Geeks Genes and the Evolution of Asperger Syndrome

Dean Falk (Author)|Eve Penelope Schofield (Author) -

PDF Download (2025)

https://ebookultra.com/download/geeks-genes-and-the-evolution-of-
asperger-syndrome-dean-falk-authoreve-penelope-schofield-author/

Visit ebookultra.com today to download the complete set of

ebooks or textbooks
Here are some recommended products for you. Click the link to
download, or explore more at ebookultra.com

Evolution of the Primate Brain 1st Edition Michel A.

Hofman And Dean Falk (Eds.)

https://ebookultra.com/download/evolution-of-the-primate-brain-1st-
edition-michel-a-hofman-and-dean-falk-eds/

B 29 Hunters of the JAAF First Edition Koji Takaki

https://ebookultra.com/download/b-29-hunters-of-the-jaaf-first-
edition-koji-takaki/

Finding Our Tongues Mothers Infants and the Origins of

Language 1st Edition Dean Falk

https://ebookultra.com/download/finding-our-tongues-mothers-infants-
and-the-origins-of-language-1st-edition-dean-falk/

The Regulation of Unfair Commercial Practices under EC

Directive 2005 29 Stephen Weatherill

https://ebookultra.com/download/the-regulation-of-unfair-commercial-
practices-under-ec-directive-2005-29-stephen-weatherill/
American Normal The Hidden World of Asperger Syndrome 1St
Edition Edition Lawrence Osborne

https://ebookultra.com/download/american-normal-the-hidden-world-of-
asperger-syndrome-1st-edition-edition-lawrence-osborne/

B 29 Units of World War II 1st Edition Robert F. Dorr

https://ebookultra.com/download/b-29-units-of-world-war-ii-1st-
edition-robert-f-dorr/

Advances in Insect Physiology Vol 29 1st Edition Peter

Evans

https://ebookultra.com/download/advances-in-insect-physiology-
vol-29-1st-edition-peter-evans/

Horror Stars on Radio The Broadcast Histories of 29

Chilling Hollywood Voices Ronald L Smith

https://ebookultra.com/download/horror-stars-on-radio-the-broadcast-
histories-of-29-chilling-hollywood-voices-ronald-l-smith/

Some Dance Volume 29 The Hugh MacLennan Poetry Series 1st

Edition Ricardo Sternberg

https://ebookultra.com/download/some-dance-volume-29-the-hugh-
maclennan-poetry-series-1st-edition-ricardo-sternberg/
Geeks Genes and the Evolution of Asperger Syndrome
Dean Falk (Author)|Eve Penelope Schofield (Author)
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Dean Falk (author)|Eve Penelope Schofield (author)
ISBN(s): 9780826356925, 0826356923
Edition: Illustrated
File Details: PDF, 2.72 MB
Year: 2018
Language: english
Dean Falk and Eve Penelope Schofield

Geeks,
Genes ,
and the
Evolution
of
Geeks, Genes, and
the Evolution of Asperger Syndrome

i
Frontispiece. Self-portrait Eve drew when she was eleven years old.
Geeks, Genes,
and the Evolution
of
Asperger
Syndrome

'HDQ)DONDQG(YH3HQHORSH6FKRƀHOG

University of New Mexico Press ■ Albuquerque

© 2018 by Dean Falk and Eve Penelope Schofield
All rights reserved. Published 2018
Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Falk, Dean, author. | Schofield, Eve Penelope, 1991– author.
Title: Geeks, Genes, and the Evolution of Asperger Syndrome / Dean Falk and Eve Penelope
Schofield.
Description: Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2018. | Includes bibliographical
references and index. |
Identifiers: LCCN 2017026650 (print) | LCCN 2017047256 (ebook) | ISBN 9780826356932
(E-book) | ISBN 9780826356925 (pbk.: alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Schofield, Eve Penelope, 1991—Health. | Asperger’s syndrome—Patients—
Biography. | Asperger’s syndrome—Research.
Classification: LCC RC553.A88 (ebook) | LCC RC553.A88 F35 2018 (print) | DDC 616.85/8832—
dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017026650

Cover photograph courtesy of Sarah Nichols

Cover designed by Lisa Tremaine
Interior designed by Felicia Cedillos
Composed in Minion Pro 10.25/14.25
 Dean: In loving memory of Alfred and Jane Falk.

Eve: To all who were at the Kingsweston Centre at

Oasis Academy, Brightstowe, for helping me to grow
into my skin.
 CONTENTS

Preface ix
Acknowledgments xiii
Abbreviations xv

Introduction 1

Chapter 1. Before Asperger Syndrome: Three Evo-Devo Trends

that Made Us Human 9
EVE: MY OBSESSIONS 28

Chapter 2. Sensory Experiences: A Missing Link for Understanding

Asperger Syndrome 33
EVE: SENSATIONS AND FEARS 43

Chapter 3. Social Naïveté and Advanced Cognition: An Aspie

Enigma 49
EVE: HOW MY MIND WORKS 69

Chapter 4. Sex and Gender in Asperger Syndrome 85

EVE: AUTISTIC BOYS AND GIRLS 102

Chapter 5. Geeks, Genes, and the Evolution of Asperger

Syndrome 107
EVE: MY FAMILY 124

Chapter 6. Autism Rising: A World Perspective 129

EVE: ABOUT BULLIES 143

vii
viii Contents

Chapter 7. Asperger’s Garden: What Does the Future Hold? 147

EVE: HELPING YOUR ASPIE CHILD HAVE A BETTER
FUTURE 155

Notes 159
Glossary 193
References 199
Index 235
 PREFACE

If you met my twenty-six-year-old granddaughter and coauthor of this book,

Eve, you would probably be struck by her large vocabulary and odd man-
nerisms. Perhaps you wouldn’t be able to put your finger on it, but if you
were familiar with Asperger syndrome (AS) it would not take long for you to
wonder if Eve has it, which she does. Like other people with AS, Eve had to
be taught how to make eye contact and engage in small talk. As a young adult,
she still has difficulty grasping the nuances of other people’s tone of voice (and
modulating her own) and understanding the thoughts and desires of others
(an ability that psychologists call “theory of mind”). Despite these challenges,
Eve read precociously as a child, and I am proud to say she recently earned a
bachelor of art’s degree in creative writing and publishing from Bath Spa Uni-
versity in England. As you will see, Eve has avid interests in Japan, anime, and
fantasy-based fiction, interests she will cheerfully share, more or less nonstop,
with anyone who will listen.
I am a paleoanthropologist who has spent the last four decades research-
ing the evolution of the human brain and cognition, and I have a longstand-
ing interest in how and why language, music, art, and science emerged in our
ancestors. I have been privileged to study materials ranging from the fossil-
ized remnants of the brains of our prehistoric relatives to the cerebral cortex
of Albert Einstein. The research, clinical politics, and controversy that con-
tinue to engulf AS have been on my radar since Eve was first diagnosed with
it when she was nine years old.
As is well known, Asperger’s Disorder was folded into Autism Spectrum
Disorder along with certain other developmental disorders in the most recent
revision of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders pub-
lished by the American Psychiatric Association.1 Consequently, many clini-
cians and researchers no longer recognize Asperger’s in its own right. This
change has polarized the autism community, as discussed in the introduction.

ix
x PREFACE

For now, suffice it to say that if the American Psychiatric Association were a
society of evolutionary biologists instead of psychiatrists, a parallel revision
might be to announce that apes and people are part of a broad spectrum
of primates (which is true) and to banish recognition of individual primate
species (no more Homo sapiens, Gorilla gorilla, and so on). If followed, this
rule would make it exceedingly difficult to learn meaningful details about
the hundreds of varieties of primates that grace our planet today. However,
as scholars have known since the 1735 publication of the system that is still
used to classify all forms of life,2 there is a time for “lumping” individuals into
larger groups (such as primates) and a time for “splitting” them into narrower
categories (such as monkeys, apes, and humans). In other words, there is no
one “right” way to classify organisms into groups. The same may be said for
autism. Sometimes it is useful to think of it as consisting of one large spec-
trum, for example, when considering its global prevalence, which we will do
later in the book. At other times, it makes more sense to recognize that the
broad spectrum consists of different kinds of autism.
For example, the estimated 50 percent of autists who remain mute
throughout their lives can be distinguished from those who eventually
develop language. The latter group may be divided further into individuals
who were delayed in the development of language compared to typically
developed children (often described as having high-functioning autism, or
HFA) and autists who were not delayed in acquiring language (identified
in the now-discarded DSM-IV as having Asperger’s Disorder). Although all
these groups are worthy of investigation in and of themselves, we focus pri-
marily on AS and HFA, not because other kinds of autism aren’t important
and interesting but because AS and, to some extent, HFA are well suited for
evolutionary analyses.
The vocabulary one uses for autism is important because, among other
reasons, the label a child receives will likely influence his or her future. With
respect to the terms “low-functioning autism” and “high-functioning autism,”
for example, science writer Nicholette Zeliadt observes that “either label can
be limiting: It might prevent one child from participating in activities she
wants to do, or exclude another from getting the services he needs.” 3 As Zeli-
adt details, autism research has been plagued by the problem of precisely
defining these terms and determining to whom they should apply. This may
account, in part, for an increasing backlash against using these labels among
PREFACE xi

