It seems incredible. The whole drama has been enacted with the same orderly speed as the movement of the pencil. The great grey battleship has, with three shots, sunk a large transport packed with a thousand men and a considerable cargo of supplies, which lay some fifteen miles away out of sight on the other side of a high range of hills. The blind sailors have loaded their guns and have fired according to the instructions given by the little figures swinging high in the blue morning sky in a creaking basket hung from a drowsy yellow balloon....
Standing here by the little cabin I have been a witness of a wonderful feat, and an awe-inspiring example of the scope of modern weapons.
This kite balloon of ours is the first ever used by the British, and this magnificent achievement which I have just seen recorded is the biggest triumph it has accomplished. It is naval history in the making.
I walk away across the hot raised balloon deck feeling strangely small, strangely unimportant in an age of huge strength and mighty possibilities.
Now the whine and clatter of the winch recommences, and the balloon begins to descend slowly. When it is some five hundred feet above the deck the whistle is blown to call us to "balloon stations," and we hurry along to our appointed positions beside the tall wind-screens. Nearer and nearer comes the balloon; larger and more ungainly grows its yellow bulk, and soon the handling ropes are within reach. Catching hold of the ends, we quickly thread them through ring-bolts and pull them steadily till at last the balloon reaches deck, and the two observers climb out of their baskets.
We are evidently proceeding to some new position where the balloon is going to be used again, for it is not bagged completely down, but is merely temporarily weighted by cl.u.s.ters of sandbags in the rigging, and we stand by the ropes which are lashed to the side. After half an hour or so we receive orders to prepare to let the balloon up again. The two observers return with their binoculars and charts, and once more the balloon rises upwards. I am now told off to oil the gas-pipe which leads from the gas-cylinders aft to the balloon deck. This is a job which I like, because I can look over the side and see what is happening. So, with my can of yellow oil and my handful of cotton-waste, I watch a half-hour or so of fierce battle. We lie some five miles off the land near Achi Baba, where the lines run into the sea, and it is soon evident that an attempt is being made to advance. Between us and the sh.o.r.e lie several destroyers and a cruiser, and in a few minutes they start firing rapidly. I hear the sharp sound of the guns, and then a few minutes later the thud, thud of the exploding sh.e.l.ls, and from the cliff leaps up one, two, three shrubs of yellow coiling smoke, which quickly enlarge into trees, and at length fade away in tall ma.s.ses of vapour. Soon the edge of the cliff is a maelstrom of smoke and flame. Yellow, white, and black burst the sh.e.l.ls, and as fast as the smoke of one salvo thins out, the fan-shaped puffs leap out again in the middle, and add more turbulence to the volcano. Just over the ground appear white puffs of shrapnel smoke. Again and again, in the same place, they appear like magic flowers in the air, and grow bigger, and frailer, and fade. The air is rent and torn with the sound of the explosions, some incredibly loud and vivid, some distant and dull, while to this chorus of tumult lies as a background the delicate wooden click and clatter of remote rifle and machine-gun fire, sounding like the fingers of a child beating a tattoo on a kitchen table.
Now and again a great sh.e.l.l bursts half-way down a ravine in the side of the cliffs, and fills it for a time with a coiling cloud of yellow smoke. Little figures can be seen moving along the skyline, and here and there flash bayonets and equipment. As I watch, I mechanically rub my oily rag up and down the pipe, up and down. It seems hard to realise that the tragic climax of war is being enacted out there before my eyes.
That men are dying, are screaming in agony with terrible wounds, are whispering their last messages for their beloved ones in England to some comrade bending over them. For me it is merely a wonderful scene, a spectacle as in a play.
Then suddenly a whistling sound strikes a swift chill into my heart.
Louder and louder grows the noise with all its sense of hostile approach, and ends at its summit with a dull explosion. Fifty feet away a column of water and steam hangs above the blue placid sea, and slowly fades, leaving a creamy-white disc on the water to show where the sh.e.l.l has burst. Another whistle sounds and another, and both end in the noise of an explosion, but from my present position I cannot see where the sh.e.l.ls have fallen. Another one sounds, however, and grows so loud that I run instinctively into the nearest cabin, though it is no real shelter. I hear a loud explosion, and returning cautiously to the rail, see, some way down along the side of the boat, a white circle of foam, whose edge actually touches our hull, so close is it.
Below in the engine-room I hear the clang of the telegraph, and the growing mutter of the engines as we start to draw away from the coast.
The whistle sounds for balloon stations, and I hurry along the deck and down a ladder to my place. The winch is pulling the balloon down as fast as it can, and every now and then above its tumult we hear the long whine and burst of a sh.e.l.l, whose explosion we cannot see owing to the high canvas screens which shut us off from a view of the sea. It is a most unpleasant experience, for the boat is only a small 4000-ton tramp steamer, with the thinnest of decks, and it is loaded with cylinders of compressed gas, with petrol, and with sh.e.l.ls, and there is a "muse"
balloon full of gas in the hold beneath the forward deck as well. The effect of a sh.e.l.l-burst on the boat will be at least pyrotechnical, and probably very fatal. At last the balloon is down on the deck, the basket is released, the "bagging down" operation is completed, and the ship steams full speed out of range of the hostile artillery.
