ROUTINE OF A BATTLESHIP
Life and Work on U. S. Battleship--Every Day Crowded With
Duties and Drills for All on Board--The Overworked Executive--
Executive--Responsibility for Everything Finally Culminates With
the Captain--All Effort Has in View the Efficiency of the Ship
as a Fighting Machine--Minute Care in Seemingly Minor Details
Makes for Perfection in Case of Crisis--Standing Watch and
General Quarters--Catering and Hygiene--Smart Signal Work--
Launch Etiquette--Reverence for Quarter Deck and National Anthem.
_On Board U. S. S. Louisiana, U. S. Battle Fleet_,
PUNTA ARENAS, CHILE, Jan. 31.
Unusual and attractive as an extended cruise on a warship from the
Atlantic to the Pacific is to a civilian, and however it may cause him
to be envied by his acquaintances, it must also be set down, if one
would chronicle the truth and nothing else, that it has its drawbacks.
Probably the first that the supernumerary cargo discovers is that there
is practically no place on the decks where he may sit down. He soon
realizes that a warship is not a passenger steamship, with steamer
chairs, smoking rooms, deck stewards and all the other appurtenances
that go to advance the traveller's comfort.
The next drawback that forces itself upon one's attention, after the
novelty of looking around wears off to some extent, is that the warship
passenger is a mighty lonely person, and, unless he can amuse himself
or is naturally one of the reserved kind and lives in his own shell
he'll find time hanging heavy on his hands.
You see you can't go up to an officer and gossip when he's drilling a
crew in loading shells in a gun. You can't pounce upon the Captain
whenever you see him on the deck and make him chat to you. You can't
exercise conversational powers when general quarters or fire drill is
on. You don't feel like asking for what is called a gabfest when the
other fellow is figuring out problems in navigation. It is not the time
to be chummy when every man on the bridge is watching signals from a
flagship and hurrying things so as not to be the last to send up the
proper pennant or to haul it down. When the red and white lights of the
ardois signal system are flashing at night or the stiff arms of the
semaphores are throwing themselves about in a helter-skelter fashion day
or night it is not wise to ask what they are saying.
There is so much going on entirely foreign to the average man that he
feels as if he were in a new world with busy people all about him
speaking a strange language and doing strange things and he's literally
alone. Gradually it is borne in on him that he's a cat in a strange
garret. There's plenty of civility all around, but for hours and hours a
day there is no companionship; no one with whom he can form a pool on
the day's run, or sit down with a steward at his elbow to play a
friendly game, or one for blood; no yarn spinners handy when you want
'em; no luxuries in travelling.
Of course one may find easy chairs in the wardroom with plenty of
reading matter, and you have a chair and a desk, in addition to your
bunk, in your room, but no one can stay below at sea unless the weather
is foul, and even then he chafes at it. No matter how fine your house is
at home you take more comfort in seasonable weather in sitting on your
porch than in your library, and the same holds true at sea on a warship
when it comes to sitting in an easy chair in the wardroom or in your own
room.
There are excellent reasons for these two drawbacks, the lack of
creature comforts, luxuries, if you please, and of genial companionship
at any hour, in going to sea as a civilian on a warship. Only one need
be mentioned. That is that a warship is a tremendously busy workshop
where the boss, his assistants and the workmen have a peculiar kind of
work on hand, such as exists nowhere else in the world, and there is no
time in which to pander to the whims and desires of an outsider sent on
board by the order of executive authorities higher up.
The work on hand is to move a floating fort of steel swiftly through the
water in complete synchronism with a lot of other floating forts and
then to prepare those who are engaged in work in this fort for just one
thing, to destroy and kill. Everything is subservient to one idea--to be
ready to fight at the swiftest pace for just about one hour; for be it
known that if one of the warships in this great battle fleet were fought
at its swiftest and fullest capacity it would be all over, one way or
the other, in an hour or less. You see fighting a warship is not a long
distance race; it's a hundred yard dash, to change the figure. Getting
ready for that dash, that supreme effort at the fastest speed, calls for
all the concentration and hard, unremitting toil that years of
education in a complex specialty and years of experience can employ.
When this work is going on those engaged in it want outsiders out of the
way, and if you're a wise outsider you want to get out of the way. Hence
at such times it is likely that you'll get pretty tired standing around
on your feet, with no place to rest your weary bones and no companion
with whom you can even be bromidic. Yes, it's fine and great to cruise
14,000 miles on a splendid warship, but truly it has some drawbacks.