some autism researchers and parents. Zeliadt notes, however, that “abandon-
ing labels altogether isn’t an alternative.” Some would like scientists to replace
the terms “low-functioning” and “high-functioning” with “high-support”
and “low-support” (that is, the support needed by the autistic child).4 As
noted, this book synthesizes information from many scientific studies that
have focused on AS and HFA. We use the terms and definitions (including
for HFA) employed by the authors of the various studies discussed in this
book, although we are sympathetic with the viewpoint that many individuals
who have been diagnosed with low-functioning autism (who are not a focus
of this book) may, in fact, function well in day-to-day aspects of their lives.
A word about some of the other terms used in this book. We prefer
“Asperger syndrome” to the DSM-IV label of “Asperger’s Disorder” (but retain
the latter when the context calls for it), partly because Hans Asperger himself
preferred “syndrome,” as indicated when he wrote about “Asperger syndrome,
as it is now known.” 5 Further, we hesitate to characterize AS as a disorder
because, as this book explains, its essence is best understood as a natural
byproduct of positive past and present evolutionary dynamics. We also fol-
low others in using “autist” 6 and/or “autistics” 7 interchangeably as a general
designation for people with autism. Similarly, “neurotypical” (coined by the
first autistic-run organization, the Autism Network International)8 and “typi-
cally developed” are labels for unaffected people who frequently comprise the
comparison (control) groups in autism studies.
Because “Aspies” is more concise than phrases such as “persons with
Asperger syndrome” or “individuals with AS,” and because Eve prefers it,
“Aspie(s)” is used widely, but not exclusively, throughout the book. By adopt-
ing this term, we follow autism advocate Judy Singer, who used it when she
noted in 1999, “The people who band together under this category prefer
to name their condition as AS, and themselves as autistics, and sometimes,
comfortably, as ‘aspies,’ to distinguish themselves from those they have
dubbed the ‘NTs’—Neurotypicals.” 9 Aspie author Liane Holliday Willey was
also among the first to use “Aspie,” 10 by which she “meant it to take away the
stigma associated with syndrome. I do not want a syndrome, nor do I want to
live my life under the umbrella of a man’s name. But whatever my reason in
choosing to refer to myself as an aspie, I never meant for it to imply anyone
in my Asperger Syndrome community was or is crazy, insignificant, separate
and unequal, or anything remotely negative.” 11 Similarly, in this book “Aspies,”
xii PREFACE

“autistics,” “autists,” “high-functioning autism,” “neurotypical,” and “typically

developed” are intended to be respectful. So is our use of “geeks” to identify
highly talented technical-minded individuals.
In each chapter, I discuss the latest findings related to a specific facet of
AS (and, where possible, HFA), such as the cognitive, genetic, or neurologi-
cal underpinnings of these conditions. Put simply, my goal is to understand
how AS fits within the evolutionary-developmental (evo-devo) framework
that caused humans to emerge as the most cognitively advanced species on
the planet. Eve, on the other hand, writes about experiences she has had that
are relevant to some aspect of each chapter’s scientific content. (Unlike her
grandmother, Eve uses British spellings in her parts of the book.) Because
her opinions are those of only one person, her parts of the book are obviously
not meant to represent all people with AS. They do, however, give a feel for
what it is like to be an Aspie. In the last chapter, Eve offers suggestions about
how parents of children with AS and HFA can help them have a better future.
Discussion of the latest neurophysiological or genetic findings requires
going into some detail, which means that parts of this book are, of neces-
sity, somewhat technical. Interested readers will find still more information
in the notes, the glossary, and an extensive list of references. Others may
wish to skim the technical discussions. At whatever level you choose to read
this book, we hope that Aspies, other autists, parents, teachers, clinicians,
psychologists, psychiatrists, other health-care providers, autism researchers,
evolutionary biologists, paleoanthropologists, and people who simply enjoy
reading about science will find thinking about AS and HFA from an evolu-
tionary perspective thought provoking—and maybe even fun.
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We are immensely grateful to the University of New Mexico Press and, espe-
cially, to our editor, John Byram, for taking on this book project. Dr. Michael
Margolius is warmly acknowledged for diligently providing references and
news about autism as our writing progressed. Professor Chris Gunter is
thanked for providing constructive suggestions on an earlier draft. We thank
Karin Kaufman for careful copyediting and Tony Archer, director of cre-
ative services at Florida State University, for help with illustrations. Michael
Brown, president at the School for Advanced Research, and Rochelle Marri-
nan, chair of the Department of Anthropology at Florida State University, are
acknowledged for their generous support.
We are also grateful to the following people who have helped move this
book forward: James Ayers, Amanda Baxter, Colette Berbesque, James
Brooks, David Cohen, Alyssa Crittenden, Margaret Dancy, Arthur Davis,
Doug Dearden, Pete Ellis, Karen Foulke, Russell Dean Greaves, George
(Jorge) Gumerman, Sheila Gumerman, Elizabeth Hadas, Pier Jaarsma, Janet
Kistner, Daniel Lieberman, Jack Meinhardt, Deirdre Mullane, Sarah Nich-
ols, Michael Peters, Fred Prior, Vanessa Panetta Reinhardt, Karen Rosenberg,
Jean Schaumberg, Aidan Schofield, Judith Schofield, Lena Dean Schofield,
Suzanne Staszak-Silva, Kenneth Stilwell, Laurel Trainor, Wenda Trevathan,
Garret P. Vreeland, Sandra Vreeland, and Katherine White.
Finally, we thank Joel Yohalem for his thoughtful feedback on all drafts of
the manuscript, patience, and support—Joel, always Joel.

xiii
 ABBRE VIATIONS

AS Asperger syndrome
ASD Autism Spectrum Disorder
AQ Autistic quotient
CDC Centers for Disease Control and Prevention
CNV Copy-number variation
DSM-IV Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,
4th edition
DSM-5 Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,
5th edition
evo-devo Evolutionary developmental
EQ Empathizing quotient
fMRI Functional magnetic resonance imaging
HFA High-functioning autism
MRI Magnetic resonance imaging
SQ Systemizing quotient
TD Typically developed
ToM Theory of mind
TPJ Temporo-parietal junction

xv
 Introduction

I
n 1944, Austrian pediatrician Hans Asperger described a clinical condition
that eventually became known as Asperger syndrome.1 Because his young
patients were intensely focused on their inner worlds, Asperger described
them as “autistic,” which literally means “state of being self-absorbed.” A year
earlier, psychiatrist Leo Kanner used the same label for another group of
children, who were later recognized as having “classic” autism.2 Most of the
patients in both groups were boys who were socially inept and insensitive to
the thoughts and feelings of others. They avoided eye contact and had flat-
tened or otherwise strange tones of voice. Instead of playing imaginatively
with others, they engaged in repetitive solitary activities, like forming pat-
terned rows with toys or organizing objects into stacks. The youngsters hated
change and became terribly upset when their routines were disrupted.
After he learned of Kanner’s research, Asperger observed remarkable dif-
ferences between the two groups of children. Referring to himself in the third
person, he wrote:

Asperger’s typical cases are very intelligent children with extraordinary

originality of thought and spontaneity of activity. . . . Their thinking,
too, seems unusual in that it is endowed with special abilities in the
areas of logic and abstraction. . . . A further important difference . . . is
that Asperger children, very early, even before they walk, develop highly
grammatical speech and they may be uncommonly apt at using expres-
sions coined spontaneously. . . . However, the children with Kanner’s
syndrome generally avoid communication, consequently they do not
develop speech or develop it very late. . . . The Asperger type of child . . .
may continue with his special subject with undiminished vigour and
with originality and may in the end find his way into an unusual career,
perhaps into highly specialised scientific work, maybe with an ability

1
2 Introduction

bordering on genius. . . . Indeed, it seems that for success in science

or art a dash of autism is essential. For success the necessary ingredi-
ent may be an ability to turn away from the everyday world, from the
simply practical, an ability to re-think a subject with originality so as to
create in new, untrodden ways, with all abilities canalised into the one
specialty.3

