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Title: The Corsair in the war zone
Author: Ralph Delahaye Paine
Release date: January 20, 2024 [eBook #72760]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Houghton Mifflin company, 1920
Credits: Bob Taylor, Peter Becker and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CORSAIR IN THE WAR ZONE ***
Transcriber’s Note
Italic text displayed as: _italic_
[Illustration: THE CORSAIR RESCUES THE CREW OF THE SINKING CALIFORNIAN
(_page 234_)]
THE CORSAIR
IN THE WAR ZONE
BY
RALPH D. PAINE
AUTHOR OF “THE FIGHTING FLEETS”
_With Illustrations_
[Illustration: Decoration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
_The Riverside Press Cambridge_
1920
COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY JOHN PIERPONT MORGAN
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
“_North, East, South, and West,
The Corsair sails and knows no rest._”
CONTENTS
I. THE CALL OF DUTY OVERSEAS 1
II. “LAFAYETTE, WE ARE HERE!” 29
III. AT SEA WITH THE BRETON PATROL 55
IV. TRAGEDIES AND RESCUES 76
V. WHEN THE ANTILLES WENT DOWN 101
VI. ADMIRAL WILSON COMES TO BREST 122
VII. SMASHED BY A HURRICANE 146
VIII. THE PLEASANT INTERLUDE AT LISBON 174
IX. UNCLE SAM’S BRIDGE OF SHIPS 198
X. THE CORSAIR STANDS BY 225
XI. IN THE RADIO-ROOM 251
XII. THE LONG ROAD HOME 266
XIII. HONORABLY DISCHARGED 289
XIV. THE SHIP’S COMPANY 296
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE CORSAIR RESCUES THE CREW OF THE SINKING
CALIFORNIAN _Frontispiece_
ADMIRAL H. B. WILSON, COMMANDING THE U.S. NAVAL
FORCES IN FRANCE 4
COMMANDER THEODORE A. KITTINGER, U.S.N., COMMANDING
U.S.S. CORSAIR 10
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER WILLIAM B. PORTER, LATER
COMMANDING U.S.S. CORSAIR, AND LIEUTENANT
ROBERT E. TOD, NAVIGATOR 16
FITTING THE CORSAIR FOR THE WAR ZONE 22
NUMBER TWO GUN CREW ON WATCH 26
THEY ARE ALL SEA DOGS TOGETHER 26
SOME OF THE OFFICERS AND CREW, BEFORE LEAVING
NEW YORK 32
WITH AMERICA’S FIRST CONVOY: TROOP-SHIPS HENDERSON,
ANTILLES, MOMUS, AND LENAPE 38
THE MINE FUNCTIONS AND A LURKING U-BOAT WOULD
FIND IT EXCESSIVELY UNHEALTHY 38
THE KIND OF “GOBS” THE COUNTRY WAS PROUD OF 44
THE GERMAN SUBMARINE WAS A TINY TARGET EVEN
WHEN ON THE SURFACE 44
BOATSWAIN’S MATE SEGER, FROM PASSAIC 50
PHARMACIST’S MATE FEELEY AND MESS ATTENDANT
MARTINEZ 50
WINNING BOAT CREW IN FOURTH OF JULY RACE WITH
APHRODITE 56
“THE BRIDGE GANG” 56
STARTING THE SWIMMING RACE FROM A MOORING
BUOY 62
WATER SPORTS ON THE FOURTH OF JULY: THE RACE
BETWEEN LIFE-RAFTS WITH COAL SHOVELS FOR
PADDLES 62
A WET DAY FOR THE DECK WATCH 66
FRENCH AND UNDERHILL ARE DOLLED UP FOR THE
CAMERA 66
THE BURNING AMERICAN SCHOONER AUGUSTUS WELD 70
FROM THE CORSAIR’S MAIN-TOP: THE CONVOY STEAMS
OUT 70
“COAL ON THE CORSAIR, FILL EVERY BIN. WE WORK
LIKE HELL, BOYS, TILL IT’S ALL IN” 74
A FRENCH FISHING-SMACK WHICH DARED THE RUTHLESS
WARFARE 78
THE S.S. MANTO, WHICH SPED THROUGH THE WAR ZONE
AT FIVE KNOTS 78
A GROUP OF CHIEF PETTY OFFICERS 84
A LIBERTY PARTY AT BREST 84
THE GUNNER’S MATES AND THE LONG ROW OF DEPTH
CHARGES READY TO PLOP OVER THE STERN 88
ANOTHER VIEW OF THE MINE TRACK, SHOWING THE
Y GUN OR DOUBLE MORTAR 88
FRENCH FISHERMEN WHO WERE SET ADRIFT 92
THE CASTAWAYS FIND A HEARTY WELCOME ON THE
CORSAIR 92
GUNNER’S MATES BARKO AND MOORE, AND A DEPTH
CHARGE 98
WATCHING THE APHRODITE GO OUT ON PATROL 98
ENGINEERING FORCE OF THE CORSAIR 102
LIEUTENANT J. J. PATTERSON, ENGINEER OFFICER, AND
HIS HUSKY “BLACK GANG” 102
A BOAT-LOAD OF SURVIVORS FROM THE ANTILLES COMING
ALONGSIDE 106
NAVAL OFFICERS RESCUED FROM THE ANTILLES, WITH
GENERAL MCNAIR, U.S.A. 106
THE ANTILLES CROWDED WITH TROOPS ON HER LAST
VOYAGE TO FRANCE 110
THE ALCEDO PICKS UP THE ANTILLES SURVIVORS 110
THE CORSAIR DROPS A MINE AND SHAKES UP FRITZ 114
THE FINLAND, JUST AFTER SHE WAS TORPEDOED 118
DESTROYER PRESTON, WHICH WAS CAUGHT IN THE HURRICANE
AND ALSO FOUND REFUGE AT LISBON 118
CHIEF YEOMAN PAULSON 122
GUNNER’S MATE WILEY 122
BUCKING INTO THE WINTER SEAS 128
SHE TAKES ’EM ABOARD GREEN 128
THE SHIP’S COOKS AND THE WARDROOM STEWARD 134
THE NOBLE JOB OF PEELING “SPUDS” 134
BOATSWAIN’S MATE HOUTZ IN THE NAVY’S STORM
CLOTHES 140
SWOLLEN SEA, FROM THE FORWARD CROW’S-NEST 140
A LETTER FROM HOME: COALING SHIP MUST WAIT 144
CARROLL BAYNE GETS HIS ENSIGN’S COMMISSION 144
HOW THE HURRICANE SEAS POUNDED THE YACHT: “THE
POOR OLD SHIP WAS A MESS” 150
WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE EMERGENCY WHEEL 156
WHEN THE HURRICANE SLAPPED THE WINDOWS 156
ASSISTANT ENGINEER HAWTHORN AND HIS WATCH 160
THE CREW OF NUMBER THREE GUN 160
TEMPORARY REPAIRS, AFTER THE HURRICANE 164
WHAT THE FORWARD DECK-HOUSE LOOKED LIKE
WHILE RUNNING FOR LISBON 164
CLEANING UP AT LISBON, AFTER THE HURRICANE 172
LISBON HARBOR AND THE TUG THAT TOWED THE CORSAIR
TO THE DOCKYARD 176
THE AMERICAN LEGATION AT LISBON WHERE THE CORSAIR’S
CREW FOUND A HOME 176
THE CORSAIR IN DRYDOCK AT LISBON 182
AT HER MOORING BUOY, BREST 182
“DOC” LAUB AGREES THAT “THIS IS THE LIFE IF YOU
DON’T WEAKEN” 188
COXSWAIN DAVE TIBBOTT WAITS WITH THE LAUNCH 188
THE CHEERY FRENCH PILOT, LIEUTENANT MEJECK 194
CHIEF QUARTERMASTER BENTON 194
THE HOME OF THE AMERICAN NAVAL OFFICERS’ CLUB
IN BREST 200
AMERICAN YACHTS CLUSTERED INSIDE THE BREAKWATER,
BREST 206
THE FAITHFUL WAKIVA, WHICH WAS SUNK IN COLLISION 212
BIG TRANSPORTS IN BREST HARBOR 212
CHIEF QUARTERMASTER FARR STANDS WITH FOLDED
ARMS AND INDICATES THAT HE HAS HIS SEA-LEGS
WITH HIM 216
COMMANDER KITTINGER SAYS GOOD-BYE TO LIEUTENANT
COMMANDER PORTER AS THE LATTER TAKES
OVER THE COMMAND 216
LIEUTENANT SCHANZE, ENSIGN GRAY, LIEUTENANT
COMMANDER PORTER, CHIEF ENGINEER HUTCHISON,
COMMANDER KITTINGER, AND LIEUTENANT MCGUIRE 220
AT ROSYTH: LIEUTENANT NOLAN, DR. AGNEW, COMMANDER
PORTER, LIEUTENANT MCGUIRE, ENSIGN
ACORN, LIEUTENANT PATTERSON, ENSIGN WANGERIN,
AND PAYMASTER ERICKSON 220
ROLLING OUT TO FIND A CONVOY 226
A LITTLE WATER ON DECK 226
THE SINKING CALIFORNIAN: GOING, GOING, ALMOST
GONE! 232
CALIFORNIAN SURVIVORS ABOARD THE CORSAIR 232
A MASCOT FROM THE CALIFORNIAN, KNOWN AS “THE
MUTT” 238
THE NEWFOUNDLAND PUP SAVED FROM THE FRENCH
FISHING BARK 238
THE DAGFIN, BROKEN DOWN AND HELPLESS. THE CORSAIR
STANDS BY 244
ADMIRAL HENRY T. MAYO, COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF
THE ATLANTIC FLEET 248
H. A. BRECKEL, CHIEF RADIO OPERATOR 256
ELECTRICIANS SWAN AND PLUMMER, OF THE HIGHLY
EFFICIENT RADIO GANG 256
AT THE EMERGENCY WHEEL: HEAVY WEATHER OFFSHORE 262
THE TRIM, IMMACULATE NAVY MAN: AFTER COALING
SHIP 262
BOATSWAIN’S MATE FRENCH BOUGHT A PET PARROT IN
LISBON 268
“TOMMY,” THE SHIP’S CAT, WHO FINISHED STRONG IN
THE HURRICANE 268
“TEDDY,” WHO WAS GIVEN A MILITARY FUNERAL WHEN
HE SWALLOWED A NAIL 268
WITH THE GRAND FLEET AT ROSYTH 274
SURRENDERED GERMAN SUBMARINES TIED UP AT PORTLAND 274
THE CORSAIR AT QUEENSTOWN AS FLAGSHIP OF ADMIRAL
SIMS 278
SEAMAN HENRY BARRY, BEFORE THEY WISHED ANOTHER
JOB ON HIM 282
GUNNER’S MATE SIMPSON HOPES TO SPOT THAT SUB 282
THE HOMEWARD-BOUND PENNANT: “WE’RE OFF FOR
LITTLE OLD NEW YORK, THANK GOD” 286
THE CORSAIR WHEN IN COMMISSION AS A YACHT BEFORE
THE WAR 290
ADMIRAL WILLIAM S. SIMS, COMMANDING THE U.S.
NAVAL FORCES IN EUROPEAN WATERS 294
MAP SHOWING THE CORSAIR’S WANDERINGS IN THE
WAR ZONE 304
THE CORSAIR IN THE WAR ZONE
THE CORSAIR IN THE WAR ZONE
[Illustration: Decoration]
CHAPTER I
THE CALL OF DUTY OVERSEAS
The task of the American Navy in the great conflict was performed
exceedingly well, but so very quietly that even now the merits of the
achievement are realized only by those who knew how near the German
submarine campaign came to winning the war. There was no blacker period
than the spring of 1917 when the losses of Allied merchant shipping
were mounting toward a million tons a month, and the Admiralty was well
aware that England stood face to face with starvation and defeat unless
this piracy could soon be checked. It was when Admiral Sims cabled
to his own Government, from London, “Briefly stated, I consider that
at the present moment we are losing the war”; when Admiral Jellicoe
privately admitted, “It is impossible for us to go on if losses like
this continue”; and when Lord Balfour could see no escape from the same
tragic conclusion.
The facts were purposely concealed from the people of both countries,
and even after the declaration of war the attitude of the American
mind was all too leisurely, while the British grimly hung on and
tightened their belts with the tenacity of the breed. The battleship
squadrons of the Grand Fleet still dominated the surface of the Seven
Seas, but they were helpless to aid in this vital problem. It was
perceived that the chief hope of salvation was in massing destroyers to
protect the converging trade routes of the Irish Sea and the English
Channel and thereby increasing the supply of food and material. For
this service the British Navy was able to spare a flotilla of less than
a score of these craft, a patrol force obviously inadequate. These were
the reasons why the fleet of thirty-five fast and powerful American
destroyers was sent across the Atlantic, and why Queenstown was chosen
as the strategic base port.
As soon as the troop-ships began to move overseas, these destroyers
were able to extend their operations and to help guard and escort the
convoys through the Bay of Biscay to the coast of France. Meanwhile
another urgent situation had developed and an appeal no less insistent
had been conveyed to Washington. The navy of France was mostly in
the Mediterranean where it properly belonged, and the small patrol
force off the stormy shores of Brittany was racked, weary, almost
discouraged. Thousands of French sailors had been sent from the ships
and bases to fight in the trenches. The little torpedo boats and
trawlers were unable to cope with the U-boats which ran amuck among
the precious coastwise convoys or intercepted the ships that were
homeward bound from distant voyages.
France was magnificent, but her maritime strength in the Atlantic
was almost spent. To safeguard the approaches to her ports in which
American regiments and divisions were to be landed, hundreds of
thousands of men, with their mountains of supplies, was more than
she could attempt. Help was needed and the American Navy was eager
to respond, but no more destroyers were available. It was necessary
to retain a certain number of them in home waters as units of the
fighting fleet of big ships which was held in readiness for whatever
emergency the war might suddenly unfold. To France, therefore, the Navy
was compelled to send whatever it could lay hands on at short notice,
planning to reinforce this vanguard with destroyers as fast as they
could be launched and commissioned.
In these circumstances the only ships which could be hastily fitted
out and sent across were the larger yachts, about twenty in number,
whose owners had enrolled and offered them for service when the war
clouds were gathering. It had been expected that these pleasure craft,
with their volunteer officers and crews, would be used only in the
coastal patrol areas and not for duty in the war zone, and in the naval
organization they were defined as belonging to “Class IV,” which had
a limited field of operation. This was no obstacle, it is needless to
say, for when the greater opportunity offered, the amateur bluejackets
who manned these yachts were eager to shift into “Class II,” or
combatant ships, and to sign on for the adventure in the war zone.
The story of one of these yachts which bravely endured almost two
years of battering service in foreign waters is more than a record of
a single ship, for it will convey, I hope, something of the spirit and
the experiences which they all shared together and which the Navy at
large regards with pride as worthy of its traditions. These ships were
flung into work for which they were presumably unfitted, into a kind
of warfare which was wholly novel, and they sailed with crews who were
mostly greenhorns, but they passed the test with flying colors and
their admiral who commanded the American Naval Forces in France took
pleasure in writing, not long ago:
_U.S.S. Pennsylvania
New York, N.Y.
8 September, 1919_
MY DEAR MR. PAINE:
I am glad that you are to write the war story of the _Corsair_
because the story of the yachts that came to France in 1917 is well
worthy of record. These vessels, designed for pleasure and manned,
in large part, by officers and men of little naval training, but
of unconquerable spirit, were by peculiar circumstances given an
important rôle in the war.
[Illustration:
_Copyright by Underwood and Underwood, N.Y._
ADMIRAL H. B. WILSON, COMMANDING THE U.S. NAVAL FORCES IN FRANCE]
Because of the lack of destroyers, the yachts contributed a large
share of the American naval effort on the French coast during the
summer and fall of 1917—trying months of the submarines’ greatest
activity. Their work then and subsequently, whether on troop and
store-ship escort in the Bay of Biscay, convoy escort through the
difficult coastal channels of France, or on the Gironde convoys, was
frequently hazardous and was always well done.
Very sincerely
H. B. WILSON
(_Admiral, U.S. Navy_)
Such was the “Suicide Fleet” as it was dubbed by certain pessimists who
were later compelled to eat their words. Of these yachts one of the
largest and fastest was the _Corsair_, owned by J. Pierpont Morgan,
and the second of her name to fly the pennant of the American Navy in
war-time. The first _Corsair_ was renamed the _Gloucester_ and won a
well-deserved renown at Santiago in 1898, under Lieutenant Commander
Richard Wainwright, who engaged two Spanish destroyers, driving one
ashore and sinking the other in the most brilliant single exploit of
that battle. In size and armament either destroyer was more than a
match for the converted yacht, called a gunboat by courtesy, whose main
battery consisted of four six-pounders. This was the kind of blue-water
warfare which American sailors would have vastly preferred in 1917,
ship to ship, between honorable foemen, as navies had fought in days
gone by.
The contrast between the naval careers of these two _Corsairs_ is wide
and significant. The older ship had known what to expect, a certain
chivalry of the sea which had never been obscured, even when men
slew each other with cutlass and boarding-pike upon reddened decks.
It was exemplified in the conduct of the Spanish Admiral Cervera, and
reflected in the behavior of Captain “Jack” Phillip of the _Texas_ when
he shouted to his bluejackets in the moment of victory, “Don’t cheer,
boys. The poor devils are dying.”
The _Corsair_ of twenty years later was to sail against an enemy who
skulked beneath the sea with malice toward all and mercy toward none,
who counted women and children as fair prey in war, and whose trail was
marked by the agonies of unarmed and helpless castaways adrift in open
boats.
This _Corsair_ was no fragile, fair-weather yacht whose cruises had
been confined to sheltered reaches, but a powerful ship familiar with
the Atlantic in all seasons. She was no longer young, as vessels go,
with eighteen years of service to her credit, but the Lloyd’s surveyor
rated her as staunch and sound in every respect. As a yacht the
_Corsair_ had made six voyages to Europe, while owned by the late J.
Pierpont Morgan, and her shapely lines were known to mariners from the
Channel ports to the Mediterranean and the Golden Horn.
A faithful ship which has long withstood the ordeals of the sea becomes
something more than a mere fabric of steel and wood. She seems almost
sentient, like a living thing to those who have shared her fortunes,
and therein is the immemorial romance which the sea peculiarly
vouchsafes. It is obvious to sailor-men that these many years of
fidelity, in winter gales and summer breezes, should have endeared the
_Corsair_ to her owners, father and son.
Designed by J. Beavor Webb, the yacht was built for offshore work,
although not with the expectation that she would be used as a
“fourth-rate gunboat” in the Bay of Biscay for a year and a half on
end. This was too much to ask of a vessel so planned and arranged,
but like the men of the Navy she proved that she could do a little
better than her best. Her length was three hundred and four feet,
with a beam of thirty-three and a half feet, a draft of seventeen
feet, and a measurement of sixteen hundred tons—noble dimensions for
a pleasure craft. The unusual speed of nineteen knots was maintained,
when necessary, in the war zone. Her yachting complement comprised
fifty-five officers and men. With spacious decks and living quarters,
the _Corsair_ was rather comfortable than ornate.
Captain William B. Porter had been in command of her for sixteen years.
He was a deep-water sailor whose youth had known a merchant marine now
vanished, the stately sailing ships from ports “down east” which lifted
sky sail yards to the breath of the Pacific trades or snugged down to
breast the tempests of Cape Horn. He knew shipwreck and the peril and
misery of an open boat adrift in Far Eastern seas. He had gone into
steam, at first on the China coast, and later he became an officer in
the American Line. During the Spanish War he served on the auxiliary
cruiser _Yale_ with the naval rank of lieutenant (junior grade), and
was given command of the Spanish Steamer _Rita_ which was captured as a
prize and used as a transport.
When the _Corsair_ was taken over by the Navy, it was ruled that all
vessels of this class should be commanded by an officer of the regular
service. Captain Porter was appointed executive officer of the yacht,
which position he held until promoted to command during her second year
of duty in foreign waters.
In April and May of 1917 the _Corsair_ was overhauled and refitted
as a fighting craft at the yard of the W. & A. Fletcher Company in
Hoboken, the firm which had built her. The Navy is severely practical
and beauty was sacrificed to utility. The bowsprit, which had added
the finishing touch to the fine sheer of the deck, was ruthlessly
removed. Canvas-screened platforms, or crow’s-nests, disfigured the
two tall masts. The white-pine decks, whose spotlessness had been the
officers’ pride, were bored for gun mountings. Teakwood panels which
had covered the steel plates of the bulwarks were sent ashore for
storage. Plate-glass windows were boarded up and gleaming brass-work
painted to decrease visibility and save the trouble of polishing it.
The quarter-deck, no longer inviting to leisure with its awnings,
cushions, and wicker chairs, was measured for the track and gear of the
ready depth bombs.
The hardest problem was to stow a hundred and more men below. The large
dining-room forward was stripped of its fittings and filled with tiers
of bunks and a few hammocks. Down the middle ran two long mess tables,
bare and scrubbed. Forty-five men were taken care of in this space, and
although they could not have whirled a cat around by the tail, they
were no more crowded than is customary in the Navy. Twenty-four more
were berthed in the forecastle. By ripping out bulkheads, room was made
in the “glory hole” for some of the petty officers. The old quarters
of the yacht’s officers were given over to the chief petty officers.
The bluejackets overflowed into the hold and slept close to the ice
machine, where they philosophically reflected that they were sure to
keep cool in the event of a torpedo attack.
The owner’s cabins and the library aft were occupied by the
commissioned officers. Although the rugs and panels and much of the
furniture were removed and the ship had a bare, business-like aspect,
the officers found a certain luxury in the fact that there were
bathrooms enough to go round. They ate in the forward house on deck and
the library served as an office, with gun supports extending from the
wide divans to the deck above. The rough-and-ready transformation must
have seemed almost brutal to those of the crew who, for many years,
had striven for perfection of detail in maintaining the _Corsair_ as
a yacht. As a fighting ship the gleaming black of the hull and the
mahogany houses were covered with sombre gray paint.
A naval crew was put aboard as soon as the quarters were ready. For
the most part they were eager and youthful volunteers who had chosen
the Navy because it seemed to promise speedier action than the Army.
They had lost no time in enlisting, many of them preferring the
humble station of a bluejacket to the delay incident to studying for
a commission at Plattsburg. The lack of seafaring experience was
atoned for by unbounded zeal and enthusiasm. Their sublime ignorance
was unclouded by doubts. They yearned to fight German submarines and
expected to find them.
It was a democracy of the forecastle in which social distinctions were
thrown overboard as so much rubbish. The yachts recruited many of their
men from the universities, from offices in Wall Street and Broadway,
and as sweating “gobs” with blistered palms they rubbed elbows or
bunked with youngsters of all sorts and were proud of it. Princeton
was strong aboard the _Corsair_, and more than a dozen of her sons,
as a stentorian glee club, enlivened the Bay of Biscay with praise of
Old Nassau. The older officers of the regular service disliked this
new word “gob” as undignified and untraditional, but the Reserve Force
adopted it with pride as the badge of their high-hearted fraternity.
[Illustration: COMMANDER THEODORE A. KITTINGER, U.S.N., COMMANDING
U.S.S. CORSAIR]
The _Corsair_ was fortunate in the officers assigned for the
hazardous employments of the war zone. Lieutenant Commander Theodore A.
Kittinger, U.S.N., was in command of the yacht, having been transferred
from the destroyer _Cushing_ which had taken part in the long and
arduous training that had whetted the flotilla personnel to a fine edge.
The service record of Commander Kittinger helps one to realize how
varied is the experience and how rigorous the training of a naval
officer, even in time of peace. Graduated from Annapolis in 1901,
he served first in the battleship _Alabama_, of the North Atlantic
Squadron, as junior watch and division officer, on deck and in the
engine-room. As an ensign he was in the converted yacht _Vixen_ in 1903
when she cruised in Caribbean waters and kept an eye on the attempt
of the former Kaiser to meddle in the affairs of Venezuela. Then
shifted to the China station, the youthful officer was in the monitor
_Monadnock_ and the cruiser _New Orleans_ during the anti-foreign riots
and the Russo-Japanese War.
Sent home to join the armored cruiser _West Virginia_, Lieutenant
Kittinger was an assistant engineer officer in 1906 and again made
the long voyage to the Far East and the Pacific. He became gunnery
officer of the same ship before the tour of sea duty ended and he was
appointed assistant inspector of ordnance at the Naval Gun Factory,
Washington. In 1910-13 he was senior engineer officer of the battleship
_Minnesota_, visiting Europe and then to Cuba and Vera Cruz. Again
ashore, he was in charge of the smokeless powder works at Indian Head
and executive officer of the station of the Naval Proving Ground, going
from there to the Fore River Shipyard as naval inspector of machinery.
Then came two years of sea service in a destroyer.
As executive officer of the _Corsair_, Lieutenant Commander Porter was
an uncommonly experienced and capable seaman and navigator and, of
course, knew the ship from keel to truck and what she could do in all
weathers. Third on the list was Lieutenant Robert E. Tod as navigating
officer. He was one of the foremost yachtsmen of the United States, a
commodore of the Atlantic Yacht Club, and a licensed master mariner
who had sailed his own large vessels without the aid of a skipper. The
gunnery officer, Ensign A. K. Schanze, was a graduate of the Naval
Academy who welcomed the opportunity to return to the Service. The
chief engineer of the _Corsair_, J. K. Hutchison, who had been in her
for several years, decided to stand by the ship through thick and thin,
as did his assistants, A. V. Mason and W. F. Hawthorn. This was true
also of Lieutenant R. J. McGuire who had been the first officer of the
yacht and of Boatswain R. Budani and a number of the enlisted force.
The day’s work of making the _Corsair_ ready for sea, the unaccustomed
drudgery and the uncertainty which filled the ship with rumors, are
reflected in the letters and diaries of the youthful seamen whose motto
was, “We don’t know where we’re going but we’re on our way.” One of
them wrote as follows:
_April 3rd. 1917._ The President of the United States to-day declared
this nation to be at war with Germany.... _4th._ Have determined that
I had better join the Army or Navy, as we are really at war. Most of
my friends are going to try to go to Plattsburg and get commissions. I
do not think I shall do this.... _6th._ A lot of men are planning to
go to the Mosquito Fleet school at Newport. I can’t see it. Will go on
a foreign-bound ship or none. Have decided to learn radio and join the
Navy as an operator if I can learn it soon.
_April 13th._ Still plugging at radio. I am getting a little
impatient. Think I shall enlist very soon.... _20th._ Almost ready
to leave the office. Hate to go, but war is war and it’s no fault of
mine. Sorry there is war, but there is only one thing to do—see it
through.... _26th._ Finished all my work in the office and took away
my things. I wonder if I’ll ever get through the war and come back
to my old job.... _27th._ On this day I made my final determination
to enlist in the Navy. Saw Lieutenant Tod and Captain Porter who
recommended me for the _Corsair_. Was enrolled in the Navy and
assigned to this ship, with orders to report at once. My rank is
seaman....
_May 2nd._ First day of decent weather on this ship and we worked like
slaves. Coaling, cleaning decks, and drill. The food so far is good.
Home liberty for the night.... _3rd._ Was elected to mess, with Jack
Faison. Worst job in the world. We washed hundreds of dishes, knives,
etc., but got the fo’castle clean for the first time.... _4th._ Same
kind of work, although we added setting-up exercises and semaphore.
We were signed out of the Reserves (for coast patrol) into Class II,
regular U.S.N. service call.... _5th._ Spent most of the morning
learning knots in ropes. Also had to clean decks. Brought aboard the
small arms. Stood watch from noon to 4 P.M. Chased away two suspicious
looking Wops. Six men are to be sent off the ship soon. If I am
elected there is going to be one awful kick.
_May 8th._ This morning we had boat drill and I stroked the cutter.
Then the head gunner and I showed the rest of the men how to take
down, sight, and load a Springfield rifle. After that we practiced
signals and had infantry drill with full equipment. The new boatswain
treats ’em rough and he bawled me out all day. Rumors on this ship
spread like wildfire. First we are to be a flagship and then a
dispatch boat and then to patrol the English Channel until nobody
knows anything. There goes the boatswain’s whistle which means turn to.
_May 11th._ Spent the entire day at the Armory getting clothes. The
only decent thing about Navy red-tape is the cheap price which we pay
for stuff. We stood in line just seven hours. The _Corsair_ now looks
like a real battleship. The paint is all on, also the gun mountings.
We hear that the Kaiser has offered a big reward to the U-boat captain
who sinks this boat, because it belongs to J. P. Morgan. Here’s hoping
he is disappointed! I learned a new way yesterday of making a deck-mop
out of canvas. It is very useful.... _14th._ We got our orders to-day
and sail for the Navy Yard to-morrow. The dope is that we leave
for good on Friday. We expect to be sent to the coast of Maine for
two weeks’ target practice, then to Newport where we get definite
sailing orders for some foreign service.... _15th._ Had a good trip
from Fletchers’ to the Navy Yard and then a terrible day. We had to
coal ninety tons of soft coal in buckets and shovels. The crew is
dog-tired and I never saw such a dirty crowd. I pray we may never have
to live to-day again.
(Note. Inserted later. _This day was repeated in France once a week.
We soon got so used to it that it became routine._)
_May 16th._ We had been asleep two hours when the fire call was rung
and all hands had to march double-quick to the _Princess Irene_, a
converted German liner. It was a pretty bad fire and we were detailed
to haul hose for three hours. To-day was spent in washing the ship and
loading meat aboard. We are taking on provisions for six months. The
work here in the Navy Yard is something fierce and I shall be glad to
go to sea. I bought shore liberty from another gob for two dollars to
go home and take a bath.
_May 17th._ To-day a strict censorship was put on us. All our mail
is read by the executive officer before we send it out. Also no news
of any kind is handed to us. We are not even allowed to tell our
families when or where we sail. All the dope is that we are going
abroad soon. I visited the _Noma_ and the _Harvard_ to-night, but they
can’t compare with the _Corsair_. We also looked over some of the
battleships and destroyers. Eleven of them left for France to-day. We
now get home leave once a week. I washed some clothes to-day. They
were in awful shape. We loaded ten tons more of provisions. Also got
shot in the arm for typhoid and was vaccinated. I am all in to-night.
_May 18th._ To-day has been more like the real Navy. I was on anchor
watch from 4 P.M. to 6 and again in the morning. I went aboard a
submarine to-night and it was the most interesting craft I have ever
seen, but I would not care to ship in her. My arm is a lot better
to-night, but still sore. The food is not nearly as good as it was,
mostly because the cook is lazy, but I think the skipper has got
his number.... _19th._ It looks very much as if we would sail any
day now. All stores, ammunition, etc., are aboard and we are living
a life of comparative ease. Now they say we are going to convoy the
United States Commission to Russia. I hope we do.... _21st._ Captain
Kittinger told us this morning to get all the warm clothes we could
as we are going to a cold climate. This sounds like Russia or the
North Sea. Everybody says for sure we are going over soon, so I guess
that must be right. I was recommended by the chief boatswain for a
coxswain’s job and I hope I get the appointment. Dave Tibbott got one,
too. Pay-day to-day, but I did not get a cent, as by some error of the
Department my name was not on the list. Am studying hard on the deck
and boat book and the seaman’s manual.
_May 22nd._ Got offered a job as yeoman, but I don’t want to be a
pen-pusher if I can help it. Mr. Tod advised me to take it and say
nothing if the commander makes a point of it.... _24th._ This has been
a trying day. In the first place a lot more men were transferred off
the boat and it makes us all nervous. So far eight have got the gate.
I painted the skylights and covers all the afternoon. We are still at
the Navy Yard. Because of the _Mongolia_ accident all our ammunition
was condemned, so we had to unload it. The weight to carry was enough
to pull all the rivets out of your back-bone. I suppose it will be the
same when we load it again. We still don’t know for sure whether we
will be kept on the boat. Several more men expect to get the hook.
[Illustration:
_Copyright by Kadel and Herbert, N. Y._
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER WILLIAM B. PORTER, LATER COMMANDING U.S.S.
CORSAIR, AND LIEUTENANT ROBERT E. TOD, NAVIGATOR]
_May 26th._ I have the P.O. mess. Dirty job. Another man got canned
to-day. I do wish they would settle on the crew. I understand now
that the _Corsair_ will sail for Gravesend, England, on Thursday. Mr.
McGuire told me last night that he is afraid some more men will
have to be put off for lack of room. It certainly keeps us feeling
jumpy.... _29th._ Coaled ship all day. It was a frightful job. It was
shot onto the decks and we shovelled it into the bunkers. We took on
350 tons and the dirt and coal dust are unspeakable. To add to the
discomfort it rained all day. To-morrow is a national holiday, but not
for us.
_May 30._ To-day we spent washing the ship. We turned loose the hose
for four hours and it looks better, but is not clean by a long shot.
I have caught a rotten cold. To-day more of the crew got fired.
Thirty-two regulars from the _South Carolina_ came aboard to fill up
the crew. We now have a full complement.... _31st._ Still raining. I
have never known such beastly weather. We are still loading stores and
I don’t understand where all the stuff is put. We are carrying the
fleet paymaster and the fleet postmaster, so it looks as if we would
also be the fleet dispatch boat on the other side. Heaven only knows
when we will sail. We have been expecting to go every night. Liberty
is very scarce these days.
_June 1st._ Still more rain. I don’t expect a decent day this summer.
We are still loading, loading, loading. Food, clothes, and ammunition.
A hundred and fifty pounds on my back is nothing any more. They first
announced that we were to have liberty to-morrow and then cancelled
it. Haven’t been mess cook or on watch for five days. Hope my good
luck continues. The regulars are a good bunch, with few exceptions,
and I am surprised that most of them are so young. They run from
nineteen to twenty-two on an average, barring the petty officers who
are older.
_June 4th._ We sail definitely to-morrow, nobody knows where. In the
afternoon I went to the Subtreasury with the paymaster to get money.
We both carried guns and brought back $10,000 in gold to the ship. It
was some load to carry.... _5th._ We shoved off from the Navy Yard at
8.30 A.M. and are now heading north in Long Island Sound. No idea yet
where we are heading for. We cruised in the Sound all day and anchored
at Whitestone for the night. Got our battle billet to-day. I am as
follows:
_Fire._ Extinguisher in crew quarters.
_Boat._ Big motor sailer.
_Gun._ Fire control aft.
_Arm and away._ Fire control aft.
This is a joke on me. It was raining the other morning and we
were getting under way. Everybody was dressed in dirty working
whites. The bos’n yelled at me, “Hey, get the messenger for’ard.”
I immediately rushed down to my locker, broke out a clean suit of
whites, and reported to the bridge for messenger watch. I could
hear the bos’n cursing all over the deck. The mate finally spotted
me and asked what I was doing on the bridge. I told him the bos’n
had put me on messenger watch, and the mate said, “Messenger watch!
Hell! The messenger is a rope, you poor boob!” It turned out that
the “messenger” was a long line which was stowed forward and he was
wondering what in Sam Hill had happened to me. The “messenger” is used
to hoist the motor sailer.
_June 6th._ Spent the morning overside, scrubbing the ship. At one
o’clock we hove anchor and cruised down to Staten Island. There are
eleven warships here with us.... _7th._ Coaled ship all day at the
Navy Yard. Filled the bunkers and then put thirty tons on deck in
bags. The ship was a holy mess. Before breakfast we were over the side
scrubbing.... _8th._ Spent most of the day washing the whole ship. We
left the Navy Yard and are tied to a dock at the foot of 80th Street
in the Hudson River. The _Seattle_, _Birmingham_, and the _Aphrodite_
are anchored near us. Got paid $13.00 to-day. So much money makes me
dizzy.
_June 11th._ I got what amounts to a promotion. I am signal-man on
the bridge. I handle all the signals, flags, semaphore, blinker, and
searchlights, excepting radio. It lets me out of all the hard deck
work. It will take lots of practice to make good, but I am coming
along fairly well.... _12th._ Three large transports are anchored
off us, crowded with regular infantry. We hear we are to convoy them
across. We shall be starting very soon. The dope is that we are to
act as convoy all summer.... _13th._ We are told that there will be
no liberty to-night, so that means business. I called up father and
he came to see me and said good-bye. The day was spent in putting on
the finishing touches for sea. We think we are going over with about
thirty other ships. The _Seattle_ is the flagship. There will be
cruisers, destroyers, our type of vessel, and the transports....
This young sailor and his comrades were about to take part in one of
the most memorable voyages in American history. The crowded transports
at which they gazed bore Pershing’s first contingent, the vanguard of
an army two million strong. They presaged the enormous flow of troops
and material, the bridge of ships which should finally shatter the
military power of Germany. There was nothing outwardly dramatic in this
sailing of this little fleet of transports. It stole out in secret and
no newspaper hinted at its departure. The men in khaki belonged to
regular regiments whose names and numbers meant nothing to the people
of their country. It was to be the destiny of most of these unknown men
to fall, dead or wounded, on the fields of France, but the regiments
came back, and then the country knew them as they marched down Fifth
Avenue, wildly cheered and pelted with flowers—the stern, bronzed ranks
of the First Division.
They filled the decks of this first convoy, companies and battalions of
the Sixteenth, the Eighteenth, the Twenty-Sixth, and the Twenty-Eighth
infantry regiments which were to win glory at tremendous cost in the
victorious assaults at Toul, at Cantigny, at Soissons, at Saint-Mihiel,
and in the desperate advances of the Meuse and the Argonne.
It was the Navy’s job to shepherd them across the sea in safety. While
the crew of the _Corsair_ was busied with rumor and conjecture, her
official record or confidential “War Diary” briefly noted the facts in
the case:
_April 28th._ _Corsair_ taken over by the Government at Fletchers’
Ship Yard, Hoboken, New Jersey.
_April 28th to May 15th._ Fitting out for duty as scout patrol, Third
Naval District. During first week in May information was received that
ship would operate with Nantucket Patrol when ready for sea.
_May 15th._ Sailed from Fletchers’ Ship Yard to Navy Yard to receive
battery and continue fitting out. Commissioned as per following
letter:
_Office of the Commandant Third Naval District_
_Navy Yard, Brooklyn, N.Y. May 14, 1917_
From: Commandant, Third Naval District.
To: Lt. Com’dr T. A. Kittinger, U.S.N.,
Commanding Officer.
Subject: _Corsair_, S.P. No. 159, placed in commission.
1. As authorized in reference (a) the _Corsair_, S.P. No. 159, is
hereby placed in full commission, 15 May, 1917, 3.00 P.M.
N. R. USHER
_Rear Admiral, U.S.N._
Copy to Navy Department { Operations.
{ Bureau of Nav.
Commander Patrol Force, U.S. Atlantic Fleet.
_May 19th._ Received orders to fit out for distant service, to be
ready on May 30, 1917.
_June 4th._ Received orders to report to Rear Admiral Albert Gleaves,
U.S. Navy, for temporary service.
_June 5th._ Left Navy Yard, New York, for shaking down cruise in Long
Island Sound.
_June 6th._ Proceeded to anchorage at Tompkinsville for conference
with Captain W. B. Fletcher, U.S.N., on the U.S.S. _Noma_.
_June 7th._ Proceeded to the Navy Yard for coal.
_June 8th._ Joined U.S.S. _Seattle_ at anchorage, North River, New
York.
_June 14th._ Sailed with First Expeditionary Force from United States
to France.
The troop-ships in Group One of this First Expeditionary Force were the
merchant steamers _Tenadores_, _Saratoga_, _Havana_, and _Pastores_.
The escort assigned to them comprised the cruiser _Seattle_, flagship
of Rear Admiral Gleaves, the yacht _Corsair_, the armed transport
_DeKalb_, and the destroyers _Wilkes_, _Terry_, and _Roe_. Three other
groups followed in a similar arrangement. The secret orders received by
the commander of the _Corsair_ were as follows:
From: Commander Destroyer Force, Commanding
U.S. Convoy Operations in the Atlantic.
To: Convoy Group Number One.
Subject: Movement Order.
1. Execute Operation Order No. 1 of 7 June, 1917.
Escort arrive Ambrose Channel Lightship at 7.00 A.M., 14 June.
Convoy arrive Ambrose Channel Lightship at 7.30 A.M., 14 June.
Group One will, on arrival at Ambrose Channel Lightship, assume
following formation:
Terry O . O Wilkes
.
DeKalb O . O Seattle (2 points starboard
. bow of leading transport,
. distance 2000 yards)
.
O Tenadores
Havana O
Roe O O Saratoga O Corsair (On
beam 3rd transport,
distance
2000 yards)
Pastores O
Distance between transports 600 yards.
(Signed) ALBERT GLEAVES
[Illustration: FITTING THE CORSAIR FOR THE WAR ZONE]
The instructions for warding off submarine attack have more than a
passing interest. They signified a new chapter in the work of the
American Navy, with no doctrine as precedent—the task of transporting
an army across three thousand miles of ocean and protecting it against
an enemy which was supremely confident that its undersea warfare could
not be thwarted, which had boasted that it could prevent the landing of
an American army in France. In a way, this was a momentous experiment.
How thoroughly and intelligently the Navy had studied the problem may
be discerned in these extracts from its confidential orders to the
_Corsair_ and the other ships of the escort:
Reports of enemy submarine activity indicate that the area of greatest
activity is east of Longitude Twenty West, and within a circle radius
five hundred miles from Fayal, Azores. Submarines may be operating
on the Atlantic coast of the United States and Canada. Every effort
has been made to hold secret the sailing of the convoy but it may be
assumed that the departure of convoy from the United States and the
hour of departure will be communicated to the enemy. It is possible
that particular effort will be made by the enemy to accomplish the
destruction of the convoy, and no part of the water traversed may be
assumed to be free from submarines.
Ships will make every effort to maintain distance accurately and will
be careful not to drop astern, particularly at night or in thick
weather. Speed will be assigned by signal. During daylight every
effort will be made to determine the revolutions necessary to make
the speed of the convoy in order that each ship may maintain a more
nearly constant speed during the darkness.
Convoy will be manœuvred as necessary by the Battle Signal Book. Ships
will manœuvre independently in accordance with the Rules of the Road
in all cases when necessary to avoid collision. When convoy alters
course each ship of the convoy will turn in the wake of the next ahead
except in zigzagging when all turn together.
There will be two well-protected and arranged lookout stations aloft;
one on each side of the mast as high as possible, capable of holding
four lookouts each. There will be four well-protected and arranged
lookout stations on each side of the ship, capable of holding two
lookouts each. During daylight there will be an officer in each top,
in addition to lookouts. At all times there will be an officer in
charge of lookouts on deck who will make periodic inspections. The
communication system from lookout stations to bridge will be tested
frequently.
Lookouts will be carefully selected for their fitness for lookout
duty—keen eyesight, intelligence, and freedom from seasickness are
essential qualities. A school for lookouts will be held daily. They
will be instructed to report everything they see. In so far as
practicable they will be furnished with binoculars and each lookout
will always use the same glass. Each lookout will be assigned a
definite sector and will be required to maintain the closest possible
watch within that sector, no matter what may be happening in other
sectors.
Gun crews will be at all times in the immediate vicinity of their
guns. One man of each crew will be at all times on watch. Daily
pointing, loading, and fire control drills will be held. When
conditions permit and upon orders from the Group Convoy Commander,
target practice will be held in accordance with the General Signal
Book.
No radio message will be sent except in great emergency involving the
safety of the ship. A continuous radio watch will be maintained. If it
becomes necessary to communicate by radio, the cipher contained in the
operation order will be used.
All vessels will be darkened so that no ray of light shall show
outboard between sunset and sunrise. A single gleam of light may cause
the loss of the ship. Sentries will make constant rounds to insure the
strict enforcement of this order throughout the ship. Navigational
lights will not be shown except when specifically ordered by the
convoy commander or when immediately necessary to avoid collision and
then only long enough to meet the emergency. Range lights will not be
shown and all lights will be dimmed to two miles visibility.
Smoke from the funnels must be reduced to a minimum both by day and
night. All vessels will keep fuel so trimmed that maximum speed can
be maintained toward end of voyage. Neither the whistle or the siren
shall be used in submarine waters except in case of emergency. Care
will be exercised that the leads of the siren and whistle cords are
such that these cannot be accidentally pulled or become jammed.
A station bill will be prepared showing the stations at fire quarters
and abandon ship. Daily drills at fire stations and abandon ship will
be held until all persons on board become familiar with their duties.
Necessary instructions in regard to rendezvous and courses will
be found in the sealed instructions. These will be opened only as
directed on the outside of the envelope. Before dark a rendezvous for
4 P.M. of the day following will be signalled by the Escort Commander.
Nothing that floats will be thrown overboard. All waste material
that can be burned will be burned. Tin cans must be well punctured
before being thrown overboard. Garbage that cannot be burned shall
be accumulated in suitable receptacles and thrown overboard from all
ships simultaneously one hour after sunset each night.
_Submarine Attack_
The following is generally accepted:
Submarines on surface are visible on the horizon. Submarine awash is
visible about five miles. Submarine submerged, periscope showing,
is not visible more than two miles unless periscope appears against
skyline. Porpoising of submarine as it comes to the surface to obtain
sight through periscope creates a distinct wake which is more clearly
visible than the wake of periscope when submarine is steadied.
Under poor conditions of atmosphere and sea the probability of
detecting a submarine decreases. It follows that constant vigilance
alone will insure the early detection of a submarine. The wake of a
torpedo is distinctive and can easily be picked up in smooth water at
a distance of two thousand yards. In rough water it is difficult to
observe the wake.
[Illustration: NUMBER TWO GUN CREW ON WATCH]
[Illustration: THEY ARE ALL SEA DOGS TOGETHER]
Daylight attack by surface craft (enemy raider), will be handled by
signal from the Convoy Commander. Daylight attack by submarines shall
be handled as follows by each vessel:
(a) Open fire instantly on any submarine sighted. Don’t delay the
first shot even if it is apt to go wild,—it will show the direction of
the submarine and will have a pronounced moral effect.
(b) Continue to fire as rapidly as possible. Short shots interfere
with the ability of the submarine to see and aim.
(c) If submarine appears less than six points on bow and not more than
2000 yards away, head for submarine at best speed.
(d) If submarine appears more than six points on bow, abeam, or on the
quarter, head directly away from submarine at best speed.
(e) If torpedo wake only is seen, fire gun immediately and indicate
direction to other ships and manœuvre to avoid torpedo as in case of
submarine, i.e.—turning towards torpedo if less than six points.
(f) Other ships of convoy turn from direction of submarine and scatter
at best speed, maintaining keenest lookout for torpedo wake and for a
possible mate of the attacking submarine.
(g) Resume course when it is deemed that your vessel is outside the
danger zone of attacking submarine.
_Night Attack:_—All vessels instantly change course ninety degrees
either to port or starboard. Course will be resumed before any vessel
has proceeded ten miles after ninety degrees change. If any vessel is
damaged by torpedo, that vessel will act independently and all other
vessels of convoy escape at best speed. The damaged vessel may send
out radio distress signals provided for merchant vessels.
Owing to the presence of escorting ships it is not probable that
submarines will be caught on the surface and therefore will not
attempt to use her guns. It is very probable that the first indication
of the presence of a submarine will be the wake of her torpedo.
Mines, floating or submerged, may be encountered. All floating
objects, the character of which is uncertain, must be carefully
avoided. Floating mines have recently been encountered under the
following conditions:
(a) Two mines connected by lines.
(b) Secured to bottom of dummy periscopes which were mounted in a box
or other object.
(c) In waterlogged boats, used as decoys.
(d) Attached to wreckage of various kinds.
If submarine is sighted or if gunfire from any ship indicates attack,
destroyers and fast yachts of escort will head at best speed in
direction of submarine, force it to submerge, and attack as conditions
permit. They will rejoin convoy at earliest possible moment. If any
ship is damaged by torpedo, two destroyers will stand by ship, those
nearest of escort, affecting such rescue as may be necessary and
possible.
CHAPTER II
“LAFAYETTE, WE ARE HERE!”
The _Corsair_ stood out to sea with the transports and the escort in
the morning of June 14th after a thick fog had delayed the departure
for several hours. As finally selected, the ship’s company consisted
of 130 officers and enlisted men. The shifting fortunes of war were to
scatter most of them to other ships and stations during the long exile
overseas, and when the battered yacht came home, only Commander Porter
and Lieutenant McGuire and eighteen of the crew of this first muster
roll were left on board.
Changes were so frequent that from first to last almost three hundred
men served in the _Corsair_.[1] The ship proved to be a training
school for officers, and made an exceptional record in that thirteen
of her enlisted force and one warrant officer won commissions during
the war, some taking the examinations while on foreign service and
others being sent to Annapolis for the intensive course of three months
and receiving the rank of temporary ensigns in the regular naval
organization. On deck and below, men were rated as petty officers as
rapidly as they displayed aptitude, and few of the crew failed to
advance themselves. The spirit of the ship was eager and ambitious
from the start and drudgery could not dull it.
As a proper man-of-war the _Corsair_ lived a complex and disciplined
programme of duty through the twenty-four hours of the day. When she
steamed past Sandy Hook, outward bound, the complement included a chief
boatswain’s mate, one boatswain’s mate, six coxswains, seven gunner’s
mates, four quartermasters, nineteen seamen, nineteen ordinary seamen,
three electricians, four radio operators, a carpenter’s mate, two
ship-fitters, a boiler maker, a blacksmith, a chief machinist’s mate,
one machinist’s mate, a chief water tender, two water tenders, four
oilers, twenty-one firemen and coal passers, a chief yeoman, three
yeomen, a hospital apprentice, a bugler, a cabin steward, four ship’s
cooks, and eight mess attendants.
The complete roster of the ship on this famous day of June 14, 1917,
was as follows:
Lieutenant Commander T. A. Kittinger, U.S.N. (Commanding)
Lieutenant Commander W. B. Porter, N.R.F. (Executive)
Lieutenant Robert E. Tod, N.R.F. (Navigator)
Lieutenant R. J. McGuire, (JG) N.R.F. (First Lieutenant)
Lieutenant J. K. Hutchison, (JG) N.R.F. (Engineer Officer)
Ensign A. K. Schanze, N.R.F. (Gunnery Officer)
Ensign J. F. W. Gray, N.R.F. (Communications Officer)
Assistant Surgeon E. V. Laub, N.R.F.
Assistant Paymaster J. J. Cunningham, N.R.F.
Machinist W. F. Hawthorn, N.R.F.
Machinist A. V. Mason, N.R.F.
Boatswain R. Budani, N.R.F.
Aguas, I C. F1c.
Ashby, C. N. Sea. 2c.
Balano, F. Sea.
Barko, A. W. G.M. 3c.
Barry, H. A. Sea.
Bayne, C. S. Sea.
Bedford, H. H. F1c.
[2]Benton, E. M. Sea.
Bischoff, H. J. F2c.
Bonsall, T. C. Cox.
Breckel, H. F. Elec. 1cR.
[2]Brillowski, A. J. F2c.
Byram, C. S. F2c.
Carey, N. J. Bugler
[2]Carroll, O. W.T.
Clinch, T., Jr. Elec. 2cG.
Coffey, A. H. Sea.
Connolly, C. Yeo. 3c.
Copeland, A. T. Sea.
Cure, H. S.C. 2c.
Curtin, J. J. F1c.
Davis, I. S. Elec. 2cR.
De Armosolo, V. M. Att. 3c.
Donaldson, S. J. Sea. 2c.
Duke, W. M., Jr. Sea.
Egan, L. C. G. M. 3c.
Emmons, L. C. Sea. 2c.
Evans, W. F. Sea.
Farr, F. S. Q.M. 2c.
Feeley, N. M.Att. 1c.
[2]Flynn, J. S. M.Att. 1c.
[2]French, L. A. Sea.
Fusco, N. S.C. 3c.
Ganz, C. A. M.M. 2c.
Gilhooley, J. P. G.M. 3c.
[2]Gillette, H. E. F2c.