It must not be inferred from this that one lacks for comfort, complete
comfort, or for genial companionship on a battleship. Far from it. The
ship abounds in reading matter. There are easy chairs in plenty in the
wardroom. And as for companionship, a more genial set of good fellows
never existed in any profession than these same busy naval officers,
from the Captains down. There are many diversions. You can watch the
drills, the signalling; you can have a game of cribbage or whist in the
evening; you have a fine band to play for you at dinner and on deck in
the warm evenings; you can make friends with the pets on board, tease
the dog, play with the cats, watch the monkeys, talk with the poll
parrots and stroke the goat's head, all the time watching lest he tries
to butt you, you can figure out the course, estimate latitude and
longitude; you can talk with the men when the smoking lamp is lighted,
although you must never be chummy, but sometimes you can get an old
quartermaster who has been all over the world and draw him off into a
secluded place and let him spin his yarns to you, and also let him
growl out his growls and try to convince you that everything in this
world, especially in the navy, is rotten, after which he feels better
and you have had a pleasant hour of amusement, knowing full well that
when he gets to port and meets another quartermaster of another navy
he'll be blowing himself hoarse in his contention that our navy is the
best in the world and that there's no calling equal to that of a real
sailorman, and he's ready to fight to prove it.
So it isn't all work and no play on a warship, but it comes mighty near
to it for days and days, for, like a woman's work the work is never
done. You'd realize it if some night after a hard day's work is over you
heard the bells and bugles crying out for general quarters for you to
tumble out of your hammock or bunk when you had earned a good night's
rest. You'd realize it if you had been straining your eyes for hours in
the daylight at target practice and then had to go at it again at night.
You know you may have to fight at night and you've got to be ready for
it. There's no other way to prepare for it than by work at night.
It's all a matter of course, part of the day's work, with these sea dogs
and gun fighters. And when you suggest that you are thinking of writing
a piece for the paper telling about the routine on a warship they are
surprised that any such topic could be interesting and tell you that
it's nothing new and is going on all the time just as it has been going
on for decades and centuries. Then they'll admit perhaps that the
general public doesn't realize the amount of work that is done on a
warship and they'll produce this schedule of hours and tasks that sums
it up:
DAILY SEA ROUTINE.
3:00 A.M.--Call ship's cook.
3:45--Call the section of the watch, relieve wheel and lookout.
4:00--Relieve the watch on deck.
4:30--Turn to, out smoking lamp, pipe sweepers, clear up deck.
4:50--Call music, masters-at-arms and boatswain's mates.
5:00--Reveillé, bugles and drum; call all sections except
midwatch sections.
5:15--Execute morning orders.
5:30--Trice up clothes lines.
At sunrise station masthead lookouts, take in deck lookouts and
put out running lights.
6:30--Break up and send below to be burned all boxes and
articles that will float.
6:40--Trice up six bell hammock cloths.
6:50--Up all hammocks, serve out water, hoist ashes.
7:00--Time and uniform signal; mess gear for sections below.
7:15--Breakfast for sections below, light smoking lamp; ditty
boxes allowed.
7:30--Mess gear for watch on deck.
7:40--Relieve wheel and lookouts.
7:45--On deck duty sections. Section on deck to breakfast.
8:15--Turn to, clean gun and deck bright work.
8:25--Sick call.
8:45--Report at mast.
8:50--Clear up decks; down towel lines and ditty boxes;
sweepers.
8:55--Officers' call.
9:00--Quarters for muster and inspection; setting up drill.
9:30--Drill call.
10:00--Relieve the wheel and lookouts.
Signal (1) absentees, (2) number of sick.
11:00--Hoist ashes.
11:30--Retreat from drill. Pipe down clothes, if dry; sweepers.
11:45--Mess gear for sections below.
Noon--Dinner; duty section remain on deck. Signal (1) coal on
hand, (2) coal expended, (3) latitude, (4) longitude.
P.M.--Mess gear for duty section.
Dinner duty section.
1:00--Turn to; out smoking lamp; down ditty boxes; sweepers;
pipe down clothes if dry, then aired bedding, if up; start work
about decks.
1:30--Serve out provisions.
2:00--Relieve wheel and lookouts.
3:00--Hoist ashes.
4:00--Relieve the watch.
4:30--Knock off all work. Clear up decks; sweepers; pipe down
clothes.
5:15--Mess gear for sections going on watch.
5:30--Supper for sections going on watch.
5:45--Mess gear for other sections.
5:55--Relieve wheel and lookouts.
6:00--Relieve section on duty. Other sections to supper.
At sunset--Set running lights; lay down masthead lookouts;
station deck lookouts; couple fire hose; muster life boats'
crews; coxswain report when crews are present and lifeboats
ready for lowering. Test night signal apparatus.
