U. S. Army Transport, _Thomas_,
At Sea, August 21, 1917.
I will tell you a tale of the China Sea, only it will differ from the
usual sea tale in that it is absolutely true. The scene is laid to the
east of Formosa and in the vicinity of the chain of the Ryukyu Islands,
which extend in a general southwesterly direction from the southern end
of Japan toward the northern end of Formosa.
At noon, August 15, 1917, the U. S. Army Transport _Thomas_ slipped
her moorings at Manila, amid usual scenes of farewells, bon-voyages,
tears, handkerchiefs, flowers, the girls-left-behind-us, and with the
military band playing "Alohaoe." It is a scene enacted the 15th of
every month when the transport leaves for the homeland via Nagasaki.
On board were the whole --th U. S. Infantry, with officers and their
families, and civilians and crew,--a total of some 2,000 souls. As we
passed the island fortress of Corregidor, military aeroplanes circled
over the ship. The wish of all was for more power to the stokers--we
could not get to San Francisco too soon. As we steamed along the west
coast of Luzon, the weather was bright and the sea calm, but we knew
that in another day rough weather could be expected. In the Balingtang
Channel, between Luzon and Formosa, the sea is practically always
rough; and those waters and to the east of Formosa are in the usual
course of the typhoons. True to form, late in the afternoon of the 16th
the sea became rough. I promptly took to my bunk, not being any kind
of sailor. As I lay in my bunk next the port with the wind scoop out,
I could feel the wind gradually rising and the alternate violent puffs
and lulls were signs that a typhoon was brewing, as the master of the
ship was well aware from his falling barometer. Later in the evening
when I left my cabin for a few moments, my surmises were confirmed.
On the next day (Friday, August 17), we were well into the typhoon. The
wind was violent and the sea both magnificent and awful. In a typhoon
the wind blows the surface water into clouds of foam and spray. For all
the world it looks like a snowstorm at sea. The waves were frightful.
As the ship dipped down between them, the conviction was borne in upon
us that if one were to land upon the ship's deck the lookout in the
crow's nest would no longer sing out at the half hour: "All's well."
That night the storm seemed at its height; and it was an anxious,
trying night, with the wind howling and the rain coming down in sheets.
Very few went to sleep. The water could not be kept out. It came in
through the ports and through the seams in the cabin roofs. On the top
deck, stateroom doors were forced and the rooms flooded. Beds were
wet and some cabin floors awash. The boat hove to and kept its nose
to the wind. I later heard that we made eight miles in fifteen hours
under steam, but we knew not how far we had been blown from our course.
After about eight nerve-racking hours, the wind began to abate; and by
Saturday, the 18th--although the wind and sea both remained high, with
the weather thick and rainy--we firmly believed that we were running
out of the typhoon. After drifting in heavy squalls and thick weather
all day, I dozed away that night in a wet bed.
Later I was awakened by the rising wind, howling through the ship's
passageways and superstructures. We were running into the typhoon
again. No more sleep that night. Experienced mariners know that the
way to get out of a typhoon is to keep the wind on the starboard bow
and side, gradually working out or getting blown out. This our ship's
master did not dare to do, for the chance would have been extremely
good that the ship would be cast upon one of the many islands. He
therefore elected to keep the wind on the port side and run through the
typhoon.
The wind and sea soon became more violent than the night before. It was
awe-inspiring. For a couple of hours it blew hard, and then at about
1:30 A.M. there came a sudden lull--with no air stirring, with a calm
sea, and with the barometer falling precipitately. The pressure on the
ear drums was intense.