Goring, H. D. H.A. 1c.
Graul, R. W. F1c.
Gray, A. O. Sea. 2c.
Griffin, L. H. F3c.
Haase, H. E. G.M.3c.
Haling, C. W.T.
Hamilton, C. Blacksmith
[2]Hanley, J. M.Att. 1c.
[2]Heise, W. F. F1c.
Herrman, H. Oiler
Hill, F. C. C.M. 3c.
Hiss, S. W. F1c.
Hollis, L. R. Sea. 2c.
Houtz, E. L. Sea.
Jetter, R. T. Sea.
Jones, R. D. Oiler
[2]Jones, T. W. F1c.
Kaetzel, H. D. Sea. 2c.
Keenan, A. E. B.M’ker.
Kerr, G. M. Sea.
[2]Kleine, J. F. Oiler
Leal, R. M.Att. 3C.
Lewis, F. W. Cox.
Lindeburg, F. R. Sea.
Loescher, H. A. Elec. 2cG.
Loftus, J. P. C.B.M.
Luke, E. E. C.M.M.
Marsden, C. Cox.
Marsh, A. J. Sea.
Martin, O. F. F1c.
Martinez, M. M.Att. 3c.
McClellan, R. B. B.M. 1c.
Miller, A. E. Yeo. 2c.
Montaux, R. C. Cox.
[2]Moore, J. E. Sea. 2c.
Moore, W. C. G.M. 2c.
Mulcahy, W. W. Cox.
Mullins, T. Q.M. 1c.
Murphy, W. F. Sea.
[2]Nardo, S. M.Att. 1c.
Nolan, F. M.Att. 2c.
Outwater, H. Sea.
Paulson, G. C. Yeoman
Pease, A. E. F1c.
Phillips, E. S.C. 2c.
[2]Plummer, J. A. Elec. 2cR.
Prindle, E. B. Q.M. 2c.
Rachor, J. Cox.
Rahill, W. J. Sea.
Regent, A. A. Sea. 2c.
Reynolds, F. J. Sea. 2c.
Robertson, C. Oiler
Rubein, S. F1c.
[2]Schlotfeldt, H. B. F2c.
Schmidt, H. L. S.F. 2c.
Seger, R. G. Sea.
Sellers, E. H. Sea. 2c.
[2]Sholander, E. Sea. 2c.
Simpson, J. F. G.M. 3c.
Skolmowski, S. J. Sea. 2c.
Smith, A. C., Jr. Q.M. 2c.
Smith, J. F1c.
Smock, T. F. Sea. 2c.
Stephenson, H. F1c.
Sullivan, V. J. F.2c.
Swan, M. H. Elec. 3cR.
Tepelman, L. W. F1c.
[2]Teuten, W. W. F1c.
Thysenius, E. Cabin St’rd
Tibbott, D. W. Sea.
Tucker, R. S.C. 3c.
Underbill, P. W. Sea. 2c.
Valyon, L. J. Sea. 2c.
[2]Van Camp, L. R. Sea.
Wallace, E. C.W.T.
Walters, F. Sea. 2c.
Washburn, C. F. Sea. 2c.
Waters, C. W. Yeo. 2c.
Walters, F. Sea 2c.
[2]Wheatcroft, W. A. S.F. 2c.
Wyllie, A. A. G.M. 1c.
Wysocki, P. P. Elec. 3c.
Many of these patriotic pilgrims were about to undertake their first
voyage on blue water, nor could they foresee how much piteous woe can
be caused by the uneasy motion of a ship. The _Corsair_ was a lively
boat, as the saying is, for her hull was not moulded like a fat-bellied
merchantman, and she lifted to the seas with the graceful stride of a
Yankee clipper. And so when the transports plodded out into the wide,
wet Atlantic, not a few of the bold mariners of the _Corsair_ devoutly
wished they had enlisted in the Army. They were not disgraced, however,
for many a hard-shell of the regular Navy has confessed to the pangs
of seasickness. The nervous thoughts of submarines were forgotten in
wrestling with the immediate tribulation. The great adventure was not
what it had been cracked up to be.
[Illustration:
_Copyright by Kadel and Herbert, N.Y._
SOME OF THE OFFICERS AND CREW, BEFORE LEAVING NEW YORK]
Among the bluejackets was a Princeton undergraduate, Arthur Herbert
Coffey, rating as a seaman, whose misfortune it was to suffer serious
trouble with his eyes, so that he was sent home shortly after the
_Corsair_ reached France. Later he entered the aviation service and
died of influenza on December 31, 1918, greatly mourned by his former
shipmates. He wrote, at some length, his impressions of the voyage and
so entertainingly caught the spirit of it that he must be permitted to
tell you how they went rolling out to find the “Bay of Biscay, O”:
I shall never forget the morning of June 14th as long as I live. It
was three A.M. and very foggy when our bos’n’s mate roused us from our
hammocks and told us to “rise and shine” as we were going to shove
off. I’ll admit that I had many fears and misgivings at these harsh
words, “shove off.” I had never been out of sight of land before in
my life, and to cross the ocean on your first trip in a yacht three
hundred feet long seemed to me to be some adventure, just then. Up
to that time I hadn’t given it much thought. In fact, I had been
impatient for the event, like the rest of the men, but as I was
pulling on my socks that morning (and three A.M. is a rotten time of
day anyhow), I began to reflect that perhaps I had been just a little
bit hasty in rushing into the war. And I couldn’t help thinking how
pleasant it would be to be snoring in a good, soft bed at Princeton
with nothing between me and complete enjoyment of the day excepting a
ten-thirty recitation hour.
Well, I got dressed anyway and turned to. We dropped down the river
slowly and anchored off the Battery, for the fog was so thick that you
could hardly see your hand before your face. All about us there was
the moaning of fog-horns and I felt forlorn inside. But soon the fog
lifted a bit and that, together with Bill Rahill’s grin, made things
feel a little bit better. “Well, we are off for the big stunt,” I
said to myself. “I wonder when we’ll see this old town again.”
I had the watch in the crow’s nest that afternoon, from two to four,
and enjoyed myself very much. It had turned out to be a fine day, the
sun was bright, and we had lots of company, seven ships in all, four
transports, a cruiser, and two destroyers. After an hour in the crow’s
nest I happened to glance down at the deck and noticed some very odd
actions among the crew. Several of them were leaning over the rail
and appeared to be staring very intently at something in the water. I
watched them for a while and then suddenly it occurred to me that they
were seasick.
I felt like a hardened old sailor, for here I was high up in the
crow’s nest, swaying from side to side, right over the water, and in
tip-top form with a husky appetite for the next meal. I still felt
fine when I climbed down to the deck, but was too wise to kid anybody.
And it was a good thing I kept quiet, for an hour later I was as
miserable as the rest of them. We certainly had a seasick crew for a
couple of days. The green firemen were so sick that they were unable
to stoke properly and we failed to keep up with the rest of our convoy.
We kept dropping farther and farther behind, the firemen still shy
their sea-legs and also some of the crew. Nobody saw the doctor
and the paymaster for four days.... Then the doctor made a brief
appearance in the sick-bay. He looked at a cut in a man’s hand,
clapped his own hand over his mouth, and we didn’t see him again for
two days more. But he came around in fine shape after that, on the job
every minute, although he was not needed often, I am glad to say.
To make a long story short, we abandoned all hope of staying with the
first division and ploughed along by ourselves for a few days, then
picking up the second group consisting of four transports and the same
type of escort. Everything went along smoothly for four days and then
our destroyers came out to meet us from Queenstown. There were five of
them and a bully good sight they were to us who were getting pretty
close to the danger zone with our precious transports. The destroyers
came zipping up like gray streaks and were on us almost before we knew
it. We stood on deck and cheered ourselves hoarse. They were the boys
who had gone over early, the first of the Navy to see active service.
They were glad to see us, too, it appeared, and many messages were
wig-wagged back and forth. They fell into position and all hands felt
as safe as a church.
About two o’clock in the afternoon of the next day, I was below
getting a drink of water when suddenly there was a loud explosion. I
remember that at the time I thought somebody had dropped a hatch cover
directly over my head. I realized in a moment that it was something
else, for I heard loud shouts and the tramp of feet on deck. I was
topside in no time and rushed for my gun as I was the loader of Number
Three gun.
The transports had all stopped. One of them, nearest to us, was giving
the submarine warning, a number of blasts on her whistle which sounded
uncanny to us because it was the first time we had heard anything from
the transports since leaving New York. They had moved across the ocean
like so many ghosts. It was a beautiful, clear day and the sea was as
smooth as a carpet.
I took my position at the gun, broke open a box of ammunition, and
laid hands on a shell. The doctor came rushing aft with a handful of
cotton which he told us to stuff in our ears. Then we were all set
to be torpedoed. I wasn’t scared—I was too busy, I guess—but I was a
little bit jumpy. I looked at my watch and it was just five minutes
of two. I wondered how long it would take our yacht to sink after the
torpedo hit us.
The transports, as I have said, were making no headway and were
all grouped together like a flock of frightened sheep, while the
destroyers were just getting into motion. This was one of the
prettiest sights I ever saw. No sooner had the transports halted than
the destroyers, six in all, darted out in a fan-shaped formation and
then worked back and forth, looking for all the world like greyhounds
on a scent. And maybe they didn’t make knots! We were moving at top
speed ourselves, but those destroyers gave us the impression that
we were standing still. Zoom, one would cut across our bow at about
thirty knots, then another would flash astern at the same rate.
For a time we could discover nothing else out of the ordinary. Then
suddenly the captain of Number Four gun gave a yell and pointed
astern. “There she goes!” he shouted. “It’s a torpedo as sure as
you live, or I never saw one.” We all rubbered astern with our eyes
sticking out like onions, and there, sure enough, was a wake foaming
along at tremendous speed about fifty yards away, but it was not
heading in our direction, thank goodness. I don’t know whether it was
a torpedo or not. I have never seen one, but our regular Navy men
swore it was.
The paymaster was sure it was, although he had never seen one either,
and he dashed up and down the deck, clapping his hands and loudly
exclaiming, “Oh, it is a torpedo! It is a torpedo!” This relieved the
strain considerably. We all laughed until we almost cried. The officer
upon the after deck-house suddenly cried out, “Stand steady, boys.
Don’t get excited. A school of porpoises is coming toward us.” We saw
them, and I imagine there would have been a heavy mortality in that
bunch of porpoises if the keen-eyed officer had not warned us in time.
That was about all I saw of the submarine attack, but I heard other
stories from the deck and bridge. The explosion at the outset had been
caused by the dropping of a depth charge from a destroyer, quite close
aboard the _Corsair_. No wonder I thought somebody had banged a hatch
cover over my head! The firemen below thought we had been torpedoed
and were all for erupting on deck for a breath of fresh air. That
depth charge was powerful. Our men said they saw the destroyer’s stern
lift high in air while a great spout of water leaped just astern. We
saw oil smeared over the water and I hope the destroyer was given
official credit for sinking a submarine.
One of our officers told me that more than one submarine must have
been in the attack, and that the activity of the destroyer escort
drove them off. There was one incident which some of the men thought
rather a joke, but I felt sorry. In the morning an old British tramp
picked us up, and seeing all the destroyers, etc., concluded that we
were good company to travel in, so she stuck with us all the forenoon,
keeping a mile off to port. No sooner did she hear the submarine
warning than she lit out at full speed, about ten knots, for safer
waters. Two hours after that, our radio men got an S.O.S. from her,
that she had been torpedoed and was sinking. It seemed too bad that we
couldn’t go and help her.
This submarine alarm was the famous episode which thrilled the American
public as elaborated by George Creel for the newspapers of July 4,
1917. The _Corsair_ witnessed only what occurred among the second
group of transports, and although some of her men declared they saw
the wake of a torpedo, Commander Kittinger failed to confirm it in his
official report of this busy afternoon. Rear Admiral Gleaves carefully
considered the statements of the officers of ships in Group Two and
drew the following conclusions, omitting the names of the vessels
engaged because of the naval censorship in force at that time:
The H, leading the second group, encountered two submarines, the first
about 11.50 A.M., June 26th, about a hundred miles off the coast of
France, and the second submarine two hours later. The I investigated
the wake of the first without further discovery. The J[3] sighted the
bow wave of the second at a distance of 1500 yards and headed for it
at a speed of twenty-five knots. The gun pointers at the forward gun
saw the periscope several times for several seconds but it disappeared
each time before they could get on, due to the zigzagging of the ship.
The J[3] passed about twenty-five yards ahead of a mass of bubbles
which were coming up from the wake and let go a depth charge just
ahead. Several pieces of timber, quantities of oil, bubbles, and
_débris_ came to the surface. Nothing more was seen of the submarine.
The attacks on the second group occurred about eight hundred miles
to the eastward of where the attacks had been made on the first
group.... It appears from reports of the French Ministry of Marine
and from the location of the attack that enemy submarines had been
notified of our approach and were probably scouting across our route.
[Illustration: WITH AMERICA’S FIRST CONVOY. THE TROOP-SHIPS ARE THE
HENDERSON, ANTILLES, MOMUS, AND LENAPE]
[Illustration: THE MINE FUNCTIONS AND A LURKING U-BOAT WOULD FIND IT
EXCESSIVELY UNHEALTHY]
The story of Seaman Arthur Coffey is less exaggerated than might
have been expected in these wholly novel circumstances. It may have
been a torpedo or, perchance, it was a porpoise that was seen from
the _Corsair_. If it was the latter, no blame is to be laid to the
young sailors who were so tremendously excited. To their unaccustomed
eyes the ocean swarmed with periscopes and U-boats. Many a seasoned
skipper had blazed away at blackfish or shivered in his shoes at a
bit of floating spar. The destroyer _Cummings_, at any rate, blew up
something from the vasty deep with the “ash can” that plopped from her
fan-tail. As for the soldiers packed in the transports, all girdled
with life-belts and eyeing the ocean with morbid suspicion, they would
have told you that the submarines were coming at them in droves. It was
one of the dauntless doughboys of this First Expeditionary Force who
wrote home to his trustful kindred:
DEAR MOTHER AND THE FOLKS:
We hadn’t more than got out of New York than you could see submarines
bobbing up all around us. The periscopes were as thick as cat-tails in
a swamp. I counted seventy-five and then the ships began to fire. The
gunner near me fainted. Shell shock, I guess. I sprang to the gun and
began shooting. The first shot I fired hit a submarine square on top
of the back and tore out its whole back-bone, just like tearing out a
whale’s back-bone. There was blood all over the water, and some oil.
I kept on shooting. I sank twelve of the submarines myself. The battle
lasted a good while and I heard that fifty of the submarines had been
destroyed. None of us was killed. The submarines, what was left,
finally quit us. We haven’t seen any more of them. Give this to the
newspapers.
Love to all the folks, from your soldier boy
BILL
At this early period of the naval war, the employment of the depth
charge as the most efficient weapon against the submarine had not
been fully developed. The traditions of accurate gunfire as the best
offensive were not easily set aside. It was true of the destroyers at
Queenstown, as of these yachts bound to France, that their crews felt
sublimely certain of smashing Fritz with the batteries at which they
drilled like so many skilled football teams. Soon they came to realize,
however, that the chance of catching the enemy napping on the surface
was extremely remote and that shooting at periscopes, even when they
were not imaginary, was futile business.
The _Corsair_ was armed with four three-inch rifles, and their crews
were very capably trained under the direction of Ensign Schanze. This
armament was not heavy enough to match the guns of a U-boat if the
latter had been plucky enough to stand up to a duel, but it served to
drive him under and to inspire a wholesome respect. The superior speed
of the yacht made her particularly well fitted for using depth charges,
but at the outset she was equipped with no more than ten of the small
and rather crude “Sperry mine” loaded with from thirty to fifty
pounds of TNT. This device was exploded by means of a buoy and wire
cable which unwound as the steel canister plunged through the water,
releasing the detonator at the proper depth. These mines frequently
failed to function and the destructive effect was feeble.
The Navy Department later perfected a terrific “ash can” packed with
three hundred pounds of high explosive which was set off by means of
a hydrostatic valve and could be relied upon to devastate a submarine
a hundred feet below the surface of the sea. These great bombs were
dropped, not one or two in an attack, but fairly dumped overboard
by the dozen or the score in a cataclysmic barrage, after listening
devices had located and “fixed” the enemy. The “Y gun,” or twin
mortar, was also invented to hurl these metal kegs a considerable
distance from the ship. Such were the perfected tactics learned from
experience, which would surely have doomed the U-boat to extinction if
the armistice had not intervened. The _Corsair_ was fitted out in this
manner later in her service, but she blithely sailed for the war zone
with her four small guns and a few “Sperry pills” and could have felt
no more pride in her task if she had been a first-class battleship.
Concerning the voyage, Commander Kittinger reported as follows, in the
War Diary of the yacht:
Got under way at 4 A.M., June 14th, and stood down the river,
anchoring at 6 A.M. off Governor’s Island on account of fog. Got under
way again at 9.40 A.M. Laid to off Ambrose Light Vessel at 1.20 P.M.
Joined Group No. 1 at 1.50 P.M. and took departure from Ambrose Light
Vessel at 2.09 P.M., standard speed 12 knots. At 2.30 P.M. weather
became misty again which necessitated closing in to keep the convoy
in sight. The 4 to 8 P.M. watch had difficulty in keeping steam for
12 knots. Blowers were used to assist. Ship lost distance which was
recovered in the next watch and position maintained.
At 11.40 P.M. the fog set in thick and lasted until about 1.25 A.M.,
June 15th. At 3.20 A.M. the convoy was sighted on the port bow,
distance four miles. During the watch the ship logged over 12 knots
by revolutions of main engines, but due to deep draft was unable to
keep up. The blowers were run continually to assist. The forward
boiler could not be lighted off as it was banked in with reserve
coal supply. Between 4 and 5 A.M. while cleaning fires the speed by
revolutions dropped to 11 knots. A moderate sea was running which
caused seasickness among the firemen. The firemen were drafted from
the U.S.S. _Delaware_ through the receiving ship at New York and were
unfamiliar with firing Scotch boilers and not accustomed to the quick
and deep roll of small ships. Most of them became useless during the
cleaning fire period and their places were taken by petty officers of
the engine and fire-room watch. The ship continued to lose distance
astern of convoy, a logged speed of 10½ knots being maintained. I gave
this matter my personal attention and every effort was made to rejoin
the convoy. From noon to midnight an average speed of 11¾ knots was
logged. At 4.45 P.M. the _Wilkes_ came within hail and made inquiries
as to the cause of the _Corsair’s_ inability to keep in position.
_June 16th._ An average speed of 10½ knots was logged for the day. I
found that the seasoned men, most of them petty officers, were showing
fatigue due to the hard steaming qualities of the ship. A number of
volunteers from the deck force went below and passed coal and handled
ashes to assist. The reserve coal from the dead fire-room was removed
to allow the forward boiler to be lighted off. Group No. 1 was not
seen this day. Group No. 2 was sighted astern at 3.40 A.M. Lighted
fires in boiler No. 1 at 6 P.M.
_June 17th._ Maintained about 11 knots (by revolutions). Some of the
firemen who had suffered from seasickness were back at useful work
and the ship had become considerably lighter. At 5 P.M. cut in boiler
No. 1 and increased speed to 13 knots. Between 1 and 2 P.M. two U.S.
destroyers passed six miles to the southward, one heading east and one
west.
_June 18th._ Averaged 13½ knots until 10.40 A.M. when speed was
reduced to 10 knots to lose distance and join Group No. 2.
_June 19th._ Proceeding at reduced speed to allow Group No. 2 to
overhaul.
_June 20th._ Proceeding at reduced speed, about 9 knots, to allow
Group No. 2 to overhaul. It was desirable to keep a speed that was low
but economical to get the mileage for the fuel.
June 21st. Proceeding at reduced speed, about 7 knots. At 3.45 A.M.
sighted Group No. 2 on port quarter,—distance four miles. Changed
course to intercept. At 5.15 A.M. took position on starboard beam
of _Henderson_, distance 2000 yards. At 6 P.M. sighted U.S.S.
_Maumee_ and U.S.S. _Henley_ on starboard bow. The _Burrows_ joined
the _Maumee_ and refueled. At 8.22 A.M. stopped and lowered a boat
and boarded the _Birmingham_ for orders. At 9.35 A.M. proceeded in
formation at 12 knots. Had no trouble in keeping position from this
time on with natural draft. Zigzagged during the afternoon.
_June 22nd and 23rd._ Proceeding with Group No. 2. Zigzagged during
daylight.
_June 24th._ _Momus_ broke out break-down flag and dropped astern of
formation. At 8.17 A.M. sighted three destroyers one point on port
bow. Five destroyers joined escort during the morning.
_June 25th._ Proceeding as before. At 5.30 A.M. steamed at 14 knots.
At noon steamed at 13 knots. Zigzagged during daylight.
_June 26th._ Proceeding with Group No. 2, steaming at 13 knots. The
U.S.S. _Cummings_ let go a depth charge at 2.00 P.M. about 600 yards
ahead. Manœuvred for attack. Nothing sighted. Returned to formation.
Two French torpedo craft joined escort about 4 P.M.
_June 27th._ Entered port during mid-watch. Anchored during morning
watch with 32 tons of coal remaining. Arrived at Saint-Nazaire,
France, with Group No. 2 of Expeditionary Force.
[Illustration: THE KIND OF “GOBS” THE COUNTRY WAS PROUD OF MOST OF THIS
GROUP WON COMMISSIONS]
[Illustration:
_Photograph by Underwood and Underwood, N.Y._
THE GERMAN SUBMARINE WAS A TINY TARGET EVEN WHEN ON THE SURFACE]
These were tired and grateful sailors aboard the _Corsair_, for the
slow-gaited transports, thirteen days on the voyage, had caused
continual anxiety among the war vessels of the escort. The first
group had been attacked by submarines, as reported by Rear Admiral
Gleaves, and it was an auspicious omen that every ship and every
soldier had been carried across unharmed. The _Corsair_ had been
compelled to drop back and join the second group, but it was not her
fault. As her skipper in former days, Lieutenant Commander Porter was
unhappy, as you may imagine, although he knew that the yacht would
vindicate herself when in proper trim and with a “black gang” that
could make steam and hold it.
Extra coal and stores had made the draft two feet deeper than normal.
One boiler-room was used for coal stowage, but a speed of fourteen
knots was to be expected under these conditions. The firemen, trained
in a battleship, were green to their task and were bowled off their
pins by seasickness. It indicated the spirit of the ship when the petty
officers, deck force and all, and as many other volunteers as could
find space to swing slice-bar and shovel, toiled in the sultry heat of
the furnaces to shove the ship along. Never again was the Corsair a
laggard. Month after month on the Breton Patrol or with the offshore
convoys, the destroyers were the only ships that could show their heels
to her.
The process of “shaking down,” of welding a hundred and thirty men into
a crew, and teaching them what the Navy was like, had begun with the
hard routine at the docks in Hoboken and Brooklyn. The voyage was the
second lesson and it wonderfully helped to hammer home the doctrines
of team-work and morale, of cheerful sacrifice and ready obedience.
Those who grumbled repented of it later and held it as a privilege that
they were permitted to play the great game. It was while they sweltered
to make more steam and urge the ship to greater speed that an Irish
stoker expressed himself as follows:
“I have heard tell of the meltin’-pot, but ’tis me first experience
with it. Hotter than hell wid the lid off, and ye can see thim all
meltin’, and will ye listen to the names of the brave American lads,
Brillowski, Schlotfeldt, Aguas, and Teuten that signed on to juggle the
coal. An’ will ye pipe off the true-blue Yankee sailors, Haase, and
Skolmowski, Fusco, Kaetzel, and Balano, not to mintion such good old
Anglo-Saxon guys as De Armosolo, Thysenius, and Wysocki. I will make no
invidjous distinctions, but what kind of a fightin’ ship would this be
if ye hadn’t Gilhooley, Mullins, Murphy, Mulcahy, Egan, Sullivan, and
Flynn? The meltin’-pot! ’Tis a true word. An’ may the domned old Kaiser
sizzle in a hotter place, if there is wan.”
One of the boyish bluejackets noted his own change of heart in a diary
which contained such entries as these:
_June 19th._ At 6 A.M. we sighted an empty lifeboat. Don’t know where
it came from, as there was no name. We also saw two objects floating
quite far off and thought they were corpses, but were not sure....
Stood two watches and had an abandon ship drill and gun practice.
Wrote some letters, but don’t know when we can mail them. Sighted a
big whale not fifty yards from the ship. It scared me. I was at the
wheel and thought it was a submarine. Sleeping in my bunk for the
first time since leaving New York.
_21st._ We are having a typical northeaster and the ship is burying
her rails in the sea now and then. We have joined the second group
of the fleet. It consists of the _Birmingham_, four transports, a
destroyer, ourselves, and the _Aphrodite_.... _22nd._ The northeaster
is still on in full blast and the sea is running high. We hope to
reach France Tuesday. The food and the life on this ship are pretty
bad, and when this war is over and I sign off I shall devoutly thank
God.
_23rd._ A pretty bad day all round. High sea, rain, and fog. We are
now in the war zone and zigzagging back and forth across the ocean.
The _Birmingham_ has kept us busy all day with signals. The ship has
been very hard to steer and I am tired out. Broke a filling out of
my tooth and it hurts. Hope I will get a chance to have it fixed in
France. A toothache out here would certainly be bad. Have been unable
to take a bath for a week. Am washing in a bucket of water.
_24th._ Another day of nasty weather. The mid-watch was the worst I
ever stood. The fog was awful and when I was at the wheel we almost
rammed the _Antilles_. We also dodged two suspicious-looking steel
drums that looked very much like mines.... _25th._ Our coal is getting
low and we will surely land some time to-morrow morning. I wish I
could talk French. Everybody is writing letters home to-day. Stood a
terrible watch with Mr. Tod on the bridge. He and Captain Kittinger
took turns bawling me out. I almost rammed a destroyer twice by
obeying orders to the letter, but the officers were in a bad temper
and blamed me. Gad, but I’ll be glad to set foot on dry land.
Somewhat later this same young man was jotting down:
Whoever reads this diary will probably notice my changed attitude
toward what we have to put up with. What seemed unbearable a few
months ago amounts to nothing, now that we have become hardened to all
things. I have read the whole diary through and laughed at my early
grouches.
And so the _Corsair_ came to France and rested in the quaint old port
of Saint-Nazaire while her men beheld the troops of Pershing’s First
Division stream down the gangways and receive a welcome thrilling
beyond words, the cheers and outstretched hands, the laughter and
the tears of a people who hailed these tall, careless fighting men
as crusaders come to succor them. This was a sight worth seeing and
remembering. And when the American sailors went ashore there was an
ovation for them, flowers and kisses and smiles, and if such courtesies
were bestowed upon the bluejackets of the _Corsair_, they gallantly
returned them, it is quite needless to say.
Seven of the crew were granted liberty for a hasty trip to Paris.
Seaman Arthur Coffey was in the party and his written impressions
convey a glimpse of what it meant to these young Americans to come into
contact with the sombre realities of the struggle which France was
enduring with her back to the wall. It surprised and amused them to
find the American infantrymen already so much at home in Saint-Nazaire
that their liveliest interest was in shooting craps at the street
corners:
Here were soldiers and sailors who had just crossed an ocean full of
hidden terrors [observed Arthur Coffey], and most of them were to
face worse terrors later on, but did they consider these things? Not
for a minute! They had money in their pockets and beer under their
belts and this “spiggoty” currency, as they called the wads of paper
notes, made them feel like millionaires. The marines had not arrived
to police the streets, so they rattled the dice in crowds. For all
they saw or cared, they might have been in their own home towns,
perfectly indifferent to their surroundings. The French onlookers were
different. They were appraising these new comrades-in-arms, whispering
among themselves, admiring the equipment and the rugged stature of
these soldiers from beyond the seas. We watched the fun until it was
time to find the train for Paris and moved away with cries of, “Shoot
the cinq-froncs,” “Fade him for a cart-wheel, Bill,” “Come on, you
baby,” ringing in our ears.
We got aboard the right train with the kind assistance of a
French lady who interpreted for us. It was great luck to get the
seventy-two-hour leave, and the crowd was congenial, five men from
Princeton, one from Yale, and one from Cornell. The trip to Paris was
lengthy because we had to travel second class and sit up all night,
being Navy gobs and not officers. The French took us for plain,
ordinary bluejackets and fraternized at once. Their style of opening
a conversation was to sit and look at you for a time, smile, and then
having attracted your attention, with a terrifying grimace ejaculate:
“_Le boche, ah-h-h-k!_” drawing a hand across the throat. This done
they would beam expectantly and, needless to say, we responded with
grimaces even more terrifying and repeated the formula. Having
mutually slit the gullet of the hated foe, I would add, to show off
my French, “_Je n’aime pas le boche!_” Then the way was opened for a
conversation.
“_Parlez-vous français, monsieur?_” “_Mais un peu, monsieur_,” I
would say, and then bang away with the stereotyped sentence, “I have
studied French two years at school and I can understand the language
pretty well, but I cannot speak it.” As soon as my friend, the French
soldier, heard me rip off this sentence he would open his eyes and
say, “_Parlez bien français, monsieur_” and then start talking so fast
that I could not understand a word, and this would be the end of the
conversation, on my part, at least.
Some of my companions, however, were even worse performers than I.
Poor old Bill Rahill, who was in my class in college, had taken
economic courses and so knew no modern languages. All he could say was
“_Oui_” and “Non comprenny, monsieur,” at which I would nudge him and
ask if it were not better, perhaps, to have a little culture and know
something about a foreign language than to be cluttered up with the
Malthusian theory or some other rot like that.
We had a great time on that train to Paris. At the first long stop
almost everybody got out and went into the waiting-room, or saloon,
and bought various refreshments. We had seen no grass or green trees
for two weeks, so we piled out and made for the beautiful lawn near
the station. We rolled on the grass and sniffed the pine trees. We
were like cats that had been shy of catnip for a long time. I suppose
the French people thought we were crazy, but we didn’t care, and it
certainly did feel good to have the green earth under our feet again.
[Illustration: BOATSWAIN’S MATE SEGER, FROM PASSAIC]
[Illustration: THE TALL ONE IS PHARMACIST’S MATE FEELEY HIS FRIEND IS
MESS ATTENDANT MARTINEZ]
Then we wandered into the restaurant and loaded up with cheese and a
couple of yards of war bread, and one of the fellows bought several
bottles of champagne at a ridiculously low price. Thus armed, we
climbed into the train where we met two French soldiers who were
returning to the trenches. They let us try on their helmets and
gas-masks and they spoke a little English, so with plenty of gestures
we got on very well. They said they knew we were Americans because
we talked through our noses. We took that good-naturedly, but I
noticed that my brother gobs began to speak way down in their throats
right after that. We chewed on the war bread and washed it down with
champagne. That is a great breakfast combination, you can take my word
for it. And then some one piped up a song. “Buck” Bayne, Yale 1914,
was handy at fitting words to college airs and we soon had a fine
concert going. One of the ditties, I remember, went like this, to the
tune of “Cheer for Old Amherst”:
“Good-night, poor U-boats,
U-boats, good-night!
We’ve got your number;
You’re high as a kite.
Good-night, poor U-boats,
You’re tucked in tight.
When the U.S. fleet gets after you,
_Kaiser, good-night_!!”
Before long we had a crowd around that train compartment that you
couldn’t get through to save your neck. The Frenchmen all applauded
the _Corsair_ glee club and yelled for more, but we felt too
conspicuous and so we persuaded the _poilus_ to sing some funny trench
songs, which we couldn’t understand, but we laughed and slapped them
on the back as though we knew every word.
Next morning we arrived in Paris, and, with a few other men from our
ship, were the first American sailors in that city since our country
had declared war. You can imagine what that meant to us, how the
people greeted us with cordial affection and kindness. Thank God, the
Frenchmen did not try to kiss us! If the Paris girls had insisted,
we should have submitted like gentlemen. We put up at the Hotel
Continental, and were more than amused at the expressions on the faces
of several dignified English officers when they saw seven common
bluejackets of the American Navy blow in and eat breakfast next to
them.
That day we ran into lots of friends who were in the American Field
Ambulance Service, attached to the French Army, and they told us
gloomy tales about the war outlook. They said the Russians were
through, that the French were literally shot to pieces, and that the
job of finishing the war was up to us. Imagine it—I, who had hoped in
May that the Russians would keep on retreating so that I could get
a chance to see the show before it was over, was now wishing that
the war would end. I have seen the light since that day. We fellows
were really feeling the war for the first time when we noticed that
the streets of Paris were filled with crippled men and with women in
mourning.
We spent two busy days in mixing with soldiers of all nations and
doing Paris. The troops who impressed us most, even more than the
French, and that is going some, were the Canadians. They gave us such
a rousing welcome that it was like being home again. They were so
glad to see us that they almost wrapped themselves around our necks.
“Hello, Jack,” was their invariable greeting. “How are things over
in the States?” “It’s sure good to see you.” “When are your troops
coming over?” “What, you came across with some of them?” “The devil
you say!” “Well, all I hope is that they give us a chance to fight
alongside the Yanks. We’ll go through Fritz so fast that he won’t know
what hit him.”
While we were knocking about Paris with the Canadians, our money was
no good. They insisted on buying us drinks, cigarettes, and acted as
interpreters. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for us. Our spirits
began to rise at once. We asked them about all the pessimistic rumors.
Were they true? “Hell, no,” said they. “Why, there’s nothing to it.
Shell ’em a bit, then shell ’em some more, and when you go over the
top, Fritz just sticks up his hands and yells that he’s your kamerad.”
“As soon as he sees the cold steel, up goes his bloody hands,” one
little chap confided to me. And he had such a look in his eye when he
said it that I think my blooming hands would have been up if he had
said the word.
They were the most confident lot of men I ever saw. This was the first
visit to Paris for most of them. They had been out there for two
years, getting leave only among the little villages back of the line,
but they didn’t seem to mind going back to the trenches. And they were
always talking about the war and their campaigns. The soldiers of
other nations seemed fed up with it, but not so with the Canadians.
Why, I heard two of them, a private and a captain, in a heated
argument across a table as to how they could capture Lens without
letting the Germans destroy the coal mines. The private leaned over
and poked the captain in the stomach to emphasize a point, and the
captain tried to out-shout his companion. One would have thought them
to be a couple of privates.
On the morning of the third day we left Paris for our port. Dave
Tibbott, a classmate of mine, practiced talking French to a lad in the
train, and Bill Rahill said “_Oui_” and “_Voilà_” to a pretty girl who
shared the compartment. She seemed to be partial to Bill’s smile, for
we all had him beaten on slinging the French. When she left the train,
Bill helped her out and kissed her hand by way of farewell. When we
kidded him about it, he defended himself on the ground that they did
such things in France and one must follow the customs of the country.
We had many yarns to spin when we boarded our ship and we were
careful to tell the boys about the fine baths in the hotel, although
we omitted the fact that there was no hot water. When we described
the wonderful soft beds, it looked as though there might be a lot of
desertions from the _Corsair_.
* * * * *
I saw many interesting sights during my stay in French waters, but my
eyes went bad and they put me ashore where I stayed a month and a half
waiting for a ship to take me home. I was finally sent back to the
United States in August and, to my great sorrow, received a medical
discharge. The life is hard in the Navy in the war zone, harder than
anything I had ever done before, but I would give ten years of my life
to have been able to stick it out with the boys on the old _Corsair_
and do my share.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See Chapter XIV.
[2] Returned home on ship twenty-three months later.
[3] Destroyer _Cummings_.
CHAPTER III
AT SEA WITH THE BRETON PATROL
When the _Corsair_ arrived on the French coast there was nothing to
indicate the vast American organization, military and naval, which was
soon to be created with a speed and efficiency almost magical. Supply
bases, docks, fuel stations, railroads were, at the outset, such as
France could provide from her own grave necessities. Marshal Joffre and
Lord Balfour had convinced the Government at Washington that if the
United States delayed to prepare, it might be too late. Troops were
demanded, above all else. Man power was the vital thing. And so these
early divisions were hurried overseas to Pershing with little more than
the equipment on their backs.
The Navy was aware of its own share of the problem which was to extend
its fighting front to the shores of France as well as to the Irish
Sea. To protect the ocean traffic to and from the United States,
small, swift ships were required by the dozens and scores, but they
could not be built in a day, and, as a British admiral expressed it,
“This rotten U-boat warfare had caught all the Allies with their socks
down.” Of the naval escort with the First Expeditionary Force, the
cruisers returned to the United States for further convoy duty and the
destroyers went either with them or were ordered to join the flotilla
at Queenstown. For a short time the _Corsair_ and another large yacht,
the _Aphrodite_, were left to comprise the American naval strength
on the French coast. On June 30th, Commander Kittinger received the
following instructions from Rear Admiral Gleaves:
When in all respects ready for sea, proceed with the vessel under
your command to Brest, France, and report to the Senior French Naval
Officer for duty. Exhibit these orders to the Senior United States
Naval Officer in Brest. Upon the arrival of Captain W. B. Fletcher,
U.S. Navy, report to him for duty.
The tenor of these orders indicated the wise and courteous policy
which Vice-Admiral Henry B. Wilson was later to develop with brilliant
success—that of coöperation with and deference to the French naval
authorities instead of asserting the independence of command which, in
fact, he exercised. At this time Captain Fletcher had been appointed to
organize the American “Special Patrol Force,” and he was daily expected
to arrive in the yacht _Noma_. The ancient port of Brest was selected
as the chief naval base because the French had long used it for this
purpose, maintaining dockyards, repair shops, and arsenals, and also
because the largest transports afloat could be moored in its deep and
spacious harbor. Saint-Nazaire and Bordeaux became the great entry
ports for cargo steamers during the war, while into Brest the huge
liners carried twenty thousand or forty thousand troops in a single
convoy.
[Illustration: WINNING BOAT CREW IN FOURTH OF JULY RACE WITH APHRODITE]
[Illustration: “THE BRIDGE GANG”]
The _Corsair_ steamed into Brest on July 2d in company with the
_Aphrodite_ and duly reported to Vice-Admiral Le Brise, of the French
Navy. Two days later a fleet of other yachts arrived from home and
were warmly welcomed, the _Noma_, _Kanawha_, _Harvard_, _Christabel_,
_Vidette_, and _Sultana_. With this ambitious little navy it was
possible to operate a patrol force which Captain Fletcher promptly
proceeded to do, acting in concert with the French torpedo boats, armed
trawlers, submarines, and aircraft.
The _Corsair_ lay in port ten days to coal, paint ship, and otherwise
prepare for the job of cruising in the Bay of Biscay. An unofficial
log, as kept by one of the seamen, briefly notes:
_July 2nd._ Sailed for Brest from Saint-Nazaire at 4 A.M. Arrived at
3 P.M. and received four submarine warnings on the way. We thought
we saw two periscopes, but they may have been buoys. We have added a
French pilot to our crew. No shore liberty, as we are too tired. We
hear we are to be over here a long time, with Brest as our base.
_July 3rd._ I spent the day painting the bridge. The ship looks fine.
I am also standing a twelve-hour watch in order to give the other
signal-men shore liberty. We caught a bunch of mackerel over the side
to-day and will fry them. The _Aphrodite_ has challenged us to row
them a race to-morrow. A big French dirigible went out to sea to look
for submarines.
_July 4th._ A national holiday, but not for us. We won the race from
the _Aphrodite_. The _Noma_ and the _Kanawha_ arrived this morning.
They fought a submarine, but no damage was done on either side. We
expect to get under way any minute and will look for the U-boat that
shot at the _Noma_. We had water sports in the afternoon and they were
good fun.
_July 5th._ The _Sultana_ arrived to-day. She picked up all the
survivors of the S.S. _Orleans_ which was torpedoed on the 3rd. Five
of them were put aboard this ship and their description of the sinking
was harrowing. Only two lifeboats got away. Four men were killed. The
ship sank in ten minutes. According to the dope, the _Corsair_ will
sink in three minutes, if struck. Cheerful, what?
_July 6th._ This was my first liberty in Brest. It is a very old town
high on the cliffs. We went through the Duke of Brittany’s old castle
which dates back some fifteen hundred years and was once the homestead
of Anne of Brittany. The dungeons were mighty interesting. They surely
did treat ’em rough in those days. These rooms are more than two
hundred feet down in the solid rock and have been dark for ages. I
should call them unhealthy. The tortures they used to inflict on the
prisoners were diabolical. And yet you’ll hear gobs growling about the
Navy. All of which reminds me that life on shipboard has been running
along without much change. Several Russian destroyers came into the
harbor this afternoon.
_July 7th._ A lot more of the men got Paris liberty to-day. We had a
bad little accident on board. The hook at the bow of the small motor
sailer pulled out when the boat was suspended about forty feet above
the water. It fell and three men working in it were spilled into the
drink. Mr. Mason, assistant engineer, struck his back and head and
was badly bruised.... _9th._ I certainly will be glad when the other
signal-men get back from Paris. These twelve-hour watches are wearing
me out. There are two rumors—one that we are to go to sea again for
three days, put in at Saint-Nazaire, out again three days, and then
back. The other rumor is that we are going to England. I hope this is
correct. This is the first time I have felt homesick, and for some
reason to-night I do. I guess it is because poor old Art Coffey is to
be shipped back to the States. His eye trouble can’t be treated over
here. Nothing has happened aboard ship excepting that the commander
told Art that the _Corsair_ would not go back home for a long, long
time, if he could help it. Golly, but I would like to go; not to stay,
but just to get a glimpse of home and the folks.
_July 13th._ Spent the morning washing my white clothes. A new rumor!
We are to leave here Saturday for five days, put into Queenstown for
coal and then back to the States, spend a couple of weeks there and
then convoy the National Guardsmen or more of the Regular Army back.
I hope this is true. How I would like to see a real country again.
France is beautiful, but dead. Brest is no livelier than Edgartown
and there is only one Paris. Its name is New York. This was Friday,
the 13th, so I was mighty careful to watch my step. To-morrow is the
French Fourth of July and it is a big fête day. Wish I were going
ashore to see the celebration. Met some Yale men off the _Harvard_ and
they are very nice chaps. I am improving on the blinker signals and
feel encouraged. No more dope!
The _Corsair_ sailed next day on her first patrol cruise, and the
author of the foregoing observations affords us a glimpse of what the
job seemed like while they were becoming hardened to it. He goes on to
say:
_July 15th._ At sea. A cold, rough day. I feel a bit shaky and have a
sore throat. Our work out here is answering S.O.S. calls, looking for
submarines, and convoying merchant ships. We convoyed one Dane and two
Britishers most of the day. One of the Limies had swapped shots with a
sub.... No chance to take off my clothes or wash. Took a practice shot
at a barrel and hit it at half a mile.... _17th._ Ran over a submarine
at 2.15 A.M. but could not get a shot at it. This trip has been awful
weather most of the time, rain, mist, wind, and fog. Nothing is dry
on the whole ship. Anybody that says life in the Navy is a cinch has
never been in it. If this war lasts a year we shall all be changed men.
_July 20th._ Back at Brest. The _Harvard_ came in with survivors
of two torpedoed ships. One crew had been blown up twice within
twenty-four hours. They had been picked up and then the rescuing
ship was sunk. The submarine took the captain and the gunner along
as prisoners.... _21st._ At sea. This has been a very exciting day.
We have seen three submarines. We fired at one periscope and either
hit it or near it. When the splash cleared away the submarine had
disappeared. We were at our battle stations almost all day. We passed
a great deal of wreckage, some of it barrels of oil and gasoline. Also
passed an upset lifeboat with two masts and a beautiful big life-raft.
We always cruise around such objects before approaching them, as
they may be submarine bait. I stood the midnight watch and sighted a
light which we headed towards. It turned out to be a large American
schooner, deserted and on fire. The masts were gone and it was a
complete wreck. We met a British Naval Reserve ship bound to Africa,
a funny-looking craft for ocean work, flat-bottomed with side wheels.
_July 23rd._ To-day we had lots of excitement. In my watch I
discovered an object five miles off which looked exactly like a
periscope. I sounded the alarm and we approached it very carefully. It
turned out to be a large piece of wreckage with a ventilator on top.
More empty lifeboats to-day, and no clew to tell where they came from.
At night Captain Kittinger sighted a strange ship which he swore was a
submarine. It proved to be a British destroyer and the joke was on the
skipper.
_July 26th._ In port. To-day as per our weekly schedule we coaled
ship with the usual results. Filth and coal dust everywhere. Instead
of coaling I had to stand a twelve-hour signal watch. In sending a
semaphore message to the _Vidette_ I was nearly killed. A Spanish
freighter was between the two ships and I had to climb into the
rigging about fifty feet above the deck. As I could not hold on with
either hand, only with my feet, it was ticklish work. I slipped and
started to fall, but luckily caught hold of the rigging in time and
saved myself. It was too close for comfort. A torpedo missed the
_Noma_ by ten feet. Wow!
_July 27th._ Sailed this morning to meet and escort U.S. troop-ships.
The _Aphrodite_ is supposed to be with us, but she blew a boiler tube
and has gone back. We had a pretty close shave this afternoon. Ran
into a mine field, but zigzagged through it and, thank God, dodged
them all. A mine would blow every one of us to kingdom come without
a chance to get a boat over.... _29th._ Left the transports we were
convoying at Saint-Nazaire and then put out to patrol our regular
area. Escorted several ships to-day, most of them British. One of
the Limies was an awful bonehead and when we demanded to know his
nationality he showed no colors. We hoisted our battle flag at the
fore, but he came to and ran up his ensign just as we were about
to throw a shot across his bow. We convoyed a big Cunarder, the
_Tuscania_, carrying mail and supplies from America to Falmouth and
dropped her at the end of our patrol area. Our Queenstown destroyers
probably picked her up after we left her.... _31st._ Early this
morning a Greek steamer got mixed in her bearings and nearly ran into
us. We had to stop and back at full speed. This is the roughest day I
have ever seen on the ocean. The waves are half as high as the mast.
We are shipping water almost constantly and it is dangerous to walk on
deck.
_August 2nd._ Left Saint-Nazaire convoying the _Bohemian_. This is
the largest cargo ship afloat, and it is quite a feather in our
cap to be given the escort duty. The roughest sea yet and it is
impossible to enter our compartment below. Almost everybody seasick.
A big wave carried away our hatch ventilator and mess gear last night
with a terrible crash. I was asleep, and when the noise came and
the water poured down on us I thought we were sinking. I grabbed my
life-preserver and started for my station, but got word that all was
well, so went back to my bunk. It was soaked, with six inches of water
on the deck under me, but I slept anyhow.
[Illustration: STARTING THE SWIMMING RACE FROM A MOORING BUOY]
[Illustration: WATER SPORTS ON THE FOURTH OF JULY. THE RACE BETWEEN
LIFE-RAFTS WITH COAL SHOVELS FOR PADDLES]
_August 15th._ Convoying the _Celtic_. We had been at sea only two
hours when the fo’castle began shipping water which lavishly deluged
the “hell-hole” below, as usual. I slept in the motor sailer and
got wet, as usual. It rained on me all night and all I had was one
blanket. My clothes dried out in the wind.... Left the _Celtic_ and
started for Brest. Got an S.O.S. call and headed for it. Found
three ships there, but no sign of a torpedoed vessel. I understand
that she was not sunk, but got away under her own steam. I slept in a
boat again. Couldn’t stand it below decks. Hear we coal to-morrow and
put to sea again at night. Hope it’s a lie.
_August 19th._ Got liberty after coaling ship and went ashore. Was
hungry, so bought quite a dinner—one omelette, two steaks, two orders
of peas and potatoes, tomato salad, three plates of ice-cream, five
small cakes, two peaches, coffee, and some champagne. Wasn’t at all
hungry when I got through. The life begins to agree with me.
It may be noted that in these extracts from the day’s routine of
several weeks of active duty, the _Corsair_ was engaged in patrolling
a certain definite area of ocean and in escorting single ships through
her block, like a policeman on a beat, or in saving mariners and
vessels in distress. Incidentally she endeavored to lift the scalp of
Fritz whenever opportunity offered. These areas, as laid off on the
chart in degrees of latitude and longitude, would measure perhaps sixty
by one hundred miles. The same system was employed by the Queenstown
destroyer flotilla during the early months of its service. Some
protection was given shipping and the submarines were driven farther
offshore, but as an offensive campaign the patrol system was a little
better than nothing. Of the destroyer patrol, Admiral Sims had this to
say:
The idea is sound enough if you can have destroyers enough. We figured
that to make the patrol system work with complete success, we should
have to have one destroyer for every square mile. The area of the
destroyer patrol off Queenstown comprised about 25,000 square miles.
In other words, the complete protection of the trans-Atlantic trade
would have required about 25,000 destroyers.
The alternative and by far the more effective scheme was to group a
number of merchant vessels or transports and send them out from port or
take them in with a sufficient force of destroyers and yachts to screen
the convoy from submarine attack. Valuable ships could not be allowed
to run by themselves. This was the procedure worked out and generally
adopted after the United States had come into the war, and it made
possible the enormous task of placing two million men in France and
feeding a large part of Europe besides.
When the _Corsair_ was on the Breton patrol, in company with other
American yachts, it was difficult to realize how few U-boats were
actually cruising at one time and how great were the odds against
finding one in a designated patrol area.
Now in this densely packed shipping area [declared Admiral Sims],
extending, say, from the north of Ireland to Brest, there were seldom
more than eight or ten submarines operating at any one time. The
largest number I had record of was fifteen, but this was exceptional.
The usual number was four, six, eight, or perhaps ten. We estimated
that the convoys and troop-ships brought in reports of sighting about
three hundred submarines for every submarine actually in the field.
We also estimated that for every hundred submarines the Germans
possessed, they could keep only ten or a dozen at work in the open
sea. Could Germany have kept, let us say, fifty submarines constantly
at work on the great shipping routes in the winter and spring of 1917,
before we had learned how to handle the situation, nothing could have
prevented her from winning the war. Instead of sinking 850,000 tons in
a single month, she would have sunk 2,000,000 or 3,000,000 tons.
With such handicaps it was all the more creditable to the _Corsair_
and her sister yachts that they were able to accomplish so much in
the summer of 1917, before they were shifted to the troop and supply
convoys. It was knight-errantry, in a way, this work of the Breton
Patrol—rough-riders of the sea whose spirit was akin to that of the
impetuous regiment which Theodore Roosevelt led at Santiago. The Breton
pilots were eloquent in admiration, but shrugged their shoulders at
the notion of weathering a Bay of Biscay winter in these yachts, so
slender, so elegant, of such light construction, of a certainty built
for pleasure and _le sport_!
The programme of patrol duty sent the larger yachts out two and two,
each pair to be relieved after four days at sea. The _Corsair_ and
_Aphrodite_ were coupled as cruising in adjoining areas, and when they
returned to port the _Noma_ and _Kanawha_ went out to take the same
stations. The smaller yachts of the “Suicide Fleet” were assigned areas
nearer the Breton coast, where they guarded the shipping that flowed
alongshore between the Channel and the ports of France and Spain. The
Patrol Instructions included the following plan of operation:
When on an area patrol, vessels shall steer courses to cover the area
but the method adopted must be irregular. Do not proceed with such
regularity that the vessel’s position may be plotted.
When on a line patrol, vessels shall proceed along the line of patrol
until reaching its extremity when a return over the same line will be
made. The courses steered must be such that the advance of the vessel
will be along the _base course_.
When on patrol, vessels shall speak all ships sighted. Obtain the
following information:
(a) Name of vessel
(b) From where bound
(c) To where bound
(d) Character of cargo
(e) Nationality
(f) If defensively armed or not
(g) If escort is desired
If the vessel spoken is a valuable vessel, and is bound to a port on
the west coast of France, below Latitude 48° 30′ North, she may be
escorted. The fact that you have taken her under escort is to be sent
to the Base by radio, _in code_, in following manner:
Example: “BALTIC UNDER ESCORT, BOUND TO——”
When acting as escorting vessel, keep on exposed bow of convoy and
about 1200 yards ahead of her. Insist that all vessels zigzag day and
night. Escorting vessels to break joints when courses are changed.
