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Title: The Adventure Club with the fleet
Author: Ralph Henry Barbour
Illustrator: Edward C. Caswell
Release date: May 26, 2026 [eBook #78754]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1918
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78754
Credits: Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library).
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURE CLUB WITH THE FLEET ***
THE ADVENTURE CLUB WITH
THE FLEET
[Illustration: “War’s begun!” he announced breathlessly]
THE ADVENTURE CLUB
WITH THE FLEET
By
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF “LEFT END EDWARDS,” “LEFT TACKLE THAYER,”
“THE ADVENTURE CLUB AFLOAT,” ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
EDWARD C. CASWELL
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I STEVE BRINGS THE NEWS 1
II JOE CHANGES HIS MIND 14
III AT THE TRAINING STATION 26
IV LAND HO! 41
V OVER THERE 55
VI THE U.S.S. WARREN 65
VII SEA DUTY 76
VIII WITH THE “SUICIDE FLEET” 91
IX BACKS TO THE WALL 107
X THE ALLIES TRIUMPH 121
XI THE ARMADA 131
XII “ALLO, SAMMEE!” 141
XIII THE WARREN’S FIRST KILL 152
XIV LETTERS FROM HOME 163
XV OVERBOARD! 174
XVI THE FLOATING MINE 185
XVII ABOARD THE SUNDSVALL 195
XVIII THE SIGNAL FROM THE FO’CSLE 208
XIX H.M.S. LINNET 219
XX THE BATTLE IN THE FOG 231
XXI THE ZEPPELIN RAID 244
XXII OLD FRIENDS COME ABOARD 256
XXIII ON BOARD THE 3-U-9 268
XXIV THE WARREN DROPS ANCHOR 288
ILLUSTRATIONS
“WAR’S BEGUN!” HE ANNOUNCED BREATHLESSLY
(Page 1) _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
STEVE DARTED FORWARD AND SWUNG HIS FIST 118
ON SUCH A NIGHT A DESTROYER IS LITTLE BETTER THAN
A SLENDER STEEL CYLINDER FILLED WITH CLUTCHING
MEN IN GREY CANVAS LIFE-PRESERVERS 180
AN OFFICER SPRANG TO THE DECK WITH A WHITE FLAG
AND HELD IT FLUTTERING FROM OUTSTRETCHED ARMS 293
THE ADVENTURE CLUB
WITH THE FLEET
CHAPTER I
STEVE BRINGS THE NEWS
Steve Chapman turned from Chapel Street into the quieter thoroughfare,
metaphorically speaking, on two wheels, bounded up the steps of the
fourth house in the row, took the first flight of stairs on high, raced
along the corridor, skidded a bit at the last portal on the right and,
finally, setting all brakes, came to a standstill in the centre of the
floor, while, as the door swung back against the wall, every picture in
the study jarred askew.
“War’s begun!” he announced breathlessly. “President Wilson has signed!
We’re in it at last, Joe!”
Joe Ingersoll regarded his room-mate calmly across the desk, one
hand holding open the book he had been studying. “But why wreck the
premises?” he asked mildly. “What do you think you are? The German Army
in Belgium?”
Steve, subsiding against the back of the Morris chair, strove to regain
his breath and wither the other with a glance, a not particularly
successful effort. “You make me tired,” he declared. “Where’s your
patriotism, you block of wood? I nearly break my neck to get the joyful
news to you, and you sit there like――like――――”
“Calm yourself, Steven. I’ve known it for at least ten minutes. The
newsboys have been yelling their little hearts out around the corner
there. Let’s see the paper, though.”
“I’ve a good mind not to,” grumbled Steve. But he tossed the crumpled
“extra” to the desk and then hurried around to where he could look over
his chum’s shoulder. The New Haven paper had done itself proud in the
matter of type. Three lines of big, black block letters swept across
the upper half of the sheet, proclaiming:
WAR DECLARED AGAINST GERMANY
VOTE IN HOUSE IS 373 TO 50
PRESIDENT SIGNS DECLARATION
“Yes, we’re in it,” said Joe, laying the paper down, “and I’m
wondering――――”
“What?” asked the other, impatiently.
“Whether to be glad or sorry,” ended Joe soberly.
“Sorry! Great Jumping Jehosophat! Do you mean that after all we’ve
stood for from those――those barbarians――――”
“I know, Steve, but war is serious business. Look what it has cost the
others already: millions of men and billions of money: and――――”
“Oh, forget the money part of it, Joe, for the love of Mike! Why,
that’s all I’ve been hearing for a year! ‘How much will it cost us?’
What’s money against human life and――and human liberty? And――――”
“And the war’s no nearer won than it was three years ago,” continued
Joe imperturbably. “You’ve got to think of the cost, Steve. I’m as keen
as you are for licking the hide off those Huns, but I can’t get up and
cheer about this. Not just this minute, anyhow. It will be a long, hard
grind, old man.”
“Maybe, but just you wait until we land a couple of millions of our
chaps over there! Wait till our ships get a whack at theirs! We may be
slow at starting, but, by the Lord Harry, when we do begin you’ll see
the fur fly!”
“I hope so, but it’s going to take time to get those two millions
together, Steve. And as for our Navy, it’ll be months before it is
ready to whack anybody. Don’t get it into your head that Germany’s
licked because a crowd of legislators in Washington have voted ‘yes’
on this war resolution and the President has written his name at the
bottom of it. We’re about as ready to make war on Germany as――as the
Freshman Nine is to lick the ’varsity!”
“It could do it in a minute if it had a decent first baseman,” replied
Steve, grinning. “Knocking the Army and Navy is fashionable, I know,
but I don’t believe either of ’em is as badly off as the ‘sob sisters’
tell us in the magazines. Why, if you believe all you read we haven’t
a regiment that isn’t shot to pieces or a ship that isn’t ready to be
scrapped. Piffle! Our Army’s as good as we need for a starter and our
Navy’s as good as the next fellow’s. And, what’s more, we’ve got the
money to build ’em both as big as we need ’em!”
“Who’s talking money now?” asked Joe, smiling. “Of course we’ll get an
army together after a while, and when we’ve got it it’ll be a real one.
I’ll bank on that. And when our Navy is ready to fight it’ll fight,
believe me! But it will take time and money and, I’m afraid, men before
either one is fit to start in. I guess all we can do for the next six
months is supply money and food to the Allies.”
“Meaning the other Allies,” corrected Steve. “Remember we’re one of ’em
now.”
“Yes, that’s so. We’re in it, too. It seems――funny, doesn’t it?”
“Funny? It seems mighty good! I say, Joe, this will make a difference
around here, won’t it?”
“Here in college? Well, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose there’ll be a lot
of fellows missing in the Fall.”
“In the Fall? I mean right now, old scout! I know a dozen fellows at
least who will be beating it in a few days. There’s Han, for instance.
He’s said all along that he’d enlist as soon as we entered the fracas.
I wish I’d done what he did and gone in for the Naval Reserve. He will
fall into a soft snap, I’ll bet. Maybe he will be a lieutenant or――or
something.”
“Admiral, likely,” said Joe dryly. “I wouldn’t worry about lost
opportunities, Steve. Next Summer will be plenty of time to start in.”
“Next Summer! Start in!” exclaimed the other, observing his companion
incredulously. “Where the dickens do you suppose I’ll be next Summer?”
“Where?”
“Well, not around these diggings, anyway. In the trenches, maybe.
Anyhow, in training camp. So will you.”
“Not likely. They’re going to draft them from twenty-one up, and as you
and I are only eighteen――――”
“Draft! Who’s going to wait for the draft? ‘Not I,’ said the Fly! Nor
you either, I hope.”
“Do you mean that you’re going to volunteer?” asked Joe.
“Surest thing you know,” answered Steve stoutly.
“You’re too young.”
“I’m eighteen, and I’ll be nineteen pretty soon. There are lots of
chaps in the Army no older than that.”
“You’ll have to go into the ranks then.”
“Of course I shall. I don’t expect to be made a General, you idiot! At
least, not right off. Do you mean to sit there and tell me that you
haven’t thought of enlisting, Joe?”
“I have thought of it often,” was the calm reply, “and I long ago
decided not to. There’s time enough. They’ll draft me when I’m old
enough――――”
“Why, you piker, the war will be over before that!”
“And, besides, I want to finish college. Oh, I don’t say that I won’t
enlist if things go badly. But there’s plenty to do here just now. You
don’t want Harvard to beat us in baseball, do you?” he ended, smiling.
“I don’t give a hang whether she does or not,” answered Steve
disgustedly. “I never heard such tommyrot in my life! Of course you’re
going into it, man! Every fellow that has a drop of red blood is! I’ll
bet you there won’t be a handful of the students left in a month! Why,
it’s dollars to doughnuts there won’t be enough fellows left in either
the Yale or Harvard freshman team by June to play! Take a tumble to
what’s up, Joe. Hang it, man, we’re at war!”
“I know, but it isn’t war of my making. And if I go into it before
I’m twenty-one it will be because I see the necessity of it and not
because I’m just excited, as you are, Steve. I don’t believe I’m more
of a coward than the average fellow, but I don’t care a whole lot about
filling a cosy little grave over in France just yet. There’s time
enough for that, Steve.”
“You sound like a bloomin’ pacifist,” snorted Steve. “Or a slacker. If
every fellow talked the way you talk――――”
“You’ll find a lot of fellows think that way if they don’t talk it. And
if you take my advice, Steve, you’ll sit tight and wait for college to
close. Then go to Plattsburg or somewhere and get a second lieutenancy.
Fellows like you don’t go in as privates.”
“Wait be blowed! Suppose the bloomin’ war was over by the time I got
a commission? I’d look an awful ass, wouldn’t I? Why, hang it, I’d be
kicking myself all the rest of my days if they settled the Kaiser’s
hash without my help! A fellow can go to college any old time, Joe,
but only about once in a hundred years does he get a chance to ‘horn
in’ in a big scrap like this! Besides, you’re dead wrong about this
private soldier business. It’s fellows like me who are privates, and
mighty good ones, too. No, sir, I’d rather be a doughboy right now and
get action than wait around for a second lieutenancy and miss the fun!”
“Well, don’t lose your shirt,” laughed Joe. “The war will wait a day or
two for you.”
“I’m not taking any chances on it,” growled Steve. “It would be just my
blessed luck if old Kaiser Bill threw up the sponge about the time I
started across. Look here, Joe, you aren’t in earnest about not going,
are you?”
Joe nodded. “Dead earnest,” he answered.
“That’s beastly,” grumbled the other. “I’ve been thinking right along
that you and I’d be together and have some dandy times.”
“You talk as though this war was a picnic,” objected Joe.
“I don’t mean to. I know it’s a pretty serious business, just as you
say it is. But a fellow can’t help being a bit excited about it, and
glad that he’s on hand to help out. It _is_ helping out, you know, Joe,
this enlisting, and that’s why I can’t get your point of view. The
country needs fighters, old man.”
“The country will have all it will need, Steve, without me. I’m no
soldier and never could be. I’d never have any stomach for poking
a bayonet through another man. I’d probably quit first and get
court-martialed. There are plenty of chaps who are cut out for the job.
Let them have the first whack at it.”
“That’s rotten!” declared Steve hotly. “Sitting back and letting the
other fellow do your work! If I felt that way I’d never acknowledge it.”
“Yes, you would, just as I do,” replied Joe, without affront. “Look at
it sensibly, Steve: forget for a minute that you’ve just heard about
war being on and are all excited. You know plaguey well that everyone
isn’t called on to go into the trenches. A lot of fellows want to go
for the excitement of the thing――――”
“It isn’t only excitement,” denied Steve warmly. “There’s――there’s such
a thing as patriotism, Joe!”
“Call it patriotism, then. I won’t say it isn’t that with a good many.
Anyway, why not let those who want to fight go and fight and let those
who don’t want to, stay at home until the first lot find the job too
big for them? Seems to me that’s perfectly fair and perfectly sensible.
Maybe there’s something wrong with me, Steve, but I’d throw a fit if I
had to shoot a man or run a bayonet into him.”
“I don’t suppose any fellow would find much fun in it,” agreed Steve,
frowning, “but when you think of――of the _Lusitania_ and of how the
Germans have shelled defenceless women and children in life-boats
and――oh, hang it, Joe, shooting’s too good for them!”
“I suppose it comes back to the old question of whether it is right to
commit murder in revenge for murder.”
“Murder! War isn’t murder! You’re a crazy pacifist!”
“I guess I am――sort of. At least, it goes against the grain with me,
Steve, to shoot a man named Smith because a man named Jones who
happens to be of the same nationality as Smith has killed one of my
countrymen. Oh, I dare say my reasoning’s all wrong, but that’s the way
I feel about it.”
“You bet your reasoning’s wrong! It’s punk! You want to do less
reasoning, Joe. That’s the trouble with you, anyway: you have to mull
things over instead of stripping off your sweater and diving in. There
are times, old scout, when a fellow’s heart is a lot better guide than
his brain!”
“Well, suppose heart and brain are agreed?” asked Joe, smiling. “Mine
are. My heart tells me it won’t stand for killing folks and my brain
tells me to keep out of it as long as I can. I know this doesn’t sound
heroic, Steve, but I guess I wasn’t cut out for a hero. I’ll do my
share behind the trenches gladly, but I don’t want to either shoot or
be shot at.”
“You’re talking absolute drivel,” grumbled the other. “If every fellow
wanted to stay behind the trenches――――”
“But they don’t. That’s the point I’m trying to make. There are lots of
them who are crazy to get into the trenches. Let them. I’m not. So let
me stay back.”
“If I didn’t know you I’d think you were yellow,” said Steve
disgustedly.
“But you do know me and you know that I’m not,” responded Joe equably.
“I don’t think it’s cowardice, although I know mighty well that my
knees would knock together and I’d be sort of sick inside me if I had
to crawl out of a trench and walk into machine-gun fire. But I hope I’d
keep going. No, I don’t believe it’s exactly cowardice, Steve. I don’t
know what it is. I just know that I don’t want to fight, not a little
bit.”
“What gets me is that you’re a natural-born scrapper,” said Steve,
plainly puzzled. “You fight harder than any chap I know in a game.”
“War isn’t a game. Perhaps that explains it,” answered Joe doubtfully.
There was silence for a long minute. Then Steve exclaimed:
“It doesn’t, though. You don’t see things in the right way, Joe. This
war isn’t just――just a war of revenge. We’re not going after Germany
because she killed our men and women and children and blew up some of
our shipping. There’s a heap more than that in it, Joe. We are fighting
for a principle, for Liberty and――and Civilisation. We’re going into it
because if we don’t go into it Belgium and France and England and maybe
the whole world will become just a rotten mess of German Imperialism.
We’re fighting for World Freedom, Joe. This war’s a――a righteous war,
I tell you! Can’t you see that? And if you do see it can there be any
question of your duty and my duty? I’m not much of a spieler, and
maybe I don’t get it over, but if you felt the way I feel about this
thing you wouldn’t sit there and talk about the Freshman Nine and――and
letting the other fellow do the job for you! If I could――――”
Steve’s eloquence was suddenly interrupted. Footsteps sounded in the
corridor outside and, as he turned inquiringly, a figure appeared
in the doorway, the figure of a big, rangy youth of nineteen with a
good-looking, good-natured face who, hands in pockets, surveyed the
scene with a gravely quizzical smile.
“Go on, Steve,” said the newcomer encouragingly. “You’re in fine voice.”
CHAPTER II
JOE CHANGES HIS MIND
“Hello, Han!” cried Steve Chapman. “We were just talking about you.
Come on in.”
“It’s the first time I ever heard anyone get eloquent on the subject,”
responded George Hanford as he swung across the room and lowered
himself onto the window-seat. “It sounded like a debate as I came up
the stairs.”
“Steve was talking war,” said Joe.
“Oh! Well, he’s not the only one. What do you think of it, Steve?”
“I think it’s great! I’m for it, Han. What about you? Are you going now
or――――”
“Now. I dropped around to say _au revoir_. I’m off at four.”
“Not really?” exclaimed Steve. “Gee, I wish I were going! Where do you
go to?”
“Brooklyn Navy Yard. After that――――” He spread his hands expressively.
“I’m hoping they’ll stick me on something that’s going across, though.”
Steve got up and strode excitedly the length of the study and back.
Joe thoughtfully picked a hole in the blotter with the point of a pen.
“I wish I’d gone into the Naval Reserve,” said Steve coming to a stop
in front of Han’s outstretched feet. “The Army’s no good. They’ll keep
us here for months, they say, and drill us until the blooming war’s all
over.”
“Yes, I guess the sailors will have the call,” agreed Han. “I hear that
we’ve had ships with steam up and bunkers full and crews aboard for two
weeks all ready to start over. Hope to goodness I’m lucky enough to get
on one of them. So it’s the Army for you fellows, eh? Going to join now
or wait till term’s over?”
“I’m going to enlist as soon as I hear from the folks,” replied Steve
eagerly. “I wired dad half an hour ago. Joe has some silly notion that
it isn’t polite to skewer a German and says he’s off it.”
“Joe?” Han smiled. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll be in it quick enough.
You couldn’t keep him out of a scrap if you tried.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Steve ruefully, “but he’s gone and got a
lot of fool pacifist notions into his noodle. I wish to goodness you’d
talk to him, Han!”
But Han shook his head. “No thanks. If he really feels that way the
best thing to do is just let him alone until the poison works itself
out. He’ll come around. I had queer ideas myself a year or so ago.
Didn’t approve of war much. Considered it a return to barbarism and all
that, you know. Do yet. But, of course, we’ve got a duty to perform and
we’ve got to perform it the most practical way. And the quickest way.
That means war. We’ve tried soft words and we’ve tried argument. We’ve
given ’em all the rope we could. Only thing left is to knock the tar
out of ’em.” Han spoke quite dispassionately.
“That’s just it,” agreed Steve. “We’ve been patient long enough. I’m
for action. I wonder if I could join one of those Canadian regiments
and get across this Summer, Han.”
“Guess so. You’d have to lie, though, and say you were a British
subject. Personally, I’d a heap rather fight under the old Stars and
Stripes. Look here, why don’t you go in for the Navy?”
“Eh?” Steve stared a moment. “By Jove! Could I?”
“Don’t see why not. You like the water, too.”
“Rather! Why, I never thought of the Navy! I wonder――look here, how old
do they take you?”
“Seventeen up. You have to have your parents’ permission if you’re
under eighteen. You’re eighteen, aren’t you?”
“Yes. By Jove, that’s an idea! Hear that, Joe? Tell me about it, Han.
What do I do? Where do I go to see about it? How soon――――”
“Easy on! You enlist for four years usually, but I believe they’re
taking ’em now for the period of the war. You can search me as to what
that means! You’ll have to start in as an apprentice seaman, I suppose.
After that you can try for different things. You’ll get seventeen
dollars and sixty cents a month――――”
“I don’t care about the wages,” interrupted Steve impatiently. “Where
can I join? Would they take me?”
“Jump at you, son. Of course you’ll have to pass an examination, but
they aren’t so strict in war time, and you’d get by anyhow. You must be
five feet, four inches and weigh not less than a hundred and fifteen
at your age. Then, if you don’t have varicose veins or curvature
of the spine or about ninety other things, including deafness and
colour-blindness, you sign a blank and get shipped to a station for
training. I don’t believe, though, that they’ll waste a heap of time in
training the fellows ashore. There are too many places to fill. Sound
all right?”
“Great! But could I do it? Be a――an apprentice seaman, or whatever you
called it? Is it hard?”
“It’s a man’s work, Stevie, but it’s no harder than being in the Army.
If you take hold and learn you’ll get on like a house on fire. After
awhile you’ll get to be a second-class seaman, and then a seaman, and
after that you’re in line for a third-class petty officer’s job. You
can be a yeoman or a gunner’s mate or a master-at-arms or, if you like,
you can be a painter! That is, of course, if you make good.”
“What are you?” demanded Steve.
“Ensign.”
“Fine! What’s an ensign?”
“It’s a start,” replied Han gravely.
“Yes, but is it like a lieutenant or what?”
“It ranks with a second lieutenant in the Army. Only,” added Han, with
a twinkle, “it’s a heap more important.”
“I’m awfully glad, Han,” said Joe, looking up from his preoccupied task
of digging holes in the desk-pad. “That’s fine. Of course you’ll get
sea duty right off. It isn’t as if you were just a beginner.”
“That’s what I am, though. All the training I’ve had you could put in
your eye. They made me ensign in the Reserve because I was too big for
anything less, and didn’t know enough to be anything more! I’ll have to
learn just as you fellows will. There’s one thing to remember, Steve,
and it’s this. Once we get into this mess there’s going to be a vacancy
on your ship right often. If you don’t come home a lieutenant it’ll be
your own fault, I guess.”
“Unless he shouldn’t come home at all,” observed Joe quietly.
“Well, don’t buy any flowers yet,” replied Steve flippantly. “Where can
I enlist, Han? New York? Brooklyn?”
“If you can drag your feet as far as Chapel Street――――”
“Honest? Of course! I remember seeing the place now. Look here, I
wonder if I ought to send another telegram. Maybe dad wouldn’t stand
for the Navy. He’s skittish about having me drowned.”
Han laughed. “Rather have you blown up by a trench bomb, eh? Well,
everyone to his taste. Did the Government take over the _Adventurer_?”
“No,” answered Steve. “They say she’s too small. I believe fifty feet
over all’s the limit.” He had paused at a window and, with hands
thrust deeply into trousers pockets, was staring thoughtfully across
the roofs to where, high above the big hotel, the Stars and Stripes
was snapping in the April breeze. Han broke the silence with a quiet
chuckle.
“Say, fellows, when we formed the Adventure Club almost a year ago we
didn’t know what a whacking big adventure we’d get into, did we?”
“No,” replied Joe, “somehow the war didn’t seem especially near home
then. I wonder why. Anyone who thought much about it might have known
we couldn’t keep out of it much longer. I suppose we were too kiddish
to realise.”
“We were only a year younger,” objected Steve, without turning.
“Yes, but I feel a lot more than a year older,” said Joe. Han nodded.
“We’re living fast these days. By the way, I got a note from Phil
yesterday. He and Harry Corwin are down at Newport News and expect
to make a trip across pretty soon on one of the armed liners. Phil’s
qualifying as gun-pointer.”
“Phil!” exclaimed Joe. “Great Scott, think of that old sober-sides
doing that! And Harry’s with him, eh? Some fellows have all the luck!”
he ended disconsolately.
“Any of the other Adventure Club fellows in it?” asked Joe.
“Wink Wheeler’s training somewhere down south for the Aviation Service
and Cas Temple’s driving a flivver over in France. But you knew that. I
dare say there are others in it by now.”
“Neil Fairleigh’s training for something out in Kansas or Missouri or
somewhere. Nick Taylor had a letter from him awhile back. Well, that’s
seven out of thirteen accounted for,” added Steve.
“I make it eight,” corrected Han. “Phil and Harry, Wink, Cas, Neil,
you, Joe and myself.”
“Eight if you count Joe,” said Steve rather ungraciously. Joe flushed
but said nothing, and Han pulled his length from the window-seat.
“Well, I’ve got a thousand things to do, fellows. Good luck to you, and
here’s hoping we’ll meet over there before long.”
“We’ll make a date for Berlin the third Thursday in September,” laughed
Steve.
Han shook his head, smiling. “Don’t fool yourself, son. This thing’s
only started. Good-bye, Joe. When you get ready to come in you’d better
consider the Navy. Maybe if you work it right you can make the same
ship with Steve.”
“I’d like the Navy,” answered Joe quietly as he shook hands. “If I
do――――” He paused, and then: “When I do,” he went on, “I’ll try for
that. Good-bye, Han, and all the luck in the world to you. If you
aren’t wearing epaulettes before the war’s over I’ll be disappointed in
you.”
“Thanks, Joe, but if I get my two bars I’ll be satisfied. I’ll let
you hear from me if there’s anything to write, and you might drop me
a scrawl now and then. I’ll send an address as soon as I get one. So
long!” Han paused on the threshold and looked back for an instant while
his smile faded and a very sober expression came over his face. “The
Adventure Club has found its Great Adventure, fellows,” he said softly.
“Let’s all do our best to make good.”
After Han had gone there was silence for several minutes in the room.
Joe was bent over his book again, but I don’t think he was studying.
Steve had gone back to his contemplation of the windy Spring sky and
the gay flag tugging at its halyard. It was he who broke the silence at
last.
“I hope old Han comes through all right,” he said.
“Yes,” agreed Joe.
“He’s one of the best.” Steve turned and reached for his cap. “I’ve got
to run over to the library a minute. If that telegram comes, Joe, look
after it, will you? I’ll be back pretty soon.” At the door he, too,
turned, and: “I say, Joe,” he began.
“Yes?” asked the other.
“Nothing. What are you doing this afternoon?”
“Practice at three-thirty. We’ll probably get outdoors again today.
This wind ought to dry the field up pretty fast.”
“Oh! Well――so long.”
Steve clattered downstairs and the door below banged behind him. After
a moment Joe arose and crossed to a window. Steve, hands in pockets,
was swinging diagonally across the street, not at all in the direction
of the library.
“He’s going to the recruiting place,” thought Joe. Raising his eyes,
his glance fell on the flag streaming its red and white stripes against
the blue sky. He stood there a moment looking at it intently and then,
with a faint sigh, went back to the desk. From the main street came the
shrill cry of a passing newsboy:
“Wuxtry! Wuxtry! President Wilson declares war with Goimany!
Wuxtre-e-e!”
* * * * *
Steve’s telegram came shortly after luncheon. When he had read it he
passed it over to Joe. “Do your duty as you see it (Joe read) and God
bless you. Mother and father.”
Twenty minutes later Steve was answering the questions of the Recruiting
Officer.
When Joe returned from freshman baseball practice at dusk two notes lay
on the corner of his chiffonier and he took them to the window. One,
merely a sheet of paper once folded and with a corner turned down, was
from Steve.
“Pal: I’m running up to town for the night. Back early in the morning.
I’m off to Brooklyn Navy Yard day after tomorrow. Better be sorry for
the Kaiser now! Steve, _U. S. N._”
Joe reread it and then thoughtfully laid it down and took up the second
note. This was enclosed in a sealed and fully addressed envelope and,
since it bore no stamp, had evidently been delivered at the house by
messenger. The writing was unmistakably Han’s, big, round and boyish.
He tore the end from the envelope and pulled forth the single sheet of
paper, not a little curious as to what Han had found to write about so
soon. There was neither greeting nor signature to that missive, and Joe
frowned perplexedly as he began to read:
“To such a task we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes, everything
that we are and everything that we have, with the pride of those
who know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend
her blood and her might for the principles that gave her birth and
happiness and the peace which she has treasured.
“God helping her, she can do no other.”
When he had read it the second time he refolded it slowly and pushed
it into an inner pocket. Then, turning out the light, he went into the
bedroom and threw himself on his bed and, hands under head, stared
straight up at the darkening ceiling. An hour passed. Outside the
lights grew brighter along the streets. The roar and hum of the little
city lessened. At last Joe arose and made his way to the study window
again. Darkness enveloped the town above the roofs, but, faintly
illumined against the night sky, the Stars and Stripes still waved and
fluttered. Joe brought his heels together, straightened his body and
raised his right hand to his forehead in salute.
CHAPTER III
AT THE TRAINING STATION
Three days later instead of two, since severing connections with the
college was not quite such a casual ceremony as Steve had supposed, the
two boys found themselves at the Newport Training Station, full-fledged
apprentice seamen in the United States Navy. They had duly satisfied
the examining officer that they were eighteen years of age, had
successfully passed medical inspection, had been shorn of all but a
scant half-inch of their hair, had gone through a disinfecting bath
and had been “shot” in the arm with anti-typhoid serum. And then, to
their dismay, they discovered that they were not free to come and go
about the Station, but――and this was something that Han had failed to
mention――were due to remain in Detention Camp for three long weeks! The
officer in charge seemed to prefer to allude to their habitation as the
Recruit Barracks, but after the first few days both boys could have
easily found a name much more fitting than either of those!
“It’s silly rot,” declared Steve one afternoon as the cheers from the
ball field floated across. “Just as though we’d be likely to bring any
contagious disease with us! We don’t come from――from the slums!”
Still, there wasn’t a whole lot of time to bewail the imprisonment,
for they, together with an ever changing throng of brother recruits,
had plenty to do to keep them busy. There was the visit to the dentist
to start with and then the exciting event of receiving their outfits:
blankets, uniforms, brushes, underwear, sewing materials, soap, bathing
trunks, towels and various lesser articles: and of appearing for the
first time in the “blues.” Joe was critical of the fit of his trousers
and for the first day continually glanced dubiously at the flapping
fullness around the tops of his stout Navy shoes. But secretly they
were both as proud as Punch, even if Joe did remark flippantly that if
the outfit really cost Uncle Sam sixty dollars, as rumour had it, Uncle
Sam was getting stung! Whereupon Steve gravely called his attention to
the undoubted excellence of the bone buttons included in the sewing kit.
If they had thought to be done with academic studies they were
mistaken, for every day there was “school.” But all the instruction was
not academic, for they were taught also how to wash their clothes and
mend them, and their first essays in these twin arts were laughably
ludicrous. “Suds drill” to lads who had never got closer to the labour
of washing their clothes than――infrequently――filling out a laundry slip
was startlingly novel! Nor did either of them show skill and grace in
the manipulation of needle and thread. Steve had so many punctures in
his fingers at the end of the first week that it hurt him to touch
anything! For two days life looked rather doleful. The inoculation
produced lassitude, and the food, good but plainer than they were
used to, failed to appeal to them. But all that passed presently
and soon they were as prompt with their mess kits as any, and roast
beef and mashed potatoes and creamed carrots and cottage pudding, or
their equivalents, found enthusiastic welcome. Since misery loves
company, sociability reigned in Detention Camp. Steve and Joe made many
acquaintances of many sorts, for the recruits that packed the barracks
were of numerous races and from widely different walks in life. Many of
them, indeed, were from the country, but far more were city boys. Of
the latter the majority were surprisingly strong and healthy looking,
and, as Joe remarked in some surprise, “stacked up better than the
hayseeds.” College and preparatory schools had provided fully thirty
per cent of the crowd, and of the balance another thirty per cent were
boys who had learned or were learning a trade. Naturally the chief
subject of conversation was the duration of training. Many held the
opinion that the usual three months would be cut in two at least.
All sorts of tales were told to indicate that they would be smelling
powder in a month, stories of “greenhorns” being rushed aboard ship
after three days at the Station, of thousands of practically untrained
Jackies reaching Brooklyn and Charleston and Newport News weekly from
the Great Lakes Station.
“Take it from me,” declared a big, raw-boned youth named Breen who had
graduated two weeks before from the front end of a New York trolley
car, “they can’t do without us, fellers. They’ve got the ships, see,
but they ain’t got the men. An’ say, we’re needed over there, believe
me!” He jerked a carroty head in the general direction of the main
barracks which might or might not be also the direction of the coast of
France. “I’ll bet you my shoes we’ll be chasin’ them U-boats inside of
six weeks!”
“Some of us may,” agreed a little dark-skinned, black-eyed boy who had
scraped past the doctor only by stretching his neck until it ached,
“but there’s a lot of us’ll be kickin’ our toes around receivin’ ships
most of the Summer. Say, where’s this Atlantic Squadron you hear tell
of? What’s it doin’ to save the Country?”
“Patrollin’ from Newfoundland to Cuby, o’ course. But I hope I don’t
get stuck on that.” Breen shook his head gravely. “They won’t never see
no fun. Fritz ain’t sendin’ any U-boats this way, take it from me. The
Allies is keepin’ him busy at home.”
“What about the submarine they sunk in the Narrows the other day?”
asked someone.
“Aw, tell it to Sweeney!”
“That’s right! I got it straight from a fellow who knows. There was
a Swedish ship come in and passed inspection and was making for the
harbour when a patrol boat decides to give her the once-over and sees a
cable dragging astern. So he signals to a torpedo boat and the torpedo
boat stops the ship and investigates. ‘I’ve been examined and my papers
are all right,’ says the Swede captain. ‘You shut your face,’ says
the torpedo boat commander. So then they gets the winch going on that
hawser and pulls up a German submarine which was thinking to get into
the harbour and blow things right and left. Then they shoots the whole
lot――――”
“Yes, an’ one of ’em was the Crown Prince himself!” jeered Breen.
“Sure, I know. You hear a lot of that stuff. It listens fine, too. Like
this here destroyer _Smith_ who seen a U-boat up the coast yesterday or
the day before. What she seen was a porpoise, I guess. Take it from me,
Jack, them Germans ain’t takin’ no chances. They never have an’ they
never will. That’s their efficiency, see?”
“What about those raiders like the whats-its-name that――――”
“Easy, kid, easy! We wasn’t in the war then. You don’t see no raiders
rompin’ around now, do you? You bet your life you don’t. Take it from
me, bo, nothin’ doin’, nothin’ doin’!”
So they took it from him, and went to bed.
Unless connected with the ever interesting subject of the prospect
of getting afloat the war was discussed but little, considering what
they were there for. Baseball was a far more likely topic. Whether
the Giants would come through this year, whether the Red Sox could
“repeat,” what Mathewson would do with the Reds――all those questions
appeared to concern the hundreds of embryo sea fighters far more than
the world struggle that had called them together. On the whole there
were few dull moments in camp, and lots and lots of busy ones. Day by
day the faces changed as some went on to the main barracks and new
recruits took their places. The British War Commission landed, followed
a few days later by the French, and there was much talk of “Papa”
Joffre. In the harbour destroyers dropped anchor and weighed again,
launches sputtered over the blue water, a submarine from the New London
base paid a visit and departed after an excited exchange of signals,
submerging as she passed the point. Breen took his wisdom to the main
barracks and a broad-shouldered chap who had been a telephone lineman
until a fortnight ago succeeded him as camp mentor. Joe put on three
pounds of weight, and Steve two, while their appetites grew daily. And
on the first of May they ended detention and moved their kits to the
main barracks.
They signalised this event by obtaining leave and hurrying to
their homes in New York. They felt a little bit conscious of their
uniforms, and tried very hard to attain the swagger of the experienced
Jackies. It didn’t help Steve to feel at ease when he was mistaken
in the Terminal for a porter by a near-sighted old lady, and Joe had
unmerciful fun with him all the way uptown. That was a hurried visit,
but it did them both good. Joe received a scrawl from George Hanford in
which Han announced his assignment to the _Carthage_, scout cruiser,
then at Newport News. “We’re looking for a move any moment,” wrote Han.
“It’s full steam at six hours with us, and that means something. We’re
not supposed to write about our movements, but you’re in the Service
now, praises be, and so I guess it’s all right. I wasn’t able to find
out where you’re stationed, so I’m sending this to the home. Write me
when you get this and tell me how you’re getting on. We’ve got a fine
set of officers on this ship and we’re all crazy to start something.
Say howdy to old Steve and tell him to write.”
Joe’s fame had preceded him and he was hustled out to try for one of
the baseball nines. He didn’t exactly cover himself with glory that
first afternoon of practice, probably because one of the busiest and
hardest days he had ever put in had taken the edge off his zest for
physical exercise. When one arises at five in the morning and goes
to his hammock at nine it is possible for quite a number of things
to happen to him. It was hard for Steve and Joe to relish the sound
of reveille at first. Five o’clock seemed a most unchristian hour at
which to tumble out. For that matter I’m not certain that they ever
came to care an awful lot for that first bugle call, although they did
ultimately accept its summons with a fair degree of equanimity. At
five-thirty they had to be ready for muster, and from that time until
seven they were busy cleaning up themselves, their clothing and the
barracks. Breakfast was finished at eight, when followed periods of
drill, study and instruction until three in the afternoon, with the
exception of an hour for dinner at twelve. Between three and six their
time was their own unless there was extra duty or they were back in
their work. The evenings were theirs until nine when the bugler sounded
lights out. The routine on Saturdays and Sundays differed, and on the
afternoons of those days liberty was granted to the recruits not under
restriction.
Meanwhile they were learning, first, subordination, and, second,
seamanship. Perhaps they were a bit more amenable to authority than
the general run of their fellow recruits, since they had experienced
the discipline of football and baseball training during five years at
school and college. At least they seemed to find it easier to obey
orders without hesitation and without question than did many of their
companions, just as it troubled them much less to salute some youngster
scarcely older than they whose sleeve happened to bear stripes and
chevrons. That thing of saluting was a fine puzzle to them for awhile,
as was the matter of insignia. Joe became almost pop-eyed watching for
sleeve braidings or shoulder straps and his constant, haunting fear
was that he would meet an Admiral and fail to salute. He didn’t know
what the penalty for that would be, but, judging by the punishment for
far less serious crimes, he presumed it might easily be decapitation!
