Little Grey Ships/Patrol
PATROL
There's snow, there's hail wi' the nor'east gale,
There's sleet and there's rattling rain,
There's many a gust o' the spindrift dust
On the dim, rough watery plain....
“Wow!” exclaimed the young seaman just come on deck. “Wish I was in Egypt. How's this for cold, old Bill?”
“'Ellish,” was the feeling, if unappropriate, reply from the man who had been on look-out for a couple of hours.
“Anything doin'?”
Bill spat neatly over the port bow without moving his gaze from the heaving grey stretch of North Sea. The long-continued fall of sleet had at last exhausted itself; breaks appeared in the livid cloud. The slushy deck was becoming icy. The patrol boat, a graceful, rakish craft of tapering spars, slim funnel, and clipper bow, was wallowing before the bitter wind, a whiff of smoke preceding her.
The newcomer, whose business it was to relieve Bill, began to wind about his neck a dark blue muffler, a fathom and a half in length, of new appearance. His movements attracted a glance from the other.
“Best girl, Tommy?”
“She's a good 'un, anyway, God bless her!”
“One o' the kind lydies, I s'pose, which we'll never meet, 'cause they're bound for Upstairs.”
“Speak for yerself, Bill, and”—Thomas drew something from his pocket—“open yer fish-trap.”
Solemnly Bill gaped at space while his companion inserted a small cake of chocolate in the gap.
“Ye young scallywag,” he mumbled presently, “ye've been gettin' more'n yer share!”
Thomas smiled. “How many lovely body-belts have ye on at this blessed minute, old Bill?”
“'Ush! Don't be so undelicate!”
•••••
“Well,” said Thomas, after a long stare ahead, “ain't ye goin' below? Thought ye'd ha' been hungry for yer tea.”
Bill did not respond at once, and when he did so his tone was confidential, mysterious. “I got a curious sorter feelin',” he said, “that something's a-going to 'appen.”
“Ye've had that curious sorter feelin' for days an' days!”
“'Tis stronger'n ever.”
Thomas took a glance at the bridge and down the deck. “I do believe,” he slowly declared, “as I'm the only livin' soul on board which hasn't that curious sorter feelin'.” He groaned. “Nothin' 'll ever happen on this here boat. 'Twill always be the same: goin' to an' fro, speakin' to trawlers, pullin' up ships which is innocent as infants, passin' the time o' day wi' destroyers an' so forth—but never anything really doin'.... That's why I wish I was in Egypt Holy William! what's that?”
“Whale, stoopid!” said Bill, with some acerbity of tone. “Wot do you want to be doin'? Good thing I 'adn't gone below for my tea, or ye'd 'ave been bawlin' 'fire!' 'police!' an' the like to the bridge.”
“But it might ha' been a submarine,” the abashed Thomas ventured. “I says it might ha' been.”
The other preserved a depressing silence until Thomas proceeded to solace his injured feelings with chocolate, whereupon he generously admitted the possibility.
“But what I wants to know,” said Thomas, who was not greedy, “is what this pretty ship 'ud do if a submarine was to appear at close quarters.”
“Ram.”
“But could she? Is she fit?”
“We'd know all 'bout that afterwards. But, my lad, we're bound to try it. I knows! Tell ye, I 'ad it from cook, an' 'e 'ad it from second engineer, and 'e 'ad it from the bridge. So there ye are!”
“Guess we'll bust ourself as well's the sub,” Thomas remarked reflectively.
“Ho, well, we gets a chance. 'Tis the sub chaps who gets none, if we 'ave the luck to crack 'er.”
“An' serve 'em well right, too!”
“Why, 'tis dirty work indeed, but what if they're only obeyin' orders—like you an me?”
“Some folks 'ud have 'em hung, Bill.”
“Some folks on shore is terrible bloodthirsty. I ain't no use at lovin' me enemies, but I'd draw the line at 'angin' 'em. It might look all right at the time, but 'twould look dash bad in the 'istory books. I'm open for any other sorter killin'.”
“Ye'd be for the bangin', too, if ye'd been torpedoed wi'out warnin',” said Thomas, anxious to get upon his favourite subject.
