"In about five minutes we'll come up and take a look-see (st_Full Speed Ahead: Tales from the Log of a Correspondent with Our Navy

[Frontispiece: "A destroyer is by no means a paradise of comfort"]

FULL SPEED

AHEAD

Tales from the Log of a Correspondent

with Our Navy

HENRY B. BESTON

GARDEN CITY NEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

1919

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

translation into foreign languages,

including the Scandinavian

MAJOR GEORGE MAURICE SHEAHAN

HARVARD UNIT R.A.M.C.

A Forerunner of the Great Crusade.

PREFACE

These tales are memories of several months spent as a special

correspondent attached to the forces of the American Navy on foreign

service. Many of the little stories are personal experiences, though

some are "written up" from the records and others set down after

interviews. In writing them, I have not sought the laurels of an

official historian, but been content to chronicle the interesting

incidents of the daily life as well as the achievements and heroisms

of the friends who keep the highways of the sea.

To my hosts of the United States Navy one and all, I am under deep

obligation for the courtesy and hospitality everywhere extended to me

on my visit. But surely the greatest of my obligations is that owed

to Secretary Daniels for the personal permission which made possible

my journey? and for the good will with which he saw me on my way.

And no acknowledgment, no matter how studied or courtly its phrasing,

can express what I owe to Admiral Sims for the friendliness of my

reception, for his care that I be shown all the Navy's activities,

and for his constant and kindly effort to advance my work in every

possible way. To Admiral Hugh Rodman of the battleship squadron, his

sometime guest here renders thanks for the opportunity given him to

spend some ten days aboard the American flagship and for the welcome

which makes his stay aboard so pleasant a memory.

To the following officers, also, am I much indebted: Captain, now

Admiral Hughes, Captain J. R. Poinsett Pringle, Chief of Staff at the

Irish Base, Captain Thomas Hart, Chief of Staff directing submarine

operations, Commander Babcock and Commander Daniels, both of Admiral

Sims' staff, Commander Bryant and Commander Carpender, both of

Captain Pringle's staff, Commander Henry W. Cooke and Commander

Wilson Brown, both of the destroyer flotilla, Lieutenant Horace H.

Jalbert of the U.S.S. Bushnell, Lieutenant Commander Morton L. Deyo,

Chaplain J. L. Neff, Lieutenant F. H. King, Lieutenant Lanman,

Lieutenant Herrick, and Lieutenant Lewis Hancock, Lieutenant George

Hood and Lieutenant Bumpus of our submarines.

I would not end without a word of thanks to the enlisted men for

their unfailing good will and ever courteous behaviour.

To Mr. Ellery Sedgwick of the _Atlantic Monthly_, under whose colours

I had the honour to make my journalistic cruise, I am indebted for

more friendly help, counsel and encouragement than I shall ever be

able to repay. And I shall not easily forget the kindly offices and

unfailing hospitality of Captain Luke C. Doyle of Washington, D.C.,

and Mr. Sidney A. Mitchell of the London Committee of the United

States Food Administration.

Lucky is the correspondent sent to the Navy!

H. B. B.

TOPSFIELD AND QUINCY, 1919

CONTENTS

Preface

I An Heroic Journey

II Into the Dark

III Friend or Foe?

IV Running Submerged

V The Return of the Captains

VI Our Sailors

VII The Base

VIII The Destroyer and Her Problem

IX Torpedoed

X The End of a Submarine

XI "Fishing"

XII Amusements

XIII Storm

XIV On Night Patrol

XV Camouflage

XVI Tragedy

XVII "Consolidation not Coöperation"

XVIII Machine against Machine

XIX The Legend of Kelley

XX Sons of the Trident

XXI The Fleet

XXII The American Squadron

XXIII To Sea with the Fleet

XXIV "Sky Pilots"

XXV In the Wireless Room

XXVI Marines

XXVII Ships of the Air

XXVIII The Sailor in London

XXIX The Armed Guard

XXX Going Aboard

XXXI Grain

XXXII Collision

XXXIII The Raid by the River

XXXIV On Having been both a Soldier and a Sailor

ILLUSTRATIONS

"A destroyer is by no means a paradise of comfort" . . .