More than once both he and Steve, in the earlier days of their service,
missed a bit of gold braid or an inconspicuous star and were brought
sharply up by the wearer. In the end they adopted the scheme of Breen,
now enthusiastically seeking to qualify for the electrical school.
“Don’t take no chances,” advised Breen. “I don’t. If I see a feller
comin’ along that ain’t got up just as I am I salute him. If he’s an
officer, all right. If he ain’t, all right too. He’s so pleased you
can see his chest stick up. I ran across a chauffeur over by the gate
the other day and saluted him fine. He didn’t mind, and it didn’t
hurt me none. Let me tell you something, Jack. Don’t get this here
‘too-proud-to-salute’ bug. It don’t work, see? A feller was whining
around barracks the other day about havin’ to salute fellers that
wasn’t no better’n he was. Said he was willin’ to salute an Admiral and
a few high muckamucks, you see, but he didn’t see why he had to show
respect to a rough-neck carpenters’ mate. Well, I told him why. I says:
‘Bo, you ain’t salutin’ the feller in the uniform. Maybe he ain’t no
better’n you are. You’re salutin’ the uniform and what it stands for.
Get it? Them little didoes on his sleeve means authority, an’ it’s
authority you’re flippin’ your hand to. An’,’ I says, ‘take it from me
the sooner you gets that inside that solid concrete dome of yours the
better,’ I says. Ain’t I right?”
Steve bought a small book containing, amongst other things, a full
list, with pictures in colours, of all insignia of rank in the Army
and Navy and studied it diligently, but at the end of a week he sadly
acknowledged that he couldn’t tell a Rear-Admiral from a Pay Officer,
unless the latter was working at his job!
Barring Saturdays and Sundays, Steve and Joe spent an average of
eight hours a day in drilling, beginning with setting-up drill in
the morning and ending with afternoon parade. In between there were
other drills of many sorts, boat drill, gun drill, splicing and tying,
steering, rifle practice and so on. And then, lest their muscles might
possibly grow at the expense of their lungs, there was singing school
one evening a week. Amusements were not forgotten. Moving pictures,
concerts and lectures occurred frequently. On the whole, life was
both busy and happy, and, after the first period of homesickness that
assailed many boys was over, it would have been hard to find one who
regretted his presence at the Training Station. Only, and this was a
widely prevalent sentiment, they didn’t want to stay there much longer!
Everyone’s ambition was to find himself afloat.
“What gets me,” confided Steve one day to Joe on the way back from a
ball game, “is the way these fellows stack up. Do you know, Joe, taking
them as they come they’re a mighty decent lot.”
“Well, why not?” asked his chum.
“No reason, I suppose, only――somehow you get the notion that Uncle
Sam’s sailors are a sort of tough gang. I know I always thought so.
I had an idea that when you got out of jail after picking someone’s
pocket or busting another chap’s head with a cobblestone that the
first thing you did was sign on in the Navy. Guess I was wrong, though.
These chaps are as decent and――and intelligent as you’d meet anywhere.
Don’t you say so?”
“I certainly do, Steve. And they should be. They aren’t bums. They’re
just average American fellows, most of them from good homes and
schools. Even those who haven’t had much schooling seem to know what
is decent and what isn’t. There’s the fellow they call Abie in our
company. He says he never saw the inside of a school house until a year
ago. Grew up in the Ghetto. Well, Abie’s got more common decency and
more genuine American spirit and patriotism than half the chaps we know
here. Know what I think, Steve?”
“Shoot!”
“Well, I think this country’s all right just as long as you run across
fellows like Abie. It’s easy enough for you and me to feel patriotic
and be willing to fight for the Flag, but when it comes to a little
half-size Polish Jew who has lived here only ten or twelve years and by
rights oughtn’t to know whether the Revolutionary War was a prize fight
or a moving picture, why, gee, I think it’s wonderful!”
“Right-o!” agreed Steve. “Abie’s a mighty plucky little cuss. We’ve got
some fine fellows in our company. I guess,” he added naïvely, “it’s the
best company here, eh?”
“Sure to be,” laughed Joe. “One’s own company always is.”
Steve laughed. “That’s so, I suppose. Just the same, it is a good one.
And there’s all kinds in it, from Abie to that chap Manders who came
back from leave last week driving his own whopping big Fiat. He’s
going to take me over to New London Sunday if we can get off. He’s got
a brother over there in the Submarine School. He’s a lieutenant or
something. I’ll get him to ask you along. Say, know something?”
“A little,” confessed Joe, “but I’m willing to learn.”
“Well, I’ll bet you that if someone got up some time and yelled ‘Now
then, fellows! A cheer for the N. T. S.!’ you’d hear every school and
college yell between Maine and Texas! Only you wouldn’t, on account of
there being so many!”
“I know one college yell you wouldn’t hear,” said Joe.
“What one?” asked Steve suspiciously.
“Vassar!”
“My word, but you’re the smart guy! Chin up! Here’s something with
stripes coming! Maybe he’s an Admiral. Act pretty!”
“An ensign, you idiot,” said Joe as the officer returned their salutes
and passed. “When did you say Manders was going over to New London?”
“Next Sunday. It’ll be a corking trip. That car of his goes about a
million miles a minute without turning a hair.”
“You mean without casting a shoe,” chuckled Joe. “Don’t forget to tell
him about me. Maybe we can get a look into one of the subs.”
That they didn’t was not the fault of Lieutenant Manders. It was
entirely due to the fact that on a certain Tuesday afternoon toward the
last of May their company and two others were ordered to be ready to
entrain the next morning at six o’clock, and that when Sunday arrived
Steve and Joe were many miles distant from Manders and his pea-green
Fiat!
CHAPTER IV
LAND HO!
Joe leaned against the rail and gazed none too happily over leagues
and leagues of tumbled grey-green water. Overhead the sun had been in
hiding since dawn, but of late an occasional path of amber light had
momentarily shot through the dun clouds and turned to jewel colours the
crests of the rushing seas. Today the big liner was steady enough, but
for the first forty-eight hours she had rolled and pitched a deal more
than Joe had liked, with the result that a good half of that period
had been spent by him in his bunk. It hadn’t been a pleasant time,
for he and Steve and all the other men from the Training Station had
been assigned to steerage quarters, and the steerage bunks were not
what they might have been. Just now, however, what with a more settled
condition of his stomach and the occasional glints of sunshine across
a less boisterous sea, life looked a lot more attractive. Drill that
morning, held on the far from ideal drill ground of the after main
deck, had been a trying proceeding for him, and only the fact that the
“Luff” in command of them had almost tearfully begged for a decent
turn-out had prevented him from again claiming exemption. It was the
first drill with arms since leaving port, and the fact that a certain
exalted personage of the United States Army who wore three stars on the
collar of his service jacket was, together with his Staff, watching
that drill had made it very necessary indeed to show the best they had.
The drill, in spite of causing Joe much unhappiness at the time, had
set him up a lot and just now he was tentatively considering the matter
of dinner. Not having eaten anything of consequence for nearly two
whole days, his interest was only natural.
To starboard, so close that Joe could see the movements of the
lookouts in her fighting tops, ploughed a big lead-grey battleship, a
high-bowed, one-funnelled monster that had joined the liner sometime
and somewhere that first night of the journey. Joe didn’t know her
name, nor, if you believed them, did anyone else. It was remarkable
how little anyone knew――or professed to know――about anything these
days! Ahead of the liner transport steamed a smaller warship, a cruiser
with four funnels and masts that didn’t match. Some said she was the
_Montana_, but as no two persons could agree on the identity of the
battleship Joe didn’t have much faith in the correctness of this guess.
A second cruiser flanked them off the port and two fussy little torpedo
boats wallowed about, well in advance, like sportive dolphins. Those
convoys were a great comfort to Joe, although he sometimes doubted that
they would have time from their signalling, in case of a submarine
attack, to be of any service, for all day long, and way into the night
as well, the big battleship signalled to the cruisers, the cruisers
signalled back, the torpedo boats wig-wagged a bit on their own hook,
and, not to be entirely out of it, the liner semaphored whenever the
thought occurred to her. All of which, in view of the fact that there
was a continual hissing and buzzing in the wireless room, suggested
that there was a whole lot of conversation going on in that part of the
Atlantic Ocean!
The transport, which only a few months ago, had been a crack liner
plying between New York and an English port, carried a varied human
cargo at present. There was, first of all in importance, the Army
Officer and his Staff, and with them a small regiment of orderlies
and clerks. Then there were a number of Navy officers who appeared
to be sharing the work of navigation with the officers of the liner,
several hundred bronze-cheeked, capable-looking boys in olive-drab
whose hats bore the red-and-white cord of the Engineer Service, two
hospital units, very proud in their new uniforms, four gun crews to
man the five-pounders at bow and stern, the detachment of seamen to
which Joe belonged, numerous civilians, amongst whom were a full dozen
war correspondents, and the regular personnel of the steamship. The
big liner, however, was very far from crowded, although at Halifax,
before she had been towed out of the harbour, her decks had fairly
teemed with passengers. That farewell to America had been rather
stirring. Joe recalled the choky sensation that had been his as
whistles on the assembled craft had bellowed hoarse good-byes to them
and as, in the outer harbour, the sailors on the British cruisers
had waved and cheered, while on one of the ships the band had played
“The Star-Spangled Banner.” Before all that there had been a long
and tiresome trip on a train that had been frequently side-tracked,
during which they had slept as best they might in day coaches and, when
passing through towns, with curtains lowered at all windows. They had
had a half-day at Halifax before boarding the liner, but had not been
allowed off the big dock. And now, after nearly three days of tumbling
and tossing, they were far out on the broad Atlantic bound for a port
unknown. They were, though, getting used to official secrecy. Not once
since they had left Newport early one fog-drenched May morning had they
known their next destination. Steve had questioned the quartermaster in
charge of the detachment after they had entrained. The quartermaster
was a good-natured chap, popular with all and without any “side,”
and in response to Steve’s inquiry he had lowered his voice to a
confidential whisper.
“We’re not supposed to tell,” he had replied, “but if you won’t let it
go any further――――”
Steve had promised.
“Well, then, we’re going――――” the Q.M. looked cautiously around the
crowded car――“to an Atlantic port!”
After that Steve gave it up and joined with the others in singing
“Where Do We Go From Here?”
That, however, they were off for foreign service was no great secret,
for they had had extra clothing issued to them, and that could mean
nothing else. They had been excited and jubilant, and, at the same
time, more astonished than they were willing to show. Why they,
“greenhorns” to a man, had been selected instead of some of the fellows
with months of training behind them was a problem. Of course they
pretended that it was because they had shown exceptional ability, but
secretly they greatly feared that an error had been made and were
scared to death that someone in authority would discover the fact and
summon them back to the Station. There was a distinct feeling of relief
when the train started away!
They were having some sort of a drill on the battleship now. Joe
could see the sailors and marines swarming the decks and thought he
could hear a bugle. That was scarcely probable, however, as the big
ship was some distance off and the wind, as proved by the smoke from
the funnels, blew in a direction away from the liner. He had made up
his mind that it was fire drill they were busy with over there when
someone ranged himself at his side. It was Steve, looking very healthy
and hearty. Joe slightly resented the fact that his chum had not
experienced more than a qualm of seasickness.
“We’re getting into the U-boat zone, they say,” announced Steve, “and
tonight we’ve all got to sleep in life-preservers. What do you know
about that?”
“I’ll bet they’ll be mighty uncomfortable,” commented Joe. “How long do
we stay in the zone?”
“Oh, right along until we make port, I guess. They say up forward that
we’re going to Bordeaux. I don’t know if it’s so, though.”
“I know if it’s so,” replied Joe pessimistically. “It isn’t!”
“How do you know?”
“Common sense, Steve. We _thought_ we were going to Boston when we
started from Newport and we went to Halifax. If we _think_ we’re going
to Bordeaux we’re certain sure to bring up at――at Liverpool, or any
place we don’t expect.”
“Well, maybe we won’t bring up anywhere,” said Steve cheerfully, “if
we meet up with one of those torpedoes. We’ll just stay where we are,
perhaps.”
“I’d hate to be a U-boat around here,” answered Joe, peering forward
for a glimpse of the plunging vanguard of business-like torpedo boats.
“I guess I wouldn’t have much chance.”
“Oh, not in the daytime,” agreed the other, “but at night a sub could
sneak up, I guess, and take a shot and get away with it.”
“How would they know where we were at night? There isn’t a light to be
seen on any of us. Fact is, it makes me feel a lot more uneasy to know
that a big bunch of steel like that over there is almost treading on
our heels every night than it does to think about U-boats. Suppose we
lagged a little and that battleship or one of those cruisers tried to
climb aboard over our rail? I think we ought to show a light astern,
anyway.”
“Oh, that’s all right. The captain stands there every night and smokes
a cigar, you see. All the other ships have to do is watch the end of
his cigar and they know where we are! There won’t be any more night
signalling, I guess. I say, watch this, Joe!”
Four sailors came along the deck and paused at a life-boat which
rested on chocks nearby. In a very business-like way they proceeded to
swing it outboard after which they secured it with new lashings to the
davits, tested the falls and passed on to the next.
“Safety first!” murmured Steve. “Looks like business, what?”
Joe nodded soberly. “I guess I’m not going to mind sleeping in my
life-preserver as much as I thought,” he said. “Also, I’ll bet that
tomorrow morning when we have our next boat drill I’ll be the first
one at station!”
Steve laughed. “Good thing we didn’t have to abandon ship yesterday,
eh? What would you have done, Joe?”
“I’d have stayed right there in my bunk,” was the prompt reply, “and
gone down with the ship. When you’re sufficiently seasick I guess a
torpedo would be a――a happy relief!”
“Fine! You’d have got your name in despatches as a bloomin’ hero. I
guess if anything happened right now Abie would be the hero. He’s been
as sick as a dog ever since we passed Devil’s Island Light, poor chap.
I asked him a few minutes ago if there was anything I could do for him
and he said: ‘Yes, go away and leave me alo-o-one!’”
“Does a fellow get over being seasick, or――or what?” asked Joe. “What’s
the good of being a sailor if you have to lie in your bunk when the
fun’s going on?”
“Oh, you get over it pretty soon,” answered Steve, comfortingly.
“Remember how jolly sick you were on the _Adventurer_ that time off the
Isles of Shoals? Well, you weren’t bothered again all the rest of the
voyage. The fact is, I rather wish I’d been laid up already and had it
over with, because I’m plaguey sure I’ll have to have mine before I’m
through.”
“I hope you’re right. I mean about getting over it. Suppose we went to
one of those chasers or torpedo destroyers! Gee, you can get seasick
just watching one of those tubs!”
“I wish they would put us on one of ’em,” said Steve devoutly. “What
I’m afraid of is that we’re going over for shore duty. Crocker says
we’re taking over one of the English bases and he thinks we fellows
will have to get things ready there. That’ll be perfectly vile, won’t
it?”
“Better than Newport,” said Joe. “We’ll be around where things are
doing, anyway. Say, isn’t it ’most dinner time?”
“Pretty near.” Steve grinned. “You must be feeling better, old scout.”
“I’m mighty hungry, if that means anything. Let’s go down and be on
hand, eh?”
“All right. We haven’t had our French lesson yet. Maybe there’ll be
time for it. Come on.”
“I can’t study French on an empty stomach,” grumbled Joe, following the
other down a companion-way. “Besides, I know what beef is, and coffee
and bread. And I can say _une table_ and _une plat_ and _une tasse_,
and I know that a newspaper’s a _journeaux_――no, that’s two newspapers.
Well, anyway, I know enough French to get along with.”
“Never mind how much you know,” replied Steve sternly. “You get your
little book and behave yourself.”
“Some day,” murmured Joe, “that little book――I mean _petite livre_ is
going to accidentally fall overboard into _le mer_, which will be _tres
beau_!”
That afternoon the sun came out gloriously and life was well worth
living again, and the next morning the sea had calmed to such an extent
that the sorely-tried Abie crawled out of his bunk and subsided in
a sheltered corner of the deck, hope once more visible on his pale
countenance. By way of varying the monotony the crow’s-nest watchers
got up a submarine scare which brought joy to the crew of the after gun
and caused a wild commotion below decks until the suspected periscope
proved to be only an empty nail keg. Again, just at sunset, the two
torpedo boats suddenly swerved northward, with smokestacks belching,
and, at a distance of several miles, fired three shots between them.
Whether they had really seen anything was never known on the liner.
Sleeping with cork life-preservers strapped around one proved no more
comfortable than Joe had predicted, but orders were orders and, after
all, one did feel a certain sense of security that almost atoned for
the discomfort.
They had a most exasperating way of holding boat drill at a different
time every day on that transport. Only let a chap get settled to a game
of seven up or high-low-Jack and the fire bell rang alarmingly and he
had to tumble up on deck with his life-belt, donning it as he went, and
take his station by the particular boat to which he had been assigned
at the commencement of the voyage. The only thrilling feature of boat
drill was that you could never be absolutely sure until you had reached
the deck that this time the alarm wasn’t something more than just
make-believe, that it didn’t really mean “prepare to abandon ship!”
But no untoward incident marred the peacefulness of that trip across.
If the German submarines sighted the expedition they took good care to
keep out of view, so far as those on the liner ever knew, at least. And
finally one afternoon the lookouts in the forward crow’s nest broke
into full cry: “Smoke two points off the starboard bow!... Smoke dead
ahead!... Smoke broad off the starboard bow!... Smoke one point off the
port bow!”
There was a wild rush from below as the message went around that
the British convoy was sighted. Fast they came, four grim black
destroyers, punching the seas into spray before them. Signals then
from one of the pack, answered from the battleship; gay-hued bunting
fluttering in the sunlight. The new convoy swung around without pausing
and took positions, and the big lead-coloured battleship and the
cruisers and one of the torpedo boats put their helms over and went
back the way they had come, their duty done. Joe, watching them grow
smaller and smaller, sighed.
“They’re going back home, Steve,” he murmured.
“Yes, the poor things! It’s hard luck, isn’t it?”
“Oh!” Joe considered that phase of it a moment in silence. Then he
smiled. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “And maybe they aren’t
really as pleased as they look. But the stern of that nearest cruiser
certainly did look happy!”
The remaining torpedo boat fell in behind and did her best to keep up
with the procession, but it was evident from the smoke she belched that
she was having no easy task, for the new convoy set a hard pace for an
old-fashioned coal-burning craft like her.
Fair weather carried them through another day and then there was a
fog. But there came no alteration of the speed, and the liner fairly
shook with the reverberations of her big engines. The next morning the
fog was gone again and just after six bells the lookouts once more
brought a thrill to those within sound of their excited voices.
“Land ho!” was the cry that came down from aloft. “Land ho, sir! Two
points off the starboard bow!”
On the bridge below the four officers, two of the Navy and two of
the ship, who had had their glasses levelled for some time on the
faint streak along the horizon only nodded. It was some time before
what looked like a cloud bank resolved itself into what Steve called
“honest-to-goodness land,” but when it did a cheer went up from the men
lining the rails, and a magic word passed from one to another:
“_England!_”
A few hours later the transport dropped her anchors in Plymouth harbour.
CHAPTER V
OVER THERE
The rest of that day they spent most of their time hanging over the
taffrail and watching the disembarking of more fortunate passengers and
the lightering of much unsuspected freight which appeared miraculously
through the great hatches, boxes and bags and firkins, barrels and
crates and bales: foodstuffs, ammunition, machinery, clothing, copper
ingots, telephone insulators, two railway locomotives, a veritable
flock of automobile trucks, cases of picks and shovels, and, probably
not the least important of many things, several small and heavy wooden
boxes with rope handles which were conveyed from the transport under a
guard of a chubby-cheeked corporal and four privates of the Engineers.
The Army representatives went early ashore and, as those still aboard
the liner could plainly see, were received with honours on the quay.
Steve and Joe bitterly bewailed the fate that held them captive while
history was being made ashore there! They could see the lines of
British Tommies drawn up beyond the landing stage, the flashes of
colour from officers’ uniforms.
“Just our rotten luck,” groaned Steve. “I suppose they’ll keep us
herded on board this silly old hooker and finally dump us ashore at
some out-of-the-way place where there’s nothing but a million dollars’
worth of landscape and a pile of lumber!”
But Steve was wrong, for although they remained aboard the rest of
the day and all that night, their three companies of Bluejackets, all
that were left except the ship’s crew and a few of its officers, they
disembarked the next morning, bright and early, and, landing at a big
stone pier, were marched through the streets of the city to a wooden
barracks which had evidently been but recently vacated for them. What
became of the Engineers they never knew, for there was no sign of them
that day or on any other day of their stay in Plymouth. There were
plenty of hearty English cheers for them as they marched to their
quarters and so long as they stayed in the town they, to use their own
expression, “owned it.” The officer in command was liberal with leave
and they had a good time. They fraternised speedily with the British
Jackies with whom the city was filled and under their enthusiastic
pilotage, “saw the sights.” The harbour was a never-failing source of
interest, for within it and all the way down the sound to Penle Head,
merchantmen, transports, mine-layers, trawlers, destroyers, chasers and
lesser fry lay at anchor or hurried about important business. There
were submarines there, too, but they were elusive and only once did
either Steve or Joe set eyes on one. The boys shopped, spent hours in
the “Y.M.,” which was English for Young Men’s Christian Association,
writing home or eagerly perusing the ancient American papers and
magazines on file and promenaded along the Hoe. Steve wrote a letter to
his folks, and, of course, mailed dozens of picture post-cards, and Joe
followed suit. Joe also wrote to George Hanford, addressing it “U.S.S.
_Carthage_, Newport News, Va.,” being certain that the _Carthage_ was
no longer there but equally certain that the letter would ultimately
catch up with Han wherever he might be.
Two days after their arrival one of the three companies was marched
away in the direction of the railway station and after that inroads
were made on the remainder nearly every day until, after a week in
Plymouth, only a handful of their force remained and Steve and Joe,
impatient for action, made plaint to the friendly quartermaster, the
only petty officer left.
“You’ll move pretty soon,” was the consoling reply. “Don’t worry. In
fact, if I were you, I’d drop around to the Y.M.C.A. before night and
write your home letters. You may not have as good an opportunity again
for awhile.”
Cheered by that, they followed the advice, and were afterwards glad
that they had, for in the middle of the next forenoon the word came
to pack kits and at one they were marching back through the town,
all that was left of their band, thirty-odd in all, toward the water
front. There they boarded a small, snub-nosed steamer, a mine-layer
by profession but for this occasion doing duty as a transport, and
together with two companies of British infantry, set sail down the
sound. About them darted tiny despatch boats, while a grim-looking
torpedo boat swung out into mid-stream as they passed and a few
minutes later swished past them to take up her position ahead and act
as convoy. Soon they were cautiously picking their way through the
mine fields and skirting the cliffs and green uplands of Cornwall.
Behind them, a tall stone shaft against a sunlit sky, the Eddystone
light-house faded from sight. Later they swung around the famous
Lizard Head, and by that time Steve and Joe knew whither they were
bound.
“Queenstown, my lad,” informed a jovial British sergeant who had made
their acquaintance soon after sailing and who had indefatigably pointed
out the landmarks to them.
“Queenstown?” repeated Steve vaguely. “That’s in Wales, isn’t it?”
“Ho! ’Ark to the bloomin’ Yankee!” laughed the Sergeant. “It’s in
Ireland, Queenstown is. South coast, my laddie, and not ’arf bad. They
say you chaps are takin’ it over for a naval base. Sounds a bit odd,
eh? Bloomin’ Yankees a-flyin’ the Stripes-and-Stars――――”
“Stars-and-Stripes,” corrected Steve gently.
“Whatever it is,” accepted the Sergeant untroubledly, “from one o’ our
ports! This here war’s a queer bit o’ business, now ain’t it? I arsks
you!”
“Well, we’ll make a decent place of it by the time we’re through,” said
Joe. “We’ve tackled tougher jobs than Queenstown!”
The Sergeant was inclined to be indignant until a twinkle in Joe’s eye
put him right. Then he chuckled and clapped a broad hand on the boy’s
shoulder. “That’s your bloomin’ Yankee swank, eh? Well, listen to me,
laddies; if you’ll clear out some o’ those blarsted Irish rebels while
you’re there you’ll be gettin’ the thanks o’ the nation presented to
you on a silver platter! An’ there’s no two ways about that!”
“Sinn Feiners, you mean?” asked Steve. “Are there any of those in
Queenstown?”
“They’re all over the shop,” was the disgusted reply. “Cork’s the
worst, though, around where you’re goin’. There’s Lands End there, do
you see? And over there are the Scillies.”
“Sillies?” asked Steve, observing a group of Tommies across the deck as
he obeyed the Sergeant’s tug at his arm. “Is that what you call them?”
“What else would I call ’em? There’s St. Mary and St. Agnes and a lot
more the names of which I don’t know.”
“It’s the Scilly Islands he’s talking about,” explained Joe. “I see
them, I think. What are those funny looking boats over there, sir?”
“Mine sweepers at work. And there’s a sub lyin’ hove to, just awash,
beyond ’em. Passin’ the time o’ day, likely. Every time I look at one
o’ those things I thank my lucky stars I’m in the Army!”
Their craft was not a very fast traveller and it was nearly midnight
when it crept into Cork Harbour, bearing a freight of rather cold and
very hungry humanity. The few lights of Queenstown twinkled beckoningly
and they were all eager to feel the land under foot again. They
disembarked on a darkened quay and, parting from their friends the
infantrymen, stumbled over a rough, cobbled street that led them along
the outskirts of the town and finally reached the destination, a new
barrack building, smelling strongly of fresh pine. Hot coffee was all
they had that night, but by that time they were far too sleepy to want
more, and soon after arrival they were fast asleep.
The next morning they breakfasted luxuriously amongst friends from
their own land. The number of United States sailors and marines
already on hand quite staggered the boys. Save for the new buildings
already erected or in course of construction they might easily have
thought themselves back at home at one of their own naval bases.
United States marines paced back and forth on guard duty, sailors were
everywhere, officers hurried about and, high over one building, the
Stars-and-Stripes fluttered in a stiff breeze. And that was not all
to make them feel at home, for in the harbour lay a small flotilla of
their own destroyers and chasers, as well as a big Navy collier which
was unloading supplies, while, farther out, a grey scout-cruiser was
anchored. There were British boats, too, and one green-grey destroyer
which the boys later learned was Japanese. Every variety of naval craft
was there, from submarine to battle cruiser, including destroyers
and torpedo boats and chasers, sweepers, trawlers and layers and a
shrill-voiced, _chug-chugging_ swarm of launches.
Their first day on Irish soil was scarcely a pleasant one so far
as weather was concerned, for a chilling breeze blew and showers
descended at dishearteningly regular intervals. But Steve and Joe had
small time to think of weather, for as soon as breakfast was eaten
they were hurried away to a long shed where they were set to loading
ammunition on lighters. It was evidently important work, for all hands
were at it, sailors and marines alike, while a worried-looking ensign
trotted around and urged them on. But it was done by the middle of the
afternoon and then Steve and Jack and others of their depleted company
returned to barracks, very tired and stiff, with full intention of
applying for leave to see the town. But their Q.M. had other ideas.
“Orders, men!” was their greeting. “Buckman, Spencer, White and Conner
report aboard destroyer _Chauncey_ right away. She’s sailing at
five. Smythe, Foster and Chapman report aboard _Chaser 17_. Corson,
Levinskey, Ingersoll and Strauss to the destroyer _Warren_. Get a move
on, all of you, and hustle down to the first landing. Don’t forget your
outfits.” The Q.M. folded the list in his hand, nodded and turned away.
Steve and Joe were gazing at each other in consternation. “I’m going to
ask him,” blurted Joe as the officer made for the door.
“So am I,” said Steve. They hurried after the quartermaster, saluted
and blurted out their request almost in chorus.
“Couldn’t you let us go together, sir?” they asked anxiously. “We don’t
care where we go, sir,” added Joe, “just so that we’re on the same
boat.”
“Yes, I guess so,” answered the officer. “Here, let’s see.” He pulled
his list out of a pocket and found his pencil. “You both report to the
_Warren_.” He raised his voice. “Levinskey!”
“Yes, sir.”
“You report aboard _Chaser 17_ instead of the _Warren_. Get it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Well, good-bye, you fellows, and good luck to you. Be a
credit to my training.” He shook hands, smiling, and then as the boys
thanked him turned and made his way across the yard in the rain. Steve
heaved a sigh of relief.
“Gee,” he said, “that was a narrow squeak, Joe! The Allies came mighty
near losing the war then!”
CHAPTER VI
THE U.S.S. WARREN
What is now the torpedo boat destroyer is only the old torpedo boat
grown bigger, stauncher, speedier and far more powerful. This country
no longer makes the torpedo boat, for the destroyer does all that it
could ever do and a hundred per cent beyond. It was Great Britain who
launched the first torpedo boat back about 1878. Those early examples
of the craft were diminutive affairs, some sixty feet long by seven
wide and displaced not over twenty tons. Their armament was usually
two torpedo tubes and their speed never higher than sixteen knots.
For shallow water operations, however, they proved successful, and
gradually they developed until in 1890 they were displacing eighty tons
and had a speed of from eighteen to twenty-two knots.
In our own Navy the craft did not appear until 1886, when the
_Stiletto_ slid down the ways at the Herreshoff Yard at Bristol, Rhode
Island. The _Stiletto_ made quite a sensation then, even though she
was only eighty-eight and a half feet in length, had a displacement
of thirty tons and did eighteen knots. But the _Stiletto_ proved the
entering wedge, for five years later we had torpedo boats of one
hundred and twenty tons and, in 1901 of two hundred and eighty tons
displacement. The next step was the destroyer, as she was called for
brevity, and at the time of the war between Russia and Japan these
ships――no longer “boats,” if you please――had attained a speed of
thirty knots and were of five hundred tons displacement. In that war
the Japanese used their torpedo craft to excellent advantage, even
though their policy was to take no unnecessary risks with them, and
the destroyer’s place in naval warfare was clearly established. The
construction of destroyers had a boom everywhere, and in this country
we were turning out ships of four hundred and twenty tons like the
_Bainbridge_, _Decatur_, _Chauncey_ and _Paul Jones_. These ships were
two hundred and fifty feet in length, could make twenty-eight knots
and for armament carried two eighteen-inch torpedo tubes and seven
small rapid-fire guns. Whereas the old torpedo boat was designed to
attack larger ships, acting in flotilla strength and under cover of
darkness, the new destroyer was intended primarily to run down the
torpedo boat and sink it with rapid-fire guns. But torpedo tubes were
also provided so that the destroyer might likewise take the place of
the torpedo boat in attacking larger ships. For a while the smaller
craft was retained as a defensive weapon and the larger craft built as
an offensive weapon, although neither was limited to its specialty. The
torpedo boat, because of light draft and low visibility, readily became
a weapon of offence, darting out from shallow waters to attack enemy
cruisers and battleships with its torpedoes and, with good fortune,
returning unscathed. On the other hand, the offensive destroyer became
a weapon of defence when it stood by the attacking fleet and guarded it
from the depredations of the smaller boats.
Finally, however, the development of the torpedo did away with the
torpedo boat entirely, or, I should say, with the building of them, for
most navies still have and make some use of torpedo boats turned out
from ten to twenty years ago. (Our own _Dupont_, launched in 1897, was
in commission in reserve at the beginning of the war and, doubtless,
is doing its bit bravely enough somewhere today.) As the accuracy
and range of the modern automobile torpedo increased the necessity
for small boats decreased, since the torpedo could be fired at a far
greater distance. Consequently the torpedo boat’s tonnage grew and the
destroyer’s tonnage was forced to keep its relative advantage. In our
Navy the jump was from two hundred and eighty tons to four hundred and
twenty, and with that jump the torpedo boat ceased and the destroyer
appeared.
At present time our larger destroyers are of about eleven hundred
tons displacement――although we hear rumours of still larger ships
being built. The destroyer must be able to cruise for weeks at a time
without return to base, and for that reason must be sufficiently
large to carry immense quantities of fuel and stores. Today one of
our newer destroyers can take on enough oil on this side to make the
run to England and back without replenishing her tanks. As to speed,
the _Jacob Jones_, the latest destroyer of which specifications
have been made public, made thirty knots an hour, developing about
seventeen thousand horse power. Others, however, laid down after the
_Jacob Jones_, are said to be able to steam at thirty-five knots and a
fraction.
The activity of the submarine in the present war has had its influence
on the destroyer. The torpedo as a weapon against the submarine is
of no consequence. The destroyer trusts to the fire of its small
guns or to ramming, when the submarine is on the surface, and to
depth-charges when the submarine is submerged. As the all-important
task of the American Navy at present is to combat the German U-boat,
our destroyers, which, with light cruisers and “chasers,” are best
adapted for such warfare, comprise the bulk of our offensive fleet. In
consequence of the duty they have to perform the tendency is toward an
increase of gun power, and the destroyers now being turned out carry
many more rapid-fire rifles. Seaworthiness, speed and a large range
of action are also requisites, and these features, too, are receiving
attention.
The present day automobile torpedo is an outcome of the spar torpedo of
Civil War times. The spar, or outrigger torpedo, was fixed at the end
of a pole and exploded by contact with the hull of an enemy ship or by
use of a firing battery at will. It was by such a contrivance that the
_Housatonic_ was sent to the bottom off Charleston by a Confederate
submarine boat, with the accompanying loss of the submarine’s crew.
Other successful uses of the spar torpedo were made during the Civil
War and later. Robert Whitehead invented the “fish” torpedo which,
in improved shape, still bears his name. It has played a prominent
part in the present war. Another torpedo, used by our Navy, is the
Bliss-Leavitt. The diameter of the automobile torpedo varies from
eighteen to twenty-two inches, with an extreme length of twenty-one
feet. Essentially it is a submarine boat self-propelled. It consists
of five parts: warhead, air-flask, depth control mechanism, steering
gear and engines. In the warhead is a charge of high explosive, from
two hundred to five hundred pounds, according to type or size, which
is detonated by a firing mechanism. The explosive may be either
gun-cotton, which is ordinary cotton treated with nitric and sulphuric
acids, or trinitrotoluol, familiarly known as TNT, which is formed
of hydrogen and carbon treated with nitric acid. The detonating
mechanism is merely a firing pin which goes through the centre of the
explosive charge from front to rear and is seated in a percussion cap
located back of the charge. At the nose of the warhead the firing pin
terminates in a safety device known as a butterfly nut. A second safety
appliance reaches through half the diameter of the warhead and holds
the firing pin in place so that it cannot strike against the percussion
cap.
The air-flask is a strongly constructed steel tank which is filled with
compressed air used to operate the engine and all other mechanism of
the torpedo. The depth control mechanism is worked by water pressure
and is adjustable by a spring before launching. It allows the torpedo
to be run at any desired depth. Its principal parts are a pendulum and
a hydrostatic piston controlling horizontal rudders. The steering gear
consists of a gyroscopic compass which influences vertical rudders and
keeps the torpedo on its course. The engine is operated by compressed
air which takes the place of steam. A reducing valve decreases the
pressure of the air to that required. An alcohol flame heats the air
as it enters the cylinders and also produces steam from the water in
a combustion flask. The air and steam are mixed and the resulting
expansion provides the force to drive the engine. In several types of
torpedoes the engines are reciprocating, but in the Bliss-Leavitt, or
Bliss, as it is frequently called, are placed turbines that drive two
propellers.
The torpedo is forced from the torpedo tube by means of compressed air.
On a destroyer these tubes are set up much like a gun, and singly, in
twos or in threes. Before the torpedo is placed in the tube the safety
pin is removed and the butterfly nut is loosened. The breach-block of
the tube is closed and compressed air is turned into the tube behind
the torpedo, which, however, is kept from being forced out at the
muzzle by a lock. When the catch of the lock is released the torpedo is
forced from the tube. At the same time the interior mechanism of the
torpedo begins its work and, at about forty knots an hour, the missile
flies toward the target. On striking the target the firing pin, from
the tip of which the butterfly nut has now dropped off, is forced back
against the percussion cap and the high explosive charge is detonated
and the ship is sunk or crippled. Since, however, the speed of the
ship, its course and the speed of the torpedo itself all enter into
marksmanship, the torpedo is not counted an accurate weapon at long
ranges, and even at short ranges misses frequently occur.