6:30--Turn to; sweepers; scrub clothes on forecastle (except
Sunday).
7:00--Hoist ashes. Clear deck for hammocks.
7:30--Hammocks.
8:00--Relieve watch, wheel and lookouts. Signal and searchlight
drill as ordered. Signal (1) latitude; (2) longitude.
At sea when meals are piped the duty section will remain on
deck until relieved by the next section for duty. When,
however, the ship is cruising singly at sea and there is no
immediate necessity for the services of the section on deck, or
when cruising at sea in company and it is apparent that the
services of men on deck, other than those actually on watch at
stations, is unnecessary, then mess gear will be spread for all
sections at the same time, and all sections will go to meals at
the same time, except those men actually on duty, but reliefs
must get their meals and relieve their stations promptly. In
any case the duty section must stand by to answer an emergency
call. In bad weather, or when engaged in manoeuvres, or when in
the immediate vicinity of land, the duty section shall remain
on deck until relieved by the next section.
There is a daily port routine, similar in general outline to the one for
cruising. It calls for the ceremony of colors, hoisting or lowering the
flag, boat duty and other things which can come only when a ship is in
port. But these two schedules only hint at the full story.
Probably the first impression that a stranger to all this ship routine
gets is that a warship is one of the most discordant places in the
world. They are everlastingly blowing bugles, each bugle out of key with
all the others. One bugler will sound a lot of hippety-hoppity notes and
then another will take up the same refrain with a blare and a mean half
note or quarter note variation and then two or three others will join
in, on decks, below decks, and the jangling jumble rolls in on your ear
drums in such a discord that you feel as if you'd like to punch the man
who told 'em to do it. At the same time you see men, hundreds of whom
must have no ear for note discrimination, jump to the tasks to which
they are summoned and you wonder how they know what the bugles are
telling them.
There are ninety-eight of these bugle calls on a man-o'-war and how the
men differentiate them passes your understanding. It aggravates you that
you can't make them out yourself. You begin to study them and you do get
so that you are able to recognize two or three, and then you get lost
and you begin to have an admiration for the men who have mastered them
all, just as you admire an ironworker who can walk a beam 400 feet in
the air. He can do something that you can't do and you respect him for
it.
Still you keep trying to master those calls. Finally you learn the trick
partly. You associate certain words with certain jingles--perhaps it
would be better to say certain jangles--and then you pat yourself on the
back and feel that you are pretty nearly half as good as a sailorman in
Uncle Sam's navy. The trick is the same as with the army calls and many
of the jingles are the same. For example, you soon learn reveillé, for
the refrain,
We can't get 'em up; we can't get 'em up;
We can't get 'em up in the morning.
fits the call so completely that one who has once learned it can never
forget what it means.
Again when the bugles sound the sick bay call you find yourself
unconsciously saying to yourself:
Come and get your quinine, quinine.
When the officers' call for quarters is sounded you feel like saying to
the one nearest you:
Get your sword on; get your sword on.
When the mess call is blown you know that the bluejackets are saying to
themselves as the notes blare out:
Soupy, soupy, soup, without a single bean;
Porky porky, pork, without a streak of lean.
When assembly sounds you join with the rest in the warning:
You'd better be here at the next roll call.
When the swimming call comes you say to yourself:
Bought a chicken for fifty cents;
The son of a gun jumped over the fence!
When the call for pay day is made you know how the men feel as they say:
Pay day; pay day; come and get your pay.
And when tattoo is over and then comes taps you feel drowsy as the sweet
notes, one of the very few in army or navy calls that are sweet, sing to
you:
Go to sleep; go to sleep; go to sleep.
Oh, yes, you finally get to know many of these calls and then somehow
the discord seems to leave them, and, like the ship that found herself,
you begin to find yourself on shipboard and you feel that you are
getting on. That bugling ceases to trouble you further.
The pipes of the bos'n also pierce your ears. Always shrill, they all
seem to end in a piercing shriek. At first they make you grate your
teeth. You feel as if you would prefer that some one would cuss you out,
as the naval expression is, rather than give you orders in that mean
way. And when you hear these same mates, one of whom is stationed at
every place of importance where the men live and sleep, roar out
something that seems to be a mixture of the blast of a cyclone, the
trumpeting of an elephant and the bray of another animal you think that
if you were the sailorman addressed you'd feel like saying to that mate
you'd be damned if you'd do it, whatever it was he was ordering you to
do. Why, such language as the bos'ns' pipes employ is more calculated to
inspire profanity than was the term applied by Daniel O'Connell to the
fishwoman when he called her out of her name by saying she was a
hypothenuse. But gradually you learn some of these calls too--there are
no rhymes or jingles for them--and that worry blows over.