_Frontispiece_

A flock of submarines and the "mother" ship in harbour

American destroyer on patrol

The last of a German U-boat

To enjoy their leisure between watches these officers of an American

destroyer lash themselves into their seats

An American battleship fleet leaving the harbour

Even a super-dreadnought is wet at times

An American gun crew in heavy weather (winter) outfit

FULL SPEED AHEAD

AN HEROIC JOURNEY

A London day of soft and smoky skies darkened every now and then by

capricious and intrusive little showers was drawing to a close in a

twilight of gold and grey. Our table stood in a bay of plate glass

windows over-looking the embankment close by Cleopatra's needle; we

watched the little, double-decked tram cars gliding by, the opposing,

interthreading streams of pedestrians, and a fleet of coal barges

coming up the river solemn as a cloud. Behind us lay, splendid and

somewhat theatric, the mottled marble, stiff, white napery, and

bright silver of a fashionable dining hall. Only a few guests were

at hand. At our little table sat the captain of a submarine who was

then in London for a few days on richly merited leave, a

distinguished young officer of the "mother ship" accompanying our

under water craft, and myself. It is impossible to be long with

submarine folk without realizing that they are a people apart,

differing from the rest of the Naval personnel even as their vessels

differ. A man must have something individual to his character to

volunteer for the service, and every officer is a volunteer. An

extraordinary power of quick decision, a certain keen, resolute look,

a certain carriage; submarine folk are such men as all of us pray to

have by our side in any great trial or crisis of our life.

Guests began to come by twos and threes, girls in pretty shimmering

dresses, young army officers with wound stripes and clumsy limps; a

faint murmur of conversation rose, faint and continuous as the murmur

of a distant stream.

Because I requested him, the captain told me of the crossing of the

submarines. It was the epic of an heroic journey.

"After each boat had been examined in detail, we began to fill them

with supplies for the voyage. The crew spent days manoeuvring cases

of condensed milk, cans of butter, meat, and chocolate down the

hatchways, food which the boat swallowed up as if she had been a kind

of steel stomach. Until we had it all neatly and tightly stowed

away, the Z looked like a corner grocery store. Then early one

December morning we pulled out of the harbour. It wasn't very cold,

merely raw and damp, and it was misty dark. I remember looking at

the winter stars riding high just over the meridian. The port behind

us was still and dead, but a handful of navy folk had come to one of

the wharves to see us off. Yes, there was something of a stir, you

know the kind of stir that's made when boats go to sea, shouted

orders, the splash of dropped cables, vagrant noises. It didn't take

a great time to get under way; we were ready, waiting for the word to

go. The flotilla, mother-ship, tugs and all, was out to sea long

before the dawn. You would have liked the picture, the immense

stretch of the greyish, winter-stricken sea, the little covey of

submarines running awash, the grey mother-ship going ahead casually

as an excursion steamer into the featureless dawn. The weather was

wonderful for two days, a touch of Indian summer on December's ocean,

then on the night of the third day we ran into a blow, the worst I

ever saw in my life. A storm.... Oh boy!"

He paused for an instant to flick the ashes from his cigarette with a

neat, deliberate gesture. One could see memories living in the fine,

resolute eyes. The broken noises of the restaurant which had

seemingly died away while he spoke crept back again to one's ears. A

waiter dropped a clanging fork.

"A storm. Never remember anything like it. A perfect terror.

Everybody realized that any attempt to keep together would be

hopeless. And night was coming on. One by one the submarines

disappeared into that fury of wind and driving water; the mothership,

because she was the largest vessel in the flotilla, being the last we

saw. We snatched her last signal out of the teeth of the gale, and

then she was gone, swallowed up in the storm. So we were alone.