The boys had frequently debated the possibility of assignment to a
destroyer, but, since it was a recognised rule in time of peace that
only service men should man such ships, they had ultimately decided
that their ditty boxes were not likely to be stowed on one. A chaser,
or, possibly, a light cruiser would probably be their fate. But now,
having as Steve phrased it, “made” the _Warren_, they weren’t certain
whether to be pleased or not. They had heard weird yarns about life on
a destroyer, and Joe, haunted by the fear of seasickness, was filled
with disturbing thoughts as they hurried off through one of the soft,
warm showers of the south of Ireland to the landing. Half a dozen whale
boats, dingeys and launches were clustered there, but inquiry developed
the fact that there was no boat from the _Warren_ amongst them. They
were discussing the chance of finding a boat to hire when a petty
officer in the stern sheets of a launch hailed them.
“Where do you boys want to go?” he asked.
“The _Warren_, sir.”
“Jump in. I’ll drop you.”
They thanked him and entered the little launch which held four seamen
and so much dunnage that there was scarcely place for their feet. They
waited there in the soft rain for a few minutes longer, during which
time other tenders departed or arrived, and during which Steve and Joe
vainly sought to determine which of the long grey shapes seen dimly
through the mist was the _Warren_. Finally a brisk young ensign hurried
up, jumped aboard and the launch wheeled about and plunged gayly into
the haze. They heard the petty officer explaining that he had offered
to put the two boys aboard the _Warren_, and saw the ensign nod and
view them appraisingly. Then one of the grey shapes loomed up before
them and a moment later they were clambering up the side. They reported
to the officer of the deck and were sent below. Going below puzzled
them at first, for nothing looking in the least like a companion-way
was in sight. Fortunately a white cap appeared above the surface of the
main deck at that moment and they discovered a round hatch.
“A fat man would have a peach of a time getting through this,” remarked
Steve as he led the way to the second deck.
Ten minutes later they had had their names entered on the ship’s
roster, had been assigned to their bunks――for there are no hammocks
on a destroyer――had stowed their belongings, and, in charge of a
good-natured and informative youth of twenty-one or -two years of age,
whose single chevron was topped by the crossed cannons of a gunner’s
mate, and whose name they later discovered to be Hearn, were learning
the ship. Many of the men, Hearn explained, were still absent on leave
and wouldn’t be back until the next day.
“You see, it’s generally six days on patrol and three in port, and the
Old Man’s fine about granting liberty. Last time another fellow and I
got three whole days and pretty nearly saw this little island from top
to bottom. And, say, it’s all right, too. I’ve been hearing all my life
about the beauties of Ireland, but I never believed in ’em much. Well,
say, it’s all true, fellows. You want to take a trip up to County Clare
the first chance you get. It’s as pretty as a picture, believe me.”
Their knowledge of warships was confined largely to that gathered from
infrequent visits to battleships and cruisers lying flag-bedecked in
the North River. The present ship was something far different. There
were no flags, save the jack fluttering at the fore, nor anything
else that could be termed the least bit ornamental, for the _Warren_
had been stripped before leaving on her voyage across and only the
absolutely essential things remained. Gone were boats and davits,
awnings and stanchions, and in most cases the steel ventilators were
now mere canvas funnels. What struck the boys most of all was the
intensely business-like appearance of the destroyer, and after that her
look of power and seaworthiness.
CHAPTER VII
SEA DUTY
The _Warren_ was one of the Paulding class, just short of three hundred
feet in length, with a twenty-seven foot beam and a draught of eight
feet. (“Eight above and eight below,” explained Hearn, “and a lot of
her weight topside, shipmates, so she’ll roll pretty.”) She was not a
new ship, for she had been launched in 1912, nor was she as speedy as
the larger ships. (“She’s done her twenty-eight and a half, though,”
defended their guide, “and can show her heels to a lot of ’em.”) She
had two masts and four funnels and everything about her, from stem to
stern, foretop to keel, was grey. (“They’re painting some of ’em these
camouflage colours,” said Hearn, “and a fine sight they are, too.
There was a Frenchie in here the other day that looked like a blooming
butterfly, believe me. They had her striped zig-zag with all the
colours of the rainbow and then they’d painted wavy lines across that.
Maybe you can’t see her any distance, but when she’s close up, believe
me, you can’t see anything else! She’s a three-ring circus: and she’s
got a name like a clown!”) Forward was the forecastle and here were
mounted, one on each beam, two of the five three-inch rapid-fire rifles
with which the _Warren_ was armed. Above, on the forecastle deck, was
a third gun. The bridge, gained from the forecastle deck, was in turn
topped by a searchlight platform, while aft of it was a diminutive
chart-room. Beneath the forecastle was the officers’ quarters, the
captain’s cabin extending across the width of the ship. Aft of that
were four staterooms, the wardroom mess and the officers’ galley.
Amidships on the main deck stood a fourth three-inch rifle and, to
starboard and port, two twin eighteen-inch torpedo tubes. (“They’re
making ’em in triplets now,” observed Hearn. “Three tubes together
instead of two. That’s going some, ain’t it?”) Astern there was another
twin torpedo tube and the last of the rapid-fire rifles.
Below the main deck were the men’s quarters, the two boiler-rooms, each
holding its pair of big oil-fired boilers, the turbine room, the petty
officers’ quarters and storerooms.
“She’s awfully like a toothpick, isn’t she?” asked Joe dubiously as
he surveyed the long and narrow deck from the stern taffrail to the
distant break of the forecastle.
“She sure is,” Hearn agreed. “She’s just eleven times longer than she
is wide, friend. And that’s some fine, believe me!”
“I think it would be finer,” said Joe, attempting a weak joke, “if she
was a little bit wider. What do you do when two fellows have to pass on
deck?”
“One of us hangs over the side,” chuckled the gunner’s mate. “It’s
those fine lines, kid, that make her nifty. You wait till she hits her
gait in a smooth sea and just watch her slip along! Fifteen thousand
horse power, she has, and when those turbines get to nagging her three
propellers, why, say, she walks a bit, believe me!”
“But――but in rough weather,” hazarded Joe anxiously, “isn’t she――er――――”
“You said something,” laughed Hearn. “She sure is. I’ve been aboard
this porpoise when she was doing thirty-five.”
“Thirty-five?” questioned Steve.
“Yep, thirty-five degrees off vertical. That’s swinging, son, believe
me! They say they sometimes go forty-five in extra rough weather, and
that’s going through an arc of ninety degrees, but I’ve never seen that
performance yet, and I don’t want to. Thirty’s bad enough. Take it
on the foretop lookout when she’s switching over from one side to the
other and doing it in around six seconds and you’ve got about all you
want! And the worst of it is that you don’t ever know what sort of a
kick she’s going to do next. She’s got more different motions than a
cat and can do any seven of ’em at once. When you get back to the base
you’re so stiff in your muscles that you can hear them creak!”
“It must be fierce,” marvelled Joe. “And don’t you ever get seasick?”
“Seasick! You’d better believe it. Last trip we had half the bunch
flat, men and officers, and the junior luff wasn’t any use for two
days.”
Joe groaned dismally. “I’ll last about ten minutes,” he said. “I――I
guess I’ll get out of here while there’s time.” He looked anxiously
about as though contemplating a sudden plunge into the water and a swim
ashore.
“You’ll have it, all right,” said the gunner’s mate consolingly, “but
you’ll get over it, I guess. Most of ’em do. Fact is, you don’t have
much time for being sick. There’s too much to do. And, anyway, a fellow
might as well be up and around as trying to hold himself into one of
those bunks by his teeth and toes and eyelashes. It’s all right to
be seasick when you’ve got a nice wide berth and a steward to wait on
you and the old hooker’s only playing a bit, but on one of these tin
cigarettes the best thing to do is to forget it.”
“Have you ever been seasick?” asked Joe dolefully.
“Me? I’ve been so sick I hoped the ship would sink! But you get sort of
out of the habit after a while. The first week or so is bad, but then
you kind of swallow hard and do your work and it don’t bother you much.
Of course, there are some that never do get over it. About one fellow
out of every dozen has to quit the destroyers and go back to the big
ones.”
“I’m that one, I guess,” said Joe. “Why, I can get seasick just
watching a goldfish swim around in a glass bowl!”
“You’ve got a swell chance of sticking around here, then,” laughed
Hearn. “Say, how’d you fellows manage to get aboard here, anyhow?
You’re apprentices, aren’t you?”
Steve told all he knew of the process, which wasn’t much, and the petty
officer nodded. “I guess they’re taking most anyone on nowadays,” he
said. “No offence to you fellows. Generally it’s only service men who
get on destroyers and torpedo boats. But there’s a heap of Reserve
fellows in the fleet now, I hear, and I suppose they haven’t got
enough service men for the jobs. How long were you at Newport?”
Steve told him, and he whistled long and loudly. “Gee, that’s rushing
things a bit, ain’t it? First thing you know you’ll be warrant officers
at that rate! It usually takes some years, but things are happening
fast just now. They tell me half these dinky little chasers that are
bobbing around here are manned by amateur yachtsmen and ferryboat
captains and the like. I suppose it’s all right, and at that they’re a
sporting bunch, but it sort of grouches a fellow who’s been in the Navy
five years to see greenhorns without any experience getting fat berths
and big pay. Oh, well, if we just hand it to the Huns, it don’t matter.”
“Have you seen a submarine yet?” asked Steve eagerly.
“Dozens of ’em. We got four last week and just missed a fifth.”
But there was a tell-tale twinkle in Hearn’s eye, and Steve said: “No,
really, have you?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. The first two days we were on patrol the lookouts
reported exactly fourteen periscopes.”
“Really!” exclaimed Joe. “And――and did you get a shot at any of them?”
“Just one. And we missed that by twenty yards on account of being so
excited. Still, it was just as well, as it turned out, because it
wasn’t anything but floating spar.”
“Oh! And the others? Were they spars, too?”
“No, the others were mostly imagination. Maybe one was a porpoise. Yes,
sir, we sure sighted a lot of periscopes those two days! The Old Man
threatened finally that he’d drop the first man overboard who so much
as whispered ‘periscope!’”
“The Old Man’s the captain, isn’t he?” asked Joe.
“Yep, Lieutenant-Commander John W. Stanford, Esquire, bless his old
heart! As the British gobs say, he’s a little bit of all right.”
“What’s a gob?” asked Steve.
“You are if you stay aboard. It’s a name they have for the destroyer
men.”
“Oh. Who are the other officers?”
“Lyke, first luff. He’s executive officer. The junior luff’s name is
Putnam. He’s boss of the engines. Then there’s Connell, who’s ensign.
That’s the lot, and all pretty good.”
“How many others?” asked Steve.
“Non-coms? About ten, I guess. And eighty-six men. Or was last cruise.
You fellows will make eighty-eight if the rest all show back.”
“That’s a lot,” marvelled Steve.
“Well, there’s a lot of work on one of these things, son. We have to
have all sorts, just like a dreadnought, only not so many of a kind:
machinists, oilers, firemen, boilermakers, shipfitters, water tenders,
electricians, painters, cooks, stewards, bakers and so on. Those are
all artificers. Then there’s the seaman branch. And there’s a surgeon
and――and―――― Well, if there’s anything we haven’t got, just mention it
to the Old Man and he’ll fix it for you.”
“We will,” laughed Steve. Joe asked: “Do you think we’ll get our chance
now that we’re assigned to service?”
“You’ll either be advanced to seamen, second class, or seamen if you
stay around here,” answered Hearn. “Unless,” he added with a grin,
“they make you admirals!”
“I don’t care much what they do with me,” said Steve, “so long as they
let me stay here. Of course I’d like to get my advance, but I should
worry. What I want is to get a crack at the enemy. Have you met any
Germans yet?”
“Yes,” answered Hearn dryly. “We’ve got a couple on board.”
“Germans!”
“Well, they were till they got naturalised. Now they’re rip-snorting
Americans.”
“Oh, but I meant enemy Germans,” Steve explained.
“No, I haven’t seen any of that sort yet, I guess. Yes, I have,
too. When I was at Liverpool a month ago there was a bunch of
them――prisoners, you know――standing on the dock. They were being taken
to some place, I guess. They were a sorry looking lot, mostly no older
than you fellows, and what they had on wouldn’t have tempted a hobo.
Still and all, they looked fairly cheerful. Guess they thought it was a
lot better than fighting over there in those dirty trenches. Say, I’ve
got a friend who deliberately volunteered for the Army last month. Got
a letter from him the other day telling me about it. He’s in a training
camp somewhere up around Boston. And, say, that chump never showed any
insanity before!”
“Insanity?” repeated Joe. “Oh, you mean――――”
“Sure! What’s he go and enlist in the Army for when he could be sitting
around on a nice clean ship with nothing to do but work? It gets me,
honest it does! Why, those blokes have to live up to their knees in
mud: sleep in it, mind you: eat it almost: and all they see is a mess
of barbed wire and an airplane now and then. Gee, think of sticking
around in a trench for days at a time with nothing doing! Course he
isn’t up against that yet, but he will be by Fall, I guess. And,
another thing, fellows, that silly chump’s as likely as not to get
killed!”
“Well, he might get killed in the Navy, mightn’t he?” asked Steve,
smiling.
“Shucks, no. This is the safest job there is. Of course a fellow gets
his now and then, but it’s a nice, clean death, and you’re so busy when
it happens that I’ll bet you never know it! I wouldn’t join the Army
for a million dollars!”
That night Steve and Joe ate their first destroyer “chow” and slept for
the first time in narrow bunks between the thin steel walls. The food
was good, and, since they were tremendously hungry, they enjoyed it.
And the bunks were comfortable enough under the present circumstances,
but Joe secretly wondered how he would ever manage to stay in his, much
more sleep in it, when the destroyer performed those alarming tricks
that Hearn had told of! They found their companions among the enlisted
men a jolly and singularly care-free lot. They had expected to be
joshed some, possibly mildly hazed, but were agreeably disappointed.
The others took it for granted that the boys were full seamen, and,
since they had each tucked their blue caps with the tell-tale Training
School ribbon out of sight, there was nothing to undeceive them. It
was only when, after supper was over and they were sitting around in
quarters, a chap asked Joe what his last ship had been that the truth
came out. Joe confided the facts humbly and not very loudly, and his
neighbour laughed.
“That’s it, eh? Well, you’ll get your new rating in a day or two. Bound
to. I want to tell you, though, that you and your friend were dead
lucky to walk on board a destroyer as easy as that. There are fellows
on the big ones that would eat their caps to get into the ‘Suicide
Fleet,’ and especially on this fly-by-night!”
“Really? Is the _Warren_ an especially good ship?”
“Is she? You bet she is! She’s the best in the fleet, bar none. There
are some that are bigger, but we’ve got the best shots and the best
officers in these waters. And the best all-round lot of men, too. You
just wait a month or so and they’ll be hearing back home about this
little cuss!”
“I hope so,” murmured Joe. “And I hope you’re right about the new
rating.”
As it proved, he was, for the next morning the fact of advancement was
made known to them and they received cap ribbons bearing the legend
“U.S.S. _Warren_” and were entered on the roster as second-class
seamen at the munificent wage of thirty-five dollars and ninety cents
a month. The wages didn’t excite them very greatly, partly because so
far they had each received slightly over sixteen dollars all told since
enlistment, and, as Steve sagely remarked, what was the good of earning
thirty-five dollars if you never saw any of it? Both were assigned to
the starboard watch and both had their first taste of deck washing, and
by noon that day they had found their places to some extent and were
trying their best to look their parts.
The rain stopped during the morning and a gentle breeze blew from
shore, bearing with it a fragrance of damp meadows. But that fragrance
had a hard time getting recognised on the destroyer, for the ship had a
fine healthy odour of her own, an odour composed of burning oil, of hot
iron, of paint, of cooking food from the ever-busy galley, all merged
into one heavy and never-forgotten bouquet. The _Warren_ remained at
anchor until afternoon, taking on oil and ammunition and supplies of
all sorts. There were not many idle moments for the new members of the
crew. By noon the last of those who had been off on shore leave were
back and it was no secret that the destroyer would sail before night.
Joe viewed the immediate future gloomily, but that didn’t keep him from
following the general example of “filling up bunkers” at dinner, since
once out on patrol the galley seldom bothered itself with hot meals.
“You get canned salmon or beef,” volunteered a small, tow-haired youth
who looked no more than seventeen while claiming twenty, “and the only
hot stuff is coffee. If you’re on to the tricks you can sneak some eggs
and boil ’em at the steam vent. But your best bet, friend, is to eat
all you can hold in port.”
Just before sunset the _Warren’s_ engines began to sing a louder tune
and presently winches clattered and the anchors came dripping up.
Simultaneously two other destroyers, one a far bigger boat than the
_Warren_, showed similar indications of departure, and presently the
water began to ripple past the bows, the smoke above the funnels took
on a darker tinge and the destroyer moved down the harbour, slowly
at first and then faster, playing a hoarse tune on her siren as she
signalled for the “gate.” Behind her at respectful distances came the
companion ships, looking, head-on, like thin grey wedges of steel.
“See those barrels strung out ahead there?” asked a youngster in
response to Joe’s question. “Well, those are the net floats. The lower
edge of the net’s anchored to the bottom, all except the gate net.
Those two trawlers you see are opening it for us to get through. After
we are through we’ve got to steer a tight course, for there’s mines
laid everywhere outside, and it isn’t healthy to slap one of ’em with
your nose.”
“I should think, though,” Steve objected, “that if the mines are high
enough in the water to get us that a U-boat could slip past underneath.”
“Oh, there’s three layers of ’em, and a Fritz would have to be mighty
lucky to squeeze between ’em. They say that they have a sort of burglar
alarm effect running from the net to the shore station, so if anything
pokes its nose against it a bell starts to ringing. But I don’t know
how true that is.”
“Are there mines all around here? Outside, I mean.”
“No, excepting floating ones that the Huns push off up in the North Sea
or drop over from their ships. You find them now and then. You got to
watch for them, kid. The _Jarvis_, I think it was, sent down three last
trip. When you find ’em you blow ’em up.”
“Shoot at them?” asked Joe.
“No,” answered their informant gravely, “you run down on ’em and
the Cap leans over the side and biffs one of the horns with a
monkey-wrench. It’s more certain that way. You might miss ’em with the
gun.”
“I suppose that was a fool question,” laughed Joe.
“Sure, number 71,698.” The other smiled. “You’ll be asking worse ones
than that, though. I did.”
Once outside the nets, with the guard ships only darker blotches
against the darkening sea and the sky still light beyond Kinsale Head,
the _Warren_ dug her nose into the water and ploughed southward at a
merry clip. For awhile the companion boats were visible, but eventually
they melted into the night.
CHAPTER VIII
WITH THE “SUICIDE FLEET”
High up on the foretop, on a narrow perch slung within a grey canvas
cylinder that barely allowed elbow-room, Steve was on lookout duty.
His eyes just topped the steel-hooped rim of his nest and a brisk
breeze flattened back the brim of his white cap. It was his first go
at it, and he was a little excited, a little proud and terrifically
anxious. It was still early morning of the second day of patrol duty,
so early that the odour of coffee was still floating up from the galley
below. The _Warren_ was loafing along at some twelve knots an hour,
but even so she rolled considerably and the cage swung from port to
starboard and back to port, describing a good twenty degrees of an arc.
Around him in every direction stretched a waste of grey-green water,
a-sparkle in the sunlight save where, under the ship’s starboard side,
a broad copper-hued shadow kept pace with her. Straight below, the
foreshortened figure of an officer moved about the bridge. Forward
of him the three-inch gun pointed an inquiring nose across the bow,
gleaming dully. Turning his head, Steve could look into the cavernous
mouth of the forward smokestack from which a yellow-grey vapour poured.
White-capped forms moved briskly about the deck or lounged in the
sheltered places. Somewhere astern was Spain, somewhere ahead, Ireland.
For the rest Steve only knew that the Atlantic Ocean was beneath
him――and doubtless a great deal of it, too――and that his eyes, after
only twenty minutes up here in his dizzy perch were already aching with
the strain.
Southeastward was the worst, for there the sunlight played queer pranks
with the waves and dazzled the sight so that, to use Steve’s metaphor,
muttered to himself, a dime’s worth of imagination would have easily
created a whole covey of periscopes, to say nothing of subs themselves!
Now and then he closed his eyes for a moment, while dark red spots
glowed behind his lids, but only for a moment since he was eternally
haunted by the fear that the other lookouts, or the officers on the
bridge there with their glasses, would see something that he didn’t.
More than once his heart missed a beat as, just for a breathless
instant, some freak of sunlight conjured a distant periscope or the
dark hollow of a wave took on the semblance of a dripping steel hull
emerging from the sea. But it was wonderfully interesting, horribly
exciting, and he wouldn’t have swapped that swaying steel-hooped
cylinder for the steadiest bunk on the lower deck. In another half-hour
or so his watch there would be over, for an hour of such eye-strain is
all one can stand, and “one on and three off” is the rule for lookouts.
The fear that he might miss something turned to the fear that there
might be nothing for him to miss. He fairly ached for the sight of some
object in that wide expanse of water. Even a floating log or wisp of
wreckage would have answered; anything so that he might send his voice
down to the bridge and prove that he was “on the job!”
The sun crept higher and the breeze, fresh and salty from the
southwest, grew stronger and hummed a tune on the wireless aerial and
slapped a line briskly against the mast. A flock of tiny blue-black
birds swept across the bow, circled and spread low above the waves,
melting into the irradiance of the sun. The navigating officer climbed
the bridge ladder, sextant in hand, for his eight-o’clock observation.
The appealing odour from the galley brought a wistful sigh from the
foretop lookout. And then, on the heels of the sigh, came a gasp.
Just on the edge of the luminous track of the sunlight was a spot.
Steve stared intensely. The spot was lost to sight, danced into vision
again, a tiny black something that was never a wave in the world! He
closed his eyes, opened them again and looked. It was gone! No, it was
there, further to the left! It was no periscope, for it was too far
away, perhaps a full two miles, and it was not periscope shape. It
looked――almost――like――――
Steve placed his mouth to the tube, and: “Small boat broad off the port
bow!” he called.
The navigator unceremoniously tucked the sextant under his arm and two
pairs of glasses swept into the sunlight.
“What distance?” called the Lieutenant. “I’ve got her! Empty, I think.”
Steve put his head above the cage’s rim. Dimly he was aware of the
mild commotion below and aft as the crew on deck piled to the port
rail. Even an empty boat is an event after thirty-six hours of nothing.
On the bridge the officers were still staring through their glasses,
conversing in words too low for Steve to hear up in his roost, but the
destroyer’s head was coming around and the smoke from the forward stack
was heavier and greasier. Steve looked back at the dark speck. Already
it seemed nearer, and as the _Warren_ turned the green, sun-flecked
water from her sharp bow the object of her concern took form and shape.
Minutes passed and Steve again hailed:
“She’s not empty, sir!”
There was no answer, but a slight wave of the executive officer’s hand
said very plainly: “Don’t bother me. I’ve got eyes of my own.” Steve
relapsed into his cage. The boat came nearer and nearer, a veritable
cockle-shell of a craft. Oars glinted and a figure swung slowly back
and forth until, realising that help was coming and that further
exertion was unnecessary, the oars were shipped. The boat held three
men――no, four, for one was huddled in the bottom.
“Fishermen,” called a voice from the rail below.
“And Frenchies,” said another.
“Been strafed, I guess. They must――――” The breeze blew the rest of
it away. Now Steve could almost look down into the row-boat, and the
destroyer’s speed slackened and the voice of her engines died to a mere
hum.
“Ahoy the boat!” called a megaphoned voice from the bridge. “Row
alongside and we’ll take you on!”
A babble of unintelligible language issued from three throats and
floated down-breeze. One of the men waved a wooden bailer vehemently,
but his eloquence of gesture was wasted. The “exec” shrugged his
shoulders, but beckoned understandably and with a renewed torrent
of speech the fishermen seized their oars and rowed tiredly for the
slowing destroyer. Steve watched them come over the side, limp, pale
and wet, Bretons as he knew by their picturesque costumes. Two of the
rescuers leaped down and lifted the fourth occupant to the reach of
willing hands. And then a quick command and the _Warren_ picked up her
gait again, turned to her former course and lounged away, leaving the
little fishing boat empty and pathetically alone.
When Steve’s relief came, ten minutes later, he hurried down and,
between gulps of beautiful hot coffee and mouthfuls of wonderful
canned beef, got the story from Hearn, GM3c, which, interpreted, meant
gunner’s mate of the third class.
“They’re togging themselves in dry clothing now,” explained Hearn. “No
one could understand a word they said until Carrick, the little Q.M.
got at ’em. Say, he talked French like a frog-eater. He says, though,
that the lingo these fellows talk is a sort of Bowery French.”
“Why didn’t they call me down?” asked Steve, his mouth full of bread
and beef. “I’d have talked to them all right.”
“Sure,” replied Hearn. “Just like I did. Well, anyway, they’ve been
floating around for three days now. The _Trois Freres_ was their boat,
a little fishing schooner, or whatever they call a schooner in these
foreign parts, and the Huns popped up alongside ’em one fine morning
and――yes, sure it was U-boat. I said so, didn’t I? The Germans took
every blessed thing aboard, including a catch of mackerel and all the
food and all the money; even took the knives out of the men’s pockets,
the great big hogs! Then they bombed the schooner and set those four
chaps afloat in that two-by-twice dory, only they don’t call it a dory.”
“_Bateau_,” suggested Steve gravely.
“All right. Anyway, they were almost a hundred and fifty miles from
land, and they had no food, and only one pair of oars. It was a mighty
lucky thing the weather was decent, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and a lucky thing I sighted them. If it hadn’t been for me――――”
“Yah, you! Everyone aboard saw that boat long before you did, you
chump.”
“Sure! And you just didn’t mention it for fear of making a noise and
waking up the other lookouts, eh?”
“That’s it,” laughed Hearn. “Seen that sidekick of yours today?”
“Only for a second,” replied Steve anxiously. “He said he was feeling
better. Why?”
“Just wondered. Last time I saw him he asked me to get him some poison
from the doctor. I guess he will get over it pretty quick, though.”
“Gee, I hope so. I’m afraid they’ll be firing him when we get back to
Queenstown.”
“There’s a rumour around this morning,” answered Hearn, “that we’re to
go west and do something important in the convoy line. If it’s so it
means that we’re to bring in some of our troops, I guess.”
“Honest?” exclaimed Steve. “Are they sending them over so soon?”
“That’s what I hear. Regulars, you know. I hope it’s so, and I hope
we get a look at ’em. Well, I’ve got to get busy. How do you like
spotting?”
“Fine,” replied Steve. “But, it surely plays hob with your eyes. Mine
feel as if they were full of sand.”
“I know.” Hearn nodded sympathetically. “Better climb in your bunk and
close ’em awhile.”
First, though, after cleaning his mess kit, Steve paid a visit to Joe
who was still prone in his bunk. “How are they coming, old man?” he
asked. Joe opened one eye and gazed at him doubtfully.
“I――I guess I’m pretty nearly all right now,” he answered faintly, “but
I’m scared to death to get up yet. I’m afraid it’ll come back. She
isn’t rolling so much, is she?”
Steve, holding tightly to a stanchion, shook his head. “No, she’s as
quiet as a kitten with a ball of yarn,” he said gravely. “How do you
feel about a little broth?”
“Go away,” murmured Joe unhappily.
“Well, I don’t want to seem cruel, Joe, but if I was you I’d make an
effort before long and try to report for afternoon watch. Did you hear
about the Frenchies we picked up?”
Joe shook his head and looked mildly interested, and so Steve narrated
with much detail the sighting and rescuing of the four fishermen.
“I suppose,” said Joe weakly, “you think you’re a wonderful little
lookout, don’t you?”
“You’re jealous,” retorted Steve untroubledly. “Anyway, I got ’em
before any of the rest did. Frankly, I don’t know what they’d do on
this old tin tub if it wasn’t for me.”
Joe grunted and closed his eyes again. Then he opened the left one with
an effort and fixed a wavering gaze on his chum. “Steve,” he muttered,
“I was willing to die for my country when I started out on this grand
career, but I didn’t think it would take so long!”
The _Warren_ patrolled an empty sea the rest of that day and at night,
with all lights out, ploughed untiredly through the darkness. The next
morning a British trawler was sighted and the four Brittany fishermen,
clad in their own picturesque clothes again, were transferred to her.
Shortly after that the destroyer turned her nose westward and went
piling into a tumble of green sea that climbed aboard the bows and
rattled like sleet against the canvas wind-shield of the bridge. The
slender ship tossed and rolled and plunged, shivered and shook and
rattled, and from her four grey stacks the oil smoke went streaking to
windward in long scarfs. The engines hummed loudly and the air between
decks fairly reeked of petroleum. In the hungry hour before dinner
Steve and Joe and two others were huddled in the lee of the second
stack. Joe, pale but determined, was keeping his eyes glued to the
deck. He had eaten that morning for the first time since the _Warren_
had left Cape Clear behind her and, to use his own words, accompanied
by a sickly smile, had done so not in vain. He had confided to Steve
that if he once got safely ashore again he was going to ask for a
transfer to the Army. Also that he hoped his folks would be willing
to live abroad after the war was over, since he would never have the
courage to go back to America so long as ships were the only means of
getting there! Truso, second-class fireman, off duty, let his gaze roam
aft to where, near the stern turret, were ranged a dozen or so depth
bombs, villainous looking steel cylinders each containing some three
hundred pounds of trinitrotoluol.
“Ever think what would happen to us,” mused Truso, “if a ‘moldie’
struck us astern? It’s a pleasant thought, is it not? There’s a good
two tons of ‘truly rural’ back there, fellows, and it wouldn’t do a
thing but spread us out for the matter of a mile. Bet you they wouldn’t
find enough of the _Warren_ to put in a locket!”
“What’s the good of worrying about that?” asked Hearn. “If a German
torpedo hits us most anywhere we’ll be perching on clouds.”
“’Twouldn’t more’n knock off our stern,” said Higgins, comfortingly.
Higgins was a radio man, a tow-headed fellow of nearly thirty, whose
rating badge on the left sleeve of his jumper showed the three chevrons
and rays of an electrician of the first class and, also, two service
stripes. “Leave her half her length and she’ll toddle home. I was on
the _Warrington_ back in 1912 when a schooner ran foul of us and took
our whole stern away aft of the fourth stack. We steered into port with
the engines, all hunky. That’s what your watertight compartments do for
you.”
“Two Summers ago,” chuckled Truso, “we were cruising off Maine in the
_Beale_, a sister ship to this hooker, in a fog. First thing we knew,
_biff-bang_ goes everything forward that’s standing, bridge stanchions,
mast and number one stack, including our exec, who was on the bridge.
Well, sir, it was nothing on earth but a dizzy old hay schooner. She’d
swept her bowsprit right clean over us, taking everything in the way.
‘What you tryin’ tew dew?’ shouts the skipper, an old geezer of about
sixty with a bunch of chin whiskers as long as my arm. ‘Run me daown?’
Well, I’d hate to tell you what our Old Man said to him, but I remember
that he offered to kill him and not charge him a cent for it!”
“Was it a steel bowsprit?” asked Steve.
“Steel? Naw, nothing but a piece of spruce wood. If it wasn’t for
splinters, I guess they’d make these things out of spruce instead of
steel. They’d ought to, seeing the way that bowsprit raked us clean!”
“What’s the news in the world, Jack?” asked Hearn of the radio operator.
“Nothing much doing last night. Same old story. H.M.S. _Something or
other_ wants H.M.S. _Whatshername_ to relieve her of escort; tramp
steamer reports floating mine; some fellow reports a schooner on fire
off Penmarch; _Cassin_ says she sighted a periscope and fired three
shots and ‘thinks she hit,’ and so on. There were orders this morning,
though. Came just as I switched off. Didn’t hear them decoded, but I
have a hunch.”
“Well, open up. What’s the game? Why all the good old smelly fuel going
up in smoke?”
Higgins winked solemnly. “Rules is rules, Sammy. You go ask the Old
Man, or stick your head in the wardroom and ask the M.D. Bones is a
great little confider, he is. There’s chow, praises be! I’m going to
swallow mine lying down. Holding on today won’t get you anything.
Observe the poor blighter in the foretop. He’s got a fine healthy swing
up there!”
That afternoon there were two false alarms which supplied instant
and hectic excitement but nothing else. Oddly enough the excitement
was invariably shown by all hands in a more than usually quiet and
contained demeanour. Steve and Joe found it quite natural to speak
more slowly than ever when word came down from the foretop that a
periscope was sticking up somewhere and to saunter to the side with an
exaggerated carelessness. But that didn’t alter the fact that inside
they were terrifically jumbled, and that they were always afraid their
voices might break into a squeak if they spoke. One of the reported
periscopes quickly resolved itself into nothing and the other into a
floating spar. Later, the _Warren_ resumed standard speed, fourteen
knots. Toward evening two trawlers waddled past, homeward bound, and
that ended the day’s sensations. But shortly after four bells, in the
middle of the “graveyard watch,” the engines began to hum again and the
news leaked from wardroom to second deck that they were off in answer
to an S O S to find a sinking cargo boat, a good two hundred miles
south. With all four boilers steaming at just under twenty-nine knots,
and the _Warren_ fairly throwing herself in and out of the seas, sleep
was impossible. One could only brace every muscle and hope to stay in
the bunk. On deck――topside in the vernacular――one dodged along the
sloping spray-drenched surface in the manner of a monkey climbing about
his cage. In the wireless hutch Higgins, receiver clamped to his ears,
listened and wrote as the blue sparks darted and sputtered, while at
the wardroom table, with the lead-backed code books open before him,
the ship’s surgeon worked under the small-focussed light and turned
the messages into King’s English: “Please hurry, going down fast”:
“Broadcast submarine reported eight miles southeast, steamers keep
off”: “H.M.S. _Spindrift_ struck by mine, latitude ――, longitude ――; no
danger, relay east”: “All ships. Fresh-laid mine adrift ten miles E. S.
E. Trawler notified.”
Once a sister destroyer blinked at them across leagues of tumbled
water, she, too, evidently on the errand of succor. The _Warren_ had
outdistanced her by daylight and about breakfast time was alone,
searching the wastes for sign of ship or survivors. All day she doubled
and crossed and never found so much as a floating spar until, just as
a red sun sank past the rim of the watery world, a stove-in life-boat,
almost awash, was picked up by the lookout and run down. That was
all they ever found of the steamer and neither Steve nor Joe ever
learned the fate of those aboard her, although the popular verdict on
the destroyer that evening was that the small boats had got away long
before the _Warren_ had reached the scene and were either making for
the French coast or had been taken in tow. There were orders from the
flagship then and the _Warren_ limped back the way she had come at a
twelve-knot gait, her oil-tanks much too low to waste fuel on speed. A
day later she zig-zagged her way past the cape and dropped anchor off
Queenstown just as the lights began to show ashore.
CHAPTER IX
BACKS TO THE WALL
The boys applied for three days’ leave and got――one. But they were no
worse off than more deserving members of that oil-scented crew. “Back
by daylight tomorrow,” grumbled Higgins, adjusting his neckerchief with
extreme nicety and flicking an invisible speck from his blue shirt.
“That means they’re going to chop our stay short. Well, a day’s better
than nothing, but, just the same, a fellow never sleeps enough the
first night ashore to get any rest. I’m going to beat it to a hotel and
hire a husky guy to rock the bed all night! What do you say to a run up
to Cork, fellows?”
“‘Paddy from Ireland, Paddy from Cork,
With a hole in his breeches as big as New York,’”
chanted Tommy Truso. “I’m wid yez, byes! Erin go bragh! Come on till we
get the first train that do be goin’.”
They set forth, five of them; Steve, Joe, Truso, Higgins and Sam Hearn,
all very carefully attired in their best shirts and trousers and caps.
And they sang on their way ashore and sang as they made for the station
and, later, still sang as they sat in the railway carriage and rolled
leisurely north to Queenstown Junction and then past Glounthaune and
Little Island and Dunkettle and Tivoli. Of course they travelled first
class. “When in Ireland remember you’re an American,” said Higgins.
“True for you, me bye,” agreed Truso. “And be the same token, shpind
yer money.” And to set a good example, Truso sought out the guard on
arrival and tipped him a perfectly good United States half-dollar,
much to his surprise and evident approval. Higgins censured Truso for
spending American money when he had English.
“Why didn’t you slip him a couple of shillings, Tommy? He’d have been
just as pleased, and you’d have saved your real money.”
“Why, isn’t English money as good as ours?” asked Joe.
“They say so,” replied Higgins doubtfully, “but I’m not sure about it.