Half a century after Asperger published his findings, the American Psy-
chiatric Association named Asperger’s Disorder as a pervasive developmental
disorder in its 1994 edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental
Disorders (DSM-IV).4 The diagnostic criteria for Asperger’s Disorder included
significantly impaired social interactions, repetitive patterns of behavior, and
highly restricted interests and activities. DSM-IV also specified that affected
individuals experienced no clinically significant general delay in language or
cognitive development. Above all, it was this specification that set Asperg-
er’s Disorder apart from another condition listed in DSM-IV, Autistic Disor-
der. The formal recognition of Asperger’s Disorder was extremely important
because a diagnosis based on the highly respected Manual qualified children
for medical and educational services. Eve was among the youngsters who
benefited. Having been diagnosed with Asperger’s at age nine, she became
eligible to receive treatments that helped her adjust socially and become com-
fortable in her Aspie skin.
As is well known, the proverbial rug was pulled from under the Asperger
community in 2013, when the American Psychiatric Association folded
Asperger’s Disorder, Autistic Disorder, and several other conditions into a
single category called Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) in the fifth (and
latest) edition of its Manual (DSM-5).5 What this meant for undiagnosed
individuals who would have met the criteria for Asperger’s Disorder using
DSM-IV guidelines was that in the future they might or might not satisfy the
comparatively restrictive criteria for ASD in DSM-5 and, thus, might or might
not become eligible for needed services and treatments.6
But it’s not just access to services that was, and is, at stake. The public
attaches a stigma to autism but is more neutral and, sometimes, even positive
about Asperger’s. One critic of DSM-5 raised the specter that “children and
adults who are shy and timid, who have quirky interests like train sched-
ules and baseball statistics, and who have trouble relating to their peers—but
Introduction 3

who have no language-acquisition problems—[will be] placed on the autism

spectrum,” which “often does a real disservice” and can lead to lower self-
esteem and fewer job opportunities.7 Clearly, it is not always easy to draw
the boundary between the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum and
social oddity.8
The motivation for merging several previously recognized pervasive
developmental conditions into one big spectrum in DSM-5 was to establish “a
new, more accurate, and medically and scientifically useful way of diagnosing
individuals with autism-related disorders.” This was premised, in part, on the
assumption that “symptoms of people with ASD will fall on a continuum,
with some individuals showing mild symptoms and others having much
more severe symptoms.” 9 A belief that Asperger’s Disorder melded seamlessly
at the mild end of the spectrum with high-functioning autism was implicit
in this rationale, although HFA was not (and is not) a formally recognized
form of autism. Instead, high-functioning autists who did not meet the crite-
ria for Asperger’s Disorder were likely to be diagnosed with Autistic Disorder
in DSM-IV, although the criteria for distinguishing the two disorders were
somewhat fuzzy.10
Although there is no doubt that people with Asperger’s are both autistic
and high functioning as, indeed, Asperger himself describes in the passage
quoted above, the widely held belief that AS and HFA are for all practical
purposes identical requires careful scrutiny. Because of this assumption, a
huge number of recent studies compare groups of individuals that have either
Asperger’s Disorder or HFA with neurotypical control groups. Fortunately,
some investigations still compare groups comprised only of Aspies with
groups of neurotypicals.11 In order to glean as much information as possible
about the evolutionary emergence of HFA and AS, this book incorporates
findings from both types of studies.
Whether or not clinicians identify autists as low or high functioning is
usually determined by their performances on full-scale IQ tests. A recent
analysis of fifty-two separate studies showed that people with HFA were
extremely variable when it came to full-scale IQs. Their scores fell across
ranges of IQs described as “above . . . intellectual disability” (70–79), low
average (80–89), average (90–109), or high average (110–119).12 Significantly,
the full-scale IQ ranges for AS and HFA overlapped to some degree, but not
entirely, consistent with the authors’ conclusion that AS and HFA represent
Other documents randomly have
different content
deadly torpedo. During the conversation between Sir John Pilrig and
the Captain of the Cariad, Brian Strong had rejoined Peter, who had
been closely questioned by the experts concerning the anti-aircraft
device.

In complete ignorance of the presence of the Rioguayan

submarine, the group of experts transferred their attention to the
seaplane that had detached herself from her consorts and was now
hovering in wide circles over the clearly-defined hull of her lawful
prey.

A dark object dropped from the fuselage, quickly followed by

another, their impact with the water throwing up a tall column of
spray.

"What is that fellow doing?" began Uncle Brian, but before he could
complete the sentence a muffled roar shook the air. A thick cloud of
greasy black smoke shot up, mushroom-shaped... the rush of
subsiding water hurled high above the normal surface deadened the
long-drawn-out reverberations of the explosion.... The Cariad rolled
lazily to the wash caused by the violent displacement of hundreds of
tons of water.

It seemed an interminable time before the straight snout and the

net-cutting device of the Rioguayan submersible rose for a brief
interval above the pool of oil—sufficient for the Cariad to establish
the certainty that the craft was not a British one.

The submarine had been hit right aft, the explosion[43] completely
shattering the hull abaft the Diesel-engine room. The for'ard portion
was, however, still practically intact.

The Cariad's engines were stopped. Captain Parr was seemingly in

no hurry to take his ship from that forbidding spot. Nor did he close
in order to drop a mark-buoy over the wreckage.
 A quarter of an hour had passed. The seaplanes, their work
accomplished, were out of sight. The light cruiser still lingered. At
the microphone apparatus a grave-faced watch-keeping lieutenant
was listening, and not listening in vain, for auricular evidences of
what was taking place within the as yet water-tight sections of the
submersible.

Suddenly the muffled roar of a second explosion, of lesser

magnitude than that of the first, was borne to the ears of the
watchers on the cruiser's deck and superstructure. A thin cloud of
vile-smelling smoke filtered through the agitated waves and drifted
athwart the Cariad.

The Deputy Chief of Staff turned inquiringly to Captain Parr. His

hands were trembling perceptibly and his tanned features had
assumed a greyish hue.

"Well?" he inquired laconically.

"Done themselves in, poor wretches," replied the owner. "They've

detonated the warhead of one of their torpedoes.... Either that or a
lingering death."

The Captain turned to order speed for fifteen knots. Sir John left
the bridge and made his way to the quarter-deck to rejoin his
colleagues.[44]

"That apparatus of yours, Mr. Strong," he observed in level tones,

"is perfectly satisfactory. How many can you guarantee within a
fortnight?"

He paused and laid his hand upon Brian's masterpiece.

"If only you could adapt it for submarine work," he continued, "you
would become the greatest humanitarian of the decade—of the
century. There would be none of that brutal business we've just
witnessed.... Fifty in a fortnight, Mr. Strong? Excellent! Carry on, and
let's have the goods."[45]

CHAPTER XXVI
Orders to Proceed

During the next fortnight, Brian Strong kept his augmented staff
hard at work. Ninety men were employed in turning out numbers of
the apparatus that was to knock the Rioguayan air fleet out of the
running. In three shifts the enthusiastic men toiled, Brian personally
superintending two shifts a day, while Peter was in charge of the
third.

Meanwhile the personnel of the Royal Navy was being strongly

increased. Ex-officers and men volunteered and were gladly
accepted. The fleet reserve was called up, the R.N.R. and R.N.V.R.
veterans of the Great War offering their services in shoals.

The existing ships, even including those hastily brought forward for
commission, were in danger of being over-manned. Owing to the
wholesale scrapping of serviceable warships, there were available
roughly three times the number of trained men actually required to
put every existing ship into commission.

Amongst the ex-officers regranted a commission was Peter

Corbold. Without identifying himself as a relative of the inventor of
the mysterious ray, he had[46] made an application through the usual
channel for service afloat. Now that the apparatus was tested and
adopted by the British Government, he felt that he was no longer
bound to remain an assistant experimenter. But he rather dreaded
breaking the news to Uncle Brian. Peter had a lurking suspicion that
it was hardly fair to his relative.

During a brief spell in the workshops, Peter found an opportunity of

broaching the news.

Uncle Brian listened quietly. Hardly a muscle of his face moved

during the announcement.

"That's all right, Peter," he said, when his nephew had unburdened
himself. "Quite all right, my boy. As a matter of fact, I knew how
keen you were to volunteer for sea service, so I approached Sir John
Pilrig on the subject. You'll find that you'll be appointed to the
Rebound as lieutenant borne for wireless duties."

"Wireless duties!" exclaimed Peter. "Precious little I know about

that."

Uncle Brian winked.

"Camouflage," he rejoined. "You're in charge of the anti-aircraft

apparatus to be installed on board the flagship. It wouldn't do to let
everybody know. In war-time, one must not call a spade a spade. It
must be described by some other name and be disguised to
resemble something that it is not."

Two days later, Peter Corbold's appointment to H.M.S. Rebound

was announced.

