“And if you hit a mine?” I asked.
“You go up—but you hadn’t ought
to hit em’, if you’re careful. The
thing is to get hold of the first mine all right, and
then you go on to the next, and so on, in a way o’
speakin’.”
“And you can fish, too, ’tween times,”
said a voice from the next boat. A man leaned
over and returned a borrowed mug. They talked
about fishing—notably that once they caught
some red mullet, which the “common sweeper”
and his neighbour both agreed was “not natural
in those waters.” As for mere sweeping,
it bored them profoundly to talk about it. I
only learned later as part of the natural history of
mines, that if you rake the tri-nitro-toluol by hand
out of a German mine you develop eruptions and skin-poisoning.
But on the authority of two experts, there is nothing
in sweeping. Nothing whatever!
Now imagine, not a pistol-shot from these crowded
quays, a little Office hung round with charts that
are pencilled and noted over various shoals and soundings.
There is a movable list of the boats at work, with
quaint and domestic names. Outside the window
lies the packed harbour—outside that again
the line of traffic up and down—a stately
cinema-show of six ships to the hour. For the
moment the film sticks. A boat—probably
a “common sweeper”—reports an
obstruction in a traffic lane a few miles away.
She has found and exploded one mine. The Office
heard the dull boom of it before the wireless report
came in. In all likelihood there is a nest of
them there. It is possible that a submarine may
have got in last night between certain shoals and
laid them out. The shoals are being shepherded
in case she is hidden anywhere, but the boundaries
of the newly discovered mine-area must be fixed and
the traffic deviated. There is a tramp outside
with tugs in attendance. She has hit something
and is leaking badly. Where shall she go?
The Office gives her her destination—the
harbour is too full for her to settle down here.
She swings off between the faithful tugs. Down
coast some one asks by wireless if they shall hold
up their traffic. It is exactly like a signaller
“offering” a train to the next block.
“Yes,” the Office replies. “Wait
a while. If it’s what we think, there will
be a little delay. If it isn’t what we think,
there will be a little longer delay.” Meantime,
sweepers are nosing round the suspected area—“looking
for cuckoos’ eggs,” as a voice suggests;
and a patrol-boat lathers her way down coast to catch
and stop anything that may be on the move, for skippers
are sometimes rather careless. Words begin to
drop out of the air into the chart-hung Office.
“Six and a half cables south, fifteen east”
of something or other. “Mark it well, and
tell them to work up from there,” is the order.
“Another mine exploded!” “Yes, and
we heard that too,” says the Office. “What
about the submarine?” “Elizabeth Huggins
reports....”