Leave patrol and return to Base in time to arrive at or about
scheduled time.
[Illustration: A WET DAY FOR THE DECK WATCH]
[Illustration: FRENCH AND UNDERHILL ARE DOLLED UP FOR THE CAMERA]
Calls for assistance from vessels will be answered and in case of
disaster crews are to be rescued if possible. Report rescue of
survivors by radio in order to receive instructions.
Ordinary cruising speed of the faster vessels should be at least
twelve knots. Fires should be kept under all boilers. The slower
vessels should maintain a speed of nine knots or over.
Ships returning from patrol will signal, using numerals, the amount of
coal and water needed. Coaling may commence upon arrival in port or be
done the day after arrival.
When it was desired to have the _Corsair_ find and escort some
particular ship or assemblage of them through part of the danger zone,
such instructions as the following were sent to her commander:
_United States Patrol Squadron, Flag Office
Brest, France, 27 July, 1917_
Group Operation Order No. 2.
Force:—Group D.—CORSAIR, APHRODITE.
American convoy, speed 12 knots, escorted, should arrive Saint-Nazaire
27 July. Make preparations so that it can be piloted to destination
without anchoring and without stopping at sea. Saint-Nazaire has been
informed. Proceed in company as far as practicable, 28 July, to a
position about 50 miles west of Belle Isle, relieving _Kanawha_ and
_Noma_.
Communicate with and join convoy. Radio FFK and FFL for IL (use AFR)
the probable hour of the entrance into the Loire. Pilot the convoy
as far as G’d Charpentier where river pilots will be ready. Unless
otherwise ordered, steer to pass south of Belle Isle. The convoy must
not stop at sea or anchor.
The _Corsair’s_ log-book and the official War Diary, which was sent as
a record to the Navy Department, are so laconic and technical that one
might conclude the Breton Patrol to be lacking in all adventure. They
serve to check up the yarns spun by the crew, however, and have the
merit of accuracy. Omitting the daily entries of courses, position, and
speed which could interest nobody, the commander’s record of the first
cruise out of Brest reads like this:
_July 14, 1917._ Under way from Brest for patrol area. Spoke to
British steamer _Ardandeary_ bound for Falmouth with general cargo.
_15th._ Speed 14 knots to investigate intercepted S.O.S. Spoke to
British steamer _Itola_ for Falmouth with general cargo. Spoke to
Danish steamer _Alf_ from Montreal for Havre, course east, speed 9
knots, with general cargo. She was not zigzagging and was making a
great deal of smoke.
_16th._ Exchanged recognition signals with three French destroyers,
escorting cargo ships. Intercepted S.O.S. from British steamer _Devon
City_, light, for Newport News. She had sighted a periscope and fired
five rounds at same and it disappeared. Fired one shot from No. 2 gun
at a floating barrel, making a hit, distance about 400 yards. Arrived
south limit of patrol area. Changed course to west, parting company
with steamer _Devon City_.
_17th._ Headed for steamer on horizon. Spoke to British steamer
_Medford_ for Plymouth with cargo of mineral phosphate. Changed course
to escort _Medford_. Held target practice on floating wreckage.
Changed course to east, speed 12 knots, making best of way to Brest.
_18th._ Moored at Base.
_19th._ Coaling ship.
_20th._ Cleaning ship and preparing for cruise.
Two more cruises were made in the month of July, but they furnished
no thrilling episodes beyond the discovery of the burning American
schooner _Augustus Weld_ which, no doubt, had been shelled by a
U-boat. What had become of her crew was left to conjecture. This noble
four-master was one of many Yankee sailing vessels which dared the
war zone, tempted by the chance of fabulous profits, until the War
Risk Board refused to grant them insurance. The easiest marks in the
world for submarines, they loafed along in infested waters, at the
whim of the fickle winds, or drifted becalmed with towering canvas
that was visible for many miles. Some of them were sailed by sun-dried
skippers from Maine and Cape Cod who vowed they “would take her to hell
and repeat if the bonus was big enough.” The episode of the blazing,
derelict schooner profoundly impressed the crew of the _Corsair_. It
was their first glimpse of the heartless havoc of the U-boat.
They were learning that the service in the war zone was not all
adventure and exhilaration, but, for the most part, monotonous toil
and discomfort, just as the soldier in the trenches had found it out
for himself. To be wet and cold and slung about in a rolling ship,
to return to port and shovel coal until almost ready to go to sea
again—this was to be their lot month after month. The danger of it
was always present, but they soon became cheerfully indifferent. It
went without saying that at the explosion of a torpedo the yacht would
fly apart like a box of matches, but these young men snored soundly in
their uneasy bunks until the cruel boatswain’s mate bade them “show a
leg” or “rise and shine.”
With the elasticity of the American spirit they adjusted themselves to
this new manner of life and to the ways of the Navy. Their language
suffered an extraordinary sea change. They talked the lingo of the
bluejacket, which is not so much slang as a strong and racy sort of
expression. The officers were called “bolo-men” because they adorned
themselves with swords on official occasions. One spoke of the ship’s
cooks as “food destroyers,” or “belly robbers,” which was sometimes
unjust. To pipe down for mess, or the call to meals, was shortened to
“chow down,” and the meal pennant was the “bean rag.” “A hash mark”
had nothing to do with food, but was the service stripe on a sailor’s
sleeve.
[Illustration: THE BURNING AMERICAN SCHOONER AUGUSTUS WELD]
[Illustration: FROM THE CORSAIR’S MAIN-TOP THE CONVOY STEAMS OUT]
A “canary” was a man who slept in a hammock instead of a bunk, and
when he got up in the morning he “hit the deck.” The _Corsair_ never
departed from port, but always “shoved off,” and when her crew was
granted liberty they “hit the beach.” Instead of putting on clean
clothes they “broke them out.” This phrase was used in so many ways
that a boyish seaman whose best girl had discarded him for a
doughboy was heard to confide that he “had broke out a pippin of a new
one.”
The period of enlistment was a “hitch” or a “cruise.” The depth charges
were seldom called such, but figured as “mines,” “ash cans,” or
“battle-bricks,” and the deck upon which they were carried was always
“topside.” Almost any foreigner was a “Spic,” barring the Briton who
was always a “Limey.” The yeomen, gunner’s mates, and quartermasters
of the _Corsair_ were “politicians,” which slurred their habits of
industry. “Four bells” meant to move rapidly, and the weary sailor did
not fall asleep, but “calked off.” At the mess table it might divert a
landsman to see the catsup bottle pass in reply to a request for the
“red lead,” or to hear, “Put a fair wind behind the lighthouse” when
the salt cellar was desired.
During these early months of foreign service, both the morals and the
morale of a ship’s company were bound to be tested. Jack ashore was
traditionally presumed to take the town apart to see what made it tick.
But this was a different navy, just as the American Army was to set new
standards of behavior and self-respect. Among the crew of the _Corsair_
were all sorts and conditions of youth released from the restraints of
home ties and subjected to all the demoralizing influences which must
ever go hand-in-hand with war. It was a saying among troops freshly
landed, when they were inclined to run riot, that France had gone to
their heads, and there was something in the excuse.
It was most noteworthy that the conduct of the sailors of the American
naval forces was everywhere commendable, whether ashore in Brittany,
or at Queenstown, or with the Grand Fleet at Edinburgh. They were,
in a sense, on honor to acquit themselves as became the flag and
the uniform, and in character, intelligence, and upbringing a large
percentage of them represented the best blood of the United States.
This was true of the _Corsair_ and also typical of the other ships
manned by the Naval Reserve Force on the coast of France.
Shore liberty at Brest was diverting as a respite from the crowded ship
and its routine, but the novelty was soon dispelled. It was picturesque
and colorful to ramble in the Rue de Siam where the soldiers and
sailors of many races jostled each other, but until the Y.M.C.A.
established its social centre in the port there was not much else to do
than eat and loaf and drink white wine and red. Of the three days in
port, coaling ship consumed so much time and energy that leisure hours
ashore were brief. There was no coaling machinery at this important
French naval base, and the American yachts had the back-breaking job
of filling baskets from barges alongside and heaving the fuel aboard
to be stowed in the bunkers. The grimy slaves of the shovel envied the
Queenstown destroyers when these smart, immaculate craft tarried to
fill their fuel tanks with oil by inserting a hose in the deck and
then fled back to their own base.
Among the songs inspired by the day’s work it is no wonder that the
fo’castle or the “black gang” quartets should have led the close
harmony in such stentorian plaints as the following:
C-O-R-S-A-I-R,
Spells the old _Corsair_.
At home she used to be hard to coal,
And always made us swear;
But since we crossed the ocean
We have coaled at Saint-Nazaire!!
Wow!
C-O-R-S-A-I-R,
Spells the old _Corsair_.
* * * * *
COAL ON THE CORSAIR
(Tune of “Cheer for Old Amherst”)
Coal on the Corsair
Fill every bin,
We work like hell, boys,
Till it’s all in.
_Boom, boom, boom!_
We’ll never rest, boys,
When we’re in Brest, boys,
_Corsair will coal to-day_!
There were temptations enough, Heaven knows, to live recklessly when
the liberty boats hit the beach, but the _Corsair’s_ record was
excellent and her officers were proud of it. During July and August
of 1917, when the crew was new to the game and the tendency to run
wild was perhaps strongest, almost all the offenses for which the
commander held mast and which were passed upon by deck court-martials
comprised overstaying liberty by a narrow margin of minutes and other
small infractions of the strict disciplinary code of the Navy. And it
should be mentioned that the enlisted force was permitted to be ashore
no later than nine-thirty o’clock in the evening. During the whole
sojourn of the Corsair in foreign waters, not a member of her company
was punished by a general court-martial. By way of indicating how naval
justice was dispensed, the entries in the log will be found to read
like this:
20 minutes overtime from liberty. Lose pay amounting to $5.00
35 ” ” ” ” ” ” ” ” ”
47 ” ” ” ” ” ” ” ” ”
Smoking below decks. ” ” ” ” ”
Disorderly and creating a
disturbance after pipe down. ” ” ” ” ”
Insubordination and insolence
to a warrant officer. Warned.
Not keeping an efficient lookout. ”
Not making up bunk. ”
Not relieving watch on time. Excused.
[Illustration: “COAL ON THE CORSAIR, FILL EVERY BIN.”]
[Illustration: “WE WORK LIKE HELL, BOYS, TILL IT’S ALL IN.”]
As was bound to happen, an occasional “drunk and disorderly” was
included in these lists, but there were many kinds of men aboard
and such entries were amazingly infrequent when one considers the
circumstances. And the exiles of the _Corsair_ learned that there
was possibly as much truth as poetry in the jingle which ran through
the ships of the Breton Patrol: “The Guy that Rates the _Croix de
Guerre_”:
’Tis not the man who, single-handed,
Kills ten or fifteen raging Huns,
’Tis not the man who safely landed
A bomb on Wilhelm’s long-range guns;
’Tis not the darling Red Cross sister
Who nursed the wounds in No Man’s Land,
’Tis not the ingenious mister
Who makes the lion lick his hand.
We must admit that all these guys are there.
But take the guy that crosses over
And lives in Brest a year,
The one who to a wife or lover
Returns with conscience clean and clear,
Who daily walks through Rue Guyot,
Gives icy stares to girlies wild,
And when approached, says, “Little Willie
Is mother’s darling angel child.”
NOW HE’S THE GUY THAT RATES THE CROIX DE GUERRE!
CHAPTER IV
TRAGEDIES AND RESCUES
During the first three months of war duty, June, July, and August, the
_Corsair_ steamed 11,738 miles, which was the greatest distance logged
by any of the yachts during the same period. There was little time
or opportunity for the grooming and tinkering which a pleasure craft
is presumed to receive. Blow high, blow low, she went to sea at the
appointed hour and the fires were never dead under the boilers. In her
forward deck-house was a couplet, carved on a panel of wood, which she
was living up to in full measure:
“_North, East, South and West,
The Corsair sails and knows no rest._”
The first cruise of August took the yacht to Saint-Nazaire, on the
4th, in company with the _Aphrodite_, _Kanawha_, and _Noma_, to escort
a group of empty transports to sea. This was safely accomplished,
and the _Corsair_ returned to Brest where the _Celtic_ was waiting
to be guarded through the danger zone. For lack of destroyers it was
the business of the yachts to take the big ships out after they had
discharged their troops or supplies. Having parted company with the
_Celtic_ at Fourteen West and wished her good luck, the _Corsair_
hastened back for coal and further orders, which were to cruise in
the regular patrol area. The American steamer _Carolyn_ was expected,
inbound and running alone, and the _Corsair_ searched a waste of waters
until the magic of the radio found the unseen ship and whispered to her
this comforting message:
I am thirty miles west of you. Pass north of Belle Isle and I will
intercept you at daylight, in time to escort you into Quiberon Bay.
The skipper of the _Carolyn_ had become a trifle confused in his
bearings and was glad to be led to a safe anchorage where he could join
a coastwise convoy for Bordeaux and so reach his destination.
To the _Corsair_ then fell the experience of protecting a cargo steamer
whose speed was so slow that she crept through the dangerous stretch of
sea like a rheumatic snail and was a tempting target for any prowling
submarine. It was all in the day’s work, although a bit trying to the
nerves, and Commander Kittinger’s report indicates the nature of the
task:
The _Corsair_ was assigned to escort duty with the American steamer
_Manto_ bound from Saint-Nazaire, France, to America. A conference was
held with the captain of the _Manto_ at Saint-Nazaire on the evening
of August 22nd, the day before sailing. The _Manto_ is a small,
low-powered steamer under charter by the Navy Department. The captain
stated that he could make between eight and nine knots in favorable
weather, but with a head sea and a stiff breeze he could not make more
than six knots.
At 10.12 A.M., August 22nd, the _Manto_ was ready and got under way
with _Corsair_ escorting. The route was laid through Chenal du Nord
and into Quiberon Bay at Croisic. During this time the _Manto_ was
able to make about six knots on the course, not zigzagging in these
waters. After entering Quiberon Bay she was able to make eight knots.
The wind continued in force from the west and at 3.55 P.M. the convoy
and escort anchored at Quiberon Peninsula to await more favorable
weather.
The wind continued in force and direction during the night, but to
avoid further delay a start was made at 5.23 A.M., August 24th. After
clearing Teignouse Passage, took up Base Course 275°. Convoy was
unable to make more than five knots good into the rough head sea and
strong breeze from west. Escort steamed at ten knots and zigzagged at
45° and 60° on each side of Base Course in order to keep position.
This continued throughout the morning and at noon Penmarch Point was
still in sight.
During the afternoon the force of the wind diminished and the convoy
made better headway. By noon, August 24th, the wind became a light
breeze and the convoy was making about eight knots good on the Base
Course. After noon the barometer fell decidedly, decreasing a half
inch in eight hours, and with it the wind increased to a strong breeze
with an overcast sky and driving rain squalls which reduced the
visibility to practically nil. The convoy dropped back to about five
knots.
[Illustration: A FRENCH FISHING SMACK WHICH DARED THE RUTHLESS WARFARE]
[Illustration: THE S.S. MANTO, WHICH SPED THROUGH THE WAR ZONE AT FIVE
KNOTS]
Up to the time of darkness the convoy and escort were making so little
progress that a hostile submarine would have been able to manœuvre
and attain any position desired for attack. After darkness the lack
of visibility was the best protection that could be had. I believe
that the best scheme for getting a low speed vessel of the _Manto_
type through the danger zone from Saint-Nazaire would be to have
her proceed from thence to the Brest rendezvous with the convoy using
the protected inshore waters. After arrival at Brest she should await
favorable weather so that she could be escorted through the danger
zone at her best speed.
By way of variety, the _Corsair_ was next ordered to the English
Channel to pick out the American supply ship _Erny_ from a convoy
escorted by H.M.S. _Devonshire_ and carry her into Saint-Nazaire. This
was the first taste of the Channel Patrol, of cruising in those black
and crowded waters where the numerous routes of traffic crossed and
converged, and ships ran blind with no lights showing, and the risk of
collision was much greater than the chance of submarine attack. The
yachts regularly assigned to this coastwise escort duty saw more of it
than the _Corsair_, but she learned to know the meaning of that lusty
chantey of the war zone, “On the Channel Run”:
“If promotion means nothing to you,
And comfort you can forswear,
And you’re willing to be forgotten,
And to work every day in the year;
If you’re fond of taking your chances,
And the praises of Admirals you shun,
Pick an eight-knot tramp of the N.R.F.
Carrying coal on the Channel Run.
“The job is a stranger to honors,
It’s also a stranger to shame.
There’s naught to win and your life to lose
’Midst its dirt, its dangers, its damns;
But once you have laughed its laughter,
And the cynic has captured your soul,
You can smile at the rest as you do your best
To approach an illusive goal.
“My lad, there is nothing to it,
There’s nothing,—and yet,— and yet,
It is something to strive for nothing;
That is something—don’t you forget.
So if you are in for the game of it,
And you’ve got sufficient nerve,
Pick an eight-knot tramp on the Channel Run,
Of the U.S.N. Reserve.”
The _Corsair_ laid a course for the secret meeting-place where she
hoped to make contact with the convoy and picked up the Lizard Light,
cruising in rough water for a day and a night until the flotilla of
merchant ships was sighted, when she signalled the _Erny_ to follow and
so returned to France. This errand brought the month of August to a
close. It would have seemed incredible to the crew, before they sailed
from home, that they could spend a summer in the war zone and steam
more than eleven thousand miles without seeing a submarine or enjoying
the excitement of a torpedo attack. They had passed large quantities
of floating wreckage, tragic evidence that the enemy was active, and
the S.O.S. calls of frightened ships had often come to the radio-room,
but this was all. One inference was that the yachts had been of real
service and that the U-boats were learning to be wary of them and their
rapid-fire batteries.
The autumn was to be much more eventful. On September 5th the
_Corsair_ stood out from Brest to look for an American supply convoy
which included the valuable steamers _Edward Luckenbach_, _Dakotan_,
_Montanan_, and _El Occidente_. While steering for the latitude and
longitude named in the confidential orders, a small boat under oars and
sail was descried from the bridge. A few minutes later a second boat
was sighted, and the _Corsair_ bore down to save the castaways who were
frantically appealing for help. They were in two dories, eleven men in
all, who were hauled aboard and made comfortable by the crew of the
yacht. They were from the French fishing vessel _Sadi Carnot_ which had
been shelled by a submarine while homeward bound from the Grand Banks
to Saint-Malo with a cargo of salted cod.
Impassioned, with many gestures, these weather-beaten Breton sailors
cursed the Germans who had placed bombs under the hatches of their
beloved bark. The _Corsair’s_ men listened eagerly while they cheered
their weary guests with sandwiches and coffee. Presently a hail from
the bridge announced that another boat was adrift to the westward, and
the mariners of the _Sadi Carnot_ yelled vociferous joy. Five more
comrades of theirs were deftly picked up, leaving three boats still
unaccounted for, and the _Corsair_ searched for them in vain.
Another boat was discovered a little later, it is true, but the men in
it made no sign—four of them, all corpses which washed about in the
water under the thwarts or were grotesquely doubled up like bundles
of old clothes. They were English seamen and the boat bore the name
of the British steamer _Malda_. As one of the _Corsair’s_ signal-men
wrote in his diary; “It was a ghastly sight. The French fishermen we
have on board were almost starved and frozen. They could not have lived
more than another day or so. Imagine their feelings when they saw the
_Malda’s_ boat with the dead men and knew that this would soon have
been their own fate.”
It was later reported in Brest that another ship had picked up the
_Malda’s_ boat in passing and had discovered that the bodies of
the English sailors were riddled with bullets from a machine gun,
presumably after they had abandoned their steamer.
The _Corsair_ kept on her way and had no trouble in finding her convoy
of four vessels with which she started for Saint-Nazaire at thirteen
knots. Off Belle Isle, the _Montanan_ developed a fit of hysterics and
opened fire on an imaginary flock of submarines which turned out to
be blackfish in a sportive mood. The other merchant steamers promptly
joined in the bombardment and banged away for all they were worth, at
the same time stampeding most zealously. They scattered over the sea
like hunted ducks and the indignant _Corsair_ endeavored to recall and
soothe them.
“We could see what they were shooting at,” noted a quartermaster on
the yacht, “but believed it to be the splash of a big fish. However,
they were thoroughly convinced that Fritz was out to pull some of his
morning hate stuff. The ships of the convoy were so excited that they
shot all over the ocean. One of their shells missed us by a hundred
yards or so and we got sore. I sent them a signal, ‘_Cease firing at
once and come within hail_.’ They paid no attention, but we rounded up
the bunch and escorted them safely into port and then beat it out to
sea again.... We passed close to a submarine last night, but could not
find him. We got the smell of his Diesel engines and I guess he was
charging his batteries and ducked under when he heard us.”
The emotions of this startled convoy were not easily calmed, for
the commander of the _Corsair_ records, an hour after the alarm,
“Proceeding again in close formation. The _Edward Luckenbach_ fired
one shot at a flock of gulls on the water.” Concerning the general
bombardment he officially observes:
The _Montanan_ opened fire at a disturbance made by a large fish,
abeam and to port, distance about one mile. The fish was clearly
seen and observed from this ship when it jumped from the water twice
and then swam away near the surface. A few minutes later a school of
porpoises appeared and all the transports opened fire. The firing was
widely dispersed and apparently not aimed at any visible object. The
shells from the _Montanan_ landed abreast of the _Corsair_. None of
them burst. The _Oise_, a French vessel of the escort, attempted to
investigate the splash made by the fish but had to draw away when
fire was opened at the porpoises.
These false alarms happened often, and during her next tour at sea
the _Corsair_ sounded the call to battle stations on two different
occasions, reported as follows:
(1) Sighted an object which was believed to be a submarine about four
miles ahead. Two submarine warnings were received, one before and one
after sighting object. Upon arriving at point where object had been
sighted, no evidence could be detected of the presence of a submarine.
(2) Sighted object on starboard beam, distance 3000 yards, which
appeared to be a periscope. Informed convoy and headed for object.
No. 1 gun crew opened fire when object became visible in gun-sight
telescopes, followed by fire from convoy. When we approached close to
object it proved to be a black spar, riding about vertical, six feet
out of water. The heavy swell running caused the spar to disappear at
intervals, which gave it the semblance of a submarine operating.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF CHIEF PETTY OFFICERS]
[Illustration: A LIBERTY PARTY AT BREST]
Until the merchant convoys became more accustomed to the routine of
their hazardous employment, they were a source of almost continual
anxiety to the yachts and other naval craft escorting them, and the
work was more harassing than may appear on the surface. As a sample one
may select from the _Corsair’s_ daily experiences such an incident as
the following, under date of September 5th:
Signalled French gunboat _Oise_ to take position on port bow of
leading transport. _Corsair_ took position on starboard bow. The
_El Occidente_ was rapidly gaining position. Proceeded about five
miles and _El Occidente_ turned out of formation and slowed down. I
then ordered _Montanan_ to reduce speed until convoy had caught up
and then proceeded with the _Corsair_ to _El Occidente_. Found out
that this steamer had sighted the ship’s boat of the S.S. _Malda_ with
four dead men in it and had stopped to investigate. I ordered her to
rejoin immediately and cause no further delay, and also to stop using
her signal searchlight as evening twilight had come on. On rejoining,
found that the transports had gotten in line abreast and were all
communicating with each other by signal searchlights. By this time it
was growing dark and it became necessary to order them by radio to
cease signalling with lights. They paid no attention to signals to
form column and continued the formation of line abreast covering about
four miles front. About 9 P.M. the moon rose so that all ships were
visible. Went close to each and ordered them to form column. By 10
P.M. succeeded in getting them in column formation.
The _Corsair’s_ crew had been hoping to visit England and the
opportunity came, but not precisely as they might have wished it. The
yacht was ordered to proceed to Devonport on September 13th to load
a cargo of depth charges for the other naval vessels on the French
coast. It was something like asking a man to make a railway journey
from New York to Boston with a stick of dynamite in every pocket of
his clothes. With luck it might be done, but he would feel painfully
eager to avoid any more bumping or jostling than could be helped. And
as has been said, the Channel was an extraordinarily crowded and
darkened thoroughfare. This was getting on with the war, however, and
the unterrified _Corsair_ duly anchored in Plymouth Harbor. Instructed
by Admiralty officers, she shifted to moorings at a jetty of the
British naval docks where a lighter came alongside, and the _Corsair_
bluejackets, with gingerly care, hoisted in almost a hundred “ash
cans.” This quick-tempered merchandise included such items as these:
34 Depth Charges, Type D.
34 Depth Charges, Type G.
14 Boxes Gun Cotton, Dry.
68 Boxes First Fittings.
Of this trip to England, one of the petty officers wrote in his little
notebook:
Caught my first glimpse of John Bull’s country early this morning when
we arrived at Plymouth, a very beautiful spot. A British army camp
is on the hill and we are soon to have a base here. It sounds good
to hear the English language again. Rated liberty and had a splendid
time. I guess we will make some knots on our way back to Brest, as we
have enough TNT on board to blow up the whole fleet. If a submarine
hits us this time—good-night! I hope the luck of the Navy will take
care of the old ship this cruise.
_September 15th._ Got back to Brest at 11 A.M. Our radio picked up
two German submarines near us which were talking with Zeebrugge. They
were probably looking for us and our cargo of mines, but we gave them
the slip. When we hauled out of Plymouth the British jackies on their
warships gave us cheer after cheer—yells of “Hello, Hello, Yanks,”
“Hurrah for the _Corsair_,” and “Three cheers for Uncle Sam.” They
handed us more cheers when we sailed and we gave them as good as they
sent. Plenty of excitement last night. I noticed a rowboat with two
men in it hovering around the ship. I hailed them, but got no answer.
They left, but the same boat approached the gangway an hour later. I
threatened to shoot them and they turned around and vamoosed. I can’t
imagine who or what they were, but it was peculiar that they should
pick this night to hang about, when we had all those mines aboard.
_September 16th._ I had a long talk with a couple of British sailors
off the _Goshawk_. One of them had been in the Jutland battle.
He tells me the Germans have invented an artificial fog to hide
behind, something like our smoke screen, but better. The English are
experimenting with it. They got the fog all right, but it nearly
asphyxiated every man in the ship.... I don’t know what has happened
to all our officers. They are so blamed disagreeable that there is no
pleasing them. They canned Copeland off the bridge and put me back on
signal watches. I wanted to know why I had been rated a quartermaster.
They said it was so I could draw the extra pay. I darn near threw it
in their faces. If I can’t hold the job I don’t want the rate.
The _Corsair_ was again assigned to the convoys and the same chronicler
has this to say of the remaining days of September:
_21st._ Saw a very wonderful sight. Two submarines were reported off
Belle Isle, so we had an extra escort of four seaplanes, four little
fighting aeroplanes, one seventy-five-foot chaser, and a big French
dirigible. They went out to help us carry some empties beyond the
war zone, the same ships we had taken in, _Montanan_, _Dakotan_,
_Luckenbach_, and _El Occidente_. The air craft flew over us fifty
miles offshore. The dirigible made the signal, “_Submarine below_” but
he was so far off that he had submerged when we got there. Another
dirigible came out from Brest and looked us over, but soon went back.
This evening we passed the body of a dead sailor, but did not pick it
up; also an empty dory. _Aphrodite_ and _Alcedo_ are with us.
The American Army had begun to move overseas in a swelling tide of
khaki and the transports came faster and faster. No sooner had the
_Corsair_ seen the last of one group than another was waiting. On
September 28th she left port to seek contact with the store-ships _City
of Atlanta_, _Willehad_, _Artemus_, and _Florence Luckenbach_, and a
British destroyer which was the senior vessel of the escort. Having
found them, the subsequent proceedings were such as sprinkled gray
hairs on the heads of the commander and the officers of the _Corsair_.
The War Diary records it in this summary fashion:
_September 29th._ _Noma_ signalled by blinker tube that _City of
Atlanta_, the last ship of the convoy, was having engine trouble and
could not keep position. Signalled to _Noma_ to stand by her. _Noma_
and _City of Atlanta_ dropped astern and disappeared in the darkness.
[Illustration: THE GUNNER’S MATES AND THE LONG ROW OF DEPTH CHARGES
READY TO PLOP OVER THE STERN]
[Illustration: ANOTHER VIEW OF THE MINE TRACK, SHOWING THE Y GUN OR
DOUBLE MORTAR]
3.32 A.M. Received radio from _Alcedo_, “_I have been rammed by
convoy. Stand by._” Headed back to look for _Alcedo_ and found the
_Willehad_ out of position and making the best of her way to rejoin.
Communicated with the _Willehad_ by megaphone and was informed that
she had fouled the _Alcedo_ but that the yacht had rejoined and was
in position with the escort. During this détour, received from the
_Noma_, “_I am proceeding with the City of Atlanta._” At this time a
large convoy was observed standing to the northward and cutting off
the _Noma_ and _City of Atlanta_ from our convoy.
6.15 A.M. Received from _Noma_, “_Lost City of Atlanta about_ 4.30
A.M. _in passing through large convoy. Is she with you?_” The _Noma_
was instructed to search for the missing ship and escort her in.
8.44 A.M. _Noma_ reported that she had found the _City of Atlanta_ and
was proceeding to _Teignouse Channel_.
So much for the routine of faithful endeavor, continual danger, and
incessant vigilance! The month of October was very different. It was
memorable in the _Corsair’s_ calendar because she fought a submarine,
rescued many survivors of abandoned ships, and saw two fine transports
torpedoed, the _Antilles_ and the _Finland_, with heavy loss of life.
There was no more grumbling at the uneventful drudgery of war. The
crowded activity began on the second day of October when this radio
message was caught and decoded:
To all Allied men-of-war,—from Land’s End:
Picked up five men of French fishing vessel sunk by submarine.
Five boats still adrift—twenty-one men. Position 39-JSD.
The _Corsair_ was in company with the yachts _Wakiva_ and _Alcedo_, and
promptly signalled them to disregard her movements as she was going
in search of survivors. Shortly after noon, the wreck of a schooner
was sighted, the hull awash, and many barrels of oil floating near it.
The _Corsair’s_ gunners fired seven shots into the derelict, but were
unable to sink it and the yacht hastened on her errand of mercy, guided
by the squared areas of the secret chart to which the radio message had
referred. Three hours later the first boat was found, a dory four men
from the French fishing bark, _Saint Pierre_, which had been set on
fire by a boarding party from a U-boat one hundred and eighty miles off
Ushant.
The mate, who was one of those rescued, swore that after the crew
of the _Saint Pierre_ had scrambled into the boats two more large
submarines appeared, and that all three of these infernal sea monsters
had made a circuit of the hapless bark before destroying her. It was
also his belief that each submarine was very formidable, at least a
hundred metres in length and mounting two large cannon.
The crew of the _Corsair_ cheered at the tidings while they sympathized
with the forlorn fishermen. “The U-boats were coming in bunches,”
joyously reflected the deck force, and the “black gang” slung the coal
with an earnest determination to give her twenty knots or blow the
boilers out of her. The ship raced to scan the sea for the other boats
of the _Saint Pierre_ and at 4.35 P.M. heard firing in the direction of
a tall barkentine whose sails gleamed seven miles to the northward.
Here was a second fisherman in trouble and a U-boat actually shelling
her within sight of the U.S.S. _Corsair_! Ten minutes more, with
speed worked up to eighteen knots, and the submarine could be clearly
recognized through the binoculars aimed from bridge and crow’s-nest.
Etched very small against the horizon was the deck, like a fine,
black line, and the conning tower as a tiny hump in the middle, while
a gun winked as a red spark, and the water splashed high near the
target of a sailing vessel and was visible as so many white specks
resembling dabs of cotton. The _Corsair_ was then four miles distant,
too far to use her own guns effectively. The submarine delayed five
minutes longer, rolling on the surface and using her battery in order
to sink the fisherman without wasting a precious torpedo on a victim
so unimportant. Then the cruel U-boat filled her ballast tanks and
submerged as a whale sounds when alarmed. Sighs from the _Corsair’s_
decks were mingled with the deep and hearty curses of the saltwater
vocabulary. The commander expurgated his report when it came to writing
it, and this was his unadorned narrative:
Shortly after this, six dories were observed pulling away from the
vessel. At 5.08 we came up and found her to be the French barkentine,
_Eugene Louise_, from the Grand Banks to Saint-Malo. Searched for
whereabouts of the enemy. A long wake was observed. Ran the ship into
this wake and at 5.16, at the place where it disappeared, let go an
English depth charge, 120 pounds TNT. Circled around and passed close
to survivors’ boats and asked them the location of the enemy. They
were so badly demoralized that they could give no intelligible replies
and pointed generally to the westward. Search was continued and at
5.34 returned and picked up the survivors, the entire crew of the
_Eugene Louise_.
At 5.45 we started ahead at eighteen knots. The first estimate made
of the damage to the _Eugene Louise_ was that her bob-stays had been
carried away and that her topmasts and topgallant-masts would probably
come down. At this time she was hove to with all square sails aback.
The fore-staysails and jib halliards having been let go, the sails
were halfway down the stays. Approaching closer to make a careful
inspection, we found that what appeared to be the bob-stays were a
couple of rope-ends hanging from the dolphin striker to the water.
Attempts were made to persuade the crew to return to the _Eugene
Louise_ and bring her in. The captain consented on condition that the
_Corsair_ should escort him. He was assured that the _Corsair_ would
stand by. After conferring with his crew he asked that one of the
ship’s officers would confirm this assurance in person. The Gunnery
Officer, Ensign Schanze, gave this assurance to the crew in their
own language. A long talk ensued among the Frenchmen of the _Eugene
Louise_. The indications were that they had no intention of boarding
their ship again.
[Illustration: FRENCH FISHERMEN WHO WERE SET ADRIFT]
[Illustration: THE CASTAWAYS FIND A HEARTY WELCOME ON THE CORSAIR]
At 6.19 P.M. proceeded S. 17° East, speed fourteen knots, and
continued search for survivors of the _Saint Pierre_. Opened
communication with some British destroyers and informed them of
the condition and position of the _Eugene Louise_. At 9.08 P.M.
the destroyers radioed that they had the _Eugene Louise_ in tow
and were proceeding to the Scillys. Heard two German submarines
communicating with each other by radio. Five minutes later heard two
more enemy submarines in radio communication. The signals were coming
in very strongly which indicated their close proximity. Under these
circumstances it was considered unwise to take the _Eugene Louise_ in
tow without the presence of escorting vessels.
It was an animated scene aboard the _Corsair_ when the thirty-one men
and officers of the _Eugene Louise_ were disputing whether or not
they should go back to their ship and sail her into port. There were
also two dogs, one of them shaggy and black, who barked in energetic
approval of remaining on the _Corsair_. Their Breton shipmates appeared
to share this opinion. Panic had gripped most of them. They were
literally frightened out of their wits. Red kerchiefs knotted about
their heads, gold rings twinkling in their ears, they looked like
shipwrecked buccaneers, but their spirit was quite otherwise.
The captain of the _Eugene Louise_ was a man of stout heart and,
besides, he owned a share of the barkentine. He raced between bridge
and deck, conferring, imploring, expostulating, but his fishermen
refused to follow him. They were fed up with submarine warfare and,
in their opinion, once was enough. The next U-boat would undoubtedly
cut their throats and it was a long road to Saint-Malo. Their refusal
brought genuine grief to the navigating officer of the _Corsair_.
Nothing would have pleased Lieutenant Robert E. Tod more than to sail
the barkentine _Eugene Louise_ into the nearest French port, and he had
already volunteered for the job.
He was a faithful and zealous officer of the _Corsair_, but, after
all, she was a steam kettle and his heart went out to the spars and
stays and canvas of a sailing vessel and the winds that served to steer
her by. Such had been his own training as a yachtsman, and he knew he
could shove this French square-rigger along for all she was worth,
with thirty nimble Breton sailors to swarm aloft. Alas, Captain Pierre
Catharine, of the _Eugene Louise_, could not argue his frightened
crew into accepting this sporting proposition. It was left for the
industrious British destroyers to take her to safety at the end of
a tow-line. The news was gratifying, when received later, that the
barkentine with her cargo of fish, so welcome to the Breton villages,
had been rescued from the brutal destruction of the enemy. One of the
_Corsair’s_ deck force sadly noted in his journal:
I also volunteered to go with Commodore Tod as quartermaster for
signals, but our skipper decided to leave her derelict. It was a great
disappointment. Mr. Tod thanked me for offering to take a chance on
the barkentine, which I appreciated.
During the night of this same day the _Corsair_ was zigzagging toward
Brest at twelve knots when she encountered one of the submarines which
had been running amuck among the fishing vessels. The weather was
hazy and obscured and an occasional rain squall drove across the ship.
The bridge and deck watches were peering into the gloom which lifted
between the squalls to let a watery moon gleam through. Lieutenant Tod
was officer of the watch and Quartermaster Augustus C. Smith, Jr.,
stood at the wheel. At 11.25 P.M. one of the whistling flurries of rain
and wind had passed and the sea was visible in the illumination of the
misty moonlight.
No more than five hundred yards away the outline of a large submarine
was clearly discernible as it rested at leisure upon the surface of the
water, having emerged, no doubt, to open hatches and give the crew a
breathing spell. This was a sight which the crew of the _Corsair_ had
dreamed of. It was too good to be true. Quartermaster Augustus Smith, a
bland, unruffled young man in all circumstances, had an uncommonly keen
pair of eyes and he did not have to be informed that yonder was the
enemy. He spun the wheel at the order. Lieutenant Tod threw the handle
of the engine-room indicator to emergency speed, and the _Corsair_
swung to rush straight at the U-boat, hoping to ram.
Commander Kittinger and his executive, Lieutenant Commander Porter,
instantaneously appeared upon the bridge, while Ensign Gray dashed for
the chart-house deck to make certain that the forward gun crew had
sighted the submarine for themselves. There was excitement, but no
confusion. Long training and disciplined habit had prepared them all
for such an episode as this, like sprinters set and ready on the mark.
No time was lost in wondering what ought to be done. Those who hunted
Fritz had to be quickwitted or else he would scupper them.
The submarine, caught napping, went ahead on its oil engines, moving
slowly on the surface and almost in the same direction as the plunging
_Corsair_ whose forward battery endeavored to bear on the mark, which
was difficult for lack of a bow-chaser. Number Two gun barked once and
the shell kicked up foam astern of the U-boat which was submerging in
the very devil of a hurry, as one may imagine. Before the _Corsair_
could fire again, the conning tower had vanished and the gray shape of
the slinking submarine was slanting downward in a “crash dive.”
The yacht had three hundred yards to go before she passed over the
spot. Her keel failed to strike and rip through the thin plates of
the German craft which was, perhaps, thirty feet beneath the sea, but
a bubbling wake was visible and into it the depth charges began to
drop from the stern of the _Corsair_. The gunner’s mates played no
favorites, but let go an English “ash can” with 120 pounds of TNT, then
two French “Grenades Giraud,” and finally an American Sperry bomb.
All four of the Allied gifts for Fritz functioned with terrific
effect. The _Corsair_, charging ahead at full speed to avoid being
hoisted herself, was shaken as though she had hit a reef. The sea was
violently agitated in a foaming upheaval. The men asleep below decks
came spilling up through the hatches, convinced that the ship had been
blown up. One of the French fishermen vowed that he had a glimpse of
the shadowy shape of the submarine as it passed directly under the
_Corsair_. It seemed reasonable to assume that the four depth charges
had been placed where they would do the most good. Nothing could
survive the destructive effect of the solid wall of water impelled
by these explosions. And the submarine had been near enough, in all
probability, to receive the force of these rending shocks.
The _Corsair_ moved ahead for five minutes, along the track which the
U-boat had taken when it submerged. There was the hope that it might
rise to the surface disabled, but the moonlit surface of the sea was
unbroken. The mist had cleared and the sky was bright. Swinging about,
the _Corsair_ retraced her path on the chance of finding some sign
or token of a shattered U-boat. Soon she ran through a spreading oil
slick, a patch of greasy calm amid the glinting waves, and the smell of
mineral oil was strong. They sniffed it greedily aboard the _Corsair_
and the French fishermen forgot to mourn the _Eugene Louise_. It was
their belief that the glorious American Navy had evened the score with
the Boche. The bluejackets were of the same opinion and felt confident
that the _Corsair_ would be awarded a star to display on her funnel,
the _Croix de Guerre_ of the sea, to show that she had bagged her
submarine.
The officers were not quite so cock-sure. Daylight might have disclosed
some bits of _débris_, enough wreckage to substantiate the claim beyond
a shadow of doubt, but the mere presence of floating oil was no longer
admitted as final proof either by the American Navy Department or the
British Admiralty. Submarines were apt to leak a certain amount of fuel
oil, or to blow it through the exhaust when running on the surface, and
it was suspected that Fritz had learned the trick of opening a valve in
order to delude the pursuers into the belief that they had crippled or
smashed him.
In this instance, however, the circumstantial evidence was very
strongly in favor of the _Corsair_, even though officials ashore
might decline to give her documentary credit. The submarine had been
unusually close aboard, almost under the ship, when four depth charges
were let go and all exploded perfectly. Commander Kittinger was so
reluctant to claim too much that he presented no more than the terse
facts and let the matter rest with that. Earlier in the war, destroyers
had been granted the star on a funnel for evidence no more conclusive
than this—depth charges dropped within a fatal radius and the presence
of abundant fuel oil as the aftermath.
[Illustration: GUNNER’S MATES BARKO AND MOORE, AND A DEPTH CHARGE]
[Illustration: WATCHING THE APHRODITE GO OUT ON PATROL “HOPE SHE GETS
A SUB”]
It is highly probable that the _Corsair_ wiped one U-boat from the
active list on this moonlit night in the Bay of Biscay and her crew had
the right to feel pride in the exploit. That careful, well-poised petty
officer, Quartermaster Augustus Smith, who saw the whole show from his
station at the wheel, took pains to write down his own observations
which confirmed, in every respect, the conclusions of Commander
Kittinger and his officers:
On the night of October 2, 1917, at 11.25 P.M., a dark object was
sighted by the officer of the deck, bearing about three points on the
port bow. The officer of the deck, after looking at the object with
the night glasses, called out that it was a submarine. The order was
given for full left rudder and to steady on the submarine which was
then plainly visible in the moonlight. At the same time emergency
speed was rung up and before we had swung to the new course we were
fast gaining speed. The captain almost immediately came on the bridge
and ordered that a shot be taken at the submarine which was about
three hundred yards away and moving slowly on the surface in the
general direction we were steering. We swung a little to starboard
and one shot was fired which cleared the periscope and showed the
submarine distinctly for a second.
From the way the _Corsair_ answered the rudder we were making fine
speed. The submarine completely disappeared when we were just a little
way off. As we crossed her apparent course we began dropping depth
charges, four in all. As we passed over her position we went full
right rudder, dropping two of the cans as we swung. We then steadied
on North 74° East, the original course, and ran it about five minutes.
We then slowed to thirteen knots and went full right rudder, and
steadied on South 80° West. Returning over the spot where the charges
had exploded, we ran into a great slick of oil that seemed to spread
out for several hundred yards. A strong odor of oil could be smelled,
even on the bridge.
CHAPTER V
WHEN THE ANTILLES WENT DOWN
For more than three months the _Corsair_ had been escorting transports
and supply steamers to and fro, in an area of ocean where the hostile
submarines cruised incessantly. Not a ship in all these unwieldy
convoys had been torpedoed, and the few hard-driven yachts could feel,
without boasting, that they were doing their bit to keep the road open
to France. It was unreasonable to expect, however, that the record
could be kept wholly clear of disaster. The fortune of war was not as
kind as this.
The unhappy event occurred without warning on October 17th when the
transport _Antilles_, a fine, seven-thousand-ton steamer of the
Southern Pacific Company, was sent to the bottom with many of her
people. It was no fault of the escort, for there was never a sight of
a periscope nor any other indication that a submarine was near. The
_Corsair_ did what she could and did it well, saving survivors from the
sea with the readiness and courage that might have been expected.
The convoy had sailed from Saint-Nazaire two days earlier, waiting at
Quiberon for one of the ships to join. With the _Antilles_ were the
_Henderson_ and the _Willehad_. The escort comprised the _Corsair,
phrodite_, and the _Kanawha_, which replaced the _Wakiva_ after this
smaller yacht had returned to port because of leaky rivets in the main
boiler. With the circumstances as they were, no better protection could
have been given this small convoy of three transports. The Queenstown
destroyers were employed in guarding the laden ships inward bound,
meeting them far offshore, but the American Patrol Force in France
had to take them to sea again as best it could, with the yachts and
whatever aid the French Navy was able to offer.
The small flotilla of coal-burning destroyers which was sent to base on
Brest had not yet arrived and was _en route_ from the Azores. Captain
W. B. Fletcher, who commanded the Patrol Force at this time, and who
was superseded by Admiral Wilson a little later, received a certain
amount of adverse criticism because of the loss of the _Antilles_, but
the fact is evident that he had taken all the precautions within his
power to send this convoy safely through the danger zone.
[Illustration: ENGINEERING FORCE OF THE CORSAIR]
[Illustration: LIEUTENANT J. J. PATTERSON, ENGINEER OFFICER, AND HIS
HUSKY “BLACK GANG”]
The three transports and the three large yachts proceeded without
incident until the morning of the second day at sea, when a freshening
wind kicked up a boisterous sea and the _Kanawha_ found herself in
trouble. She was taking the water green over her bows and the decks
were flooded. To avoid being seriously battered, she was compelled
to reduce speed, and, to make matters worse, the weather was growing
rougher and a gale threatened. Unable to maintain the standard speed
of the convoy, which slowed down, for a little while, to nine knots
in order to let the _Kanawha_ attempt to regain position, her captain
signalled for permission to part company and return to port. This was
granted, as the heavy weather had made her of no service to the convoy.
Thereafter the formation was maintained in this wise:
Corsair O O Alcedo
O Henderson
Antilles O
W
| O Willehad
S—+—N
|
E
The third day out, October 17th, dawned clear with a moderate wind
from the southwest and a disturbed sea covered with whitecaps. The
ships were zigzagging, with all lookouts properly kept and gunners at
their stations. The _Antilles_ had her own battery which was manned by
a detachment of the Naval Armed Guard. Early in the morning, at 6.45,
she was steaming directly astern of the _Corsair_ during one of the
frequent changes of course. The light was still poor, and it was this
hour, before the sunrise had brightened the sea, which the submarines
had found most favorable for attack.
The _Antilles_ was seen to sheer out to starboard and the _Henderson_
hoisted a signal which could not be read from the bridge of the
_Corsair_, but the yacht swung about on the instant and sounded the
call to general quarters. There was no other indication that the
_Antilles_ had been hit and mortally wounded. Presently she was
settling by the stern. Then the bow rose in air, towered there, and
the ship plunged to the bottom five minutes after a torpedo had ripped
open her engine-room. Smoke and dust and dirty whirlpools marked the
spot where she had been, and the sea was littered with boats and bits
of wreckage and struggling men. On board the _Corsair_ was Commander F.
N. Freeman, as commander of the patrol division to which the _Corsair_
and _Alcedo_ were attached, and his report contained the following
description of the disaster:
No explosion was heard on the _Corsair_, nothing was seen of it,
nor was a submarine sighted. The _Henderson_ immediately turned to
starboard and made a smoke screen, the _Willehad_ turned to port and
from knowledge now at hand apparently passed very nearly over the
submarine that fired the torpedo. The _Alcedo_ turned back to the spot
where the _Antilles_ sank. The _Corsair_ steamed at nineteen knots
directly astern of the _Henderson_ and to the northeast, followed by
the _Alcedo_. These two escorting vessels continued in the vicinity of
the wreckage until 8.30 A.M. No sign of the submarine was seen.
During all this time the _Alcedo_ was picking up survivors while
the _Corsair_ continued circling around the boats and wreckage. The
_Corsair_ assisted in picking up the survivors in outlying boats and
patrolling the vicinity until 10.30 A.M. All survivors having been
rescued, and it being impossible to overhaul either the _Henderson_ or
the _Willehad_ before nightfall, we set course for Brest.
The total number of persons on board the _Antilles_ was 237. The
number rescued by the _Corsair_ was 50, by the _Alcedo_ 117—total
rescued, 167.
It is believed that every man on the _Antilles_ who got into the water
alive with life-belt on was rescued. Attention is invited to the
excellent work of the _Alcedo_ and _Corsair_ in picking up survivors
who were in the boats, on wreckage and life-rafts, floating over an
area of several square miles. The _Corsair_ picked up fifty persons
from outlying wreckage and lifeboats without lowering a boat. The sea
at this time was getting rough.
Officers from the _Antilles_ have informed me that there was a
fire on board the ship during the early morning, just before dawn,
and that nearly all hands had turned out. This may account for the
comparatively small loss of life, as the _Antilles_ sank in seven
minutes or less. It is not known whether the lights which had been
turned on at the time of the fire were visible from outboard, and
whether this has anything to do with the submarine attack. The
_Corsair_ reported no lights on the _Antilles_. The statements of the
survivors are that several of them had seen the torpedo just before it
struck the ship. It is worthy of mention that the conduct and bearing
of the Armed Guard were a credit to the service.
No visual signals of any kind were made by the _Corsair_ or _Alcedo_
after nightfall at any time, and only one PDL flash-light signal
was noted in the convoy. Only one radio signal was made and that at
low power to the _Henderson_ in thick weather, at night. Commanding
officers were all thoroughly indoctrinated before getting under way in
regard to the course, zigzagging, etc., and the escort vessels were
unusually alert and attentive.
The senior naval officer on board the _Antilles_ was Commander Daniel
T. Ghent whose report to the Navy Department contained many incidents
of interest in the story of the _Corsair_. Of the sixty-seven men who
perished with the ship, he stated that forty-five of them belonged
to the merchant crew, four were members of the armed guard, sixteen
were soldiers who had been sent home, one was an ambulance driver, and
one a colored stevedore. It was strange that the detonation of the
torpedo was unheard by the escort vessels and that there was no visible
disturbance, for on board the _Antilles_, according to Commander
Ghent, the explosion was terrific. The ship shivered from stern to
stem, listing immediately to port. One of the lookouts in the maintop,
although protected by a canvas screen about five feet high, was hurled
clear of this screen and killed when he struck the hatch below.
[Illustration: A BOAT-LOAD OF SURVIVORS FROM THE ANTILLES COMING
ALONGSIDE]
[Illustration: NAVAL OFFICERS RESCUED FROM THE ANTILLES, WITH GENERAL
McNAIR, U.S.A., IN THE CENTRE]
The explosion wrecked everything in the engine-room, including the ice
machine and dynamo, and almost instantly flooded the compartment. The
engine-room was filled with ammonia fumes and with the high-pressure
gasses from the torpedo, and it is believed that every one on duty
there was either instantly killed or disabled, excepting one
oiler. This man happened to be on the upper gratings at the time.
He tried to escape through the engine-room door but found it jammed
and the knob blown off. Unable to force the door and finding that
he was being overcome by the gases and ammonia fumes, he managed to
escape through the engine-room skylight just as the ship was going
under. Within a few seconds after the explosion, the water was over
the crossheads of the main engines which were still turning over
slowly. Of the twenty-one men on duty in the engine and fire rooms,
only three escaped. Besides the oiler, two firemen crawled up through
a ventilator. The fact that the engines could not be stopped and the
headway checked, added to the difficulty of abandoning ship.
That only four boats out of ten succeeded in getting clear was due to
this and several other causes,—the short time the ship stayed afloat,
which was four and a half minutes by my watch, the rough sea, the
heavy list, and the destruction of boats by the explosion. When there
was no one left in sight on the decks, I went aft on the saloon deck
where several men were struggling in the water near No. 5 boat and
making no attempt to swim away from the side of the ship. I thought
that they might be induced to get clear before the suction carried
them down. By this time, however, the ship which was listed over at an
angle of forty-five degrees, started to upend and go down. This motion
threw me across the deck where I was washed overboard.