The Rebound was a post-war battleship, of 40,000[47] tons, armed

with eight 15-inch guns, and embodying many details of
construction that bitter experience at Jutland had taught the naval
constructor. At present, she was at Bermuda with the rest of the
small, but efficient, squadron that represented the total available
force at the Empire's disposal without seriously impairing her naval
resources elsewhere.
 Diplomacy backed up by the guns of the British Navy had all but
settled the Near Eastern question. British warships on the East
Indian station were an invaluable asset in keeping a vast section of a
fanatical India under control, even though the seat of incipient
disorder was eight hundred miles from the Arabian Sea. A squadron
lying off Suakin and Port Sudan had a salutary effect upon the
fractious dervishes of Darfur and Kordofan; while by the same token
the Egyptian Nationalists were gently but firmly called to order.

The withdrawal of any of these vessels would inevitably result in

wide-spread trouble that would with certainty lead to a world-wide
war. Almost too late came the realization that the drastic curtailment
of the British Navy left the Empire in desperate straits, with no
margin for emergencies.

Meanwhile, the squadron detailed for South American waters had

been held up at Bermuda, pending the arrival of the anti-aircraft
apparatus, which was now being turned out in sufficient numbers to
render the ships invulnerable to the attacks of the Rioguayan flying-
boats.[48]

At length, the initial supply of Brian Strong's device was ready. The
destroyer Greyhound was ordered to proceed with the sets of
apparatus to Bermuda and to take supernumeraries to the fleet.

Amongst the latter was Peter Corbold, with the rank of full
lieutenant.

The voyage out was uneventful. At Bermuda, Peter reported on

board the flagship, which, with the Repulse, Royal Oak, and
Retrench, comprised the capital ships of the small but efficient fleet
that was to try conclusions with the numerically superior battleships
of Rioguay.

Having reported himself to the officer of the watch and been

introduced to the Captain, Peter was escorted to the ward-room.
Here he looked for familiar faces, and he did not look in vain.
Amongst the officers were several who had been in his term at
Dartmouth.

According to the custom of the service, newly joined officers are

given twenty-four hours to "shake down". During that period they
are excused duty in order to allow them to become acquainted with
the internal arrangements of the ship.

Peter, with his usual keenness, was making a tour round, under the
guidance of the "gunnery jack", when he was "barged into" by a
burly "two striper", who dealt him a hearty whack on the shoulders.

In the dim light, for the meeting took place in the electrically-
lighted passage between the engine-rooms, Peter was at a loss to
establish the identity of the officer with the boisterous greeting.[49]

"Mouldy blighter," exclaimed the lieutenant. Then Peter knew.

"Weeds, old son," he ejaculated. "I didn't expect to find you here."

"But I did," replied Cavendish; "heard you were appointed. Saw

you coming up over the side, in point of fact, only I couldn't hail you.
My watch—still on it," he added hurriedly. "See you later, old thing."

Cavendish, with several of the other survivors of the Complex, had

been "turned over" to the flagship on her arrival at Bermuda a week
previously, so that her normal complement was now exceeded. It
was the same with the rest of the fleet. Trained officers and men
were plentiful. The deficiency lay in the number of ships available.

After "seven-bell" tea the chums met again.

"So you're the new gadget expert, I hear," said Cavendish.

"Something that's going to make the Rioguayans feel the breeze,
eh? What sort of 'ujah' is it?"

Peter explained.
 "That sounds all right," remarked the sceptical Cavendish. "It's
been tested and all that; but will it stand concussion when we're in
action?"

"It will stand up to it as well as any searchlight," declared Peter.

"While we were testing the gadget an enemy submarine was depth-
charged about three hundred yards off. That was some concussion!
and I examined the apparatus afterwards. It was O.K."

"Nothing like our principal armament firing salvoes,"[50] said

Cavendish. "My action station is 13 turret. Where's yours?"

"Fore-top, I believe," replied Peter. "Not sure, though. It depends,

so the Commander informs me, upon the disposition of the little
stunt I'm supposed to be in charge of. When are we going south, do
you know?"

Cavendish shook his head.

"Waiting for the oil-tankers, I believe. And there's trouble with the
Repulse's under-water fittings. We can't go without her. Dockyard
divers might fix up the damage. Wonder if the Rioguayan navy will
come out, or will it act like the Hun High Seas Fleet? Hello, what's
that? General signal."

The two officers were pacing that side of the quarter-deck which
was theirs by custom. The other side was by the same tradition the
owner's.

From the signal yard and almost immediately above their heads a
hoist of gaily-coloured bunting fluttered in the breeze.

It was the signal to "weigh and proceed".

Cavendish gave a low whistle. "What's up now?" he asked.

 A messenger from the decoding officer came hurrying aft. The
lieutenant stopped him, and repeated his question.

"They're out, sir," replied the man, saluting. "Enemy have appeared
in force off Barbadoes and Barbuda."

"Good business, Peter," ejaculated Cavendish.[51] "They're raiding.

Will try to bust up Jamaica before they've done. We'll give it to 'em
in the neck."

For the next half-hour a scene of bustling activity took place. Steam
pinnaces were scurrying between the ships and the dockyard,
picking up liberty men, who had been hastily recalled to duty. The
final consignments of urgent stores were being hurriedly unloaded
from lighters alongside the warships. Cruisers and destroyers not
lying at moorings were already shortening cable. Derricks were
swinging in and out as they hoisted the heavy boom-boats. The
signal halliard blocks were cheeping as hoist after hoist of bunting
rose and fell from the ship's upper-bridges; the semaphores waved
their arms with bewildering rapidity as if mutually bewailing their
inability to join in the din. Above all other sounds came the hiss of
escaping steam.

It was a chance—a chance at long odds—but the Admiral was

throwing away no opportunity.

The Rioguayan fleet was out. Possibly in ignorance of the presence

of the British warships concentrated at Bermuda, the Republicans
thought it a propitious moment to carry out a "sweep" amongst the
Windward Islands. At a moderate estimate, they might reach a point
some eight hundred miles from their base at San Antonio. Bermuda
was approximately 1200 miles away from the estuary of the Rio
Guaya. The proposition that confronted the British admiral was the
chance of being able to intercept the enemy before the latter gained
the shelter afforded by the neutral[52] waters of the Republics of San
Valodar and San Benito.
 "Do you think they'll fight, sir?" inquired a midshipman, as he
passed Cavendish on his way to the fire-bridge. Cavendish, by virtue
of his having been in action with the Cerro Algarrobo, was regarded
by the members of the gun-room as an unimpeachable authority on
Rioguayan matters.

"They probably will," was the non-committal reply.

"Hurrah!" exclaimed the "snottie". "Won't it be something to write

home about!"

Poldene, the Paymaster-Commander, who happened to overhear

the conversation, stopped to speak to the two lieutenants.

"That youngster," he remarked, nodding in the direction of the

receding midshipman, "that youngster is a bit too optimistic. I
wonder whether he'll sing the same tune after the show's over?"

"It'll be a pretty stiff business," declared Cavendish. "Those fellows

fight when they're cornered—fight like a cargo of mad devils
—'specially if they think they're going to win. Spanish blood, you
know."

"They want teaching a lesson," continued Poldene, "and we'll do it.

But, by Jove, I don't mind admitting that I funk going into action."

The Paymaster-Commander wore the ribbon of the D.S.O., awarded

him for a particularly gallant deed at Jutland. He had seen the real
thing, shorn of all the ornamental trappings of glory. A vision of a
shell-shattered battery, tenanted only by mangled human[53] beings
and illuminated by the vivid white glare from a pile of burning
cordite cartridges only three yards distant from the open ammunition
hoist—that was his sole clear recollection of the greatest naval battle
that the world had seen.

No, Poldene did not hanker after another similar experience. One
was enough, more than enough, for a lifetime. Almost without
exception, the older officers and men who had been under fire
during the Great War held similar views. But as the present job had
to be done, they jolly well meant to do it thoroughly.

The British ships had a stupendous task in front of them. Apart

from the disadvantage of numerical inferiority, they were fighting
thousands of miles from home waters. There was no docking
accommodation for the battleships within a few hours' steaming. The
smaller "lame ducks" might be patched up in the neglected dockyard
at Kingston, Jamaica, and also at Bermuda. In either case, it was a
long distance for a shell-torn vessel to go. The wavering neutrality of
San Valodar and San Benito had also to be taken into account. A
slight success of the Rioguayan arms might turn the scale and
induce those two Republics to declare war.

But one thing the Rioguayans had grossly under-estimated—the

character of the man behind the gun.[54]

CHAPTER XXVII
In Action—Fore-top

Eight bells had just sounded off. Cavendish, the officer of the
forenoon watch, had been relieved and was descending the bridge-
ladder, when he ran against Peter Corbold, who, having completed
the daily examination of the anti-aircraft gadgets on board the
flagship, was about to report to the Commander.