The work on the bridge also soon excites your admiration. When you are
in squadron or fleet formation it's a different game from when you are
alone. Then all you have to do is to keep your course and go sailing
along at the speed set for you, keep your eye on things, receive
reports, give this and that order, when you are through set down a
record of what has happened in the deck logbook. All that's simple and
easy compared with cruising in a fleet. With a fleet you are not on the
bridge five minutes before you are aware that a peculiar kind of game is
being played. It is "Watch the Flagship." The watch officer, the signal
officer, the quartermasters, the signal boys, are all engaged in the
work. Let a signal go up from the flagship. There is a hasty peep
through glasses and then a hoarse cry for certain flags, a rush for the
bunting, a quick bending of it on the halyards and then a mad rush by
half a dozen lads across the bridge as the signals are hoisted. Hurry;
be the first to answer, is the sentiment inspiring all. After the signal
is hoisted you take a hasty look around, and you grin as this or that
ship hasn't got hers up yet, and you say to yourself that it was pretty
smart work. When the first sign of a flutter comes from the flagship
that the pennants are coming down the hoarse yell of "Haul down!" comes
like a thunderclap; and woe betide the clumsy signal boy who gets the
halyards foul and doesn't have the signals out of sight before the
flagship has hers hidden.
Or perhaps it is approaching sunset and the time comes to lower the
speed cones for the night and start the masthead and truck lights to
glimmering. Intently all hands watch the flagship and at the first
tremor of the cone the boy begins to haul down. In a jiffy not a cone is
to be seen at the yards on the entire fleet.
Then there is the night signalling with the ardois red and white lights.
There flashes from the flagship a row of vertical red lights, four of
them. "Cornet!" is the cry. It means that each ship must turn on the
same signal as an answer to attention call. Then the flagship talks,
with this and that combination of red and white lights, all flashed so
fast that before the impression of one combination fades from the eye
two or three others have followed and you wonder how on earth any one
can make them out. But as each one is flashed a boy calls out the letter
and another writes it down the cubbyhole where the navigator's chart is
sheltered, and you find that these messages are recorded as fast as a
telegrapher could write out his clicks.
Then the semaphore is lighted up and the arms of lights go jiggering
this way and that way, just as the gaunt black and white automata do in
the daytime, and you find the boys reading off the message as easily as
a grown person can spell cat when the letters are big and the print is
plain. You sometimes wake up in the night when you are at anchor and
look out of your port. Rare is it that you do not see a semaphore or an
ardois combination flashing. When you ask about it in the morning the
officers will tell you that it probably was the signal boys talking with
one another and that it is allowed because it is good practice to let
them gossip when there is nothing else going on and the night watches
are long and tedious. Invariably one boy will make the signal letter of
another ship where he suspects a friend is on duty at the signals and
this is what he says:
"How is it for a game of flat?" meaning an unofficial talk.
"All right," comes the answer: "go ahead."
Then those two boys chat over all sorts of things, chaff each other,
make appointments for the first liberty, talk of the latest ship gossip,
and all that, but there's one feature about it that's peculiar. The
messages are always in polite form. It's always, "Will you kindly?" or
"Please be good enough," or something in that fashion. No signal boy
ever forgets himself or the dignity of his place in a game of talk.
Besides, there might be officers observing things and it is never nice
to have your name put on the report. You are brought up at the mast and
you might get five days in the brig on bread and water or something like
that if you exchanged language that was not seemly for use on a
warship's signals.
And then in bridge work in cruising there is that difficult job of
keeping distances. The favorite cruising formation in this fleet is at
400 yards distance from the preceding ship. The Louisiana was fourth in
whatever line was formed. That meant 1,200 yards from the flagship. Now
the engines of no two ships move the 16,000 tons of those ships at
exactly the same speed through the water. You may know theoretically how
many revolutions of the propellers are needed to go at the rate of ten,
eleven, twelve or even more knots an hour, but even then one ship will
inch up, so to speak, foot up might express it better, and you have got
to correct this all the time or you will be crawling up on the quarter
deck of the ship in front of you, or lagging so behind that the ship
after you will be in danger of crawling up on your own deck.
You have a midshipman using the stadimeter all the time, every fifteen
or twenty seconds or so, and then you are kept signalling to the engine
room to make one or two or three revolutions faster or slower, until you
get your right place and you don't have to fly your position pennant,
confessing to the flagship that you are making a bad job of your work
and have got more than forty yards out of your position. You see, coal
varies in its steaming qualities from time to time, and sometimes the
engine room force gets a little slack or orders get mixed and it is one
perpetual struggle to keep exactly where you ought to be.