The behavior of the naval personnel was equal to the best traditions
of the service. The two forward gun’s crews, in command of Lieutenant
Tisdale, remained at their gun stations while the ship went down
and made no effort to leave their stations until ordered to save
themselves. Radio Electrician Ausburne went down with the ship while
at his station in the radio-room. When the ship was struck, Ausburne
and McMahon were asleep in adjacent bunks opposite the radio-room.
Ausburne, realizing the seriousness of the situation, told McMahon to
get his life-preserver on, saying, as he left to take his station at
the radio key, “Good-bye, Mac.” McMahon, later finding the radio-room
locked and seeing the ship was sinking, tried to get Ausburne out, but
failed.
The _Corsair_ and _Alcedo_ returned to the scene of the accident and
circled about for two hours when the _Alcedo_ began the rescue of the
survivors, the _Corsair_ continuing to look for the submarine. Too
much credit cannot be given to the officers and men of the _Corsair_
and _Alcedo_ for their rescue work and for their whole-heartedness and
generosity in succoring the needs of the survivors. The work of the
medical officers attached to these yachts was worthy of highest praise.
It is one of the many black marks against the sinister record of the
German submarine campaign that the naval vessels with a convoy in
such a catastrophe as this were compelled to delay the rescue of the
survivors—dazed, wounded, helpless men in the last struggle for life.
It was possible that the submarine might come up to gloat over the
murder it had wrought, or attempt to take prisoners, or even to ram
the lifeboats or turn a machine gun on the struggling wretches, as had
happened more than once. Therefore, in this instance the _Corsair_ and
_Alcedo_ steamed at full speed, dropping depth charges and manœuvring
to avoid torpedo attack while they scouted to drive away or destroy the
ambushed U-boat.
As soon as it seemed advisable, they closed in and undertook the work
of saving life, the _Corsair_ still circling the outer edge of the area
because of her superior speed. One of her crew described the scene in
this manner:
It should be noted that although the _Corsair_ spent most of her time
looking for the submarine, she picked up a large number of survivors
and without putting over a boat. One of these rescues was that of a
lad who was riding upon an ammunition box. When the _Corsair_ was
brought alongside him, he began to semaphore us to keep off, and then
he shouted to steer clear and go easy because he had a cargo of shells
and didn’t want to blow up our ship. When we hoisted him aboard, he
begged us to fetch his salvaged ammunition along, as he didn’t think
it ought to be wasted. I doubt if he had many shells in the box, but
he surely did show the right spirit, and the men agreed that he was
“one game little guy.”
Shortly before we picked up this fine young bantam, we took aboard a
loaded life-raft, under our starboard side. It was a delicate piece of
seamanship, with a troublesome sea running, and the commander let our
executive, Captain Porter, show what he could do with the yacht. The
men of the _Antilles_ owed a lot to the skill with which the _Corsair_
was handled that morning.
One of the merchant crew of the _Antilles_ had climbed upon the
upturned bow of a broken boat and was seated astride the stern. Every
wave was breaking over his head and he clung to his precarious perch
with his arms and legs, like a jockey wrapped around the neck of a
runaway horse. How he managed to stick there was a puzzle. He had
drifted several hundred yards clear of the rest of the wreckage but
our executive had an eye on him. “Skipper, I think we had better
circle around again,” said Captain Kittinger. The “skipper” (Porter)
replied that he would like to “go get that fellow first,” pointing to
the man on the piece of boat. “Go ahead, skipper,” was the answer, and
before the yacht swung off to fetch another circle we steered close
to this lonely castaway and tossed him the bight of a heaving-line.
He grabbed it with a death grip and we hauled him over the rail, but
he was almost unconscious from cold and exhaustion and we had to pry
his fingers open to make him let go the line. The doctor scored an
“assist” on this rescue.
These unfortunates had been flung into the sea in a moment, some of
them scrambling half-dressed from their bunks. They became chilled to
the bone, half-strangled in the breaking waves, worn out with trying to
cling to overturned boats, submerged live-rafts, doors and hatches and
benches, the flotsam spewed up by the stricken ship as she dived under.
Some of them swam from overloaded rafts to find help elsewhere, or
floundered without life-belts until gallant comrades lent them a hand.
It was a dreadful business, new to the _Corsair_ and _Alcedo_; but all
too familiar to the maritime annals of the war.
[Illustration: THE ANTILLES CROWDED WITH TROOPS ON HER LAST VOYAGE TO
FRANCE]
[Illustration: THE ALCEDO PICKS UP THE ANTILLES SURVIVORS]
It is not easy to quench a sailor’s sense of humor even in the presence
of death and disaster, and Ensign Schanze wrote, in a letter to his
mother:
The commander of a supply ship bound to New York promised me that he
would look Dad up if he could possibly do so, and tell you how I was
getting on. His ship was in our party on the morning the _Antilles_
was torpedoed, and maybe he got sore at us for letting a submarine
scare the wits out of him. Our yacht had to stop and fish a lot of
very wet citizens out of the ocean, and the last view I had of his
ship was in a great cloud of smoke, and he was crowding on full speed
to make his get-away. He was going like a scared rabbit. He never even
waved good-bye.
Another gentleman who promised to call on Dad was a naval officer in
charge of the gun crew of the _Antilles_. I yanked him out of the
ocean and helped make him at home on the _Corsair_ during the time
between the sinking of the ship and the return to our base.
The fifty survivors saved by the _Corsair_ found a warm-hearted
welcome. Nothing was too good for them. They were promptly thawed out
in the cabins and engine-room and tucked into bunks, while the crew,
as a committee of the whole, ransacked their bags and boxes for spare
clothing. They were ready and eager to give the shirts off their
backs, and some of them actually did so. Every man who needed it was
comfortably rigged in the togs of Uncle Sam’s Navy and told to go
ashore with the clothes. You may be sure that such treatment warmed the
cockles of the hearts of these forlorn derelicts from the _Antilles_
and that they cheered the _Corsair_ before they left her.
The yacht’s officers made room in their own quarters for the officers
picked up from the _Antilles_. These included Brigadier-General W.
S. McNair, of the United States Army; Lieutenant Commander Ghent,
Lieutenant J. D. Smith, and Lieutenant R. D. Tisdale, of the Navy;
Chief Officer A. G. Clancy, Third Officer R. M. Christensen, Assistant
Engineer L. L. Rue, and Purser W. C. Gilbert. They were most cordial in
their expressions of appreciation of the kindness and good-fellowship
which they had found in the yacht during the voyage back to Brest.
A dramatic bit of gossip went the rounds of the _Corsair_ after she
reached port. A steward of the _Antilles_ had been among those rescued
and he was heartily disliked aboard the yacht, the one exception in the
shipwrecked company. He was a Spaniard, by name and complexion, and he
displayed a curiosity which the _Corsair’s_ crew called “nosey.” He
was discovered poking about in all sorts of places. Attempting to take
a look at the radio-room, he was tersely told to beat it or have his
block knocked off. The Executive Officer chased him away from the after
quarters, where he appeared to be interested in the stateroom occupied
by General McNair. Thereafter the movements of this gimlet-eyed
passenger were vigilantly restricted.
The word came later from Saint-Nazaire that he had been arrested by
the French authorities and shot as a notorious spy. The inference was
that he had been endeavoring to slip away to the United States in the
_Antilles_ when fate returned him to the secret intelligence service
which had information against him, and he was trapped by the heels. His
last words as he faced the firing squad, so the _Corsair_ story ran,
were that the German submarines would get the _Finland_ on her next
trip home, just as they had intercepted and sunk the _Antilles_. This
was peculiarly interesting, because after coaling ship and taking on
stores, the _Corsair_ was ordered to escort a convoy which was expected
to sail from Saint-Nazaire on October 24th. The transports were the
_Buford_, _City of Savannah_, and the _Finland_.
The flotilla of coal-burning destroyers had arrived from the Azores
to reinforce the yachts of the Breton Patrol, and four of them were
assigned to this escort, the _Lamson_, _Flusser_, _Preston_, and
_Smith_. The yachts _Alcedo_ and _Wakiva_ were also detailed to join
the group, and no previous convoy outward bound had been so heavily
protected as this. The loss of the _Antilles_ had aroused excitement in
the United States because of the false report that the attack had been
made by a whole flock of submarines. This was one of those hair-raising
newspaper yarns of war-time which would have been important if true.
Steaming out to sea, the _Corsair_ led the imposing column, with a
destroyer on each bow of the _Finland_, the _Alcedo_ to starboard of
the _Buford_, the _Wakiva_ to port, and a destroyer hovering on each
quarter of the _City of Savannah_. There had been no intimation of
danger other than the fanciful rumor of the prediction made by the
suddenly deceased steward of the _Antilles_ and the routine warning
included in the Force orders, “Enemy submarines operating in war zone
as usual.”
At 9.25 A.M., one day out from port, the _Finland_ was struck by a
torpedo on the starboard side. Again there was no sign of a submarine.
This time, however, the _Corsair_ heard the explosion and saw a huge
column of water spout up against the ship. But the _Finland_ had no
intention of sinking and merely slowed down, then halted, blowing off
steam as though waiting for the other transports to catch up with
her. As seen from the _Corsair_, she rode on an even keel and it was
impossible to realize that a torpedo had torn a hole thirty-five feet
wide in her side, into which the sea was gushing like a cataract.
On board the _Finland_ were many of the survivors of the _Antilles_ and
they were in no mood for an encore. They set the pace for the crew of
the _Finland_ in the race to abandon ship and the big transport seemed
fairly to spill boats and men from every deck. They were dropping
overboard before she had wholly slackened way. It was an amazing
spectacle. At a distance the _Finland_ made one think of shaking apples
from a tree.
[Illustration: THE CORSAIR DROPS A MINE AND SHAKES UP FRITZ]
Several of us were standing by the engine-room hatch [wrote
Quartermaster Augustus Smith of the _Corsair_], watching the _Finland_
as she steamed along in that very slow convoy. We were discussing
her chances of getting through, and the story that the U-boats were
laying for her, when suddenly a white burst of water rose under
her bridge and climbed to the top of the foremast. It seemed to be
followed by a pillar of dark smoke. At the same time the _Corsair_ was
fairly lifted out of the sea by the force of the explosion. All hands
made a run for battle stations without waiting for the call.
The first boat from the _Finland_ was dangling from the davits,
half-filled with men, when somebody either cut or let go the forward
falls. The bow of this big whaleboat crashed down to the water,
dumping most of them out. A few managed to hang on and were struggling
desperately when the after falls carried away and the boat dropped
upon the heads of the men already in the sea. The next boat reached
the water only to be up-ended by the headway of the ship. Other boats
then waited for the ship to lose way and these got clear all right,
but we saw one or two more upset and smashed.
When Commander Freeman, then on the _Corsair_ as division commander,
realized that the _Finland_ was not sinking, he semaphored the message:
“Do you think you can make Saint-Nazaire?”
The answer came right back from the _Finland’s_ skipper:
“_Why not New York?_”
The _Corsair_ cracked on speed to search for the submarine, instructing
the _Wakiva_ and _Alcedo_ to aid the _Finland’s_ people who were adrift
in boats or upon rafts. Three destroyers proceeded on the voyage with
the two other transports while the fourth destroyer remained to
operate with the _Corsair_. Investigation had disclosed the fact that
the _Finland_ was able to move under her own steam and the task in
hand was to put the crew back on board and escort her into Brest for
repairs. Meanwhile the _Corsair_, in quest of the enemy, was letting a
real barrage of depth charges slide over her stern, and her wake was
one thundering geyser after another. Eleven of these bombs jarred her
rivets when they went off, and if a man had any loose teeth in his head
he was liable to lose them entirely. Alas, no _débris_, such as dead
German sailors, rose to the surface.
The report of the senior naval officer of the _Finland_, Captain
Stephen V. Graham, is a lucid narrative and it is worth while to let
him tell the tale:
Due to the congested condition at the port of debarkation, which
was often serious in the early days of our transport service, the
_Finland_ had been unable to accompany the group of fast troop
transports to which she belonged and which had proceeded on the return
voyage about two weeks earlier. On this occasion she was in company
with two freight transports of the armed-guard category which were
not able to make more than eleven knots, but the three vessels had
an escort of four destroyers and three converted yachts, which was
uncommonly large at that time when the demand exceeded the supply.
It was frequently necessary for the _Finland_ to slow down to such a
speed as would enable an enemy submarine to take a favorable position
for attack.
By daylight of October 28th the convoy had reached a position near the
line extending from the island of Ushant to Cape Finisterre, which
experience had shown to be a particularly dangerous area. From that
time on, the senior naval officer of the _Finland_ remained on the
bridge constantly and all the lookouts were exercising the utmost
vigilance.
The weather was cloudy and a moderate sea running, and I was engaged
in searching the water on both sides with powerful binoculars. I had
just finished gazing at the starboard side when the naval signal
quartermaster on watch called out, “Commander! Torpedo!” I turned and
saw a torpedo about fifty or a hundred yards distant making a surface
run directly toward the ship. The whirring of the torpedo’s propellers
could be heard when they broke the surface of the water. To avoid it
was impossible. The effect of the explosion was considerable but not
as great as had been anticipated. No one on the bridge was injured.
I directed a radio operator to send out an S.O.S. call but it was
found that the aerial had been carried away by the force of the
explosion. The first report that reached the bridge was that the
forward fire-room was flooded. At this time it did not appear probable
that the ship would sink but in a short time she began to list to
starboard and seemed to be settling. I ordered the lowering of the
remaining boats which were hanging on their falls at the level of the
promenade deck. These boats were scarcely in the water when the ship
began to right herself, and the acting master, Chief Officer John
Jensen, who had gone below to investigate the extent of the damage,
returned to the bridge and reported to me that the destruction was
confined to No. 4 hold, the bulkheads of which were intact.
In the meantime I observed Third Assistant Engineer George Mikkelson
who had been on watch in the engine-room when the torpedo struck the
ship, moving about the main deck with a wooden mallet in his hand and
endeavoring to drive the frightened firemen back to their stations.
He came to the bridge and reported to me that the boilers and engines
were not damaged and that the ship could be got under way again in a
short time if the men could be induced to go to work.
The damaged compartment, just forward of the fire-rooms, was used as a
reserve coal bunker. At that time it contained about six hundred tons
of coal. After the ship had been placed in dry-dock, upon her return
to France, it was found that most of this coal had run out through the
immense hole made in the side by the explosion of the torpedo.
When I received the master’s report that the damage was confined to
this one compartment, I hailed the boats which were close to the
ship and directed them to come alongside and also sent a signal to
the escorting yachts to turn back the _Finland’s_ boats which were
approaching them and tell them to return to the ship. These yachts,
the _Alcedo_ and _Wakiva_, had come close to the _Finland_ and lowered
boats to rescue people who had been cast into the water by the
dropping of two of the _Finland’s_ boats.
The converted yacht _Corsair_ and one of the destroyers were circling
at high speed around the _Finland_ and dropping depth charges in order
to prevent the enemy submarine from delivering a second attack on the
crippled _Finland_.
[Illustration: THE FINLAND, JUST AFTER SHE WAS TORPEDOED]
[Illustration: DESTROYER PRESTON, WHICH WAS CAUGHT IN THE HURRICANE
AND ALSO FOUND REFUGE AT LISBON]
While the _Finland’s_ boats were in the water, a heavy squall came up
and rendered the return of the heavily laden boats very difficult.
They could come close only on the starboard side and getting the
people back on board was very slow work. Hoisting the boats was
not to be thought of, for every moment that this large ship remained
stopped was to risk grave danger of receiving a second torpedo. As
soon as the passengers were aboard, the boats were cast adrift.
The ship got under way to return to the port of Brest, 150 miles
distant. She was escorted by the _Corsair_ and one of the destroyers,
while another destroyer remained with the _Alcedo_ and _Wakiva_ to
afford them protection until they had picked up the rest of the
_Finland’s_ crew. During the return to port it became necessary to
send every one to the fire-room who could shovel coal. Deck-hands,
stewards, and even passengers, including some of the discharged
American ambulance drivers, responded with alacrity to this call and
within a short time after starting ahead the ship was making nearly
fifteen knots, which was about as good speed as she had made at any
time during her employment in the transport service. The bulkheads
of the damaged compartment held and there was no leakage through the
water-tight doors.
It is regrettable that eight men lost their lives. The coolness and
resourcefulness of the acting master and the engineer of the watch
deserve commendation. Cadet Officer David MacLaren was the youngest
officer on board—just eighteen years old. After I had ordered the
boats lowered, this lad, who was in charge of one of them, would have
been justified in leaving the ship which he believed to be sinking,
but he returned to the bridge and reported to me that his boat was
lowered and clear of the ship and asked if he could be of any service.
He stayed on the bridge, giving valuable assistance, and displaying
courage and readiness worthy of the best traditions of the sea.
One of the Navy youngsters was down in the living compartment
cleaning up when the ship was struck. Some one in a boat hanging at
the davits, seeing him hurry along the promenade deck, asked which
boat he belonged in.
“Number Four boat,” he replied.
“This is Number Four. Jump in,” urged the other, and the boy answered:
“Not on your life! I’ve got to go to my gun.”
Unfaltering, the stricken _Finland_ ploughed along at fifteen knots
with a great chasm in her side, while the anxious _Corsair_ and the
destroyer _Smith_ hovered close and felt unspeakable relief when the
Ushant Light was seen on the port bow in the early evening. Before
midnight the _Finland_ had passed through the Raz de Sein and was
safely anchored in Morgat Bay, beyond reach of submarines. Next morning
her escort led her into Brest Harbor and the _Finland_, _Smith_,
and _Corsair_, three weary ships, rested at the mooring buoys. The
_Corsair_ courteously signalled the _Finland_:
The officers and men of the _Corsair_ express their admiration of the
spirit shown by your officers and men in sticking by their ship and
bringing her safely into port.
The _Finland_ gratefully signalled back to the _Corsair_:
Thank you. I congratulate the spirit and efficiency of your command
and thank you for the personal assistance in a trying time.
Ships and men are much alike. Some are tenacious, hard to knock out,
standing punishment, and gallant in adversity. Others crumple under
defeat and surrender at one blow. The _Finland_ had a long record
of faithful and successful service as one of the favorite passenger
steamers of the Red Star Line between New York and Antwerp. She had the
reputation of having lived up to the expectations of her builders. They
had tried to make her a staunch ship that would hang together. When the
cruel test came, the bulkheads stood fast, the water-tight doors did
their duty, and the concussion failed to start the engines from the
bed-plates.
The _Finland_ was placed in dry-dock in France, but mechanics were
scarce and the work dragged. Thereupon the American Army was called
upon, and from the ranks came riveters, structural workers, machinists,
who turned to and repaired the ship in record time. The _Corsair_ had
been spared the unhappiness of seeing this fine ship lost while under
her protection. And of all the ships which went in and out while the
_Corsair_ was engaged in convoy duty, it was her good fortune to behold
only the _Antilles_ sunk by torpedo attack.
CHAPTER VI
ADMIRAL WILSON COMES TO BREST
During all this time the fleet of yachts had gone clear of misfortune.
In fog and mist and blackness they were banging up and down the
rock-bound Breton coast amid ragged reefs and pinnacles, through
crooked passages, and over German mine-fields. Offshore they dodged
collisions by a hair or steered where the “Allo, Allo,” of the wireless
submarine warnings indicated that the enemy was active. Good luck and
good seamanship had saved them from disaster. It seemed as though these
yachts bore charmed lives, but the pitcher can go too often to the well
and the _Alcedo_ was fated to be the victim. She had often cruised with
the _Corsair_ on escort duty, and between them there was bound to be
a feeling of companionship. In port the officers and men had become
acquainted, either visiting aboard or meeting ashore. And together they
had stood by to aid the people of the _Antilles_ and the _Finland_ at
the risk of destruction by torpedo attack.
[Illustration: CHIEF YEOMAN PAULSON]
[Illustration: GUNNER’S MATE WILEY]
The _Alcedo_ left Quiberon Bay in the afternoon of November 4th with a
convoy bound to the United States. In the middle of that same night,
with murky weather, the yacht was fairly blown to pieces and twenty men
were killed or drowned with no chance to try to save themselves. It
was assumed by the survivors, and quite plausibly, that in the darkness
the yacht might have been mistaken for one of the transports by the
commander of the U-boat, who, if he knew his business, would have
preferred to pot one of the big troop-ships rather than a small escort
vessel.
Commander W. T. Conn, Jr., of the _Alcedo_, was carried down with his
ship, but somehow came to the surface and fought his way clear of the
suction and the fearful confusion of _débris_ and agitated water. He
described the disaster as almost instantaneous, a disintegration of the
yacht whose frames, bulkheads, and plates must have been ripped apart
from end to end as though they were so much cardboard.
While asleep in the emergency cabin immediately under the upper bridge
[said he], I was awakened by a commotion and received a report from
some man unknown, “_A submarine, sir_.” I jumped out of the bunk and
went to the upper bridge where the officer of the deck, Lieutenant
Drexel Paul, informed me that he had sounded general quarters at
sighting a submarine on the surface about three hundred yards on the
port bow, and that a torpedo had been fired. From the port wing of the
bridge I was in time to see the white wake of the torpedo as it drove
straight for the ship. Lieutenant Paul had put the rudder full right
before I arrived, hoping to avoid the blow. The ship answered slowly
to her helm, however, and before any other action could be taken I saw
the torpedo strike the ship’s side just under the forward port chain
plates.
I was thrown down and dazed, for a few seconds, by falling wreckage
and torrents of water. On regaining my feet, I sounded the submarine
alarm on the siren to call all hands if they had not heard the general
alarm gong, and to direct the attention of the convoy and the other
escorting vessels. I shouted to the forward gun crews to see if they
were at their stations, but by this time the forecastle was awash. The
foremast had fallen, carrying away the radio aerial. I passed the word
to abandon ship.
I then left the bridge and went into the chart-house to obtain the
ship’s position from the chart, but the lights had gone out and I was
unable to see. Stepping out of the chart-house, I met the Navigator,
Lieutenant Leonard, and asked him if he had been able to send a radio
and he said, “No.” I then went with him to the main deck and told him
to take charge of cutting away the forward dories and life-rafts.
At the starboard gangway I stumbled over a man lying face down. I
rolled him over and spoke to him, but received no reply and was unable
to make out who he was, as we were all in darkness. It is my opinion
that he was already dead. Moving to the after end of the ship, I
took station on a gun platform. The ship was filling rapidly and her
bulwarks amidships were level with the water. I sung out to cut away
the after dories and life-rafts and throw them in the water, and told
the men near me to jump over the side.
Before I could follow them, however, the ship listed heavily to port,
plunging down by the head and sinking. I was dragged down with her,
but came up again and swam to a life-raft to which three men were
clinging. We managed to lift ourselves upon it, and then, looking
around, I observed Doyle, chief boatswain’s mate, and one other man
in the whaleboat. We paddled over to them and crawled into the boat.
It was half-filled with water and we started to bale and to rescue
survivors from the wreckage. The whaleboat was quickly crowded to
capacity and no more could be taken aboard. We then picked up two
overturned dories which were nested together, separated and righted
them only to find that their sterns had been smashed. Presently we
discovered another nest of dories which were found to be seaworthy. We
shifted some of the men into them from the whaleboat and proceeded to
pick more men from the wreckage. During this time, cries of distress
were heard from others adrift who had floated some distance away. Two
of them were believed to be Ernest M. Harrison, mess attendant, and
John Winne, seaman. We proceeded to where they were last seen, but
could find no trace of them.
About this time, which was probably an hour after the ship sank, a
German submarine approached the scene of the torpedoing and lay to
near some of the dories and life-rafts. No effort was made to assist
the men freezing in the water. Three Germans, presumably the officers,
were visible upon the top of the conning tower as they stood and
watched us. The U-boat remained on the surface about half an hour and
then steered off and submerged. I then made a further search through
the wreckage to be sure that none of my men were left in the water. At
4.30 in the morning we started away from the scene to attempt to make
the nearest land.
The flare of Penmarch Light was visible and I headed for it, observing
the star Polaris and reckoning the light to be about northeast. We
rowed the boats all through the forenoon and sighted the Penmarch
Lighthouse at 1.15 P.M. Keeping steadily at the oars, turn and turn
about, we moved toward the coast until 5.15 in the afternoon when
a French torpedo boat took us aboard. There were three officers
and forty men of us, who were promptly carried into Brest, where I
was informed that two other dories, containing three officers and
twenty-five men, had landed at Penmarch Point. This was the first news
that these had been saved, for they had not been seen by any of my
party near the place of the disaster.
It was true of the _Alcedo_ that in the moment of gravest crisis the
cohesion and discipline of the Navy manifested itself. Orders were
given and obeyed while the shattered yacht was dropping from under
the feet of the young men and boys who had worn the uniform only a
few months. It was a nightmare of an experience in which panic might
have been expected, but officers and bluejackets were groping to find
their stations or endeavoring to cut away boats so that others might be
saved. Such behavior was fairly typical of the patrol fleet, although
no other yacht was doomed to such a fate as this, but there was the
stuff in the personnel to stand the test and the spirit of fidelity
burned like a flame.
The yachts had been playing the game lone-handed, hoping to be
reinforced by enough destroyers to move the American convoys which were
subjected to long and costly delays in the French ports for lack of
escort vessels to carry them out through the danger zone. The news that
the United States proposed to build two hundred destroyers sounded
prodigious, but it failed to fit the immediate occasion. To the
Queenstown base were assigned the up-to-date oil-burning destroyers as
fast as more of them could be diverted from home, and they were doing
superb and indispensable service in cruising a thousand miles offshore
to meet and escort the troop convoys in to France, but they could not
tarry to take the ships out again nor to protect the slower supply
convoys and undertake the other work of the Breton Patrol.
The French coast was compelled to do the best it could with the cards
that were dealt. There was no such thing as discouragement in the
_Corsair_ or her sister ships, but the feeling grew that the job
was vastly bigger than the resources. It was singularly cheering,
therefore, when the flotilla of veteran coal-burning destroyers came
storming in from the Azores, all stripped and taut and ready for
business, looking for trouble and unhappy until they could find it.
They became close kindred of the yachts, sharing the rough weather
cruises with the convoys and, when in port, taking their doses of
the dirty, back-breaking work of eternally shovelling coal in little
baskets. And by the same token, their men wore the common mark of the
trade, the shadows of grime beneath the eyes which soap and water could
never entirely remove. Yachts and destroyers took orders from each
other at sea and seldom disagreed. The authority depended upon which
commander held the senior naval rank to qualify him to direct the
movements of the patrol division.
_Reid_, _Smith_, _Flusser_, _Lamson_, and _Preston_, they were rated as
no longer young and in size were lightly referred to as the “flivver”
class when compared with the thousand-ton destroyers operating out of
Queenstown, while bets were made that a winter in the Bay of Biscay
would be too much for them. But they stood the gaff and sailed home
again after the war, while the unterrified crews bragged of the merits
of their sturdy boats and forgot all the hardships. Like the yachts
they had a sprinkling of college rookies among the bluejackets, and of
Reserve officers on the bridge, while the Regular Navy leavened the
lump.
[Illustration: BUCKING INTO THE WINTER SEAS]
[Illustration: SHE TAKES ’EM ABOARD GREEN]
When the November winds began to show their temper, blowing strong from
the west and north, the _Corsair_ had a foretaste of what the winter
service would be like. There happened to be no one aboard who took the
trouble to set down on paper, in diaries or letters home, just what
the life was in the crowded compartments below decks when the ship
was bucking and rolling five hundred miles offshore and the combers
toppled green over the bows. In the _Reid_ destroyer, however, was a
young lawyer from Wisconsin, Timothy Brown, who was not only a very
able seaman, but also something of an artist with a pen, and he managed
to convey very adequately what all these young mariners put up with in
order to make the seas safe for democracy. Almost word for word, he
might have been writing of the _Corsair_:
A wave suddenly lifted us and I went down on my right hip, sustaining
severe contusions and abrasions, not to mention a general shaking up.
Our chief pharmacist’s mate rushed up with a tourniquet, iodiform
gauze, and sticking plaster and asked me what I needed worst. Thanking
him, I made my way below and moored to a stanchion for chow. I call
attention to the stanchions because our tureens, containing food and
silverware, were hitched to them while the rest of the food was in
aluminum platters which the mess cooks surrounded as best they could
with their feet and knees. Occasionally a platter would get away from
our inexperienced mess cook of the Reserve Force and he would dive
across the compartment to nab it, only to lose other dishes which he
was safeguarding. The hungry sailors would assemble the chow again,
whereupon each man would help himself and eat under whatever endurable
circumstances he could find.
Gentle reader, imagine yourself perched upon a camp-stool with your
face to port and your back to starboard, at the seamen’s dining-table,
trying to steer a bowl of soup safely into your face. The ship rolls
forty-five degrees and your stool and soup bowl begin to slide at the
same time. You hold the edge of the table with your left hand, clamp
your spoon down hard into the bottom of the bowl to secure it, then
cautiously push yourself to your feet, for the stool threatens to
carry you across the compartment in a jiffy. The angle of the bowl
now being constant with the relation it bears to the table, the angle
described by the ship’s lurch spills half your soup. You quickly
release your grip on the table edge and take the soup in both hands
to steady it. This leaves the soup suspended perfectly between zenith
and nadir, fixed in its relation to the bowl, if you don’t weaken.
Your spoon and slice of bread have been sliding all over the table,
kept from hitting the wet deck only by a wooden flange. Before you can
plan a campaign to absorb the soup, your feet begin to slip and ere
you can blink an eye you have slid four yards across to the starboard
mess table, your feet tangled with a stool, and you bump into a
shipmate who turns loose his own soup so that it fits perfectly down
the back of your neck.
The other day a tureen of canned salmon skidded off a near-by locker
and landed under the starboard table. The mess cook plunged after
it, but missed it by a hair. The tureen bounded into the lap of our
Irish oiler, who shouted gleefully, as he clutched it with both hands,
“I’ve got the bloody thing.” I was reminded of a fat football player
receiving the ball on the kick-off in his centre of gravity and not
knowing what to do with it. The ship’s swing back upset our hero and
the salmon slipped away from him, landing on the locker of a gunner’s
mate and spoiling a brand-new suit of liberty blues.
I had the misfortune, at this sad moment, to let a ration of stew get
away from me to the deck. There was no use in staying below to hear
the mess cook rave, so I seized a cold potato between my teeth and
followed it madly all the way to the chart-house where I feasted in
peace. I was thankful to be alive, thankful that I had a slippery deck
to skate on, a speaking-tube to cling to, and an oilskin coat which
fitted so snugly about my neck that not more than a quart of briny
water seeped into it every time our good ship did a courtesy to the
waves. Only a third arm could have made me happier. Every sailor needs
one in his business.
The deck continued to be a sort of good-natured joggling board which
playfully teased you, smashed you, and tried to exterminate you. In
another hour I had contracted decorations on my knees that stuck
out like hens’ eggs, slivers of skin had been peeled off my shins,
and pains of various kinds convinced me that, although my heart,
lungs, and diaphragm were still working, they had shifted from their
accustomed places. I had grown so feeble from underfeeding and
excitement that you could have knocked me flat with a dried herring.
It would have been an advantage to go below and try to sleep, but the
ship was as unsteady down there and the stifling air was not tempting.
When it was time to go below, a sudden encounter with a wave sent
me to my hands and knees. Bethlehem steel is hard, so I crawled the
distance to the ladder and fell to the quarter-deck, then fell down
the other ladder to the head of my bunk. Only one light was burning
and it was all wrapped up in black cotton socks so the submarines
couldn’t see us. I groped my way into the bunk and removed my shoes,
this being an old custom with sailors, to rest the feet. Then I
stretched out and was ready for a few hours of slumber. However, the
waves continued to pound us and made the night hideous. The machinery
creaked and groaned and a leaky steam-pipe kept whistling like a
peanut roaster. To stay in my bunk it was necessary to run my arms
beneath an elastic strap that goes over the middle of the mattress and
under the metal frame.
In this position I remained doggedly silent until midnight when our
watch was called again. I was so sleepy that I remembered little of
what happened during the next four hours, except that at the end of
it I noticed a radio man swinging around a smokestack in an effort to
snag our flying wireless apparatus and put it to rights again. After
two or three hours more of misery in the bunk, breakfast time came,
with beans and loaf bread on the menu, and I felt sure that I would be
lucky if I could stomach a single bean. Beans didn’t look a bit good
to me, yet I was forced to eat something or I couldn’t stand another
watch.
At the table we did not waste much time on etiquette. To wash your
face for breakfast during a gale was considered a decided economic
disutility, and we didn’t care what place we occupied just so we got
a mouthful of grub. But one thing was always insisted on, and that
was for a man to remove his headgear at meals. It didn’t make any
difference whether a fellow had any pants on or not, but he must not
presume to wear a white hat or a watch-cap. All hands would howl him
out of the compartment.
The foregoing fragment of a deep-sea idyll is included in a war story
of the _Reid_ destroyer as deftly compiled by George M. Beatty, Jr.,
one of that dashing crew, and published with the title, “Seventy
Thousand Miles on a Submarine Destroyer.” This young man was heartless
enough to print in the volume a ballad of his own devising which had
such things as these to say of the author of this chronicle of the
_Corsair_:
“Grim Father Neptune has his throne
In the Bay of Biscay, all alone,
And on the day of which we speak,
He served out weather rough and bleak;
He sent us hail and he sent us rain,
And ’twas not long ere Ralph D. Paine
Did hie himself to the skipper’s bunk
And swear the writing game was punk.”
Soon after the flotilla of coal-burners came to Brest, the whole scheme
of American naval operations in France took on a new aspect with the
arrival of Rear-Admiral Henry B. Wilson. He was the man to perceive
the vital need of expansion and to create the organization so urgently
required. Outspoken yet tactful, with the hearty affability of a sailor
and the energy of a captain of industry, Admiral Wilson proceeded
to build upon the surmise that the war might last three years and
demand an American army of four million men. The pulse of the service
quickened and the response was loyal and instant.
It was not long before the executive offices of the Admiral and
his staff, in a tall building of Brest, resembled the headquarters
of a busy firm in Wall Street. It was the centre of a network of
communication by wire and radio with the entire shore-line of France,
from Dunkirk to the edge of Spain, and with the Allied naval chiefs of
Paris, London, and Washington.
The _Corsair_ received her orders and did as she was told, but guiding
her movements was the complex and far-flung activity of the secret
intelligences which revealed only the deductions and the results. The
Admiral’s changing charts were dotted with tiny flags and lines of red
ink which recorded, hour by hour, the track of every German submarine
that stole seaward from Zeebrugge, and the plodding courses of every
Allied convoy that steered in hopes of a safe haven. The decoding room
unravelled the messages that whispered by day and night from a hundred
sources, or caught and read the German ciphers that were sent to the
U-boat skippers far out at sea.
Bit by bit was put together an organization of equipment and personnel
which extended from Brest to a dozen other bases and separate patrol
divisions, each with its own subordinate commander. Gradually it came
to embrace such a list of departments and responsibilities as these:
Coastal convoy escorts
Harbor tug fleet
Naval Port Officer
Marine Superintendent
Supply office
Repair shops
Repair ship
Barracks
Personnel
Pay Office
Public Works.
Yard Boatswain’s Office
Radio repair shop
Naval magazine
Naval hospitals
Shore patrol
Docks
Canteens
Oiling stations
Coastal stations
Coaling stations
[Illustration: THE SHIP’S COOKS AND THE WARDROOM STEWARD]
[Illustration: THE NOBLE JOB OF PEELING “SPUDS”]
All this was not set in motion in a week or a month. Admiral Wilson
had to build almost from the foundation. The French organization was
depleted and worn. Vice-Admiral Moreau and Rear-Admiral Grout achieved
everything in their power to assist the American undertaking, with
men, ships, and material, but it was unfair to expect too much of
them. When the Queenstown destroyers came into Brest and the officers
found time to go ashore, you might have heard them boast, in the
most gentlemanly terms, of the splendid efficiency of their own base
and the extraordinary ability of Admiral Sir Lewis Bayly, who directed
their operations. At this, an officer from the _Corsair_ was likely
to fling back that the Queenstown outfit ought to get on, with the
vast resources of the British Admiralty at its disposal and a base
that had nothing much more than a fleet of destroyers on its mind. The
whole French coast was cluttered up with transports and cargo boats,
from Brest to Bordeaux, and it was some job to keep them moving, not
to mention chasing Fritz. And as for Admiral Sir Lewis Bayly, K.C.B.,
he was said to be a fine old bird, but he wasn’t the only two-fisted,
“iron-bellied” admiral in the war zone, and the doctrine of the Breton
Patrol was “Wilson, that’s all.” In such manner was voiced the spirit
of friendly rivalry between the Navy men of Brest and Queenstown and it
was the kind of loyalty which you might expect.
French opinion of the work of the American naval forces found
expression in the newspapers. Admiral Wilson was held in the highest
regard, personally and officially, and _L’Illustration_ said of him:
The indomitable will of our Allies is represented by Admiral Wilson.
He has a physiognomy which you never forget. His quick manner of
shaking your hand while looking you squarely in the face, the smile
which, I dare say, follows up the orders he gives, his brief and
concise speech, denote a great firmness of character. He knows what he
is here for and what to do, and as he wishes to carry on a big task
properly he frees himself completely of details,—on his desk are no
papers, no books, no litter of documents. He is precisely aware of
what he wishes to be done, and when he has spoken his serenity shows
that not for a second does he doubt that he will be obeyed.
_La Dépêche_, one of the journals of Brest, manifested the cordial
feeling of the city in stating:
Admiral Wilson is now a well-known figure among us. He takes part
in our daily life, shares in all our sorrows as well as in our
hopes. Later, without doubt, the title of “Citizen of Brest” will be
conferred upon him. It is a pleasure to converse, if only by means of
an interpreter, with this fine mind which has a natural tendency to
action. He makes his resolutions without embarrassing himself with
paper work or useless formalities.
In the first week of November, the _Corsair_ was sent to England with
a group of American ships which were to join an outward-bound convoy
assembling at Mount’s Bay, Penzance. Quartermaster Carroll Bayne
mentioned this trip in his diary, as follows:
_November 5th._ Penzance is very interesting. All sorts of seaplanes,
etc., flying about. I did not rate liberty, but most of the men did
and went ashore for a few hours. I amused myself by holding a long
conversation with a naval quartermaster on a British yacht, the
_Venetia_, anchored near us. He was a good chap and a typical “Limey,”
with his “carry on” and “awfully.” ... _6th._ Left Penzance. Night
very dark. We have in the convoy, besides the four destroyers, the
steamers _Houston_, _Evangeline_, _Montanan_, and two others. The
_Clan Cummings_ was to have come with us, but joined the British
convoy which left half an hour ahead of us. She was torpedoed at 8
P.M. She was the biggest ship in the whole flock and was right in
the middle of sixty-five other vessels. How the Germans do it, I
can’t see. We had a scare this morning when the _Evangeline_ hit
something, either a mine or a wreck, or a submarine, or a torpedo. We
dashed around and stirred things up, but there was no explosion or
disturbance in the water. We proceeded to Saint-Nazaire and anchored
safely.... Had a great fight on board. The “Spic” cook got into an
argument with one of the firemen and it was some set to. The cook drew
a knife which Dave Tibbott snatched away from him. The skipper took a
hand and he surely had a full head of steam.
Another trip out with empty transports and then the _Corsair_ was
assigned to the escort of two of the huge ships which were unlucky
enough to be torpedoed several months later, the _President Lincoln_
and the _Covington_. This time they passed safely through hostile
waters, and with them were the _Pennsylvania_, _Nansemonde_, and
_Neches_. When these towering troop-ships began crowding into Brest,
including those which had been German liners, it was significant
of the fact that the American Army was really moving into France.
Instead of battalions or regiments, the convoys were thenceforth to
disembark whole divisions, and Brest was to see from fifteen thousand
to forty thousand stalwart American soldiers pour out of one group
of ships after another. The responsibility of the escort vessels was
heavily increased, and officers and men thanked God when one of these
tremendous argosies had been moored outside the breakwater without
hindrance or mishap.
It was while waiting for this convoy, just mentioned, to be ready
for sea, on November 16th, that the _Corsair_ became considerably
agitated for fear that Commander Kittinger had been lost or mislaid.
Quartermaster Bayne reflected the general state of mind when he noted:
Still in Quiberon Bay, waiting for the captain. Everybody is
getting worried as to what has happened to him and the _Smith_. The
scuttle-butt is full of rumors.... Tibbott, Houtz, Evans, Barry, and
others are to be sent home to get commissions, but not a chance for
me. The only thing, I guess, that our captain would recommend me for
is a firing squad.
Commander Kittinger was having troubles of his own which may serve to
convey an idea of the little trials and tribulations which were apt to
beset the course of events in French seaports. In language admirably
restrained, considering the provocation, he reported to Admiral Wilson:
The escort commander left the _Corsair_ and embarked in U.S.S. _Smith_
to make passage to Saint-Nazaire for conference with the Naval Port
Officer. Shortly after passing du Four Light, the _Smith_ was lost in
the fog and anchored about 9.30 A.M. A boat was lowered and by noon
the ship was located as between Grand Charpentier and Le Pierre Perce.
At this time a strong ebb tide was running which made navigation by
dead reckoning doubtful. The _Smith_ also had on board the French
military pilot. Another attempt was made to reach the mouth of the
Loire, but the soundings indicated shoal water and the ship was again
anchored. Finally, at 10.30 P.M., the fog lightened sufficiently so
that the principal navigation lights were visible and the ship got
under way and anchored at Saint-Nazaire at 11.30 P.M. The fog again
set in and continued through the night.
At 6 A.M., November 17th, I left the _Smith_ to go ashore to confer
with the Naval Port Officer. At this time the tide was running about
five knots ebb and the fog was so thick that objects could not be
distinguished for more than a hundred yards distant. The boat missed
the landing and fetched up on the beach at Le Petit Taraict. I walked
ashore and reported to the Naval Port Officer about 9.30 A.M. He
informed me that he had no news, and calls were made at the Army Base
and upon the Commandant Marine. No information of importance was
obtained at the latter place. Afterwards a call was made at the Bureau
de Renseignements which was found closed. An appointment was made for
me to get the latest news at this office at 1.00 P.M.
Upon my return at that time the office was still closed. About 2 P.M.
the fog lifted and I returned to the _Smith_ in the captain of the
port’s launch. On going aboard I found that urgent engine repairs
were being made which would delay the ship for two hours or more.
As it was impossible to get to Quiberon and hold conference in time
to move the convoy that night, I decided to delay sailing until the
following morning. An appointment was made for a visit at the Bureau
de Renseignements at 7 A.M. on the 18th, by the Naval Port Officer. I
reported at that time and found the office was closed. I communicated
by telephone with the office of the Commandant Marine and received no
further news. Returned to _Smith_ and got under way for Quiberon.
Six months of service in the _Corsair_ had hammered most of the
greenhorns into rough-and-ready sailor-men who had come to know the
ways of a ship and the feel of the sea. A few still suffered and
were pallid about the gills when the waves rolled high, but it was
everlastingly to the credit of these unfortunates that they made no
effort to be shifted to shore duty and were resolved to stick it out
to the bitter end. The war bred many kinds of heroes and among them
is to be rated the sailor who continued to be seasick. One youth
in the _Corsair_ confessed that he could never sleep below, but in
all weather, month after month, he curled up on deck, in a boat, or
wedged himself in odd corners, wet or shivering, nor had he any other
intention than to stay with the ship until she flew her homeward-bound
pennant.
[Illustration: BOATSWAIN’S MATE HOUTZ IN THE NAVY’S STORM CLOTHES]
[Illustration: SWOLLEN SEA, FROM THE FORWARD CROW’S-NEST]
The enlisted personnel, in respect of intelligence, ambition, and
education, excelled the average of the Regular Navy. This was bound
to be true of a Reserve Force recruited as this was. Many of them
were anxious to win promotion and to attain commissioned rank. It was
realized that the swift expansion of the Navy, with a strength of
fifteen hundred ships and four hundred thousand men already in sight,
had made the shortage of officers acute. There was no prejudice against
the Naval Reserve, and from its ranks were chosen most of the ensigns
and lieutenants for the new fleets of destroyers and submarine chasers,
for the transports and the armed guard of the merchant marine.
The word had passed through the _Corsair_ that examinations could
be held and commissions granted on board ship or at the base, and
also that applicants whose records merited it might be chosen by the
commander to go to Annapolis for the three months’ intensive course
which would turn them out as temporary ensigns in the Regular Navy.
Some of the aspirants preferred to study while in the ship and try to
pass the tests, a little afraid that if detached for Annapolis they
might not be sent back to the war zone.
It was inspiring to find the ship’s officers anxious to assist these
ambitions. The _Corsair_ became more or less of a nautical school.
Earnest young men were to be found frowning over problems and
text-books instead of playing cards at the mess tables or reading old
magazines. Those who had been in college had a certain advantage in
that they had been compelled to make some sort of an acquaintance with
mathematics and were presumed to have acquired the habit of study.
It was the popular thing to be a grind. Lieutenant McGuire and Chief
Quartermaster Shelton Fair showed keen interest in teaching navigation
and were very helpful to the pupils who wrestled with the knotty points
of the subject.
The novelty wore off, of course, and the laggards fell by the wayside,
for the requirements were stiff, and dogged persistence and many a
headache were required to master the technique of the naval ensign’s
job. The reward was waiting, however, for those who deserved it, and
there was no taint of caste or favoritism. The service was essentially
democratic, barring only the differences in station which discipline
demanded. Through the autumn and winter, the _Corsair_ was schooling a
fine group of ensigns for duty in other ships.
It may be of interest to explain what this course included, as defined
by the Bureau of Navigation in a formidable document “Relative to
Examinations of Enlisted Men of Regular Navy for Appointment as Ensigns
for Temporary Service, also of Certain Reservists and National Naval
Volunteers to Ensigns, Naval Reserve Force.”
In a general way the would-be ensign of the line was expected to pass
examinations, written and oral, in such departments of knowledge as
these:
GENERAL INSTRUCTIONS
Acquaintance with Navy Regulations and Naval Instructions and General
Orders of the Navy Department.
Care of enlisted men’s clothing, bedding, and equipment and marking
same.
Emergency drills,—such as fire, collision, abandon ship, etc.
NAVIGATION (_except Nautical Astronomy_)
Rules for preventing collisions, international and inland.
System of buoyage in the United States.
Use of charts.
Describe a magnetic compass.
Describe how to lay a course.
What is variation and deviation?
Use of a pelorus.
Ability to take bearings and determine position by same.
Use of hand lead and precautions to be taken in obtaining soundings
with hand lead.
Use of soundings in fixing positions.
Ability to read mercurial barometer.
Ability to navigate by dead reckoning.
Use of Chip log.
Use of patent log.
Adjustments of a sextant.
Use of an azimuth circle.
Use of Sir William Thompson’s sounding machine.
How to obtain chronometer rate by tick at noon.
NAVIGATION (_Nautical Astronomy, Sights, etc._)
Ability to take and work out the following sights of the sun:
Meridian altitude, time sight for longitude, obtain error of compass.
SEAMANSHIP
Types of boats used in the Navy and their equipment.
Handling of boats under oars and sail.
Boat salutes.
Hoisting boats.
Man overboard—lowering and handling of lifeboats.
Ground tackle and how to care for. Marking chain.
Duties of officer of the deck.
Ship’s log, what is put in, etc.
Etiquette of the side.
Routine ceremonies, such as colors, etc.
Orders to steersman, right rudder, etc.
ORDNANCE AND GUNNERY
School of the squad and company in infantry.
School of the section and battery in artillery.
Precautions to be taken in handling small arms and their ammunition.
Describe any Navy gun with which you are familiar.
Describe the projectile, fuses, and primers for any Navy gun with
which you are familiar.
Brief description of the care and preservation of the battery.
While this mental fodder was in process of digestion, you might,
perhaps, have overheard such abstruse and breezy dialogue as this,
aboard the _Corsair_:
“Good-morning, old top. When may the officer of the deck decline to
relieve the deck?”
“I pass. When shall the sides be piped, and what are the limitations
placed on sending official signals?”
“You can search me. But I’ll bet you don’t know how to swing ship for
reciprocal bearings.”
[Illustration: A LETTER FROM HOME. COALING SHIP MUST WAIT]
[Illustration: CARROLL BAYNE GETS HIS ENSIGN’S COMMISSION]
“A cinch, my boy. Right off the bat, now, what is the correct dope on a
Traverse Table and how do you use it?”
“You make me smile. Upon getting under way what special entry must
be made in the ship’s log? Likewise and also, what is a Polyconic
Projection? Snap it out, now!”
“You poor simp! I’m the man that invented that gadget. On the level,
there’s only one question on the whole list that you are sure of.”
“What is it? I’ll bite.”
“When and where is the meal pennant flown?”
CHAPTER VII
SMASHED BY A HURRICANE
On the last day of November the _Corsair_ got under way from Brest to
find and escort seven American store-ships which were bringing cargoes
to France. A division of Queenstown destroyers had picked them up at
fifteen degrees West and was guiding them to the rendezvous. With the
_Corsair_ went the _Reid_ and _Preston_, also three French patrol
craft, the _Glaive_, _Claymore_, and _Marne_. As the senior officer,
Commander Seiss, in the _Glaive_, was in charge of the Allied escort
group. The voyage was without notable incident, but the difficulty of
working together in different languages and with a mixed British and
American convoy was indicated by Commander Kittinger in his official
comment:
The senior officer of our escort was in a ship lacking efficient radio
communication. As it is not to be expected that an eight knot convoy
from New York will ever arrive at a rendezvous on a predetermined
course at a predetermined time, the Chief of Escort should be in the
vessel having the best communication. This is especially necessary
during the winter when the daylight periods are short. I do not
believe that the ships of our convoy knew their destination. With
ships on their first trip, as most of these ships were, the masters
of the vessels are not prepared to have another escorting force join
them and proceed to give them orders. This is especially true in the
case of the British ship _Anglo-Saxon_, the master of which could
not understand why an American patrol vessel should tell him to quit
a British convoy. It would facilitate matters if the masters of all
vessels, were informed of their destination and the probable time and
place of their detachment from the New York convoy.
The Chief of Escort did not require the ships to zigzag nor to
assemble in line formation as per doctrine. I do not believe it is
advisable for the Chief of Escort to be a French officer acting with
large convoys of American and English ships.
After this cruise the _Corsair_ was placed in dry-dock at Brest, where
a week was occupied in scraping, painting, and such overhauling as was
necessary. The ship was in surprisingly good condition after six months
of far more severe and punishing activity than she could have been
reasonably expected to perform. Chief Engineer Hutchison and Assistant
Engineers Mason and Hawthorn had kept things running down below without
a serious mishap or delay, although the yacht’s engines had shoved her
through 19,427 miles of sea during this half-year period. The fires had
not died under the boilers for a stretch of five months. It seemed no
longer quite fair to the _Corsair_ to think of her as a pleasure craft.
The words were incongruous. She had proved herself to be a brawny
toiler of the sea.
An examination in dry-dock showed that the hull was almost as undamaged
as when the yacht had sailed overseas. A few butts of the plates
needed calking. A small dent in the keel required new rivets and
two blades of the port propeller had been bent by hitting something
submerged. The crew very much hoped that the obstruction might have
been the submarine which the ship attempted to ram on that moonlit
night of October.
On December 13th the Corsair _returned_ to her mooring buoy after this
little respite in dry-dock and undertook the sooty job of filling
the bunkers. Next day she stood to the southward and found a convoy
waiting in Quiberon Bay. There the transports and supply-ships were
split into two groups. The escort of the fast convoy, fourteen knots,
was in charge of Commander Kittinger and comprised the _Corsair_ with
the three destroyers, _Warrington_, _Roe_, and _Monaghan_, which had
been added to the flotilla. The slow convoy escort, twelve knots, was
under the orders of Lieutenant Commander Slayton in the _Reid_, who had
with him the _Flusser_, _Lamson_, _Smith_, and _Preston_. The whole
destroyer force then available was therefore employed on this cruise,
with the _Corsair_ as the only yacht.