We got through the night somehow or other. The next morning the

ocean was a dirty brown-grey, and knots and wisps of cloud were

tearing by close over the water. Every once in a while a great,

hollow-bellied wave would come rolling out of the hullaballoo and

break thundering over us. On all the boats the lookout on the bridge

had to be lashed in place, and every once in a while a couple of tons

of water would come tumbling past him. Nobody at the job stayed dry

for more than three minutes; a bathing suit would have been more to

the point than oilers. Shaken, you ask? No, not very bad, a few

assorted bruises and a wrenched thumb, though poor Jonesie on the Z3

had a wave knock him up against the rail and smash in a couple of

ribs. But no being sick for him, he kept to his feet and carried on

in spite of the pain, in spite of being in a boat which registered a

roll of seventy degrees. I used to watch the old hooker rolling

under me. You've never been on a submarine when she's rolling--talk

about rolling--oh boy! We all say seventy degrees because that's as

far as our instruments register. There were times when I almost

thought she was on her way to make a complete revolution. You can

imagine what it was like inside. To begin with, the oily air was

none too sweet, because every time we opened a hatch we shipped

enough water to make the old hooker look like a start at a swimming

tank, and then she was lurching so continuously and violently that to

move six feet was an expedition. But the men were wonderful,

wonderful! Each man at his allotted task, and--what's that English

word, ... carrying on. Our little cook couldn't do a thing with the

stove, might as well have tried to cook on a miniature earthquake,

but he saw that all of us had something to eat, doing his bit, game

as could be."

He paused again. The embankment was fading in the dark. A waiter

appeared, and drew down the thick, light-proof curtains.

"Yes, the men were wonderful--wonderful. And there wasn't very much

sickness. Let's see, how far had I got--since it was impossible to

make any headway we lay to for forty-eight hours. The deck began to

go the second morning, some of the plates being ripped right off.

And blow--well as I told you in the beginning, I never saw anything

like it. The disk of the sea was just one great, ragged mass of foam

all being hurled through space by a wind screaming by with the voice

and force of a million express trains. Perhaps you are wondering why

we didn't submerge. Simply couldn't use up our electricity. It

takes oil running on the surface to create the electric power, and we

had a long, long journey ahead. Then ice began to form on the

superstructure, and we had to get out a crew to chop it off. It was

something of a job; there wasn't much to hang on to, and the waves

were still breaking over us. But we freed her of the danger, and she

went on.

We used to wonder where the other boys were in the midst of all the

racket. One was drifting towards the New England coast, her compass

smashed to flinders; others had run for Bermuda, others were still at

sea.

Then we had three days of good easterly wind. By jingo, but the good

weather was great, were we glad to have it--oh boy! We had just got

things ship-shape again when we had another blow but this second one

was by no means as bad as the first. And after that we had another

spell of decent weather. The crew used to start the phonograph and

keep it going all day long.

The weather was so good that I decided to keep right on to the

harbour which was to be our base over here. I had enough oil, plenty

of water, the only possible danger was a shortage of provisions. So

I put us all on a ration, arranging to have the last grand meal on

Christmas day. Can you imagine Christmas on a little, storm-bumped

submarine some hundred miles off the coast? A day or two more and we

ran calmly into ... Shall we say deleted harbour?

Hungry, dirty, oh so dirty, we hadn't had any sort of bath or wash

for about three weeks; we all were green looking from having been

cooped up so long, and our unshaven, grease-streaked faces would have

upset a dinosaur. The authorities were wonderfully kind and looked

after us and our men in the very best style. I thought we could

never stop eating and a real sleep, ... oh boy!

"Did you fly the flag as you came in?" I asked.

"You bet we did!" answered the captain, his keen, handsome face

lighting at the memory. "You see," he continued in a practical

spirit, "they would probably have pumped us full of holes if we

hadn't."