"Hello, Weeds," exclaimed Peter. "Nothing through, I suppose?"

Cavendish shook his head.

 "Absolutely nothing," he replied. "Patrolling destroyers twenty-five
miles ahead of us haven't reported even a single sail. It's my belief
the blighters have given us the slip and are back in the Rio Guaya.
As for——"

The sentence remained unfinished. A shrill bugle-call rent the air,

its meaning as clear as its note.

"Action stations at the double," exclaimed Peter. "That's business.

S'long, old bird."

The two chums parted company, Cavendish making for B turret,

while Peter, having paid a hurried visit to his cabin for his gas mask,
binoculars, life-saving[55] waistcoat, and emergency ration, began
the ascent to the fore-top.

Here he found two other officers and three ratings; a midshipman

followed, so that seven people were occupying rather cramped
quarters in a steel, roofed-in box, 120 feet above the water-line.

Peter's duties were chiefly confined to taking notes of the

impending action. He was also to keep a lookout for hostile aircraft.
Should any Rioguayan flying-boat appear in sight, he was to
immediately warn the party told off to man the new anti-aircraft
devices. The apparatus, until actually required, was kept below the
armoured deck, whence it could be whipped up into position and
connected with the dynamos supplying the necessary electric
current.

It was a weird experience. Viewed from aloft, the fore-deck and

superimposed turrets of the Rebound looked like a model. Even the
enormous beam of the ship—slightly over a hundred feet—was
dwarfed to such an extent that it seemed possible to jump clear of
the sides.

The guns of A and B turrets were being turned with a view to

testing the training gear. Smoothly and easily the enormous
weapons, looking no bigger than twin pairs of lead pencils projecting
from an oval-shaped inverted dish, swung first on one beam and
then on the other; at one moment trained to full elevation, at
another depressed until the line of fire hardly cleared the slightly up-
curved fo'c'sle.

Ten feet above Peter's head the huge range-finder[56] was being
adjusted by a gunnery lieutenant, his assistant standing by with
telephones and voice-tubes ready to communicate with the
transmitting station for "direction" firing.

The wind shrieked through the wire stays and shrouds and whistled
past the now unemployed signal halliards, for the battleships had
worked up to a speed of twenty-two knots. Each ship had hoisted
two battle-ensigns, the wind-stretched bunting presenting the only
dash of colour amidst a general tone of grey.

The four battleships were still in line ahead, the following craft
being almost hidden in the dense cloud of smoke from the flagship's
funnels.

Three miles to port and starboard were the light cruisers, standing
out clearly in the tropical sunshine. Farther away, ahead, astern, and
on both beams, were the destroyers detailed for anti-submarine
work, while two separate flotillas, held in reserve for a torpedo
attack upon the Rioguayan fleet, were almost invisible in the waste
of sun-flecked water.

Broad on the port beam could be discerned the land, San

Valodaran territory. Farther astern the coast-line dipped. The gap
was the broad estuary of the Rio Guaya. The British admiral had got
between the enemy and their sole means of regaining port. Provided
he could head the Rioguayan fleet away from neutral territorial
waters, he knew that there was nothing to prevent his bringing them
to an engagement.
 Again and again Peter swept the horizon ahead with[57] his
binoculars. Nothing—not even a blur of smoke—obscured the clearly
defined line which cut sea and sky. But far away out yonder wireless
messages were being sent by the scouting destroyers, announcing
with ever increasing certainty that the enemy was still coming south.

Two bells of the afternoon watch sounded off. Peter could hardly
realize that fifty minutes had elapsed since he ascended to his eyrie.
Surely it was about time, with the rival fleets approaching at an
aggregate rate of from forty to fifty-five knots, that something was
seen of the enemy?

A few seconds later and a triple hoist of bunting crept past the
fore-top. Fifty answering pennants were almost immediately hoisted
on fifty different ships, large and small. Then a burst of cheering—a
huge volume of sound—came from the invisible crews of the
battleships, to be taken up by their comrades in the cruisers and on
until the furthermost destroyer within signalling distance joined in
the roar of appreciation.

It was the Admiral's battle signal:

"Strike hard, strike straight for England."

"There they are, by smoke!" exclaimed one of Peter's companions

in the fore-top.

Peter raised his glasses. With uncanny suddenness, the hitherto

unbroken skyline was dotted with the masts, funnels, and
superstructures of a host of vessels, their hulls still below the
horizon. Approaching each other at the rate of an express train, the
rival fleets were now within visual distance or, roughly, fifteen miles.
[58]

The destroyers that had been on ahead of the battleships, their

mission for the time being accomplished, had turned tail and were
taking station astern. The chance of getting to work with the deadly
torpedo was not yet. Until gun-fire had demoralized the half-tried
gunners of the Rioguayan battleships, it was a purposeless, futile
business to dispatch thinly-plated destroyers against armoured ships
bristling with quick-firers.

Suddenly Peter caught a glimpse of a couple of flying-boats

hovering well in advance of the British ships. Apparently they were
engaged upon reconnoitring duties—for they made no attempt to
take up a position favourable for bomb-dropping.

As a matter for precaution, Peter turned out one of the anti-aircraft

apparatus with its crew, but it was neither the time nor the occasion
to make use of the rays. Had the hostile aircraft been bombing
machines intent upon scoring a hit, the case would have been
different; but they were spotting machines, up to record the results
of salvoes and to acquaint the Rioguayan admiral of the disposition
of the British ships. The light cruisers would deal with them.

It was the Cadogan that brought her rays into action. Both flying-
boats dropped like shot partridges, recovering in time to enable
them to volplane to the water. Here they drifted helplessly until a
destroyer ranged alongside each in succession, removed the crews,
who did not offer the slightest resistance, and sent the abandoned
aircraft to the bottom.[59]

"Neat work that," thought Peter. "It proves that friend Ramon Diaz
hasn't found an antidote for the rays. Apparently he's satisfied with
stealing Uncle Brian's secret."

Meanwhile the four battleships had deployed into single line

abreast, each with the object of getting its four 15-inch guns of A
and B turrets to bear upon the enemy.

So engrossed was Peter with the little episode of the flying-boats,

that the distant rumble of heavy gunfire—sounding like a subdued
thudding upon a bass drum—failed to attract his attention.
 A few seconds later a veritable cauldron of foam, a dozen separate
pillars of spray, announced to him and to a favoured few who could
see what was going on outside the ship, that the action had
commenced by the enemy opening fire. As a gratifying corollary was
the knowledge that the salvo had fallen short.

"Sixteen thousand five hundred," chaunted the range-finding

lieutenant, the moment the battleship had emerged from the slowly
dispersing wall of spray.

"Train fifteen red," sang out another voice in a lower key.

The two for'ard turrets swung a few degrees to the left. The long
lean guns rose slowly, as if roused from slumber.

Again the distant rumble. This time Peter could see the massive
hostile projectiles approaching. The air seemed stiff with them,...
and they were coming his way. Instinctively he ducked behind the
thin steel[60] plating of the fore-top—a protection hardly more
serviceable than brown paper. The beastly shells seemed in no great
hurry.... He could see the bright copper rifling bands on the dark
grey bodies of the projectiles.

"Train twenty-five green," came the clear level tones again.

The Rebound had starboarded helm, and the enemy, instead of

being on her port, were now well on her starboard bow.

With an infernal screech, the salvo trundled past the flagship's

foremast, falling within a radius of fifty yards, a good three cables'
lengths astern.

"Straddled, by Jove!" ejaculated a midshipman with Peter in the

fore-top. "Why the——?"

His question was interrupted by a deafening crash that shook the

tripod mast like a bamboo in a hurricane. The steel platform seemed
to jump bodily. A whiff of acrid-smelling cordite flicked over the edge
of the steel breastwork.

Peter gave a sidelong glance at the midshipman. It was the

youngster who, but a short while before, was gloating over the
prospect of being in action. The boy's face was pale underneath the
tan. He laughed—it was a forced laugh without any ring of sincerity
about it. His heart was doubtless in his boots, but he was making a
gallant effort to get it back into its right place.

Retrieving his binoculars, Corbold brought them to bear upon the

distant target. The terrific concussion[61] was the simultaneous
discharge of the four 15-inch guns of A and B turrets. Already the
salvo was on its way towards a target unseen by the fifty odd men
cooped up within the two turrets. Eight miles away those shells, by
the latest workings of the science of gunnery, were calculated to fall
—and they did.