The German submarines had been creeping in to lay mines in the
channels outside of Quiberon, and the yacht _Guinivere_ and four
American mine-sweeping vessels were busy clearing the fairways for
the outward-bound convoys. In clear, pleasant weather the two groups
of transports gained the open sea without running afoul of any mines
and were well on their way by nightfall of December 15th. The sea was
smooth, unseasonably so for the time of year. The air had a nipping
edge, but the temperature was well above freezing and the deck watches
kept warm and dry in the wind-proof clothing which the Navy supplied
for this service. The _Corsair_ and _Monaghan_ held positions on the
right flank of the transports _Madawaska_, _Occidente_, and _Lenape_,
while the two other destroyers trailed or scouted off to the left.
There was no premonition of terrific weather. For several days the
barometer had been almost steady, at 30.50 inches or thereabouts.
During the watch from eight o’clock to midnight of this first day, the
sky clouded and the breeze blew stronger, hauling from northeast to
north with steadily increasing force. The barometer began to drop and
was at 30.00 when the watches were changed. There came a lull in the
early morning, the 16th, when the rain squalls passed over, and with
calm water the convoy steamed at fourteen knots. The _Corsair_ was
somewhat short-handed for this trip. Lieutenant Tod, the navigator, had
been granted leave of absence to go to the United States and Lieutenant
McGuire was acting in his stead. Boatswain Rocco Budani was also absent
on leave.
By noon of this second day the wind had risen again, and this time
it was boisterously in earnest, with a weight that swiftly tore the
sea into foam and tumbled it in confusion. The barometer was still
“falling gently,” as noted in the ship’s diary, and hung at 29.30
until the weather was at its worst. The _Corsair_ pluckily clung to
her station with the tall transports until 2.30 in the afternoon,
although the seas had begun to pile on board of her. The destroyers
of this escort group concluded to turn tail to it and run for shelter
before the storm increased to hurricane violence, but the five other
destroyers with the twelve-knot convoy, the _Smith_, _Reid_, _Lamson_,
_Flusser_, and _Preston_, stubbornly held on and so were fairly caught
in it along with the _Corsair_.
When it became impossible to smash ahead any longer without suffering
serious damage, every effort was made to signal the senior naval
officer of the transports, by semaphore and flag hoists, but no
response could be made out. The big ships, riding high, were able to
snore through the wicked seas at ten or twelve knots, but the yacht and
the wallowing destroyers had to slow down and ease up or be swept clean.
[Illustration: HOW THE HURRICANE SEAS POUNDED THE YACHT. “THE POOR OLD
SHIP WAS A MESS”]
Aboard the _Corsair_ it was decided to make for Brest as a refuge, but
this course brought the sea too much abeam, as was discovered after
three hours of reeling progress which slowed to ten knots. When the
afternoon darkened into dusk, the shouting gale had so greatly risen in
fury that it menaced destruction. The destroyers had vanished in the
mist and murk, endeavoring to save themselves and fairly rolling their
funnels under. The Bay of Biscay earned an evil reputation long,
long ago, but very seldom does it brew such wild weather as this great
blow of December, 1917. French pilots and fishermen could recall no
storm to match it in twenty years.
It was the supreme test for the _Corsair_, a yacht which was, after
all, handicapped for such a struggle. Officers and men prepared her to
face it as best they could, but she could not be “battened down” like
the rugged ship that is built to tramp the world. The deck-houses,
contrived for comfort and convenience, presented an expanse of large
windows and mahogany walls and were exposed to the battering of the
seas. There was no passageway below to connect the fore and after parts
of the yacht. As a war-vessel, she was already stripped of all extra
fittings, and all that could be done was to make everything secure and
meet it in the spirit of that famous old chantey of the Western Ocean:
“She is bound to the west’ard,
Where the stormy winds blow;
Bound away to the west’ard,
Good Lord, let her go!”
The medium-sized destroyers, like the _Reid_ and _Preston_, which also
weathered this hurricane, had a narrow beam and a shallow draft that
made them roll terrifically, but, on the other hand, they could be
sealed up like bottles, and they dived through it with no great risk of
foundering even when swept from end to end. With less than half the
tonnage of the _Corsair_ they had ten thousand horse-power to whirl
their triple screws. The decks might be washed clean of gear, but there
were no houses to be knocked to pieces. The popular fancy that the
destroyer is a fragile craft was disproved in the war zone. There were
no more seaworthy, tenacious ships afloat.
Concerning what happened during this black night when the _Corsair_
seemed to be washing to pieces and her holds were flooding, there were
various versions and opinions. Most of the youthful landsmen, convinced
that the yacht was going to the bottom, were frightened out of a
year’s growth and not in the least ashamed to admit it. If they said
their prayers, it was to be counted in their favor. The professional
seafarers had their own misgivings, but with the stubborn, unreasonable
confidence of their kind, they somehow expected to pull her through,
believing in the ship as long as she was able to float. This was
particularly true of Lieutenant Commander Porter, who had lived with
the _Corsair_ for so many years that she was almost a part of himself.
He knew her moods, her strength and her weakness, and because she had
never failed him he could not have been persuaded that she was unable
to survive.
Man has contrived many cunningly ingenious structures, but none of them
nobler than a staunch and well-found ship. The _Corsair_ was a shell
of thin steel plates, but every line and curve and hollow of them had
been influenced by the experiences of centuries of warfare with the
sea. A good ship is, in a way, the heritage from unnumbered builders
who, patiently, intelligently, wrought in wood by rule of thumb to
fashion the frames and timbers and planking of frigates and barks and
stately clippers long since vanished. The _Corsair_ was given beauty,
to a sailor’s eye, but there was more than this—the indomitable quality
of resistance which is like the will to endure.
What may be called the professional language of mariners is curiously
restrained and matter-of-fact. It is to be found in the pages of ship’s
log-books, which are, as a rule, the dryest possible reading. This
hurricane, for instance, in which so many amazing and heart-quaking
things happened, in which the _Corsair_ all but foundered, is dismissed
in such entries as these, so far as the ship’s record is concerned:
8 P.M. to Midnight:
8.25 changed course N.N.E., speed 7 knots. 8.45 changed course N.
Hurricane blowing from North. Sea very rough. Ship making no headway
and shipping a great deal of water forward and over stern. 11.00
reduced speed to 5 knots. Possible to steer ship only by using
propellers as well as rudder.
R. J. MCGUIRE
_Lieutenant (J.G.), U.S.N.R.F._
Commences and until 4 A.M.:
Hove to with head to wind, speed about 2 knots, whole gale with
frequent hurricane squalls from N. At 3.00 a heavy sea came on board
and stove the forward deck-house. Seas also carried two French mines
overboard and both mines exploded astern. Changed course to South
and ran before gale at 5 knots. Manhole plate to lazarette washed
off and large quantity of water entered, flooding engine-room. Water
waist-deep in crew quarters and six feet deep in No. 1 hold.
W. B. PORTER
_Lieutenant Commander, U.S.N.R.F._
4 to 8 A.M.:
Running before heavy Northerly gale on South course, speed 6 knots.
Very heavy following seas which broke on board very frequently. At
7.30 motor sailer broke loose but was secured with some injuries. Very
heavy rain and hail squalls. Ship’s decks continually flooded.
R. J. MCGUIRE
_Lieutenant (J.G.), U.S.N.R.F._
8 A.M. to Meridian:
Steaming on course S. by W.—112 W. Speed 7 knots. Sea very rough.
Hurricane blowing from North. Frequent heavy rain and hail squalls.
Ship taking considerable water over the stern. Continued running
before storm.
A. K. SCHANZE
_Ensign, U.S.N.R.F._
Meridian to 4 P.M.:
Steaming on course S. by W.—112 W. Speed 7 knots. At 12.42 changed
course S. 31 W. Hurricane blowing from North. Seas very large and
coming over quarter-deck and both sides.
J. F. W. GRAY
_Ensign, U.S.N.R.F._
The war diary compiled by Commander Kittinger for the Navy Department
is somewhat more explicit, but displays no signs of emotion. One begins
to catch glimpses of the situation, however, and even to conclude that
this intrepid naval officer would have felt much safer ashore. He also
commits himself to the statement that the wind blew with hurricane
force. A sailor will seldom go as far as this. When he does, you may
be sure that old Boreas is giving the ship about everything he has in
stock. What the agitated land-lubber calls a storm, and refers to it as
a narrow escape, the skipper jots down as “a strong breeze”; or if it
blows hard enough to snatch the hair from a cat’s back he may stretch
a point and log it as a “moderate gale.” There seems to have been no
disagreement among the experts that the _Corsair_ poked her nose into a
_bona-fide_ hurricane, to be certified as such.
It was believed at this time, 8.25 A.M. [states the commander’s
report], that the storm had reached the maximum and in a few hours
it would moderate and permit shaping the course and returning to the
base. The sea kept getting higher and higher and speed was reduced
to six and then to five knots. The ship steered poorly and it was
necessary to use the engines to keep her headed to the sea. At 9.20
P.M. took a heavy sea over port side which stove in the deck-house
abreast the engine-room hatch. The sea was kept about one point on the
starboard bow to prevent taking water in large quantities down the
engine-room hatch. The gangways were awash and it was impossible to
keep water from going down the breach.
The condition of the wind and sea did not improve and at 2.55 A.M.,
December 17th, a heavy sea broke forward and completely carried away
the hatch covering of No. 2 hatch and demolished the forward bulkhead
of the forward deck-house and stove in the roof forward to about half
way aft. This admitted great quantities of water below and conditions
became dangerous.
Two French mines were washed overboard which exploded about two
minutes apart. These mines had been set in a safe position and were
inspected before dark. Apparently the safety pins had worked out of
position during the buffeting of the heavy seas. The others stowed on
deck were inspected and it was found that some of the safety pins had
worked out of position.
At 3 A.M. the ship turned and ran before wind and sea. The water
below had gotten about one foot over the engine-room floor plates
but was soon under control. The ship made better weather but was by
no means out of danger. Fortunately no seas broke over the stern
although quantities of water were taken over which came through the
after skylights which had been damaged earlier. At daylight the next
morning it was found that a great deal of damage had been done to all
skylights, deck-houses, boats, and deck fittings, and that both the
after deck-houses had been started on the port side.
[Illustration: WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE EMERGENCY WHEEL]
[Illustration: WHEN THE HURRICANE SLAPPED THE WINDOWS]
At 10.00 A.M. took a heavy sea over starboard quarter which stove in
the starboard side of the engine-room deck-house. The wind and sea
continued. It was evident that the ship would not reach a French port
as her safety lay in running before the sea. At noon got a doubtful
fix by observation and shaped course to pass west of Finisterre. At
3.00 P.M. got a good fix by observation which verified the course. At
12.50 A.M., December 18th, passed Cape Villano abeam, distance eight
miles.
Consideration was given to a port of refuge. The nearest available
Allied port was Lisbon which could not be reached until nightfall. As
there was no information concerning entrance to this port, nor a code
for radio communication, I decided to make Vigo, Spain, and rest there
until Lisbon could be made by daylight. Anchored the ship at Vigo at
8 A.M. and communicated with the American Consul and with the Spanish
Military, Naval, and Health authorities. Received weather reports and
other information.
At 5 P.M. got under way and arrived off Lisbon about 8.30 A.M.,
December 19th. Took a pilot on board and obtained permission to enter
port at Cascaes Bay. Moored to buoy off Lisbon at 10.30 A.M. Got into
communication with the Portuguese Naval authorities who viewed the
damage and said that repairs could be effected without difficulty. At
3 P.M., December 20th, took berth alongside of dock at Naval Arsenal
and started repairs.
In their own diaries and letters home, the men of the _Corsair_ managed
to get more excitement out of the hurricane than one might infer from
the tabloid narrative of the skipper. There were unusual features,
such as the explosion of the depth charges which washed overboard and
“functioned perfectly,” blowing up so close astern that many of the
crew supposed the yacht had hit a German mine or the boilers had gone
up. Other “ash cans” were adrift on deck, thumping about with the
drunken motion of the ship or unreeling the cable which detonated them.
In the tumult and commotion of wind and sea, petty officers and seamen
groped to find these perilous metal kegs, diving after them as though
they were so many footballs and trying to hold them fast.
Dave Tibbott, for example, was discovered with a depth charge jammed
against his stomach while he clung to it and the rail. E. L. Houtz won
a letter of commendation from the Secretary of the Navy for clambering
down into the blackness of the lazarette and hoisting out a depth
charge which had plunged into this compartment when the hatch cover
was washed off. The cable had unwound and he followed it down, hand
over hand, so locating the infernal machine. He floundered about with
it, managing to get a footing upon some boxes, and so hung on by the
eyelids until comrades could help him and his burden up the ladder. One
of the quartermasters wrote his own impressions, somehow finding a dry
spot in which to use a pencil:
_December 16th_. Pretty heavy sea, and gale blowing and hitting us
hard. At 2 P.M. asked permission of the convoy to leave for Brest
before the big storm breaks. _Later._ This may be the last entry
I’ll ever make. We are in a hurricane and a mountainous sea. Unable
to proceed without swamping and are now hove to in the teeth of the
gale, barely making headway. The water is about four feet deep on
the decks.... _17th._ A terrible day and none of us expected to live
through it. At 2.45 A.M. there was an awful crash and then a flood of
water poured below. We all thought she had foundered and fought our
way to the topside through water and wreckage.
I had just reached the deck when there was a tremendous explosion
and the ship took a bad list. Water poured in everywhere. I heard
some one yell, “My God, we’re torpedoed,” but I thought it was one of
the boilers. Some of the men were manning the boats, and I had some
battle to get to my station on the bridge without being washed off
like a chip. I had just climbed to the bridge when there was another
explosion, and a flash. My first thought was that we had struck a
mine-field and then I heard one of the officers say that our own mines
were going off.
Ensign Schanze ran aft to see if our stern was gone and found the
watch chasing loose mines all over the deck. As fast as they were
caught, the detonators were removed and they were pitched overboard to
get rid of them. I stood at my post on the bridge expecting the ship
to sink under my feet at any minute. I had made up my mind not to try
to go in a lifeboat on account of the size of the sea, but to grab
something wooden if I could. At this time a heavy rain squall swept
over us. When I saw that the ship was not sinking, I went below to the
engine-room to get warm.
I found conditions pretty serious there, with two feet of water around
the engines and the engineers and firemen working in water up to
their knees. The word was passed that we had turned and were running
before the sea, and as long as the waves did not start breaking
over the stern we could stay afloat. At 7 A.M. the seas got worse
and began coming over. First to go was the engine-room bulkhead. It
caved in with a frightful crash. Our radio also went down. Things
looked mighty unpleasant, believe me, and after a conference with the
executive officer, our commander decided to run straight ahead and try
to fetch the coast of Spain. It was our only chance to save our skins,
so we plugged ahead at a few knots.
Early in the afternoon the seas rose sixty feet high, at a safe guess,
and began combing over our stern again. The after bulkheads were now
giving way and it looked like our finish. The skipper had passed the
word for all hands to turn to and save ship. We tore down doors,
lockers, anything for lumber, and set to work reinforcing bulkheads.
As soon as one carried away, we built another. The deck had tons of
water on it and was leaking badly. Also the fire-room was filling up.
The pumps were set going and we kept about even with the water. It
was a flip of a coin whether we would win through and every man was
fighting for his life.
At 6 P.M. the wind and sea decreased a little and the water stopped
coming over. At 10 o’clock we sighted the lighthouses on the Spanish
coast and felt that we had better than an even break of getting into
port. It was a tough experience, one that we don’t care to repeat, and
the poor old _Corsair_ is all in, pretty much of a wreck barring her
hull and engines. The ship’s company are a smashed-up, tired-out lot.
There is hardly a man aboard without an assortment of bruises. My back
is almost broken.
[Illustration: ASSISTANT ENGINEER HAWTHORN AND HIS WATCH]
[Illustration: THE CREW OF NUMBER THREE GUN]
Throughout the ship men were endeavoring to do their duty and to
perform the allotted tasks, just as this quartermaster had struggled
to his station on the bridge when he thought that the _Corsair_ had
been blown up. When one of the boats was in danger of being whisked
away by a breaking sea, young Henry Outwater climbed into it and rove
new falls, sticking to it until he had finished the job of working the
stiff rope through the blocks. He was under water part of the time,
and the fury of the wind was such that “he whipped straight out like
a pennant,” as he afterwards told his mates. At any moment he and
the boat were likely to go careering off together on the back of a
thundering sea. No officer of the _Corsair_ would have ordered him to
risk his life in this fashion. He did it because he thought it ought
to be done, a detail in the line of duty. The same spirit was shown by
Boatswain’s Mate Mulcahy, who noticed that the port anchor needed to
be secured. The ship was plunging her bows clean under as he crawled
forward and fought the smothering seas while he wrestled with the
lashings.
It was bad enough on deck, but worse to be far down below in the
engine- and fire-rooms where the black water swashed to and fro and
rose higher and higher. The pumps had choked with coal and ashes
and it was touch and go before they were finally cleared. In this
immensely difficult task, working mostly under water, Carpenter’s Mate
Evans bravely helped to free the bilge suctions. Engineers, oilers,
water-tenders, and the grimy watches of the furnace gang had dumbly,
courageously run the chance of death by a torpedo through voyage after
voyage. Now the sea had become an enemy even more ferocious than the
U-boat, showing every intention of drowning them where they stood; but
these were no quitters and the ship had steam enough to hold her hove
to or to send her surging off before it. They were alert and steady for
the signals from the bridge and they kept the heart of the ship beating
strong and responsive to the need.
The twin screws helped to steer her, now with a thrust to starboard,
again with a kick to port, whenever the hurricane would have rolled her
helpless. One of the bridge watch, yarning about it in Lisbon, recalled
this incident:
“I went below to roost on the steam pipes and thaw out, and you
couldn’t call that outfit excited at all. What made a hit with me was a
kid of an oiler who stood in the water between the two throttles, with
a grip on each of ’em while he nursed the engines along. He had to help
steer the ship as he got the word, opening up a little on one, shutting
off on the other. Getting drowned was the least of his worries. All he
had on his mind was coaxing the ship as she needed it, and the water
was splashing around his legs, at that.”
“It reminds me,” chipped in another of this reminiscent group. “In the
morning of the big blow, a guy of my division appeared on deck all
dressed up in his liberty blues. The bo’s’n’s mate asked him what he
meant by turning out all dolled up like that. ‘Why, Jack,’ answered
this cheerful gob, ‘I have a date with a mermaid in Davy Jones’s
locker.’”
“Like a couple of huskies of the black gang,” said some one else. “They
were in their bunks snoring away like a pair of whistling buoys, dead
to the world, although the fo’castle was flooded and the water was
sloshing under ’em. The hurricane had worked itself up and was going
strong, but they were off watch and the important business was to
pound their ears. The first depth charge exploded and shook the ship
up, and all hands were beating it for the deck, leaving their clothes
behind. These two birds rolled over and sat up and yawned. ‘Say, bo,
do you suppose we’re torpedoed?’ observes one, sort of casual-like.
‘It sounds and feels like that same little thing,’ replies the other.
‘I guess we might as well dress and see what it looks like.’ They were
calm and deliberate, just like that, waiting to put on their shoes and
pea-jackets and oilskins, and sort of strolling topside. My theory is
that they had dreamed of being torpedoed and talked about it until the
real alarm had no pep to it at all.”
“Do you fellows remember this? Somebody found ‘Tex’ on his knees, just
after the whole wet ocean spilled into the after hatch. He was not a
prayerful man, as a rule, so the spectator stood by to listen to ‘Tex’
at his supplications. He wasn’t praying for his own life, but for the
safety of Shelton Farr who had tried hard to make ‘Tex’ follow the
course of a virtuous sailor. ‘Oh, Lord, don’t bother about me, but save
Fair,’ was the petition. ‘He is entirely too good to die.’”
“I said my prayers earnest and often,” confessed a stalwart gunner’s
mate. “On the whole, the crowd behaved pretty darn well. I happened to
see two or three boys sort of sticking to each other for comfort, and
there were tears in their eyes and maybe one did blubber a little, but
they were mere kindergarten infants, sixteen or seventeen years old,
and it was a rough deal to hand ’em. A quartermaster came off watch
from the bridge and one of these babies stopped him to ask what the
skipper and Captain Porter thought about it. ‘They say the ship is
going to pull through,’ the quartermaster tells these children. That
was all they wanted to hear. They bucked right up and began to grin.”
To have the deck-houses smashing about their ears was enough to make
the battered crew unhappy, but the most serious accident was the loss
of the heavy round hatch plate which covered the entrance to the
store-room or lazarette. Into this opening the sea poured in torrents
as it broke and roared aboard, and it might have sunk the ship in a
short time. You may be able to fancy how they labored to plug this
hole with anything that came handy, while searching parties crawled
and groped to find the missing hatch plate. Never was a game of
hide-and-seek so desperately energetic. Luckily the metal cover had not
gone overboard and before the holds filled with water it was found and
screwed down to stay.
[Illustration: TEMPORARY REPAIRS, AFTER THE HURRICANE]
[Illustration: WHAT THE FORWARD DECK-HOUSE LOOKED LIKE WHILE RUNNING
FOR LISBON]
Much water flowed down the stairways and ladders when deck-houses
and bulkheads were rent and twisted, and the living quarters were as
wet as a duck farm, but such damage was not vital. When the spacious
forward house, used as the officers’ dining-room, was crushed for half
its length, among the _débris_ flung this way and that was the panel
with the carved couplet:
“_North, East, South and West,
The Corsair sails and knows no rest._”
It was fished out from under the deck planking which had been pried
up by the sea, and the seaman who found it eyed the oaken board in a
pensive manner as he said:
“Truer words were never spoken. The old boat has sailed every which way
in the last two days, including upside down, and you can take it from
me that there’s been nothing restful about her, nothing at all.”
Ensign Schanze tried to tell what happened when next he wrote to the
folks at home and he succeeded very well, adding details and touches
which might otherwise have been overlooked:
Picture to yourself the situation of a ship partly filling with
water, at three o’clock in the morning, in a storm of ever-increasing
violence, everybody on board wet and cold and exhausted, and then
suddenly having a few beer-kegs loaded with dynamite going off just
astern of her. It was a five-reel thriller and no mistake. We took the
seaman’s forlorn hope of turning in that sea and trying to run before
the storm, and we got away with it. The danger in that point of
sailing lies in the possibility of having a sea board you from astern,
and when that happens the ship usually founders.
When I say that the _Corsair_ was wet, I mean wet, not merely moist.
There was not a deck or a room in her, excepting the chart-house,
which had at any time less than six inches of water sloshing about
in it. At the instant just preceding the big smash that made us turn
tail, I had left the bridge to go aft and look the ruins over. The
big sea that squashed us, after doing its dirty work, rushed aft just
as the ship rose to climb the next oncoming wave. At that moment I
had reached the foot of the ladder that leads from the lower bridge
to the main deck. As she was rolling hard and had a foot of water
all over that deck, I was hanging to the hand-rail that runs along
the deck-house. I heard the crash and knew what was stepping in my
direction, so I clawed onto the hand-rail with both hands. The water
came racing aft and piled up against my back until I was in a depth of
at least six feet. My hold on the rail was useless and I was carried
down the deck about a hundred feet in a most undignified attitude, to
wit—in a posture halfway between sitting and lying on my back. Just
as I regained my feet, the first mine went off. You can imagine my
thoughts on the subject.
As it was out of the question to sleep in any of the regular living
quarters, our men clustered around the engine-room hatch and in the
blower-rooms and got what sleep they could in that manner. None of the
officers got any sleep for thirty-six hours. At one time, when we were
running before the storm, I looked into one of the blower-rooms and
saw a man seated in about six inches of water, fast asleep. Tommy, the
ship’s cat, was asleep in his lap. A comber boarded us over the side
and increased the depth of water so that the next roll of the ship got
Tommy very wet. He jumped from a sound slumber in the man’s lap to a
wide-awake and frightened posture upon the man’s shoulder. Another sea
climbed aboard to disturb poor Tommy again, so he perched himself upon
the man’s head and there he stayed for two hours.
I saw Commander Porter get into an argument with a big boarding sea
and my next view showed him lying alongside the outer rail in water
two feet deep. There is no sense in arguing with a sea like that. One
must go where it takes him and be glad when he is jammed into a secure
corner.
Several boxes and packages came aboard for me just before this trip,
each marked “To be Opened on Christmas,” so I carefully stowed them
away. The hurricane flooded my room, of course, and drenched all my
precious holiday packages. Despite the big flood, everything came
through in fairly good order, barring the Christmas cakes, which
turned into a beautiful clinker after they had been dried out on a
steam radiator. Now we have to dig them apart with an ice-pick.
The walnuts and Brazil nuts sent by my loving friends did very well
in the storm. They went adrift early in the excitement and got caught
in the bilge strainer during the time we were pumping the water out
of the ship. The chief engineer found them all when he put on his
diving suit to see what kept the pumps from working, and I claimed the
whole bunch, knowing full well they were mine. Several odd socks also
mingled with the bilge strainer, but they were not mine. The captain,
Gray, and I had a nut party in my room on Christmas night and very
much enjoyed the bilged nuts.
Yeoman Connolly was not likely to forget the night of the storm which
caused him to say of his own emotions:
All went well, except for a few seas we took over the side, until
three o’clock Monday morning. I was in my bunk below decks at the time
and, by the way, all I had on in the line of clothing was my underwear
and the heavy sweater sent me from home. It was the first time since
the day I watched the _Antilles_ go down that I had turned in without
all my clothes on. We figured that we were free from the danger of
submarine attack in such a rough sea, hence our “nighties.” I fell
asleep about midnight and was slumbering peacefully when I heard and
felt an explosion and woke to find everybody making for the hatches.
Dazed, I ploughed through about four feet of water, almost naked, and
popped on deck. There it looked to me as though the old ship had been
almost blown in two. Deck-houses and hatches were all messed up and
the yacht seemed to be slowly settling. We made for the boats only to
find them smashed, and then waited for orders.
The cry went round, “All hands save ship,” and if you hear that
once you’ll never forget it. By this time I had scooted through the
yeoman’s office and grabbed enough clothing together so I could lend
a hand on the topside. It was the coolness of the officers and men
that saved us from watery graves. We tore apart every table and door
below decks to mend things until we could make port. I don’t believe
the ship will ever go to sea again, except that she may be put in good
enough shape to take us back to France from Lisbon about the middle of
February or thereabouts.
Of the destroyers which were caught offshore and rode out the
hurricane, the _Reid_ was blown into Oporto, severely knocked about.
Her log recorded:
_December 17th._ Torpedo truck carried away and washed overboard.
Lost machine lathe and wherry. Whaleboat smashed and ice-box,
life-preserver locker and vegetable locker broken loose by seas
breaking aboard. Lost life-buoy light, compass binnacle light, guard
to wheel chains, etc. 8 A.M. to noon, steaming as in previous watch.
Having serious main engine bearing trouble, due to salt water in
lubrication system. At 9 A.M. passed U.S.S. _Corsair_ close aboard
and asked her to stand by and assist us back to Brest. (_Corsair_
had answered our S.O.S. from near by.) Lost sight of _Corsair_ at
10.30 A.M., due to rain squalls and heavy weather. Foot of water in
firemen’s compartment through hatch, and engine-room and all other
compartments flooded.
The engine-room log of the _Reid_ makes interesting reading, for the
_Corsair_ was in much the same plight:
Heavy sea swept over engine-room hatch at 4.30 A.M., carrying away
ventilators and lathe and flooding engine-room. Glass covering to oil
manifold carried away and settling tank flooded. Bearings running
warm. Too much water running from sea.
The _Smith_ destroyer lost both masts and a fireman overboard who was
rescued after an hour when the cook swam to him with a line. The paint
locker was stove in and the yeoman’s office washed out, which meant the
loss of many painful hours of paper work. The vessel spent two weeks
in dry-dock in Brest. The _Roe_ and the _Monaghan_ were nearer the
coast, and although each lost a mast they scudded for shelter in time
to avoid the worst of the blow. The _Flusser_ and the _Warrington_ were
badly battered and had to lay off for repairs. The _Preston_ limped
into _Lisbon_, sighting the _Corsair_ just outside the port, and the
two ships remained there together until they could be made fit for sea
again.
That lively historian of the _Reid_, Seaman (later Lieutenant) Timothy
Brown, added some bits of life in a storm which the crew of the
_Corsair_ considered appropriate to their own unhappy hours:
As the elements continued to harry us, I could notice a changing
sentiment among certain members of the crew. Several expressed the
opinion that she would soon break in two in the middle. It was only a
question of time. Others were too far gone to have any opinion about
anything, and these afflicted ones lay helpless, clutching at whatever
they could gain a hold. They were attended by their close friends. Our
lawyer clung to a table and scribbled on a pad. He was framing a poor
devil’s will. A brave lad from the Middle West suggested that it might
be well to throw out some ballast—too much water was flowing through
the hatches to feel comfortable. He said we might spare a ton or two
from the forward hold which was crammed with provisions. A deck-hand
passed the buck to the engineering department, which he said was
about to sink the ship with enough truck to outfit several auxiliary
cruisers, including solder bars, sal ammoniac, bolts and nuts, brass
unions, rat-tail files, tallow candles, and flake graphite. None of
the engineering department people would give up a pound. The only
volunteer was a seaman who said, if necessary, he could spare a guitar.
... I reached the bridge deck unobserved and was drinking in the
glorious sight. It felt fine to be so high that nothing could hit
you but the spray. I hooked my elbow around a metal support of the
searchlight platform. The officers had no good hand-holds and were
slipping about like drunken men on roller skates. Our captain was
almost unrecognizable in a saffron-colored slicker that hung down
to his heels, and on his head was perched a sou’wester to match. He
reminded me of the old salt who swings an enormous fish over his
shoulder and advertises cod liver oil. Our junior lieutenant appeared
to have unusually good sea legs, for he could stand with his arms
folded, shifting from foot to foot, stolid and Napoleon-like. Our
ensign was staggering under the weight of a life-preserver and a
number of coals, all bundled up like an Eskimo, nothing showing but
his eyes. Our chief petty officers, hanging under the wings of the
chart-house, had not shaved for days and looked as if they might
have made good if given a try-out as modern Captain Kidds. Grotesque
figures draped in horse-cloth outer clothing, topped with hoods,
aviator style, hovered wherever they could find a corner.
Blown far away from her base port in France, the _Corsair_ was thankful
to find shelter in the Spanish harbor of Vigo as a brief respite. She
could not be called crippled, as a matter of fact, for in a rough
sea she picked up speed to twelve knots and so made a landfall. Her
condition was that of a pugilist with a broken nose, blackened eyes,
and a few teeth missing, who still “packs a punch” and has no idea of
taking the count. The _Corsair_ no longer resembled a trim, taut, and
orderly ship of the American Navy, nor would her weary crew have cared
to line up for an admiral’s inspection. They wore whatever clothes they
could lay hands on, and might have spilled out of the fo’castle of a
Cardiff collier. All that really concerned them was the hope of getting
dry and eating a few regular meals.
There were obvious reasons why Commander Kittinger preferred to seek
some other port than Vigo in which to repair and refit for several
weeks. The American Consul warned him that the Spanish authorities were
bound by the laws of neutrality to intern the ship until the end of the
war, a fact of which he was well aware. On the other hand, the senior
Spanish naval officer of the port waived such formalities aside and
most courteously assured the _Corsair_ that she would not be meddled
with and was at liberty to remain for necessary repairs and to depart
when they were completed.
[Illustration: CLEANING UP AT LISBON, AFTER THE HURRICANE]
Without doubting his word in the least, it was common knowledge that
pro-German sentiment was strong in the Spanish ports and the enemy’s
espionage system extremely well organized. Lisbon was near at hand
and Portugal was an active ally of the United States. The _Corsair_,
therefore, went to sea, after a few hours at Vigo, and steamed into
the wide bay of the Tagus next morning and so found a friendly
destination and a people who welcomed her with warmest hospitality to
one of the most beautiful cities of the world.
The war had touched it lightly. The contrast with France, so tragic
and worn and imperilled, was singularly impressive. Brilliant with
sunshine, Lisbon smiled from her seven hills and her tropical gardens,
and the seafarers of the _Corsair_ thought of Brest, gloomy and
rain-swept, given over to the business of war, the gateway of the
thronging transports which were hurrying the manhood of America by the
million, to the blood and misery of the trenches.
CHAPTER VIII
THE PLEASANT INTERLUDE AT LISBON
I like the look of khaki and the cut of army wear,
And the men of mettle sporting it, at home and over there;
But there’s something at the heart-strings that tautens when meet
A blue-clad sailor-man adrift, on shore leave from the fleet.
From flapping togs his sea-legs win some rhythm of old romance
That’s proper to the keeper of the paths that lead to France;
For what were all the soldiers worth that ever tossed a gun,
Without the ships and sailor-men to pit them ’gainst the Hun.
* * * * *
His hands are often cruel cold; his heart is oftener warm,
For in its depths he knows ’tis he that shields the world from harm.
Because I know it too, my heart beats warmer when I meet
A blue-clad sailor-man adrift, on shore leave from the fleet.
M. A. DEWOLFE HOWE
Portuguese troops were fighting in France and the sentiment of the
people was very strongly with the Allied cause. They realized that the
hope of ultimate victory lay in the tremendous energy with which the
United States had finally hurled itself into the war, but there had
been no opportunity to behold and applaud the valiant soldiers from
across the seas. Now, at length, there came into the harbor of Lisbon
two war vessels of the powerful Uncle Sam, a large and graceful yacht
and a bulldog of a destroyer, and the blue-clad sailors who flocked
ashore were the first to set foot there since Portugal had entered
the war. The _Corsair_ and the _Preston_ were something more than
storm-tossed ships in quest of a haven. To Lisbon they were a memorable
event and one worthy of a celebration.
The colony of foreign diplomats and military officers, British, French,
American, Spanish, and all the rest, accepted the entertainment of the
American officers and sailors as a social responsibility. And they were
quick to recognize the fact that in the war-time American Navy the
“gob” was as likely to be a young gentleman of manners and education
as the ensign or the lieutenant. Tactfully and easily the barriers of
shipboard discipline and ceremony were ignored for the time, and the
invitations to teas, garden parties, receptions, and theatres seldom
raised lines of distinction between the youthful seaman with the flat
cap and the rolling collar, and the gold-striper severely buttoned to
the neck in his service blouse. This might have been awkward in some
circumstances, but the crew of the _Corsair_ knew how to carry it off.
They met the loveliest girls of Lisbon and were gallantly attentive, as
was quite proper.
The American Minister to Portugal, Colonel Thomas Birch, fairly adopted
the whole ship’s company. They might have been so many long-lost sons
and nephews. The Legation belonged to them as long as they stayed in
port, and he appeared to enjoy it all as much as they did. Captain
Ross, who was representing Gaston, Williams, and Wigmore of New York,
was ready with help, advice, and hospitality, and as a host and friend
the _Corsair_ found him true blue. The American Consul-General, Mr. W.
L. Lowrie, was also most courteous and friendly and took particular
pains to make these American exiles feel at home.
In letters written home by one of the petty officers, you may read
between the lines and conclude that there might have been worse fates
than to be marooned in Lisbon for seven weeks:
_December 24th._ You cannot imagine what a sensation it is to find
yourself all of a sudden walking down fine, broad streets with rows
of palm trees, and geraniums and other flowers in bloom. The leaves
are falling now and the rainy season is beginning, but as they have
had no rain in five months we ought not to complain. There are many
picturesque street scenes, flocks of turkeys driven by small boys with
long sticks, and if you want a turkey you halt the procession and pick
out your bird and carry it home under your arm; little donkeys almost
smothered in vegetables are led gingerly along;—everywhere women are
selling fish which are carried in baskets upon their heads. Lottery
tickets are shoved at you from every corner. A crowd gathers wherever
we American sailors stop or loiter, and we are great curiosities. At
the best hotel, the Avenida Palace, several of us ran into a bazaar
for the benefit of the French and Portuguese war widows and orphans.
The American Minister, Colonel Birch, a fine old boy, introduced us
to all the girls, English, French, and Portuguese. There were some
beauties among them, and although it is a long time since I talked
to a girl I sailed right in and had no trouble.
[Illustration: LISBON HARBOR AND THE TUG THAT TOWED THE CORSAIR TO THE
DOCKYARD]
[Illustration: THE AMERICAN LEGATION AT LISBON, WHERE THE CORSAIR’S
CREW FOUND A HOME]
I also met the French and Chinese Ministers and talked to them. I get
along in French now and carry a conversation with ease. One of the
most attractive girls was the daughter of the chief of the British
Military Mission, Lieutenant-General Barnardiston, a soldier and
gentleman of the finest type. He commanded the British forces which
operated with the Japanese at Kaio Chao. Yesterday I saw them after
church and met the mother who is an American. She asked us to tea.
Four of us went and stayed two hours. The General was tremendously
interesting, of course, but he would have been more so if one of our
men had not tried to talk him to death.
To-morrow being Christmas, we are trimming the ship with greens and
flags and have hoisted a Christmas tree clear to the top of the
foremast. Mr. J. P. Morgan, the owner, is very kindly blowing us off
to a dinner by cable, and we are looking forward to the occasion.
It is the first Christmas away from home and I know how you’ll miss
us all, but it should be very joyous because we passed through that
hurricane in safety. We have a fine large cat as a mascot and as one
of the men said, “Tommy used up eight of his nine lives in the big
blow.”
_January 2nd._ Our gaieties continue and we are having the best
time since leaving New York. Colonel Birch gave us a reception at
the Legation to meet the diplomatic corps. The officers and fifteen
men went from this ship. All nationalities were there, from Brazil,
Uruguay, Belgium, Spain, and of course Portuguese, French, and
English. It was great fun to meet them, and most of the diplomatic
people could talk to us in English. We had some dancing, the first I
had done since February, and everybody was in the finest possible
spirits. The girls were stunning. The Spanish Minister is a delightful
man and has spent a lot of time in Mexico and the United States. Our
host, the genial American Minister, resembles former President Taft in
size and quality and seemed to be having the time of his life.
New Year’s Eve we were all on board ship and celebrated it in
combination with a French destroyer which lay alongside us. At the
stroke of midnight we banged out eight bells for the old year and
eight more for the new, and then both ships opened up their whistles
and we startled the Portuguese with the pandemonium. The Frenchies had
a terrific siren. After this outburst we sang the “_Marseillaise_”
together and the effect was stirring. Then we sang the “Star-Spangled
Banner,” and the Portuguese sailors who had come aboard from the Navy
Yard sang their national anthem and everybody cheered everybody else,
and it was a grand old time.
On New Year’s Day I went sight-seeing with a buddy from the ship and
visited several cathedrals. In one of them all their dead kings are
tucked away, and they lift the lid off so you can look right down at
the relics of royalty. As they have been dead for hundreds of years
they are none too attractive. We had a fine dinner on board ship
in the middle of the day, turkey, mince pie, etc., and another in
the evening at the hotel. It is mighty pleasant to have all these
distinguished people so polite to us and we also appreciate the
attitude and the courtesy of the officers of the _Corsair_.
_January 9th._ Last evening six of us called on those delightful
English people, the Barnardistons. The Spanish Minister and his two
daughters were there. The General played the piano for us and is very
musical. Miss Barnardiston played beautifully and the Spanish young
ladies also performed. We were represented at the piano by Tibbott
who upheld the honor of the _Corsair_. You ought to see the row of
decorations on General Barnardiston’s coat—Victorian Order, Rising Sun
of Japan, African Campaign, and so on. Yesterday afternoon we went
to tea at the Girards, the French people. The night before we were
invited to amateur theatricals at the British Club, given to entertain
the _Corsair_ and the _Preston_ and the French destroyer. It was very
cleverly done. The actors were Portuguese and the girls were very
pretty. They sang, in English, lots of American songs. Between acts
they served cake and tea and afterwards we sang the national airs. I
was fussed to death to have to get up on the stage and lead the whole
outfit in the “Star-Spangled Banner,” giving the key, etc., but our
captain made me do it. Our jolly American Minister, Colonel Birch,
gave me a wink which made me feel more comfortable.
I went to the English church last Sunday and they had a special
service, appointed by the King, to pray for Allied victory, and it was
fine. The English always pray for the sailors and soldiers—sailors
first. They certainly are devoted to their Navy. After church another
man and I went over to the Legation with Colonel Birch and sat around
in his biggest armchairs for an hour. He treats us like princes and we
can’t say too much in appreciation of all he is doing for us. He is to
give us another party next Saturday and we are looking forward to it,
for he has promised to have all the charming Portuguese girls there.
We are lucky young sea-dogs to have tumbled into all this, and we are
having the time of our lives. I was made quartermaster, first class,
the other day, and am naturally very much pleased. I shall be glad
to get back and finish my examinations for a commission, but since
the hurricane little things like that don’t bother me very much. We
have not forgotten the storm and still talk about it—all the acts of
courage and the many close shaves.
_January 14th._ Last night there was another dramatic performance by
the Portuguese young people, so that the whole ship’s company could
see the show. This time I sat with the pretty French girls and it
seemed almost like New York. I dropped in to call in the afternoon.
We sat in front of a log fire and it was cozy and homelike. Their
father, M. Girard, was French Minister to Haiti for two years, during
a revolution down there, and had some very unpleasant experiences. The
Haitian President was dragged from the Legation and butchered before
their eyes, and other acts of savagery committed, but our marines and
bluejackets landed soon after and promptly had the situation well in
hand.
Ensign Schanze enjoyed himself as much as the rest of them and
described the hospitality of Lisbon as follows:
Here we are, still in Portugal, where we have been undergoing
extensive repairs and entertainments. Never in all my experience away
from home have I come across people who were as strenuously cordial
as our hosts of the city of Lisbon. There are two leading social
elements, the native Portuguese and the foreign colony. Both have gone
the limit to make us welcome and the result has been that we have
never had less than two engagements a day, most of the time three.
The usual routine runs about like this—in the forenoon some
Portuguese, French, or British officer blows on board to take us in
charge to see the points of interest; in the afternoon there is a tea
to attend at some one of the various homes or legations; and in the
evening there is a dinner party followed by a theatre party or its
equivalent. These things do not simply occur frequently. They are
daily in their rotation.
We, on our behalf, make our best effort to counter with teas on board
the ship; also lunch parties and dinners whenever we can wedge them
in crosswise. Functions have become so numerous that the captain
has found it necessary to detail certain officers to attend certain
festivals daily. There have not been enough of us to go around, even
at that. This is the first war that ever made me keep such late hours.
It should not be inferred that life was an incessant round of parties,
teas, and receptions for all hands of the _Corsair_ while at Lisbon.
Many of the young men had other inclinations and fought shy of “the
society stuff.” The city itself was fascinating to those who liked
to wander and explore with their eyes open. In groups they loitered
through the dark and narrow streets of the ancient quarter of the
Alhama or enjoyed the noble prospect of fine buildings and open spaces
along the Tagus, or strolled with the colorful crowds in the Praca do
Commercio and investigated the luxurious shops and cafés of the Rua
Augusta and the Rua da Prata. Automobiles could be hired, and parties
of bluejackets might have been seen in the royal palaces, the storied
old churches, and the monastery whose walls were built in 1499, on the
spot where another sailor, Vasco da Gama, had embarked on a famous
voyage two years earlier.
The water-front of every large seaport is notorious for low-browed
rascals who look at Jack ashore as easy prey, and it was not in the
least to the discredit of the hospitality of Lisbon that a pair of
_Corsair_ men should have run afoul of one of these land-sharks when
they first hit the beach. The business-like manner in which the
youthful seafarers handled the matter discouraged further attempts to
molest them. One of the pair mentioned it in his diary:
Got shore liberty and landed in jail one hour later. The way it
happened was that the driver of the car we had chartered tried to rob
us and we refused to stand for it, so he had us pinched. We explained
the case in French to a generalissimo and he turned us loose at once
and said we were dead right. He would see that it didn’t happen again.
The tough driver was laying for us when we walked back to the ship
and he tried to get me with a knife and a machinist’s hammer. Dave
stopped him, and I got a big club and we organized to clean up, but
a crowd gathered, so we decided to quit and go on our way as a bunch
of sailors from the _Corsair_ and _Preston_ hove in sight and were
all set to make a battle royal of it. I knew this would get us into
serious trouble, although I did hate to let that auto bandit get away
with it, so we withdrew in good order.
[Illustration: THE CORSAIR IN DRYDOCK AT LISBON]
[Illustration: AT HER MOORING BUOY, BREST]
Yeoman Connolly improved the opportunity to see the sights of Lisbon
and some of his impressions ran like this:
The city is the finest I have seen in Europe, barring Paris only. The
public buildings are works of art and you see splendid architecture
everywhere. The street cars are the most modern I have seen since
leaving home, but why shouldn’t they be? I was sitting in a car the
other night and happened to look around at the advertisements when I
alighted on the builder’s name, “John Stephenson, Elizabeth, N.J.” It
made me homesick to see the familiar name. I didn’t hesitate to tell
some of the Portuguese sitting alongside me that Elizabeth was my home
town, and they seemed very much interested.
I was taken through one fine building yesterday by a very
distinguished-looking gentleman, elderly and good-natured, who showed
a lot of interest in me and who introduced me to the Lord Mayor
of the place and to some of the Cabinet members. He himself is a
member of the Cabinet and one of the best-known men in Portugal, I
later learned. I walked through some of the streets with him and his
gold-headed cane, and almost everybody bowed to him or looked at him
with awe. He understood English very well and told me a whole lot
of the history of the country. As a plain American gob I got all I
deserved, and then some.
This is a great old town. I suppose you have heard of the revolution
that is going on here. We came just in time to see the skirmishes that
are featured daily. A funny thing occurred last night. We were loafing
along one of the main avenues when we came to a big bulletin in front
of a newspaper office. About a thousand people were gathered in front
of it and reading a notice. To catch your eye there was printed a
huge hand holding a dagger dripping with blood, and beneath it the
announcement of another episode of the revolution which was scheduled
to take place on the following Saturday afternoon. Some class to this
burg. They are not satisfied with trouble as it comes along, but even
advertise it in advance.
We are all going uptown to see a bull-fight on Sunday. They have them
two afternoons a week, but we have picked Sunday as we want to take in
part two of the revolution as duly announced for to-morrow. In spite
of the political rough-house the city is really wonderful and we are
very lucky to be laid up here, even if we do miss out on a few weeks
of the war. The only thing that gets me is how the deuce to talk this
Portuguese lingo. We were all learning French very rapidly and can
get along O.K. in that language, but the stuff these people patter is
simply terrible to make out. Here we have to turn to and learn a third
language, and by the time we return to God’s country we ought to be
linguists of note.
The money here is very different from France. It is the _reis_, not
the franc, that demands your careful attention. It takes sixteen
hundred reis to make an American dollar, and when you get change
for ten dollars or so, you get a basketful of junk that looks like
so many United Cigar Store coupons. It costs about a million reis
to buy a good meal, but the food is excellent and we get real
honest-to-goodness hot rolls, just like back home, but about as big
as a football. I brought a dozen back to the batteau last night and
when I came to pay for them I handed the gink about seventeen hundred
thousand reis, more or less. It makes you swell up and feel richer
than Rockefeller to be handing out fortunes in this careless way,
and it’s lucky for us, as the ship has not been paid off in the Lord
knows when and most of us are flat broke. However, the moving-picture
theatres are good and fairly cheap, and Charlie Chaplin is here, and
we are allowed to stay ashore until eleven-thirty at night, which is
a long liberty for a foreign port.
It was difficult for the officers of the _Corsair_ to maintain the
customary round of duty and discipline while the ship was under repair,
with a crowd of Portuguese artisans aboard, many distractions ashore,
and things more or less upset, but they succeeded in enforcing the high
standards of the United States Navy aboard. No more gratifying evidence
of this could be desired than the following letter from the Secretary
of the Navy:
_March 11th, 1918_
To Commanding Officer, U.S.S. Corsair.
” ” ” ” Preston.
_Subject_: GOOD BEHAVIOR OF MEN IN LISBON.
The Department is much gratified to receive through the State
Department an excellent report of the behavior of the men of the
_Corsair_ and _Preston_ during their stay in Lisbon. The following is
an extract from the letter of the American Minister:
I am sure that the Department will be pleased to know, as well, that
all the men behaved splendidly and made a very creditable impression
in Lisbon. It is needless for me to say that I was very much
gratified by it all and personally felt that our men were worthy of
the cordial attention and generous hospitality bestowed upon them by
the Portuguese people and others.
This evidence of good discipline reflects credit alike on the officers
and men of the ships and on the Naval Service.
(Signed) JOSEPHUS DANIELS
To be caught in the midst of a Portuguese revolution caused the crew
of the _Corsair_ more amusement than alarm, and the only regret was
that they could find no lawful excuse for taking a hand in the shindy.
It was largely a local affair, between the military and naval forces
of the Provisional Government, and Lisbon seemed less disturbed about
it than if the street railways had gone on strike. The shooting and
commotion were mostly confined to the water-front, and the experience
of Quartermaster Bayne, for example, would indicate that the American
sailors really enjoyed it:
_January 1st._ It was my day’s duty on board, so could not go to the
party at the American Legation. Everybody said it was a bully good
game. We created a large disturbance last night. When we blew our
siren to welcome the New Year, it brought the entire town out all
standing, as they thought it was the signal for another revolution.
The Portuguese troops were ordered out and started to march at the
double-quick to the Navy Yard, as they took it for granted that the
Navy had touched off an uprising. The situation might have been
serious, but some general or other found out that it was us and what
we were doing, and the soldiers were ordered back to the barracks. The
Lisbon newspapers gave us a write-up, and we ran true to form as the
gallant but quite unexpected and unaccountable Americans.
_January 4th._ This has been an exciting day. I went ashore at two
in the afternoon and was to meet the rest of the crowd for dinner at
seven. They did not show up, and I learned later that the harbor was
so rough that the ships had to shove off and anchor in mid-stream
for a while, and no boats could come ashore. I spent the evening at
General Barnardiston’s and then started to foot it back to the ship.
The gates of the Navy Yard were locked, but the Portuguese guard let
me pass through. As I wandered along to the wharf, I noticed that all
lights were out in the buildings, but I didn’t think much about it,
although several squads of soldiers looked me over pretty carefully.
When I got back aboard the _Corsair_, I saw that our guns were manned,
and I was greeted with, “Thank God, you got through. How did you do
it?” I asked what was up, and got this story. The Army and Navy were
pulling off another revolution. Fighting had been going on between the
War Ministry and the Naval Ministry buildings. Our ship was close to
both. One of our coxswains, Lindeburg, was in a motor-boat at the foot
of the Army Building and as he left the boat and started to beat it
for the ship, he was fired at while running along the wharf. He ducked
back to his boat, and the _Corsair_, getting uneasy about him, ordered
a rescue party away. They were shot at, too, and had to seek cover.
This was a bit too much, so the battery was loaded and trained on
the buildings, while an armed guard, carrying the Stars and Stripes,
marched to both buildings. Meanwhile the captain had sent a radio
message to the authorities, demanding an instant explanation and
apology for firing on our men. This second party of ours was not
attacked and soon returned with the other men. Half an hour later we
received an official apology. Knowing nothing about all this ruction,
I had walked through the Navy Building, right between the lines, and
aboard ship. Copeland and Ashby were with me and for some reason we
were not shot at.
That about ended the trouble, as far as we were concerned, but it
looked like business for a little while, because if they had fired
on our flag we should have knocked their buildings over for sure. I
understood that our skipper sent them the message, “If you fire on
our flag we shall attack at once.”... During the afternoon the wind
and sea had been so high that most of the ships in the harbor dragged
their anchors and the French destroyer next to us had to move out
after knocking a hole in our side which probably means dry-dock again.
