href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@45960@[email protected]#in-dug-outs-at-cape-helles">In "Dug-outs" at Cape Helles

Illustrations

"'Aim low, sonny! Aim low! You will see your bullet-splashes'" . . . Frontispiece

"The Gunnery Lieutenant now flew about, jumping from voice pipes to range-finder and back again"

"The Lamp-post jumped up, seized the box, hoisted it on his shoulder, and disappeared ahead"

"'Look! what an extraordinary ship!'"

"Screened lanterns!"

The Gun-room Court Martial on the China Doll

Sketch Map of Gallipoli and the Dardanelles

A NAVAL VENTURE

CHAPTER I

The "Achates" goes to Sea

On one miserably wet and cheerless afternoon of February, 1915, the picket-boat of H.M.S. Achates lay alongside the King's Stairs at Portsmouth Dockyard, whilst her crew, with their boat-hooks, kept her from bumping herself against the lowest steps. The rain trickled down their glistening oilskins, and dark, angry clouds sweeping up from behind Gosport Town on the opposite side of the harbour, and scudding overhead, one after the other, in endless battalions, made it certain that a south-westerly gale was raging in the Channel.

At the top of the steps, with his back to the wind and rain, his feet wide apart, and his hands in his pockets, was the midshipman of the boat, in oilskin, sou'wester, and sea-boots. This was Mr. Vincent Orpen—commonly known as the Orphan—not very tall, but sturdy and broad-shouldered in his bulky oilskins. Between the brim of his dripping sou'wester and his turned-up collar showed a pair of very humorous eyes, a determined-looking nose and mouth, and a pair of large ears reddened by the cold and rain.

He was waiting to take the Captain—Captain Donald Macfarlane—off to Spithead, where the Achates lay, ready for sea, but this absent-minded officer had very probably forgotten the time or place where the boat was to meet him.

Near by, taking shelter in the lee of the signalman's shelter-box, the marine postman and a massive, friendly dockyard policeman were standing with the rain dripping off them.

Presently the midshipman splashed across to them and spoke to the postman.

"The Captain did say King's Stairs; didn't he?"

"King's Stairs at two o'clock, sir; I heard him myself; King's Stairs at two o'clock, and it's now past the half-hour. He was only a-going up to the Admiral's office, he said; just time for me to slip outside to the post office and back again, sir."

Down below, in the picket-boat, Jarvis, the coxswain, an old, bearded petty officer—a Naval Reserve man—was grumbling to one of the crew: "The Cap'n can't never remember nothink—he'll forget hisself one o' these fine days."

"This ain't a fine day," the young A.B.—Plunky Bill—answered cheekily.

"Stow it! I'll give yer 'fine day' when we gets aboard: I knows it ain't. We'll get a fair dusting-down going out to Spithead, and a good many of you youngsters'll wish you'd never come to sea when we gets out in the Channel to-night."

"I 'opes we ain't going back to the mine-bumping 'bizz' in the North Sea, a-waiting for to be terpadoed," Plunky Bill said presently, viciously shoving the picket-boat's dancing stern off the wall with his dripping boat-hook.

"That's about our job," growled Jarvis. "Better blow up yer swimmin'-collar when you gets aboard, and tie it around yer bloomin' neck."

"A precious lot of good they collars be—with sea-boots and oilskins on, and the water as cold as charity."

"Nobody's askin' you to wear it. When you feels you wants to drown, quick, just 'and it over to me—I don't. Dare say you ain't got no one to miss yer; I 'ave—a missus and six kids," growled the coxswain.

Just then the trap hatch of the stokehold flapped up, and out of the small square opening emerged the bare head of the stoker of the picket-boat—an old, grey-headed Naval Reserve man, who actually wore gold spectacles, the effect of which on his coal-begrimed face was very quaint. He looked round him in a patient, dignified manner, and sniffed at the wind and rain.

There was a shout from the top of the steps, and Mr. Orpen, with his hands to his mouth, called down: "Keep out of the rain, Fletcher—don't be an ass!"

The old man did not hear; but one of the boat's crew for'ard bawled out to him: "'Ere, close down yer blooming 'atch—chuck it, grandpa—shut yer face in—the Orphan's a-singing out to yer—'e's nuts on yer 'ealth, 'e is." The old stoker, wiping his rain-spotted spectacles, meekly obeyed, pulled the hatch over his head, and disappeared from view.

Then the postman, with his big, leather letter-bag, clattered down, splashing the puddles on the steps. "The Cap'n's coming at last," he said, and stowed himself away under the fore peak.

Down came Mr. Orpen, jumped aboard, and