Anyway, it hasn’t any eagle on it!”
They climbed into a ramshackle outside car, although Steve and Joe
would have much preferred to walk, and said so. But Truso reprimanded
them sternly. “We’d all rather walk,” he said, “but it isn’t done.
The United States Navy, my boy, must uphold the traditions. Let the
‘Limies’ walk, and the Frenchies, but if you come from the little old
U.S.A. you’ve got to ride. Cast off, driver! And look out for mines!”
Steve and Joe were, naturally, all eyes, for this was their first visit
to Ireland. Hearn had warned them that they’d find Cork uninteresting.
“If you’ve ever been in Newark, New Jersey,” said Hearn, “you don’t
need to see Cork.” But they didn’t find it uninteresting, for there
were many strange features to attract them. Nevertheless, Steve
announced that he didn’t believe he would care to live there. There
were many sailors and soldiers on the streets: in fact, it would have
been difficult to have looked in any direction at any moment from
any part of St. Patrick Street and not have seen a uniform. There
were British Army officers, khaki clad and flourishing their swagger
sticks, British Naval officers, far less “cocky,” it seemed, but
equally important looking, privates and Jackies galore, the latter
both British and American. And now and then a French sailor, decidedly
more picturesque, was sighted. At brief intervals they passed other
carriages bearing other parties of men from the American fleet,
and then the proper procedure was to cheer at the top of the voice.
Doubtless there had been a time when the presence of United States
sailors in Cork had awakened interest and, possibly, alarm, but now
their wildest and most vociferous cheers caused no apparent surprise or
comment.
St. Patrick Street was, the boys decided, “pretty nifty,” but aside
from that one thoroughfare there was little to impress them. The
smaller streets, more like alleys than streets, were likely to be
dirty, and the houses for the most part were depressingly ugly.
“Dublin’s the real town,” said Hearn. “This place is punk.”
There wasn’t much to see, but they saw it in the course of a two-hour
ride. It was the driver, a wisp of a man with two pale blue eyes and
a wheedling way with him, that suggested a visit to the one historic
church that is left in the old city, and so they climbed the hill,
pitying the decrepit horse all the while, through slums that, to quote
Tommy Truso, had the New York Ghetto backed off the map. St. Anne
Shandon wasn’t much to look at, after all, although they found the tall
tower, topped with its fish weathervane of some interest, and the fact
that Father Prout had found inspiration in the chimes to write “The
Bells of Shandon” did not, in Higgins’ opinion, pay for the trip. Back
in the heart of the city, they paid off their jarvey, grandly declining
to haggle with him over a charge of just thrice the legal fare, and
sought dinner.
What impressed the boys most, perhaps, was that, aside from the
presence of the soldiers from the garrison and the sailors from the
port, one would never have guessed that just across the Channel men
were fighting and dying by the thousand. Cork showed no effects of the
war. Food was ridiculously cheap, viewed by American standards, and
evidently plentiful. There were, of course, plenty of flags flying,
but it was apparent that war was the last thought in the minds of the
rather colourless inhabitants of that town.
After an excellent dinner they took another car, an “inside car” this
time, the difference between inside and outside cars being merely that
in the first, one sits over the wheel with his feet hanging down in
the centre and in the other he reverses the process. The drive was a
pleasant one, and this time their jarvey was no more than a boy and
had a loose tongue and a ready wit. Hearn and Higgins had visited the
ancient ruins before, but they were new to the others and they fell in
love with “The Groves of Blarney” at first sight. They went all over
the castle and, you may be sure, didn’t fail to kiss the Blarney stone,
each in turn hanging over the old battlement while the others held
firmly to his feet. They went back to the city in a “moisture,” as the
jarvey called it, although they would have called it a drizzle, and a
fairly hard one, and spent the hour before supper in making a tour of
the shops. Steve and Joe were for returning to Queenstown for supper,
but the others wanted that meal in Cork, and the majority ruled. Also,
said Truso, there was a fine movie theatre there, only, he added,
“they call it a cinema or something.” So they had supper at a second
and smaller hotel and did very well, although the food was neither so
well cooked nor so well served as at the first hostelry. But they were
hungry and not over-critical.
After supper they asked their way to the theatre and set forth.
Perhaps they didn’t follow directions, but in any case they were soon
cruising along a dimly lighted street that looked most unpromising. The
inhabitants appeared to be all on the sidewalks or in the gutters, and
they were an unsavoury lot, the boys thought. It was Hearn who first
passed the word that trouble was brewing.
“Get onto the bunch of thugs trailing us,” he said in a low voice. “Me
for the bright lights again, fellows. Some of these Sinn Feiners have
it in for us Americans good and hard.”
Steve looked back with interest. If those were Sinn Feiners, he
thought, they were rather disappointing. There was nothing in the least
romantic about the ten or a dozen men who were following them. Save
that they were dressed differently――and not nearly so well――they looked
very like a group of street-corner loafers at home. Nevertheless, there
was something threatening in their appearance, or, perhaps, in the
way in which they followed with slouching steps and eyes fixed on the
sailors.
“What have they got against us?” asked Steve in surprise.
“They’re agin’ England,” explained Truso, “and pro-German to a man,
and now that we’ve joined in with England they don’t love us. Take the
first turn, Sam, and let’s get out of this place.”
“Sinn Feiners or no Sinn Feiners,” growled Higgins, “if they get funny
with me I’ll knock their blocks off.”
“Yes, you’d have a fine time doing it,” jeered Hearn. “There are
nearly a dozen of ’em. Come on around here.”
But the street they entered was less reassuring than they had hoped,
a winding, narrow, poorly lighted, cobbled passage, with darkened
warehouses on either side.
Hearn, leading the way with Joe, stopped. “This won’t do, my hearties.
Let’s turn back and go out the way we came. If those guys make any
cracks, get in the first punch. Come on now.”
They swung around and faced the muttering group that had followed
them. The unexpected manœuvre caused confusion in their ranks and some
backed against the house wall and a few stepped into the street. With a
swagger, Hearn led the way past and the others followed. Steve glancing
around carelessly began to wish himself safely back on the _Warren_,
for the faces that met his in the dim light were frankly, savagely
antagonistic. He breathed freer as he put a dozen paces between him
and the Sinn Feiners. Tommy Truso was whistling, but for the rest the
encounter was made in silence. Here and there, up and down the street,
vague figures lounged before the shabby houses, but this end of the
thoroughfare was darker and more empty than the other. The five had
gone a dozen yards before a sound came from the enemy. Then:
“_Up the Huns!_” cried a hoarse voice, and a stone went past their
heads and struck against a house beyond them. Joe started to run, but
Hearn’s voice rang out sharply.
“Come back here! Stand up to ’em! The Navy doesn’t run, kid!”
Joe, whose flight had been sheerly impulsive, stopped and stepped back
to the others. Another stone flew toward them and the queer cry was
repeated from a dozen throats.
“Spread out,” said Hearn softly. “Watch for those stones. Now, then,
walk backwards. It’s ‘retreat in good order’ for us, I guess.”
“Retreat nothing!” growled Jack Higgins. “Let’s bust up the Micks!
Come on, Sam! Where’s your pep? Rush ’em!” And Higgins suited action
to word. The assailants had stopped some twenty yards away and were
gathering missiles from the littered street. But when Higgins started
toward them they closed their ranks again, and Truso and Steve, who
sprang first after their comrade, had a vision of a dark line of
swearing, taunting, growling men as they raced to Higgins’ support.
Hearn and Joe followed instantly, then Hearn shouted a cheering “Ata
boy!” as he ran.
The odds were big, but there was nothing for either Steve or Joe but
to do their parts. The Irishman loves a fight, and these glowering,
growling men were Irish, and there was no sign of hesitation in the
way in which they broke forward toward the foe. But, and this is a
lamentable fact, those of them who had seized on stones or sticks
forgot to drop them.
“Watch out for rocks, fellows!” bellowed Truso.
Then the trouble began. Steve, trying to remember all the skill he had
ever known, engaged the first form that met him. A moment later the
street was a battle ground. Two to one was the odds, but there were
three at least of the American bluejackets who had long since learned
to fight with their fists, while Steve and Joe, although they had had
few encounters, at least knew something of the science of the game.
Blows fell and were blocked, feet tramped and slipped, grunts and cries
filled the air. At first it was a massed melee in which foe struck at
foe wherever discerned, but after a moment the battle separated into
units. Up the street came, at first a dribble and then a stream of
spectators. But they were not all spectators, either, for more than
one of the newcomers leaped into the fray and took sides with their
compatriots. Cries of “Kill the Americans!”, “Up the Huns!” broke out.
Steve, caught under the jaw by a powerful fist, stumbled and went back
on the pavement. Instantly a foe was on him, astride his chest, and
blows were being rained at his face. Steve struggled and kicked and
finally pulled his antagonist forward and managed to get an arm around
his neck. Then, with short-arm jabs, they fought for each other’s head.
Struggling forms stamped about them and once someone stepped on Steve’s
ankle and fell, sprawling to the ground. Then came a rallying cry from
Sam Hearn:
“_Warren_ this way!”
Steve somehow squirmed from beneath his adversary and rolled aside,
springing the next instant to his feet. Hearn and at least one other of
his crowd had backed against the house wall and were managing to hold
the enemy at arm’s length. Steve could see more than one club waving in
the air, while at the further side of the street, inside the fringe of
shouting spectators, new recruits to the Sinn Fein ranks were groping
along the gutter for missiles. Near at hand a swaying bunch of four
figures parted for an instant and Steve caught a glimpse of Truso
fighting fiercely against a trio of the foe. Steve darted forward and
swung his fist and the nearest of the three doubled up at the knees and
fell in a heap. At the same moment Truso, wrenching free from the grasp
of a big, round-faced lad, struck out straight and another fell.
[Illustration: Steve darted forward and swung his fist]
“Come on!” cried Steve. “Get to the wall, Truso!”
“Hello!” gasped the other. “All right. I’m with you!”
But it was no easy task, for three of the enemy engaged them, and they
were separated from Hearn and the others by more. The latter, however,
were giving their attention to the three against the wall, and at last,
bruised and breathless, they plunged through the enemy and lined up
with their comrades. Higgins was a madman. Steve had never seen anyone
fight as he fought there in that illy-lighted Cork street, his back to
the wall. His fists shot back and forth like machinery, and all the
time he kept up a steady flow of taunts:
“Come on, you scum! Where’s the next nose? Sinn Feiners are you? All
right, you dirty blackguards, take that! _Now_ cheer for Germany!”
At any other time Steve would have laughed, but just now he was
much too busy. If the enemy had numbered a dozen at the start, it now
numbered twice that many. Their antagonists were three deep in front of
them, and only the fact that they had their backs to the wall and so
need meet attack from only one quarter saved them from serious injury
that night. Hearn’s “Ata boy! Give it to ’em!” arose above the tumult.
Steve caught a swift glimpse of Joe, pale, bleeding at the nose,
fighting steadily beyond Hearn. Then Higgins, at Steve’s left, groaned
and slid gently down to the pavement, and Steve, with a maddened growl,
stepped astride him and planted bleeding knuckles in the soft face of
a squat Irishman. But the fight couldn’t go on much longer, and they
all realised it. The odds were ridiculous now. At intervals a stone
or block of wood struck the wall above them and fell with unpleasant
effect.
“Shall we――make a run――for it?” gasped Truso.
“We can’t,” answered Steve. “Higgins is laid out. I’m――standing
over――him. Aren’t there――any cops in――this town?”
A blow got past Steve’s guard and sent his head back against the wall
and he saw a million stars. He couldn’t fight any longer, he told
himself dazedly. But he did, although weakly. And then, when it seemed
that he would just have to drop on top of Higgins and go to sleep, a
cheer arose above the tumult and the onlookers were swept aside as a
half-dozen bluejackets raced on the scene.
CHAPTER X
THE ALLIES TRIUMPH
With joyous shouts the rescuers fell upon the enemy’s rear. Taken by
surprise, the Sinn Feiners found themselves between two fires, for
Steve, Joe, Truso and Hearn put new life into their blows, while the
newcomers set to work with a fine enthusiasm. Pandemonium reigned
supreme for a brief space and then the tide of battle turned. The more
recent recruits to the Sinn Fein ranks turned and fled precipitately,
while the onlookers, discerning the outcome of the engagement, began
to cheer the sailors. The original attacking party fought valiantly
and desperately, but they had not escaped punishment and were unable
to cope with the reinforcements. Down they went, one after another,
or, turning to defensive tactics, retreated across the street in the
hope of finding escape through the circle of spectators. But the rescue
party was having too good a time to lose their prey so easily, and
when, a scant three minutes after their arrival, the battle was won,
the foe, almost to a man, was accounted for. And it was not until then
that the rescued ones made the discovery that their new friends were
not countrymen, after all, but British bluejackets!
_H.M.S. Challenge_ said their cap ribbons.
“Well, I’m blowed!” exclaimed Hearn. “Much obliged, Limies. They had us
going when you broke up the party.”
“The dirty thraitors!” responded one of the rescuers in a fine, rich
brogue. “Sure, it’s been a dale of pleasure we’ve had, my friend. And
I’m thinking ’twas a lucky job we came along. What’s your ship, boys?”
“_Warren_, destroyer.”
“I know the _Warren_,” spoke up a smaller chap with a pronounced
Cockney twang. “She was in Plymouth when we were there larst month.”
The onlookers had gathered around the victors, displaying a scant
concern for the vanquished who, picking themselves up from the cobbles,
vanished most unobtrusively. Steve administered to Higgins as best he
could and was quickly rewarded by a groan from his prostrate comrade.
Then Higgins opened his eyes――or one of them, for the other didn’t
respond to the effort――and looked dazedly about him.
“Hello,” he muttered. “I’m all right now. Give me a hand.”
Steve obeyed and Higgins came to his feet, swayed dizzily and then,
with a bellow, made for the crowd, fists up. But Steve clutched him and
held him back. “They’re gone, Higgins,” he cried. “It’s all over. Some
Britishers butted in and――――”
“Gone!” exclaimed Higgins in heart-broken tones. “Gone? The dirty
cowards! Where’d they go?” He looked about him eagerly, but Steve,
laughing, although it hurt him horribly to do it, pulled him toward the
others.
“We’d best get out o’ this before they rouse their friends and come
back again,” one of the British bluejackets was saying. “Come on,
Yankees. What was you doing up this here alley, anyhow?”
“Looking for the movie house,” said Truso. “We lost our way somehow.”
“Rather! You’re near a mile from a theatre. I say, old pal, you need
patchin’ up a bit, the whole bloomin’ lot of you. There’s a bit of a
hotel down the road a way, ain’t there, Bill?”
“There is. Come on, fellows. I’ll show you the w’y.”
They pushed past the gathering which, now of considerable size, was
loudly sympathetic in its comments, and trailed by a dozen or more
boys whose curiosity was still unsatisfied, retraced their steps for
several blocks and then swung into a wider thoroughfare and, guided by
the small cockney whose sleeve insignia showed him to be a gunner’s
mate, presently reached a small hotel. Inside they took stock of
their casualties. None of the five had escaped visible mementos of
the engagement. Higgins, with one eye almost completely closed and a
deep gash on his cheek which, as Hearn observed, could never have been
made by a bare fist, was the most disreputable looking of them all,
but everyone showed one or more contusions. Joe’s lip was bleeding
profusely, Steve had a lump on his forehead and a swollen mouth, Truso
had a nose that was already nearly twice its normal size and Hearn had
a lump on his forehead as large as a small egg. These, together with
swollen and bleeding knuckles, were the visible signs of the recent
combat, but there were sore spots that didn’t show, and Steve, although
he made no mention of it, felt as if his head was inhabited by a swarm
of bees! Nor had their allies escaped punishment, for the Irishman
proudly displayed a fine long gash on a cheek bone, the Cockney was
already peering with difficulty from his left eye and one of the
others had a swollen jaw. Hearn and Truso had lost their caps and the
attire of all had been roughly used.
The _Challenge_ men performed like Red Cross nurses, commandeering the
services of the host and his buxom wife and all the supplies on hand,
which, fortunately included arnica. Wounds were bathed and bound up and
swollen hands were swathed in bandages, and presently, having abandoned
the idea of moving pictures in favour of taking the next train to
Queenstown, they all made their way to the station.
“’Tain’t the first time,” informed one of the _Challenge’s_ men. “Only
larst week a lot of us was up here and had a set-to with a bunch of
them scoundrels. They heaved stones at us, first off, and we didn’t pay
any attention to them for a bit. They were marchin’ along with their
flags and banners quiet enough till they seen us. Then ’twas ‘Up the
Huns!’, whatever they might mean by that, and they started heavin’
stones at us. We’ve orders to keep out o’ trouble, of course, and so
we ducked for the shops and got inside. But when they started heaving
bricks through the windows it wasn’t fair to the shopkeepers and so we
went outside again. ’Twas a Saturday night and so there was a lot of us
around and it wasn’t long before we was having a rare old time of it.
It wasn’t ’arf lively for awhile! Then the Bobbies took a ’and, and the
provost guard from the garrison came along and we called it off. There
was more than one Sinn Fein head broken, I’m thinking.”
At the station they found a crowd of their own compatriots and as
many from the British ships waiting for the train, and their advent
was hailed with shouts of approval and expressions of envy. A big,
raw-boned boatswain’s mate from the _Cassin_ was all for returning
to the scene of trouble and inviting renewed hostilities, and his
companions had difficulty in persuading him to board the train. On the
way back “Yankees” and “Limies” mingled and fraternised, and there was
much vocal harmony and a great deal of noise, all of which stood for
good-fellowship. Steve and Joe tried to do their share of the singing,
if only for the honour of the United States Navy, but the effort was
far too painful. Before eleven, having parted from their friends of
the _Challenge_ with hand-shakes and renewed expressions of gratitude,
they were back on the _Warren_ relating their adventures to a small but
attentive audience grouped about Number Two gun.
In the morning they had to face authority in the persons of the
officers, and they were a bit doubtful of the result. But, save for
stern disapproval, that melted to amusement when they had passed,
there came no sign from the Old Man or the luffs. About the middle of
the forenoon a French destroyer, one of the “Harlequin Fleet,” came
limping into harbour with her port bow badly stove in. She passed close
to starboard of the _Warren_ and the captain of the latter hailed
through the megaphone in his choicest French. Those on the deck grinned
as the Frenchie’s commander, gesticulating regret, even despair from
the bridge, responded in excellent English: “Pardon, sair! A thousand
pardons! I deed not understand what monsieur ask.”
Browny, machinist’s mate, second class, guffawed and had to stuff his
cap in his mouth. On the bridge Captain Stanwood coloured, and then,
with a smile for the joke on his pronunciation, politely repeated his
question.
“No, no,” responded the French officer, leaning far over the rail and
expressing denial with head and hands and shoulders. “We ware not
torpedoed, sair! We were collisioned by a――a――what you say?――a――――” His
voice grew fainter as the distance between the destroyers lengthened
and the listeners thought they were doomed to never know what had
happened to the fantastically decorated French ship. But after another
moment of agonised effort on the part of her commander the completion
of the sentence floated across the water:
“By a r-r-rottan _chasseur_! Merci, m’sieur!”
“What’s a _rotan shasur_?” demanded Smitty disappointedly.
“Rotten chaser, of course,” giggled a neighbour. “Where’s your French,
you ignoramus?”
“Say,” observed a tall chap with the crossed quills of a yeoman, “if
Frenchie gets as excited as that in telling the yarn what do you
suppose he was like when the chaser hit him?”
That afternoon the _Warren_ slipped out to sea again, followed by a
sister ship, and zig-zagged her way through the mine field. Sealed
orders had come aboard, so the rumour went, and they were off for
“special duty” and wouldn’t see port again for a week. There was some
grumbling over shortened leave and a vast amount of conjecture as to
their errand. Hopeful ones guessed a rendezvous with the British North
Sea fleet for an attack on the German naval base at Zeebrugge, the
pessimists a return to American waters. The next morning, however,
it was plain that the North Sea was not their destination, for the
compass showed the _Warren_ headed east, while, ahead and astern,
Steve counted five more destroyers tossing spray from their knife-like
bows. It was standard speed all that day and for two days and nights
following. The weather was of the kindest, and the _Warren_, try as
she might, could not roll enough to make her happy. Joe, still fearful
on leaving Queenstown, gradually plucked up hope. Save for a qualm or
two the first evening he felt no indications of seasickness and began
to get a bit cocky about it. The destroyers steamed in column of two
sections, with the flagship leading the _Warren_. All day signals
fluttered and the wireless sputtered. Higgins, supposed to know a vast
deal of what was in the wind, only grinned and shook his head.
The single event to jar the monotony of steady steaming occurred the
second night out. That was fairly exciting, for the General Quarters
alarm sounded just before midnight, and Steve, warmly tucked in his
bunk and sleeping beautifully, reached the deck half-awake with the
sensations of one aroused by an especially strident alarm-clock. But
the affair was a good deal of a disappointment, for after Number Four
gun had barked once――fortunately missing its mark――the supposed Hun
proved to be a British steam trawler who had been slow in answering
questions! “Missed us!” she signalled. “Now go to bed again!”
The next morning the mystery was dispelled, for the bulletin board
announced: “This ship will meet the first contingent of American forces
to operate in France and convoy them to Bordeaux.”
CHAPTER XI
THE ARMADA
That was the twenty-second of June. All that day the destroyers held
their course, hidden from each other at times by fog and drizzle. In
the forecastle the talk was all of the transports that were somewhere
ahead there churning their way to the rendezvous laden with khaki.
They wondered how many ships they would find, who the convoyers were,
how many soldiers were aboard. It was all very exciting and thrilling,
and “Spud” Doolan, first-class shipfitter, played “The Star-Spangled
Banner” and “Hail, Columbia” on his harmonica with more than usual
feeling. Steve determined to be on hand when the transports were
sighted, and hoped hard that he might be on foretop lookout duty. But
he wasn’t, as it turned out. That night, in a light fog, the _Warren_
picked it up to twenty-one or -two knots and went slithering around
on the scouting line, managing to roll a fair thirty-odd and make it
necessary to brace oneself in the bunk. Then, in the morning, when the
transports should have been in plain sight, they weren’t, and Steve
going aloft to the canvas cage at seven had fond hopes and nearly
popped his eyes out in the effort to pierce the haze and pick up the
top of a mast. But save for the other members of the party, the ocean
was bare and he was below again, drinking coffee outside the galley
door, when word came down that smoke was showing. Almost instantly
the blowers sang a shriller note, the steering engine groaned and,
above-deck the four funnels fairly spouted black smoke. Joe came
sliding and dodging along the wet deck and joined Steve and others
at the forecastle break. Only dim glimpses for a minute or two, and
then from the ocean haze burst, startlingly near, the long length of a
troop-ship. And then another――and another――three, four, five―――― But
it was useless to try to count them. And then the _Warren_ was fairly
amongst them, signals fluttering, blowers roaring a merry tune――for it
was wise to make a smart appearance with the Admiral looking on from
the cruiser――and from every deck of every ship came a great cheer that
went on and on, arose and fell and arose again, while hats waved and
hoarse whistles bellowed. Steve, looking with a lump in his throat,
tried to cheer back with the others, and fluttered his white cap,
and thought there could never really be in all the world as many
khaki-clad American soldiers as looked down upon them as they sped
past. Later he learned how comparatively few the transports held, but
this morning, gazing at rank after rank of them, they seemed to him to
number into the hundreds of thousands! Such cheering as greeted the
destroyers! Such waving of broad-brimmed Stetsons! Such grinning of
countless faces leaning down from high decks! The cruiser, flagship,
four-stacked and a bit cluttered aft; a towering German prize with her
name gone but still legible; two fruiters――seaworthy looking craft;
and liners built for more fashionable passengers; these comprised the
armada that was making history with every turn of its screws.
“I wouldn’t have missed this for a million dollars,” said Joe in
a voice so low that Steve barely heard it above the noise of that
meeting. “It――it’s wonderful!”
Steve nodded. He didn’t want to speak just then for fear that the other
would suspect the lump in his throat and the moisture in his eyes.
But he did speak presently when, having cut her way through the heart
of the formation, the _Warren_ turned on her heel with a smartness
and precision that brought a gleam of gratification to the face of
the captain, and took up her station to port. Then Steve said in a
growl meant to disguise the fact that his voice held a tremour: “It’s
the――the biggest thing I’ve ever seen, Joe, and maybe I’ll never see a
bigger. I’ll never forget it, I guess.”
“Not likely to,” answered the other. “I wish some of the rest of the
fellows were here to see it with us. It would please old Han, wouldn’t
it?”
Steve nodded, and stealing a glance at his chum, was relieved to find
that youth’s eyes frankly wet. And, looking beyond, along the line of
faces, he saw more than one tear trickling down a weather-tanned nose
and more than one Adam’s apple working convulsively up and down in a
lean throat. “Phil and Harry might be aboard one of those for all we
know,” he said. “Han said they were handling a gun on a liner, didn’t
he?”
“Expected to, I think. Funny if they were on one of those transports,
though. Funny if they were looking at us this minute; or we were
looking at them, eh?”
“Yes. How many soldiers are there there, do you suppose?”
“About a million, I’d say! They’re regulars, aren’t they?”
“Yes. That ship over yonder, though, is filled with marines. I noticed
as we passed her.”
“Good old Billy Blues,” murmured Joe. “How’s the song go?
“‘If the Army or the Navy ever visit Heaven’s scenes,
They will find the streets are guarded by United States Marines!’”
With the destroyers steaming girdle-wise about the troop-ships, the
engines were tuned to standard speed――fourteen knots an hour――and code
signals fluttered. Joe, qualifying for signalman, had a busy time of
it for awhile. The transports hid themselves at times in the mid-ocean
haze to emerge again like shadows on the curtain of mist. At supper
time below there was evident an unusual seriousness, although every
man-Jack of them tried his best to carry off the scramble for food with
the customary levity. They were all thinking of the serried thousands
in khaki on those troop-ships and what their appearance on French soil
meant. And Browny voiced the thought of many when he remarked, potato
poised on the end of his fork:
“There’s a lot of those guys will never be sailin’ back again, fellows.”
“That’s right,” someone agreed, “but you can say the same of us, I’m
thinking.”
“’Tain’t the same,” answered Browny, shaking a lugubrious head. “Those
fellows have got to go ‘over the top.’ ’Tain’t the same, I’m tellin’
you.”
“Maybe the war’ll be over by the time they get ready to butt in,” said
Truso. “Tame the U-boats, son, and what’s Germany got left?”
“That’s so,” another agreed. “The old war’s going to be settled right
out here on the briny, fellows, and we’re the little cut-ups that are
going to settle it!”
“Forget it! Fritz won’t give in so easy.” Hearn impaled another potato
and dipped into the butter. “It’s going to take a lot more of those
fellows in khaki than we’ve got our hands on yet. There’ll be a lot
of little white crosses with ‘U.S.A.’ on ’em sprinkled around France
before Billy Kaiser’s on his back. Well, we’re in it, and I’m hoping
the folks back home get it into their thick heads after awhile and
buckle down to the job. One thing’s sure, though. Those cheerin’,
grinnin’ boys are going to make us mighty proud we’re Americans before
they’re through!”
“That’s no dream,” agreed someone. “Here’s to ’em!” And he drained his
coffee.
There were alarms galore during the following two days. Warnings of
skulking submarines lying in wait reached them and more than once the
course was changed. By day it was no uncommon sight to see a destroyer
spout smoke and rush off into the distance and to hear a “three-inch”
bark. But always the object fired at proved harmless. The troop-ships
kept their places in the lines, some with an evident effort, and
gradually the coast of France grew near. Then came a still evening
when a following breeze held the heavy smoke from the stacks straight
in air like so many black pencils against the glow of sunset, and that
night, slowing down and feeling their way through the mine fields, the
flotilla caught the land-smell.
And then an umber sail in the growing light, a Breton fisherman ducking
her way over hidden perils with the careless gaiety of a butterfly.
Then more sails, of a dozen colours, floating casks and skimming birds,
and the loom of the green-clad shore of France magically in sight. A
French cruiser sallied out and did the honours, a small and exquisite
two-stacker on whose decks the red tassels of the men’s caps made dots
of colour. From the _Warren_ they could even see the closely-trimmed
beards of her officers. Subsequently a fussy gunboat lay in wait, and
then, slowing down, the American ships formed in single column and,
guided by the gunboat, nosed into the estuary.
Sardine fishing boats, with sails of bright blue and faded pink were
passed. Vividly green farms lay sloping to the river, dotted with
century-old trees. Every promontory held a glittering light-house,
each as thoroughly foreign to the eager eyes of this American legion
as the high, red-roofed houses that presently stood, sentinel-like,
amidst the fields. Overhead two airplanes sailed majestically. Slowly,
dignifiedly the long columns steamed up the picturesque river. The news
had evidently already reached the city, for on one bank motor cars were
speeding toward them. Even at that distance one could see the white
flutter of handkerchiefs. And over all the Summer sunlight fell and
drenched the armada with a golden glory. And this was France――at last!
Finally the city itself came into sight around a long curve of the
river, and a poplar-lined esplanade kept them company, while a
forest of masts and cranes marked the dockyards. About them now a
covey of small boats, steamers, launches, row-boats were gathered.
The moving-picture industry was alert on the deck of a tipsy little
side-wheeler. The column parted and the troop-ships went slowly on
up toward the basin, while the thousands along the sea-wall waved
and cheered and shouted blessings and greetings in a language that
lamentably few aboard the flotilla could understand. But the meaning
was plain enough, and on the transports the lean-faced, khaki-clad men
waved and cheered and shouted back, and joked, too, although some of
them could more easily have wept.
One by one the troop-ships disappeared into the basin to be warped
through the gates of the lock to the inner basin and there unloaded.
On the cruiser, astern of the _Warren_, the boatswain’s pipe shrilled
and an orderly commotion ensued. Down the ladder stepped the Admiral
and took his seat in a blue-grey gig, the sun glinting on an inspiring
amount of gold bullion. Then off sped the gig to the landing, while the
cheers grew shriller and the Admiral’s hand came stiffly to salute. The
_Warren’s_ hooks were down now, and wistful eyes sought the shore, but
whether liberty was to be granted or not was something none could say.
The strains of a band floated down from the outer basin. Overhead a
graceful airplane circled in the sunlight. And in such manner, after
nearly a century and a half, America paid the first installment of her
debt to France.
CHAPTER XII
“ALLO, SAMMEE!”
Joe had all the luck that day, for no liberty was granted until late
afternoon, and Steve had to remain aboard the destroyer and see from
there what he could of the doings ashore until most of the doings were
done. But Joe got off in the motor dingey when the junior luff went
ashore, through a bit of good luck, and although he had to remain in
the boat with the rest there were things to be seen from the landing.
The third troop-ship was entering the lock as the _Warren’s_ boat
bumped her fender, and the crowd in the street alongside cheered as
spiritedly as though they had not already welcomed two ships in such
manner. Cries of “Allo, Sammee!” punctuated the shouting. On the
decks that towered almost overhead the smiling American lads cheered
with a fine abandon and tried out their French. Gifts of all sorts
were tossed from street to decks: candy and cigarettes in abundance,
and even fruit. Slowly the water rose in the lock and then the upper
gate swung open and the transport passed through with much shouting,
much hustling of giant hawsers. Already the next ship was nosing at
the lower lock, and, when the water level had sunk again, she swung
magnificently in, a veritable floating city inhabited by nearly three
thousand eager-eyed, hat-swinging boys in khaki. Her decks were
thronged, the rails lined four and five deep and even the lower rigging
was crowded with olive-drab and blue. When the big ship was recognised
as a former German liner, one who had borne the name of a member of the
royal house of Hohenzollern――they could still read the name although
its letters had been removed――the throng cheered louder than ever.
With lines of men carrying the great hawsers she moved slowly on until
she filled the lock from gate to gate, with her topmost decks towering
high above the surrounding buildings. The lock gate was closed and the
hawsers were made fast, while from street and decks and every available
spot on shore and aboard ship a cheer went up to the blue sky. And then
there was a scurrying and pushing on the forward deck and the band took
its place there. The tumult died away and the leader raised his baton
high. A pause, and almost a silence over the great throng, and then
the music swelled forth and one by one the boys in khaki stiffened and
stood at attention and, below, every Frenchman raised a hand in the
military salute and stood so while the strains of “The Star-Spangled
Banner” swept out over the silent throng.
When the last note had died trembling on the air the silence held for
a good minute, and then wave after wave of cheering arose and passed
along the street and was thrown back by the buildings and crashed up
against the great hull of the liner. For many minutes it went on,
until the leader again held his baton aloft. Silence fell once more,
while hands again went to salute, but this time the silence lasted
but a moment. Here――there――on all sides voices joined the music, ever
swelling until the stately tumult of it was heard far across the bay.
On the transport the soldiers sang, too, or lacking the words, hummed.
And so for the first time in history an American band played and
American soldiers sang the Marseillaise in France!
It was early the next morning that those on the destroyers heard
the bugle blow in the upper basin and knew that the United States
Expeditionary Force was setting foot on French soil. At moments,
from the _Warren_, they could glimpse lines of moving olive-drab
figures on shore. Most of the fellows sought and obtained liberty
that morning, but by the time they were on the scene half of the
big troop-ships had discharged their quotas and the great army camp
outside the town that had been for more than a fortnight awaiting
occupancy was at last a soldier city. Steve and Joe stood for a good
hour in the shadows of the basin-side buildings and, pushed and jostled
good-naturedly by a huge throng of onlookers, watched squad after
squad of their brothers-in-arms march down the gangplanks, fall into
rank in the street and go sweeping off across the bridge with a light
springy step that was fine to see. Many times the two boys shouted a
greeting to a smiling man in the ranks merely because their eyes and
his met understandingly and they saw his face light as he recognised
the Navy blue. Once only did either of them glimpse an acquaintance,
although it seemed that they must know personally every one of the
khaki-clad fellows that passed, so familiar were the lean, cheerful,
alert countenances. Up through the town they went in columns of
fours, trailing out like a long dust-brown snake, and as one regiment
disappeared another followed in its track.
Once Joe drew Steve’s attention to a squad of grey-clad German
prisoners who were being marched down the basin to the coal-yards.
Six French soldiers carrying long rifles with fixed bayonets were
in charge and they didn’t permit any loitering. But even so it was
possible to read the perplexed looks of the prisoners as they found
themselves confronted by the line on line of American soldiers, troops
which they had been assured over and over again by their government
would never reach Europe!
By a little after twelve o’clock the last of the contingent had
marched away over the rise and the great ships were empty of khaki and
ready for re-coaling and the return voyage. Joe had been especially
interested by the Marines and had watched them rather enviously,
confiding to Steve that he guessed he wished he had enlisted there
instead of in the seaman branch. “They’re going to get right into the
thick of it, I’ll bet,” he said. “Besides, Steve, land duty gives a
fellow a chance to get over his seasickness sometimes.”
“Huh, all those chaps are going to do is guard duty, I guess,” derided
Steve. “If that’s your idea of a Summer vacation it isn’t mine, son.
I’d rather be where there’s something doing.”
“I know,” sighed Joe, “but sometimes I wish they’d put the _Warren_ on
wheels and send her ashore. It’s the eternal rolling that has me beat.”
“Shucks, Joe, you’re doing fine! Why, you weren’t sick once this trip.”
“N-no, but there were lots of times when――when I could have been! And
I’m always scared that I will be. Well, if I can’t stick it out I’ll
try the Army. I guess there’s some place I can wiggle into.”
“Oh, don’t be a piker! Stick to the Navy, old scout. It’s the only real
thing.”
“Only _reel_ thing, I guess you mean,” sighed the other. “There’s Tommy
and Jack over there. Let’s go over.”
With Truso and Higgins they saw the town and ate a most remarkable
dinner at a queer little café that was crowded with soldiers and
sailors of half a dozen nations. They made the acquaintance of an
Italian non-com officer――they never could agree as to his exact
rank――who talked surprisingly good English, a fact later explained
when he mentioned having been a produce commission merchant in New
York until the war broke out. He asked a good many wistful questions
about the city of his adoption, many of which the boys were unable
to answer. Afterwards he told them a good deal of war news――they had
been singularly ignorant of what had been going on during the last
month. The King of Greece had abdicated――as Higgins remarked later,
without saying a word to them――the United States Liberty Loan had
been gloriously oversubscribed: the Italians had taken Corno Cavento
from the Austrians (Steve determined to look the place up on the map
but never did): an American commission had been sent to Russia. After
saying good-bye to their new acquaintance they bought numerous French
newspapers which none could read intelligently and reported back on
the _Warren_. They had all wanted mightily to go out and see the
American camp, but there wasn’t time, and they promised themselves to
do it tomorrow. But when the morrow came the _Warren_ was thrusting
her knife-edge bow into the green waters three hundred miles away from
red-roofed Bordeaux.