Through his glasses, Peter watched the receding flight of the huge
missiles, each weighing more than a ton. The impact came. At first
there was little to indicate to the observer's eye that they had done
their work—just a few dark splashes on the light grey hull of a
Rioguayan battleship—no more. But the next instant the scene had
changed considerably. The projectiles had burst, not on impact, but
after they had eaten into the vitals of the enemy ship. Lurid flashes
leapt from her superstructure and from different parts of her lofty
hull. One of her funnels sagged, hung irresolute, and then crashed
across her port battery. Then flame-tinged smoke poured through a
dozen unauthorized outlets. Reeling like a drunken man, the
Rioguayan battleship hauled out of line and disappeared behind the
ship next astern.

By this time the firing had become general. The four British
battleships were letting rip as fast as the loading-trays could deliver
shells and ammunition into the rapacious breeches of the enormous
weapons. The din was terrific, while the vibration was so intense
that the fore-top was shaking and rattling like a high-pressure
engine on a faulty bed.

"Goodness only knows what we're here for,"[62] thought Peter,

wiping the cordite dust from his eyes and shaking the beads of salt
spray from the peak of his cap. "Can't see a blessed thing."

He continued to peer out automatically. There was little to be seen,

save when an occasional lifting of the pall of spray and smoke
enabled him to see the flashes of the guns of the Royal Oak and her
consorts. His senses were benumbed by the continuous crashes. He
was no longer afraid. A sort of stolid indifference seemed to take
possession of the fragments of thought left in his brain. The whole
business seemed a ghastly, bewildering nightmare.

A terrific crash, outvoicing every other noise in the pandemonium,

shook the fore-top like a rattle. The occupants, hurled violently,
subsided in a confused struggling heap upon the steel floor. For
some moments they remained prostrate, making no effort to sort
themselves out.

Peter opened his eyes, to close them quickly again. Someone's heel
was beating a tattoo within an inch or so of his nose.

He wriggled clear and sat up. One of the bluejackets, wedged in an

angle of the walls, was mopping the claret that welled from his nose.
The two officers and the midshipman were sorting themselves out,
looking too dazed to understand how they got there and what they
were doing. The second bluejacket was muttering to himself as he
fumbled in his jumper for some article that he had prized and lost.

"Anyone hit?" bawled Peter.[63]

His words were inaudible, but no one showed any signs of serious
injury. The fore-top was shaking badly—not only through the
continuous concussion, but as if it were no longer firmly secured to
the head of the tripod mast. The small oval aperture that opened
into the principal leg of the tripod, and formed an alternative means
of gaining the deck, was open. Wisps of smoke issued from it.

A man with a bandaged head appeared, squeezing with an obvious

effort through the door. Peter recognized him as a petty-officer
belonging to the range-finding party.

"Fair kippered that way, sir," he shouted. "A perishin' eel couldn't
wriggle through. No, mast ain't carried away quite. 'S got a bulge in
'er. Lootenant, 'e told me to report verbally that our range-finder's
knocked out, an' all controls smashed up."

Having explained his presence, the P.O. spat on his hands, hitched
up his trousers, and lowered himself over the edge of the fore-top.

Peter, leaning over, watched him grip the rungs on the outside of
the tripod and commence his eighty-odd feet descent. Then
something else attracted the young officer's attention.

All was not well with A and B turrets. They had ceased firing. The
smoke had cleared considerably, but from the riven roof of A turret a
column of white flame was leaping almost as high as the platform on
which Peter stood. He was unpleasantly aware of the[64] heat. The
updraught was like that of a blast-furnace. Someone touched him on
the shoulder. Turning, he saw Ambrose, one of the officers with him
on the top.

"Looks like the Queen Mary stunt," said Ambrose grimly. "We'll be
blown sky high in half a shake."

Peter replied that that possibility was by no means remote. That

white flame came from burning cordite. Once the fire got to the
magazine the Rebound would be blown to smithereens.

"We shan't have to go as far as some of those poor blighters,"

continued Ambrose, with a wry smile. He came of a stock of fighting
men, many of whom had met death with a jest on their lips.
 It was indeed a desperate situation. The occupants of the fore-top
were craning their necks over the sizzling flame. Projectiles were still
hurtling through the air. Although the for'ard guns of the flagship
had ceased fire, Q and X turrets were still hard at it, trained abeam
to starboard. Smoke was pouring from the funnels and enveloping
the fore-top. Either the wind had changed, or else the ship had
swung round sixteen points and was retracing her course. At least,
Peter imagined so, until a partial clearing of the smoke showed that
the Rebound was going astern, but still towards the enemy line.
Battered and bruised for'ard, and with her bows well down, she was
still holding her place in the line.

Even as he watched, Peter fancied that the column of white flame

was diminishing. Men, looking no[65] larger than flies, were swarming
round the turret with hoses directing powerful jets of water into the
raging inferno. Steam mingled with the flame. The pillar of fire
wavered, died down, flared up again, and finally went out like a
guttered candle.

Losing all account of time, Peter "carried on"—doing absolutely

nothing. His range of vision was limited, owing to dense clouds of
smoke, steam, and spray. The turret sighters and men at the
rangefinders on the "Argo" towers, could see much better than he,
since the atmosphere was less obscured closer to the waterline and
the opposing fleets had drawn to within torpedo range. As far as
Corbold was concerned, existence seemed to be composed of a
continual roar and vibration, punctuated by deeper concussions that
indicated direct hits from Rioguayan guns. How the battle was
progressing, he knew not. That it was being fiercely contested, he
had no doubt, nor had he that ultimate victory would be with the
ships flying the glorious White Ensign. He was beginning to feel
horribly sick, for in addition to the distracting vibration, a whiff of
poison gas-shell had wafted over the fore-top.

A flash of orange-coloured flame rent the billowing clouds of acrid-

smelling smoke. The light seemed to spring from a source within a
few feet of the tripod mast-head. Actually a 5.9-inch had glanced
obliquely from the hood of B turret and had burst outside the
massive steel walls of the conning-tower.

Again Peter was hurled against the side of the fore-[66] top. How
long he remained there, he had not the faintest recollection. At
length he raised his head. His companions were strangely quiet,
except the midshipman, who was vainly attempting to stifle his
groans. There were jagged rents in the floor and in the sides of the
fore-top; there were also holes punched as neatly as if done by a
pneumatic drill. There were pools, too, of dark sticky liquid....

Peter struggled to his feet, somewhat surprised that he was able to

do so. As far as he knew, he had not been hit. He turned his
attention to his companions. Ambrose was lying on his side, his face
pillowed on his left arm. There was the same grim smile on his face.
He looked to be sleeping peacefully, but it was the sleep that knows
no wakening on this earth. The other lieutenant and the two
bluejackets were simply shattered lumps of clay. Only Peter and the
midshipman were left alive out of the seven, since there was no
trace of the third able seaman.

The snottie looked Peter in the face with eyes that resembled those
of a sheep on the slaughter-block.

"I've stopped one," he exclaimed feebly. "'Fraid it's the last fielding
I'll ever do."

His left leg was completely severed just below the knee, yet Peter
noticed the stump was only bleeding very slightly. The shock had
evidently contracted the torn arteries, but there was every possibility
of a rush of life-blood before very long.

Fumbling with unsteady fingers at his first-aid outfit, Peter

contrived to rig up a rough-and-ready[67] tourniquet. His next step
was to get the wounded lad down to the dressing-station. As far as
he, personally, was concerned, there was not the slightest reason
why he should remain in the wreck of the fore-top. The question
was, how was he to get the midshipman down?

Even had the passage down and within the centre leg of the tripod
been available (which it was not), the small diameter of the shaft
would not have permitted the descent of one man with another
clinging to his back. To lower the snottie was also out of the
question, since the signal halliard nearest the mast had been shot
away and no other rope was available. The only likely way was to
descend on the outside of the mast by means of the rungs provided
for that purpose.

"Can you hang on, do you think?" inquired Peter anxiously.

"I'll have a good shot at it, anyway," was the reply. As a matter of
precaution, the young lieutenant knotted his scarf round the
midshipman's body and his own. Then, heavily burdened, he let
himself down through the jagged gap in the floor of the fore-top
that had once been a trap-door.

Rung by rung he made his way, never once looking down and
religiously adhering to the old sea maxim: "Never let go with more
than one hand or foot at a time."

The eighty-odd feet descent seemed interminable. Momentarily,

Peter's burden grew heavier. The lad's grip, at first so strong as to
threaten to choke him, was[68] becoming feebler. His own leg-
muscles were giving indications of cramp, or else, perhaps, he had
received an injury of which at the time he was unaware. Presently
his left foot, groping for the next rung, failed to find a temporary
resting-place. For the first time in the descent, Peter looked down.
Where a series of rungs should have been, was a gaping void,
encompassed by a saw-like edge of riven steel. In ordinary
circumstances, he could have dropped without risk, since he was
only about eight feet above the boat-deck. But where the leg of the
tripod passed through the boat- and flying-decks was an abyss, out
of which acrid fumes were wafting. A shell that had penetrated the
side had burst on the upper-deck and had blown upwards,
completely isolating the stricken leg of the tripod from the other two
decks by a gap at least fifteen feet across.