And that is the way that the American submarines crossed the Atlantic

to do their share for the Great Cause.

INTO THE DARK

I got to the Port of the Submarines just as an uncertain and rainy

afternoon had finally decided to turn into a wild and disagreeable

night. Short, drenching showers of rain fell one after the other

like the strokes of a lash, a wind came up out of the sea, and one

could hear the thunder of surf on the headlands. The mother ship lay

moored in a wild, desolate and indescribably romantic bay; she

floated in a sheltered pool a very oasis of modernity, a marvellous

creature of another world and another time. There was just light

enough for me to see that her lines were those of a giant yacht.

Then a curtain of rain beat hissing down upon the sea, and the ship

and the vague darkening landscape disappeared, disappeared as if it

might have melted away in the shower. Presently the bulk of the

vessel appeared again: gliding and tossing at once we drew alongside,

and from that moment on, I was the guest of the vessel, recipient of

a hospitality and courtesy for which I here make grateful

acknowledgment to my friends and hosts.

The mother ship of the submarines was a combination of flag ship,

supply station, repair shop and hotel. The officers of the

submarines had rooms aboard her which they occupied when off patrol,

and the crews off duty slung their hammocks 'tween decks. The boat

was pretty well crowded, having more submarines to look after than

she had been built to care for, but thanks to the skill of her

officers, everything was going as smoothly as could be. The vessel

had, so to speak, a submarine atmosphere. Everybody aboard lived,

worked and would have died for the submarine. They believed in the

submarine, believed in it with an enthusiasm which rested on pillars

of practical fact. The Chief of Staff was the youngest captain in

our Navy, a man of hard energy and keen insight, one to whom our

submarine service owes a very genuine debt. His officers were

specialists. The surgeon of the vessel had been for years engaged in

studying the hygiene of submarines, and was constantly working to

free the atmosphere of the vessels from deleterious gases and to

improve the living conditions of the crews. I remember listening one

night to a history of the submarine told by one of the officers of

the staff, and for the first time in my life I came to appreciate at

its full value the heroism of the men who risked their lives in the

first cranky, clumsy, uncertain little vessels, and the imagination

and the faith of the men who believed in the type. Ten years ago, a

descent in a sub was an adventure to be prefaced by tears and making

of wills; to-day submarines are chasing submarines hundreds of miles

at sea, are crossing the ocean, and have grown from a tube of steel

not much larger than a life boat to underwater cruisers which carry

six-inch guns. Said an officer to me:

"The future of the submarine? Why, sir, the submarine is the only

war vessel that's going to have a future!"

[Illustration: A flock of submarines and the "mother" ship in harbor]

On the night of my arrival, once dinner was over, I went on deck and

looked down through the rain at the submarines moored alongside.

They lay close by, one beside the other, in a pool of radiance cast

by a number of electric lights hanging over each open hatchway.

Beyond this pool lay the rain and the dark; within it, their sides

awash in the clear green water of the bay, their grey bridges and

rust-stained superstructures shining in the rain, lay the strange,

bulging, crocodilian shapes of steel. There was something unearthly,

something not of this world or time in the picture; I might have been

looking at invaders of the sleeping earth. The wind swept past in

great booming salvoes; rain fell in sloping, liquid rods through the

brilliancy of electric lamps burning with a steadiness that had

something in it of strange, incomprehensible and out of place in the

motion and hullabaloo of the storm. And then, too, a hand appeared

on the topmost rung of the nearer ladder, and a bulky sailor, a very

human sailor in very human dungarees, poked his head out of the

aperture, surveyed the inhospitable night, and disappeared.

"He's on Branch's boat. They're going out to-night," said the

officer who was guiding me about.

"To-night? How on earth will he ever find his way to the open sea?"

"Knows the bay like a book. However, if the weather gets any worse,

I doubt if the captain will let him go. George will be wild if they

don't let him out. Somebody has just reported wreckage off the

coast, so there must be a Hun round."