They had taken on only enough fuel for a slow return to the base and
it was nearly noon on the twenty-ninth when they sighted the Scilly
Islands to starboard. Two of the other destroyers accompanied them and
stayed in sight until afternoon. Then, when Steve looked for them from
the foretop cage, they were gone. The _Warren_ zig-zagged through the
Channel mine fields and dropped her hooks in Queenstown Harbour at
sunset.
Ashore the next day, they learned that the American and English fleet
commanders had forbidden men from the ships to go up to Cork because
of the Sinn Fein demonstrations. Consequently they were doomed to make
the best of Queenstown, and Queenstown’s best was not very exciting.
The town was little more than a single street running along the water
and many steep and narrow lanes ascending the hill on which the town
was built. The business part seemed to consist principally of hotels
and steamship offices and to be inhabited by sailors from the Seven
Seas, soldiers, marines and shabbily-clad citizens, whose sole purpose
in life was to loaf. But they saw what few sights there were: the big
white cathedral on the summit of the hill which has been in course of
erection so long that no one appeared to be sure of the date of its
beginning. And they ferried across to Monkstown, a whole dozen of them,
and saw the castle on the heights that cost but fourpence, as the story
goes. They got the narrative from a willing and garrulous old patriarch
in return for a shilling. Doubtless they’d have got it with quite
as much detail for a sum no larger than the cost of the old castle.
Shorn of much verbiage, the story was that back in sixteen hundred
and something one John Archdeckan was called to the war in Flanders,
and his good wife decided that it would be a fine thing to erect a
castle during his absence and have a sort of surprise party when he
got back――if he ever did! So she got an army of labourers together and
arranged to pay them good wages for the job on condition that they
bought all their food, drink and clothing from her. When the castle was
finished she cast a balance and made the, to her, annoying discovery
that she had come out fourpence shy! Hearn offered the comment that he
guessed Mrs. Archdeckan had never really enjoyed her home after that,
but another of the party opined that the lady hadn’t got swindled
after all because if the worst came to the worst she could have turned
it into a fine fire-proof garage. Their guide and informant seemed a
trifle peeved at their levity, much of which he fortunately couldn’t
understand, and so Tommy Truso tipped him a Canadian dime which pleased
him vastly, not knowing, as Tommy remarked with a chuckle, that “the
thing’s no good south of Portland, Maine!”
That afternoon mail came aboard and Steve and Joe had letters galore
and more newspapers than they would ever have time to read before the
war ended, and last, but far from least, a box of eatables. But the
letters were the best, for they made home seem for the time very near.
Steve received a letter from George Hanford which had been posted from
Halifax. Han was on the way over when he wrote. The _Carthage_ was
swinging at anchor off Falkland, N. S., awaiting some transports. As
the letter was dated the twelfth of June it was more than probable, as
Steve and Joe agreed, that the _Carthage_ was now somewhere in British
waters.
“It would be dandy to run into old Han some day, wouldn’t it?”
exclaimed Joe.
“Yes, if it didn’t sink us,” agreed Steve. “I wouldn’t suggest it to
the Old Man, though.”
“You know what I mean,” laughed Joe. “I wonder if there’s any news of
his ship around here.”
They didn’t find any, however. The whereabouts and movements of ships
were carefully guarded those days. Theoretically at least, the crew
of one ship was not supposed to know so much as the name of another
even though they happened to be anchored within cable’s length of each
other! Joe was assured, however, that some fine day they would come
across Han, and when they did――well, there’d be a lot of talking done!
The _Warren_ was to remain four days instead of three at the base
this time in order to make up to the men one of the days they had
been deprived of before. Hearn was for getting forty-eight hours’
liberty and making a trip to Dublin, but for some reason the Old
Man wasn’t agreeable to the idea. There was baseball each afternoon
on a make-shift diamond and some exciting contests were pulled off.
The _Warren_ took on a team of marines and, with Truso pitching, Joe
playing first base and a yeoman named Harris catching, put it all over
their opponents. Two days later, however, the _Warren_ had to lower
its colours before the better playing of a nine from one of the other
destroyers.
Finally at dusk one warm July evening the _Warren’s_ winches rattled,
her anchors came up from the mud of the harbour, the twinkling lights
of Queenstown dropped astern and she slipped through the net gate and
steamed out into the darkness to take up once more the patrol of her
particular square section of the ocean, three hundred feet of quivering
steel eager for work and danger.
CHAPTER XIII
THE WARREN’S FIRST KILL
It was shortly after eight bells the next afternoon that the wireless
room picked up the SOS that turned the destroyer on her heel and sent
her churning away toward the sunset with “all kettles lit off for
twenty-eight.” Somewhere a hundred-odd miles away an American freighter
was trying to run away from a U-boat, or so the lower deck got it. The
_Warren_ spouted smoke and stank of oil and the seas smothered the bows
as she raced on. From the dizzy foretop the lookout peered eagerly into
the sunlit wastes ahead. Gun crews gravitated toward their pets and
watched and waited anxiously.
“If only the Hun won’t run this time!” exclaimed Lieutenant Lyke as he
alternately held his glasses to his eyes and glanced upward toward the
spotter on the foretop.
“Any word from the steamer, sir?” asked one of the men at the Number
Four gun.
“She was all right twenty minutes ago. They’d let go one torpedo at her
and missed her. She thinks they’re outsteaming the Hun. Why doesn’t
that blind-eyed gob up there see something?”
It was almost dark night when the word came down the tube that smoke
lay off the port bow, and half an hour later still when the _Kenyon_,
a Great Lakes grain ship, from the looks of her in the darkness, was
signalled. She was ploughing on desperately and, as the _Warren_ ran
up, reported that the U-boat had presumably given up the chase and
submerged an hour ago in such-and-such latitude and longitude.
“Good luck!” called the Old Man. “We’ll have a look for her!”
The _Warren_ darted on again and the _Kenyon_, with a cheer from the
gun crew at the stern, plugged off at her sixteen knots into the night.
With all lights doused and boilers doing something like twenty, the
_Warren_ began her search. Somewhere within an hour’s steaming a German
submarine was hiding. She might be poking along submerged or doing her
fourteen awash or, less probably, lying snugly somewhere on the bottom.
And wherever she was it was the _Warren’s_ part to find her if it was
possible.
By two bells in the first watch, nine o’clock, the night was as black
as a pocket. On the destroyer never a gleam of light was to be
seen save in the shrouded wardroom where the decoding watch worked
tirelessly by the dim glow of a lowered lamp, under the swaying
salt-and-vinegar caster, on the messages shoved through the tiny
trapdoor that led to the radio hutch. That and the radium-lighted
compass-dial alone mitigated the gloom, and neither could have been
detected a dozen feet away any more than a thousand feet away the
ship herself could have been separated by human vision from sea and
darkness. Spotters were everywhere, and night-glasses swept the tumbled
expanse of ocean. The groan of the steering cables sounded from time to
time as the destroyer swung her long, lithe form to starboard or port,
covering the radius as carefully and minutely as a hound searching for
scent.
Three bells struck on the wardroom clock. Then four. The tired lookout
in the foretop scrambled down and the relief took his place. Most of
those off duty were on deck peering into the gloom. A hard wind blew
when the _Warren_ headed eastward and at such times the white spume
flew high and far. Joe, who should have been tucked in his bunk, for
it was his watch below, leaned with Steve in the shelter of the port
torpedo tube and ranged the seemingly empty sea as eagerly as any. A
gunner’s mate of the torpedo watch, beside them, grumbled incessantly
and said unpleasant things about an enemy who wouldn’t face the music.
And suddenly what they had been so long hoping for and had about
concluded could not happen came to pass. The tocsin of the General
Quarters alarm sounded!
Steve raced forward to Number Four gun, strapping on the life-vest he
carried. The hum of the engines sounded higher as from the bridge came
the order for full speed. The Captain hurried from the wardroom passage
and sprang up the ladder.
“Man Number Four, bow, gun!”
From below the few men off watch swarmed up the lower deck ladder.
Plugmen and pointers raced to duty. The sight-setter pulled on his
leather head-gear with fingers suddenly all thumbs. The cover was
ripped from an ammunition box and a loader caught a shell in his arms
and shoved it home. Then silence and expectancy.
“Can you see her?” was the anxious question. But from the forecastle
only darkness met the straining gaze. “Seven thousand, five hundred
yards!” came the word. The gun muzzle nosed upward. “Seven thousand
yards!” The muzzle dropped again. And then, magically, a glare of
white light sprang from above and shot radiantly over the ocean,
encompassing in its broad path a something that lay like a glistening
wet bottle far off in the sea.
“Are you on, down there?” came the cry.
And, after a moment that seemed ages long: “All ready, sir!”
“Six thousand, five hundred!”
“Stand by to fire!”
Another moment of aching impatience, and then:
“Fire!”
A three-inch shell flew toward the distant goal, and ere the bark of
the gun was passed the shellman had pushed another charge into the
breech. The trainer turned his wheel a fraction as the word came down:
“Missed!”
“Skinned her, though!” muttered the plugman.
“Fire!”
Again Number Four barked, and, almost simultaneously a second gun
echoed. A roar of triumph went up and travelled back along the deck.
“Got her!” said the gun captain calmly. “Fire!”
Once more the shriek of a shell echoed from across the deck. In the
glare of the searchlight the wet bottle was almost gone from sight,
for she had started to submerge the instant that fierce glare had
reached her conning tower. Only the tower was above water now, and,
even as they looked, that went under quickly, as though some mighty
hand had seized the hapless craft from below and pulled her down.
“Cease firing!”
The already loaded gun was opened and a shellman withdrew the cartridge
case, while a cheer arose from the crew.
“Two hits to us!” sang the pointer elatedly. “Two hits to us, boys! A
fair hole aft in the superstructure and another through the tower!”
“Well done, Number Four gun!” came the message through the tube. “We’ve
sunk her.”
“Sure, we’ve sunk her!” muttered the plugman. “That’s what we aimed to
do. There’s one less devil-fish in these waters, boys!”
“Will they all drown?” asked Steve awedly.
“With half the Atlantic Ocean pouring in on ’em? They’re dead rats
already, Jack. Was any of them trying to get out, boys?”
“I didn’t see any,” someone answered. “They didn’t have time. They’d
closed their lids to go down and then we put one through her shell. It
was water rushing in that sank her at the last.”
Meanwhile the _Warren_ was ploughing on, searchlights glaring about
her path. Presently the engines ceased their roar and suddenly the
destroyer floated into a calm expanse of oil-smeared water. Once a
great bubble broke under the destroyer’s bow, but after that there was
no sign of the tragedy, although the searchlights played over the scene
for several minutes. Oil lay in vast pools that rose and fell on the
waves and spread themselves in strange patterns. The smell of it was
heavy on the air. Steve, looking down from abaft the forecastle break
shuddered and felt a little sick. Then the lights went out as suddenly
as they appeared, for there was no knowing that another underseas craft
was not around, and the _Warren_, swinging about, poked her nose again
into the wind. The hum of the engines became higher and the thin steel
frame of the ship took on its tremor once more. Behind them as they
hurried back to the patrol area only an oily stretch of water was left
to tell the story.
Down in the forecastle they talked it over from start to finish.
Incidents seen and forgotten in the tenseness of the moments were
recalled, usually with laughter. There had been some “dumb” work here
and there, but it was excusable, for this was the _Warren’s_ first
real encounter with the enemy. Now and then a soberer word was given
to the crew of the submarine lying fathoms deep back there. Steve
heard no expressions of pity nor any of callousness. There was very
evident elation aboard the _Warren_, but it was elation for work
well performed. There was a business-like tone to the talk, some of
which he could scarcely follow, so filled it was with “elevation” and
“trajectory,” “deflection” and “range,” that made him wonder if he
would ever become so seasoned as to forget the horror of such a thing
in scientific discussion. But he was not, he found, the only one aboard
whose thoughts dwelt with those lives so suddenly snuffed out. Joe
talked about it later as they sat swinging their feet from his bunk.
“Somehow,” he said thoughtfully, “it seemed worse because we didn’t
even see them. Though,” he added, “I don’t know why it should. They
didn’t have a fair chance, Steve.”
“Neither did the folks on the _Lusitania_, Joe.”
“I know.” Joe nodded, frowningly. “Of course, it’s war. And war’s no
parlour entertainment, but――somehow, I’d feel better about it if those
chaps had fired a shot at us or――or something.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d be feeling a lot worse,” replied
Steve, dryly. “You would if they’d happened to place a torpedo against
our hull. We certainly caught them napping. Hearn says they don’t often
steam around on top for long at a time. That fellow had evidently given
up the chase of the freighter and gone below, and then, not seeing
anything around, had come up for a quick run to some place. Perhaps he
had word of another ship to blow up and was trying to get to her. That
was a peach of a shot we made with Number Four.”
“Wasn’t it? Right through her plates, they say.”
“Where were you when we were firing?”
“On the blinker. Nothing doing, though. Gee, she’s beginning to roll
again. Guess I’ll tumble in and get a few hours of sleep.”
“Me, too, only I don’t believe I can sleep much. Guess I’ll go topside
for a bit first and see what’s doing. Good night, Joe.”
Steve returned to a darkened deck to find the _Warren_ fairly racing
into the wind. He still had his life-belt on, and now he unstrapped
it as he made his way aft to where some of the men were gathered
abaft the stern gun turret. That was a favourite lounging place in a
head wind. Tonight, however, although Steve found four or five dark
figures gathered there between turret and torpedo tubes, it was not
very sheltered. As he seated himself on the uneasy deck a shaft of weak
light fell on them and was gone. Steve turned with the rest and saw,
miles away, a ship’s blinker at work.
“Too late, my hearty,” chuckled someone. “What’s she saying, Bob? Is
she a Limie?”
“No, one of ours. Get your old head out of the way till I see if I
can read it. I’ve lost her name. Wants to know what’s up and have we
seen an enemy sub around here. There goes the luff with his come-back.
Hope he tells it straight.” The winking light across the darkness went
out, but presently reappeared. “Dot, dash, dot, dot――what’s he trying
to say?” muttered the unseen Bob. “Oh, he’s extending his blooming
congratulations. He’s a polite dub. ‘Report me to flag-ship.’ Sure
thing. ‘Good night!’ Say, he’s the chatty party, ain’t he? Bet you
they’re mad as hatters over there because they got around too late.
It’ll teach ’em to hustle when they’ve got the little old _Warren_ to
beat out! Well, I’m going to hit the hay, fellows. Tomorrow’s another
day. If we find another tin fish, Jimmy, wake me early, for I’m to be
Queen of the May.”
Bob stumbled off. Steve sat on a while longer, listening to the talk,
and then he, too, crept down through the hatch and went lurching to his
bunk where, in spite of his doubts, he fell promptly asleep and didn’t
awake until the watch was tumbled out in the first grey of morning.
CHAPTER XIV
LETTERS FROM HOME
They picked up a line of transports the next forenoon being convoyed by
five black Limie destroyers and exchanged signals. “Canadians,” was the
report below deck. They didn’t get close enough to have a look at them,
but turned southward before the last of the troop-ships had emerged
from the mist. It alternately rained and shone that day, and a stiff
wind sang in the aerial. Steve worked at cleaning Number Four gun in
the morning, and in the afternoon began his turn in the foretop. There
was only an empty sea until shortly before supper when a tiny British
chaser that looked no larger than the _Adventurer_, in which he and
Joe and others had made a memorable voyage last Summer, bore down for
a chat. A chipper-looking Reserve Lieutenant wearing much gold braid,
had a good deal to say, all of which was Greek to Steve, and then the
chaser turned in her length and went jauntily off again, tossing about
like a dish-pan.
“I’m glad I’m not on her,” said Joe thankfully. “Think what she must do
in a gale!”
“I’d rather not,” replied Steve. A machinist’s mate beside them laughed
reminiscently.
“When we were in Brest, a month ago maybe, there was a sort of a
ferryboat-lookin’ contraption lyin’ near us. She was a single-stacker
and burned coal. They’d tore off a cabin above-deck――you could see the
saw marks through the black paint――and they called her a chaser or
a patrol or something she wasn’t at all by rights. They’d mounted a
five-pounder forward and a rapid-fire aft. You had to sort of look at
her twice to see was she bow-on or stern-on, and then it didn’t seem to
make much difference.”
“French?” asked Joe.
“Naw, British. Well, there was a luff in charge of her that must have
been sixty if he was a day: nice, cheerful, pink-cheeked old geezer
with white whiskers that danced when he talked. Him and me got into a
bit of talk――we was lyin’ close to――and he tells me he’s been runnin’
the Channel for five or six months in that ferryboat thing. ‘You
must have seen some weather,’ I says. ‘Why, yes, that’s so, my man,’
says he. ‘An’ we been wrecked two or three times――I forget just how
many.’ ‘Wrecked!’ I says. ‘Not in that, sure-ly!’ He nods. ‘Yes, but
you’d never know it, would you? That’s what comes of havin’ a fine,
staunch boat under you,’ he says, as proud as you please. ‘There’s few
destroyers as would have gone through what this boat’s been through!’
An’ he looks around that wooden fresh-water jitney like she was the
_Royal Sovereign_. Say, fellers, that’s what I call a dead game sport,
eh?”
The boys agreed heartily, and the machinist’s mate, tearing the wrapper
from a package of chewing gum and offering the delicacy, added: “An’
say, let me tell you somethin’ else funny. This old geezer tells me
that before the war he never crossed the English Channel that he wasn’t
as sick as a pup, but since he’d got his commission and had been
floppin’ around in that pocket dreadnought of his he hadn’t missed a
meal! How’s that for mind over matter, or whatever you call it?”
The _Warren_ found no further adventures, although she remained on
patrol five days longer. Of course there were the usual alarms that
came to nought, and there was a three hundred mile scamper one night
to assist a French scout cruiser who had bumped her nose into a mine.
But other ships were nearer, and the _Warren_ arrived too late to aid.
The cruiser had sunk in forty minutes without loss of life. Every day
they spoke ships, but anything German was beyond their good fortune.
They might easily have considered that in sinking one submarine they
had done their duty for that time, especially as the officers were
unanimous in the verdict that the destroyed craft had been one of the
latest and biggest of the German underseas fleet. But that adventure
had only whetted their appetite and as the last twenty-four hours of
sea duty began they bemoaned their luck and said scathing things of the
lookouts, accusing them, for instance, of going to sleep in the foretop
cage. There was one brief gleam of hope about midnight when they sent
a shell across the bows of a suspicious-looking steamer who failed to
answer signals. But she proved to be only a Norwegian cargo boat making
for Huelva. The next day they were creeping through the mine fields
again, with the misty green Irish coast beckoning, and in the afternoon
the destroyer sent her anchors rattling down into the mud of Queenstown
Harbour. More mail and newspapers awaited them, and it was in a New
York paper that Joe found the first mention of any of their friends at
the Training Station. There had been a fire at “a United States naval
base” and among those mentioned for heroic conduct in fighting flames
adjacent to munition stores was Abraham Libinsk. Joe looked up and
called across to Steve:
“What was the name of that Polish chap at Newport? Abie, they called
him.”
“Abie? Abraham, I guess. Oh, his last name? Search me, Joe. I heard it
often enough, but――――”
“Libinsk?”
“Yes, that was it. It had about twenty-seven letters in the original,
but he shortened it because the recruiting officer couldn’t get it
right; or didn’t have time; I forget which. What about him?”
Joe read the dozen lines aloud and Steve nodded. “Just what I expected.
That chap’ll come out of this fuss with gold stripes, I’ll bet!”
There was news of other friends, as well. Steve had a much-travelled
letter from Neil Fairleigh written at “an Atlantic port.” Neil, a
member of the Adventure Club, had just got his corporal’s chevrons and
was evidently extremely proud of the fact. They were, he wrote, off to
France in a few days. “I’m in the Field Artillery, and it’s great work.
We’ve got a splendid lot of fellows. By the way, I had a letter from
old Wink just before I left the West. He’s down in Texas learning to
fly and he’s as sore as a boil because they aren’t going to let them
go across until late in the Fall. I suppose you heard that Cas Temple
‘got his’ last month. He’s in a hospital in Paris and is doing finely,
I hear. Write me sometime, care American Expeditionary Forces, and tell
me what you know. How’s Joe? And Han? Remember me to them, please. I
suppose you’ll be thinking about coming in after college closes. Maybe
I’ll run across you over there sometime. Looks like the old Adventure
Club is due to see some real stunts, what? Don’t forget to write.
Letters are great things these days. Yours till Berlin falls, Neil.”
And there was a funny scrawl from another member of the club, Perry
Bush. Perry was still at preparatory school where they had left him the
year before but was ardently patriotic and militant. They were drilling
at Dexter, he wrote: had six companies: and he was a lieutenant. And
as soon as school was over he was going to enlist somehow. “I’m only
seventeen, you know, but I look a good deal older, don’t you think I
do, Steve? They say you can pass if you fib a little and put false
heels in your shoes. I know a fellow who’s a month younger than I and
he joined the National Guard last Fall and now he’s in France I guess.
I saw by the Yale News that you and Joe had joined the Navy. I’d like
that, too, but they say they keep you in training six months and the
war might be over by that time. I wish you’d write and tell me what
it’s like and whether you think I’d have to stay in training camp or
wherever they send you very long. It’s drill time now so I’ll close
with best wishes to you and old Joe from yours truly, Perry.”
“Perry’s punctuation,” laughed Joe, returning the letter, “is no great
compliment to Dexter Academy, is it?”
“He’s too good-natured,” said Steve. “He doesn’t like to overwork the
poor little comma. How are your folks, Joe?”
“Fine. Dad writes that he’s been up at Albany for three days. They’ve
made him something-or-other on some commission that has to do with
food.”
“Hope he knows more about it than you do, then! Mother writes that she
has knitted so many sweaters this Summer that she can’t bear the sight
of a needle. Wants to know if I need a new one. Well, I don’t, but
I’m going to say that I do, for there are a dozen chaps aboard this
ship that would like one, I guess. Mother seems to have an idea that
we dress like the soldiers and wear sweaters and wristers and woollen
helmets. I dare say she’d be horribly disappointed if I wrote her that
the only time I can wear a sweater is when I’m on liberty: and then
it’s generally much too warm.”
“You let the Old Man see you hiking around with that sweater on and
you’ll get what for, Steve!”
“Then you tell him to make over this Irish weather. For a warm place
you can get colder here than any spot I ever found. If they’d have a
little more sunlight it would be all right, but these ‘moistures’ and
fogs simply seep right into a chap’s inmost being!”
“Well, put up that raft of newspapers and let’s get ashore and stretch
our legs. Tell you what I’ll do with you, Steve: I’ll walk over to
Ballycottin with you.”
“Bally which?” asked Steve suspiciously.
“Ballycottin.”
“How far is it as the horse flies?”
“Oh, about twelve or fourteen miles.”
“Irish or American?”
“What’s the difference?”
“About twenty-six hundred and forty feet, as near as I can determine.
Haven’t you noticed in this country that when a native says a place is
a mile away it’s always a good mile and a half? You show me this bally
place on the map first, old top.”
“Haven’t got a map, but it really isn’t awfully far. We can get a ride
back maybe.”
“Yes, maybe. And maybe not so. Pick out a place on a tram line, Joe,
and I’ll talk business with you.”
“Well, come ashore, anyhow. I’m fed up with this old oil tank. I want
to smell real smells.”
“Get Hearn’s ball and we’ll go over to that thing they call a diamond.
Say, maybe there’s a game on this afternoon. Let’s go and see, eh?”
They found a contest about to begin when they arrived, and, not caring
particularly whether the destroyer crew or the supply ship crew won,
they joined a perfectly neutral group of British tars and Tommies and
had more enjoyment listening to the comments than in watching the game.
A tall Australian chap in khaki who walked with a perceptible limp and
whose pallour suggested a recent return from “Blighty,” was, perhaps,
even more amusing than his English friends, for he undertook to explain
the points of baseball in a drawl that would have done for a Texan
cowboy and from a knowledge far from ample. But the audience took it
all in and for the rest of the contest tried their best to reconcile
what they had learned with what they saw, with scant success. Later,
when the supply ship’s team ran wild on the bases and piled up a six
run lead Steve and Joe took the part of the under dog and joined the
destroyer’s forces and cheered vociferously until, in the last half
of a startling ninth inning, the destroyer came from behind and nosed
out the game by a run. Even the Britons forgot their stoicism and
yelled during that finish, and Joe overheard a small English midshipman
observe that for a game that wasn’t cricket it wasn’t half bad!
Life at the base wasn’t exciting. At sea they all looked forward to
getting back into port, but once in port they longed to be outside
again. There was the constant fear that “something big might be pulled
off” while they were kicking their heels along the water-front. There
were always startling rumours to be picked up in Queenstown. They
almost never proved true, but they made something to talk about, and
one could always hope that this time it was really so that the British
Admiralty had finally consented to try smoking the German Fleet out and
that there’d “be fur flying around Helgoland this time next week!”
Tales of tragedies came into port every day: British dreadnoughts sunk,
American transports torpedoed, thousands drowned. Fortunately these
rumours were as idle as those others, usually traceable to Dublin,
that credited the German Emperor with having evolved another perfectly
good peace proposal. Life wasn’t dull, but there was an exasperating
sameness about it, and by the end of the second day in port the
_Warren’s_ crew――and her officers, as well,――began to look forward
impatiently to the time for up-anchoring. There was a certain amount
of satisfaction to be had from swapping yarns with the “gobs” from the
British chasers or from ships of their own fleet, and some tall tales
were told around Queenstown that Summer, but telling wasn’t doing, and
after twenty-four hours on shore or lying in harbour there came an ache
for the whistling winds and the feel of the trembling decks. After all,
their business was to “raus” the Huns, and lying in port was only a
waste of time!
The _Warren_ filled her oil tanks again, loaded a few boxes of
cartridges and many, many boxes of food supplies and presently stole
forth again.
CHAPTER XV
OVERBOARD!
“The Huns have got a new trick, they say,” remarked First-class
Electrician John Hempsell Higgins, taking a two-by-two bite from a slab
of bread and washing it down with a mouthful of steaming coffee from a
tin cup.
“Uh-huh,” responded Grover, yeoman of the second class. “They’ve got
more tricks than a prestidigitator. What’s the latest? Giving poisoned
candy to kids?”
“It’s a new way to drop mines,” said Jack Higgins. “They――――”
“Is that all?” said Sam Hearn, piling his mess kit.
“Dry up, Sam. I got this from the ensign. It seems there’s been three
new fields planted in the last two weeks right under our noses and no
one’s been able to find out how it’s done. A few days ago a Limie gob
was making Lorient, I think it was, and ran square into a mine field.
She scraped three or four before she knew it and then went smash into
one and lost everything forward of her stacks. They weren’t floaters,
either: they were anchored mines in three depths. What do you know
about that?”
“Don’t believe it,” said Grover. “It couldn’t be done.”
“It was done, though, sonny. And it was done in two other places
besides. Maybe more, Connell says.”
“Connell’s been reading the Berlin _Murderzeitung_,” scoffed Hearn.
“How do they do it?” asked Joe.
“Nobody’s certain yet, but we’ve all got orders to watch for a neutral
ship that might have mines instead of cargo.”
Hearn whistled expressively. Then: “Do you believe it?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t believe it of anyone except the Germans,” replied Higgins
dryly.
“Heaven help that ship if she’s caught,” said someone fervently. “It’s
a fine trick, though. It’s so cunning it makes me think it must be so.
It’s just what the Germans would do if they thought of it.”
“Well, I guess they’re doing it,” replied Higgins. “If we don’t pay a
lot of polite attention to lone cargo boats this trip I’ll be mightily
mistaken.”
“I hope we find her,” said Hearn grimly. “It would be a sweet task to
shove in the cartridge that’d blow her higher than Haman!”
“It wouldn’t be hard to do,” said Meyrowitz, of the torpedo watch,
reflectively. “A neutral ship could lay to for engine repairs, or
something, right under a shore battery and lower any number of mines
she wanted to without anyone the wiser. Or she could do it at night,
running slow. What was that Norwegian steamer we fired across the other
night, Sam?”
“I forget: _Peruna_, or something like that, I think.”
“_Varuna_,” corrected Grover. “I saw it on the log. Do you think she
might have been the one?”
“No telling,” said the torpedo man. “She was mighty slow answering
signals.”
“She was too far out,” suggested Hearn.
“Maybe, but I’ll bet you anything you like that if we catch up with the
_Peruna_ again she’ll have a visit,” offered Higgins. “Hi!” He made a
clutch at his cup as the _Warren_ swung far to port. “She’s breezing
up, fellows. The foretop spotters will need gyroscopes tonight, I’m
thinking.”
Jack’s prophecy came true. By supper time the destroyer was wallowing
along at ten knots in a southeasterly gale that piled the waves over
the forward deck and tossed the ship about like a chip in a maelstrom.
It was the boys’ first experience of a real storm, and Joe, for one,
was in the depths of despair. “I’ll be sick as sure as shooting,” he
told Steve. “She must be rolling fifty this minute!”
“Not quite so bad as that,” consoled his chum. “Best way is not to
think about it.”
“That’s easy to say,” groaned Joe, “but how the dickens can you help
thinking of it when your tummy’s trying to turn over inside you? And
I’m on ‘graveyard watch’ tonight, too.”
“You’ll be better on deck than below,” said Steve. “Let’s get some
grub.”
Joe agreed half-heartedly, but managed to fortify himself with a
generous allowance of “submarine turkey,” which is only a poetic name
for canned salmon. The only way to eat that evening was to wrap an arm
around something and hold on tightly. Joe said he wished, for once
in his life, that he was a monkey so he could hold on by a tail! By
the middle of the evening the gale was much worse and the _Warren_
seemed to be trying her best to shake loose her plates. The motion
was about as bad as it could be, for the destroyer tossed her nose
high in air as she climbed up a long sea, flirted her tail as she slid
down into the trough, her propellers racing, and all the time rolled
fearsomely and shook and shivered. Progress along even the lower deck
was a series of quick, staggering runs, while life above was a series
of hair-breadth escapes from drowning either in the great seas that
came aboard or by being washed over the side. The ship’s veteran, a
boatswain who went by the name of “Baldy” and who was well into the
latter forties, regaled the forecastle with tales of destroyers that
had broken clean in two from “sagging” between wave-crests and offered
the gloomy reminder that the _Warren_ was an old ship and built on the
old lines. Joe, listening, jumped apprehensively whenever a heavy sea
thundered across the deck overhead and was, on the whole, rather an
unhappy youth that night. Since his watch began at midnight he should
have been in bed long since, but he was afraid to lie down for fear
that seasickness would conquer him. The destroyer branch has no use for
men who are subject to that malady and such are quickly transferred
to the larger ships, and Joe by this time would have been absolutely
heart-broken had he been forced to leave the _Warren_. So, his
countenance strained with the effort of striving to keep his thoughts
from his middle latitudes, he sat on and listened to “Baldy’s” gruesome
yarns under the dim light of the forecastle lantern.
Once he drowsed for a few minutes, but real sleep was practically out
of the question. The wind howled and the seas surged and every joint in
the destroyer squeaked and groaned. And all the while the deck slanted
violently to port, back to starboard, up, down again. One braced one’s
feet against whatever was stable or wrapped an arm around a stanchion
and did one’s best not to think too much. And yet at such times life
went on much as usual. In stoke hold and fire room machinists, firemen,
oilers toiled at their tasks amidst a roar of burning oil. In the
galley the cook, grey life-preserver strapped about him, balanced
himself dexterously and sliced slabs from great loaves. In the foretop
a lookout swung through an arc of fifty degrees, huddled in a canvas
cylinder, and prayed for his relief. In the wardroom the decoding
officer worked on the messages from the wireless hutch. Behind the
wind-shield of the bridge an officer swayed to and fro in darkness and
flying spume. Below, mutters and groans issued from bunks where men
off duty tried to catch scattered periods of forgetfulness. On such a
night a destroyer is little better than a slender steel cylinder filled
with clutching men in grey canvas life-preservers, a reek of oil and a
roar of boilers.
[Illustration: On such a night a destroyer is little better than
a slender steel cylinder filled with clutching men in grey canvas
life-preservers]
At midnight the first watch tumbled below, in dripping rain clothes,
and the middle watch went on duty. Joe was glad of something to do to
keep his mind off his troubles and forebodings. Climbing the ladder
and squirming through the hatch was in itself an adventure tonight,
while, once on deck, grasping the life-lines that had been strung and
making one’s way forward or aft was a process that called for nerve
and strength. He had been assigned to after main deck lookout and
eventually gained his station, though not before he had been drenched
from head to foot and tossed, clutching to the line, against every
obstruction in his path. Pitch darkness was all about him. The sea
was a tumbled thing that dropped below him, arose to towering heights
above, threatened each moment to engulf him. Spotting under such
circumstances was a veritable jest. One could only cling in his place
and endure. The wind drove past in a frenzy, howling madly, chill from
its far journey across the Atlantic. Joe tried to whistle once but
the wind tore the sounds from his lips so quickly that he couldn’t
even hear them! Somewhere, a few yards away, another unfortunate was
trying to peer over the mountainous tops of the waves, but so far as
companionship was concerned he might as well have been on another
hemisphere.
Joe pulled the tapes of his waterproof hat tighter and snuggled further
into his jacket and prayed that the sickness wouldn’t come. So far he
had miraculously escaped more than a few qualms, and out here in the
fresh air――and it certainly was fresh, he thought grimly――it seemed
that he might come through. He tried to follow Steve’s advice and not
think about it, but sooner or later he always did. An hour passed and
only another hour remained to be lived through out there. The chill was
striking through his clothing now. He chafed his hands, one at a time,
against the rough canvas of his life-preserver. The odd conception that
the _Warren_ was motionless came to him and he had to sniff for the
smell of oil smoke and listen for the thud of the propellers before
he could dispel the impression. He did his best to watch the tumbled
surface of the ocean, but when you are one moment poised dizzily far
above that surface and the next instant are wallowing far beneath it,
keeping the gaze on the horizon level is hard work! Joe told himself
that a dozen U-boats could sneak up on the destroyer without his being
a bit the wiser tonight. Then he wondered what would happen to him if
a torpedo struck the stern. He was unpleasantly aware of those depth
charges, generously loaded with “TNT,” stored a few yards forward!
Once he was almost certain that he saw a faint twinkle of light a few
points to port, but at that moment the ship’s stern slid down into a
trough, and when it was high again the light was not to be seen. He
doubted his sight then and waited and watched. He didn’t see it again,
if he ever had seen it, and that brief interest passed out of his
vigil. The _Warren_ was changing her course slightly now, for the wind
struck him from a new angle and a spent wave came flopping over the
side and washed his boots. The smother seemed worse than ever after
that, but the stern held itself down better. His feet were frightfully
cold and he tried stamping them on the wet deck. He tried to reckon
time but had nothing to go by. His turn might be nearly over or might
have half an hour to go. At least, he had escaped being sick so far,
and that was something to be thankful for. A minute or two later
something a trifle darker than the darkness itself ranged alongside
and a voice shouted:
“All right, matey! Seen anything?”
“No!” Joe had to hold his lips close to the other’s ear to make himself
heard. “Once I thought I saw a light, but I couldn’t find it again.”
“Hold tight going back,” advised the relief. “They’re breaking right
across by the third stack. This is a sweet job for a Christian, ain’t
it?” The relief’s voice ended in a growl as Joe, clinging with chilled
fingers, edged around to leeward.
“Good luck!” he called back, but the wind scattered his words over
the torn sea. He found the life-line and pulled himself warily onward
past the after gun turret, meeting there the full force of the gale
and nearly losing his feet under it. He groped for the ladder and fell
back against it and held tight, his body feeling as though flattened
out under that mighty onslaught. The din of the tempest was deafening
after the partial shelter he had enjoyed, and through it he could hear
the rushing fall of water across the deck somewhere ahead. Above, dimly
against the wrack of flying clouds, the nearer mast swayed and whipped.
