Titanic and Other Ships By Charles Lightoller
Chapter 37 SEAPLANES AND GRASS LINES
When I was at last released from the Naval hospital it was to find that the fiat had gone forth "all permanent Naval Reserve Officers to the Grand Fleet."
Well, one must take the rough with the smooth, but I made up my mind that I would not spend a day longer on that tack than I could help. I knew only too well the ghastly monotony of battleship life. However, I was in luck, I was not sent to a battleship, but to the old Cunarder Campania, now also H.M.S. but even so, there was every prospect of something livelier than sitting in a wardroom drinking Gin-and-It.
She was a comic, all right, and we were a comic crowd. Officers and men, R.N., R.N.R., R.N.V.R., R.N.A.S. The only tribe we lacked was Chinamen. I was appointed Watchkeeper, for when there was anything to watch, and Observer for when there was anything to observe. This was not going to be too bad, seaplanes being what they were, or as it turned out, what they were not.
We had many types of seaplane. The majority rejoiced in the designation of "White's Coffins" perhaps because they were painted white, and made quite suitable marine tombstones. Frequently they got off the water, but more frequently they didn't. When they did, I observed. When they didn't I usually got wet swimming to a boat.
When we were practising in Scapa Flow there was always a convenient boat in attendance, or at any rate within hail. When doing P.Z.'s with the Fleet at sea, there wasn't, which always gave added zest to the game, for if you came down, you stayed down.
On one of these occasions off Iceland, when the Blue Fleet, representing the Germans, had gone off into the blue; and we, the Red Fleet were going to find them, the Campania was ordered to "Up Seaplanes and at 'em." They were got out, but not up! At least, out of a round dozen that were put in the water, one alone took off safely, and that, luckily, or unluckily, according to whether you were in her or not, was mine, and off we flipped, to locate the "Enemy."
In front of me, I had my Code book, Morse keys and such navigating instruments as were then in vogue, that day of Our Lord; and they were primitive, like everything else connected with the air.
Having run out our aerial, I commenced to "keep the Flag informed," or was pleased to think I did.
There happened to be a nice low layer of clouds above which we could hide ourselves, coming down from time to time to have a squint round. Of course, we knew in what direction the enemy lay. That's part of the game. If you don't know that you can't find and fight each other, so what's the use! We eventually made contact and found. There they were, laid out below us for all the world like a fleet of toyships on a bit of blue glass, each surrounded by a bit of cotton wool.
So many battleships. So many cruisers. So many destroyers. Heading so and so, at such and such a speed. All this I carefully coded, and as carefully tapped out.
Another call to the Flagship, and a "repeat" of the information--just to make sure; then wind up the aerial and "Home John," after a good day's work, being quite sure that our side would now win, and we would be the shy recipients of loads of kudos--if not personal congrats, from Jellicoe himself.
But it's one thing to say "Home, John," and another to get there. The "Home" in this case being a fast moving and mighty small unit, somewhere in the sea between Iceland, Shetland and Norway. It wasn't long before we should have been glad to surrender ourselves to the "Enemy," only we'd lost him too! Then, just before we ran completely out of petrol, we found someone and down we came. To our unmitigated relief it was our own fleet, and we were soon swinging at the end of the derrick, being hoisted back on board. The fight, apparently, was over, but to our utter disappointment, such is the fortune of war and bad wireless, they had not heard a word from us since we had left!
Next thing I was put on to teach the young idea how to "Observe." It is a great game teaching others what you don't know yourself. It does need tact, but then this was war. So I went to work and formed my classes, bluffed out a syllabus, and turned out "qualified" Observers.
As time went on we got more and more bottled in by subs. Snooping around outside the net defences, with occasional mild excitements, such as a cruiser charging blindly through the nets, fondly thinking the boom was open, only to find himself hung up by the tail with a mixture of nets, and propellers to disentangle when the weather moderated. But for a couple of days, there she hung with a S.W. gale doing its very best to make things thoroughly enjoyable for all on board. Some of the chaps told us, when they did get clear, that they were sure she rolled completely over a couple of times, and came up the other side; but I think that was an exaggeration. A self-respecting ship doesn't do such things!
Then, of course, there was the "Battle of Scapa Flow" when Destroyers and Light Cruisers, playing "follow my leader" slipped their moorings and joined issue with the splashes from other's falling shell. I think in the final analyses it was quite agreed that it must have been a porpoise, not a periscope in the first instance, that broke surface on that memorable day.
Perhaps the officer of the day who started the commotion had not had enough water in it and seeing the porpoise, let rip. Others, quite excusably, joined the fun, firing at the splashes of the original joker's shells, which were quite easily to be mistaken for an enemy submarine breaking surface.
Whoever the humorist was that started it, he modestly and wisely hid his light under the proverbial bushel, despite a silent, though hearty vote of thanks for creating the little diversion.
Being H.M.S. we must, of course, carry out our routine with H.M.S. precision. Each little evolution neatly labeled and named. One such was called "Away salvage party," used mainly for the purpose of retrieving strayed or erring seaplanes--and the "Away salvage party" got plenty of practice. Particularly as the skipper refused to have them retrieved in any other manner. One chap conked his engine when just out of reach of the ship's boom, and as a goodly breeze was blowing, he rapidly sailed away to leeward, and incidentally, towards a line of particularly repulsive and jagged rocks. It would have been a simple matter to have chucked him a line, as he drifted past the after deck. But no, that would have been too simple. It was a fine day, and the sun shone. We would show the Fleet and the Battle Squadron in particular (of which we were a unit) just how things should be done. With that was piped "Away salvage party."
Up came the crew of the motor boat, with fire appliances, life jackets, and what not. Fell in. Told off, and then tumbled into their boat. Now comes the boat to the stern, to take the end of a grass line to the adventuring seaplane, by this time well away to leeward. Off dashes the boat at little short of twenty knots, but the line soon proves to be too short, and with a quick turn taken round the mooring bitts on board she is brought up with a sudden and mighty jerk, throwing all the crew on their faces. Fortunately they were too far away for us to hear what they had to say. Another line is procured and bent-on, then away they go again.
A peculiarity of the grass rope species is (and for which reason it is used) that it floats on the surface of the water, which in this case formed the contributory cause to our popularity.
First came the Dreadnought's picket boat with a four striper on board. The coxswain watching our evolution, sees not the grass line, which he neatly picks up with his prop, and stays put. "Mark one." Next turn was the pinnace of the Flagship with the Vice Admiral on board. No favouritism is to be shown even if he is a V.A. Neither does the coxswain take warning by the other picket boat, nor see the line, and the next moment we have him securely hooked. Altogether three boats, including our own (by now quite helpless) were attached to our line, which reached by this time half way across a goodly section of Scapa Flow. (Where was Heath Robinson now?) Meanwhile, the erring seaplane having reached the rocks, is now in an advanced state of disintegration, the crew electing to salvage themselves, land on the rocks, light their pipes, and watch the process of disentanglement. The next day we were the recipients of quite a choice selection of signals. But such was life with the Grand Fleet.
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