Then you have to sail on the course announced, and the helmsman and
quartermaster have to be continually moving the rudder back and forth to
correct the yaws from the seas and other influences that throw you off
that exact line.
Then there is the routine bridge work, giving orders, receiving reports,
making decisions, tasting the food of the crew that is brought always to
the officer on watch, sighting ships and other things and always
notifying the Captain day or night of all important things going on. Oh,
yes, there is plenty to do on a bridge in a fleet, and you watch its
progress with fascination for hours until you suddenly begin to realize
the presence of that drawback mentioned first in this article, that
there is no seating place up there, and you go below to read or get some
rest sitting down.
As one becomes accustomed to the naval routine there are some ceremonies
that he skips as a matter of course and some that he does not. One of
the latter is the general muster of the officers and crew on a Sunday
morning once a month. Quarters are sounded as usual and then comes the
inspection of the ship and the men in their stations, while the band is
playing lively airs. When this is over the entire ship's company not
engaged in actual duty in running the ship is summoned aft. The officers
and their divisions come to the quarter deck, and each officer reports
his division "up and aft" to the executive officer, who in turn reports
that fact to the Captain. The latter then orders the ship's roll to be
called. The paymaster steps out from the group of officers with the
roll. On the Louisiana he calls:
"Richard Wainwright!"
Capt. Wainwright responds:
"Captain, United States Navy."
"E. W. Eberle!"
"Lieutenant-Commander, United States Navy," the executive officer
responds.
"C. T. Jewell!"
"Lieutenant-Commander, United States Navy," says the navigator, and so
on down the roll of officers the Paymaster proceeds, each man saluting
as he answers to his name. Then the Paymaster retires and the pay clerk
steps up and takes up the call. He reads the names of the members of the
crew. As each man hears his name called he answers with his designation
on the roll, John Jones will answer "Coal passer, United States Navy,"
and William Smith will declare that he is an ordinary seaman, and so on.
As each man answers to his name he drops out of the ranks, proceeds aft
and walks by the Captain, hat in hand. When the name of a man on duty
somewhere in this ship, in the engine rooms or the bridge or elsewhere,
is called, the ship's writer, who stands beside the executive officer,
says.
"On duty, sir."
The absentee is marked "accounted for." Men in the sick bay are
accounted for in the same way. It requires almost an hour to go through
the nearly 1,000 names, and when it is all over the Paymaster reports to
the executive officer that all are present or accounted for and that
fact is duly communicated to the Captain. By that time the deck is
clear of the men and only the officers remain, and these are dismissed.
It's a fine thing to see a fine crew individually and size up each man.
When the President was on the Louisiana it is said that he took the
keenest interest in this personal appearance of every man on the quarter
deck in answer to the call of his name and showed his satisfaction over
the appearance of the men as he stood beside the Captain and watched
each one of the husky lads pass by.
Once a month on a Sunday morning the crew is also summoned aft to have
the Articles of War read. The executive officer does the reading. Here
is propounded the law and the gospel of a man-o'-war's duties and
responsibilities. The men are told what they must do and what they must
not do. The punishments inflicted for certain offences are read out,
offences in time of peace and similar offences in time of war. More than
once are heard the words "shall suffer death." All through the idea
pervades that there must be instant and complete obedience of orders.
Reading the Articles of War constitutes a solemn occasion and when it is
finished one realizes as never before what a serious thing it is to
swear allegiance to Uncle Sam as part of his naval force.
The organization of the ship's force soon becomes well fixed in the
mind. There is one head to it all, the Captain, on whom falls final
responsibility for everything, discipline, safety of ship and men, work
of every kind. He is assisted by about twenty-five commissioned
subordinate officers and midshipmen and nearly a dozen warrant officers,
besides numerous petty officers and their mates. The ship has several
large departments just as a big store in the city. The executive
officer is the right hand man, the general manager, if you please, of
the ship, and he sees that the Captain's orders are carried out and he
also keeps the vessel shipshape.
One of the departments is that of the navigator. Another is the
department of ordnance. A third is that of the engineer, a fourth that
of the medical officer, a fifth that of the Paymaster and a sixth has to
do with the Marine Corps.
The executive officer not only runs almost everything on the ship but is
in charge of all equipment and stores. He is the man who can do most to
make a ship happy or hellish. He looks after the daily routine, drills,
repairs, cleaning up, issuing of stores, and the like. He is the man to
whom all other officers, big and little, report. He is busy from early
morning until late at night. When he isn't keeping things in order he is
writing reports. He almost never has time to sit down at ease except at
the head of the wardroom table at meal time, where he is a sort of
social arbiter, as well as general manager.