He took a breath and went on. The hatch was only a little distance
now. Then there was a sudden crash that brought his heart to his mouth,
and an avalanche of water flung itself upon him. The force of it
drove the breath from his body and wrested his chilled hands from the
line. He felt himself tossed to the sloping deck, half-drowning, and
instinctively groped for hand-hold. Then, turning over and over, like
a log in a whirlpool, gasping, fear-stricken, he felt the deck go from
beneath him. An icy coldness enveloped him, his ears were filled with
a great hollow roaring and his lungs were bursting for air. He tried
to cry out, but water strangled the scream in his throat. He thrashed
his arms wildly, struggled against the terror that clutched him and
felt the rush of air in his nostrils. And then, and not until then, he
realised.
CHAPTER XVI
THE FLOATING MINE
Sheer fright took possession of him in that first moment of realisation
and he hurled his voice time and again into the tempest, shouted until
his breath was gone and the knowledge that all his appeals were vain
settled upon him. Aboard the destroyer they had not even known, and now
she was far off in the darkness, and all help from her was past praying
for. He could have fainted from terror and the numbing cold of the sea,
but somehow he fought off the weakness. He was swimming mechanically as
well as his cramped arms would let him, weighted down by heavy clothing
and yet kept barely afloat by the life-preserver under his rain jacket.
He tried to think calmly, to plan, and, gasping, shaking with the
chill of the icy water and the fear that clutched his heart, he forced
himself into a calmer state.
He could, he supposed, manage to keep afloat indefinitely, for sinking
was impossible so long as that life-preserver remained strapped under
his arms, but how long he would be able to stand the chill of the icy
water was another question. He recalled numerous stories of shipwrecks,
but none supplied him information on the problem. There was, however,
one thing certain, which was that he didn’t need that heavy waterproof
jacket and trousers and hat. They made it more difficult for him to
keep his head up and more difficult to swim, and swimming was the only
thing to do if he was to keep his blood in circulation. After many
attempts he kicked himself free from the trousers and removed the
jacket and cap. It was no easy matter while battling with the waves and
keeping his head above water.
But he did it somehow, and the effort restored his courage and drove
some of the numbness from around his heart. Relieved of the stiff
garments, swimming was far easier, although real swimming was out of
the question. About all he could do was work arms and legs and shake
the water from his eyes and do his best not to swallow it. He was a
good swimmer and as much at home in the water as any American boy of
his age, but no amount of swimming ability would have availed much
here. He was swept up the long slope of a wave, poised helplessly for a
moment on the high crest and then dropped down and down into the next
seething hollow. He breathed when he could and fought on, swimming as
easily as he might to conserve his strength and finding to his joy that
the chill was no longer intolerable. He longed intensely for daylight
and tried to think how long it would be in coming. He had been relieved
at two o’clock and it began to grow light about four. With daylight
he might sight land or, at least, tell better in which direction to
guide himself. Now it was only guesswork. And by day there was always
the chance of rescue. He found what encouragement he could in these
thoughts and struggled on, changing stroke from time to time as one set
of muscles tired.
He recalled those first moments of panic and felt ashamed of them, and
was glad that Steve hadn’t witnessed them. If one had to drown one
could, he told himself, do it decently and not squeal like a kid. He
didn’t want to drown a bit: life had never looked more desirable than
it did at that moment. There was a lot to live for. Why, he _couldn’t_
die until they had settled that war! That would be too horrible, never
to know how it came out! Unless――well, he somehow doubted if they
troubled themselves much with wars in Heaven! Of course, he might not
get to Heaven, though. He reviewed a very blameless life in detail and
was relieved to discover that, after all, he hadn’t been desperately
wicked. There were some things he preferred not to dwell on overlong,
to be sure, but as a whole he seemed to stand a fair chance of getting
by!
He was sorry that his mother and father would be so worried. The
_Warren_ would report him lost at sea, and, whether he was rescued
or――well, wasn’t rescued, it would be a long time, he supposed, before
he could reach them with the news of his safety. That troubled him a
good deal. Then he wondered about Steve. Steve would feel pretty badly,
he guessed. They were rather fond of each other, although they each
took mighty good care not to let the other suspect it! Yes, Steve would
be rather broken-up in the morning. And――why, it _was_ morning――almost!
From the dizzy summit of a wave his eyes, half-blinded with salt water,
glimpsed a new greyness in the sky. After that he thought of morning
and sunlight――he longed for sunlight――and watched the first signs of
dawn creep up in the east until, presently, he could see about him.
And, seeing, a touch of the old terror came back, for all that met his
gaze was mile on mile of surging, stormy, wind-swept ocean, stretching
off on every side to an empty horizon! The immensity of it frightened
him and he closed his eyes and for a long moment didn’t dare open
them again. When he did the sea had taken on colour from the leaden
dawn――there was to be no sunlight for him, after all――and he was
floating in a green world flecked with white foam, a tiny, helpless,
forgotten atom.
But presently the atom took courage again. The ocean was no bigger now
than it had been last night, while his chance of rescue was a thousand
times better. At least, he would keep on hoping until the very end. He
wouldn’t be a quitter even if there was no one to know it. He stopped
swimming and floated for a long while, swallowing more water than was
pleasant, but managing to rest his tired lungs. Then the chill warned
him and he went on. It was broad daylight now: probably five o’clock,
or a little after. The wind seemed less violent, although the waves
still ran as high as ever. He had been in the water fully three hours,
he reckoned. He believed he could swim for an hour longer, by resting
at times, but the chill of the icy element was gradually producing
a kind of paralysis in his muscles. He had felt nothing approaching
cramp, but that might, probably would, come later. He thought he would
retain consciousness most of the day. After that――well, unless he had
his senses and could keep his head up the life-preserver wouldn’t
deserve its name!
He experienced a trying ten or fifteen minutes when a fit of shivering
and nausea attacked him, but after being slightly sick at his stomach
he felt better. Thirst made itself felt, and he mentally predicted a
day of discomfort, if not suffering, from that cause. His throat and
mouth were parched with the salt and swallowing was difficult. He felt
no interest in food.
At times the sky grew perceptibly lighter in the east, but the low,
lead-hued clouds never actually parted. At those moments the giant
waves became more translucent and he could look down for what seemed
many fathoms into shadowed green depths. Only twice did he see any life
about him. Once a large bird scudded down-wind, and once a ghostly,
dully-gleaming denizen of the sea passed slowly beneath him as he was
swept up the curving side of a wave. He thought the bird was probably
an albatross, although he had never seen one to his knowledge. At
least, it was much too large for a gull. The fish caused him to think
unpleasantly of sharks, but common sense comforted him. No dangerous
shark, he told himself, would be found in water of this temperature!
Time and again, suspended momentarily on the crest of wave, he
searched the ocean on all sides. But not even a bit of wreckage met his
gaze. He had but scant idea of his whereabouts. He might be anywhere
from fifty to a hundred and fifty miles west of the Scilly Islands, as
to latitude, and somewhere in a general southerly direction from Cape
Clear. But that was only guesswork. What did seem probable was that he
was in the path of trans-Atlantic shipping. If, he told himself many
times, he could fight off the cold and the thirst he would surely be
picked up before night. But there were less hopeful moments when he
realised that in such a tumbled sea so small a speck as he presented
might never be seen.
Another hour went by: perhaps more: that, too, was only guesswork,
for his watch had stopped at seven minutes to three. Then from the
frothy, wind-tumbled summit of a wave his eyes received the fleeting
impression of an object perhaps a quarter-mile away. The next instant
he was plunging down into the lead-green trough. He swam hard to win
the crest of the next hill of water, and when he had done so looked
eagerly again. But only wind-hurled water met his gaze, and a keen
disappointment took possession of him. He tried to bring back the
picture of the small, dark speck, but his glimpse had been so brief
that memory failed him. Once more he was borne aloft and once more he
swept the sea. And this time, just as his descent began again, the
object sprang into sight. He swung his course and, fighting the forces
of wind and water, swam desperately in the direction of the thing that
might be an empty boat or a piece of wreckage, that, whatever it was,
would be something to lay hand to.
He was soon tuckered, for he was struggling at an angle with the sweep
of the seas, but he persevered, and presently the floating object
appeared close ahead of him, something round and rusty-yellow seen
momentarily against the grey horizon. It bobbed over the edge of a wave
and went from sight. As he pursued it he speculated puzzledly. It had
looked somehow like a buoy, but there were no buoys so far from shore;
unless it had been torn from its moorings. Then he plunged breathlessly
down a long glacis of green, foam-patterned water and at the same
moment the object of his search topped the crest of the further summit,
and he realised what it was. For an instant his disappointment was
keen. Then reason told him that even a floating mine was better than
nothing, and he struggled up the slope of a wave and, shaking the water
from his eyes, saw the thing almost above him. Two strokes and he had
the fingers of one hand about a rusted ring-bolt and, relaxing, drew
grateful breaths of air into his tired lungs.
Presently he had recovered sufficiently to examine his prize. It was
just such a mine as he had seen a dozen times, a metal sphere some
three feet in diameter, its lower and upper halves held together by
bolts passing through flanges. Three ring-bolts were set at equal
distances around the top, while at intervals “horns,” or firing pins,
stuck out. Joe guessed there must be eight of these. That the mine
had been in the water a good while was evidenced by the thick scales
of rust around flanges and bolts and by a slimy deposit of greenish
growth on the underwater half of it. There was nothing he could see to
tell him whether the instrument of destruction was of Allied or German
origin. He thought, however, he could detect a difference in the shape
and length of the horns from those on the mines he had seen. Later he
glimpsed a short length of wire cable depended from below and knew then
that the mine had in some manner been parted from its anchor and swept
away from a field. How long it had been bobbing around in the path of
navigation he couldn’t guess.
At another time, under other circumstances, Joe might have smiled at
the incongruity of making friends with a couple of hundred pounds of
high explosive, but just now the thought didn’t occur to him. The big
metal ball, harmless enough so long as it didn’t collide with anything
hard enough to detonate it, seemed very friendly out there in that
watery void. It was a rather erratic and unsteady friend, to be sure,
for it nodded and bobbed and dipped and turned continually, but it
was something a bit more stable than the waves and it offered help
in keeping afloat. Joe tried holding to the rim, but the mine didn’t
approve of that, apparently, for it slipped away several times. Then he
again grasped a ring-bolt, which, while demanding a strained position
of the arm, was far more secure. He began to talk to it presently:
called it “old chap”: speculated on their chance of rescue: found a
deal of comfort in the sound of his voice until his parched tongue
ached and he had to stop. Up and down they went, mine and boy, lifted
to the wind-topped summits, drawn to the deep hollows, dashed with
spray, flung about like the two tiny atoms they were, while about them
a grey-green desert of ocean stretched emptily to meet an empty leaden
sky.
CHAPTER XVII
ABOARD THE SUNDSVALL
“Submarine broad off the starboard beam!” sang out the lookout at the
bow. A tall, yellow-bearded Viking in a dirty blue uniform turned
swiftly and followed the sailor’s pointing hand. Then he raised
binoculars to his eyes and, steadying himself on the swaying bridge,
focussed them on a tiny dark speck that danced into sight and out again
two miles to the southward. A look of perplexity came over his face and
he made a motion toward the engine-room telegraph beside him. Then he
paused and again viewed the object. A second man joined him, a short,
squat figure in the dress of a ship’s mate. He spoke in a language that
was not English whatever it may have been.
“What do you make it?” he asked.
“A boat, I think, Carl,” replied the first man, in the same language,
“and yet――――”
“Let me look.” The man set the glasses above a red, tilted nose and
for a moment gazed in silence. At last: “Not a sub, at all events,” he
decided. “Nor yet a small boat. Probably a piece of wreckage.”
The other accepted the glasses back and shrugged his broad shoulders.
“I think we had better have a nearer look at it, however.”
The mate nodded, and presently the steamer, a small cargo boat bearing
the legend SWEDEN and the Swedish flag along each side of her hull,
slowly turned a blunt nose toward the puzzling object. Aloft, the
lookout called again:
“Floating mine, I make it, sir, with something dragging.”
“Mine, you say?” The captain again raised the binoculars. “That is
right,” he said, turning to the mate. “It is a floating mine. There is
a piece of canvas, I think, or possibly seaweed attached. Shall we pick
it up?”
“Why not, if it is of use to us? We can find a better place for it than
this.” He smiled faintly.
And so it happened that at shortly after six bells that afternoon the
steamer _Sundsvall_ stopped her engines, lowered a gig and added to
her possessions one rusty mine and to her complement one half-drowned
American seaman.
The mine was lifted aboard by means of a small crane, the seaman came
up lying in the bottom of the gig as she was swung to her davits. That
the seaman came at all was no foregone conclusion. The captain had
spoken most discouragingly of the project of including the American in
the salvage.
“Let him go,” he had advised. “He’s as good as dead already. If he
comes around he will be in the way and eat our precious food. Better
hit him on the head now and drop him back where he came from.”
But the mate demurred. “Give him a chance,” he suggested. “If he proves
troublesome we can throw him over later. There’s life in him yet, and
we can drop him in port tomorrow. He’s American, Flink,” he added. “I
like to hear them talk. Besides, my wife’s sister is married to one of
them and lives in a place called Chicago.”
“Have it so, then.” The captain shrugged and turned on his heel. “But
see that he is kept in the fo’castle. He mustn’t see――anything.”
“He will be in no condition to see much,” replied the mate. “Take him
for’ard and put him in a bunk, a couple of you, and tell Mr. Heilsberg
to have a look at him.” He turned back to the captain. “A thing I never
saw before,” he went on. “A man lashed to a mine in mid-ocean. What do
you make of it?”
“Nothing. Who knows it is not some infernal Yankee trick?”
“Not likely. More probably the fellow fell overboard in the gale
of yesterday and found the mine by luck. He had passed the cuff of
one sleeve through the eye of a ring-bolt and held it so by his
pocket-knife thrust through the cloth. He would have torn loose in
another hour or so, I think.”
“Pity he didn’t,” growled the other. “Take the ship. I must look over
that chart again. Pass the word to the lookouts to keep their eyes
peeled.”
Below, in a smelly bunk in an even smellier forecastle, Joe, under
the grunting administrations of a bewhiskered second mate who had a
smattering of medicine, was opening his eyes.
“Where am I?” he muttered perplexedly.
“You are safe, my young friend,” replied the mate in fair English.
“Swallow this. It will choke and burn you and do you much good.”
Joe obeyed, and the first part of the promise was fulfilled. “Water!”
he gasped. “Water!”
“Ach, to be sure! You shall have it.” The mate disappeared muttering,
while Joe, his salt-scorched throat smarting horribly, writhed and
gasped. In the dim light clothing on hooks swayed to and fro and the
beat of the engines was deafening. The water, insipid and warm, was
like nectar, and Joe let his head fall with a long sigh of relief.
“What ship is this?” he asked faintly.
“_Sundsvall._”
“German?” he asked in quick dismay.
“_Nein!_ No, no! It is Swedish.”
“But you――are German,” Joe persisted.
“No, I am, too, Swedish. We are all Swedish this ship hereon.”
“Oh!” Joe closed his eyes. “Thanks. I think――I’ll――go to sleep.”
“So! That is well. Sleep is good for you, my friend. I come again
later. Sleep well.”
But Joe didn’t hear, for he was already slumbering.
When he awoke next it was night, for a dim electric light shed a wan
glow overhead. A sailor was darning a woolen sock nearby and several
others lolled in bunks or sat beside the table that stretched,
knife-scarred, stained and littered, between two iron stanchions.
They talked a language Joe could not understand, although it sounded
throaty, like German. Some words held a close similarity to German,
just as the men themselves, slow, phlegmatic, looked like Germans. The
_Sundsvall_ was evidently running slowly, and her forecastle was a most
uneasy place. Joe remained silent, his mind busy in a drowsy way with
the events of the day.
That it was still less than twenty-four hours since he had been washed
from the deck of the _Warren_ was difficult to believe, and he was
greatly inclined to suspect that he had floated around with that
friendly mine for two days instead of one until he realised that had
he done that he would not now be alive. The last he could recall was
talking to a gull that had circled closely and inquisitively around
him. That must have been just short of noon. That he had absolutely
talked, he doubted, for he remembered how painfully swollen his tongue
and lips were, but he recollected trying gravely to warn the gull that
if it tried to peck one of the “horns” of the mine and explode it,
he――Joe――would pull its tail-feathers out! Previous to that, unable
to keep his wet, chilled fingers locked about the ring-bolt, he had
laboured for what must have been the better part of a half-hour to
get the cuff of his sleeve through the eyelet and secure it there
by running his knife through it, and had finally succeeded. By that
time he was raging with thirst and his legs had lost sensation. And,
although he didn’t know it, he had been slightly out of his head and
had talked a great deal of nonsense――or tried to――to the mine. Now,
stripped of his wet clothes and lying between soiled but gratefully
warm blankets, he felt sleepily thankful for his rescue and, presently,
hungry.
Later he was fed a sort of stew by a grinning, slant-eyed boy in a
questionably white jacket who talked a strange patter of pidgin-English
which Joe understood scarcely better than the Swedish he had listened
to. The stew was greasy and somewhat tasteless, but Joe consumed it and
felt better. Refusing a pannikin of something the boy called tea, he
turned over and went to sleep again.
He awoke to the touch of a hand on his shoulder and looked confusedly
up into the face of the squat first mate. The mate, speaking fair
English, asked how he had happened to be floating around on a mine, and
Joe told his story. The mate nodded from time to time, closing his eyes
like a wise owl. Then he inquired: “The _Varren_, you said? Ah, and she
iss an American ship, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She iss perhaps on duty hereabouts?”
Joe nodded.
“If we could find the _Varren_ we should give you to her back.” The
mate smiled genially. “Perhaps you could tell us where to look for her?”
“No, sir.” Joe shook his head. “We aren’t allowed to know her patrol
district. I guess it will be all right if you’ll just land me somewhere
or hand me over to one of the Allies’ ships.”
“Yes, but it would be so much better for you could we find your own
ship. You do not know where she iss?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“She iss perhaps convoying?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Or perhaps looking for something? A submarine or――or something?” The
mate’s eyes closed slightly, although the grin remained. Joe, scenting
danger, again shook his head. Then he replied carelessly:
“No, she isn’t looking for anything, sir. She’s just doing patrol.”
“Well――――” The mate seemed slightly disappointed. “Then we will land
you at the first port or perhaps put you aboard one of your own ships,
my man. You live in America?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where, please?”
“New York.”
“Ah, New York. And you perhaps have been to Chicago?”
“No, sir, I’ve never been there.”
“So? The sister of my wife is married to a man that lives in Chicago.
She writes in letters that it iss a very big city. Some day I shall see
your America and visit this Chicago. And your New York, too. Yes, maybe
it will be before long, also.”
Again came the odd closing of the eyes, and Joe experienced a sudden
antagonism. But he didn’t let the fact appear as he asked: “Where is
this ship bound, sir?”
“Santander.”
“That’s in Spain?”
“Yes. We go in ballast but we return with much cargo for our starving
country.”
“Oh, is Sweden starving, sir?”
“Sweden? Yes, Sweden has but little food now since the blockade. It is
dreadful! My poor suffering country! But she does not complain. She
remains at peace with all countries. It is the war.”
He took his departure. As he vanished the half-dozen occupants of the
forecastle exchanged growling remarks, one of which produced a laugh
that sounded extremely unpleasant to Joe. As he closed his eyes again
he said to himself: “You’re just about as much Swedish as I am, and
I hope that if ever the _Warren_ runs across this tub she’ll have a
look at your papers. The _Sundsvall_ may be Swedish, but her officers
aren’t, and if she’s taking food to Sweden it doesn’t stay there. I
guess it’s up to me to see what’s going on here.”
He lay with closed eyes for a long time, thinking it over. The clothes
he had worn had been dried in the galley and were now lying across the
bottom of his bunk. He decided to await his chance and put them on.
But the chance didn’t come readily, for of the watch below someone
was always awake. He heard four bells strike and was sorely tempted
to yield to the demands of sleep. In fact, he had reached a condition
on the borderland of slumber when he was awakened by a voice at the
companion. The words it spoke were Greek to him, but the meaning was as
clear as though they had been: “All hands on deck!” From the bunks here
and there a grumbling figure appeared, stretched, yawned and stumbled
away. After waiting a minute or two Joe sat up and peered around. So
far as he could determine the forecastle was empty of occupants other
than he. To make quite certain he waited another few minutes, but
then, fearing that someone might return before he had accomplished his
object, he swung his feet over the edge of the bunk and, supporting
himself against the side, for he felt pretty weak and wobbly and the
ship’s motion, while much less than earlier in the evening, was still
erratic, hurriedly drew on his clothes. There was, he told himself,
no reason why he shouldn’t dress and go on deck, but nevertheless he
knew that such a thing was not included in the officers’ plans for his
conduct, and he realised that it would be just as well to keep out of
sight.
From the forecastle a short central passage led to the companion-way,
past the open door of the galley, on one side, and a second door,
closed, on the other. The galley was deserted, and a single lamp
burned above the simmering stove. Cautiously Joe climbed the ladder
and peered out. The ship was in darkness. The bridge, however, showed
against the sky, as did a figure which stood motionless at one end
of it. Well up on the foremast what appeared to be a lookout made a
blotch of darker black. Joe hesitated an instant and then slipped out
on deck and, accommodating himself to the roll of the ship, scurried to
the starboard rail. The _Sundsvall_ was three-housed, cut low between
forecastle and bridge and between bridge and after-cabin. The sea had
abated a good deal, but the ship still rolled and plunged. There was
a faint light from the engine-room hatch and he could hear the engine
slowed down to headway only turning slowly over below. He had wisely
left off his shoes, which made progress more certain and more quiet.
Half-way along the deck he heard voices and, his eyes accustoming
themselves to the darkness, made out forms. He slipped into the shadow
of a boat and listened.
Whatever was going on was enlisting the entire working force of the
ship, since, excepting the man on the bridge and the lookout on the
foremast, no one else was to be seen or heard forward of the after
deck. The sound of chain and the muffled blow of a hammer came to him,
and then the squeaking of a tackle-block. He left his hiding place and
slipped nearer, keeping to the deeper gloom of the house. Overhead a
few stars showed faintly, but gave no perceptible light. From his new
position he could discern dimly many figures at work along the port
rail and could hear low voices. The notion came to him then that they
were lowering a boat, but presently, in the quick, tiny light of a hand
torch, flashed on and off in the fraction of a second, he saw the boat
still lying in her chocks. A dozen explanations of the secrecy of the
work came to him only to meet rejection. Then once more the hand torch
gleamed and the mystery was a mystery no longer.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SIGNAL FROM THE FO’CSLE
The momentary flash of the electric torch had shown a picture that
remained stamped on Joe’s vision long after darkness had returned to
the scene. A confusion of busy men, a small crane leaning over the side
where a section of the rail had been removed, and, stretching from
crane well toward the middle of the deck, a line of spherical shapes
each lying beside a coil of cable and a smaller square object. Joe’s
heart jumped into his throat as the truth came to him.
The _Sundsvall_ was laying mines!
Then the recollection of Jack Higgins’ revelation in the forecastle
of the _Warren_ the night before flashed on him. New mine fields had
been discovered and none knew how they had been planted, but suspicion
rested on an unknown ship posing as a neutral! And Fate, he reflected
awedly as he slipped back into the farther shadows, had tossed him into
the sea, given him miraculous help in the shape of that floating mine
and at last had landed him on the very ship that was engaged in the
nefarious work! Crouching there in the darkness, Joe tried to think
calmly. There was nothing he could do to prevent the murderous work
from going on. His only course was to return unseen and unsuspected to
his bunk in the forecastle and wait until he was landed or transferred
to another ship. Then, however, he told himself with a sudden gripping
of his hands, the _Sundsvall_ would need to look out for herself!
He wished there was some way of finding the present latitude and
longitude so that he could locate the mines now being lowered into the
sea, but there was no way of getting that information without having
access to the chart or log, and that was far too dangerous. Once
suspected of having witnessed the ship’s operations his life would
be worth even less than it had been a dozen hours ago! They would
simply knock him on the head, in all probability, and quietly drop him
overboard: in which case he would not only be of no further use to
himself but of no further use to his country and her allies. No, the
only course was to wait and secure his release from the _Sundsvall_,
and with that settled in his mind he began to retrace his steps toward
the bow. He had reached a point midway between bridge and forecastle
when a gleam of light shot across the water. Startled, he stood in his
tracks and turned.
A mile away, according to his reckoning, a searchlight was flashing the
three dashes of the International Code that stood for O and signified
“Who are you?” From the bridge came a sharp exclamation and as Joe
dashed for the shelter of the companion, footsteps came running along
the deck and shouted orders broke the silence of the night. Suddenly a
sharp stream of white light shot from the bridge and the _Sundsvall’s_
shutter clicked and clicked as she answered. Joe, ready to flee if
anyone approached the companion, watched and read. The operator at the
occulting light was slow, but he answered with painstaking care and a
fine avoidance of abbreviation.
“_Sundsvall_, Sweden, Stavanger to Santander, in ballast,” replied the
steamer.
Again the distant light twinkled. “Why are you off your course?”
“We have strained our propeller shaft and are making repairs,” answered
the _Sundsvall_ without hesitation. There was a long silence from the
other ship, and then, finally, the laconic: “Right!” flicked over the
sea.
Joe was already hurrying down the short companion-way, his thoughts
racing fast through his mind. The unseen questioner was undoubtedly a
patrol ship. She was only a mile distant. If――――
He stared eagerly about the forecastle. Overhead a single electric
light burned pulsatingly and dimly. On each side were two ports, closed
and carefully covered inside the glass by painted canvas. Joe stepped
to the door of the passage, unhooked it, closed it and shot a rusty
bolt. Then with trembling fingers he tore the covering from a port on
the starboard bow and, unfastening the round frame containing the glass
pulled it open. If only the lookouts aboard the patrol had sharp eyes!
With a jump he reached the table and his hand fumbled for the key at
the electric lamp. To his dismay it had none. But in the next instant
an expedient occurred to him and he quickly unscrewed the bulb until
connection was barely severed and the forecastle was in darkness.
For as long as it took his heart to beat a half-dozen times he stood
motionless in the gloom, one hand on the electric bulb. Then he turned
it slightly to the right and the light came on. For a second it
continued. Then darkness once more. Again light, but this time only a
quick flash. Again darkness. And so, slowly and anxiously, he formed
of dashes and dots the single letter that is the “negative” of the
British code. And when it was done he started again. And then, to
make assurances doubly sure, he changed to the dash-dot-dash of the
International. A long minute passed. In the brief moments of darkness
between signals he strove to look through the port and find the patrol.
But he was too high and the patrol was out of his range of vision. He
tried the negative in the secret code of his own country then, and
was half-way through with it when a glare of light swept through the
port and made a shaft of white brilliancy across the forecastle. It
glared for an instant and then passed away, but Joe knew that it was
travelling slowly toward the vessel’s stern, wafting up and down,
playing on deck and masts and bridge. And even as he leaped from the
table heavy footsteps pounded in the passage, a body was hurled at the
door and fists beat on the heavy woodwork.
But the door held firmly and only wild, guttural threats entered. Joe
backed away and looked about him for a weapon. Nothing more deadly than
a stool presented itself and he seized that and poised himself near the
door. Fortunately, it opened toward the passage and those beyond could
only tug and beat. As he stood there, awaiting what he felt must be the
inevitable so soon as one of his besiegers thought to fetch an axe,
he found a grim pleasure in picturing the scene on deck. The patrol
would have put her blinker on now and would be impatiently questioning.
The throng at the _Sundsvall’s_ rail would have scattered under the
searching beams of the light. On the bridge the painstaking signal man
would be spelling out lies. If only the patrol didn’t allow herself to
be hoodwinked!
Suddenly he felt the jar of the engines, and his heart leaped. “The
fools!” he muttered joyously. “They’re trying to run away! They can
never do it and they’re showing their hand!”
The blows and imprecations outside the forecastle door ceased for
a moment as though in response to an order from beyond. Then feet
scuffled and a ship’s axe dug its blade deeply into the upper panel
of the door. And simultaneously the white glare of the distant
searchlight sprang in again at the open port. Again the axe crashed
into the splintering wood. The steamer was fairly shaking now with
the reverberations of her hurrying screws, and the seas were pounding
against her nose and swishing past the open port. Joe, stool held aloft
to greet the first head that appeared, watched in a horrid fascination
as the axe blade bit and smashed at the panel. The disc of white
radiance travelled from the bunks to the forward partition, as the
_Sundsvall_ swung to port, and came to rest squarely on the yielding
portal. A gaping hole appeared and the muzzle of a revolver was thrust
through. Joe flattened himself against the bulkhead as the report rang
out. Then the stool descended swiftly and the revolver clattered on the
floor.
He reached out with his foot and drew the weapon toward him until he
could reach it without placing his body in range. Beyond the door a
howl of mingled pain and anger had followed the swift descent of the
stool, and now several voices arose in threats and curses. The axe
tore at the frame beyond the bolt and the blows drowned the sound of
the throbbing engines. Joe spun the cylinder of the revolver. It was
six-chambered and five cartridges remained. To hold the door after the
bolt had given would be impossible. He thought swiftly. Well forward
in the narrowing forecastle an upper bunk――they were built in tiers
of three――was so draped with swaying garments that it was almost as
if curtained. He appraised its possibilities and then listened in an
effort to judge of the number beyond the portal. He thought there were
four men there. Evidently he had gained possession of the only revolver
amongst them, which suggested that the force was composed of one
officer and three men; possibly four. He could, he knew, shoot through
the door and trust to luck, but cartridges were few, and, if truth were
told, he had little stomach for it. The searchlight which for a full
minute had lain on the door in a round disc now moved slowly aside and
the place was left in darkness.
Stool in hand, Joe crept away toward the bunk. Then he was crouched
up there in the unrelieved gloom, his eyes trying to pierce it in the
direction of the door. What he knew would happen happened. In the
darkness the besiegers could safely reach in and draw back the bolt,
and this they did. Joe heard the door grate softly and then slam back
as it was pulled quickly outward.
Lying face down on the upper bunk, with evil-smelling garments swaying
past his face, the hand holding the revolver stretched out and down,
he waited a brief instant. Then a footfall sounded and he pressed the
trigger.
In the darkness the flame from the barrel made a quick flash of
scarlet. There was a sharp cry of anguish, mutters and silence.
Joe strained his ears, his heart beating faster than the rapid
_thump-thump_ of the racing engines. He knew they had located him by
the flash of the revolver, but they would have to climb to get him.
A groan broke the silence that held above the sounds of the ship, and
steps shuffled in the passage. Were they drawing off? He waited, finger
trembling on trigger. Then a sound like a deeply-drawn breath came from
beneath him and he pointed toward it and fired again.
The spouting flame lit up a snarling countenance just below the bunk.
He swung the muzzle toward it, but at that instant a hand gripped
his wrist. Instinctively he pulled the trigger. A bullet crashed
downward toward the floor but the grasp on his wrist only tightened and
strained. He could no longer hold the weapon and his fingers relaxed.
He heard the revolver thud on the boards below. Struggling, he strove
to beat off his assailant, but his blows fell harmlessly. He was being
pulled over the edge of the bunk. He tried to find something to hold
to, but couldn’t. His captor grunted a word, was answered from the
darkness and in a moment other hands were about Joe’s legs and he was
pulled into space.
He fell crashing to the forecastle deck, but the violence of the
fall was in a measure broken by the men beneath him, for even in the
darkness and confusion he was aware that one of the enemy had gone down
with him. With his breath half driven from his body, he could only lie
there in a litter of garments pulled down in the struggle and gasp. And
then they were on him.
Blows rained about him, and only the darkness and the fact that the
enemy hindered each other, saved him for the moment. A giant fist
grazed his forehead and crashed onto the boards. Joe wrested an arm
free and struck blindly upward and got home under a bearded chin. The
grunt that answered the blow filled him with savage joy. Kicking,
thrashing, heaving under the weight of other bodies, he fought madly,
regardless now of punishment. Hands groped at him, at his legs and
arms, at his throat. He tore them aside. But the struggle was far too
uneven to endure long. They had his legs helpless now, crushed under
the weight of a great body. Then one arm was pinned to the floor and
a big hand closed merciless fingers about his throat. He tried to
tear them off, but it was no use. A knee settled on his free arm, the
fingers tightened and tightened. He struggled until the perspiration
stood on his forehead. Lights danced before his eyes crazily, a great
sound of roaring filled his head and his straining muscles relaxed. A
last wondering thought came to him on the verge of suffocation: this is
the end!
And then, coincident with the thought, a great crashing sound beat on
his brain, a sound that seemed to fill the world with its monstrous
voice.
CHAPTER XIX
H.M.S. LINNET
He came to himself in darkness. A great weight lay across his body.
Wondering, striving to recollect, he put forth an aching hand and
pushed at the weight. His fingers pressed against something that
yielded slightly. Exploring, they sensed cloth and, beneath it flesh
and bone. It was a man’s arm! And with that knowledge came recollection.
The first question he asked himself was: Am I dead? Then the painful
throbbing of his bruised throat, the ache of his tired muscles answered
with a decisive no. But what had happened? He recalled that devastating
noise that had seemed to crash his very skull in with its violence.
What had it meant? Painfully he struggled from beneath the body that
lay across him, and as he did so he became aware of the wind that blew
about him and of strange, tangled things that littered the floor.
Groping to his feet, swaying dizzily, he looked about in the darkness.
From somewhere came the sound of escaping steam. The _Sundsvall’s_
engines were still. Perplexed, he groped for a stanchion and found
none, but saw instead a gaping, jagged hole in the ship’s side through
which he could see dimly the waves and feel the rush of the night wind!
As his eyes grew used to the darkness he made out the tangled, twisted
stanchions, the splintered planks about him and knew then what had
happened!
For the first time he viewed near-to the effect of a three-inch shell!
“They’ve got her!” He had meant to cry it aloud joyously, but all that
came from him was a hoarse croak which so surprised him that he stood
open-mouthed for a second in dismay. Then, grinning to himself in
the dark, he started toward the door. Half-way to it he tripped over
something that, with a shudder, he realised was the form of a man. He
wondered how many there were in there and whether they were all killed:
wondered, too, by what freak of fortune he had escaping the flying
fragments of steel and iron and wood.
In the passage all was dark. Even the light in the galley had been
turned out or wrecked by the exploding shell. He stumbled up the
companion ladder. Before him stood three figures. A revolver gleamed
dully.
“Halt!” said a voice sharply. “Put your hands up!”
Joe obeyed with fine alacrity.
“Advance! Halt! Search him!”
One of the figures stepped forward and went over him with swift fingers.
“I am unarmed,” said Joe, in a hoarse whisper.
“We’ll see,” was the dry response. Then, with evident surprise: “How do
you happen to speak English so well?”
“I’m an American, sir.”
“What!” The petty officer stepped nearer. From the patrol ship lying
a few fathoms away two paths of white light led from her searchlight
platform to the _Sundsvall’s_ deck, and though the nearer one did not
encompass the group at the head of the companion it afforded enough
light to enable the officer to see the braid and stars on Joe’s shirt
collar.
“Hello!” said the officer in a very English tone. “American seaman?
What are you doing aboard this ship?”
“I was washed off my ship, the destroyer _Warren_, and picked up by
this ship yesterday afternoon.”
“Was it you who signalled to us?”
“Yes.”
“By Jove! What luck! Are there any more of the crew forward?”
“Several, but I think they’re either dead or badly injured. The shell
came into the fo’c’sle where we were――were arguing.”
“Good! Have a look, men, and fetch ’em out if they’re worth it. You
come with me, Yankee. What’s your name, eh?”
“Ingersoll.”
“Mine’s Cashell. We’re the _Linnet_, torpedo boat.”
“British?”
“Rather! Here’s the junior luff. Spin your yarn to him.” Joe’s
companion saluted a young officer amidship near the starboard rail.
“Here’s the man gave us the signal, sir.”
The lieutenant, turning from shouting orders to a small boat alongside,
viewed Joe with swift appraisement as he returned the salutes.
“American?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your ship?”
“_Warren_, destroyer.”
“Right-o! Drop into the boat. We’ll be going back in a minute.”
Joe climbed down the ladder and tumbled aboard the small boat.
“Hello, matey, where’d you drop from?” asked a voice from the bow. Joe,
making out the figure of a sailor standing with boat-hook in hand,
answered croakingly: “Out of the moon, Limie.”
“Ho! American, ain’t yer? What was you doing on this floatin’ lie?”
“Oh, I was in command,” said Joe.
“If you was you’ll be up agin a stone wall bloomin’ soon! Take my word
for that, Yankee!”
“Stow the talk,” advised a voice from the stern, and from the deck
above came the order: “Pass down the prisoners!”