Now for a time we lie off the long golden beaches of Suvla Bay with the dark orchards behind it, beyond which the slim white minarets rise from among the hills. It is the hot drowsy hour of noon. Four or five transports lie near us, while the inevitable trawlers in couples, with noses c.o.c.ked perkily in the air, sweep the water slowly for mines.
Behind us lies the grey shadow of Imbros in the distance. From the mainland comes the occasional dull sound of sh.e.l.l fire, while the crackle of musketry rises and falls as though on a gusty wind.
We sit on the p.o.o.p under an awning to obtain a little protection from the fierce heat of the sun. Around us lies the calm deep blue water. A few people talk; now and again the daylight signalling-lamp clatters on the bridge: it is an hour of absolute peace.
Suddenly a great tension sweeps over the crowd of men on the deck. Every face changes its expression from utter tranquillity to absolute amazement and apprehension.
"_Look!_" says some one.
There, lying terribly clear on the rich blue of the sea, is a thin creamy ribbon of foam running from a point a mile or so away right to the middle of the ship. For a second I realise that it is the track of a torpedo, and I stiffen myself to receive the explosion. Nothing happens.
I realise at once that the danger is past, though it seems incredible that we have not been struck. The gun on the forecastle barks out twice, and looking over to the other side of the ship I see two columns of spray leap out of the water near a round patch of white foam, from which a thin white ribbon also runs to the side of the ship. We suddenly understand what has taken place. A submarine has fired a torpedo at us, point-blank, from scarcely twenty yards away; it has pa.s.sed right under the engine-room, and gone on another mile or so till its face is extended. The first ribbon we saw was the track of the torpedo going _away_ from us.
At once the hooter wails out the signal, "abandon ship stations," and the "attacked by submarine" flag is hoisted at the mast. The engine-room telegraph sounds frantically. The ship begins to move forward, and slowly pa.s.ses the long white spear of death which struck into us, and yet left us miraculously untouched. I can hardly take my amazed eye away from it. So uncanny and awe-inspiring is it, laid across the dark and placid blue of the sea, which sparkles innocently under the cloudless sky of an aegean June.
The sound of our hooter and the sight of our flag, however, has wakened the drowsy fleet to a furious activity. As I begin to adjust the life-belt round my shoulders, in obedience to the "abandon ship stations" orders, I see the transports gather speed as they make for Mudros Bay in great zigzags. The admiral"s yacht does not trouble about twisting or turning to avoid the hidden menace, but ploughs at top speed in a straight line for safety. The destroyers rush round in frantic circles, the other balloon ship, the _Hector_, begins to steam rapidly, while its balloon is still in the air, and it can be seen with what speed the yellow gas-bag is being jerked down by the straining winch.
The sea is now a scene of furious energy. The white streak of foam across the water has broken the drowsy moontide spell; in front of every bow is a feather of spray, behind each stern a white zigzag wake. Every ship is pointed one way--towards the welcoming boom of Imbros.
Suddenly I hear a brief exclamation.
"Look at that boat! Yes! By Gaba Tepe! It"s been hit. It"s the _Triumph_, isn"t it? It looks like it!"
Over towards the dark olive groves of Gaba Tepe--those olive groves which so long sheltered a great gun whose position could not be discovered--lies the grey outline of a battleship. It can be seen that it is slightly out of the perpendicular, and a little puff of vapour comes from it as the steam-pressure in the boiler is released to avoid explosion. Slowly it tilts over till it is at an angle of forty-five degrees to the water. Every now and then a gun flashes on it as the gunners fire at the submarine which has attacked it. The dark shapes of destroyers draw nearer and nearer to it. It lies stationary at a deep angle for a little while, and then begins to turn over at a slow deliberate speed; lower and lower it falls, until for a moment it lies flat on the surface, and then ... all we can see between us and Gaba Tepe is the blue water on which move the little destroyers, evidently picking up survivors. The most splendid sight is to see the little flashes on board as the gunners, true to their traditions, keep their guns in action to the last.
We watch the tragedy in silence: it seems difficult to realise that in the last few minutes we have seen the destruction of a powerful vessel, with a crew of eight or nine hundred men on board. A solemn feeling pervades the ship, and there is no laughter among us.
We pa.s.s a transport steaming out of Mudros Bay and signal to it. Quickly it sweeps around, and returns to the little island, moving at full speed in great zigzags. The menace of the sea has rendered the blue sparkling water of the aegean a dangerous home for any boat. No longer can we lie at ease day after day off the sun-baked hills of Gallipoli.
We must needs live a tip-and-run life,--do our work, and return to safety behind submarine defences.
So, with the grey shadow of sublime Samothrace hanging above the sea to our right, we sail into the peace of Mudros Bay, round which the thyme-scented hills of Imbros lie sleeping in the afternoon sun.
THE END.