But Bill heard him not. His seaward gaze suddenly changed from that of a searcher's to a discoverer's. Next moment he wheeled about, clapped his hands to his mouth trumpet-wise, and bawled at the bridge:
“Small black objeck port beam, sir!”
Other eager eyes had detected the speck almost simultaneously, but Bill's was the first hail. He turned to his companion with a sort of subdued triumph.
“Told ye something was a-goin' to 'appen, young Tommy!”
“Same old whale, I do believe,” said Thomas flippantly.
“No, my lad. Yer eyes deceives ye this time. 'Tis merely an 'addock.” Bill planted his feet more firmly on the slippery deck as the ship, her course altered, began to roll heavily.
Conversation lapsed while the small object grew to the shape of a ship's boat, until it was seen to carry a crew.
“Ten souls,” said Bill, who was noted for his sight. “They'll be coldish, poor chaps.”
“Bet ye their ship's been torpedoed,” Thomas remarked.
“Mined.”
“Torpedoed, or, leastways, sunk by a sub.”
“I says mined. What'll ye bet?”
“Stick o' chocklet to a body-belt,” said Thomas, promptly.
“Done wi' ye! I'll lay the one I've round me neck, it 'avin' washed in.”
•••••
An order came from the bridge; the cook and others fell to work to prepare comforts for the unfortunates. The order was timeous, as was made manifest by the appearance of the boat's crew at closer quarters. All were more or less miserably benumbed; several seemed incapable of movement save the most feeble; one lay in the bottom as if dead.
The man at the tiller, evidently the skipper, vainly attempted to rise. His mouth worked, but the words had no carrying power. With a shake of his head he dropped back and held his peace until the boat, with difficulty and danger, was got alongside the rescuer.
“Why,” cried Bill, softly, “if it ain't old Dawson o' the trawler Buzzard! 'E's a genuwine 'ero, so 'e is!”
Old Dawson touched his cap to the lieutenant looking down sympathetically from the end of the bridge.
“Trawler Buzzard , of , sir,” he shouted huskily. “Mined, 7.15 this mornin'.”
“All your crew safe, Captain?”
“Yes, sir. One's hurt pretty bad.”
The men who could help themselves were already coming aboard; the weaker were being carried or guided. A fine tenderness was displayed for the injured man.
The skipper was the last to reach the deck. There the lieutenant met him and gently shook his half-frozen hand.
“Glad we had the luck, Captain. They're waiting to look after you below.”
The skipper's blue lips quivered; he shuddered from head to foot—but not altogether with cold. Suddenly he exploded:
“Sir, 'tisn't the loss o' the old Buzzard; 'tisn't the blasted mine, neither. But 'tis the way it happened.”
“You'll tell us about it after you get warmed up.”
But Dawson could not contain himself. “'Tis the softness of it!” he cried. “Why, sir, we brought the mine up of our own accord in the blessed trawl ... an it blowed the stern out o' her!”
“Hard luck, indeed, Captain!”
“The softness of it! I wish to God it had been a torpedo!” And with something like a sob he allowed himself to be taken below.
•••••
Later on Bill and Thomas discussed the whole matter, and finally agreed that, since the trawler had not been mined in “legitimate” fashion, the bet should be considered “off.”
“Poor old Dawson ain't no 'ero after all,” Bill regretfully remarked. “But 'e 'as my sympathy. 'Twas a sickenin' sorter way to get blowed up.”
”Strikes me one way's as good's another,” said Thomas, “so long's ye don't get killed. The old man'll feel better in the mornin'. Shouldn't wonder if he soon starts to talk big about it—after he's read the solemn account in the newspapers. The newspapers always do make them things look so splendid.”
Bill shook his grizzled head. “To fish up the very mine wot dished ye—'tis too annoyin'! Near as bad as failin' over yer own umburella.... 'Owever, we'll 'ope for the best for poor old Dawson's sake. Anyway, 'twas a good job we was 'andy when their boat come along.” He gazed into the gathering gloom with those wonderful eyes of his, and his voice came very gently:
“'Appen to 'ave any more o' that nice chocklet, Tommy?”