They came, three of them in all, and sank onto the thwarts in listless
silence. Then Joe’s acquaintance, the petty officer, followed and the
boat pulled across to the _Linnet_. There the prisoners, amongst them
the Viking-like captain, were marched aft, while Joe, conducted by
Cashell, was taken to the presence of the Commander, a middle-aged,
kindly-looking Lieutenant.
“Lieutenant Briggs’ compliments, sir,” said Cashell, “and we’ve fetched
away the captain and two mates, sir. There’s sixteen left aboard, most
of ’em Huns.”
“Mines?” asked the Commander.
“Ten of ’em, sir, all German. Lieutenant Briggs says if he can have
five men he can manage her into Bordeaux.”
“Good! Ask Mr. Farnsworth to step here. And now, my man, who might you
be?”
Joe explained. There was no time for a detailed story of his adventures
then, for the Commander interrupted him to order a prize crew aboard
the _Sundsvall_. “Instruct Mr. Briggs to watch those prisoners closely.
He had better iron some of ’em. He won’t need them all to navigate.
Tell him to make Bordeaux. We’ll keep with him as long as we can. Douse
those lights up there! We’ll have the whole submarine fleet on us!” He
turned to Joe again. “Report to me in the wardroom in twenty minutes. I
want to hear more of this.”
“Yes, sir, but may I suggest that the Lieutenant should swing wide of
the place the _Sundsvall_ was lying when you first saw her? She was
dropping mines, sir.”
“Quite right.” He bawled a warning through a megaphone to the other
ship, and then, addressing Joe once more, said: “Find the surgeon and
get him to look after those bruises.” He went briskly forward and
climbed the ladder to the bridge, and Joe, seeking the lower deck hatch
on a boat that was strange to him, heard the Commander’s voice come
crisply aft:
“All clear?”
“All clear, sir!”
Somewhere a bell tinkled, the _Linnet_ quivered from stem to stern and
there was a mighty splashing from the propellers. When Joe reached the
lower deck he could hear the water swashing fast beyond the steel hull.
An oiler led him to the surgeon, a mere slip of a lad scarcely older
than Joe, it seemed, and again the latter had to croak out a brief
outline of his story. The surgeon said “Dear me! Dear me!” when he came
to an examination of Joe’s neck. “My word, the blighter nearly did for
you! You can count all ten fingers on your throat. No, nine. He only
registered one thumb! Arnica will help that. You stand steady a bit.”
Joe had his first glimpse of himself in the little mirror on the
white wall above the washbowl as he waited. He looked pretty fairly
disreputable. His neckerchief was frayed and pulled into a hard knot,
his hair had not been brushed since the night before, a place the
size of a half-dollar was minus skin over his left eye, his jaw was
swollen on one side and at some time his nose had bled. His knuckles
were puffed and scarred, as well. Add to that that he was shoeless
and hatless and that his shirt and trousers showed the results of
long immersion in salt water followed by a hasty drying and you will
understand that he was scarcely a model example of the United States
seaman! But those things were all remedied in ten minutes. Some sort
of very smelly liquid was applied to the raw places and soothed the
smarting instantly, a bandage dipped in diluted arnica was placed
around his throat, he enjoyed the wonderful privilege of washing face
and hands and, finally, he was provided with a pair of shoes and a cap.
And by that time he was due in the wardroom and, the surgeon conducting
him, made his way to it.
The Commander and a Lieutenant were there when he entered, and these,
with the surgeon, whose rank Joe judged to be that of ensign, were his
audience when, having seated himself, by direction, at one end of the
wardroom table, he told his story from the time of being washed from
the deck of the _Warren_ until he had been confronted at the head of
the companion-way by Petty Officer Cashell. And he had an attentive
audience. He told his story modestly enough and was listened to with
no interruptions from the listeners. But when he had finished they had
plenty of questions to ask.
“Did you know what the _Sundsvall’s_ game was when you first got
aboard?” inquired the Commander.
“No, sir, not until I crept out on deck and saw them slinging the mines
over. But I suspected that something wasn’t right before that. The
first mate was no more Swedish than――than I am, sir.”
“Not a bit,” replied the Lieutenant dryly. “His real name is Schmier
and he’s a reservist. He was second in command of a submarine that
went ashore on the coast of Holland two months back. He was interned
and escaped. The captain claims to be really Swedish, and possibly he
is. The crew are mostly Germans and Austrians.” He paused and looked
questioningly at his superior. “It’s all right to tell this, sir?
This――er――fellow is intelligent and won’t repeat what he shouldn’t, I’m
sure.”
The Commander smiled and nodded. “No harm, I fancy. He deserves a bit
of wardroom gossip for his service. You see, Ingersoll, we’ve all been
after that ship for a month. We didn’t know what her name was or what
she was like, but we knew she was doing her devilish work about here,
and we wanted her. It’s a lesson to us, Farnsworth, not to take any
ship’s innocence for granted these times. Ingersoll says, you see,
that they were planting mines the very moment we signalled her. In a
way, I’m sorry we couldn’t have sunk her at it!”
“I, too,” said the Lieutenant heartily. “But with bottoms as valuable
to us as they are today, I fancy it wouldn’t have done, eh?”
“Briggs’ll be lucky if she doesn’t sink before he makes port,” said the
surgeon cheerfully. “I could see a ripping old hole where that shell
went in.”
“It’s too high to flood her,” said the Lieutenant. “And Briggs’ll have
it patched by now.” He smiled and then chuckled. “I’ve been wondering,
sir, ever since whether that hit was an accident. The order was
distinct enough to fire across the bow.”
The Commander shook his head gravely. “I prefer to think it an
accident, Farnsworth. If I thought otherwise I’d have to deal very
severely with that gun captain. By the way, was the ship armed?”
“The _Sundsvall_? I think not, sir.” The Lieutenant looked inquiringly
at Joe, and the latter shook his head.
“I saw no guns, sir.”
“I doubt if she had any,” mused the Commander. “Relied on her
appearance and a set of false papers, I fancy. You heard nothing and
saw nothing, my boy, to indicate the existence of other ‘neutral’
mine-layers in these waters?”
Joe answered no, and for the succeeding quarter of an hour he was kept
busy replying to questions as to the ship’s course after she had picked
him up, her speed and so on, the officers being anxious to learn where
she had been the day before. But Joe could give little information
on that subject, although he “guessed” that her speed after he had
awakened in the forecastle had been about twelve knots. At last the
Commander said:
“That’s all, Ingersoll. We’re very much obliged to you. That prize
would have slipped out of our hands nicely had you not displayed
such――ah――commendable ingenuity and bravery. I shall take pleasure in
reporting your conduct to your Commander. If your pluckiness and quick
thinking are to be found in the other men of your fleet I believe we’ll
soon have these waters as quiet and well-behaved as Bond Street of a
Sunday morning.” He reached his hand out as Joe, having arisen, now
saluted and started past on his way to the door. “The thanks of the
officers and men of the _Linnet_, my boy,” said the Commander, smiling.
Joe shook hands, saluted again and went out, picking his way carefully
along a swaying deck to the hatch. Below he was taken in charge by
a big boatswain with a fringe of red whiskers and a strong Scotch
accent and introduced to the _Linnet’s_ tiny forecastle where, amidst
a strange medley of bunks, tables, ditty boxes and clothing, some
twenty-odd men were crowded. There, fortified by hot coffee supplied
by an admiring cook, he told his story once more. When he had finished
the big boatswain remarked with much conviction: “Laddie, ye were ne’er
meant to be drownded! I ken that fine!”
In the small hours Joe crawled into a bunk and, with a long, tired
sigh, closed his eyes for sleep. The _Linnet_ bobbed about like a cork
and was filled with strange sounds, and Joe, thinking: “I believe I
could be seasick if I wasn’t so sleepy,” passed into slumber.
CHAPTER XX
THE BATTLE IN THE FOG
Two days later, Joe, walking up from the landing in Portsmouth,
descried a smart appearing officer of the United States Navy standing
in front of a tiny shop and looking at the motley array of objects in
the small-paned window. His sleeve bore the single stripe and star
of an ensign. Joe stopped stock-still and stared. There was nothing
surprising in the presence of an American officer in Portsmouth, since
Joe had himself seen three separate American ships between Culver Cliff
and the harbour, and the pier had been liberally sprinkled with United
States marines. But to walk plump into this particular officer was a
bit startling.
Now there are certain rules of the Navy defining the attitude and
behaviour of an enlisted man toward his superior. For instance, it is
not considered strictly proper for a seaman to thump an ensign on the
back and call him “Old Scout.” Such familiarities are not encouraged
by the General Staff. Fortunately, Joe knew all this and so resisted
his first impulse. Having approached to within a few yards of the
ensign without that gentleman having turned from his rapt contemplation
of dusty, faded food packages, Joe paused irresolutely. It would be
a severe breach of discipline to yell “Hey, there!” or to even range
himself alongside at the window, since the window was so small that the
procedure would cause man and officer to fairly rub elbows. Nor did
Joe care to remain there all the afternoon while the other recovered
from his trance. He gave the problem careful consideration for a few
seconds and then arrived at a solution. There is nothing in the rules
prohibiting an enlisted man from whistling in the presence of an
officer, petty, warrant or commissioned. So Joe fixed his eyes on the
roof-line across the narrow thoroughfare and whistled softly. The tune
he chose was known in a certain institution of learning in New England
as “Mother of Our Youth.” In short, it was the school hymn of Dexter
Academy. It was rather a slow and stately air, and had been known to
induce drops of moisture from the tear ducts on such occasions as class
days and reunions, or when, in the gathering darkness, hundreds of
young voices sang it and soothed the bitterness of a football defeat.
Joe had reached the third line:
“Other memories may fade,
Hopes grow dim in evening’s shade,
Golden friendships that we made――――”
The straight-backed, wide-shouldered, slim-waisted officer turned
quickly from the window, surprise on his countenance, gave one glance
at the somewhat dilapidated looking seaman on the curb and then, with a
roar of delight, hurled himself across space.
“Joe!” he cried. “Where’d you come from? Gee, but I’m glad to see you!”
“Hello, Han, you old duffer!” laughed Joe. “How’s the boy?”
They fairly fell into each other’s arms and then performed a brief and
ecstatic dance over the uneven pavement to the evident but unnoted
interest of the neighbouring populace. Then, releasing each other, they
simultaneously and a bit sheepishly saluted!
They didn’t have much time together, since Joe was under orders to
rejoin his ship at Queenstown, and railway and steamship travel in
those days was slow and uncertain. But they managed, by talking very
fast, to acquaint each other with their histories to date. George
Hanford was on liberty from the _Carthage_, undergoing engine repairs.
The cruiser had been in British water nearly a month and had been on
duty almost continuously until two days before, Han explained.
“We had a peachy scrap with a bunch of subs a week ago last Sunday.
There was the _Carthage_ and three American chasers and a Limie torpedo
boat. They got home on one of the chasers early in the game and missed
us with the next ‘fish.’ There were three of them, we think, but I
only saw two. We got one, anyway, after about half an hour of it, and
the Limie dropped three depth-bombs around another and signalled that
they ‘fancied they’d got the blighter.’ Our gun crews had the times
of their young lives and hit everything in sight except the U-boat we
were after. Bet you anything that the bottom of part of the North Sea
is a foot deep in shell fragments! It was great while it lasted, Joe.
Wish you’d been there. What have you been up to? They say the Huns are
keeping themselves pretty scarce down the coast these days.”
“Well, there’s one that’s awfully scarce just now,” answered Joe dryly,
and told of the submarine they had sunk. After that he recounted his
voyage on a mine and Han’s eyes stood out of his head. When the story
was ended he insisted on gravely shaking Joe’s hand. “Joe,” he said
earnestly, “you’re a credit to my training and a credit to Dexter, to
say nothing of the United States Navy! I’m proud of you, son! Shake
again!”
Han saw Joe off on the train for Bristol and trotted alongside the
carriage window until he couldn’t go any further. “Remember me to
Steve,” he shouted. “And tell him if he isn’t careful you’ll beat him
to it! We’re basing here now, so drop me a line now and then, like a
good chap. So long, Joe, and good luck to you!”
Joe spent that night in Bristol and the next morning secured passage
on a steamer for Queenstown. The boat didn’t sail until dark, however,
and the day was pretty dull and monotonous since no one was allowed to
return on shore after having once set foot abroad. St. George’s Channel
was in an evil mood that night, the boat was far from seaworthy and
Joe, to his horror, had a relapse. It wasn’t a bad one, and the worst
of the trouble was over in half an hour, but he was rather discouraged
since he had concluded that he was through with seasickness for all
times. Afterwards, though, he found consolation in the explanation
that a tiresome train trip and much unfamiliar food had been at fault.
The _Warren_ was not in port when he arrived and he found accommodations
in a rather dirty little hotel on the water front and then, having
exactly two shillings and a one-franc piece to his name, went shopping.
Fortunately, two shillings in Queenstown go much further than a like
amount of money in New York, and he was able to supply his immediate
wants.
The _Warren_ slid into harbour the next afternoon, looking rather rusty
of hull and bearing marks of her recent encounter with the gale. Joe
expected his mates to show surprise when he stepped on board, but they
didn’t. They hailed him with an exaggerated respect that annoyed and
embarrassed him until he discovered that his safety had been announced
from the _Linnet_ by wireless several days ago. After they had had
their fun with him, however, his shipmates showed that they were both
glad to see him and proud of his exploit. Steve only smiled and said:
“Hello, you old fraud!” and gripped his hand very hard. And Joe grinned
and said: “How’s the boy?” and gazed about the reeking, confined
quarters of the ship with something very much like emotion. Getting
back to the little old _Warren_ was quite like coming home, he thought!
The following morning he was summoned before the Old Man. The
commander, it appeared, had received a letter from the commander of the
_Linnet_, and he said some nice things to Joe and ended with: “I shall
mention you in my report, Ingersoll, and I trust you will hear from it.
And now――er――I’d like to hear just what happened.”
Three days after her arrival at the base the _Warren_ put to sea
again. It was convoy duty this time, and she picked up two companion
destroyers off the Scilly Islands and the three kept in line for
two days and nights and reached the rendezvous, some eight hundred
miles west, at dawn of a foggy day. Five troop-ships and a cargo boat
were waiting them and before they had taken their positions a fourth
destroyer, a black hulled Limie three-stacker, joined their party.
It was Bordeaux this time. There was the usual cheering from the
transports as the destroyers raced past, the usual tumultuous waving of
khaki-hued hats from the decks, and then, signals having been exchanged
for the better part of an hour, the fog closed down between the
destroyers and the transports and the bows pointed toward the distant
Cordouan Light.
It was good to sit aloft again in the swaying canvas cage trying to
pierce the fog, good to hear the wind playing in the wireless aerial
with the sound of a high-pitched tuning-fork, thought Steve the next
morning. While the ocean haze perhaps scarcely deserved the name of
fog, it was thick enough to hide things a quarter of a mile away and
sometimes shut down even closer. From the foretop, though, he could
frequently see above it, and up there the world was a golden, misty,
sea-scented world, haunted by gulls and tiny dark-hued birds that drove
past in swarms, tweetering like mournful sparrows. When the breeze died
for a moment――it was only a breath at most this morning――he could hear
the sparking of the wireless below, the murmur of voices on the bridge,
a song from some gay-hearted Jackie aft. And then, in the very heart
of the peaceful morning, a sharp detonation came across the water from
starboard and a sharp voice came up the tube.
“Did you see the flare of that gun?” demanded the executive.
Steve hadn’t, and said so. But it was of no moment, for a second
later a destroyer’s siren screeched a message in Morse, and the
_Warren_, picking up speed, slipped off at a tangent through the
fog, zig-zagging, her whistle yelping a warning to the transports. In
the foretop Steve watched with tense gaze. Suddenly a monstrous form
loomed ahead, there was a confused chorus of signals, a quick turn
of the destroyer’s nose and the latter slipped past the steamship’s
bows so close that Steve could, he thought, have jumped in safety
to her foredeck. There was a brief glimpse of orderly haste on the
transport: life-belted figures hurrying to boat stations, officers
starting to starboard from the bridge, the crew of the bow gun swinging
the five-inch around with an emotional deliberateness that deceived
no one. From further back in the mist came the six blasts of another
troop-ship’s whistle that spelled “Submarines!” to all on board. Still
yelping, the _Warren_ plunged ahead, raced through the second transport
column without sight of a ship and swirled off on a wide circle. Then:
“Destroyer’s topmasts three points off the starboard bow,” sang Steve
down the tube. “About half a mile, sir.”
“Right!”
The _Warren_ veered to port. As she did so guns barked again in that
direction. A siren, deeper and hoarser than the _Warren’s_, shrieked
close astern and a long, fog-coloured ship, trailing black smoke from
her four funnels, crept slowly up. Cheers floated over and back again.
Signals came and went. The bigger destroyer edged past into the fog and
as her stern melted from sight a bow rifle began to talk. She went off,
firing rapidly, and the _Warren_, cutting through her tumbled wake,
reduced speed. They were firing from a transport now somewhere at the
head of the column. It was easy enough to distinguish the five-inch
guns from the destroyers’ three. Something that left a diverging
wake behind swam into Steve’s vision for an instant. Then a swirl of
mist hid it. Blank incredulity held him silent for the length of a
heart-beat. Then he sent his voice down to the bridge:
“Torpedo, just submerged, running parallel about fifty yards to port!”
“We saw it! Watch for destroyer to starboard!”
Steve, his very finger-tips tingling with the excitement of the moment,
watched, and presently she appeared, broke out of the yellow mist like
a great black log. Queer violet-pink flares showed against the gloom of
her hull as her guns spoke. And yet, up here in the _Warren’s_ foretop
cage, nothing was to be seen as, leaving the British destroyer astern,
she sped roaring on into the fog. Afar off two shots boomed, and were
repeated. Minutes passed, the _Warren_ circling and circling, boilers
“lit up,” stacks spouting oily smoke, gun crews muttering wrathfully
over the fate that was taking them through a battle without the chance
to fire a shot. And then, somewhere to west of the Limie craft, that
hoped-for and yet unexpected happened. Between wavering, low-hanging
puffs of sea-mist, a periscope!
And then they, too, were in it! Shots barked from bow guns, propellers
churned. Like a greyhound the _Warren_ darted in pursuit. The fog
settled and hid the target, lifted and showed it, sea-coloured,
shortened, disappearing. Overhead a shadow flitted and Steve, glancing
up for a wondering instant, saw a great seaplane skim along, the French
colours painted on her wings. The sunlight melted through the varnished
fabric and made her seem like a thing of carved amber. The whirring
roar of her motors came down in a gust of sound and faded again. A
second ghost-like form followed on its heels, and, further off to the
east, a third. The _Warren_ swerved to starboard, back to port, a cloud
of smoke enveloped the cage. The guns were silent now, but there was
activity at the stern. The attempt to ram the submarine had failed, for
she was fathoms deep when the destroyer shot across her position, but
a depth bomb might do as well, and down they went, one, two, three,
as the _Warren_ almost spun above the spot. Behind her, to port, to
starboard, the surface spouted like a geyser. The destroyer shook with
the force of the quakes as she fled.
Then she was back again in a long turn and anxious, hopeful eyes
watched the surface for oil streaks. But only foam topped the water.
The junior luff shook a clenched fist over the bridge in rage and
disappointment. Ahead, where the double column was zig-zagging on,
whistles talked and talked, but guns were silent. An airplane came
winging back out of the northwest, flying low, searching, hawk-like,
for the under-surface shadows that mark the position of lurking “fish.”
She disappeared in a roar of explosions, her pilot waving a hand in
seeming benediction.
The _Warren_ sped dejectedly back. Steve, in a slump of disappointment
and resentment, stared the countenance out of the shrouding mist.
Below, on the bridge, the executive gesticulated to the Old Man and the
Old Man nodded and nodded sorrowfully. Despair held the _Warren_ from
Number One gun to Number Five, from foretop to stoke-hold.
“Ship dead ahead!” shouted Steve. “Smoke one point off――――”
The _Warren_ shook from stem to stern as her engines answered the order
to reverse and she steered hard aport. Sirens shrieked. It was a close
call. Steve wondered how far under he would go when he leaped. But the
_Warren_ slid by, shaking and shivering, close to the stern of a grey
destroyer, and as she passed a shrill cheer went up, a cheer that Steve
joined in wild elation and triumph. Beyond the destroyer that they
had so narrowly avoided lay, like a green-grey whale on the surface,
a German U-boat, the water still trickling from her deck, where,
phlegmatic and seemingly unconcerned, a little group of uniformed
officers and men stood and awaited their fate. The submarine’s stern
was tilting skyward, her nose dipping, and there was havoc about her
conning tower, and one periscope was missing. It was only a fleeting
glimpse that those aboard the _Warren_ had, for she picked up her feet
again and poked on into the mist, but what it revealed made up to a
great extent for her own ill-fortune, and long after the fog hid the
two destroyers the men on the _Warren_ sent their voices back in cheers.
CHAPTER XXI
THE ZEPPELIN RAID
So ended that battle in the fog, and two hours later, back in
positions, the convoy steamed at full speed again, with French
seaplanes hovering about like golden-winged birds, leading the way to
safety. In the afternoon the bulletin told them all they could expect
to know on the _Warren_. Four submarines had attacked. Of these one
had been captured in a sinking condition, and her officers and crew,
fifty-two in all, taken prisoner, and a second had been driven off in
a crippled condition. Fog had defeated the efforts of the destroyer to
determine her ultimate fate. One transport had been struck by a torpedo
just under the bow and had escaped with slight damage. The British
destroyer ―――― had been struck aft with the loss of four lives but was
being towed by one of our ships. Much, it seemed to Steve and Joe, had
happened considering the fact that at no time had the _Warren_ so much
as glimpsed an action save when she had pursued that elusive periscope!
But they had brought their convoy safely out of danger, which, after
all, was the thing that counted.
The fog turned to rain as they approached the French coast, and it
was not until they had entered the wide estuary of the Girondé that
they really saw their companions again. The troop-ships went on up to
Bordeaux, cheering the destroyers as they passed, while the latter,
all save the Limie, turned seaward once more. The British ship, with a
gaping, half-patched hole in her black hull aft of her fourth stack,
and her deck messed with twisted plates and stanchions, went off in tow
of a noisy tug in the wake of the transports, cheered to the echo by
the rest of the ships.
Joe was inclined to be disgruntled over that engagement. “Why, hang
it, Steve, we went messing around there just as though we were trying
our hardest to keep out of trouble! Every time we heard guns in one
direction the Old Man headed in another! Talk about your punk luck!”
“For a fellow who was a double-dyed pacifist three months ago,” laughed
Steve, “you’re frightfully keen on a scrap!”
“Never mind what I was three months ago,” returned Joe warmly. “I’ve
learned since then. And I’ve seen things, too,” he added darkly. “Why,
let me tell you something, Steve. I believe that if we made peace with
Germany tomorrow I’d say ‘Nothing doing!’ and keep on fighting!”
“So would a lot of us, I guess,” answered the other grimly. “But don’t
you worry, my boy. There won’t be any peace until we’ve got the Huns
begging for mercy.”
“I know, but you’re always hearing about one country or another being
ready for it, or talking about it. It makes me ill!”
“Me too! I wish they’d run rubber-neck wagons to the front trenches so
a lot of these peace talkers could see what’s really going on. Even you
and I don’t ever see the real awfulness of it, Joe.”
“No, fighting on sea is a sort of polite picnic compared to holding
down a front-line trench, I guess. I mean we don’t see the suffering
and all that sort of thing. We aren’t cold and dirty――――”
“Well, if anyone is much colder than a foretop lookout in a northeast
gale――――”
“You know what I mean,” interrupted Joe impatiently. “Besides, we don’t
get a chance to do anything, anyway, except about once a month. That’s
the worst thing about the Navy, Steve. I thought we would be right in
the thick of it all the time, didn’t you? And here we’ve been scouting
around for two months, more or less, and not a blessed thing has
happened to us!”
“No, nothing except that we’ve been in a corking nice scrap and have
sunk one U-boat all by ourselves and――Great Scott, Joe, didn’t you get
any thrills the night you went overboard?”
“Thrills? Yes, cold thrills. Oh, that was sort of exciting, in a way.
I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. But I want to be in a good
stand-up fight with some of those Fritzes! I want to see the shots go
home. I want――――”
“You want to be killed, that’s the matter with you!” scoffed Steve.
“Besides, you can’t get a Fritz to agree to a stand-up fight. He wants
to sneak up in the dark or in a fog and let fly a moldie and then beat
it. Fritz is――is what you might call prudent.”
“Prudent! He’s more than that! He’s yellow!”
“Well, I suppose there’s his side to it. A submarine’s of use only so
long as it’s afloat, Joe, and his idea is to play the game safe. But it
_is_ riling, the way they pop up and strafe something and then pop down
again before anyone can talk to them about it! I wish――――” He stopped,
with a shake of his head.
“So do I,” said Joe.
“What?”
“Why, that we’d join forces with the British and pay ’em a visit around
the corner there, up north.”
Steve nodded. “Yes, I guess if you asked any sailor with either fleet
what he wanted most he’d say just that. Well, it may come yet.”
“If it ever does,” said Joe longingly, “I hope I’ll be around. There’s
just one thing that has me scared whenever I think of it, Steve. It’s
that I might get mine before this thing’s ended, before we’ve beaten
the Huns! That would be fierce!”
“Rot! You’ll live to bore folks for sixty years with the story of
the time you were swept off a United States destroyer and captured a
mine-layer single-handed. Why, ten years from now, Joe, folks’ll be
running away whenever you turn the corner!”
Joe laughed. “That’ll be about all from you. Lend me your thimble, will
you? I’ve lost mine somewhere. Say, did you ever think you’d be able to
darn a pair of socks the way you can now?”
“No, and I never thought I’d be able to wear holes in ’em the way I can
now, either,” replied Steve disgustedly.
Three days later, in Queenstown, they read all about that engagement
with the German U-boats, or as much about it as the censors thought
fit for the public to know, which wasn’t a great deal after all. But
what the papers told them, told them something they hadn’t known at
the time, which was that had the submarines had their way with the
transports the Allied armies would have been poorer by some twelve
thousand soldiers and a million dollars’ worth of ammunition. That, it
seemed to them, was worth saving!
The _Warren_ had her bottom scraped and a new coat of paint put on, and
for that purpose was hauled out high and dry. It meant five days ashore
instead of three and Steve and Joe obtained liberty and managed by much
manœuvring to get across to Portsmouth. There, however, disappointment
awaited them, for the _Carthage_, with Han aboard, was at sea. Not that
they could get anyone to actually say so, though. They based their
presumption on the fact that she was not in port, and the evidence
seemed rather strong. There was nothing to do in Portsmouth for them,
and, since they had all their last month’s wages in pocket, they went
up to London.
Neither had ever been there before and all the way up on the London
and South-Western Railway they peered excitedly at stations whose names
sounded familiar but which looked like no stations they had ever seen.
Joe declared that Wimbledon was as well-known to him as New Rochelle,
and Clapham Junction was like an old friend. But that didn’t keep them
from being a little bit awed when they alighted at Waterloo Station.
A train on a neighbouring track had just pulled in with a load of
“blighties” and they stopped and watched the scene. Such wrecks of men
as they saw emerge from those coaches! And yet scarcely a man failed
to smile as he came painfully forth. Hundreds and hundreds of them
there seemed to the boys, but, as Steve granted later, when you have
tears in your eyes you’re likely to see double! Friends, relatives,
nurses flocked about them and soon the platform was empty and the boys
went their way, rather more sober than before. But there were so many
“blighties” all over the city that they soon grew accustomed to the
sight, and one can’t well stay sad for long on such an occasion as
one’s first visit to London. It was mid-afternoon when they arrived and
it was well on toward dark when they found themselves at Oxford Street
and Edgware Road, quite lost and quite unconcerned but decidedly
weary. They sought direction and presently found a restaurant and
had their first meal since early morning. Afterwards they walked
again through the soft, lingering daylight of a star-sprinkled August
evening, and, when the lights were twinkling subduedly――for London was
dark in those days――they stumbled on a theatre and bought seats and
entered.
The play was rather too serious for two American Jackies on liberty,
but they sat it through, finding more of interest in the audience than
on the stage. Uniforms dotted the pit and boxes, but save for that
there was naught to show that this was London in war time. Afterwards
they sought the Embankment and watched the darkened craft moving like
shadows through the star-lit gloom. They still had lodgings to find and
so, just before midnight, went in search of a small hotel that had
been recommended to them at the restaurant. It was across the river,
near Waterloo Station, and they made their way to the nearest bridge.
But before they reached it a sudden strident alarm awoke the murmurous
silence. They stopped short and viewed each other in surprise and
something approaching apprehension. The air seemed to be filled with
the shrill whistling.
“What the dickens is it?” demanded Steve anxiously.
“I don’t know, unless――――” Joe stopped and turned his face toward the
sky.
“By Jove!” cried Steve. “That’s it! It’s an air-raid, Joe! It’s
Zeppelins! Beat it!”
“Wait! Let’s have a look. I don’t see anything, do you?”
“See anything! No, and I don’t want to! And, what’s more, I don’t want
to _feel_ anything! Come on and get under cover somewhere. They’ll
arrest us if we don’t!”
“Well, but I want to see, hang it,” grumbled Joe, as he followed the
other up a side street. The warning tocsin was still wailing, making
Steve think of Banshees, as they came in sight of the dark bulk of
Charing Cross Station. There the streets were filling with a silent and
apparently unalarmed throng, all gazing skyward. Now into the blare of
the whistles came other sounds, the distant popping of anti-aircraft
guns, they guessed. A policeman, very matter-of-fact, was pressing the
crowd toward the sidewalks.
“Under cover, if you please, ladies and gentlemen, under cover now!
Don’t ’ave me askin’ yer over an’ over!”
Suddenly a murmur went up and the boys, following the direction of
the staring eyes of the throng, saw, far in the heavens, eastward, a
ghostly, silver shape. Long streams of searchlights played upon it,
converging from wide distances. It seemed to hang motionless there,
thousands of feet above the darkened city, until the fact that they
were gradually turning their heads convincing them that the Zeppelin
was in reality travelling at a rapid pace. It was miles away from where
they stood, but even had it been overhead it is doubtful if the sense
of danger would have prevailed over the fascination they experienced.
The thing seemed unreal to them, a clever mechanical effect such as one
sees at a theatre. The element of danger never made itself felt for a
moment. Wonder and admiration and a queer thrilling excitement was what
they experienced as, in common with thousands of others all over the
great city, they stood and watched spellbound.
Stars that were bursting shells from the guns broke around the silver
ghost, but she appeared oblivious to them. With what seemed the speed
of a floating thistledown the big balloon drew diagonally across the
city from northeast to southwest. “She might be over Hornsey now,” said
a voice at Steve’s elbow, but a second speaker contradicted him. “Not
’arf so near, gov’ner, and more toward Hendon-way.”
“Isn’t it wonderful!” murmured Steve. “Do you suppose there are others?”
“Bound to be, I guess. Hello, look there! Great Scott, Steve!”
A great glare of yellow light enveloped the Zeppelin so that it seemed
to stand out against the blue-black heavens like a monstrous elongated
lamp. Then, amidst a murmurous sigh of awe from the watchers, a sheet
of rosy light shot high from the balloon and dyed the whole city
with its unearthly radiance, so that shadows played where there had
been only darkness before. The throng stood hushed as the strange
light rippled like flame high in the sky and, suddenly, the Zeppelin
collapsed in the centre and began to float gently to the earth. And as
she descended there appeared, above her, a smaller vision, an airplane
gliding eastward and downward through the glowing heavens. Flames
could be seen plainly about the Zeppelin as she settled faster and
faster, and a cloud of black smoke billowed and trailed. Then, as she
passed from the sight of the watchers, a lurid flare told of exploding
gas-tanks, went out as suddenly and left the city in blackness again
save for the beams of light that crossed and recrossed, searching the
sky. Silence held for a long moment, and then there arose from the
throats of the watchers a cheer that grew and grew as it was taken
up on all sides and spread across the vast immensity of London, a
cheer of exultation that lasted for minutes and minutes. Even after
it had ceased there at Charing Cross, the murmurous sound could still
be heard, a dim roar of triumph. A group of Australian Tommies broke
through the throng, shattering the air with long-drawn “coo-ees,” while
about a lamp-post nearby four British Jackies danced, with joined
hands, and sang themselves hoarse.
Steve and Joe turned back and found their way across a long-arching
bridge through the star-lit darkness. The city was silent again save
for an occasional belated cheer. They were too affected to talk much,
and so reached the little hotel almost in silence.
CHAPTER XXII
OLD FRIENDS COME ABOARD
They were back in Queenstown two mornings later, returning by way of
Fishguard. The _Warren_ was at anchor and waves of heat above her
four grey stacks indicated that she was getting ready for business
once more. That noon the starboard mess was entertained with a vivid
first-hand account of a Zeppelin raid on London. There was a big batch
of mail in the afternoon, and Joe and Steve each fared well. The home
papers proved interesting reading, for they covered a period of nearly
three weeks, during which much had happened back in what Steve called
“the little old U. S. A.” The draft for the National Army had been
made, the government had taken over all merchant ships of twenty-five
hundred tons or more then building and the President had put his
signature to a bill to control the country’s food supply. In Russia,
too, events had transpired, for because of the disaffection of certain
regiments the army was in general retreat in Galicia. But from Flanders
came better news, for the British and French had smashed the German
lines over a twenty-mile front. Rumours of that success had reached
them before, but experience had proved the advisability of discrediting
most rumours. That advance made up for the disruption of the Russian
defences in the east, in Steve’s opinion, but Joe refused to be
placated by it and stated his opinion of the Russians in an earnest
manner that carried conviction. There was no argument forthcoming, for
although his audience consisted of half the starboard watch no one had
the heart to disagree.
The _Warren_ put in an eventful turn on patrol that lasted six days and
nights, most of which were squally. The events, though, were neither
novel nor exciting, but consisted of false alarms, unfruitful chases
and frequent battles with the gales. Back in port Steve came down with
a cold that put him ashore in the hospital for two days, but just
before the destroyer weighed anchor again he came piling back, better
but by no means well. Joe lectured him severely, but Steve only grinned.
The second morning out the wireless picked up a call for help from
an American steamer which had just entered the danger zone on the
eastward passage. The _Warren_ was a good sixty-five miles off, but she
kicked up her heels and started for the scene. The boys will always
remember that bit of steaming, for the destroyer ran straight into the
seas at a gait just under thirty knots for more than two hours. The
waves were high in consequence of the gales which had been lashing the
Atlantic for more than a week and life on the bridge was no better than
a prolonged shower bath. The seas washed the deck clean aft of the
forecastle and every opening of the hatches brought buckets of water
down to the lower deck. There were times when the _Warren_ stuck her
nose so far under that it seemed only a miracle could wrench it out
again. But she always shook herself free and staggered on, leaping and
bucking like a broncho. Even the foretop cage was a spray-drenched
place during those wild hundred and forty minutes. But the _Warren_
did herself proud, and every man-Jack aboard thrilled to the plucky
struggle she made. In the radio hutch such messages as “Hold on, we’re
coming!” “With you in forty minutes!” and “Stick it out!” were sent at
intervals, but there came no reply from the steamer and it seemed that
the destroyer was to be too late. But the Old Man was taking no chances
and as the _Warren_ drew near the scene the bow guns were manned and
the little ship was in readiness.
It was just after six bells when the foretop spotter gave the word that
smoke was ahead. Before that they had heard the sounds of gunfire and a
cheer broke out when the submarine was sighted a mile or so away from
the steamer which lay, evidently helpless, rolling in the seas. The
_Warren_ made straight for the U-boat, but the latter had apparently
got wind of the destroyer’s approach, for she submerged quickly before
the _Warren_ could get within range. Circling repeatedly about the
spot, the destroyer let go five depth-charges, but no signs of the
enemy were seen again.
Later they got the steamer’s story. She had just entered the danger
zone when a lookout reported a submarine on the port bow. Immediately
the U-boat fired a shell which passed a few yards from the steamer’s
stern. The captain then sent out his wireless appeal for help, since
the location of the submarine was such that escape seemed impossible.
