquaintance with the Haisborough Shoal.

Flashing his torch upon the oily surface of the water, Sefton made a brief examination. On either side of the bulging framework were tiers of bunks. This compartment, then, was the sleeping-quarters of the submarine's crew. Of torpedo-tubes there were no signs; nor were these to be found anywhere else on board. Aft was a "gantry" communicating with an ingeniously contrived air-lock. The submarine was not designed for torpedo work but for an even more sinister task: that of mine-laying. Not a single globe of latent destruction remained on board. Already the U boat had sown her crop of death; would there be time to destroy the harvest?