"But are not our subs sometimes mistaken for Germans?"

"Oh, yes," was the calm answer.

I thought of that ominous phrase I had noted in the British records

"failed to report," and I remembered the stolid British captain who

had said to me, speaking of submarines, "Sometimes nobody knows just

what happened. Out there in the deep water, whatever happens,

happens in a hurry." My guide and I went below to the officers'

corridor. Now and then, through the quiet, a mandolin or guitar

could be heard far off twanging some sentimental island ditty, and

beneath these sweeter sounds lay a monotonous mechanical humming.

"What's that sound?" I asked.

"That's the Filipino mess boys having a little festino in their

quarters. The humming? Oh, that's the mother-ship's dynamos

charging the batteries of Branch's boat. Saves running on the

surface."

My guide knocked at a door. Within his tidy, little room, the

captain who was to go out on patrol was packing the personal

belongings he needed on the trip.

"Hello, Jally!" he cried cheerily when he saw us. "Come on in. I am

only doing a little packing up. What's it like outside?"

"Raining same as ever, but I don't think it's blowing up any harder."

"Hooray!" cried the young captain with heart-felt sincerity. "Then

I'll get out to-night. You know the captain told me that if it got

any worse he'd hold me till to-morrow morning. I told him I'd rather

go out to-night. Perfect cinch once you get to the mouth of the bay,

all you have to do is submerge and take it easy. What do you think

of the news? Smithie thinks he saw a Hun yesterday.... Got anything

good to read? Somebody's pinched that magazine I was reading.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, that ought to be enough

handkerchiefs.... Hello, there goes the juice."

The humming of the dynamo was dying away slowly, fading with an

effect of lengthening distance. The guitar orchestra, as if to

celebrate its deliverance, burst into a triumphant rendering of

Sousa's "Stars and Stripes."

My guide and I waited till after midnight to watch the going of

Branch's Z5. Branch and his second, wearing black oilskins down

whose gleaming surface ran beaded drops of rain, stood on the bridge;

a number of sailors were busy doing various things along the deck.

The electric lights shone in all their calm unearthly brilliance.

Then slowly, very slowly, the Z5 began to gather headway, the clear

water seemed to flow past her green sides, and she rode out of the

pool of light into the darkness waiting close at hand.

"Good-bye! Good luck!" we cried.

A vagrant shower came roaring down into the shining pool.

"Good-bye!" cried voices through the night.

Three minutes later all trace of the Z5 had disappeared in the dark.

III

FRIEND OR FOE?

Captain Bill of the Z3 was out on patrol. His vessel was running

submerged. The air within, they had but recently dived, was new and

sweet, and that raw cold which eats into submerged submarines had not

begun to take the joy out of life. It was the third day out; the

time, five o'clock in the afternoon. The outer world, however, did

not penetrate into the submarine. Night or day, on the surface or

submerged, only one time, a kind of motionless electric high noon

existed within those concave walls of gleaming cream white enamel.

Those of the crew not on watch were taking it easy. Like unto their

officers, submarine sailors are an unusual lot. They are real

sailors, or machinist sailors, boys for whose quality the Navy has a

flattering, picturesque and quite unprintable adjective. A submarine

man, mind you, works harder than perhaps any other man of his grade

in the Navy, because the vessel in which he lives is nothing but a

tremendously intricate machine. In one of the compartments the

phonograph, the eternal, ubiquitous phonograph of the Navy, was

bawling its raucous rags and mechano-nasal songs, and in the pauses

between records one could just hear the low hum of the distant

dynamos. A little group in blue dungarees held a conversation in a

corner; a petty officer, blue cap tilted back on his head, was at

work on a letter; the cook, whose genial art was customarily under an

interdict while the vessel was running submerged, was reading an

ancient paper from his own home town.

Captain Bill sat in a retired nook, if a submarine can possibly be

said to have a retired nook, with a chart spread open on his knees.