The executive officer is also the housekeeper of the vessel. At one time
he is in consultation with the bandmaster over a music programme and
then he is consulting with a plumber about a drain. He runs the clothing
establishment and varies that work with looking after the hoisting of
ashes or the arranging of liberty parties. His work has no beginning and
no end and a faithful and hard working man seldom has time to write to
his family, to say nothing of reading a book occasionally or stealing
away to his room for a quiet smoke or a siesta.
The navigator does the navigating, as might be expected. He relieves
the officer on watch on the bridge when quarters are sounded. He has
charge of all the electrical apparatus, and he is also instructor in
navigation to the young midshipmen, who have to keep up their study and
work along that line.
The ordnance officer has charge of the guns, ammunition, the work of
target practice, the making of targets and everything that pertains to
shooting. The Paymaster has charge of all money matters, payment of
wages, the purchase of supplies, providing clothing and meals for the
crew. He is the purser of the ship. The medical officer besides caring
for the sick is responsible for sanitary conditions.
In addition to these commissioned officers there are Lieutenants and
Ensigns who are watch officers; that is, they stand the watch of four
hours on the bridge at sea, representing the Captain in seeing that the
ship goes all right, and four hours on the after deck in port, where
they direct and have charge of all that is going on.
There is besides the engineering division, which is a sort of world all
to itself.
Then there are the warrant officers, the boatswain, gunner, electrical
gunner, carpenter and machinists. They are what might be called the
general foremen or superintendents. They are assisted by the petty
officers, of whom there are three grades, and mates of various kinds,
who are the foremen of the individual gangs of men in their work about
ship. Pretty soon one begins to learn the signs and marks upon sleeves
and other devices that tell the grade of this man and that. He also
learns about seamen, ordinary seamen, yeomen (the clerks of each
department), coxswains, jacks-o-the-dust, lamplighters, gun pointers,
hospital attendants, shipwrights, the printer and the numerous other
classifications into which the crew is divided.
He learns that the crew is split up into various divisions and each
division into various sections. The officers are called division
officers when the responsibility for handling the men by divisions comes
up. Then the passenger also learns how the entire crew is split up into
watches so that some of the men are on deck and other duty at every hour
of the day and night. He soon learns all about the hammock netting,
where the hammocks of the men are stowed, and he can even find the
places where the ditty boxes of the men are kept when not in use. He
knows what things are in those little square ditty boxes, writing paper,
photographs of those at home, mending material, brushes, blacking,
possessions of every kind, all subject to inspection by the officers.
Having mastered something of the personnel of the ship it is surprising
how soon one falls into the drill routine. This is a more or less
delicate subject about which to write, for the reason that tactical
matters and certain drills the details of which are kept secret are not
proper subjects for publication, and all correspondents with the fleet
have bound themselves by written pledge never to reveal what they may
learn about them. There are certain drills, however, which are common to
all navies and a matter of ordinary routine, in reference to which there
is no inhibition, inasmuch as the Navy Department has even authorized
and approved publication of these details. You will find them all
written out in the book "The American Battleship in Commission," written
by an enlisted man.
On certain mornings of the week certain drills are always gone through
with. You know when it is ordinary quarters, when fire, collision and
abandon ship practice is to be gone through with, when certain kinds of
gun practice are tried out. You know just how often this and that
division goes through with "pingpong" shooting, the work with what are
known as Morris tubes, the kind of shooting that has superseded to a
large extent the former sub-calibre practice on shipboard.
You then learn all about hammock and bag inspection days, you even get
to know when the flagship will probably order hammocks or bags scrubbed
and you get to know just about how often the clotheslines will be strung
up over the fo'c'stle and just how often bedding will be hung on the
rails for airing and when it will be taken in and all that. You get used
to seeing the lanterns put in the lifeboats at night for emergency use.
You know that every half hour when the ship's bell is struck the sentry
on the quarter deck will turn toward the after bridge and will sing out:
"Life buoys, aft; all's well!"
You know that up on the forward bridge with every "bell" the port and
starboard side lights will be reported burning in the same manner. You
know how often the marine guard is changed and what the stations are.
You know that on Saturday morning there will be no quarters and that all
hands will be set to cleaning the decks with sand and holystones and
that the mud, if a combination of sand and water can be called mud,
will be so thick that for nearly all the morning you will have to wear
rubbers if you want to get about in comfort. You know when bright work
will be cleaned and you know when the smoking lamp will be lighted,
which means at just what hours smoking will be permitted, for there is
no real lamp in these days when nearly everything on a warship is run by
electricity.