"If I cast you adrift, can you hang on for a couple of minutes?"
asked Peter, shouting at the top of his voice above the discordant
din.

There was no response.

The midshipman had lost consciousness.[69]

CHAPTER XXVIII
In Action—'Tween Decks

On parting with Peter Corbold, Cavendish made his way for'ard,

through the battery and out by the armoured door of the screen.
Throughout his progress, he could not help remarking upon the
enthusiasm of the crews of the quick-firers as they cleared away and
triced up the mess-tables and closed up round their guns.

They were the pick of Britain's manhood, for the most part men
under twenty-five, tall, deep-chested, clean-shaven fellows, looking
in their singlets and trousers like zealously-trained athletes.

The battery was in semi-darkness, save for the yellow gleam of the
candles in the battle-lanterns. Oil lamps, for obvious reasons, were
not lighted, while the electric lamps were disconnected from their
holders and stowed away. The lesson of Jutland had shown how
dangerous an electric-light globe can be. The concussion of gunfire
alone will shatter it into a thousand jagged little fragments with
disastrous results as far as the bare feet of the guns' crews are
concerned.

Fire-hoses, sending their jets of water from their[70] unions, lay

along the deck like healthy serpents, ready to trip the unwary.
"Present use" ammunition was stacked in the rear of the guns, ready
to feed their rapacious maws when the order to open fire with the
secondary armament was received. Above the chatter of men's
voices came the rattle of the ammunition cages and the steady purr
of the engines far below the waterline.

"Close up round your guns, my lads," the bronzed and bearded

gunner kept on shouting, "close up and give the greasy swine socks
when the time comes."

Arriving at his action station, Cavendish climbed the short iron

ladder and passed through the narrow doorway in the rear of the
turret. Blades, the officer in charge, gave him a delighted grin.

"No blessed mist this time, Weeds," he observed. "It'll be an

almighty hammering... what's that, Petty-officer?"

"Crew numbered off, sir; all present and correct, sir."

"Very good—test loading-gear. Then stand by."

Blades turned away to watch operations. Cavendish, his work not

yet begun, stood behind the turret-trainer under the sighting-hood.

"Anything in sight yet?" inquired Cavendish.

"Nothing yet, sir," was the reply, as the P.O. stepped aside to allow
his officer to peep out.
 Cavendish placed his eyes to the rubber-rimmed periscope. As he
did so, he heard the order given, "load all cages!" The show was
about to open.[71]

He could see nothing but an expanse of sunlit sea and sky. Out
there lay the hostile fleet, but still below the horizon, although no
doubt visible from the fore-top and fire-control platform.

"We'll be firing by direction, sir," supplemented the turret-trainer.

Even as he looked, Cavendish's range of vision was obscured by a

white wall of spray. The enemy's opening salvo had fallen short.

"Train fifteen red!"

The turret turned smoothly—so smoothly that Cavendish was

hardly conscious of the pivotal movement. The breeches of both
weapons sank gently as the muzzles reared themselves almost to
extreme elevation.

The lieutenant moved away from the sighting-hood and watched

the massive steel monsters for the recoil that would announce that
the master-hand well outside the turret had completed the circuit
that would send the mighty projectiles on their pre-ordained flight.

There was a breathless silence, broken only by subdued noises

down in the working-chamber and the crash of a salvo that had
passed handsomely over the ship.

"Train twenty-five green!"

Back rolled the turret until the still silent weapons were trained on
the bearing ordered.

A suspense of a few long-drawn seconds, then with a roar the guns

of A and B turrets spoke simultaneously and with no uncertain voice.
[72]
 The period of inaction was over.

Recoiling to the full extent of their hydraulic buffers, the huge

weapons jumped forward again into loading-position. Men sprang to
the breech-blocks; a strong whiff of burnt cordite wafted back into
the confined space of the turret. The huge 15-inch projectiles were
rammed home by the mechanically operated rammer; followed the
bag containing the propelling charge; and again the breech-blocks
closed with a deep metallic clang.

A brief pause, and again the pair of guns recoiled.

Apart from watching the turret crew "carrying on" as rapidly and as
smoothly as a well-ordered machine, Cavendish began to feel
decidedly bored. There was a most terrific clamour going on without
—probably the "five-point-fives" of the starboard battery were
getting to work. In that case, he decided, there might be something
to be seen.

He touched the turret-trainer on the shoulder. The man stepped

aside. Cavendish applied his eyes to the periscope. He could see
nothing. Even if the enemy ships had closed to within a few
thousand yards, they were still invisible, for the front glass of the
periscope was blackened and smudged with smoke, oil, and water.
The continuous concussion was positively painful. The noise and
rattle of a dozen pneumatic hammers in a double bottom was
nothing to it.

Cavendish had lost all idea of time. He glanced at his wristlet

watch. It told him that he had been in[73] the turret only five
minutes. A second look showed that the watch had stopped.

Just then, Blades, the lieutenant of the turret, caught sight of him.

"Hello, old thing!" he exclaimed. "You haven't been sent for yet?"
 "No," shouted Cavendish in reply. "And don't want to be sent for.
Shows everything's going on all right. I'll——"

A jet of greasy oil forced through a broken gland struck Cavendish

in the face and interrupted his words.

"Faugh!" he ejaculated. "Your beastly turret again."

"Sorry, old man!" replied Blades, apologizing for the misbehaviour

of his beloved "box o' tricks". "'Tany rate, if that's all you get, you're
lucky."

One of the turret guns' crew appeared and put his face close to
Cavendish's ear.

"Message through from Captain, sir," he reported. "'E wants you to

go aft and report, seein' as 'ow the ship's been badly 'it."

The two officers exchanged glances.

"Good old Weeds!" exclaimed Blades. "'England expects', and all

that sort of thing, you know."

"Yes, I know," agreed Cavendish, with a wry grimace.

Turning up his coat-collar, although it was not until afterwards that

he recognized the futility of the action, Cavendish scrambled out of
the turret. Wriggling[74] like an eel and feeling very forlorn and
unhappy out in the open, he slid over and gained the port
superstructure ladder. Cordite-laden clouds were sweeping past him
as the guns of B turret fired simultaneously. He could feel the blast
and the back-draught much too close to be pleasant. A murderer
making for one of the Jewish cities of refuge couldn't have sprinted
in quicker time or in greater funk than he did in his mad rush for the
door of the superstructure—only to find that aperture barred and
bolted.
 Hardly knowing how he did it, Cavendish found himself clambering
over the remains of the cutter, his progress hastened by a shell that
burst against the horizontal leg of the tripod mast, fortunately
without carrying it away or bowling the lieutenant over by the
shower of splinters.

Right along the deserted mess deck Cavendish hurried. Here and
there were fairly round holes where projectiles had passed through
the thin steel plating. Soon he located the serious damage; a 14-inch
shell had completely penetrated the armour at the water-line and
had exploded between decks.

The shell had played havoc. The compartment was so full of smoke
that it was impossible to enter without a respirator. A fire had broken
out, the corticine and shattered teak planking allowing it to get a
good hold until the water, pouring in through the shell-hole every
time the ship rolled to starboard, put most of it out. Right beneath
was the after dressing station, already occupied by twenty or
thirty[75] cases, most of them suffering from burns. Through a hole
in the deck, water was liberally flowing in upon the medical staff and
their patients.

Shouting for a fire-party, Cavendish soon had the rest of the flames
under control, the badly damaged hoses notwithstanding. Then
came the task of plugging the shell-hole in the armour plate. This
was accomplished by means of a number of rolled hammocks shored
up with timber.

The lieutenant, finding that nothing more could be done, dismissed

the party and went below the armoured deck to reassure the
Surgeon Commander.

"How goes it?" demanded the Medical Officer.

"Dashed if I do know," replied Cavendish. "I was in too tearing a

hurry. Couldn't see anything if I wanted to. But I know we're keeping
our end up."
 "And the enemy?"

"No use asking me," persisted the lieutenant. "I've heard nothing,
seen nothing. You've had a busy time, Doc."

The Surgeon Commander gave a quick glance round the crowded

dressing-station.

"Twenty-eight," he replied, "and every man-jack a perfect brick.

Not a whine amongst the crowd. And some of them are—well—
thank God for morphia!"

He picked up an instrument from the sterilizing bowl and turned

away. Already he had performed five amputations by the light of a
few candle lamps, with the place shaking like a house during an
earth- [76] quake, and stuffy with fumes from the shell that had burst
on the deck immediately overhead.

At the head of the ladder, Cavendish was intercepted by one of the

carpenter's crew.