A long range battle began between the two craft, the steamer firing
at nine thousand yards and the submarine manœuvring to keep out of
range and at the same time keeping up a running fire. The steamer’s
shells fell short, but the U-boat made several hits, wounding four
men. After the battle had gone on almost two hours, during which
the steamer’s gun crews fired two hundred and sixty shots and the
submarine two hundred and thirty-four, the latter made a lucky hit,
exploding a shell in the engine room and putting the vessel out of
commission. The submarine had then approached nearer and had continued
to rain shots, but for some reason, perhaps in the hope of taking the
steamer afloat, had fired no torpedoes. The steamer’s wireless had
been disabled shortly after the beginning of the engagement and the
_Warren’s_ messages had not reached her. Consequently the captain had
been as surprised as delighted when he had seen a low streak of black
smoke to the northeastward and, later, the destroyer ploughing toward
him head-on. He had given up all hope of saving his vessel at the time
of the destroyer’s unexpected appearance.
The surgeon and two assistants made a perilous trip across to the
steamer and attended to the wounded, after which the _Warren_ stood by
while engine repairs were made with great difficulty. Toward night the
two ships started for the French coast. They lost each other once but
came together again soon after daylight and the _Warren_ steamed within
sight until the steamer was safely in-shore.
That incident was fairly typical of the sort of work that fell to
the _Warren_, although sometimes she arrived at the scene too late
and sometimes, as on a later occasion, her services went for nought
because of the pigheadedness of a skipper. That time the _Warren_ was
convoying a steamer with new engines which had never been properly
worked in. Instead of keeping in column she kept up a series of zig-zag
excursions to port and starboard that puzzled the _Warren’s_ commander
considerably. When she had crossed the destroyer’s bows the fourth
time in less than an hour the _Warren_ signalled and the reply came
back that she couldn’t slow down to the destroyer’s pace. “You’ll have
to,” replied the _Warren_. “Dangerous channel ahead. Keep astern and
follow.” So said the destroyer’s blinker in the semi-darkness of early
morning. Whether the cargo boat read the signal aright or, reading,
couldn’t make up her mind to obey, wasn’t apparent just then. But the
natural thing happened, for the steamer piled herself up on a reef and
went down with three thousand tons of much needed coal. The _Warren_
rescued the crew of thirty men and, metaphorically shrugging her
shoulders, went off on her business.
There was another case of pigheadedness soon after which, however,
did not end disastrously. The convoy in that case was an American
freighter, a rusty old junk of a ship that almost racked herself to
pieces in the effort to keep her place in the column. The first night
the _Warren’s_ lookout observed, to his horror, that the tramp was
showing a stern light that might easily have been seen twenty miles
away.
“Dim that stern light!” ordered the destroyer’s captain.
“It’s only what we always carry,” was the response.
“Dim it,” was the prompt reply, “or I’ll blow it off you!”
It was dimmed.
The _Warren_ picked up strange guests at times. One bright and blowy
morning a trampish-looking steamer came close and signalled that she
was under sealed orders from London and had on board survivors from
the crew of a British steamer torpedoed at daylight. She asked if
the _Warren_ would take them aboard. The executive gestured despair,
but a whaleboat was lowered from the tramp and the survivors of the
_Castle Something_――no one there ever found out her exact name――were
tumbled into it. They were a strange looking lot when they reached the
_Warren’s_ deck. Cingalese, they were, with black skins and straight
hair matted from hours in the water. Most were clad only in blankets
and iodine-stained bandages. They were washed and freshly bandaged and
fed hot coffee and stowed forward, fourteen philosophical Mohammedan
castaways who expressed neither resentment at Fate nor gratitude for
rescue. They ate and dozed and jabbered softly amongst themselves and
were finally put ashore on the west coast of Ireland in a drizzly dusk.
And so life went with the “Suicide Fleet.” In three months of service
the American flotilla had collectively steamed over five hundred
thousand miles in British waters, and so far without the loss of a life
or a serious mishap. Patrolling the sea lanes, convoying merchantmen
and troop-ships, fighting the submarines, rescuing survivors of
torpedoed craft: that was their duty and they performed it well. And
meanwhile they gained by experience, officers and men. They learned new
things constantly, such as smoke-screening, hardly more than a theory
with them before, and the use of depth-charges. And gunnery improved
day by day. The _Warren_ in September had a record of a shattered
periscope at two thousand yards. That was Number Four gun, and there
was no living with that crew for days afterwards!
Steve and Joe became first-class seamen in due time, and, to get ahead
of our story somewhat, in the Autumn Joe received his reward for the
_Sundsvall_ exploit when he was made a gunner’s mate of the second
class and blossomed forth proudly in his rating badge of spread eagle,
crossed guns and two chevrons. Steve was divided between pride in his
chum and envy of his fortune, and secretly determined to win his petty
officership too. Whether he did or did not does not belong to this
narrative. Nor does the way in which he did it!
It was well toward the last of August and on a beautifully warm day
that the _Warren_, skimming a leisurely path across a shining ocean
with almost no swell, sighted a speck in the distance. They were some
three hundred and forty miles off the Irish coast. Steve had just
finished his turn aloft and was standing near the port torpedo tube
in conversation with Jack Higgins when the word went down to the
bridge and was answered by the straining of the steering cables as the
_Warren_ turned her nose to starboard.
“Wonder what it’ll be this time,” muttered Jack when they could see
the object from the deck and had made her out a small boat. “Maybe
Chinese, eh! We haven’t had any Chinese yet. Awfully careless of the
Old Man, too.”
Twenty minutes later eighteen chattering, half-starved men were helped
over the side: seamen, firemen, a ship’s steward and two lads in the
bedraggled uniform of the United States Naval Reserve. Of the latter
one carried the mark of a gun-pointer and the other of a seaman gunner.
Steve, watching curiously and sympathetically as the pale-faced throng
came aboard, suddenly gave a startled exclamation.
“_Phil!_” he gasped.
The lad with the gun-pointer’s insignia on his sleeve turned and looked
along the deck in the direction of the voice. Then his tired face
lighted up and a tremulous smile flitted across it as he held up a hand
in greeting. Steve, scarcely believing his eyes, edged nearer. The
second Reserve gunner was looking, too, now, and he also grinned and
formed words with his lips that Steve couldn’t read. Then they were all
hustled below and Steve set excitedly forth to find Joe. He hadn’t far
to go, for Joe was one of a group looking on from further aft. Steve
grabbed him and pulled him around.
“Did you see?” he cried.
“See? See what?”
“See who came aboard!”
“Sure. A dozen and a half hungry――――”
“No, but the fellows in Reserve uniforms! Did you recognise them!”
“Not a bit. Who were they? Say, what’s the big idea, Steve? You look
all upset.”
“It’s Phil and Harry!” declared Steve in a breath.
“Finnan haddie? _What’s_ Finnan haddie? Say, for the love of――――”
“Oh, dry up and listen! _Phil and Harry_, I said! Phil ... and....”
“Never!”
“Honest!”
“_Get out!_”
“Cross my heart, Joe! What do you know about it, eh?”
“Where are they?” Joe started toward the hatch, but Steve seized him.
“Wait! No use going down now. The Old Man’ll have them, I guess. Wait
till they’ve had some eats. They saw me. I yelped right out when
I caught sight of Phil, and the junior luff looked daggers at me.
Couldn’t help it. Say, honest, doesn’t it beat everything?”
“It sure does! Still, there’s no reason why they shouldn’t be here,
you know. I suppose they got strafed.”
“Do you really? Aren’t you the bright little laddie? What made you
think that?” Steve was too excited to talk sense. “Just because
they were in a life-boat a-floating around the ocean you jump at
the conclusion that they’ve been strafed. Gee, but you’re a regular
Sherlock W. Holmes, you are, Joe! Think of old Phil and Harry turning
up like this! I wonder what happened.”
“So do I,” replied Joe resolutely, “and I mean to find out.” And,
avoiding Steve’s grasp he strode to the hatch, squeezed through and
tumbled down the ladder. Steve followed on his heels, but it wasn’t
until a full hour later that the four members of the Adventure Club
found themselves together in the lee of the stern gun and that Steve
and Joe heard the story of the sinking of the _Arapahoe_.
CHAPTER XXIII
ON BOARD THE 3-U-9
Philip Street was a tall, dark complexioned lad of eighteen, rather
serious looking, but with a pleasant if infrequent smile. His
companion, Harry Corwin, was of like age, although his rounder,
good-humoured countenance suggested a disparity in Phil’s favour.
They had eaten their first meal in nearly sixty hours and showed an
inclination to go to sleep, and it was only by resolute efforts that
they kept their eyes open and told their tale. Phil was spokesman, but
Harry, prodded into wakefulness at intervals by Steve’s elbow, threw
in occasional interpolations or corrections. Here is the story as they
told it.
“We’ve been over and back four times,” said Phil. “Twice on the _Lake
City_, a Huron coal steamer, once on the _North Easton_――――”
“The Huns got her off Belle Isle in July,” interjected Harry. “We never
had a chance with the gun. One moldie did for us.”
“Then we were assigned to the _Arapahoe_. She was a small affair,
but mighty seaworthy and a comfortable ship, take her all around.
We went over and back on her last month, Philadelphia to Plymouth,
and never saw so much as a periscope. It was rather deadly. This time
we had copper and steel rails and I heard that the insurance on our
cargo was something like three hundred thousand dollars, so you can
see that when the Huns got her they got something worth while. Well,
we were due in Plymouth tomorrow and were about four hundred miles
off――forty-eight–thirty north and twelve–twenty west――when the trouble
began. It was just at sun-up. I was off duty when we got the alarm,
which was in the shape of a bunch of bursting shrapnel about the top of
our forward stack. Someone came down yelling ‘Submarine!’ and there was
a lot of goings-on for about a minute. I piled out in what I had on,
which wasn’t much, and added a life-preserver. When I got on deck there
was Harry training the bow gun on every point of the compass and saying
things that weren’t nice to hear from the lips of innocence.”
“So would you have,” grumbled Harry. “There they were shooting shrapnel
at us every forty seconds and not a thing in sight!”
“What do you mean, nothing in sight?” demanded Joe.
“True as true, Joey. They were squarely between us and the sun, which
was just half out of the ocean, do you see, and you couldn’t catch even
a glimpse of them.”
“But we caught something else,” said Phil grimly. “Never tell me those
Germans can’t shoot. They hit us somewhere about every puff of their
gun, a four-inch it proved to be later. We were fairly peppered, and
there was no come back. We couldn’t see them a little bit. Of course we
knew where the shots came from and we aimed in a general way at the sun
and tried various elevations. But you might as well hope to hit a――hit
a――――”
“Of course you might,” agreed Steve. “Then what?”
“They got Atkins, one of our gun crew, and two of the sailors. And
they wounded about eight others. They kept it up a good fifteen
minutes before we saw the folly of staying around there. The captain
was crazy mad and kept shouting to us to ‘do something’ and swearing
at us most――ah――reprehensibly.” Harry chuckled. “So we cut away two
life-boats and abandoned the ship. We didn’t want to, I can tell you.
In fact, the gun crews pretty nearly mutinied. But, after all, the
captain was right. You couldn’t do anything as long as that sub stayed
right square in the eye of the sun, and there wasn’t any use waiting
for the sun to get out of the way, because they were making about every
shot a bullseye and by the time the sun had got up out of our way we
wouldn’t have been there much! So we got off in two boats, thirty-two
of us in all, leaving three dead aboard. Our boat was the first away
and the first officer sent us off to lie by out of range. Somebody
stopped to get the ship’s dog and the second boat was five minutes
later than we were, I guess. Most everyone of any consequence was in
her, including the officers and the rest of the two gun crews. Just
what happened I don’t quite know, for we had pulled a half-mile away,
but it looked as if a shell came through the hull and went plump into
that life-boat on the further side. Our engines were banged to bits
by then and the _Arapahoe_ was drifting side on to the sub. We rowed
back as quick as we could and picked up two men, a sailor and a stoker.
That was all that ever showed up, although we laid around two or three
minutes. The sub was still pegging away, just as though they were
having target practice. The stoker died about half an hour afterward.
He’d got a piece of shrapnel in his lung.”
“Were any of the officers in your boat, Phil?” asked Joe.
“Not one. The second mate was supposed to come off with us, but he
didn’t.”
“Phil was in command of that life-boat,” said Harry, “and you want to
believe he filled the bill, too.”
“How’d you get your glad rags on?” inquired Steve. “Go back for them?”
“I did,” said Phil. “Harry was dressed and on watch at the time. I
thought I might as well have something on besides a life-preserver,
which isn’t very warm. Well, we started off finally and pulled
eastward, partly to keep out of the way of the sub and partly with the
notion of making the French coast. We’d rowed about an hour, I suppose,
and were thanking our lucky stars that we’d got off when suddenly there
was a commotion and we saw that confounded U-boat coming straight for
us. She was about three-quarters of a mile away, well out of water and
doing about sixteen knots. As she came nearer we could see about a
dozen men on her deck. There wasn’t any use in trying to run away, so
we took it easy and waited. She proved to be one of the smaller class,
about two hundred feet over all, but she looked brand new and had
‘3-U-9’ on her hull. There was a four-inch forward and a four-seven
aft.”
“Nice guns they were, too,” said Harry sleepily. “Awfully――awfully
_intelligent_ looking beasties!”
“‘Who is captain?’ shouts a voice on the sub. I called back that the
captain was not there. The sub ran up close to us and stopped and
we saw that three of the men on the deck were officers: captain,
lieutenant and a junior. The rest were seamen and gunners, I guess.
Smart appearing they were, too. Lots of gold braid on the officers, and
their uniforms looked as though they’d just been pressed. Maybe they
had. Anyway, they had about everything you could think of on that sub,
and if there wasn’t an electrical clothes-presser it isn’t my fault.”
“Did you go aboard her?” asked Steve eagerly.
“Yes. Wait a bit. I’m coming to it in my own peculiar way. Gee, but I
am sleepy, fellows!” Phil yawned and stretched. “The captain refused
to believe we weren’t hiding our officers somewhere for awhile, and
when we’d convinced him he asked who was in charge and someone said I
was. ‘Stand up,’ he shouted. I stood up. Then he pointed to Harry. ‘You
stand up, too!’ So Harry stood up.”
“I stood up so quick,” chuckled Harry, “that I almost fell overboard.”
“It’s lucky you understood German and knew what he was saying to you,”
said Joe.
“German nothing! He spoke as good English as you or I. He told Harry
and me to come aboard. The rest were to stay in the boat and help get
salvage from the steamer. We went onto the deck of the sub and four
or five men and the junior officer got into the life-boat and pulled
back to the _Arapahoe_. The captain, first lieutenant, Harry and I
went below, all quite sociable and polite, although I wanted terribly
to bash that captain in the eye! Down there he asked us a bunch of
questions. First of all wanted to know our branch of the service.
Guess the Reserve uniform had him beat. He seemed kind of annoyed when
he found we weren’t officers, and I was afraid for a minute that he
would shoot us or something. But he got over it and he and the luff,
who didn’t talk the lingo, growled at each other in German. Then he
asked the name of the steamer, what her tonnage was, who owned her and
when and where she was built. I told him all I knew, which wasn’t so
much, and blessed if he didn’t check me off in a Lloyd’s register! And
afterwards, when they brought back the ship’s papers――or some of them,
anyway――with the first load in the life-boat he checked off again. ‘You
see,’ he said, sort of grinning, ‘we get a bonus for tonnage over a
certain amount that we sink, so it pays us to be accurate.’ What do you
think of that? Aren’t they the――the――――”
“S-sh,” said Harry soothingly. “You’ve said it all twenty times, Phil.
It always excites you, you know.”
“It surely does! Well, when he said that I couldn’t help asking him
if he’d had much luck. ‘Oh, several hundred thousand tons so far,’ he
said, ‘and we’re still on our first month of duty. We take three months
at a time.’ ‘Huh,’ said Harry, ‘it’s pretty profitable, isn’t it, so
long as you don’t get caught!’ Well, the captain didn’t like that very
much and he looked ugly for a minute. He growled something to the luff
and then they both went topside again, leaving us down there with a
sailor and a couple of mechanics. I’d noticed right along that the
sailor was dying to speak and so, as soon as the officers were gone, he
burst out:
“‘Profitable, eh?’ he said, pulling out a roll of bills. ‘Throw your
eyes over that, feller. Some roll, eh?’ Well, it was. There must have
been three or four thousand dollars of all kinds of money in that wad.
‘Are you German?’ asked Harry. ‘Sure, but I lived in America fourteen
years. I was an American citizen, too, feller: mate in the coastwise
trade. When war broke out I beat it home. There’s another feller here
just like me, good American citizen.’ He grinned and I wanted to punch
his ugly face for him. I wanted to ask him what sort of an American
citizen he considered himself, but I thought it was just as well not
to. I had to kick Harry’s shins to keep him from saying something to
get us in wrong.”
“I hope some day I’ll come across that chap again,” said Harry,
wistfully. “Sometime when he hasn’t got his gang with him!”
“So do I,” said Phil. “He couldn’t seem to understand why the United
States had entered the war and asked us to explain it to him. But
what was the use? He wouldn’t have understood if we’d drawn him a
diagram and thrown pictures on the screen! So we said we guessed it
was principally to lick Germany. That didn’t seem to bother him a bit,
for he just laughed and winked, and said, ‘Well, I should worry. We’ll
have the lot of you licked in six months. Isn’t that what you think?’
I told him I guessed about three years more of it was coming, and he
looked as though he thought I was crazy. ‘Gee whiz!’ he said. ‘Three
years! You’re just talking, aren’t you?’ We said no, and he looked a
bit serious for a minute. Then he shrugged and said: ‘Well, I’ve been
submarining two years and I’ve had them go down under me, so I guess
I’ll worry through all right. But this three year business is new stuff
to me. And I hope you’re wrong. I’m dead sick of it, in spite of the
good money.’
“‘How did you escape drowning when your submarine went down?’ Harry
asked him. So he pulled his coat open and showed us a life-belt
underneath. It was deflated, but he said it only took a minute to blow
it up, and he made fun of our bulky ones. Then he invited us to have
a look over the boat and you can bet we were ready to. They had ten
torpedoes in sight forward, small fourteen-inch ones they were, and
a bunch of shells big enough to sink the British Navy. And then the
instruments strewn around the bunks! Everyone seemed to have a passion
for sextants and chronometers. I suppose they’d swiped them off various
ships they’d sunk, and Harry guessed they were keeping them on account
of brass being worth so much in Germany. Anyway, they had about a
thousand dollars’ worth of truck lying around loose. There were about
thirty men in the crew, I think, and all looked pretty fit. I asked
that ‘American citizen’ if submarine work didn’t get on the nerves and
he said it didn’t. ‘Still,’ he added, ‘only a fool would pick a job
on a submarine. We can’t help ourselves. We don’t have any say in the
matter. I don’t mind it much, though.’ He took us all over the boat and
explained everything beautifully. On the captain’s desk was the chart
and I said that it didn’t look much different from any other ship’s
chart.
“‘It isn’t,’ he said, ‘only we take our position every four hours.’ He
spread it out for us and traced the sub’s course from Kiel into the
North Sea and down around the Shetlands, past Ireland and into the
transatlantic lanes. ‘Here’s where we are now,’ he said, pointing, ‘and
here’s our North Atlantic ocean base.’ And blowed if he didn’t point
out the very spot, or what he said was the very spot! Maybe he was
lying. It looked to me about eighty or ninety miles northwest of where
we were lying then. I told your captain and he made a note of it, but
he didn’t say whether he took any stock in the yarn or not. The Huns
are such frightful liars that they’ll have to show me. Anyway, this
crook said that they have big cargo subs, like the _Deutschland_ that
came over to see us once, lying at these ocean bases filled with oil
and ammunition and supplies of all sorts. Every so often, or whenever
necessary, I suppose, the subs make for a base and a mother boat and
put off their sick men, give up their loot and take on fresh supplies.
That’s how they can stay out for three months at a stretch sometimes.”
“Do you believe it?” asked Joe doubtfully.
Phil shook his head. “I believe some of it. I believe that what that
thug told us was what they did in theory, but I don’t believe that it
works out in practice.”
“Pipe-dream,” grunted Harry. “I wanted to tell him so. There was a
bunch of things I wanted to tell that guy. The one thing I’m living for
now is to run across him some day on some nice quiet street back home.
If I ever do I hope I’ll have a United States flag with me.”
“What for?” asked Joe.
“So I can stuff it down his throat.”
“Why soil the flag?” inquired Phil gently. “Well, if I don’t finish
this yarn I’ll go to sleep, fellows. Say, this packet of yours sort of
rolls, don’t she?”
“Oh, in a sea she does. She’s steady enough today,” replied Steve.
“Is she? You call this steady? My head’s aching from wobbling back and
forth.”
“I should think you’d call her the _Parker House_ instead of the
_Warren_,” suggested Harry, with a sort of ask-me-why intonation.
“I get you,” said Steve. “On account of the rolls. Give him a good
heave, fellows, so the propellers won’t chop him!”
“They made four trips in all,” Phil went on, “and they cleaned the
_Arapahoe_ to the bone.”
“Five trips,” corrected Harry. “The last time the boat came back she
was so low in the water that I never thought she’d make the sub!”
“They had the captain’s papers from the safe in his cabin, his
sextants, chronometers, watch, clothes and, probably, money. They
even carried off the photographs on the cabin wall. They swiped every
mattress they could find, and every blanket and sheet and pillow. They
had all the cooking things and enough brass and copper fittings to sink
the sub. I suppose they would have taken the cargo if they could have
stored it anywhere.”
“They took a bag of dog biscuits, too,” said Harry. “I’ll bet they
didn’t know what they were. Bet you the captain’s munching on ’em this
minute.”
“Mighty suitable chuck for him, I’d say,” observed Joe.
“You’re dead right. Anyway, I’ve got to hand it to those Huns for
salvaging. They’ve got a gang of Italian house-wreckers beaten at their
own game. What I suspect is that when the war’s over and there aren’t
any more murders to be done they’ll all reform and become burglars
and safe-breakers! Well, they brought us up on deck again when they’d
finished their neat little job and I give you my word there wasn’t room
to set your foot because of the junk they had strewn over it! They told
us to go back into the life-boat. Just as we were stepping in one of
our men, a stoker named Hogan, saw a can of beef lying within reach on
the sub’s deck and made a snatch at it, thinking he could get away with
it. You see, we had only hard-tack and water in the boat, and that beef
would have come in handy. But the junior luff saw him and snarled like
a tiger. He had a hatchet in his hand that he’d been slashing things up
with on the steamer and he came down on Hogan’s hand with it. That’s
how Hogan hasn’t any fingers to speak of on that hand now. The hatchet
wasn’t very sharp, but it did the business.”
“Gee!” muttered Steve.
“We pulled off then and they waved good-bye to us, some of the crew
did, and Harry got fresh and shook his fist.”
“Yes, and Phil wanted to yard-arm me. He couldn’t do that because we
had no yards, so he cut me out of my allowance of grub all day, the
brute!”
“You deserved to be pitched overboard,” said Phil, grimly. “It was a
fool thing to do, Harry. If they’d seen it and resented it it’s a fair
bet they’d have put a shell through the boat. Your little kid-trick put
all our lives in danger, and you got off easy when you missed out on
two meals.”
“All right. Don’t rub it in. It _was_ a crazy thing to do, but I was so
blamed mad――――”
“There are times when you can’t afford to be mad,” said Phil. “We rowed
all that day and all last night. It was pretty cold after sun-down.
Yesterday afternoon we passed through a regular sea of wreckage:
empty boats, life-belts, rigging, barrels, tubs――all sorts of stuff.
I suppose a sub had been having a pleasant strafe thereabouts. Just
before dark we struck through an oil pool as big as the Polo Grounds.
I guess they’d got a tanker there not very long ago. Well, that’s our
yarn. To say that we were slightly tickled when we caught sight of your
smoke this morning is hardly necessary. But you kept altering your
course every little while and we were awfully afraid you wouldn’t spot
us.”
“Did they sink the _Arapahoe_?” asked Steve.
“I guess so. One of the men said they placed time-bombs on her, but I
can’t say. I know they were still firing at her the last we heard. They
must have ammunition to burn, those chaps.”
“Well, it’s the strangest thing,” said Joe, “you fellows turning up
like this out in the middle of the ocean! I couldn’t believe my eyes
when I caught sight of Phil coming aboard.”
“Lots of queer things are happening these days,” responded Harry
philosophically. “Nothing surprises me any more. After you’ve woke up
at four G. M. and found yourself floating out of your bunk in the dark,
as I did on the old _North Easton_, you――you sort of lose your ability
to be surprised.”
“Was she torpedoed?” inquired Steve.
“She was. Shut up, Phil. This is my story. You’ve done all the talking
so far, and now it’s my turn. We were off Belle Isle, on our way to
Nantes with a cargo of supplies for the Engineers: knocked-down houses
and steam engines and a lot of truck. It was fine weather all the way,
and we had only had about six U-boat scares, which was quite peaceful
in those days. It was July, you know: the fifth, I think. No, the
sixth, because we’d celebrated the Fourth two days before by knocking
the tar out of a deck hatch that we took for a submarine. Both Phil
and I were off duty. It was dark, not pitch dark, you know, but that
sort of――seven-eighths dark that is worse to see in. There wasn’t
any warning at all, we heard afterwards. The first thing anyone knew
there was a muffled sound alongside, a spout of water went up above
the deck and that was all. Then the pesky thing went off inside us and
_that_ was some noise. She got us square in the engines and there was
a fine exhibition of escaping steam and water. I did the deck in one
and four-fifths seconds, closely pursued by Phil and a couple of dozen
others. The old hooker was already going down, stern first, and as
there wasn’t a boat where there should have been one――the torpedo stove
in three at once――we took headers into the water. My life-belt got down
around my legs and I nearly drowned before I could pull it off and put
it where it belonged. A lot of us swam around and watched the ship sink
and waited to be picked up by the other transport. There were two of
us and two destroyers. It was one of the destroyers who fished us out,
because the transports have orders to mind their own business and beat
it for safety.
“Finally I got into a boat that was bobbing around about half-full
and we all watched the old ship plunge. One thrilling thing was
the exhibition of climbing and diving given by Neilsen, one of our
lookouts. Neilsen was in the foremast cross-trees when the moldie
struck and there wasn’t time to climb down. So as the ship sank and
the bow came up higher and higher Neilsen kept on climbing. Finally
the ship was standing almost straight up, about two-thirds submerged,
and that foremast was almost parallel with the surface. And there
was Neilsen, as cool as you like, perched on the mast with one hand
steadying himself on a rope. Just as the water poured into the
smokestacks Neilsen gathered himself together and made as pretty a high
dive as I ever saw. He had to get distance, too, you see, to keep from
being dragged under, and he did it. Swear to goodness, fellows, he made
thirty yards straight out and struck the water head-first at a mile a
minute! We got him when he came up and pulled him out.”
“And what were you doing, Phil?” Joe asked.
“Just swimming around,” said Phil, smiling reminiscently. “The water
wasn’t bad. I went over on the other side from Harry and swam so far
off to keep from being drawn under with the ship that I had about
given up hope of being found when someone ran a boat-hook through the
shoulder of my best pair of pajamas and pulled me into a whaleboat.”
“The silly idiot was almost drowned when they got him,” said Harry.
“Fact is, I thought he had been. I went all over the destroyer looking
for him and couldn’t find him anywhere. They’d dumped him down on deck,
thinking he was all right, and I found him rolling around and trying to
butt a torpedo tube overboard and oozing salt water.”
“Did they find the U-boat?” asked Steve.
“Never even saw it. Did a lot of firing and dropped some depth bombs,
but there was nothing doing. They landed us in Nantes the next day――or
that day, it was――at noon.”
“Well,” said Joe, “I don’t see but what you fellows have seen a bit of
life since you joined up.”
“Why, yes, that’s so, Joey. And we expect to see more before we’re
through, don’t we, Phil? Hello, the beggar’s sound asleep! And I’m
going to be in a minute.”
“Come down and pile into my bunk,” said Steve. “We’ll wake Phil and put
him into Joe’s. Come on, Phil! Wake up! Moldie just blew the lid off
the coffee-pot and the galley’s awash!”
“Set your sights,” muttered Phil. “Seven thousand five hundred
yards.... Knots fifty-two....”
CHAPTER XXIV
THE WARREN DROPS ANCHOR
The _Warren_ had two days more of sea duty to perform, but special
orders were caught by the radio “sharks” that afternoon and the
destroyer swung quickly about and stopped loafing. Just at twilight
a blinker far off to the southeast said things and an hour later a
second blinker twinkled further to the south. When morning came the
_Warren_ was bucking along through a heavy sea in company with two
Limie destroyers, black, funereal looking sleuths with their funnels
set at queer intervals along the wet decks as though the builder had
been undecided until the final moment and had then stuck them up
haphazard. High, stiff bows they had, too, those Britishers, but they
looked their parts most convincingly. All day the trio pegged eastward
to some far mid-ocean rendezvous, with only one incident to disturb the
settled monotony of standard speed and cards in the tiny room far up
in the nose. That was when a two-stack sloop, once somebody’s pet and
treasure but now a blackened, grimy, dishevelled but still lady-like
U-boat chaser, came close and signalled, and then, with, somehow, the
determined air of a school girl bent on caramels, streaked off westward
just full of business.
Two decks down, in that tiny forward compartment, they played coon-can
to the strains of “Spud” Doolan’s harmonica, while Browny gave an
imitation of Pavlowa on the cocoa matting of Number Two gun. And they
sang songs that were new on Broadway four months back and that were
by now probably forgotten. And they sang newer ballads, too, things
evolved in the forecastle to the slap of water and the wail of wind and
the hum of Diesels:
“I want to go back, I want to go back,
Back where the wind don’t blow,
Where the waves don’t leap and a gob can sleep
All night till the roosters crow.
I want to go back! Oh, _sure_, go back!
I’m tired of eating foam.
Chasing Huns may be fun, but I’m done, kid, done!
And I want to go back, back home!”
Or:
“We joined the Limie gobs, we did,
To battle with the Hun,
And still we’re waiting patiently
A Fritz who will not run!”
Or, echo of the Spanish War, this:
“Oh, it’s home, boys, home, and it’s home I want to be,
Home once again in my own countree,
Where the ash and the oak and the bonny willow tree
They all grow together back in North Amerikee!”
But it wasn’t all fun and frolic in that forward cubby hole, for there
was lookout work and a dozen other jobs calling at intervals, and there
were letters to write, too, for if one doesn’t write one is likely not
to receive, and, when all is said and done, it’s the little wrinkled
envelope with the indistinct American post-mark on it that brings the
biggest smile to the gob’s face.
Steve did his hour in the foretop and climbed down at four, chilled and
stiff, and sought Phil and Harry who had found bunks and hospitality
with the port mess. But before he had located them a hurrying Q.M.
passed the word that the transports had been sighted and Steve hustled
on deck again. They didn’t reach the ships until sunset and it was
almost dark when the commanders had finished talking things over and
the destroyers were in position. The convoy consisted this time of but
two troop-ships, but they were bigger than any Steve had seen so far
and their decks were massed with troops.
“Them’s the boys can fight,” said a voice at his elbow as they raced
under the bow of one of the monsters. Steve looked a question, and
Hearn said briefly:
“Canadians.” Then he added, with a chuckle: “They say the Kaiser looks
under his bed every night since the Canucks butted in.”
The _Warren_ turned to her place to the sound of the cheering from the
transports and the start was made. That evening they guessed Bordeaux
and Brest and Nantes, but in the morning the bulletin told them
Plymouth. The usual haze hid the ships half the time and made lookout
work maddeningly uncertain, and to add to the pleasure of the occasion
a warning came of a U-boat in their path a hundred miles ahead. That
meant a change of course, although the destroyers, could they have had
their way, would not have altered their wheels an inch.
It was mid-afternoon of the next day when Livingstone, a snub-nosed
youth whose round cheeks still held the freckles of the hayfield back
in Vermont, sighted “something.” That’s what he reported it, for he
had never reported anything before except smoke and he couldn’t lay
his tongue to any word that seemed to fit it. But what it was was the
last two feet of a submerging submarine away off to the east, and the
_Warren_, signalling to the others, picked up her skirts and lit out
with boilers roaring.
It was only the ghost of a chance that she had, for it was a thousand
to one against that U-boat showing her periscope again unless she had
other U-boats with her. But for once a Fritz didn’t run, or, at least,
not until too late. A mile from her convoys the _Warren_ again saw her.
This time it was only an innocent looking steel tube that broke the
sunlit water, but it was enough. Quarters had been sounded long ago,
and, as luck would have it, that periscope had been seen the instant it
popped its head out, so that the forward gun crew had a good seventeen
seconds to sight and fire. And the first three-inch sped true to its
mark and away went that periscope at something over six hundred
yards!
Having found the range made the rest easier, for Number Two gun
elevated her muzzle and dropped a shell squarely on top of the
submerged craft, and Number Four gun followed with a second and the
U-boat came gently to the surface and men piled up through the hatch
and opened fire with the deck guns. They managed to put a shell through
the _Warren’s_ second stack before Number Two put the submarine’s bow
gun out of action and cleared away more than half the crew on her deck.
That ended the affair, for an officer sprang to the deck with a white
flag and held it fluttering from outstretched arms, and the _Warren_
went mad with joy!
[Illustration: An officer sprang to the deck with a white flag and held
it fluttering from outstretched arms]
Behind, the first of the Limie destroyers was ploughing up, but she
was too late for anything but the cheering. She stopped, panting like
an exhausted runner, set signals, was answered, and swinging off again
went back to her duty, a trifle envious it is to be supposed.
The _Warren’s_ hope of capturing the U-boat was short-lived, for by the
time the last of the crew had reached the deck she was settling fast.
As quickly as possible the Germans were taken off to the destroyer
and then Lieutenant Lyke and four men pulled across and examined her.
Their report was discouraging and the _Warren_ chugged back, dropped
a depth-charge gingerly into the sea and fled for safety. There was a
geyser-like upheaval of water and the U-boat lifted her stern and went
down like a turtle slipping from a log. And in the moment that she
stood up-ended Steve and Harry, standing side by side on the _Warren’s_
after deck, read the inscription painted there:
“_3-U-9_”!
“_Got him!_” cried Harry, and sprang away to find Phil.
Later they talked it over below, hearkened to by a circle of interested
shipmates. They had seen the officers and recognised them beyond the
shadow of a doubt, if the evidence of that “_3-U-9_” was not enough,
and Harry had even had speech with that “American citizen” who had
entertained them so affably aboard the submarine. What he had said to
the German he would not relate, however.
“It was enough,” he growled, scowling fiercely.
But Phil laughed softly, and, in response to Harry’s frowning regard,
said: “’Fess up, Harry. You took pity on him and offered him a ‘fag.’
Now didn’t you?”
“I did not,” replied Harry with emphasis, but the disavowal somehow
didn’t sound awfully convincing.
“Well, they got theirs,” said Phil, with intense satisfaction. “And I
hope they’ll hang every mother’s son of them. But they won’t,” he added
dejectedly. “They’ll just put them in a nice comfortable internment
camp; the officers, I mean. The rest will have to work, and I hope that
‘American citizen’ has to break stones for the duration of the war!”
They were a proud lot aboard the _Warren_ all the way in to Plymouth.
It is much to sink a German U-boat, but it is infinitely more to
bring off her officers and crew first. It is done so seldom, in fact,
that there are no prescribed rules for behaviour, and the crew of the
triumphant _Warren_ debated long and seriously how best to celebrate
the feat on arrival at port.
The news had, of course, preceded them and that morning when they
passed Rame Head and entered Plymouth Sound they found their path
strewn with congratulations. Hooters and sirens greeted them and all
the way to anchorage they were kept busy replying to messages.
“If,” sighed Joe, “we could only have brought the sub in in tow!”
“Yes,” Phil agreed, “that would have been great, but you’re a lot of
unspeakable heroes already, and if you’d done that there’d have been no
living with you. Say, look yonder. Isn’t that one of our cruisers?”
“Yes, I think so. What’s the name? Can you make it out?”
“N-no. It looks like Car――Car――something. There’s a T, I think――――”
“It’s the _Carthage_!” cried Joe. “And Han’s on her! That’s great,
isn’t it? Phil, this is going to be some reunion of the Adventure Club!
You and I and Steve and Harry and now Han. Five out of the thirteen of
us! Let’s tell Steve.”
“All right. But wait a minute, Joe. I’ve been thinking. Do you suppose
Harry and I could get into this? Into the destroyer service, I mean.”
“By Jove! I wish you could! And――and I believe you can! Phil, do you
know what I think? Well, I think that, now that we fellows have got
together, the old Kaiser hasn’t the ghost of a show!”
“He never had,” answered Phil quietly.
With a deafening rattle of chains the _Warren_, momentary hero of the
“Suicide Fleet,” dropped anchor in the blue waters of Plymouth Harbour.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Printer’s, punctuation, and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
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