_January 7th._ The revolution is still on, and we are advised to keep
off the streets, more or less, as there is plenty of rifle-firing, and
when these Portuguese get excited they mistake our uniforms for their
own Navy and so take pot shots at us.... _January 8th._ Big revolution
to-day. The Army opened up with about a hundred shells on the flagship
_Vasco da Gama_, and it was lots of fun. The shells passed almost over
us and we watched the scrap. The Navy didn’t shoot back. The shrapnel
was falling fast and the ships hauled down their colors. The whole
Portuguese Navy tried to crowd aboard the _Corsair_ for protection,
but we wouldn’t stand for that. There was a good deal of machine-gun
and rifle shooting uptown all day. There was no liberty, but the
captain sent for me and five others and gave us special liberty to
go to Mme. Girard’s for tea. Had a fine time. We were warned to be
careful, as the soldiers fired at any naval uniform they happened to
see. They did not bother us, although we passed a lot of infantry
heavily armed.
[Illustration: “DOC” LAUB AGREES THAT “THIS IS THE LIFE IF YOU DON’T
WEAKEN”]
[Illustration: COXSWAIN DAVE TIBBOTT WAITS WITH THE LAUNCH]
At dinner ashore, the programme was interrupted by a battle in front
of the hotel, and almost everybody, excepting ourselves, left the
dining-room because the bullets were popping about. We refused to
budge, for there was a corking good dinner on the table and the
Portuguese soldiers are pretty rotten shots. They played a dirty
German trick to-day. Some of their Navy men shoved off unarmed in
small boats and tried to row ashore, but the troops opened fire
on them, not far from our ship, and killed a couple of the poor
Portuguese gobs. It made us so sore that we felt like cutting loose on
them.
_January 9th._ No revolution to-day. The French officers on the
destroyer _Intrepide_ have behaved splendidly to us chaps. Of course,
association with enlisted men is unknown in the French service, that
is, in a social way. At first they couldn’t quite understand how we
happened to meet them at these various teas and receptions, but after
a time or two they grasped the situation and have since put themselves
out to be agreeable to us.
The report of Commander Kittinger is an accurate and interesting
summary of the episodes of this sputtering little revolutionary
outbreak in which the _Corsair_ played a part during her pleasant
interlude at Lisbon. He wrote as follows:
About 9 P.M., January 4, 1918, the U.S.S. _Corsair_, being moored
to the dock at the Naval Arsenal, desultory small-arms firing broke
out in the Naval Compound. The firing was observed to come from the
windows of the second floor of the east wing of the building forming
the Arsenal Compound. It was reported that the coxswain of the motor
dory was in the immediate vicinity, securing his boat for the night.
At intervals the firing was resumed, but the object which drew the
fire could not be made out from the ship. Lieutenant Commander
Porter and Ensign Schanze, with four bluejackets, left the ship for
the Arsenal offices to arrange for the safety of the coxswain. On
approaching within about fifteen feet of the door in the centre of the
north wing, firing was opened, apparently at the _Corsair_ party, from
the same place, the bullets hitting the walls and pavement near them.
The party entered the building without casualty.
Intermittent firing continued after this. After waiting a reasonable
time for the return or for news of the first party, a second party led
by Lieutenant McGuire left the ship, carrying a flag. The searchlight
from the ship was used to illuminate the flag. This party was not
molested and returned with the first party and the coxswain. It
developed that the firing came from the windows of the Colonial Office
and was directed at Portuguese bluejackets passing across the open
space from the shore end of the wharf to the main entrance.
About 11 P.M. a military aide of the President called on board and
presented the compliments of that official with the usual courtesies,
and inquired as to casualties, if any, in our force. He was informed
of what had taken place and that no damage was done. A report of the
riot was made to the American Consul-General, Mr. W. L. Lowrie, whose
reply is herewith attached:
_From American Consul-General, Lisbon,_
_To Commanding Officer, U.S.S. Corsair._
_I have to acknowledge the receipt of your memo. of January 5th
concerning the firing in the Arsenal Compound during the evening of
January 4th. Personal representations have been made and I trust
there will be no recurrence of the rioting, although as you are fully
aware conditions here just now are most unsettled. I am extremely
thankful that no one was hurt during the rioting and that no damage
was done._
Beginning January 3rd it was noticed that conditions in Lisbon were
unsettled politically. On that night some rifle-firing took place
in the streets between Portuguese sailors and soldiers on patrol
duty. Shots were exchanged nightly up to January 8th when the
counter-revolution took place. The situation briefly is this:
The Portuguese Navy has been the controlling factor in the politics of
the country. The Army has been the opponent, but has been negligible
because of its ineffectiveness. The Navy deposed the King in 1910 and
set up a Republic which has been perpetuated until the present time,
the last incumbent being President Machado. When Portugal entered the
war, the Army was largely increased and equipped, and forces were sent
to the Western Front and to the Portuguese African colonies. Army
preparations continued in Portugal and there is a large mobilization
at present.
On December 5, 1917, the Army started a revolution and succeeded in
overthrowing the Government two days later, the President being exiled
on that date. As a precautionary measure, the naval forces present at
Lisbon were disarmed. In spite of this, the Navy prepared plans for a
counter-revolution. The present Provisional Government took steps to
send the majority of the sailors to the Portuguese African colonies
because of the serious reverses suffered by their troops in Africa
while fighting the Germans.
The Navy took steps to defeat this manœuvre and on January 8, 1918,
the _Vasco da Gama_ (flagship) anchored off Lisbon. At 10.45 A.M. a
battery of three field pieces at Saint George’s Castle in the middle
of the city, opened fire on the _Vasco da Gama_. The flagship fired
five shots in return and hoisted a red flag under the ensign. The
shots of the shore battery were dispersed, but some seemed to strike
the ship. Shrapnel and projectile were fired. At 11.10 A.M. the
_Vasco da Gama_ hauled down her flag and hoisted a white flag at the
foremast and abandoned ship. A number of shots were then fired at the
destroyers _Douro_ and _Guardiana_, which also struck their colors
and hoisted white flags. The cruiser _Almirante Reis_, a transport,
and several gunboats did likewise. At 11.20 A.M. firing ceased at the
shore battery. Rifle fire continued in the city streets. The Arsenal
plant closed down at the beginning of the firing and the workmen
employed on board the _Corsair_ stopped about 11 A.M. No further work
was done by the Arsenal force that day.
On January 9th (the next day) the Arsenal resumed operations as usual,
and I was informed that the trouble was over and work would continue
as before. The _Vasco da Gama_, with the _Guardiana_ and _Douro_,
stood down the river on January 11th, apparently undamaged.
The crew of the _Corsair_ felt a personal interest in the Provisional
President, Sidonio Paes, as some of them had sat at the table next to
him in the dining-room of the hotel and one or two of the officers had
met him at the theatre. One of the street spectacles was a huge parade
in honor of Sidonio Paes, and a bluejacket described it as “tremendous
enthusiasm, everybody yelling to beat the band and waving their hats,
and the Portuguese thought it was great, but it wasn’t as good a show
as when the Seventy-First Regiment came back from the Mexican Border
and marched up Fifth Avenue.”
What the _Corsair_ considered the big moment of the long stay in Lisbon
was when the landing party marched off the yacht to rescue the two
officers and the four men who had gone ashore to look for the coxswain
and find out what the row was all about. The ship’s searchlight was
turned and held to illuminate the bright folds of the Stars and Stripes
while the gun crews stood ready for action, every sight-setter,
plugman, and shell-handler taut upon his toes and blithely confident
that the _Corsair_ could knock the adjacent buildings into a cocked hat.
It was discovered that the first party had been mistaken for Portuguese
sailors and fired at from a window only fifty feet distant. The bullets
spattered the doorway into which they turned, and they proceeded
upstairs to hold emphatic discourse with an excited Portuguese
naval officer and the chief of the radio service who were earnestly
telephoning to ascertain what the ruction was and who had started it.
Coxswain Lindeburg had the largest grievance, however, for he had been
almost potted while securing his motor-boat at the wharf, and it was
solemnly affirmed that he was combing the bullets out of his hair after
being escorted aboard by the comrades who had sallied forth to find him.
It seems extraordinary that in this affair at Lisbon the _Corsair_
should have seen more actual fighting, with rifle and shell fire, than
during her many months of active service with the American naval forces
in the Great War. And even when the fleets in European waters, under
the general direction of Admiral Sims, had increased to four hundred
ships and seventy thousand men, none of them saw as much action as
this almost bloodless little outbreak in Portugal, as action had been
regarded in the days before the German doctrines of submarine warfare.
It goes to show how new and vastly different were the problems which
had to be solved by the Allied navies.
This does not mean that American ships and sailors went clear of
danger and disaster, but almost never was the chance offered to fight
the hidden foe. The fine destroyer, _Jacob Jones_, of the Queenstown
flotilla, was blown to pieces by a torpedo and sixty-four officers and
men died with her. The Coast Guard vessel _Tampa_ was blown up and
vanished with all hands, a crew of more than a hundred. Many a time the
naval guard of a merchant steamer stood by their guns and were drowned
when the ship went down. These, and the yacht _Alcedo_, and all the
other brave ships which are listed upon the American Navy’s roll of
honor, were worthy of the spirit and the traditions of John Paul Jones,
although to them was denied the privilege of signalling the enemy, “We
have not begun to fight.”
[Illustration: THE CHEERY FRENCH PILOT, LIEUT. MEJECK]
[Illustration: CHIEF QUARTERMASTER BENTON]
The badly damaged _Corsair_ required a long and costly overhauling
to make her ready and fit for service, and this work was undertaken,
and well done, by the organization of the Portuguese naval docks and
arsenal. With a most admirable spirit of friendship and coöperation
between two allies in the struggle against a mutual enemy, the
Government of Portugal refused to accept any payment whatever, although
every effort was made to obtain a bill for services rendered. Commander
Kittinger explains this handsome incident in the following report:
The U.S.S. _Corsair_ arrived at Lisbon, Portugal, on December 19,
1917, in need of repairs to make her seaworthy. The matter was
taken up with the Portuguese naval authorities by the American
Consul-General and the Commanding Officer. An engineer and a naval
constructor were immediately sent off to the ship from the Naval
Arsenal to estimate and report. The same day the Director of the
Arsenal stated that he could and would do the work, and that the ship
would be berthed at the Arsenal on the following day.
As promised, the Arsenal workmen came on board and started the work,
and in the afternoon the ship was moored to the Arsenal dock. An
estimate of time and cost was requested. The time was estimated at
from one month to six weeks, but the cost estimate could not be given.
It was suggested that the cost be made actual for labor and material,
plus a reasonable overhead. To this the Director replied that the
Minister of Marine had ordered the work done free of charge to the
U.S. Government, stating that repairs had been done to British and
French Government vessels gratis.
The work proceeded rapidly and efficiently. I made periodical calls
at the office of the Chief Engineer and Naval Constructor to obtain
a cost estimate. This was promised for my information, but never
received. Finally I was told that if the Consul-General would write
a letter on the subject to the Minister of Marine, the estimate would
be given and a basis of payment arranged, but that the money would be
turned over to the Red Cross.
The reply to the Consul-General’s letter is herewith attached,
the substance of which is a refusal on the part of the Portuguese
Government to accept payment.
I requested the Consul-General to keep at the business of trying to
obtain a basis of settlement. Later on, I was informed through the
Consulate that the Provisional President, to whom the Minister of
Marine had referred the matter, had decided to accept payment. This
was the status of the question until January 25th, the day before the
_Corsair’s_ departure, when the Commanding Officer, accompanied by the
Consul-General, made leave-taking calls upon the Arsenal officials.
The Director of the Arsenal at this time stated that he had orders
from the President to render no bill to the U.S. Government. As our
Government had not recognized the officials in power in Portugal
during this time, the American Minister could take no action.
The cost of repairs to the U.S.S. _Corsair_ by the Portuguese
Government during the period from December 20th to January 25th is a
gift to the U.S. Government.
A translation of the letter in which the naval authorities of Lisbon,
with the most courteous obstinacy, decline to permit the _Corsair_ to
pay for the valuable services received, reads as follows:
_Office of the Minister of Marine
Administration of Repairs and
Equipment, Naval Arsenal_
I have the honor to accept the receipt of your communication dated the
second instant and to transcribe the decree of the fourth instant by
His Excellency, the Minister of Marine, concerning the matter, viz:
_The Minister of Marine, appreciating the spirit of the note,
No. 830, and taking into consideration the fact that the damages
were suffered in the service of the Allied Cause which we jointly
defend, and desiring to have the approval of His Excellency, the
Consul-General, and therefore of the Government which he represents,
has decided that payment cannot be accepted for the repairs made._
_It is our pleasure and privilege to give all that is within our
power, and we pledge our word to coöperate with our most earnest
efforts for the cause of humanity and justice._
(_Signed_) PELO, _Director_
_To His Excellency_ “_To our Welfare and Fraternity_”
_The Consul-General of the
United States of America_
CHAPTER IX
UNCLE SAM’S BRIDGE OF SHIPS
When the _Corsair_ again meets a blow,
The crew they will surely all know,
Tho’ the distance be great,
They’ll work early and late
To make the good port of Lisboa.
It’s hither and thither and there,
But divil a bit do we scare,
For the captain and crew
Will see the thing through
In the dear little gray _Corsair_.
THE FO’CASTLE GLEE CLUB
Ready again to tussle with the wintry seas offshore, the _Corsair_
sailed from Lisbon on January 26, 1918, and returned to her base at
Brest at the usual cruising speed of fourteen knots. There were many
pleasant memories of the smiling, gracious city on the Tagus, and a few
broken hearts which were soon mended among the Yankee mariners who had
sterner business and were anxious to get on with the war. They found a
greatly increased activity at Brest, where the largest transports were
pouring the troops ashore in swelling volume and thousands of negro
stevedores emptied the holds of supplies which overflowed the wharves
and the warehouses. The bold prediction of an American bridge of ships
across the Atlantic was rapidly becoming a reality and the German
confidence in ruthless submarine warfare was an empty boast, thanks to
the skill and courage of the Allied naval forces.
In one of the American yachts, as a seaman, was Joseph Husband, a
trained writer who portrayed the swift expansion of activity in such
words as these:[4]
The flag has come into its own again. In the bright sunshine almost
a hundred ships swing slowly at their anchor chains, a vast floating
island of steel hulls, forested with slim, sparless masts and faintly
smoking stacks. Our anchor is lifted and the chain rumbles up through
the hawse-pipe. Slowly we steam past a wide mile of vessels to our
position.
Here are the flags of the nations of the world, but by far the most
numerous are the Stars and Stripes. The red flag of the English
merchantman is much in evidence, and so are the crosses of Denmark,
Sweden, and Norway, and the Tri-Color of France. From a big freighter
flies the single star of Cuba. The red sun of Japan and the green
and yellow ensign of Brazil snap smartly in the breeze. A few of the
freighters are painted a leaden gray, but for the most part they are
gay with camouflage. The spattered effects of the earlier days are now
replaced by broad bands of flat colors. Black, white, blue, and gray
are the favorites, slanting to the bow or stern and carried across
life-rafts, boats, superstructures, and funnels. Some appear to be
sinking by the head, others at a distance seem to be several vessels.
It is a fancy dress carnival, a kaleidoscope of color. One and all
they are of heavy and ugly lines. On forward and after decks the masts
seem designed only to lift the cargo booms and spread the wireless.
The oil-burners are even more unshiplike, for a single small funnel is
substituted for the balanced stacks of coal-burning steamers.
Fore and aft on the gun-decks the long tubes of the guns point out
over bow and stern. Yankee gun crews, baggy blue trousers slapping in
the breeze, stand beside them and watch us pass. Blue-clad officers
peer down at us from the bridges. Aloft, hoists of gay signal flags,
red, yellow, white, and blue, flutter like confetti in the air. From
signal bridges bluejackets are sending semaphore signals with red and
yellow flags. A big American ocean-going tug churns through the fleet.
On our right is a French mine-layer, long rows of mines along her
deck. Fast motor-boats slide in and out among the vessels. Above, like
dragonflies, three seaplanes soar.
The outward-bound convoy of empty freighters is ready. Bursts of steam
from bows indicate that anchor engines are lifting the big mud-hooks
from the harbor’s floor. One by one the ships steam slowly out of
port; converted yachts and small French destroyers on either side. Out
where the entrance broadens to the open sea, a big kite balloon tugs
at the small steamer far beneath it and seems to drag it by a slender
cord of steel.
[Illustration: THE HOME OF THE AMERICAN NAVAL OFFICERS’ CLUB IN BREST]
Instead of a few American naval officers ashore in Brest, there were
scores of them from transports, supply ships, and the escort divisions.
Their social headquarters, which had become almost indispensable, was
the spacious building of the American Naval Officers’ Club on the
Place du Château, conveniently near the water-front. The club had been
organized in September, 1917, by a group of naval officers among
whom Lieutenant Robert E. Tod, of the _Corsair_, was the most active
in promoting its interests and making it successful. Captain Fletcher,
later a rear admiral, was the first president and was succeeded by
Admiral Wilson when he arrived in November. Lieutenant Milton Andrews
served as secretary, and a board of directors administered the affairs
of the club whose membership was strictly naval.
The comfortable French mansion was well furnished and equipped, with
a restaurant, reading-room, billiard-room, and bedrooms, and during
1918 there were more than six hundred members who enjoyed this haven
when they came in weary of the sea. The name was changed to the Naval
Officers’ Mess, as more appropriate. The club-house had been purchased
by Lieutenant Tod personally, in order to facilitate matters, and
when the war was over and the naval fleet was homeward bound, he
presented the building to the French Government as a permanent club for
the officers of the Allied naval services. All members of the Naval
Officers’ Mess were to retain their connection in this new organization
which is called “The Cercle Naval.”
Here the officers of the _Corsair_ foregathered when they returned from
Lisbon, to catch up with the gossip of their trade. They found the
club filled with new members and visitors, the Regular Navy enjoying
reunions and swapping yarns of bygone cruises on the China station or
in the Mediterranean, or of service in the Spanish War when these
sedate captains and rear admirals had been flighty youngsters or
consequential two-stripers. The captain of a huge transport fetching
in ten thousand doughboys sat in a corner with the skipper of a little
“fish boat” from Gloucester which was trawling for German mines in the
channels of the Gironde or the Loire. The officers of the Reserve Force
met college chums or formed new friendships and compared notes on the
ways and means of scuppering Fritz.
Admiral Wilson had perceived that with more escort vessels at his
command and an increasing force promised, he could gain efficiency by
distributing his ships at several bases along the French coast, from
Brest to Bordeaux, under district commanders. This would enable him to
give better protection and to move the convoys more rapidly as they
went in and out of the other ports of American entry. In accordance
with this plan, the _Corsair_ was detached from the Brest force and
ordered to make her headquarters on the river Gironde below Bordeaux.
The area was in the patrol district of Rochefort which was in charge of
Captain Newton A. McCully, U.S.N., who was later made a rear admiral.
The _Corsair_ found it highly satisfactory to operate under this
capable and energetic officer who made two cruises in the yacht, in
March, when she went out to meet laden troop convoys and escorted them
in to France. The coöperating French naval force was directed from
the station ship _Marthe Solange_ which was anchored at Verdon on the
Gironde.
After coaling ship at Brest, the _Corsair_ started for her new base
on January 31st, escorting several supply ships which were bound for
Bordeaux and loaded with aeroplane equipment and munitions. How rumor
flew about and was eagerly, solemnly discussed is indicated in these
bits from a sailor’s diary:
_January 31st._ Hauled out of Brest with our convoy at three in the
morning, proceeding at nine knots. At Quiberon we picked up the rest
of them and headed for Bordeaux, the destroyers _Warrington_ and
_Monaghan_ with us. I understand that we are not to go all the way up
to Bordeaux, but will base at our own Navy aviation camp some thirty
miles down the river. Hear they will work us to death. Hope we will
have a chance to run up and see the city.
_February 1st._ Steamed up the river and stopped at aviation camp at
Pauillac. Incidentally there are a thousand sailors here and not one
flying machine. About five hundred Austrian prisoners and six hundred
Germans are helping build the camp. Got Bordeaux liberty and arrived
there after dark. The city is under military law and there are all
sorts of fussy Army rules and regulations. We went to fourteen hotels
before we found a place to sleep. We couldn’t see the town, as it was
in darkness. Everybody has to be off the streets at 10.30 P.M. The
only criticism I have to make of the town is that there are altogether
too many soldiers in it.
_February 4th._ Got another liberty to-day. Heard some big news. The
_America_, on her way over here and loaded with troops, was torpedoed.
She was not seriously damaged and by dropping depth mines brought the
German submarine to the surface. The officers and crew were captured
alive and have been carried into Brest, along with the submarine.
Also, a few days ago a U-boat came up and surrendered to the _Dixie_,
the crew having killed the captain. The submarine was absolutely out
of provisions and supplies and the men were in bad shape. This is a
fine omen. (_Note:—I later discovered that these stories are untrue._)
_February 6th._ More big news. A German submarine came into Brest
harbor flying a white flag, and surrendered. We have her at a mooring
buoy all intact and fit for sea. They had run out of fuel oil and grub
and were fed up with the service. There wasn’t a chance of getting
back to Germany with the boat, so she sensibly gave herself up. I hope
they are all in the same rotten bad shape. (_Note:—This story of the
submarine surrendering at Brest is found to be all bunk._)
The yachts _Wakiva_ and _May_ now joined the _Corsair_ for escort duty
and the _Aphrodite_ and _Nokomis_ were added to the division force a
little later. In addition to the orders received from the American
commander of the naval district, the most explicit instructions came
from the French senior officer of the “Division des Patrouille de
Gascogne.” With the courtesy to be expected of him, he sent also a
translation in order to save trouble for his comrades of the American
Navy. At times the English phrasing had a Gallic twist, not enough to
perplex the _Corsair_ whose officers had become adepts at the French
nautical lingo, but the effect was a trifle confusing to the eye of a
layman, as for instance:
Signals between convoy and escort are to be done by the besides code.
Do signals only if necessary. The last ship in each line don’t show
any stern lights be ready to show navigation lights if necessary.
Zigzags are to be done according to the orders of the escort’s do (see
diagramms besides). All the ships show the flag K. Manœuvring is to
be executed only when the K is getting down all the ships do K, is to
be taken like the origin of the diagramm, which is to be sailed by
the beginning. Manœuvre when the signal gets down or when the least
stations according to the regular numerotage.
By fog, and on order of the escort if necessary by WT, each column
will steer like a special line each behind the escort ships on the
same side. The right line will then steer ten degrees right hand and
the left line five degrees left hand from the primitive curse of the
convoy.
Escort and convoy ships are ordered not to bring anything overboard.
Burn all you can and if impossible to burn, bring overboard rubbish
altogether at once in the beginning of night. All the rubbish spread
over the sea are precious indice for the submarine to know the curse
of the convoy.
During the rest of the winter and through the spring of 1918, the
_Corsair_ was with the convoys and continued to base in the Gironde.
The work seemed humdrum and monotonous to the crews, who pined for
excitement and encounters, but this very fact was proof that the
Navy was achieving the result expected of it, which was to keep the
road open to France. Submarines ran amuck now and then and strafed a
coastwise convoy of slow ships or sank an empty transport homeward
bound, but never for a moment was the prodigious movement of troops and
material interfered with or delayed. Grouping the steamers together and
screening them with escort vessels, as far as possible, had baffled the
high hopes of Von Tirpitz and his murderous gang.
The captains of these ships which moved deep-laden through the war
zone were learning the tricks of the trade and intelligently adapting
themselves to the exactions of the convoy system. Admiral Sims said of
them:
The advantages of the convoy were so apparent to me that, despite the
pessimistic attitude of the merchant captains, there were a number
of officers in the British navy who kept insisting that it should be
tried. In the discussion I took my stand emphatically on the side of
this school. From the beginning I had believed in this method for
combating the U-boat warfare. Certain early experiences had led me to
believe that the merchant captains were wrong in underestimating the
quality of their own seamanship. These intelligent and hardy men did
not know what splendid ship handlers they were. In my discussions with
them they had disclosed an exaggerated idea of the seamanly ability of
naval officers in manœuvring their large fleets. They attributed this
to the superior training of the men and the special qualities of the
ships. “Naval vessels are built so they can keep station and turn at
any angle at a moment’s notice,” they would say, “but we have no
men in our ships who can do such things.” They particularly rejected
the idea that when in formation they could manœuvre their ships in fog
or at night without lights. They believed they would lose more ships
through collision than the submarines could sink.
[Illustration: AMERICAN YACHTS CLUSTERED INSIDE THE BREAKWATER, BREST]
As a matter of fact, these men were entirely wrong and I knew it.
Their practical experience in handling ships of all sizes, shapes, and
speeds under a great variety of conditions is in reality much more
extensive than naval officers could possibly enjoy. I was sure that
they could quickly pick up steaming and turning in formation under the
direction of naval officers, the convoy commander being always a naval
officer. Indeed, one of my experienced destroyer commanders reported
afterwards that while he was escorting a convoy of twenty-eight ships
of different sizes, shapes, speeds, nationalities, and manœuvring
qualities, they kept their stations quite as well as battleships. This
ability was displayed when the convoy executed two fleet evolutions in
order to avoid a submarine.
This well-earned tribute to the master mariners who risked their lives
and their ships, voyage after voyage, finds confirmation in the records
of the _Corsair_. During the first cruise of February one finds such
entries as these:
At 11.45 P.M. ran into a thick fog. During the mid watch (February
11th) the _Munindies_ increased speed and came up close under the
stern of the _Corsair_. Later on she passed and at 6 A.M. was about
700 yards on port bow of _Corsair_. At daylight the fog lifted and all
ships were in sight but somewhat scattered. Convoy reformed in good
order and began to zigzag.
On the night of February 12th, about 1.50 A.M., sighted two boats on
the port quarter, distance 1000 yards. Boats made signals with rockets
and flash lamps. About this time the escort vessel _Wakiva_ opened
fire, the shells falling about 600 yards astern of the _Corsair_.
Signalled to _Wakiva_ that she was firing at survivors and ordered her
to pick them up. The convoy stampeded, assuming a submarine attack,
and was reformed in good order about 3 A.M.
Running through fog and darkness, again startled by the sound of guns,
the steamers of this convoy “reformed in good order” and steadily,
pluckily held on their blindfolded course. Only a sailor could realize
the immense difficulties of the job and how well it was carried on by
the plodding merchantmen who won no glory. The convoys were growing
larger and more complex to handle as the success of the system was
demonstrated. Where the _Corsair_ had escorted two or three steamers in
a group, fifteen or twenty were now sent out together. Her next tour
of sea duty in February was a fair sample of the work which was to
continue through many wearisome weeks, with little more diversion than
a variety of uncomfortable weather.
In obedience to radio orders [runs the report] the U.S.S. _Corsair_
anchored at Verdon 11.45 P.M., February 16th. Upon arrival found the
U.S.S. _Aphrodite_, U.S.S. _May_, and French sloop _Regulus_ for the
same duty. On the morning of February 17th was informed that the
convoy would be delayed one day on account of the non-arrival of some
of the ships. At 3 P.M. commanding officers of convoy and escort
present reported aboard the French station ship _Marthe Solange_
for orders and conference with the commanding officer of the Sixth
Patrol Squadron of the French Navy. The additional escort, the French
destroyer _Aventurier_, arrived during the conference. Orders and
information sheets were given to all concerned and explained or
discussed with the convoy captains. It was decided to show no stern
lights.
On February 18th the _Aphrodite_ got under way, followed by convoy
vessels Numbers 1 to 6 inclusive, in column. The _Regulus_ preceded
the _Aphrodite_ as pilot vessel. At 7.30 A.M. the _Corsair_ got under
way, followed by convoy vessels Numbers 9-10-11-12 in column, and
when clear the _May_ followed with convoy vessels Numbers 13-14-15.
Number 16, the American steamer _Camaguey_, did not arrive to join
the convoy. When the _Aphrodite_ cleared the net she proceeded at six
knots and convoy formed in double columns—ships 1-2-3-4—_May_—13-14-15
in left column, and ships 5-6-7-8—_Corsair_—9-10-11-12 in right
column. After passing the last buoy of Matelier Channel, convoy formed
in four columns and took up speed eight knots. _Aphrodite_ (chief
of escort) patrolled ahead; _Corsair_ and _Aventurier_ on starboard
flank; _May_ and _Regulus_ on port flank. A motor patrol boat escorted
until about 3 P.M. and then turned back. The sortie was preceded by
French aeroplanes.
Zigzagged until dark, then convoy steered base course. Fine weather,
heavy swell running from NW which did not retard the eight knot ships.
_February 19th_, convoy zigzagged during daylight. Good weather for
convoy operations.
_February 20th_, steamed with convoy until 10 A.M., then dispersed
as per orders. The _Aphrodite_, _Corsair_, and _May_ returned to
Pauillac for coal and the French escort shaped course for Brest.
In the search for incident during this long period of hard work and
few thrills, one must have recourse to the letters and diaries of the
_Corsair’s_ crew and pick out bits here and there. These hardy young
salts were playing the game in a fashion something like this:
On a run one night in March (to La Pallice) after leaving a Verdon
convoy, the _Corsair_ and _Aphrodite_ ran into a pretty stiff blow.
We were doing about fourteen knots or better with the wind and sea a
little on the port bow. A good-sized sea slapped into the port side
forward, by the petty officers’ quarters, smashing in one of the
deadlights of that compartment. The crash was tremendous. Everybody
asleep down there woke up with visions of the ship torpedoed, and out
of the hatch they boiled on the jump, mostly arrayed in the costume
which Nature provides for sailors. All were dazed and excited. One
of them no sooner hit the deck than a wave lifted our bow and he
skidded aft, nearly half the length of the ship, on the seat of his
trousers or where his trousers should have been. It was fortunate
for that sailor that our executive officer kept the decks smooth and
well-cared-for. The outfit couldn’t see the humor of the situation,
being soaking wet and unable to dope out what had happened.
_March 4th._ The ship was a mad-house to-day. They told us there would
be admiral’s inspection and we had to turn to on everything from the
bilges to the crow’s-nest. Every stitch of clothing in our boxes had
to be stowed somewhere. I was never so bored in my life. We sat around
from noon to four o’clock waiting for the blinkin’ admiral, but, of
course, he never showed up. These admiral’s inspections always give me
a pain in the eye. We have made ready several times and it’s always a
false alarm.
_March 10th._ The _Aphrodite_ spotted a floating German mine and
opened fire on it. She fired thirty-five shots and never hit it. We
turned around and sunk it on the third shot. It did not explode, but
filled with water and went down after a hole was put through it.
_April 4th._ Picked up our convoy consisting of the troop-ships
_Powhatan_, _Martha Washington_, and _El Occidente_, all packed
with Yankee soldiers. There are six destroyers with the escort,
including the _Caldwell_, one of the new flush-deckers. At 1 P.M. the
_Occidente_ sighted a periscope. We at once started submarine tactics,
screening the convoy while the _Winslow_ and _Sampson_ went back to
look for the sub. They dropped eighteen depth charges. Fritz must have
been shaken up some. He did not get a chance to shoot a torpedo, for
the destroyers were too alert.
_April 5th._ Captain Porter left the ship, going back to America on
leave. The rumor is that he will not return to this ship. It would
certainly be a big loss to us, as he is one fine seaman and navigator
as well as a splendid character of a man. We gave him three cheers
when he shoved off, and it seemed to touch him considerably. He stood
at salute in the boat until out of sight.
_April 6th._ This is the first anniversary of our entry into the war.
In consequence, all the American vessels had to dress ship. We coaled
all day and will finish to-morrow. In again, out again, coal again,
Finnegan! The _Martha Washington_ discharged her troops. They were
cavalry and nigger infantry. They were held up for several hours and
the darkies had us rocking all the time. They claimed they saw four
submarines sunk the other day after being attacked by eleven or nine.
_April 9th._ I got in trouble to-day. In the storm last night an
American ship came in and anchored four miles off. I was on signal
watch and read her flag hoist as LDBC, the _Rangely_, and reported her
as such. Discovered to-day that she was the LDQC or _Graster Hall_.
I caught all the blame. The _Q_ they had up was so terribly dirty
that in the distance and bad light it could not be taken for anything
else than a _B_. There was no alibi for me, however, and I don’t know
whether the bawling out I got will be all of it or not. It was my
mistake, an unavoidable one, but in war-time that makes no difference
in this man’s navy.
_May 10th._ Captain Kittinger is to be transferred to command a big
transport and Commander Porter is coming back to take this ship. I
shall be glad to see Captain Porter, but we are mighty sorry to see
Skipper “Bill” Kittinger go. The _Wakiva_ dropped over one of the new
300-pound depth bombs and pretty near blew herself up. She busted
several things in her engine-room.
_May 22nd._ Just as we came off watch at 4 A.M. in a dense fog we got
an S.O.S. from our old friend, the _Wakiva_. She was rammed and sunk
by the _Wabash_ of her convoy. She went down rather deliberately and
only two men were lost. We are sorry to cross her off the list, as
she was a willing worker, although slow. At 8 P.M. we met the largest
convoy of troop-ships that has come overseas. The first group of
fourteen ships carried forty-five thousand soldiers, to say nothing
of the naval crews aboard, and there were twelve destroyers in the
escort. The second group of nine ships had twenty-five thousand
troops. It was a great sight. They will be landed at Brest.
[Illustration: THE FAITHFUL WAKIVA, WHICH WAS SUNK IN COLLISION]
[Illustration: BIG TRANSPORTS IN BREST HARBOR]
_May 24th._ Hooray! We have thirty-five German prisoners to shovel
the coal from the lighters into the buckets. And, by gosh, these
square-heads went on strike and the kindly French let ’em get away
with it. If any prisoners went on strike in Germany it’s a cinch
they’d be shot full of holes. They don’t treat ’em rough enough in
France.
After looking over several of these _Corsair_ diaries, Commander
Kittinger had this shrewd and good-humored comment to offer:
The impressions which these youngsters jotted down were amusing and
often inaccurate, but they caught the spirit of the service and the
day’s work. When one of them felt aggrieved because he was “bawled
out,” he never stopped to take an inventory of his professional
qualifications and the duties thrust upon him as well as upon other
untrained and unseasoned lads. Nor did he always realize that he was
allowed to perform functions whereby he had the safety of a hundred
and twenty-five lives and a million dollars worth of irreplaceable
property between his two hands. There was no time to learn by
experience and every “bawling out” was, I hope, driving an important
fact home. Where else could one of these boys have learned such
valuable lessons and be on a pay-roll at the same time? Of course they
could not understand such methods, but the system soon separated the
sheep from the goats—the latter remaining at the business end of a
deck swab. Many times the skipper was not as angry as he appeared. The
first lesson was to say “Aye, Aye, Sir,” when told something important
instead of trying to explain. When a young man explains, he is not
listening to the order, but thinking up a reply.
To the _Corsair’s_ company the most interesting happenings during
the long period of convoy duty were the changes and promotions which
shifted many of the family to other ships and stations and brought
new faces aboard. Commander Kittinger had been advanced a grade on
the Regular Navy list since joining the _Corsair_ and was in line for
transfer to a larger ship. He was given the stately armed transport
_Princess Matoika_, formerly the _Princess Alice_ of the North German
Lloyd, and thereafter carried many thousand American troops in safety
to France. In this ship the roster of officers was more imposing than
in the yacht which served so faithfully, for Commander Kittinger now
gave orders to two lieutenant commanders, eleven lieutenants, and
twenty ensigns. Toward the _Corsair_ he felt affection and loyalty and
was glad that his war record had included a year with her, crossing
with the first American troops and battering about in the Bay of
Biscay. Drilled in the exacting school of the regular service, he had
only praise for the spirit, intelligence, and devotion of the Reserves,
officers and men, who had fitted themselves to circumstances and played
the game to the hilt.
After the war Commander Kittinger was sent to the Fore River Ship
Building Company as Naval Inspector of Ordnance. While there he
received the following letter:
_July_ 23, 1919
From: Director of Naval Intelligence,
To: Chief of the Bureau of Navigation:
Subject: Award of the Legion of Honor.
The Bureau is informed that by a decree of the President of the French
Republic the award of Member of the Legion of Honor with the rank of
Chevalier has been made to Commander Theodore A. Kittinger, U.S.N.,
with the following citation:
_Commander Kittinger, in command of the yacht Corsair, escorted the
O.V.H.N. convoys, etc._
It is requested that a copy of this letter be filed with this
officer’s record.
Lieutenant Commander Porter became the commander of the _Corsair_ on
May 31st, and held the position until the yacht returned home one year
later. It gratified him, of course, to have his own ship, and in the
opinion of his officers and crew the honor was well deserved. It was
a distinction also, and without precedent in a combatant ship, for
a Reserve officer to be given a vessel of the size and class of the
_Corsair_. He was later advanced to the naval rank of commander and
finished his service as a three-striper.
Lieutenant Commander Tod was detached to join the organization of
Admiral Wilson at Brest as Port Officer and was afterwards appointed
Director of Public Works. Both positions were important and involved
varied and arduous responsibilities. He was later promoted to the rank
of Commander. At a dinner given by the American naval officers of the
club in Brest, this rousing song of the Breton Patrol was rolled out
with a vigor that rattled the windows:
1. Oh we sing of a squadron patrolling the coast
From Cre-Ach to old Saint-Nazaire.
On the job for a year, we still say with a cheer,
_Nous resterons pendant la guerre_.
_Chorus_:
Though the bar’s _consigné_ and we’ve clumbed up to stay
At the very tip-top of the pole,
Still our drinks, short or tall, will be “WILSON, that’s all,”
The Chief of the Breton Patrol.
2. It’s a squadron that’s doing its best over here
Towards keeping command of the seas;
For by day or by night, standing by for a fight,
It’s the Breton Patrol of H. B.[5]
3. To the Point of Penmarch it is not very far;
Some forty-five miles of blue sea,—
That’s where some day poor Fritz will be blown into bits
By the Breton Patrol of H. B.
4. If we sail on request of the C.D.P. Brest,
With a convoy that’s bound for its goal;
If it’s rain, hail, or snow, the convoy must go,
That’s the job of the Breton Patrol.
5. If a depth charge turns over and falls in the sea,
And next moment your stern is no more,
There’s just one thing to do,—_Prenez vite le you-you_,
And pull for the Brittany shore.
[Illustration: CHIEF QUARTERMASTER FARR STANDS WITH FOLDED ARMS AND
INDICATES THAT HE HAS HIS SEA-LEGS WITH HIM]
[Illustration: COMMANDER KITTINGER SAYS GOOD-BYE TO LIEUTENANT
COMMANDER PORTER AS THE LATTER TAKES OVER THE COMMAND]
6. If the ship is _trop fort_, and you need a _corps-mort_,
Just to keep her quite safe in the bay,
You have only to go to brave Captain Loiseaux,
_Il nous faut le chameau, s’il vous plaît_.
7. When they’re coming too strong, and you find you’re in wrong,
In trouble at sea or on land,
There’s just one man to see and his name’s F. T. E.,[6]
To clear out the gear box of sand.
8. There’s a gallant French sailor who’s with us to-night,
He’s bound for a trip ’cross the sea;
So here’s _Merci beaucoup, bon voyage_, Admiral Grout,
From the Breton Patrol of H. B.
9. There are brave men in plenty and well known to all,
Who have come over here for the war,
But the best known of all is the one that we call
Old Robert E. Tod—Commodore.
10. If you want a good man, just to unload a van,
Or to anchor a ship in the _Rade_,
Or to work night and day, you have only to say,
“Where in hell is old Robert E. Tod?”
Lieutenant McGuire was made executive officer of the _Corsair_ when
Captain Porter took over the command. In time of peace Lieutenant
McGuire had been first officer of the yacht, so he was really stepping
into his old berth. Ensign Schanze, the efficient gunnery officer, had
been commissioned a lieutenant in December. In May he was transferred
from the _Corsair_ to the staff of Rear Admiral McCully, the District
Commander at Rochefort. For some time he acted as liaison officer on
board of the French station ship _Marthe Solange_, and his scientific
training was later employed in experimenting with and testing listening
devices for detecting enemy submarines.
Ensign Gray, the communications officer who had helped to make the
radio service of the _Corsair_ notable throughout the fleet, was
anxious to have a whirl at the destroyer game, like any proper-minded
young Navy man, and on May 28th he was transferred to the _Monaghan_ of
the Brest flotilla. Assistant Surgeon Laub was sent to the _Moccasin_
in April and Assistant Surgeon R. H. Hunt exchanged billets with
him for a short time, shifting from the _Corsair_ to the destroyer
_Nicholson_. Chief Engineer Hutchison stood by the ship until
September, although his health was poor and he had been compelled to
seek hospital treatment ashore. After leave at home he regained his
strength and sailed in the big transport _Agamemnon_. His position in
the _Corsair_ was filled by Lieutenant J. J. Patterson as engineer
officer. Assistant Engineer Mason received an appointment as ensign
in May and went ashore for staff duty at Bordeaux in the autumn. His
partner in the engine-room, Assistant Engineer Hawthorn, left the
_Corsair_ in June and was assigned to the naval auxiliary service as
a senior engineer officer. Boatswain Budani, who had polished off the
aspiring bluejackets and taught them to be regular, sea-going gobs, was
summoned to the Naval Aviation Headquarters at Paris and later sent to
Italy.
At the ward-room table were new officers to be welcomed into the briny
brotherhood of the _Corsair_, Ensign A. H. Acorn, Jr., Lieutenant
Gerald Nolan, Ensign J. W. McCoy, Ensign P. F. Wangerin, Ensign C. R.
Smith, Ensign S. K. Hall, Ensign R. V. Dolan, several of whom were
promoted to be lieutenants, junior grade. After the armistice and while
the _Corsair_ was in the North Sea and at Queenstown, there were other
changes which will be noted later.
Through the winter and spring the task of studying for commissions
which had bred so many headaches in the bunk-rooms below was getting
on famously. There were gloomy moments when, as has been said, one
candidate felt sure that the captain would recommend him for nothing
else than a firing squad, or another had believed that a “bawling out”
had utterly wrecked his prospects, but such dark forebodings were
mostly unfounded. Examining boards of officers were duly convened, or
recommendations made for the intensive course at Annapolis, and the
_Corsair_ was like a college grinding out diplomas at Commencement
time, excepting that the Navy course was far stiffer than the
requirements of the campus. There were no “snap courses” in the Bay of
Biscay and no bluffing the faculty.
The following enlisted men, with one warrant officer, were examined,
qualified, and given commissions with the rank of ensign:
_Enlisted as_
W. F. Evans, Jr. Seaman Sent to Annapolis
David Tibbott Seaman ” ” ”
R. G. Seger Seaman ” ” ”
E. B. Prindle Q.M. 2c. ” ” ”
E. L. Houtz Seaman, 2c. ” ” ”
C. N. Ashby Seaman, 2c. ” ” ”
W. J. Rahill Seaman ” ” ”
H. F. Breckel Elec. 1c. Radio Commissioned Overseas
A. C. Smith, Jr. Q.M. 2c. ” ”
C. S. Bayne Seaman ” ”
A. L. Copeland Seaman ” ”
J. T. Herne Seaman ” ”
A. J. Marsh Seaman ” ”
A. V. Mason Machinist ” ”
Chief Quartermaster F. S. Fair and Chief Commissary Steward H. A. Barry
passed the examinations successfully, but failed on the tests for
eyesight and were thereby disqualified for commissions, a misfortune
which keenly disappointed them and their shipmates. Commander Kittinger
volunteered this high opinion of them: “Two of the best men we had, I
regret to say, received no rewards and it was a loss to the service.
Fair and Barry get 100 per cent from me in every department. If they
were physically fit to be bluejackets it might seem as though they were
physically fit to be officers, but such were the regulations.”
[Illustration: FROM THE LEFT, LIEUT. SCHANZE, ENSIGN GRAY, LIEUT.
COMMANDER PORTER, CHIEF ENGINEER HUTCHISON, COMMANDER KITTINGER, AND
LIEUT. McGUIRE]
[Illustration: AT ROSYTH. BACK ROW, FROM RIGHT, LIEUT. NOLAN, DR.
AGNEW, COMMANDER PORTER, LIEUT. McGUIRE, ENSIGN ACORN FRONT ROW, LIEUT.
PATTERSON, ENSIGN WANGERIN, PAYMASTER ERICKSON]
Ensign Carroll Bayne stayed in the _Corsair_ for a little while as an
officer and was then transferred to staff duty at Brest, assisting
Lieutenant Commander Tod who was Port Officer at the time. In his diary
Bayne indicated what his duties were, and they suggest that the Naval
Reserve officer was expected to turn his hand to almost everything, and
at very short notice:
Mr. Tod took me around to-day to call on all the French admirals,
etc., and they were very courteous. I got an awful call down from an
American three-striper for not saluting him. I started to, but he
did not see me, so I knocked off. However, he came back and gave me
particular fits.... The _Leviathan_ came in to-day with ten thousand
troops. She is the most enormous thing I ever saw. It took three hours
to moor her. She bumped a tanker coming in, almost sank the _Burrows_
destroyer, and ended by sinking a French tug. The soldiers began
coming ashore before she was moored. That packet needs considerable
elbow-room. I went aboard the _Leviathan_ at 6 A.M. and almost got
lost in her. In fact, I did. Her bridge is much higher than the
_Corsair’s_ foretop. Weather beastly and we spent most of the day
getting coal barges to and from her....
_June 25th._ The _Leviathan_ sailed for the States. I was out there
until she left, helping to unshackle her and get her under way. I
have the night trick, so will have to sleep in the office. This is
some job.... The _Great Northern_ and _Northern Pacific_ came in with
troops and will leave to-morrow night. They are certainly making speed
back and forth these days.... _July 1st._ Started out at 6 A.M. and
boarded fifteen ships. One had run aground on a rock and her bow was
smashed and the fore-peak full of water. I made arrangements to dock
her to-morrow.
_July 4th._ Big parade to-day, but I saw none of it. Twenty-three
American transports came in and I had to board them all, a four-hour
job. We are expecting more troop-ships to-morrow. It is up to me to
get them coaled, watered, and ready to turn around.... _July 11th._
The _Von Steuben_ left to-night in a heavy storm. Commander Tod,
Major O’Neil, and I went out to meet a convoy of thirteen ships, all
carrying troops. The Major got very sick in the rough sea. We had the
devil of a time, and no other word applies. Got back at 3 A.M. and had
to anchor and then board all these ships in total darkness. Another
one of those ships from the Great Lakes broke down and that means work
for me to-morrow. This is the fourth one of the kind that has gone to
pot here. I wish they could be left at home.
_July 18th._ Roughest day yet, seas very high. I went over to assist
in getting the _Leviathan_ under way. She started off at seventeen
knots and her back-wash came within an ace of upsetting us. Had a
tough time making landings on this batch of troop-ships. When I got
alongside the _Westerdyke_ a huge wave slammed my boat against her,
carrying away all my superstructure and chewing things up generally.
We managed to get clear and stay afloat.
I got in wrong with the Army who claimed I stole a ship from them. A
collier came in, and as the Navy was badly in need of coal, I refused
to look at her manifest and sent her over to our repair ship _Panther_
and began to coal her. The Army got wise and put up a yell, but it was
too late and I got away with it. They say that if the trick is done
again they will report it to Pershing. Let ’em go to it, as long as
the Navy gets the coal when it needs it.
While the _Corsair_ was driving through the blustering winds and seas
of March, there came bright days now and then which were a harbinger
of springtime in Brittany. In a letter written on Palm Sunday, Chief
Quartermaster Farr depicted the following contrast with the grim
routine of the war by sea and land:
I have had a delightful day. In the first place, the weather is like
June and now it is moonlight and a dead calm is resting on the bay
and I feel the joy of life and the beauty of Nature. This morning I
went ashore to the Catholic church, and the entire population of the
little Breton fishing town must have been there. Of course I couldn’t
understand what was going on, but it was restful and soothing to say
your prayers and think a little and listen to the organ. A Frenchman
with a good voice sang “Hosanna, Glory to God,” and I prayed hard for
the English armies in the great battle which is now raging. Their
losses are heavy and I think of the terrible anxiety in England for
their boys. Not that there is any doubt of the outcome, but so many
brave men are dying, and when you read of the Ninth Division, say, as
particularly distinguishing itself, you can imagine the feelings of
the mothers of those men.
This afternoon several of us walked out to a little château built
in the time of Louis XVI which was very interesting. The old French
people were extremely hospitable, gave us tea, and showed us
everything. They had a beautiful little garden with lots of vegetables
growing, peach and cherry blossoms, wonderful hawthorn hedges, spring
flowers everywhere, the birds singing, and the whole landscape
peaceful and happy. It was hard to realize that the greatest battle
of the war is raging in the north.
We walked back to the Y.M.C.A. where we each had four fried eggs
with some of the Army engineer troops. They come from California and
Oregon, and are the best and huskiest-looking soldiers I’ve seen
yet. A darky was in the party, a Navy cook, and he was as good as a
minstrel show. He ordered six eggs, and as soon as they came on the
table he ordered another half-dozen. He said he was honin’ and pinin’
for to get to Dunkirk, and would probably get killed by a bomb if he
did, but “befo’ the Lawd, boss, I jes’ itches to go anyhow. It’s mah
destination, she sure is.”
I am mighty glad to have had this service in the ranks. I wouldn’t
have missed it for anything. It is the only way to know the real Army
and Navy.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] _A Year in the Navy._ Houghton Mifflin Co.
[5] H. B. Wilson.
[6] Commander Frank T. Evans, U.S.N.
CHAPTER X
THE CORSAIR STANDS BY
This business gets more interesting every day and is by far the most
fascinating industry I have ever undertaken [declared Lieutenant
Schanze, in letters written during the autumn and winter]. Of course
it is extremely strenuous, the long sea voyages into an eternally
rough ocean, the cold, wet days and nights, and the everlasting vigil
that must be kept despite wind, rain, fog, and storm. It gets to the
nerves of the boys and a few of them show signs of weakening at times,
but on the whole, and in my humble opinion, the _Corsair_ has the most
pugnacious and indefatigable bunch of fighters in the whole Navy.
You see, the _Corsair_ and the _Aphrodite_ were the first American war
vessels to patrol the Bay of Biscay; consequently we are old-timers
here and are looked up to by the others as being well versed in this
game. The hard service is the best thing that could have happened
to us. Being in a war without actually serving on the firing line
would drive me looney, but as things have turned out I have the most
wonderful opportunity to exercise all my mechanical ingenuity and
experience and they have more than stood me in good stead.
This war work agrees with me better than anything I have engaged in.
I am growing stouter and more vigorous and enjoying every minute of
it.... If we bean a submarine and crow about it, everybody ashore
gives us the horse laugh because we did not have the propellers or
conning tower to show for it; and if some misguided sub takes a shot
at us and the torpedo happens to miss and biffs one of the empty
buckets we are escorting over the horizon, the Admiral roars until we
dare not show our faces ashore. I recently heard the anti-submarine
campaign assailed on the ground that the submarines are still at large
and going strong. They are. But the submarine campaign of Germany is
away past its zenith. It was passed several months ago and the lid is
now being nailed down on its coffin.
We are over here in this mess up to our ears and we know what has
taken place when the whole ocean seems to tremble and that sickening,
muffled roar, whose direction defies discovery, comes to our ears. We
know that another torpedo has found its mark. Does it make us gloomy?
It does not. It cheers us up. Why? Because we can instantly diagnose
just how it was done and we recognize that our enemy is becoming more
timid, impotent, and desperate. Very soon every successfully exploded
torpedo will cost the life of the sub that sent it. Instead of being
the terror of the seas that they were last June and July, the U-boats
now advertise the fact that the terror of the seas is the American
destroyer.