"I've been sent to fetch you, sir," explained the man. "There's a
nasty mess up for'ard."

The lieutenant hurried along the mess-deck, negotiating various

obstacles and passing groups of men "standing easy". Many inquiries
they made of how things were going, but Cavendish, beyond
reassuring them, could give no definite news.

When at length he arrived upon the scene of the damage for'ard,

he looked grave.

A 15-inch shell had penetrated the unarmoured end, twenty feet

abaft the stem, blowing jagged rents in the plating and in places
starting whole sheets of metal from their frames. The cable stowed
in the manger had been flung about like string. A fire had been
started, but had been already got under control by the fire-party,
who, under the orders of the chief carpenter, were endeavouring to
plug the rents with canvas and bedding.

It was a useless task. The sea was pouring in like a mill race,
washing men and gear away like corks. The sunlight was streaming
through the gaps into the smoke-laden compartment, giving
Cavendish the impression that he was in a train about to emerge
from a tunnel—only that the din was a hundred times greater.

The only thing to be done was to abandon this[77] compartment.

 [Illustration: "WEEDS! BEAR A HAND!" Page 275]

The water-tight doors and bulkhead were shored up with kit-bags,

hammocks, and balks of timber. Cavendish stood by and watched as
the bow compartment filled. The barricade bulged slightly. Streams
of water oozed through the started rivet holes in the bulkhead. The
steelwork groaned—but it stood the strain. So far so good.

Telling off a hand to keep watch over the bulkhead and dismissing
the rest of the party, Cavendish made his way to the trunk of the
conning-tower, whence by means of a ladder and a manhole he
could gain the conning-tower itself.

Here he found the Captain and reported the damage. "All right;
carry on," was the response.

The Rebound had stopped and was already losing way. She was so
deep down by the bows that it would have been imprudent to
continue to steam ahead. A destroyer, in obedience to a signal, was
alongside for the purpose of transferring the admiral and his staff to
another ship.

From one of the officers in the conning-tower, Cavendish learnt

something definite. The enemy were in flight. Three, possibly four, of
their capital ships had been sunk. The rest had been badly mauled.
The Numancia, which under a different name was at one time a
crack ship of the Brazilian navy, and had recently been acquired by
Rioguay, had been so severely punished that she had surrendered to
the British destroyer Audax. The Audax herself was in a sinking
condition, so her commander promptly turned over[78] his crew to
the prize, secured the survivors of the Rioguayan under hatches, and
compelled the republican engine-room ratings to carry on. The
Numancia was thus able to render considerable service to her new
masters by finishing off a pair of hostile cruisers that, although
disabled, were still capable of discharging their torpedoes.

"And you're deucedly lucky, old top," continued Cavendish's

informant.

"I don't see how," rejoined the lieutenant.

"Then have a look at B turret," suggested the other. "That was your
action station, I believe."

By this time the admiral's flag had been transferred.

The Captain and the rest of the conning-tower staff were making
their way to the after citadel, for the ship was gathering sternway.
Although unable to keep her place in the line, she could still render
good service with the guns of Q and X turrets.

As far as the Rebound was concerned, there was a decided lull in

the action. In turning through sixteen points, she had of necessity
lost a considerable distance and was a good five miles astern of the
Royal Oak and the three other battleships.

Cavendish went to the front of the badly damaged fire-bridge in

order to see the damage to B turret. Clouds of smoke, pouring from
both funnels and from a huge rent in the base of the foremost
funnel, were sweeping for'ard. It was impossible to see with any
distinctness.

Descending to the boat deck, the lieutenant noticed[79] that the

inclined leg of the tripod mast was wreathed in smoke, and that the
boat deck all around it had been torn away. A party of marines and
stokers were playing hoses on the smouldering débris, and in
answer to Cavendish's inquiries, replied that the fire was almost out.

"Weeds! Bear a hand, there's a good sort!"

 Hearing his nickname shouted, Cavendish glanced aloft. Clinging to
the lowermost intact rungs of the badly damaged tripod was Peter
Corbold, with something looking like a scarecrow lashed across his
shoulders.

"Right-o!" bawled Cavendish. "Hang on a bit. I'll get you down."

"I can hang on for two minutes," rejoined Peter.

Realizing that there was no time to be lost, Cavendish turned out a

party of bluejackets. A block was not to be had, but a length of two-
inch rope was soon forthcoming. A hurried test proved it to be
serviceable. One of the men swarmed up the jagged leg of the
tripod like a cat, regardless of lacerated fingers and ankles. In a few
seconds the rope with a "bowline on the bight" at one end was rove
through one of the rungs above Peter's head. His burden was
transferred to the bowline and lowered away until the unconscious
midshipman was level with the shell-torn boat-deck and dangling in
the centre of the jagged hole.

By the aid of a short length of rope, the snottie was drawn within
arm's reach of three or four bluejackets,[80] and before Peter gained
the deck the lad he had rescued was well on his way to the dressing
station.

"Hit, Peter?" inquired Cavendish laconically, as he noticed the

smoke begrimed, blood-stained face of his chum.

"Don't think so," replied Peter, stretching his arms to relieve the
cramped muscles. "How are things going?"

Except for the funnel smoke and wisps of steam and smoke from a
dozen different sources, the air for some miles around was
comparatively clear. In the distance could be discerned the four
battleships still firing heavily. The hostile fleet, or, rather, those still
flying the Rioguayan ensign, were invisible in the haze of gunfire.
 Away on the port hand was a British light cruiser with a heavy list.
Flames and smoke, were pouring between her funnels. A destroyer
was standing by to rescue her crew. Astern were a couple of enemy
destroyers, badly damaged, but displaying the White Ensign over the
Republican colours. Close to them were the bows of another
destroyer sticking up vertically to a height of about thirty feet above
the surface. Everywhere were large patches of black oil and débris of
all descriptions.

"We've whacked 'em," replied Cavendish. "Come along, old thing, if

you're fit. I've got to look at B turret."

The ship was now making about twelve knots, going astern the
whole time. Most of the crew were[81] on deck to get a well-earned
breather and to watch the progress of the running fight.

Cavendish stood stock still when he caught sight of what had been
his action station. B turret was completely out of action. Only a few
minutes after he had been sent aft, a 15-inch projectile had landed
squarely on the face of the turret below the sighting-hood.
Penetrating the 11-inch armour, it had burst with devastating effect
in the confined space of the turret. Several massive steel plates had
been dislodged from the roof of the hood; the two 15-inch guns had
been displaced from their mountings, with their muzzles resting on
the deck. Those of the crew who had escaped from the direct
explosion of the shell were killed by the ignition of a couple of
cordite charges. The resulting fire was the one Corbold had seen
from the top. Fortunately the men filling the trays at the foot of the
ammunition trunk realized the danger of the down-blast and, acting
on their own initiative, flooded the magazine.

When Peter and Cavendish arrived upon the scene, smoke was still
issuing from the roof of the turret. Fire parties were at work with
hoses, pouring volumes of water into the shell-wrecked charnel-
house that had not long since been tenanted by thirty officers and
men.
 For the present nothing more could be done.

Suddenly Peter gave a glance to the west'ard. The sun was on the
point of setting.

"By Jove," he exclaimed, "I thought it was nearly[82] time for seven-
bell tea, and it's close on four bells in the first dog. Let's get some
grub."

"Right-o!" agreed Cavendish soberly, for he was still thinking of his

late comrades of B turret. "Let's. We mayn't have another chance,
'specially if we go into action during the night."[83]

CHAPTER XXIX
After the Battle

A buzz of voices greeted the ears of the two chums as they "blew
into" the ward-room. The first lieutenant, the engineer-commander,
three or four watch-keeping officers, the padre, and the surgeon had
foregathered to partake of a "stand-up" meal. The commander,
having swallowed a cup of cocoa, was making for the bridge, with
the remains of a half-consumed bully-beef sandwich in his bandaged
hand.

"Hardly knew we were in action," declared the engineer-

commander. "Once or twice, perhaps, when we were hit by shells;
otherwise, we might have been on steam trials for all we knew."

"Gave the blighters a bellyful, anyway," observed one of the junior

lieutenants. "My gun was out of action five minutes after the battery
Welcome to our website – the ideal destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. With a mission to inspire endlessly, we offer a
vast collection of books, ranging from classic literary works to
specialized publications, self-development books, and children's
literature. Each book is a new journey of discovery, expanding
knowledge and enriching the soul of the reade

Our website is not just a platform for buying books, but a bridge
connecting readers to the timeless values of culture and wisdom. With
an elegant, user-friendly interface and an intelligent search system,
we are committed to providing a quick and convenient shopping
experience. Additionally, our special promotions and home delivery
services ensure that you save time and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Let us accompany you on the journey of exploring knowledge and

personal growth!

ebookultra.com