You get to know just when the awkward squad of marines will be drilled
and you know when the patent log, which is watched most carefully and
which nearly everybody scoffs at because one never can depend much upon
it, will be read. You know soon from the color of the water when you are
on soundings, and you gather about the little contrivance far back on
the quarter deck which unreels the wire for the lead that goes swishing
hundreds of fathoms into the sea and finally brings up on the bottom and
then records the depth. You gather about the chief quartermaster as he
has the line pulled in and you look with him at the thermometerlike
arrangement which by discoloration shows the depth of the water. You
know just how often the temperature of the sea will be taken and how
often the temperature of the air will be recorded in the log and the
height of the barometer set down.
And then perhaps your mind turns again to the housekeeping of this home
of 1,000 men. You visit the cook's galley, where the head cook and
several assistants are busy night and day preparing the meals for the
men with redhot stoves and great caldrons. You see the copper coffee and
tea tanks, the soup tanks, the bean tanks and the rest. You see the
electrically operated potato paring machine, just like the one used in
the model kitchen of the world at West Point. You visit the butcher's
shop, where about 2,000 pounds of meat is served out and cut up each
day.
Then you go to the scullery and see the dishwashing machines, also
copied from those in use at West Point and all large hotels. You visit
the bake shop with its intense heat and the bake rooms store shop where
the loaves of bread are piled up like so many cords of wood. You go to
the sick bay and see a hospital in operation comparable favorably in
every way with the best appointed hospital on land. You visit the
operating room with its fullest set of surgical appliances. You even go
to the brig and you see where men can be confined in cells or left out
in the open so that they may have company and simply be restrained, the
latter being the prevalent form for light punishments. You may attend
the "mast," where the Captain every day holds his police court for light
offences, and you may read in the log what has been done in each case.
You may attend the summary courts-martial, where more or less serious
cases are tried by a board of officers, but you must leave the room when
the board goes into executive session to form its judgment on the case
and fix the penalty if the accused is found guilty.
You may see the tests of powder and guncotton at regular intervals, and
if you wish to go around at night with the carpenter's force you may see
them making soundings of the hold every hour. You may see the tests of
electrical machinery and you may watch the operation of closing all
watertight doors every evening at 5 o'clock, and always in going in or
out of port or in time of fog. You can even solve that mystery to every
civilian as to why there is a sailmaker, with assistants, on a craft
that carries no sail. When you find men working over canvas targets for
days and days, making awnings and windsails, working at hammocks and the
like, and when you realize that the ship carries more cordage than the
old Constitution, you understand it all. The work of the sailmaker is no
cinch. You can see the men once a month paid off in long lines, each
man's signature attested by the division officer.
So you wander about hither and thither without any well developed plan
and run across this and that form of employment and hard daily toil and
you wonder how it can be, with so much to do and so little time in which
to do it, that proficiency in any one line of work can be secured.
Familiarity with it, however, shows that such a condition is
approximated, and you begin to feel absolutely confident that if the
ship ever did get into a scrap all this work and drill would show its
effects at once in a way that would make you proud of the men and the
ships of the navy. A sense of confident security comes over you and you
soon have the feeling that nobody in the world can beat the Yankee
sailor man for man in fighting and no ship of equal capacity in the
world can beat the one on which you are sailing in a fight. You may be
overconfident, but it's a comfortable kind of feeling to have.
You watch the rivalry among the various ships of the fleet in such
matters as they can show rivalry in during a cruise as you begin to have
confidence in the one on which you are a passenger. When target shooting
comes this rivalry will take an impressive form. At present the rivalry
consists largely in keeping distances, in making turns accurately, in
making and responding to signals. Every morning you watch the flags go
up at 10 o'clock, when the signals are hoisted on the second recording
the number of sick and absentees on each ship. The officers and men read
these flags off quick as a flash and you speculate about the condition
of things on this and that vessel.
At 11:20 in the morning you watch the flags go up to catch the change of
time for all clocks. At noon every one is keen to see the flags sent up
telling how much coal has been used and how much each ship has on hand.
Then come the flags which give the reckoning of the navigator on each
ship as to latitude and longitude, either by observation or dead
reckoning, and you comment upon the variations in the reports.
So the routine goes on and you get used to it and in some respects
become part of it. You even fall into a certain station at certain
times. The Sun man, for example, has one place where he is expected to
report when the call is made. No other duties are assigned to him as a
passenger. He has a certain station when the abandon ship drill takes
place. He goes to his station, reports and then is excused. Otherwise he
is free to do pretty much as he pleases, always observing as well as he
can the little proprieties on shipboard, which are simply those
governing the ordinary actions of gentlemen.