The war goes booming along on an ever greater scale, and to those who
are given this opportunity of viewing the panorama, it unfolds itself
with a magnitude that defies all description. Could I but tell you of
the vast works that America alone has put upon the landscapes here in
France, you would believe my enthusiasm exaggerated. Details I cannot
give, but as a comparison imagine a contract for the construction of a
series of communities, each one about as large as Newark was ten years
ago, and imagine them equipped with every modern improvement such as
wharfage on a river-bank formerly barren, manufacturing plants for the
fabrication of everything from wooden legs to steel ships, and then
accept this as a fact already accomplished and doing business, and
you can gather some idea of the tremendous efforts that have been put
forth.
[Illustration: ROLLING OUT TO FIND A CONVOY]
[Illustration: A LITTLE WATER ON DECK]
For all this we are indebted, not nearly so much to the men here
at the front as to those whose untiring efforts at home, in face
of all kinds of criticism of the most venomous kind, have driven
this enormous task to a successful culmination. I have a wonderful
respect for our men at home who have had to stay home and accomplish
things which they could never disclose to a naturally impatient and
clamoring public. Had the Germans done such things as I have seen
here accomplished by Americans, I would have taken off my hat to
them and acknowledged the fact that German efficiency coupled with
the advantages of a despotism was at least worthy of a close look. I
dwell upon this phase of the situation because it has recently come
to my attention, from most reliable sources, that there is a tendency
toward gloom in certain quarters at home. The constant attacks made
by conscientious critics, aside from the braying of the eternally
discontented and the insidious whispers of the disloyal, are liable to
make even the stoutest hearts falter at times.
I cannot too emphatically contradict every reason advanced to sustain
a gloomy attitude of mind. There is every reason for the greatest
enthusiasm and confidence. In fact, we over here on the firing
line have a spontaneous kind of enthusiasm that comes only to the
victorious. This war is a long and ferocious process in which each
battle must be considered as a single shot fired only as a part of the
_ensemble_. On land and sea things look better than they have in a
long time. Every American effort is pure velvet for the Allied side.
I trust our nation will now begin to see that America is a big and
powerful fellow among the nations of the world and that, with just
a little bit of careful attention, this European situation can be
hammered into shape. The women of the country are, after all, pretty
much the whole thing, for they can inculcate the spirit of fight and
of happy confidence that nothing else can put into their boys. If the
mother will adopt the old Spartan admonition of “Come home either with
your shield or on it,” the boys will keep surging into this war with
an ardor that no enemy can stop.
... My experiences thus far have brought me more laughs than it
has been my pleasure to have in any other period of time. I must
confess, however, that many of the laughs come when I view some of
the situations in retrospect. At times, especially in the middle of a
ruction, when literally tons of high explosives are being launched, we
are too busily engaged to laugh. On such occasions we have to think
rapidly and work fast.
One incident may be worthy of note. A flock of troop-ships was under
escort through the torpedo zone. The eagle eye of a trained observer
caught the tell-tale symptoms of a submarine trying to manœuvre into
striking position. Activities began at once, if not sooner. Those
of us whose job it was to look after the sub, did it. Those of us
whose job it was to screen the troop-ships, did that. On one of the
transports were many negroes who knew more about shore duties than
seafaring. On the ship they were passengers _pro tem_.
The process of dealing with a submarine certainly must send thrills
through a spectator who has never attended any rehearsals. The negroes
in question were all novices and their chief emotion was primitive
terror. The simultaneous explosion of forty or fifty barrels of
dynamite made the whole ocean heave and rumble. Even those of us who
were used to dropping ’em over and who were braced for the shock, felt
considerably jolted.
The darky soldiers thought the end of creation had sure busted loose
in epidemic form. One of them excitedly dug down into his pack and
fished out a Bible. Opening it on deck, he knelt upon it, wrung his
hands to Heaven and cried in accents that could be heard above the
racket of the explosions, “O Lawd, O Lawd, I’se never gwine roll dem
bones no mo’. Ah promise it. Ah promise it absotively.”
Another one decided that this method of imploring grace was worth
imitating in the terrible crisis, so he rushed over and tried to get
knee-room on the same Bible. Shoving his comrade aside, he managed to
find a sacred anchorage and his supplication was, “Good Lawd Jesus,
lemme see jes’ one green tree. Ah ain’t askin’ you to send me back
home across dis yere big ocean till th’ war is done. Ah’ll stay right
where I is put, but lemme see jes’ one green tree befo’ all dem German
su’marines gobble dis pore niggah like Jonah an’ th’ whale.”
Half an hour after the excitement was over, these devout passengers
were shooting dice as busily as ever. There were negroes in another
unit which we escorted into France. In wandering about the port, they
came across some of their own race, black troopers from the French
African colonies. Negotiations were opened to start a conversation
going, but they could find no common language until one of the
bunch produced a pair of dice. This, it seems, instantly broke
down the barrier, and they soon had going as fine a little game
of international craps as a man ever saw. Both sides whooped and
haw-hawed until traffic was blocked and the police interfered.
The convoy work in which the _Corsair_ took part during the four
months from February 15 to May 30, 1918, comprised the following
cruises, arranged in the form of a summary so as to make the record
more complete and also to suggest the volume of the shipping which was
entrusted to the protection of the yachts and destroyers in French
waters:
Feb. 16-20. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: _Eugene
Grozos_, _Mont Pelvoux_, _Kalfarli_, _Lenape_, _Mariana_, _Lamertin_,
_Mundiale_, _Bergdalen_, _Amphion_, _Northern_, _Joseph Cudahy_,
_Stensland_, _Ariadne_, _Lady of Gaspe_, _Thibet_.
(Vessels in escort.) _Corsair_, _Aphrodite_, _May_, _Regulus_ (F),
_Aventurier_ (F).
Feb. 25-28. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: _El Occidente_,
_Anglo Saxon_, _Erny_, _Borinquen_, _Montanan_, _Aurelien Sholt_,
_Appelus_, _Balti_, _Gusta Vigiland_.
(Vessels in escort.) _Corsair_, _Aphrodite_, _May_, _Cassiope_ (F).
March 7-10. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: _Luckenbach_,
_St. Stephen_, _Millnock_, _Munares_, _Pearl Shell_, _Crecarne_,
_Strathlone_, _Eschwick_, _Stellina_, _Anglo Mexican_,
_Pennsylvanian_, _Hilda_, _Frances L. Kinney_, _Eagle_, _Felix
Taussig_, _Dalblair_, _Camaguey_, _Oslang_.
(Vessels in escort.) _Corsair_, _Aphrodite_, _Nokomis_, _Rivoli_ (F),
_Cassiope_ (F).
March 16-19. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: _Charlton
Hall_, _Santiago_, _Mont Ventoux_, _Penmarch_, _Bay Douglas_, _New
York_, _Dumfurland_, _Alf_, _Beaverton_, _Cantal_, _W. Mace_, _Bay
Nyassa_, _Wachusett_, _El Orients_, _Woonsocket_, _Augvald_, _Ionian_.
(Vessels in escort.) _Corsair_, _Aphrodite_, _Nokomis_, _Rivoli_ (F),
_Marne_ (F).
March 20-21. (Eastbound to Gironde.) Ships in convoy: _Mercury_,
_Tenadores_.
(Vessels in escort.) _Corsair_, _Noma_, destroyers _Balch_, _Winslow_,
_Sampson_, _Porter_, _Drayton_, _Parker_.
March 25-27. (Eastbound to Gironde.) Ship of convoy: _Mallory_.
(Vessels in escort.) _Corsair_, _Noma_, _Wakiva_, destroyers _Rowan_,
_Winslow_, _Benham_.
April 3-4. (Eastbound to Gironde.) Ships in convoy: _Powhatan_,
_Martha Washington_, _El Occidente_.
(Vessels in escort.) _Corsair_, _Noma_, destroyers _Duncan_,
_Caldwell_, _Sampson_, _Winslow_, _Parker_, _Connyngham_.
April 8-22. _Corsair_ acting as communication ship, at Verdon, and
overhauling machinery at Bordeaux.
April 24-27. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: _Indiana_,
_Clare_, _Alexander Kielland_, _Daphne_, _Lyderhom_, _Peter H.
Crowell_, _Canto_, _Kentuckian_, _Hunwood_, _Seattle_, _Oregon_,
_Californian_, _Mocassin_, _Munindies_, _Munaires_, _Lake Tahoe_,
_Santa Rosalia_, _Drake_, _Amphion_, _Oregonian_, _Newton_.
(Vessels in escort.) _Corsair_, _Aphrodite_, _Nokomis_, _Wakiva_,
_Rivoli_ (F).
May 5-9. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: _Mesopotamia_,
_Jean_, _West Wind_, _Guantanamo_, _Monticello_, _Cristobal_,
_Margaret_, _American_, _Iroquois_, _Chian_, _Artemis_,
_Buenaventura_, _Sudbury_, _Lamertin_, _Edith_, _Nyanza_, _Amiral
Grouse_, _Ariadne_.
(Vessels in escort.) _Corsair_, _Aphrodite_, _Wakiva_, _Rivoli_ (F).
May 13-16. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: _El Capitan_,
_Munsano_, _Castleman_, _Bergdalen_, _Westerner_, _Clara_, _Vaarli_,
_Lake Placid_, _Gusta Vigiland_, _Winnebago_, _Luckenbach_, _Joseph
Cudahy_, _Saxolin_, _Robert H. Thomas_, _Quincy_, _Thorwald
Halvorson_, _Andre_.
(Vessels in escort.) _Corsair_, _Aphrodite_, _Nokomis_, _Rivoli_ (F).
May 21-23. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: _Matsonia_,
_Powhatan_, _Martha Washington_, _El Oriente_, _Minnesotan_.
(Vessels in escort.) _Corsair_, destroyers _Wadsworth_, _Nicholson_,
_Monaghan_, _Roe_.
May 27-30. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: _Shoshonee_,
_Crown of Seville_, _Walter Munson_, _Tunica_, _West Arrow_, _East
Gate_, _Charlton Hall_, _Luciline_, _Absaroka_, _Westbridge_,
_Corozal_, _Lorna_, _Westward_, _Pensacola_, _Millinocket_,
_Darnholm_, _Admiral Neilly_, _Elmore_, _Sagua_, _Tamano_, _Texas_,
_New York_.
(Vessels in escort.) _Corsair_, _Aphrodite_, _Nokomis_ _Aisne_ (F).
Industriously employed in this service with the convoys, the _Corsair_
encountered no slant of misfortune until June. Then came the loss of
the fine cargo steamer _Californian_ with holds and decks full of
several million dollars worth of supplies for the American Army in
France. This disaster was not the result of submarine attack. The ship
was unlucky enough to bump a German mine about fifty miles off the
entrance of the Gironde River while nearing port with the convoy and
escort.
The _Corsair_ stood by and made every possible effort to save the
precious _Californian_ endeavoring to haul her along at the end of a
tow-line, but the damage was vital and salvage hopeless. It was one of
those numerous episodes of the warfare at sea, as waged by the enemy,
which seemed so enormously wasteful, so impossible for civilization
to endure, this senseless obliteration of property on a scale without
precedent in the whole history of mankind.
[Illustration: THE SINKING CALIFORNIAN. GOING, GOING, ALMOST GONE!]
[Illustration: CALIFORNIAN SURVIVORS ABOARD THE CORSAIR]
The _Corsair_ found the convoy of eight ships in the afternoon of June
20th and took position with the other escort vessels, _Aphrodite_,
_May_, _Nokomis_, and two French patrol boats. They steamed toward
the coast at eleven knots without misadventure until early in the
morning of the 22d. Then the _Californian_ made a turn to the right,
quitting the formation, and slowed speed until she came to a halt.
Her crew could be seen jumping into the boats and letting them drop
from the davits. There was no more ado about it than this, no sound
of an explosion nor any disturbance of the sea. It was an uncanny,
inexplicable thing to witness. From the bridge of the _Corsair_ it was
easy to perceive that the sailors of the _Californian_ were proceeding,
earnestly and eagerly, to abandon ship. It was done without disorder,
but they were wasting no time.
The _Corsair_ promptly swung to go near, at the order of Lieutenant
McGuire, who was the officer of the deck. The yacht moved to the
rescue with a speed which surprised even the _Californian_. Already
the long, deep-laden steamer was settling by the head. One of the
little French escort vessels had also hastened to the scene, but as
she rolled in the trough of the ground swell, the sea slapped across
her deck and the first boat to pull away from the _Californian_ found
so much difficulty in trying to lay aboard that the men semaphored the
_Corsair_: “Will you please come and pick us up?” Presently the master
of the big steamer and many of his crew were scrambling up the side of
the _Corsair_, where Commander Porter strongly urged that an attempt be
made to save the _Californian_. He was ready to tow if the water could
be kept down in the flooded compartments. It was a sporting chance, but
better than letting the ship drown before their eyes.
Cheered by this readiness to lend a hand, the executive officer of
the _Californian_, with sixteen volunteers from their crew, returned
on board and a ten-inch manila hawser was passed from the _Corsair_.
Because the bow of the stricken ship had filled so fast and was almost
buried in the sea, the hawser was made fast astern and the _Corsair_
tried to tow her wrong end to, as offering the least resistance.
The sluggish mass moved very slowly, perhaps two knots, but it was
impossible to steer it. The plucky _Corsair_ dug her toes in, as
one might say, and pulled like a thoroughbred horse harnessed to a
wagonload of stone.
When this first attempt proved futile, it was decided to try towing
by the bow, but while they were dragging the hawser forward the
engine-room bulkheads collapsed with a roar and the sea rushed in to
fill the dying ship. She went down by the head, the stern rearing
higher and higher in air, until the great hull towered in a vertical
position, and there it hung for an amazingly long time. It was surmised
that the bow had struck the bottom of the sea. Then the stern slowly
dropped and vanished while the crew of the _Corsair_ watched and
wondered and felt very sad at heart.
No lives were lost; this was the redeeming feature, and the eighty-five
officers and men of the _Californian_ were all safely aboard the
yacht where they were as hospitably cared for as the crowded quarters
permitted. On the decks of the lost steamer were hundreds of Army
motor-trucks, and one of the _Corsair’s_ men, for lack of anything
better to say, was heard to murmur as the sea swallowed them up:
“There’s some water in your carbureters this trip, and that’s no
foolish jest.”
The dog rescued from the _Californian_ remained aboard the _Corsair_ as
a souvenir and mascot, but the life in the Bay of Biscay was not to his
taste, in spite of the efforts of the crew to make him feel at home. He
was therefore detached and assigned to the U.S.S. (Auxiliary) _Balti_
and sent to the United States, but fell down a hatch at Hoboken and was
a total loss. For an epitaph, Kipling’s line seems apt, “We’re safer at
sea again.”
Commander Porter’s official account of the loss of the ship reads as
follows:
_June 22, 1918_
From: Commanding Officer,
To: Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France,
Via District Commander, Rochefort.
At 4.50 A.M. observed the U.S.S. _Californian_ stop, turn to the
eastward, and abandon ship. The _Corsair_ immediately went about
and closed on the _Californian_. At 5.15 A.M. two boats from the
_Californian_ were alongside and survivors came on board. I informed
their Executive Officer that we were close to land and suggested
that it might be possible to get the ship into port. He immediately
ordered his firemen into a boat and returned to the _Californian_. The
_Corsair_ circled about the ship.
At 7.05 A.M. all hands abandoned the _Californian_ and came on board
the _Corsair_. The captain informed me that he could do nothing as the
engine-room was filling with water. I told him that we would attempt
to tow. He returned to the _Californian_ with a boat’s crew, taking
the end of our tow-line with him. As the _Californian_ was down by the
head and we had a fair wind, our tow-line was made fast to the stern.
At 7.55 A.M. we started ahead. At 8.20 A.M. it was found that we
could not handle the ship by the stern; stopped and attempted to take
the line forward. Before it could be made fast, the ship settled
so rapidly that the crew was obliged to abandon her, and we hauled
the tow-line on board. At 8.54 A.M. the bow of the _Californian_
went down, apparently resting on bottom. At 9.04 A.M. the stern
disappeared and _Corsair_ proceeded. While waiting we hoisted two of
the _Californian’s_ boats on board. During these operations one French
destroyer stood by.
It is believed by the Commanding Officer of the _Californian_ that
the damage was caused by a mine. Nothing was seen. No radio message
was sent as antennæ was disabled by the explosion. There were no
casualties.
The lost ship was commanded by Lieutenant Commander D. Mahlman,
U.S.N.R.F., and was under charter to the United States Government. To
the Board of Inquiry convened for the purpose, he presented his own
story of the disaster, which was as follows:
At 4.50 A.M. felt an explosion amidships. Stopped the ship and ordered
all hands to stand by the boats. The Engineer Officer reported water
and oil leaking into the forward stoke hold. Sounded bilges and found
three feet in No. 1; No. 2 full; and Nos. 4 and 5 empty. On examining
the engine-room and stoke hold again, I found the water over the floor
plates, the engineers meanwhile having the pumps working on the stoke
hold bilge. The water was steadily gaining so I ordered the boats to
be lowered and the ship abandoned.
Sent two boats away to the U.S.S. _Corsair_ which was standing by,
while I remained on board with Ensign Schwartz and boat’s crew to
investigate further if it were possible to do anything to keep the
ship afloat, the pumps being worked to the full capacity continually.
Soon afterwards two boats from the _Corsair_ returned to the ship with
some of the officers and crew.
Extra efforts were made by the engineer force to gain headway on
the incoming water. When the water had risen to the fire-boxes and
continued to increase, on the report of the Chief Engineer that the
water was beyond control, I ordered all hands to abandon ship. Having
gone aboard the _Corsair_, the Commanding Officer asked me how long
I thought the ship would keep afloat, to which I replied four or
five hours. He then suggested towing, so I returned to the ship with
my Executive Officer and sixteen men, taking a tow-line which was
made fast to the stern, the best method of towing under the existing
circumstances. No results were obtainable and an attempt was made to
shift the tow-line to the bow.
While the tow-line was being shifted forward, from observations made
by me in the engine-room it was evident that the ship could not stay
afloat much longer as she was then rapidly settling by the head.
I again gave orders to abandon the ship, which was done, and the
_Californian_ soon began to sink rapidly, going down bow first until
the stern was almost perpendicular. Later the ship slowly righted and
the stern disappeared entirely at 9.04 A.M. in Latitude 46° 17′ 15″
North, Longitude 2° 10′ 30″ West.
The _Corsair_ had tried and failed, which was ever so much better than
not trying at all, and as one of her men mournfully observed, “With any
sort of a break in luck, we would have salvaged her and a cargo that
was so valuable that the Army organization was figuring out some way of
raising it during the summer.”
[Illustration: A MASCOT FROM THE CALIFORNIAN KNOWN AS “THE MUTT”]
[Illustration: THE NEWFOUNDLAND PUP SAVED FROM THE FRENCH FISHING BARK]
This was the only ship lost out of a convoy with which the _Corsair_
operated during the long period of this service in and out of the
Gironde, from June to November of 1918. On several occasions steamers
were attacked and sunk or damaged just before joining or just after
leaving the escort. These included the _Montanan_, the _Westbridge_,
the _Westward Ho_, the _Cubore_, and the French cruiser _Dupetit
Thouars_. When the S.O.S. calls came, the _Corsair_ hurried to stand
by, but other naval vessels happened to be nearer the scene and were
able to save the survivors, or the ship managed to remain afloat, as
in the case of the _Westward Ho_. A cruise in August, beginning on the
ill-omened 13th, turned out to be anything but monotonous, from start
to finish. The air was full of tragic messages from torpedoed ships. It
was like a dying flurry of the German submarine campaign.
The excitement began with this entry in the _Corsair’s_ record:
S.S. _Tivives_ (third ship in right-hand column) signalled “Torpedo
just passed our stern from starboard.” This ship notified _Aphrodite_
by radio. Went to general quarters and searched but saw nothing except
whales and porpoises. Wind was light and sea smooth. French destroyer
_Aisne_, which was astern of us, apparently intercepted radio as he
was observed to be searching.
A little later in this voyage came the following tale of disaster, as
caught by the radio:
Intercepted from _Marseilles_, “_Montanan torpedoed_.”
Intercepted from _Noma_, “_Westbridge torpedoed_.”
Intercepted from Aphrodite, “_Cubore torpedoed_, 10 P.M. _Friday_.”
The _Corsair_ and _Aphrodite_ had left their outward-bound convoy at
this time, according to orders, to steer for the rendezvous and make
contact with a fleet of fourteen ships bound in for France. During
the night a green Véry light flared against the cloudy sky to the
southward. The _Corsair_ headed for it at full speed, but could find no
ship in distress and it was later conjectured that the signal might
have come from the French destroyers which had remained to pick up the
survivors of the _Cubore_.
Soon after this, several lights were sighted close to the water. It is
hard to realize how unusual and arresting was such a phenomenon as this
upon an ocean where ships had long shrouded themselves in darkness,
screening every ray and glimmer lest it might betray them to a lurking
enemy. The vision of officers and lookouts had so adapted themselves
to these conditions that they were able to discern a shadow of a ship
a mile away. In this instance, when vessels’ lights, several of them,
were boldly displayed, the _Corsair_ approached warily until it was
possible to make them out as showing aboard a little flock of Breton
fishermen. It was known that a French submarine was operating in this
patrol area and the officers of the _Corsair_ plausibly assumed that
the lights might be a decoy for Fritz, so they concluded not to meddle
with the situation.
Next morning another bevy of fishing vessels was seen, and the French
submarine was with them, while a steamer was also standing by.
Meanwhile the _Corsair_ and _Aphrodite_ had found the inbound convoy
which had also a destroyer escort, and one of these, the _Lamson_, ran
down to investigate the startling picture of a submarine calmly loafing
about. The Frenchman promptly exploded a smoke bomb as the proper
recognition signal, for he was taking no chances with a venomous Yankee
destroyer which was known to be exceedingly quick on the trigger when
a periscope or conning tower was etched against the horizon. It was
agreed that there were much more healthy pursuits than to be ranging
the Bay of Biscay in a French submarine.
Fortune had been unkind when the _Corsair_ tried to pull the
_Californian_ into port, but the story was a happier one when next she
had the opportunity to snatch a good ship from the greedy maw of the
sea. How it was done is summarized in a letter written by Vice-Admiral
Wilson, after the event:
_U.S. Naval Forces Operating in European Waters_
_Forces in France_
_U.S.S. Prometheus, Flagship_
_Brest, France, 8 October 1918_
From: Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France.
To: Lieutenant Commander W. B. Porter, U.S.N.R.F.
Subject: Commendation.
The Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France takes pleasure in commending
the excellent seamanship and judgment displayed by you in the salvage
of the Norwegian steamship _Dagfin_, as reported in your letter of
September 17, 1918.
The _Dagfin_, a vessel of 2100 tons, loaded with general supplies for
the Italian Government, had been totally disabled for six days with
a broken shaft when sighted by the _Corsair_ on September 10th, in
Latitude 45° 3′ North, Longitude 8° 03′ West. The U.S.S. _Corsair_
under your command maintained touch with the _Dagfin_ until the heavy
weather then prevailing had moderated, and towed her into port, a
distance of three hundred miles through the submarine zone, arriving
at Verdon on September 14th.
(Signed) WILSON
The _Corsair_ happened to find this helpless _Dagfin_ while scouting
in search of a steamer of the convoy which had somehow gone astray.
Insistent radio calls had failed to awaken a response from this missing
_Macona_. She appeared to have lost her bearings and totally mislaid
the rendezvous. The _Corsair_ was too courteous to express annoyance,
but her radio queries became more and more emphatic. The _Macona_ was
as elusive as a Flying Dutchman. At length the yacht concluded that she
had done her honest duty and so turned in the general direction of the
destroyer rendezvous, still keeping an eye lifted for the lost sheep of
the convoy.
At 8.35 o’clock on the morning of September 10th, with the _Macona_
still on her mind and the quest continued, the _Corsair_ descried a
steamer against the misty horizon and soon it was discovered that
she was in distress and making no headway. By way of precaution the
_Corsair’s_ crew scampered to general quarters, because nothing could
be taken for granted in war-time. Bearing down, the yacht hovered close
to a sea-worn, dingy Norwegian tramp which wallowed inert and wore an
air of profound discouragement. The sailors of the _Dagfin_ flourished
their caps and yelled with delight. It was obvious that they yearned
to be plucked out of the submarine zone after six days and nights of
exposure as a stationary target to any U-boat which might wander that
way. Fritz was too unsportsmanlike to hesitate to shoot at a sitting
bird.
The _Corsair_ was willing to undertake a towing job in order to
save the forlorn _Dagfin_ and her cargo, but it was necessary to
ask permission to leave the duty already assigned, and a radio was
therefore sent to the Admiral at Brest. Meanwhile the sea was too rough
to undertake the ticklish manœuvre of hooking onto the melancholy
Norwegian and Commander Porter shouted through a megaphone that he
would return and stand by. There was profound gratitude on the bridge
of the _Dagfin_, but some deep-sea curses along the rail. To have
rescue so near, and to behold the American warship depart! It was too
much like having the cup of salvation snatched from one’s lips. Were
they to be left at the mercy of the hell-begotten submarines?
Steering northward to take another look for the _Macona_, Commander
Porter changed course to sweep a wider area and, after several hours,
received a radio reply from Brest, “_Stand by Dagfin. Tug will be sent
when weather moderates._” This order was to be obeyed, blow high, blow
low, and through two stormy days the _Corsair_ rolled and plunged
within sight or signalling distance of the _Dagfin_ before any attempt
could be made to board her. It was a furious gale, with squalls of
snow and sleet, and the _Corsair_ was so knocked about while heading
into it that she had to turn and run before the sea under steerageway
of four knots. The water came piling over the stern until the depth
charges had to be shifted amidships to change the trim of the ship and
lift the overhang a little. It was a man’s-size job, from beginning to
end, this playing friend in need to the _Dagfin_.
With a sea anchor out, the _Dagfin_ had been lying broadside to the
waves, and this could not have increased the comfort of her crew. She
was swept and drenched and miserable, and, at best, there is no luxury
in a two-thousand-ton Norwegian tramp. At last the wind lost something
of its evil temper and the sea was less confused. On the morning
of September 12th the _Corsair_ tried to get a line aboard, after
receiving another radio from Brest, “_Take Dagfin in tow when weather
permits_.” It was still too rough to put a boat over, so Commander
Porter steamed to windward and attempted to float a line, buoyed by
empty boxes, to the _Dagfin_, but the freighter’s drift was so much
greater than the yacht’s that this scheme failed.
[Illustration: THE DAGFIN, BROKEN DOWN AND HELPLESS. THE CORSAIR STANDS
BY]
Nothing daunted, the skipper of the _Corsair_ hauled his own ship
around to leeward and deftly placed her where the line floated so close
to the _Dagfin_ that it was caught and hauled up by a boat-hook as she
drifted upon it. To this light line the _Corsair_ secured one hundred
and fifty fathoms of ten-inch manila hawser, and the _Dagfin_ heaved
it aboard with a turn about the winch. To the end of the hawser the
Norwegians bent fifty fathoms of chain, for the longer the tow-line
the easier the strain in heavy weather. The _Corsair_ secured her end
of the hawser by means of a wire span leading to the two after gun
mounts, and then she was ready to go ahead and pull her heart out. It
is needless to remark that the yacht had not been designed or built to
yank disabled freighters through the Bay of Biscay in the tail-end of a
nasty gale of wind.
They went ahead, _Corsair_ and _Dagfin_, and worked up to a speed of
five knots, reducing it a trifle when the strain seemed too great. They
slogged along in this manner until 8.30 P.M. when the chain parted and
the _Dagfin_ went adrift. Commander Porter describes the rest of it in
his report:
We observed that the _Dagfin_ had broken adrift, and when attempting
to haul in our tow-line I found that it was weighted with the
_Dagfin’s_ chain which had parted in the hawse-pipe. A six-inch line
was bent and used as a messenger to the forward capstan, but as this
would hold only four turns, which rendered, the starboard capstan was
used to assist. No lead blocks of sufficient size were available to
keep the line clear of the deck-house, and both houses were damaged.
It was difficult to stopper and secure the messenger to the wet
hawser. This was chafed its entire length, although the ship went
ahead slowly to angle the hawser slightly and reduce the bend over the
lip of the chock.
After three hours’ work the hawser was all in and the chain let go.
Had conditions been favorable, of course the chain could have been
hove in through the hawse-pipe, but I desired to intercept the French
tug _Penguin_, sent out from Brest, which was then close by. The
strain had unlaid the hawser, and releasing the chain allowed the
turns to take up again. Removing numerous kinks from a wet, ten-inch
rope is a long, tedious job.
As the tug had passed us in the night and was not in sight at
daylight, I closed in to pick up our tow. Attempting to throw a line
on board, we could not get near enough to reach, as there was still
a moderate swell and we were both rolling and surging. A boat was
lowered and our hawser bent to the _Dagfin’s_ cable, and at 7.45 A.M.
we went ahead at six knots. The average speed for twenty-six and a
half hours was actually six and a quarter knots.
At 8.15 the _Penguin_ arrived and I had difficulty in communicating,
as she could not comprehend semaphore signals nor was our language
perfectly clear to them. Our radio communication had been very good,
although I was more reluctant to use it than was the _Penguin_,
especially in stating latitude and longitude. To my question, “What
are your orders?” the reply was, “Bordeaux.” She also informed me that
she could tow four knots and as this would not bring us into port
before dark of the following day, I decided to continue towing and
requested that the _Penguin_ escort. I considered that the advantages
of greater speed and a much shorter time at sea gave us the larger
margin of safety.
In my opinion (with a very limited experience in towing) the method
adopted was by far the best way of towing a ship. Not only is the
windlass usually the strongest and most convenient place to secure
to, but in the absence of a very long hawser the weight of chain
sagging down makes an effective spring. There was never any undue
strain and the _Dagfin’s_ chain could not have parted if it had been
in good condition.
In the early morning of September 14th the _Corsair_ trailed into the
mouth of the Gironde, doggedly kicking along at six knots, with the
Norwegian water-bruiser dragging in her wake. There the _Penguin_ took
hold and the yacht went on alone to a berth at Pauillac, none the
worse for the experience. It was all in the job, not so sensational
as dropping depth bombs on a submarine, but perhaps requiring more
courage, endurance, and seamanship. Commander Porter’s description
of the tussle with the hawser is highly technical, but one catches
glimpses of the hard and heavy toil of the sea and the ability to do
the right thing in time of stress which comes only with experience. The
sailors of the _Corsair_, many of them landlubbers only a year before,
were learning the tricks of the trade.
It was back to the convoys again, the same old round of discomfort at
sea and coaling ship in port, but the spirit of the great adventure had
not been dulled. By way of change and respite, the _Corsair_ was twice
chosen to carry distinguished official visitors from one French base
to another. The first occasion was on August 24th when the passengers
comprised the party of members of the House Committee on Naval Affairs
who were inspecting for themselves the American naval and military
forces overseas—Chairman L. P. Padgett, D. J. Riordan, W. L. Hensley,
J. R. Connelly, W. B. Oliver, W. W. Venable, J. C. Wilson, T. S.
Butler, W. J. Browning, J. R. Farr, S. E. Mudd. J. A. Peters, and F. C.
Hicks.
They were the guests of the _Corsair_ from Royan to the great American
aviation base at Pauillac, and their enthusiastic approval of the work
of the Navy in the war was pleasant for the crew of the _Corsair_
to hear. Their report, later submitted to the Secretary of the
Navy, contained this non-partisan opinion, signed by Republican and
Democratic members alike:
The committee visited and inspected the United States naval activities
at Bordeaux, Moutchic, Pauillac, Rochefort, La Rochelle, La Pallice,
Fromentine, Paimbœuf, Saint-Nazaire, Montoir, Le Croisic, L’Orient,
Île Tudy, and Brest. The amount of money expended at these various
stations mounts into the hundreds of millions of dollars and the
activities involve the employment of thousands upon thousands of men.
They represent activities on land and water, under the water, and in
the air. They involve transportation of troops, munitions, equipment,
food, and clothing from the United States into France of the value
of untold millions. The duties and responsibilities of the Navy were
to escort and convoy ships transporting troops, and all manner of
effort and activity in the air, patrolling the seas against German
submarines, and safeguarding the arrival and departure of ships, the
construction of bases for the operation and the care of the enormous
aviation organization, and also at the various bases providing first
aid and hospital accommodations for the sick and disabled and the
establishment of sanitary conditions, housing facilities, and numerous
other activities essential to the proper care of the men, besides the
many other efforts essential to the successful prosecution of the war.
[Illustration:
_Copyright by Underwood and Underwood, N. Y._
ADMIRAL HENRY T. MAYO, COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE ATLANTIC FLEET]
The whole work was so colossal that while there may have been mistakes
and matters subject to criticism in small details, they were lost in
the magnitude of the success accomplished. Taken as a whole, by and
large, the Navy has achieved a great work and is entitled to approval
and commendation.
Late in October the word came to the _Corsair_ that the
Commander-in-Chief of the Atlantic Fleet, Admiral Henry T. Mayo, and
staff, would be graciously pleased to use the yacht (or fourth-class
gunboat, to be precise) to take them from Royan to Pauillac. Now a
four-starred admiral is absolutely top-hole in naval rank and dignity,
and the three gold stripes above the broad band on his sleeve are
viewed with awe and bedazzlement by the younger officers. To be a
vice-admiral, or even a rear admiral, is a resounding distinction, but
an admiral is so much more imposing that there are very few of him
extant.
You may be sure that the _Corsair_ was fit for minute inspection when
the Commander-in-Chief of the Atlantic Fleet stepped aboard at Royan,
with side boys at the gangway and the boatswain’s mate to pipe him
with proper ceremony. The ship’s officers found him to be the affable
gentleman and manly sailor which his reputation in the Navy had led
them to expect. Admiral Mayo later recalled this trip in a letter to
the writer of this story of the Corsair, and was kind enough to say:
_Department of the Navy_
_General Board_
_Washington, August 22, 1919_
DEAR SIR:
Your letter of August 12th with reference to the war story of Mr. J.
P. Morgan’s yacht _Corsair_ reached me while absent on leave. My only
opportunity to observe the _Corsair_ was in a very short trip during
which I was a passenger on board, but I do not hesitate to say that I
received a most favorable impression as to the condition of the ship
and the efficiency of the personnel at that time, and that the reports
as to the general efficiency and good work of the vessel during her
service on the French coast were of an extremely high character.
(Signed) HENRY T. MAYO
CHAPTER XI
IN THE RADIO-ROOM
In this strange warfare against an enemy who fought, for the most part,
under the sea, there was no more effective agency than the wireless
telegraph or radio. It enabled the convoys to receive warnings and to
steer safe courses, it brought help to hundreds of ships in distress,
and as an offensive weapon enabled the Allied naval forces to locate
and destroy a large number of German submarines. Without the highly
developed employment of radio communication, it would have been
impossible to protect the transportation of troops, food, and material.
More than any other factor, the radio won the war at sea.
As soon as directional wireless was perfected and used, it became
practicable to fix the position of a U-boat by means of the messages
sent from it, and, as Admiral Sims has said, “Their commanders were
particularly careless in the use of wireless. The Germanic passion for
conversation could not be suppressed, even though this national habit
might lead to the most serious consequences. Possibly also the solitary
submarine felt lonely; at any rate, as soon as it reached the Channel
or the North Sea, it started an almost uninterrupted flow of talk. The
U-boats communicated principally with each other, and also with the
Admiralty at home, and in doing this they gave away their position
to the assiduously listening Allies. The radio direction-finder, by
which we can instantaneously locate the position from which a wireless
message is sent, was the mechanism which furnished much of this
information. Of course, the Germans knew that their messages revealed
their locations, for they had direction-finders as well as we, but the
fear of discovery did not act as a curb upon a naturally loquacious
nature.”
The radio service of the _Corsair_ was considered unusually efficient
by no less an authority than Admiral Wilson, who had occasion to write
the following commendation:
_Brest, France_
_29 April, 1918_
From: Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France.
To: Commanding Officer U.S. _Corsair_.
Subject: Forwarding of radio dispatch.
1. An important message from the U.S.S. _Seattle_, addressed to the
Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France, was intercepted by the U.S.S.
_Corsair_ and forwarded to destination via the District Commander
Rochefort. This message was received in the Communication Office,
Brest, about three P.M. Sunday, 28 April, 1918.
2. The Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France is greatly pleased with
this proof of the alertness and efficiency of the radio personnel on
board the U.S.S. _Corsair_. The message was not heard by the French
high powered station, Brest, and while it was heard by the Flag
Radio Station in Brest, it was not copied in its entirety because of
interference from near-by stations, and the correct copy as received
from the U.S.S. _Corsair_ was of great assistance.
(Signed) WILSON
The Communications Officer of the ship, Ensign Gray, took the keenest
interest in maintaining the radio operations at the top notch and a
technical training at Annapolis aided a natural ability for this sort
of work. The chief radio operator, H. C. Breckel, was an unusually
valuable man for his position and felt a pride in the reputation of the
_Corsair’s_ radio-room which was shared by his “gang” of assistants.
The spirit of the organization was indicated in the incident which
caused Admiral Wilson to compliment it. The yacht was moored at
Pauillac at the time, and was not required to keep a radio watch, but
the operators were on the job nevertheless. The _Seattle_ was standing
by a Luckenbach steamer, more than a thousand miles out at sea, which
had stripped its turbines and was in urgent need of help from Brest.
The message went through because the _Corsair_ caught and relayed it.
Every hour of the day and night an operator sat at a table in the
little room which none of the crew was allowed to enter. With a
receiver clamped to his head, he listened and heard a myriad faint
and phantom voices. The air was filled with them. The mystery, the
incredible magic and romance of it all, had become commonplace. Ships
were talking to each other hundreds of miles apart, mere routine
sometimes, and then the call for help, or the thrilling report of
an escape from a submarine attack. And woven through it all was the
continuous communication of the high-powered shore stations which shot
into space the secret orders and inquiries of admiralties and war
departments and statesmen.
The radio log of the _Corsair_ recorded an immense variety of
conversations, some of them quite informal, such as this chat with
another vessel of the Breton Patrol:
“What do you know? What did you see last night?”
“We don’t know anything. We saw two submarines last night.”
“We saw a ship torpedoed about 7.00 this morning, but did not see the
submarine.”
“Have you been copying much?”
“We have been copying mostly GLD messages and SOS messages and a few
CHGT.”
“Here is an SOS that came in at 1.10 P.M.—CG. GLD de FFK de “VEK”
47:45 08:40 W. 11025.”
“We got that one and it did not mean that the last message was at 8.00
P.M. last night. We have got a few SOS messages. Have heard a lot of
work.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Did you get that Allo from FFK?”
“I just got part of it and am waiting for a repetition.”
“Here it is. Allo 47:30 09:34 W. 1219.
“Thanks. Thanks.”
The garrulous U-boats seem to have kept up an endless stream of
chatter, and the radio force of the _Corsair_ learned to know and
identify some of them, by their manner of sending, as if they were old
acquaintances. One of the reports will give an idea of this curious
interchange of communication which was carried on between hostile
craft, unseen and hunting each other with deadly intent:
On November 21, 1917, the _Corsair_, _Smith_, _Preston_, _Flusser_,
and _Lamson_ were returning to Base, position approximately Latitude
47° 30′ North, Longitude 8° 40′ West. A number of enemy submarines
were intercommunicating as follows:
At 8.36 P.M. one sub called another who answered, and two messages
were sent. These signals came in very strong which indicated that subs
were close to us.
At 8.59 P.M. the same sub transmitted another message to the one
communicated with before.
At 9.01 P.M. a different sub called three others, one of which was the
first sender.
At 9.18 P.M. Bruges began sending a message to the sub that called at
9.01 P.M.
At 9.57 P.M. Bruges was still heard.
At 10.16 P.M. a different sub called another which was the one who
received the messages at 8.36 P.M.
At 9.36 P.M. the _Corsair_ was called and received a message from
Brest.
At 10.54 and again at 10.56 P.M. the _Corsair_ was called by an enemy
submarine using P.F.B., the same call used by Brest.
At 10.59 _Corsair_ answered and told him to go ahead. Sub sent “3 H 5”
and then his signals died out.
At 11.04 _P.M._ sub called _Corsair_ and told _Corsair_ to go ahead
with message.
At 11.10 _P.M._ the same sub called a British convoy.
At 11.15 _P.M._ sub called _Corsair_ and said go ahead with message.
At 11.16 _Corsair_ called sub and sent a message, the groups of which
were taken from several intercepted German messages.
At 11.17 sub acknowledged _Corsair’s_ message.
At 11.25 P.M. sub called _Corsair_ and asked for a repetition of the
second group.
_Corsair_ did not answer.
Sub repeated message. This time he was impatient as he said “Go ahead”
twice.
The subs continued to intercommunicate during the night, and also with
Bruges.
The radio service of the _Corsair_ in the war zone was so important
and essential a part of her activities that a description of it in
some detail seems well worth recounting. Chief Radio Electrician H. F.
Breckel went to the trouble of preparing a narrative which reads as
follows, and it goes without saying that he was the man best fitted to
undertake such a task:
I reported on board the U.S.S. _Corsair_, then at the Navy Yard,
Brooklyn, during the last week in May, 1917, in accordance with
orders from the Bureau of Navigation. At that time I was attached
to the U.S.S. _Ohio_, then at Yorktown, Virginia, which was the war
base of the Atlantic Fleet. Reporting to Ensign Gray, Communications
Officer of the _Corsair_, I was told that I would be in charge of the
operation of the radio department and to get things in shape for a
long cruise away from any established base of supplies.
[Illustration: H. A. BRECKEL, CHIEF RADIO OPERATOR]
[Illustration: ELECTRICIANS SWAN AND PLUMMER, OF THE HIGHLY EFFICIENT
“RADIO GANG”]
My first step was to make sure of a personnel which would furnish
efficient service under all conditions. Four operators were necessary
and this number was soon sent to the ship, and a better group of men
could not have been found in any vessel. The radio force comprised:
Ensign Gray, U.S.N.R.F. (Radio Officer)
Harry F. Breckel, U.S.N. (Chief Electrician, Radio)
James A. Plummer, U.S.N.R.F. (Electrician, 1st Class, Radio)
Meriam H. Swan, U.S.N.R.F. (Electrician, 2nd Class, Radio)
Ivan E. Davis, U.S.N. (Electrician, 2nd Class, Radio)
Each man was given a thorough examination when he reported on board
and the results indicated that all of them were proficient and
reliable operators. We promptly set to work and the radio-room fairly
hummed, day and night. The transmitting apparatus was inspected,
calibrated to the proper wave lengths, and tested. The receiving
apparatus was also overhauled, minor repairs made, and adjusted to
receive the various wave lengths used by other U.S. naval vessels.
Then the inspection included the various switch-boards, storage
batteries, heating and lighting systems, motor generators, etc.
The radio-room was located on the main deck with doors opening
directly on deck, so it was necessary to devise a lighting circuit
which should automatically switch off the lamps when the doors were
opened, as the ship moved in total darkness. After stocking up with
spare parts, the antenna was given careful attention, for nothing is
more exasperating than to have your wires carry away and to have to
replace them in heavy weather.
During a trial run in Long Island Sound, the radio installation was
tested under normal conditions of service and was found to be in first
class shape. The very fine type of apparatus aboard the _Corsair_
made only a few changes necessary in order to make it conform with
the standards of the Navy. We operators were fortunate in stepping
into a radio-room so efficiently and completely furnished. There was a
large desk with space for the Radio Officer in his work of coding and
decoding despatches, a bookshelf, several chairs, a large wall settee
which I used as a bunk, and a safe in which were kept the code books,
ciphers, and other confidential material. With regard to comfort,
there was no better “radio shack” aboard any ship of the Navy.
There was steam heat and running water which was cold, but we
discovered that we could obtain hot water for scrubbing clothes,
paint-work, etc., from the steam radiator. I ask you, fellow
“Sparks” and “ex-Sparks” of the Navy, can you picture such comfort
and convenience in a real, honest-to-goodness man-of-war? And it
all helped to maintain good service. Our gang also had a percolator
along with the necessary watts from the ship’s generator, and the
outfit could turn out a brew of “boiler compound” that would keep a
Mississippi colored gentleman with the hook-worm wide awake. We surely
had a home on board the old _Corsair_!
At last, on that memorable 14th of June the ship pointed her bow to
the eastward and steamed slowly down the Bay, with the dreary moans of
fog-horns for farewell, and no cheers or blaring bands or fluttering
flags. In the radio-room there was very little to do as we had been
instructed to keep communication down to the minimum, for the enemy
might infer from the amount of radio traffic in the air that some
unusual movement was under way, or he might plot the exact positions
by means of a direction-finder or radio compass. At the beginning of
the war, naval vessels had a characteristic “spark” or “tone” quite
different from the average commercial or naval shore stations, and an
operator familiar with these variations could readily tell which was
which. It was easy to understand why the troop convoys were kept as
silent as possible.
For several days there was little radio work besides copying the Time
and Weather reports which were broadcasted from the Arlington station,
and intercepting for the skipper’s information all radio traffic
heard by the operator on watch. In mid-ocean almost nothing was heard
because we were out of range of the ordinary “spark stations,” but our
“long wave” receiver, constructed by our own force, had no trouble in
copying messages from such stations as Darien (Canal Zone), Tuckerton,
New Jersey, Boston, and other high-powered naval radio stations while
the _Corsair_ was half way across the Atlantic. It was excellent work
when you consider the fact that the special apparatus and “hook up”
used were of the simplest type and that an amateur Audion detector
bulb was employed.
When about five days out, the real job began. The _Corsair_ was called
by the flagship _Seattle_ and a long code message received by the
operator on watch. The apparatus functioned perfectly and there was
every reason to believe that very little trouble, barring accidents,
would be encountered. Soon we received orders to get in touch with the
_Birmingham_, flagship of the second division of the convoy and to
forward a message to her. After joining the second division, there
was absolute silence for several days, and no radio signals were heard
at all until we drew near to the coast of France and the edge of the
war zone. Then traffic began to be heavy and the operators were busy
copying messages into the “intercepted log book” almost every minute
of the day and night.
This log was of great value to the captain, for the radio station of
a fighting ship is an information bureau which maintains intimate
touch with events occurring in other areas. In these days a man-of-war
without a radio-room would be almost deaf, dumb, and blind. We knew
that we were actually in the war when the distress calls from sinking
ships or those which were under attack by submarines began to come
hurtling through the air. This in itself was enough to prove the
priceless value of the radio in saving life. For some time I kept
a chart upon which were plotted all the positions of vessels which
transmitted radio calls for help, but within two months so many of
these calls had been received that I had little space left in which to
record the new ones.
A typical distress call would come in like this:
_SOS SOS SOS_ 48° 12′ _North_, 12° 00′ _West_. _Torpedoed Sinking._
_S.S. John Luckenbach_ 1025.
When a submarine was sighted by an Allied vessel, a simple form of
position report was broadcasted by the operator at once, as follows:
_Allo_ (_French for Hello_) 49° 15′ _N._ 09° 06′ _W._ 0815 _MXA_.
The radio operator continued to broadcast these signals until an
acknowledgment was received from one of the larger, more powerful
coastal radio stations which immediately broadcasted the message on
high power to all ships and stations for their information. The radio
operators on vessels at sea which received this general warning would
at once notify the captain who could thereby avoid the dangerous
locality or proceed to the aid of the ship in distress.
After we had arrived at Saint-Nazaire the work of the radio-room
did not cease, for we kept a continuous watch, intercepting every
message of importance which we were able to copy. When the _Corsair_
was ordered to proceed to Brest, it was necessary to observe the
regulation which required all vessels desiring to enter that port
to transmit by radio a special form of message, addressed to the
port authorities, requesting permission. Failure to do so would have
risked bombardment by the shore batteries. The reply from Brest stated
whether or not the channel was clear of mines and enemy submarines.
The radio shore station at Brest was about five miles from the
American naval base and was an old type, low frequency installation.
The “spark” at the time of our arrival was very difficult to read
through atmospheric electrical disturbances, and did not have
sufficient range. However, after the American base was permanently
organized, a modern installation replaced the old one and American
naval operators were placed on duty to handle all radio traffic that
concerned our naval and other shipping. This was a great improvement
over the early method of letting the French operators handle it.
When the _Corsair_ went out on patrol duty, the radio force caught
many distress calls and submarine warnings, and the information
enabled the ship to render aid on several occasions. In working with
the Aphrodite when we covered adjoining patrol areas, the captains
were able to exchange information concerning new situations to be
dealt with and to operate in concert. The messages intercepted from
the British radio station at Lands End were particularly useful and
the operators kept a sharp lookout for them. At least one crew of
survivors of a French fishing vessel was rescued by the _Corsair_
because of a message intercepted from this coastal station.
In the later duty on escort with the convoys, the amount of traffic
handled by the radio force was largely increased. Because of
difficulties unforeseen, such as stormy weather, break-downs, etc., it
was rarely that a convoy was sighted in the exact position designated.
The radio enabled the escort commander to ask the convoy for definite
information as to location, course, direction, and speed. It also kept
the convoys clear of the enemy mine-fields. I recall an instance when
the _Corsair_ put into Penzance. The day before sailing from that
port the radio operator on duty intercepted a message from the French
high-powered station at Nantes, stating that the entrance to Brest had
been mined by German submarines and that all ships were forbidden to
approach. The _Corsair_ thereupon waited at Penzance with her convoy
until word was received that the Brest channel had been swept clear.
The severest test for the radio personnel came in December, 1917,
when a hurricane almost finished the yacht. Early in the storm it
was almost impossible for the operator on watch to stay in his chair
although it was screwed to the deck. The climax came in the dead of
night when a terrific sea struck the _Corsair_ on the port side, stove
in bulkheads, and lifted the hatch over the radio-room clear of the
deck and allowed about a ton of icy sea water to pour in. The operator
was half-drowned, as well as the whole installation, and the apparatus
was rendered useless for the time. As the seas got worse, the water
forced itself into the radio-room through the doors in spite of
the fact that every crack was calked as tightly as possible. More
than a foot of water piled up on the floor and there was no system of
drainage, so every time the vessel rolled or pitched it all swashed up
at one side of the room or the other.
[Illustration: AT THE EMERGENCY WHEEL. HEAVY WEATHER OFFSHORE]
[Illustration: THE TRIM, IMMACULATE NAVY MAN. AFTER COALING SHIP]
About this time the depth charges washed overboard and I can tell
you that the “Sparks” on board the _Corsair_ were sure they were up
against a big proposition. Here we were, with the entire receiver
swimming in water, the transmitting panel splashed with it, the motor
generator submerged most of the time, our lead-in insulator and
lead-in frequently grounded by the huge waves which swept clear over
us, and yet facing a probable order from the skipper to send out a
distress call. We were all soaked to the skin, impossible to brew any
Java to warm us up, and all the time working hard to get the apparatus
back into shape.
I gave up the receiver as hopeless and tried to clear the grounds
on the motor generator while the rest of the gang tried to bale out
the water, but the ocean came in faster than they could scoop it
out. However, we managed to keep the water below the level of the
commutator and the collector rings of the motor generator, and after
clearing some of the worst grounds, during which the toilers were most
beautifully “jolted,” we gave the transmitter a short test and it
worked fairly well, considering the circumstances. Then I made my way
up to the boat deck and between seas managed to clean a layer of salt
off the lead-in insulator and gave it a heavy coat of oil.
Plummer and the rest of the gang were drying the various switches and
other parts of the transmitter and we managed to fix things so that an
S.O.S. could have been sent out. And all hands thought it was about
time to shoot it. The deck force succeeded in nailing up some doors
and canvas along the weather side of the radio-room, which was all
that prevented it from being smashed in. If our bulkheads had gone
there would have been no chance of keeping the transmitter in working
condition.