The night before he had picked up a wireless message saying that a

German had been seen at sundown in a certain spot on the edge of his

patrol. So Captain Bill had planned to run submerged to the spot in

question, and then pop up suddenly in the hope of potting the Hun.

Some fifteen minutes before sun down, therefore, the Z3 arrived at

the place where the Fritz had been observed.

"I wish I knew just where the bird was," said an intent voice. "I'd

drop a can right on his neck."

These sentiments were not those of anybody aboard the Z3. An

American destroyer had also come to the spot looking for the German,

and the gentle thought recorded above was that of her captain. It

was just sun down, a level train of splendour burned on the ruffled

waters to the west; a light, cheerful breeze was blowing. The

destroyer, ready for anything, was hurrying along at a smart clip.

"This is the place all right, all right," said the navigator of the

destroyer. "Come to think of it, that chap's been reported from here

twice."

Keen eyes swept the shining uneasy plain.

Meanwhile, some seventy feet below, the Z3 manoeuvred, killing time.

The phonograph had been hushed, and every man was ready at his post.

The prospect of a go with the enemy had brought with it a keen thrill

of anticipation. Now a submarine crew is a well trained machine.

There are no shouted orders. If a submarine captain wants to send

his boat under quickly, he simply touches the button of a Klaxon, the

horn gives a demoniac yell throughout the ship, and each man does

what he ought to do at once. Such a performance is called a "crash

dive."

"I'd like to see him come up so near that we could ram him," said the

captain, gazing almost directly into the sun. "Find out what she's

making."

The engineer lieutenant stooped to a voice-tube that almost swallowed

up his face, and yelled a question to the engine room. An answer

came, quite unheard by the others.

"Twenty-four, sir," said the engineer lieutenant.

"Get her up to twenty-six," said the captain.

The engineer cried again through the voice tube. The wake of the

vessel roared like a mill race, the white foam tumbling rosily in the

setting sun.

Seventy feet below, Captain Bill was arranging the last little

details with the second in command.

"In about five minutes we'll come up and take a look-see (stick up

the periscope) and if we see the bird, and we're in a good position

to send him a fish (torpedo) we'll let him have one. If there is

something there, and we're not in a good position, we'll manoeuvre

till we get into one, and then let him have it. If there isn't

anything to be seen, we'll go under again and take another look-see

in half an hour. Reilly has his instructions." Reilly was chief of

the torpedo room.

"Something round here must have got it in the neck recently," said

the destroyer captain, breaking a silence which had hung over the

bridge. "Did not you think that wreckage a couple of miles back

looked pretty fresh? Wonder if the boy we're after had anything to

do with it. Keep an eye on that sun streak."

An order was given in the Z3. It was followed instantly by a kind of

commotion, sailors opened valves, compressed air ran down pipes, the

ratchets of the wheel clattered noisily. On the moon-faced depth

gauge with its shining brazen rim, the recording arrow fled swiftly,

counter clockwise, from seventy to twenty to fifteen feet....

Captain Bill stood crouching at the periscope, and when it broke the

surface, a greenish light poured down it and focussed in his eyes.

He gazed keenly for a few seconds, and then reached for the

horizontal wheel which turns the periscope round the horizon. He

turned ... gazed, jumped back, and pushed the button for a crash dive.

"She was almost on top of me," he explained afterwards. "Coming like

H--l. I had to choose between being rammed or depth bombed."

There was another swift commotion, another opening and closing of

valves, and the arrow on the depth gauge leaped forward. Captain

Bill was sending her down as far as he could as fast as he dared.

Fifty feet, seventy feet, ... ninety feet. Hoping to throw the

destroyer off, the Z3 doubled on her track. A hundred feet.

Crash! Depth charge number one.

According to Captain Bill, who is good at similes, it was as if a

giant, wading along through the sea, had given the boat a vast and

violent kick, and then leaning down had shaken it as a terrier shakes

a rat. The Z3 rocked, lay on her side, and fell through the depths.

