The helm useless, Branscombe realized that he had to steer by means of the twin screws. Under ordinary conditions it was a tricky job, but the difficulties were now increased tenfold. A partly-disabled boat, nearly half her complement out of action; a dark, fog-enshrouded night with occasional bursts of dazzling light from search-lights, star-shells, and the flashes of guns; a short, confused sea, and the constant danger of ramming, or being rammed by, other craft manoeuvring without lights. There were dozens of similar vessels out that night engaged in the same work. Frail little M.-L.'s, manned by amateur yachtsmen of yesterday, were achieving wonders. Men from the Clyde, the Solent, and the East Coast, whose knowledge of the sea was confined to a few days or weeks of summer cruising under favourable conditions, were proving their worth as fighters of the Empire. Experience gained in those dainty little yachts, snow-white of deck and glittering with burnished brass, was put to good use in those squat, grey-hulled M.-L.'s. It was on St. George's Day that the practically unknown R.N.V.R., unostentatiously at work as a unit of the great Silent Navy, suddenly leapt upon the pinnacle of fame. A dense pall of smoke drifted down and enveloped M.-L. 4452. Branscombe had to steer solely by his sense of direction. He was one of those men who instinctively could find his way through a dense fog. At the back of his mind there was ever an impression--rarely, if ever, at fault--of the direction in which lay the north. The compass was useless: the same blow that had struck down the skipper and the coxswain had wrecked the binnacle. The while the din was simply terrific. The air trembled under the violent, irregular pulsations of sound as guns large and small, exchanged their mutual "hate". With all his work cut out to keep the vessel on her course Branscombe gripped both handles of the engine-room telegraph, and peered through the smoke-laden night. Feelings almost akin to panic assailed him. He was no longer a fighting man dashing into the fray, but a fugitive--a human being endeavouring to escape from all the terrors of the jaws of hell, as exemplified by the hitherto considered impregnable harbour of Zeebrugge. "If the motors konk out we're dished," he thought, as he listened to detect any ominous sound from the pulsating engines. The vibration was excessive, far more than is usual even with a heavily-powered M.-L., but apparently the staunch little craft was still maintaining her speed. "She's making water badly, old man," exclaimed a voice. Branscombe turned his head to find Seton standing behind him. "Think she'll last out?" inquired Branscombe. "Another hour--that's all I can give her," was the reply. "The stern-post was badly strained when the rudder-head carried away." "Auxiliary engine running?" inquired the M.-L.'s Sub speaking through the voicetube to the engineer. "No, sir," came the answer. "The mag's six inches under water,"