When we found refuge at Vigo, a survey of the damage was made. The
radio-room was simply a mess, like the rest of the ship, but within
eight hours we had the entire installation restored to the best of
health and ready for any emergency. Considering the fact that the
radio-room had been flooded with sea water for two and a half days, we
flattered ourselves that it was mighty speedy work.
During the long stay at Lisbon for repairs, we made a thorough
overhauling of the radio equipment but had no traffic to handle
excepting the press news from the Eiffel Tower which we copied for the
crew and for the American Legation. Our visit at Lisbon will always
be remembered as a very happy one. The people were most hospitable
and seemed to enjoy entertaining the bluejackets. The radio-room was
still in communication with Brest, 850 miles distant, but there was no
occasion for talking with the base station.
The work of the radio force while on escort duty, after we returned to
France, was much like that of the earlier cruises. It made us proud to
receive a letter of commendation from Admiral Wilson for forwarding
a message intercepted from the _Seattle_. I was sorry when, for a
time, I was transferred to shore duty with the District Commander at
Cherbourg and had to leave the radio-room of the _Corsair_. Plummer,
my right-hand man, was left in charge of the situation. Shortly before
the yacht sailed to the United States, I was lucky enough to make a
little visit aboard. Nothing would have pleased me more than a chance
to make the homeward bound voyage with the old crowd.
When the _Corsair_ went to France, she had as fine a crew of men as
were ever assembled on a deck. The radio force, with whom I worked
and lived, got on splendidly together and made a record of successful
operation which, I feel sure, compared favorably with that of any
other naval vessel engaged in similar duties and laboring under the
same kind of difficulties.
CHAPTER XII
THE LONG ROAD HOME
Although foreshadowed by rumor and report, the news of the armistice
which meant the end of the war came as a certain shock to the ships and
sailors on the French coast. It was curiously difficult to realize,
because long service had made the hard routine a matter of habit and
the mind had adjusted itself to the feeling that things were bound to
go on as they were for an indefinite period. The old life, as it had
been lived in the days of peace, seemed vaguely remote and discarded,
and the Navy thought only of guarding convoys and hunting submarines,
world without end. Then, at a word, on November 11, 1918, the great
game was finished, the U-boats turned sullenly in the direction of
their own bases to harry the seas no more as outlaws, and the darkened
transports and cargo steamers ran without fear, the cabin windows
ablaze with light.
It was this which most impressed the crews of the yachts and
destroyers, that they would steer no more shrouded courses and dice
with the peril of collision while they zigzagged among the huge ships
that threatened to stamp them under, or dodged to find the rendezvous
where the routes of traffic crossed and the nights were black and
menacing. More by instinct than by sight, the Navy had learned to feel
its way in the dark, and it was actually true that the ocean seemed
unfamiliar when the running lights shone again and the almost forgotten
rules of the road had to be observed.
The job was finished. Two million soldiers were in France to testify
that the Navy had done its share. And now, as soon as the sense
of bewilderment lifted, with one common impulse all hands of this
battered, intrepid fleet that flew the Stars and Stripes talked and
dreamed of going home. There was nothing else to it. All the sundered
ties and yearnings awoke and the faces of these young sailors were
turned westward, toward Sandy Hook instead of the roadstead of Brest
and the fairway of the Gironde. Every wife and sweetheart was tugging
at the other end of the long tow-rope.
The _Corsair_ went to sea for her last convoy cruise on October 24th.
Returning from this errand, she was ordered to Bordeaux and was moored
there until November 10th for necessary repair work. On the day of the
armistice she dropped down the river to Royan and the log-book makes
no mention of one of the greatest events in the history of mankind,
excepting this entry in the “Communication Record,” as a signal sent
from shore by the Port Officer:
Have you any colors you can lend the French balloon station to-day?
In the sailors’ diaries there was one brief note, but it concerned
itself also with a mishap to the beef stew served on that day, as a
matter of importance:
Armistice signed. Great stuff. Found a cockroach in the mulligan.
Could you beat it?
From Royan the _Corsair_ moved to Verdon, and there received orders on
November 13th to proceed to sea and intercept incoming ships, warning
them how to keep clear of mine-fields and instructing them as to
destinations. The yacht went out, but received a radio next day from
the District Commander, telling her to return to Pauillac. Another
message set the crew to wondering:
_Corsair_ detached from this District and will go to Brest. State
requirements.
As soon as he could get ashore, at midnight, Commander Porter used the
telephone to Rochefort and was informed by the District Commander that
the _Corsair_ “had a fine job ahead of her,” but here the information
stopped. This was just enough to set everybody guessing wildly and once
more “the scuttle-butt was full of rumors.” Pursuant to instructions
the _Corsair_ promptly took on supplies and sailed for Brest, arriving
on November 16th. There the other yachts were all astir with the
expectation of flying their homeward-bound pennants. They were soon to
set out on the blithe voyage across the Atlantic, by way of the Azores
and Bermuda—the first division comprising the _Vidette_, _Corona_,
_Sultana_, _Emiline_, and _Nokomis_; in the second division the
_Christabel_, _May_, _Remlik_, and _Wanderer_, veterans of the coastal
convoy routes and the wild weather offshore.
[Illustration: BOATSWAIN’S MATE FRENCH BOUGHT A PET PARROT IN LISBON]
[Illustration: “TOMMY,” THE SHIP’S CAT, WHO FINISHED STRONG IN THE
HURRICANE]
[Illustration: “TEDDY,” WHO WAS GIVEN A MILITARY FUNERAL WHEN HE
SWALLOWED A NAIL]
It was decreed otherwise for the _Corsair_ and she was to remain
six months longer in foreign waters, thereby rounding out a service
of almost two years as a naval vessel. Captain John Halligan, chief
of staff to Admiral Wilson, was kind enough to end the suspense and
vouchsafe the information that the _Corsair_ would go to England and
hoist the flag of Rear Admiral S. S. Robison who was about to sail for
Kiel to inspect what was left of the German Navy. This was a highly
interesting assignment and the _Corsair_ was envied by the other ships.
In order to make her fit to serve as a flagship the depleted stock
of china, linen, and silver was replaced, after persuasive arguments
with the naval storekeeper at Brest. Several officers were detached
at this time, which made room on board for an admiral’s staff. These
were Ensign J. W. McCoy, Lieutenant S. K. Hall (J.G.), Lieutenant C. R.
Smith (J.G.), Lieutenant R. V. Dolan (J.G.), and Ensign A. V. Mason,
Assistant Engineer. The new arrivals in the war-room were Ensign E. F.
O’Shea and Lieutenant E. B. Erickson, Assistant Paymaster.
On November 18th the _Corsair_ sailed from Brest with the expectation
of acting as the flagship representing the United States in the
surrender and internment of the naval forces of Imperial Germany. As
passengers she carried to England Captain E. P. Jessop, U.S.N., and
Commander C. T. Hutchins, Jr., who had been commissioned to examine the
German submarines. The orders included a stop at Saint Helens, Isle of
Wight, for routing instructions. There the _Corsair_ was told to seek
further information from the patrol off Folkstone. War restrictions
concerning war channels, mine-fields, pilotage, and closed ports were
still in force.
Commander Porter jogged along until Folkstone was reached in the
evening, and was there informed that there was no patrol, but that the
channel was clear to Dover. A fog came down thick while the _Corsair_
waited off Dover Breakwater for a pilot, but none appeared, so she
went on her way through the Strait and past the Goodwin Sands, pausing
to inquire at the North Gull light-ship if anybody had seen a Thames
pilot thereabouts. Deal was suggested as a good place to look, so the
_Corsair_ returned and anchored there at midnight. No pilot could be
found, however, so at five o’clock in the morning the skipper hove up
his mud-hook and “trailed along” as he said, with some ships that were
bound to the northward.
The pace was too slow to suit him, so he joined company with another
group of vessels ahead and discovered, a little later, that they were
mine-sweepers engaged in clearing the channel. This was considered a
fairly good joke on the skipper. He said good-bye to this dangerous
flotilla and steamed along alone, anchoring twice in a fog that was
like a wool blanket, and fetched up for the night eight miles below
Sheerness.
Asking permission of the patrol next morning to proceed up the Thames
to Gravesend, the _Corsair_ learned that her destination had been
changed to Sheerness. Here she met with a disappointment. The cruiser
_Chester_ arrived unexpectedly and was selected as the flagship of
Rear Admiral Robison, as was quite proper. It’s an ill wind that blows
nobody good, however, and just after starting north for Rosyth and
the Grand Fleet, the _Chester_ was compelled to return with machinery
disabled. The _Corsair_ was ordered to proceed to Scotland in place of
the cruiser and she left the Thames on November 30th to steam up into
the gray North Sea, and the great war base near Edinburgh.
It was fondly believed on board that the yacht would be employed to
take the American admiral across to visit the German naval ports, but
they found him in the British battleship _Hercules_ with the other
admirals of the Allied naval commission, and they all sailed next
day in this big ship for Kiel. This was rather hard medicine for the
_Corsair_, to be disappointed again after singing for so long in hearty
chorus that on the Kiel Canal they’d float and likewise knock the hell
out of Heligoland, and now they were deprived of a sight of these
notorious nests of the enemy’s warships.
It was something to remember, however, this visit to the North Sea and
a sojourn with the grim squadrons of Admiral Sir David Beatty which
had, through four weary, vigilant years held the German High Sea Fleet
in check and made safe the surface of the seas for the shipping of the
world.
The _Corsair_ dropped anchor at Rosyth on the day that the American
battleship division sailed for home, the first-class fighting ships of
Rear Admiral Hugh Rodman which had shared the vigil at Scapa Flow in
the gloomy Orkneys and had earned that farewell tribute which Admiral
Beatty paid the American officers and men when he called them his
“comrades of the mist.” A storm of British cheers bade a fare-you-well
to the _New York_ and her sister ships as their flag hoists and
semaphores and blinkers talked for the last time in the British signal
code, which they had used because they were, not an independent
American squadron, but the Sixth Battle Division of the Grand Fleet and
gladly operating as such.
The _Corsair’s_ crew had seen much of the French Navy on active
service, but this was the first opportunity for intimate contact with
British ships and sailors. They found a spirit of cordial welcome
and there was a pleasant interchange of calls, of entertainment on
shipboard, motion-picture shows, and inspection of the mighty fighting
craft which bore the scars of Jutland. Shore liberty at Edinburgh was
a most interesting diversion, and the American sailors found that the
Scotch people were fond of them and proud of the record for behavior
left by the thousands of their comrades who had landed from Admiral
Rodman’s battleships.
After twelve days in the Firth of Forth, the _Corsair_ was relieved
by the _Chester_ and received orders to report at Portland, England.
During the voyage north, Commander Porter had navigated through four
hundred miles of swept war channels where the abundance of German mines
was presumed to require the most ticklish care. The cleared passages
were strewn with wrecks and most British merchantmen were anchoring
at night. The _Corsair_ had picked her way, not in a reckless spirit,
but because she was due to reach her destination at a specified time
and it was the habit of the ship to arrive when she was expected.
While returning south to Portland, a pilot was taken on at Yarmouth
and casual reference was made to the fact that the yacht had chosen
the north channel into the mouth of the Thames while coming over from
France.
“My word, but you are lucky beggars!” exclaimed the ruddy pilot. “You
should have gone in by the south channel, you know. The other one is a
bloomin’ muck o’ mines that ain’t been swept. You couldn’t wait a week
for a bally pilot, eh? The sportin’ chance! I fancy it’s the proper
spirit in a navy, what?”
At Portland the _Corsair_ found the U.S.S. _Bushnell_ which had served
as the mother ship of the American submarine flotilla in Bantry Bay.
With her waited five mine-sweepers and five submarine chasers all ready
and anxious to sail for home. The yachts _Harvard_ and _Aphrodite_ had
come over from Brest and were attached to the North Sea patrol. Later
in the winter they were sent to Germany. The _Aphrodite_ hit a mine en
route, but luckily its action was delayed and, although damaged, she
was able to make port. What aroused eager interest at Portland was a
group of five German submarines, moored close to the _Bushnell_, which
comprised an installment of the surrendered fleet of U-boats. Their
frightfulness was done. Meekly they had crossed the North Sea, at the
bidding of the victors, to be tied up all in a row as a rare show for
the jeering comment of British and American bluejackets.
To the sailors of the _Corsair_ it was fascinating to inspect and
investigate these uncouth sea monsters which they had hunted and bombed
with no more mercy than if they had been vermin. Instead of winning the
war for Germany, they had turned the tide against her by arousing the
United States to launch its armed forces in the cause of the Allies.
And they had branded the German name with infamy and reddened German
hands with the blood of thousands of slain seamen.
[Illustration: WITH THE GRAND FLEET AT ROSYTH]
[Illustration: SURRENDERED GERMAN SUBMARINES TIED UP AT PORTLAND TWO
AMERICAN SUBMARINES ARE WITH THEM]
Christmas Day of 1918 was spent in this English harbor of Portland and
the occasion was not as joyous as might have been, although the
_Corsair’s_ log of December 24th contained this entry:
Received the following general stores: 118 lbs. geese, 23 lbs. ducks,
12 bunches celery, 100 lbs. cauliflower, 50 lbs. Brussels sprouts, 85
lbs. beets, 700 lbs. bread, 5040 lbs. potatoes.
The home-made poetry inspired by this Christmas in exile seemed to lack
the punch of former ballads as sung by the bluejackets’ glee club. One
of the productions went like this, with a perceptible tinge of pathos:
“It was Christmas on the _Corsair_,
’Neath England’s cold, gray skies,
And one and all on board her
Hove long and pensive sighs.
“Some of us longed for our families,
Our wives and children dear,
While others wished for their sweethearts
And maybe shed a tear.
“We sailors, tho’ outwardly happy,
Were moved by memory
Of mother, home, and sweetheart,
So far beyond the sea.
“So while the war is ended
And gladness reigns supreme,
Yet to the boys on the _Corsair_,
Peace is an idle dream.
“Waiting for sailing orders,
The ships all on the bum,
This special duty is surely enough
To drive a man to rum.
“But the sailor believes in the doctrine
Of sunshine after rain,
And as soon as the job is over,
He is ready to try it again.
“So when we get back to the homeland,
As we will some day, we trust,
There isn’t one if called upon,
Who wouldn’t repeat or bust.
“The destroyers are gone to the west’ard,
The battleships, too, are home,
But this poor old yacht has been forgot
And is left here to finish ALONE!!”
On the day after this rather subdued Christmas, the _Corsair_ was
informed of her destination, which was Queenstown, Ireland, and her
mission was to relieve the U.S.S. _Melville_ as the flagship of
Admiral Sims, Commanding the U.S. Naval Forces in European Waters.
The _Melville_, the last word in naval construction as a repair and
supply ship, had been nominally the flagship during the service of the
destroyer flotillas at Queenstown, although the official headquarters
and residence of Admiral Sims were in London. During this time the
_Melville_ had quartered Captain J. R. P. Pringle, the American chief
of staff and his organization which coöperated with the British Admiral
Sir Lewis Bayly in maintaining and directing the destroyer force.
The elaborate and smoothly running machine of operation, supply,
equipment, and personnel had come to a halt with the armistice. The
destroyers had fled homeward. The barracks and _dépôts_ for material
at Passage, a little way up the river, had been almost emptied, and the
great naval aviation base on the other side of Queenstown Harbor was
like a deserted city. All that remained was what Admiral Bayly called
the job of “cleaning up the mess.” For this the American chief of staff
was required to linger on the scene, but it was decided to send the
_Melville_ home and the _Corsair_ was elected to take the place, or, as
her men said, “it was wished on her.”
On December 27th the yacht tied up alongside the _Melville_ in
Queenstown Harbor, and three days later Captain Pringle and his staff
transferred their offices and living quarters. This group of officers
comprised Commander A. P. Fairfield, Lieutenant Commander D. B.
Wainwright (Pay Corps), Lieutenant A. C. Davis, Ensign W. B. Feagle.
Soon the _Corsair_ was alone as the only American naval vessel in this
port which had swarmed with the keen activity of scores of destroyers
and thousands of bluejackets. To build up this force and keep it
going at top speed had been an enormous task, but it was no slight
undertaking to pull it down again. Winter rains and sodden skies made
Queenstown even drearier than when the liberty parties of destroyer
men had piled ashore to fill the American Sailors’ Club, or surge
madly around and around in the roller-skating rink, or live in hope of
cracking the head of a Sinn Feiner as the most zestful pastime that
could be offered.
Dashing young destroyer officers no longer lingered a little in the pub
of the Queen’s Hotel for a smile from a rosy barmaid with the gift of
the blarney, and a farewell toast before going to sea again, while the
Royal Cork Yacht Club, down by the landing pier, seemed almost forlorn
without the sociable evenings when American and British naval officers
had swapped yarns of the day’s work and talked the “hush stuff” about
mystery ships and U-boats that would never see their own ports again.
High up the steep hillside, the White Ensign flew from the mast
in front of Admiral House, and Admiral Sir Lewis Bayly, austere,
efficient, but very human, one of the ablest officers of the British
Navy, still toiled at his desk or puttered among his flower gardens in
the rare hours of leisure, but his occupation as Commander-in-Chief
of the Coasts of Ireland was mostly in the past tense. Soon he was
to retire, with the stripes of a full admiral on his sleeve and a
long list of distinctions following his name, Knight Commander of the
Bath, Companion of the Victorian Order, the Legion of Honor of France;
but more than these he valued the friendship and high respect of the
American naval force at Queenstown, memorable because it was here that,
for the first time, the British and the American navies had worked and
dared as one, salty brothers-in-arms, to conquer the sea and make it
safe against a mutual foe.
[Illustration: THE CORSAIR AT QUEENSTOWN, AS FLAGSHIP OF ADMIRAL SIMS]
All of this the _Corsair_ perceived in retrospect while Captain Pringle
finished his fine record of service by disposing of all the odds and
ends of work demanded of him before the Stars and Stripes could be
hauled down and Queenstown finally abandoned as a base. As soon as the
_Corsair_ arrived in port, opportunity was offered the Reserve officers
and men to quit the ship and go home, instead of detaining them longer
on foreign service. Three officers and thirty men took advantage of
the chance and felt, fairly enough, that the war was over and the call
of duty no longer imperative. Other officers came to the ship in their
places—A. T. Agnew, Assistant Surgeon, who had joined at Rosyth, Ensign
C. R. Bloomer, Boatswain A. R. Beach, and Boatswain H. W. Honeck.
It was a long and tedious duty, lasting almost three months, this
serving as the flagship at Queenstown, but he also serves who only
stands and waits, and this was true of the _Corsair_. The aftermath
of the war was mostly drudgery, with all the fiery incentive and
thrilling stimulus removed, but the need was just as urgent and the
Navy responded, displaying the spirit which was best exemplified by
Rear Admiral Strauss and his mine-laying fleet which placed a barrier
of forty thousand mines across the upper end of the North Sea and then
manfully, uncomplainingly, spent a whole year in sweeping them up again.
One pleasant souvenir of the stay at Queenstown was a copy of the
following letter from Admiral Sir Lewis Bayly:
The Captain of the Dockyard has informed me that valuable assistance
was given by officers and men of the U.S. Navy in extinguishing the
fire in the Dockyard yesterday, Tuesday. I desire to thank you very
much for the assistance so smartly and ably given.
On March 20th the _Corsair_ left Queenstown for Spithead and Cowes to
meet a number of large German merchant ships and, as the flagship of
Admiral Sims, represent the United States in the business of transfer
to the American flag, as provided in the terms of the armistice. The
departure from Ireland caused no heart-breaking regrets, although many
congenial friendships had been formed ashore. For weeks the crew had
been more interested in sewing stitches in the homeward-bound pennant
than in any attractions that foreign ports could afford. Rumor had been
misleading as usual, and hopes often deferred.
At Cowes the _Corsair_ found four American destroyers, the _Woolsey_,
_Lea_, _Yarnell_, and _Tarbell_, and the naval tug _Gypsum Queen_ which
had been sent to do the work in hand. Drafts of American sailors had
been brought from Brest, La Pallice, Queenstown, and English ports to
man the German liners after their own crews had been taken out of them.
Commander T. G. Ellyson, U.S.N., acted as the representative of Admiral
Sims and was in charge of the transfer. While at Cowes he lived on
board the _Corsair_, with his staff. The London Times described the
episode as follows:
During the last few days a number of German merchant ships which have
been surrendered to the Allies under the Armistice conditions have
arrived at Cowes roadstead. The Hamburg-American liners _Cleveland_
and _Patricia_ were the first to arrive, and they were followed by
the _Cap Finisterre_, the _Kaiserin Auguste Victoria_, the _Graf
Waldersee_, the _Zeppelin_, and the _Kronprinz Friedrich Wilhelm_,
making seven of the eight expected at this port. The _La Plata_ is
expected to arrive in a day or two.
In place of the smart, spick-and-span German merchant sailors of
pre-war days, these large vessels, ranging up to 24,500 tons, were
mostly manned by motley crews of Germans, many wearing bowler hats and
untidy civilian dress. Many of them speak English and in conversation
showed that they were familiar with the Solent and local shipping,
while others had been to Cowes in Regatta times. One officer stated
that he had been there on the ex-Kaiser’s yacht _Meteor_. These
Germans are not allowed ashore but are transferred to the _Cap
Finisterre_, in which they will return to Germany when the _La Plata_
arrives. They have brought their own provisions with them but they
have been reprovisioned here.
New crews have been provided for the surrendered ships by the American
Navy, representatives of which are superintending the transfer of the
crews and the dispersal of the German ships which have left for other
ports. The _Cleveland_, _Kronprinz Friedrich Wilhelm_, and _Pretoria_
have sailed for Liverpool, the _Kaiserin Auguste Victoria_ and _Graf
Waldersee_ for Brest and the _Zeppelin_ for Plymouth. The German ships
fly the blue and white flag of the Inter-Allied Nations and have an
American escort, including the armed yacht _Corsair_, destroyers,
submarine chasers, and store-ships.
The North German Lloyd liner _Zeppelin_, with an American crew on
board, arrived at Devonport yesterday. The remainder of the American
naval forces at Plymouth will embark on her to-day, and after coaling
and taking on stores, the _Zeppelin_ will leave for Brest and the
United States.
Up to yesterday twenty-four of the one hundred German vessels
allocated to Leith had arrived there. A number of the ships were new;
in fact this voyage was their maiden one. When the total is complete,
the vessels will form a very handsome addition to the shipping in the
port. The conduct of the sailors is said to be satisfactory. There
were rumors that there was among the crews of some of the vessels
a revolutionary spirit, but these had no foundation. The crews are
reported to be eager and willing to do all that is required of them.
The duty of taking part in the distribution of German shipping, in
which the naval representatives of the United States were concerned,
took the _Corsair_ next to Harwich, the important East Coast base of
England, at which the main fleet of German submarines was surrendered
to Rear Admiral Sir Reginald Tyrwhitt, R.N. It was at Harwich that
the British submarines had rested and refitted between their perilous
patrol tours across the North Sea when they stalked the U-boat in a
deadly game of hide-and-seek which Fritz lacked the courage to play.
The British losses had been heavy, many a gallant submarine erased
from the list as missing with all hands, but the toll of U-boats had
been much greater and the results were worth the price they cost.
[Illustration: SEAMAN HENRY BARRY, BEFORE THEY WISHED ANOTHER JOB ON
HIM]
[Illustration: GUNNER’S MATE SIMPSON HOPES TO SPOT THAT SUB]
Out of Harwich had dashed that wonderful light cruiser division under
Admiral Tyrwhitt, always under two hours’ steaming notice to run north
as a tactical unit of the Grand Fleet or to tear at thirty knots for
the Strait of Dover to help defend and keep clear the main road to
France. And now the cruisers and destroyers and submarines no longer
moved restlessly in and out of Harwich Harbor to patrol the North
Sea, and Harwich was again a railway terminus on the route to Antwerp
and the Hook of Holland. As the American flagship, the _Corsair_
tarried there through part of April before sailing to Southend to
execute similar orders and duties. England was green and blooming
with the loveliness of its rare springtime, and the men of the lonely
American yacht were more than ever absorbed in thoughts of flying that
homeward-bound pennant.
At length there came an order from London, transmitted through the
cruiser _Galveston_ which was also at Southend, that seemed to promise
the _Corsair_ a start on the long road home:
On completion of transfer of stores and quota of draft of the German
steamship _Brandenburg_, you will proceed to Plymouth, England, with
the vessel under your command, arranging to arrive in the afternoon
of May 7th. On arrival report to the Commander-in-Chief, U.S. Naval
Forces, European Waters, for use of the Secretary of the Navy.
Secretary Daniels and his party were at this time on their way
to France and the United States after visiting the Allied naval
organizations. The _Corsair_ was designated to carry them from Plymouth
to Brest, and the British Admiralty carried out its part of the
programme with the most punctilious attention to detail, as is shown
in the printed memorandum under “Devonport General Orders” which was
signed by Admiral Cecil F. Thursby:
_Embarkation of Mr. J. Daniels, Secretary of the U.S. Navy._
U.S. Yacht _Corsair_ and one U.S.T.B.D. will arrive P.M. 7th May and
will be berthed as follows,—_Corsair_ alongside _Resolution_, bows
to southward, if possible. T.B.D. alongside No. 1 wharf, unless she
requires oil when she will proceed to _Orangeleaf_ and complete with
fuel.
The train conveying Mr. Daniels and party will arrive at No. 6 wharf
at 0800 on Thursday, 8th May. The Commander-in-Chief will receive Mr.
Daniels. The Vice Admiral Commanding First Battle Squadron and staff
and the Admiral Superintendent are requested also to be present at the
wharf. (Dress No. 5 without swords.)
A working party of three petty officers and twenty men in No. 5
dress, in charge of a warrant officer, is to be provided by Depot,
and to be at No. 6 wharf by 0745 to transfer baggage from train to
_Corsair_. As soon as Mr. Daniels and party and all baggage have been
embarked, _Corsair_ will proceed down harbor. Admiral Superintendent
is requested to arrange for a tug to be in attendance.
The _Corsair_ arrived punctually at Plymouth and was waiting to obey
the foregoing instructions when, at midnight, there came a telegram
which quite overshadowed the episode of carrying the Secretary of the
Navy, with all due respect to the dignity of his office. The message,
for which the yacht had waited so long, came in the form of a smudged
carbon copy as sent through the U.S. Naval Post-Office, but in the eyes
of those who scanned it the document was beautiful. It read:
U.S.S. _Corsair_ hereby detached duty European Waters. Proceed Brest
with Secretary of Navy and report to Admiral Halstead. Load any
personnel for which space is available and then proceed New York,
touching at Azores if necessary. Transfer any flag records to U.S.S.
_Chattanooga_ before leaving Plymouth.
Escorted by the American destroyer _Conner_, the _Corsair_ made a
fast and comfortable run to Brest. The passengers were the Secretary
and Mrs. Daniels; Rear Admiral David W. Taylor, Chief of the Bureau
of Construction and Repair; Rear Admiral Robert S. Griffin, Chief of
the Bureau of Steam Engineering; Rear Admiral Ralph Earle, Chief of
the Bureau of Ordnance; Commander Stewart E. Barber, Pay Corps, who
was officially attached to the _Corsair_; Commander Percy W. Foote,
personal aide to the Secretary; and Private Secretary May.
Brest Harbor was a familiar panorama to the few men aboard the
_Corsair_ who had shared the toil and excitement of those early
months of patrol work offshore, almost a year before. Now, however,
the transports were crammed with troops homeward bound, and there
was no more convoying the “empty buckets” out of Saint-Nazaire and
Bordeaux and Quiberon Bay, nor was there any chance of a brush with the
persistent U-boat which had been dubbed “Penmarch Pete.”
The _Corsair_ undertook her good-bye courtesies and ceremonies, one
of them a luncheon party on board, at which the guests were Rear
Admiral A. S. Halstead who succeeded Admiral Wilson as commander of the
naval forces in France; Major General Smedley D. Butler, commanding
the embarkation camp at Brest; Vice-Admiral Moreau and Rear Admiral
Grout of the French Navy and Mme. Grout; and Commander Robert E. Tod,
Director of Public Works at Brest.
[Illustration: THE HOMEWARD-BOUND PENNANT. “WE’RE OFF FOR LITTLE OLD
NEW YORK, THANK GOD”]
Not much time was wasted in port. Two days after arriving, on May
10th, the bunkers were filled with coal, and there was precious little
cursing over the hard and dirty job which had so often caused the
crew to agree that what General Sherman said about war was absurdly
inadequate. It was different now. Every shovel and basket of coal
meant steam to shove the old boat nearer home. That homeward-bound
pennant trailed jubilantly from the masthead, a silk streamer of red,
white, and blue, one hundred and eighty feet long, into whose folds had
been fondly stitched the desires, the yearnings, the anticipations of
every man in the ship. Only a few of them had stood, with bared heads,
on the _Corsair’s_ deck when she had been formally commissioned as a
fourth-rate gunboat of the United States Navy in May of 1917, and the
bright ensign had whipped in the breeze.
Many of that company had seen service in other ships and some were
civilians again, but memory was apt to hark back to the _Corsair_ with
a certain affection and regret. And wherever they were to be, these
youthful sailors would feel a thrill of pride and kinship at sight of a
Navy man and they would kindle to the sentiment:
“But there’s something at the heart-strings that tautens when I meet
A blue-clad sailor-man adrift, on shore leave from the fleet.”
Lieutenant McGuire, bred to the sea and experienced in ships, thought
it over after he came home and wrote these opinions of the _Corsair’s_
company and the work they did:
It was a pleasure to watch how eagerly the boys took hold of their new
jobs and how rapidly they became good sailors. For a comrade to stand
by in danger, give me first of all a plain, every-day, American gob.
He is not so much on the parade stuff, but offer him a chance to risk
his skin or his life for his friend or his flag and he is there every
time.
If this war has helped us as a nation in no other way, it has, I
believe, taught hundreds of thousands of men the meaning of their
country’s flag, taught them to love it as their own, and that to die
for it is an honor to be prized.
While the duty abroad was pretty strenuous at times, yet the average
American has the faculty of making friends in every port, which helped
to pass the few hours at his disposal when not engaged in coaling
ship. How we did envy the boys in the oil-burners!
The chief petty officers and petty officers of the American Navy are
exceptionally intelligent and proficient in their duties, and on many
occasions helped the average Reserve officer over rough places. I also
felt great admiration for the officers with whom I served and came in
contact, both Regular and Reserve.
CHAPTER XIII
HONORABLY DISCHARGED
Of the old crew, the crew which had sailed with Pershing’s First
Expeditionary Force, only two officers and eighteen men watched the
frowning headlands of Brittany sink into the sea as the _Corsair_
turned her bow to follow the long trail that led to the twin lights
of Navesink and the skyline of New York. A day at the Azores for
coal and she laid a course for Bermuda and another brief call before
straightening out for the last stretch of the journey. On May 28th she
steamed into her home port after an absence just a little short of two
years. There was no uproarious welcome when the gray _Corsair_ slipped
through the Narrows and sought a berth at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The
war had ended more than half a year earlier. It was already an old
story, but the ship had done her duty and was content with this.
A few days later she ceased to be enrolled in the United States Navy.
There was no ceremonious formality and the documents in the case were
exceedingly brief, but they signified the end of a story which had
added a worthy page to the annals of American manhood. “Ships are all
right. It is the men in them,” said one of Joseph Conrad’s wise old
mariners. This was true of the _Corsair_ and the other yachts of the
Breton Patrol. And so the Navy Department spoke the last word in this
concise order:
_Headquarters of the Third Naval
District, Brooklyn, New York_
_June 6, 1919_
From: Officer in Charge, Material Department.
To: Commanding Officer U.S.S. Corsair, S.P. 159.
Subject: Orders.
Proceed to W. & A. Fletcher Shipyard, Hoboken, N.J., June 9, 1919.
Place the vessel out of commission in accordance with orders enclosed
herewith, and deliver the vessel to representative of the owner, Mr.
J. P. Morgan. Have enclosed receipts in duplicate signed and return to
this office.
(Signed) C. L. ARNOLD,
_Captain, U.S.N._
(Enclosure.) The U.S.S. _Corsair_ is hereby placed out of commission,
June 9th, 1919.
Her owner surmised that the _Corsair_ had been run to death and worn
out in the Bay of Biscay, that she was to be regarded rather as a
relic than a yacht; but in this Mr. Morgan was happily disappointed.
The staunch ship was still fit to be overhauled and made ready for
the peaceful and leisurely service of other days. In her old berth at
Fletcher’s Yard she swarmed with artisans instead of bluejackets, and
they found many things to be done besides restoring the furniture,
fittings, partitions, and so on.
[Illustration:
_Copyright, 1899, by C. E. Bolles, Brooklyn_
THE CORSAIR WHEN IN COMMISSION AS A YACHT BEFORE THE WAR]
A stalwart man may tumble down three flights of stairs and escape
without a broken neck, but he is bound to be considerably shaken
up. This was painfully the case with a yacht which had been kept going
month in and month out, the fires drawn from under her boilers only
when she positively declined to make steam enough and was in a mood to
protest against such unfair treatment. That December hurricane had been
a bruising, almost fatal experience, and the repairs made at Lisbon
could not be called final.
As a ship, however, the _Corsair_ had strongly survived the ordeal,
and soon she began to resume the semblance of a shapely, sea-going
yacht. The graceful bowsprit was restored to the clipper stem, the deck
cleared of gun mountings, and the overhang was no longer cluttered
with the gear of the depth bombs. Chief Engineer Hutchison returned
to his own engine-room, and there was clangor and clatter as gangs of
mechanics repaired, replaced, and tuned up machinery which had been
driven to the limit of endurance.
The _Corsair’s_ steaming record in foreign service had amounted to
49,983.6 miles from June, 1917, to December, 1918, when she ceased
cruising to spend her time in English ports and at Queenstown. The
distance, by months, was as follows:
1917:
June 3244.4 miles
July 3358.7
August 3441.5
September 3343.7
October 2994.4
November 3045.6
December 557.1 (Engine counter disabled in hurricane)
1918:
January 880.9 miles (at Lisbon)
February 2635.8
March 2519
April 1279.3
May 3554.5
June 3823.8[7]
July 3609.8[7]
August 4300[7]
September 4027[7]
October 1155.7 (Repairs)
November 1030.4
December 1182
On July 31st, less than two months after being placed out of
commission as a naval vessel, the _Corsair_ hoisted the Commodore’s
flag of the New York Yacht Club. Trim and immaculate, she proceeded
to her anchorage at Glen Cove, to await cruising orders. There were
differences, however, and the _Corsair_ was not the same as of old.
Freshly painted, the hue of her funnel and hull was the gray of the
Navy. For a season, at least, the glistening black of her hull was not
to be restored. It seemed more fitting, somehow, that in this way she
should recall her long service in helping guard the road to France.
Upon her funnel were two service chevrons. The regulations awarded a
stripe for the first three months overseas and another for a full year
thereafter, until the date of the armistice. The decks were scraped and
holystoned and spotless, but where the guns had been there were wooden
plugs to mark the half-circles of the mounts, and the pine planking
was scarred where cases of shells had been dragged to be ready for the
swift team-work of the agile gun crews. These, too, were marks of honor
which it seemed a pity to obliterate. They signified that the _Corsair_
was something more than a yacht.
Another memento and reminder, to be highly regarded by the ship’s
company of those stirring days, is a letter from the Commander-in-Chief
of the United States Naval Forces in European Waters, who desired that
his “well done” should be included in this record. It is placed here by
way of “good-bye and fare-ye-well,” as the old chantey sang it. Admiral
Sims writes as follows:
_Naval War College
Newport, Rhode Island_
_1 December, 1919_
MY DEAR MR. PAINE:
To undertake to write the complete story of any one ship of the
American Navy and its experiences in the war zone seems to me a task
very well worth while. Needless to say, the work of the yachts and
their personnel on the coast of France was splendid, and I am only too
glad to have an opportunity to express my appreciation of them.
Because of the shortage of vessels suitable for convoy and escort
duty, and the gravely urgent circumstances, the yachts were sent
across with little time for preparation or training and with few
officers and men of the Regular Navy in their complements. They were
an emergency flotilla, but I felt confident that they would quickly
adapt themselves to the arduous conditions of their service in
European waters.
What did surprise me was that they were able to weather a winter in
the Bay of Biscay and to stay at sea with the convoys when yachts were
presumed to be tucked in harbor. This was greatly to the credit of the
courage, seamanship, and hardihood of the men who served in them. It
was conspicuously true of the _Corsair’s_ encounter with the December
hurricane in which she almost foundered, but succeeded in making port
at Lisbon. A similar spirit was shown when this vessel stood by the
disabled steamer _Dagfin_ and towed her three hundred miles through an
area in which enemy submarines were operating.
With a steaming record of 50,000 miles on foreign service, with the
unusual number of fourteen enlisted men appointed as commissioned
officers, and with repeated commendations from the Force Commander in
France, such a yacht served with honor to the flag and the Navy and
deserves the verdict of “Well Done, _Corsair_.”
Very sincerely yours
WM. S. SIMS
_Rear Admiral, U.S. Navy_
[Illustration:
_Copyright by Keystone View Co., N. Y._
ADMIRAL WILLIAM S. SIMS, COMMANDING THE U.S. NAVAL FORCES IN EUROPEAN
WATERS]
The yacht will always be tenanted with brave memories. And I am sure
that to her owner and to Captain Porter, as long as she shall float,
the _Corsair_ will seem to have caught and held in the fabric of her
somewhat of the spirit of those high-hearted young Americans who
manned and sailed and fought her in the war zone. For a ship which has
faithfully withstood the manifold ordeals of the sea becomes something
more than a mere artifice of wood and steel. She seems almost
sentient, like a living thing to those who have shared her fortunes,
and therein is the immemorial romance of blue water.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Mileage for this month greater than any of the yachts or smaller
destroyers.
CHAPTER XIV
THE SHIP’S COMPANY
In order to make the record complete, the following is a list of the
enlisted personnel of the _Corsair_ during her enrollment in the United
States Navy. So many changes occurred from time to time that the roster
includes almost three hundred names. Those marked with an asterisk (*)
sailed for France in the original complement and remained on board
until the armistice.
_Joined as_: _Rating advanced to_:
Ashby, Corydon N. Sea. 2c. Q.M. 1c. (_Ensign_)
Anderson, Boyd J. Appr. Sea. S.C. 1c.
Auerbach, J. Sea.
Appleton, J. W. F. 2c. Sea.
Armstrong, Melvin L. Shipwright C.M. 3c.
Adair, W., Jr. Sea.
Arensburg, H. Sea. 2c.
Aguas, I. C. F. 1c. Eng. 2c.
Antle, A. A. M.M. 2c.
Allen, Raymond F. Q.M. 1c.
Best, Jesse G. C.Ph.M.
Bolyard, Berton Cox.
Browning, J. M. C.Q.M.
Bragg, Thomas W. Sea.
Booker, C. R. Yeo. 2c.
Brinkman, F. L. Sea. 2c.
Birmingham, Frank J. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Bailey, Early Sea. 2c. M.Att. 2c.
Barr, Dee F. F. 3c. F. 1c.
Banister, Charles F. 3c. H.A. 2c.
Bennett, Austin O. F. 1c. M.M. 1c.
Bedford, H. H. F. 1c.
Black, Samuel Sea. 2c. Sea.
Benedict, Raymond D. Sea. 2c. Yeo. 2c.
Bradford, W. H. F. 1c.
Berg, O. J. F. 2c. F. 1c.
Bonsall, T. C. Cox. B.M. 2c.
*Benton, Edward M. Sea. C.Q.M.
*Brillowski, Anthony J. F. 2c. Eng. 1c.
*Barry, Henry A. Sea. C.C.S.
Bayne, Carroll S. Sea. Ensign
Byram, C. S. F. 2c.
Breckel, H. F. Elec. 1c. R. Ch. E.R. (_Ensign_)
Barko, A. W. G.M. 3c. G.M. 1c.
Balano, F. Sea. Cox.
Bischoff, H. J. F. 2c. F. 1c.
Conners, Martin Sea.
Crenshaw, Charles E. Sea.
Cutlip, H. F. 3c.
Choiniere, F. C.C.M.
*Copeland, A. T. Sea. Q.M. 1c. (_Ensign_)
Connolly, C. Yeo. 3c. Yeo. 2c.
Cramer, F. A. M.M. 2c.
Clark, Wm. McK. M.Att. 3c.
Corbett, D. C. F. 3c. F. 2c.
Caruso, James F. 3C. F. 1c.
Carroll, Ross F. 3c. S. 2c.
Crowther, S. F. S.C. 2c.
Carroll, James A. F. 1c. W.T.
Clayton, E. E. Elec. 2c. R.
Chapman, Wm. F. F. 2c. F. 1c.
Collins, Geo. R. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Chase, Vaughn E. Sea. 2c. Cox.
Cordt, J. W. F. 3c. F. 2c.
Clinch, T., Jr. Elec. 2c. G.
*Cure, Henry S.C. 2c. C.S.
Curtin, J. J. F. 1c.
Carey, N. J. Bugler
Coffey, Arthur H. Sea.
*Carroll, Owen W.T. C.W.T.
Durham, Wm. H. F. 2c.
Dvorak, J. J. Sea. 2c.
Dykstra, Harry F. 2c. F. 1c.
Dodson, LaM. A. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Dames, E. E. Sea. 2c.
Duke, W. M., Jr. Sea.
David, I. E. Elec. 3c. R. Elec. 2c. R.
Davis, Raymond T. C.C.M.
*Donaldson, Stanley J. Sea. 2c. Elec. 2c. G.
De Amorsolo, V. M.Att. 3c. W.R. Cook
Ehrlich, Lester Sea.
Endicott, W. H. Sea. 2c. Sea.
*Emmons, L. Clarence Sea. 2c. G.M. 1c.
Evans, Wm. F., Jr. Sea. C.C.M. (_Ensign_)
Egan, L. C. G.M. 3c. G.M. 2c.
Foley, Wm. F. Sea.
Freeman, Aurie L. Sea.
Frezon, George Sea.
Fechter, John L. S.C. 2c. S.C. 1c.
*French, Leroy A. Sea. C.B.M.
Farr, F. Shelton Q.M. 3c. C.Q.M.
Fox, Harold J. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Fusco, N. D. S.C. 3c. S.C. 1c.
*Flynn, James M.Att. 1c.
Feeley, N. M.Att. 1c. P.M. 2c.
Garside, Geo. L. S.C. 2c.
Gunning, G. L. Sea.
Gabby, J. E. Sea. 2c.
Gaynor, L. J. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Goessling, Richard F. Elec. 3c. G. Elec. 1c.
Gibbons, John R. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Gould, Charles I. Sea. 2c. Cox.
*Gillett, Howard E. F. 2c. C.M.M.
Griffin, L. H. F. 3c.
Gray, A. O. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Goring, H. D. H/A. 1c. P.M. 1c.
Gilhooley, J. P. G.M. 3c. G.M. 2c.
Graul, R. W. F. 1c. W.T.
Ganz, C. A. M.M. 2c.
Hawkins, Paul E. Sea.
Heidt, Clifford B. F. 1c.
Haun, Lloyd N. Sea.
Holdway, Dave F. 1c.
Horn, Irvin R. C.Q.M.
Howard, Frank L. F. 2c.
Hurley, John P. F. 2c.
Hyre, Raymond C. Yeo. 2c.
Haberthier, Alfred R. F. 2c. M.M. 2c.
Hensley, Raymond C. F. 2c. F. 1c.
Herne, J. G. Elec. 3c. R. _(Ensign)_
Huth, J. F. 3c. F. 2c.
Hulet, M. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Haase, H. E. G.M. 3c. G.M. 2c.
Hollis, F. J. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Houtz, E. L. Sea. B.M. 2c. _(Ensign)_
Hamilton, G. C. B. Smith
Haling, C. W.T.
Hill, F. C. C.M. 3c.
Hiss, S. W. F. 1c. Eng. 2c.
*Hanley, Joseph M.Att. 1c. W.R.Std.
*Heise, Wilner F. F. 1c. C.M.M.
Herrman, H. Oiler Eng. 1c.
Haley, Wm. W. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Jensen, Arthur C. F. 1c.
Jones, Charles H. W. R. Strd.
Johnson, E. E. Sea. 2c. Cox.
*Jones, Thomas W. F. 1c. M.M. 1c.
Jones, Cecil I. F. 3c. Eng. 1c.
Johnson, Jesse M. Att. 3c.
Jones, R. D. Oiler C.M.M.
Jetter, R. T. Sea. B.M. 2c.
Kerr, George M. Sea. Q.M. 1c.
Kimbach, G. F. F. 2c. F. 1c.
Katushe, John F. Sea. 2c. Painter 3c.
*Kleine, Julius F. Oiler C.M.M.
Krause, F. F. 3c. F. 1c.
Kimball, Rollie W. Sea.
Keenan, A. E. B. Maker.
Kaetzel, H. D. Sea. 2c. Sea.
King, Albert C.Yeo.
Lally, T. F. 2c.
Lyles, John S. F. 2c.
Leal, R. M.Att. 3c. M.Att. 1c.
Loescher, H. A. Elec. 2c. G. C. Elec. G.
Leveritt, Albert B. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Lyle, Joel A. G.M. 2c. C.G.M.
*Luke, Edward E. C.M.M.
*Lindeburg, Frank R. Sea. B.M. 1c.
Loftus, John P. C.B.M.
Lewis, F. W. Cox.
Loefke, Wm. Sea.
Marando, Joseph F. 2c. W.T.
Mark, Felix F. 2c. F. 1c.
Miller, Fred R. F. 3c. F. 2c.
Melton, H. F. 3c.
Mask, Joseph E. F. 3c. F. 2c.
Morel, J. S. Elec. 3c. G. Elec. 2c. G.
Mullen, W. P. Sea. Cox.
Mariano, B. F. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Morse, E. N. M.M. 2c. M.M. 1c.
Moon, A. W. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Martin, O. F. F. 1c. W.T.
Martin, Gustave Sea. 2c. Eng. 2c.
Moore, W. C. G.M. 2c. C.G.M.
Martinez, M. M.Att. 3c. M.Att. 1c.
Marsh, A. J. Sea. Q.M. 3c. (_Ensign_)
Marsden, Christopher Cox.
Montaux, R. C. Cox.
Mullins, T. Q.M. 1c. C.Q.M.
Mulcahy, W. W. Cox. B.M. 1c.
Murphy, W. F. Sea.
*Moore, James E. Sea. 2c. Q.M. 2c.
Miller, A. E. Yeo. 2c. C. Yeo.
Margot, John M. Cox. B.M. 1c.
Masur, Joseph J. Sea.
Mayers, Best A. Sea.
Mitchell, Jas. A. C.M. 1c.
Muckelroy, Marvin D. S.C. 1c.
McCarthy, James E. F. 2c. F. 1c.
McGlauflin, I. L. Elec. 3c. R. Elec. 2c. R.
McLellan, R. B. B.M. 1c.
Nicholson, Chas. M. Sea.
*Nardo, Stephen M.Att. 1c.
Nelson, George F. 3c. Sea.
Nolan, F. M.Att. 2c. M.Att. 1c.
Neal, Olin E. Sea.
Owens, Rea E. Sea.
Outwater, Henry Sea. Cox.
Phillips, E. S.C. 2c.
Pollert, L. W. Elec. 3c. R.
Poole, W. H. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Percy, J. H. Cox. B.M. 2c.
*Plummer, James A. Elec. 2c. R. C. Elec. R.
Ponder, Austin F. 3c. G.M. 2c.
Parson, James F. 2c. F. 1c.
Paulson, G. C. Yeo.
Prindle, E. B. Q.M. 2c. (_Ensign_)
Pease, A. E. F. 1c. Eng. 2c.
Phalen, H. R. App. Sea. Sea. 2c.
Padula, Jerry M.Att. 3c.
Rowley, Victor A. S. 2c. Sea.
Richardson, Roy M. Sea. 2c. Q.M. 3c.
Rubein, S. F. 1c.
Rahill, W. J. Sea. Q.M. 2c. (_Ensign_)
*Reynolds, Francis J. Sea. Cox.
Robinson, F. M. S.C. 4c. S.C. 2c.
Redden, John R. F. 3c. F. 1c.
Rachor, J. Cox. C.B.M.
Reed, O. D. C.Q.M.
Reed, I. C.E.R.
Regent, A. A. Sea. 2c. Cox.
Robertson, C. A. Oiler
Redwitz, M. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Santiago, Isaac M.Att. 1c.
Schwind, Walter R. C.M.M.
Smith, Archie K. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Smith, Homer C. Sea.
Stokes, Charles W. F. 1c.
Stone, Wm. L. Sea.
Smith, J. F. 1c. W.T.
Smith, Augustus C., Jr. Q.M. 2c. Q.M. 1c. (_Ensign_)
Sweeney, M. J. Sea. 2c.
Schaefer, Henry Sea. 2c. Yeo. 2c.
Seward, G. H. Sea. 2c.
Spooner, F. H. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Smith, J. J. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Smith, Geo. A. Sea. 2c. Q.M. 3c.
Smith, Edward F. Sea. G.M. 2c.
Sill, L. E. F. 3c. S.C. 3c.
Saben, Cornelius W. F. 3c. F. 2c.
Sweaga, Thomas R. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Sorenson, Walter C. Sea. 2c. Sea.
*Sellers, Eugene H. Sea. 2c. Bugler
Sironen, V. V. F. 2c. F. 1c.
Stillwell, Austin E. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Strom, E. A. F. 2c.
Schlaepfer, Arnold J. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Samuelson, W. Yeo. 3c.
Seivert, C. A. F. 3c. F. 1c.
*Schlotfeldt, Hugh B. F. 2c. W.T.
*Swan, Meriam H. Elec. 3c. R. C. Elec. R.
Stephenson, H. F. 1c.
Seger, Reginald G. Sea. B.M. 2c. (_Ensign_)
Smock, T. F. Sea. 2c.
Simpson, J. F. G.M. 3c. G.M. 2c.
*Sholander, Edward Sea. 2c. B.M. 2c.
Skolmowski, S. J. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Schmidt, H. L. S.F. 2c. S.F. 1c.
Sullivan, V. J. F. 2c.
Taylor, Thomas E. Sea. Cox.
Thorgerson, Paul W. Sea.
*Teuten, Walter W. F. 1c. Eng. 2c.
Templeton, Darrell C. Q.M. 2c. Q.M. 1c.
*Thysenius, Ernest E. Cabin Strd.
*Tepelman, L. W. F. 1c. W.T.
Tucker, R. S.C. 3c. S.C. 1c.
Tibbott, David W. Sea. Cox. (_Ensign_)
Underhill, P. W. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Vanvoran, Edward M.M. 2c.
*VanCamp, Louis R. Sea. 2c. G.M. 1c.
Van Vorst, E. C. Yeo. 1c.
Van Arsdale F. 3c. F. 1c.
Valyon, L. J. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Williams, Luther M. Sea.
Wright, Frank F. 1c.
Walter, F. Sea. 2c. B.M. 1c.
Whipple, Leslie A. G.M. 3c.
Whitteried, James E. C. Yeo.
*Washburn, Charles F. Sea. 2c. Cox.
Wilson, A. W.T.
Wolter, W. H. F. 1c. W.T.
Workman, G. J. Sea. 2c. Q.M. 3c.
Waters, L. Sea. 2c. Cox.
Woodward, H. E. Sea. 2c. Sea.
Welsh, John E. F. 3c. F. 1c.
Wyllie, A. A. G.M. 1c. C.G.M.
Waters, C. W. Yeo. 2c.
*Wheatcroft, Wm. A. S.F. 2c. M.M. 1c.
Wallace, E. C.W.T.
Wysocki, P. P. Elec. 3c. Elec. 2c.
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
[Illustration: MAP SHOWING THE CORSAIR’S WANDERINGS IN THE WAR ZONE]
Transcriber’s Notes
pg 105 Changed: the comparitively small loss of life
to: the comparatively small loss of life
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