Every man on a warship has his little or big place that is his own and
you must not cross its confines without permission. For instance, the
starboard side of the quarter deck is the Captain's. You don't walk
there unless he indicates that he would like to have you join him. The
port side of the deck belongs to the other officers. The Captain almost
never goes there, although, being the Captain, he can go where he
pleases. Each officer's room is sacred when the curtain is drawn. And so
on through the ship there is a little piece of territory sacred to each
man or set of men. The fo'c'stle deck is the men's.
Launch etiquette, however, is peculiar. One of the first things to learn
about travelling in a naval launch is that it is a little ship of
itself. You salute its deck, so to speak, when you enter it if you
observe the niceties. The highest ranking officer sits in the stern and
goes into the boat last. All the others stand until he seats himself. He
is the first to leave and the others go in the order of their rank. You
mustn't smoke in a launch in the daytime, and if you do so on the sly
you must be sure not to show your cigar in passing the flagship, for the
quartermaster on watch on the after bridge will report you and there'll
be trouble. You mustn't smoke at night except by permission of the
ranking officer on board. If you see him light a cigar or cigarette all
the rest of you may do so. Otherwise you will please throw away your
cigar or cigarette when you enter the boat.
As you go out to your ship at night you hear the quartermaster on some
other ship call out, "Boat ahoy!" and the coxswain of your boat answers
with a yell, "Passing!" When you approach your ship or another to make a
stop the coxswain must be particular about his answers to the boat ahoy
call. If he has the President of the United States aboard, as coxswains
on the Louisiana have had repeatedly, he calls out:
"United States!"
If an Admiral is on board the answer to the hail is:
"Flag!"
If a Captain is on board the answer is the name of his ship.
If other commissioned officers above the grade of midshipmen are on
board the answer is "Aye! aye!" and if the launch contains only
midshipmen or other officers of lower grade the answer is, "No! No!" as
if to say you needn't bother about this bunch. If it has only enlisted
men on board the call is "Hello!" By these answers the officer of the
deck is informed as to who is approaching. Of course they are used only
in the night, for in the day time observation will reveal the situation.
The longer one remains on a warship, either as a member of the crew or
as a guest, two things become more and more impressive. One is the
reverence for the quarter deck and the other is the patriotic regard for
the national hymn, "The Star Spangled Banner." The quarter deck seems to
be almost a holy place. The officers salute it as they step upon it. No
stain is allowed to remain upon it. If a man for instance were found
spitting upon it--well, hamstringing would be the fitting penalty, if
the feelings of those outraged by the performance were consulted. This
regard for the deck has come down from the earliest naval traditions.
The soil of the country is represented there. The flag waves above it.
Sovereignty finds expression there. It is the place of all ceremonies,
the one place sacred to all that is best in tradition, rules of conduct,
liberty, national achievements on the sea, national hopes and
aspirations. It must never be profaned.
The sound of the first bar of the national hymn brings every naval man
who hears it to attention. The mental attitude is one of intense respect
as well. That anthem never becomes a bore to the officers and men. Its
notes are a call to duty and the salute, when it is ended, is a public
pledge of fealty to the flag. No music is played on ship more carefully
and with more earnest effort to get every shade of feeling out of the
notes. Reverence for the tune is a living thing, and after one has been
on shipboard for a week he begins to feel ashamed of the public
indifference to the tune ashore.
Let one incident reveal the regard for the hymn on shipboard. We were
steaming just below the equator on the way to Rio Janeiro one evening,
when showers made it impossible for the band to play on deck. The
concert was held in a casemate and the humidity added great discomfort
to the intense heat. The members of the crew off duty had stripped to
their undershirts and trousers. The musicians had also thrown off their
coats. Their faces ran with sweat as they played.
Every concert ends with "The Star Spangled Banner." It was time to play
it. All the musicians stood up and the men who had crowded in to hear
the music came to attention, but not one move toward lifting his baton
would the bandmaster make until every one of his men had put on his coat
and hat. They might play Strauss waltzes and even Wagnerian selections
in their undershirts, but no note of the national hymn could be played
until every man was in dress befitting the occasion. All this is nothing
unusual, but it is impressive to the man who sees it for the first time.
So although there is no place for comfortable loafing and sometimes it
is lonely a civilian passenger on one of these ships after all can find
entertainment and other things to interest him. Day by day he feels his
patriotic impulses quickened. Day by day he is more and more glad that
he is an American citizen. And when taps is sounded and he knows that
the men not on duty are swinging quietly in their hammocks, tired out
from their work, he can understand and appreciate the full significance
and beauty of the refrain which soothes one and all with its soft
good-night:
"Go to sleep! Go to sleep! G-o t-o s-l-e-e-p!"