A number of lights went out. Men picked themselves out of corners,

one with the blood streaming down his face from a bad gash over his

eye. Many of them told later of "seeing stars" when the vibration of

the depth charge travelled through the hull and their own bodies;

some averred that "white light" seemed to shoot out of the Z3's

walls. Each man stood at his post waiting for the next charge.

Crash! A second depth charge. To every one's relief, it was less

violent than the first. A few more lights went out. Meanwhile the

Z3 continued to sink and was rapidly nearing the danger point.

Having escaped the first two depth charges, Captain Bill hastened to

bring the boat up to a higher level. Then to make things cheerful,

it was discovered that the Z3 showed absolutely no inclination to

obey her controls.

"At first," said Captain Bill, "I thought that the first depth bomb

must have jammed all the external machinery, then I decided that our

measures to rise had not yet overcome the impetus of our forced

descent. Meanwhile the old hooker was heading for the bottom of the

Irish Sea, though I'd blown out every bit of water in her tanks. Had

to, fifty feet more, and she would have crushed in like an egg shell

under the wheel of a touring car. But she kept on going down. The

distance of the third, fourth and fifth depth bombs, however, put

cheer in our hearts. Then, presently, she began to rise. The old

girl came up like an elevator in a New York business block. I knew

that the minute I came to the surface those destroyer brutes would

try to fill me full of holes, so I had a man with a flag ready to

jump on deck the minute we emerged. He was pretty damn spry about

it, too. I took another look-see through the periscope, and saw that

the destroyer lay about two miles away, and as I looked she came for

me again. Meanwhile, my signal man was hauling himself out of the

hatchway as if his legs were in boiling water."

"We've got her!" cried somebody aboard the destroyer in a deep

American voice full of the exultation of battle. The lean rifles

swung, lowered.... "Point one, lower." They were about to hear

"Fire!" when the Stars and Stripes and sundry other signals burst

from the deck of the misused Z3.

"Well what do you think of that?" said the gunner. "If it ain't one

of our own gang. Say, we must have given it to 'em hard."

"We'll go over and see who it is," said the captain of the destroyer.

"The signals are O.K., but it may be a dodge of the Huns. Ask 'em

who they are."

In obedience to the order, a sailor on the destroyer's bridge

wigwagged the message.

"Z3," answered one of the dungaree-clad figures on the submarine's

deck. Captain Bill came up himself, as the destroyer drew alongside,

to see his would-be assassin. There was no resentment in his heart.

The adventure was only part of the day's work. The destroyer neared;

her bow overlooked them. The two captains looked at each other. The

dialogue was laconic.

"Hello, Bill," said the destroyer captain.

"All right?"

"Sure," answered Captain Bill, to one who had been his friend and

class mate.

"Ta, ta, then," said he of the destroyer, and the lean vessel swept

away in the twilight.

Captain Bill decided to stay on the surface for a while. Then he

went below to look over things. The cook, standing over some

unlovely slop which marked the end of a half dozen eggs broken by the

concussion, was giving his opinion of the undue hastiness of

destroyers. The cook was a child of Brooklyn, and could talk. The

opinion was not flattering.

"Give it to 'em, cooko," said one of the crew, patting the orator

affectionately on the shoulder. "We're with you."

And Captain Bill laughed.

RUNNING SUBMERGED

It was breakfast time, and the officers of the submarines then in

port had gathered round one end of the long dining table in the

wardroom of the mother ship. Two or three who had breakfasted early

had taken places on a bench along the nearer wall and were examining

a disintegrating heap of English and American magazines, whilst

pushed back from the table and smoking an ancient briar, the senior

of the group read the wireless news which had just arrived that

morning. The news was not of great importance. The lecture done

with, the tinkle of cutlery and silver, which had been politely

hushed, broke forth again.

"What are you doing this morning, Bill?" said one of the young

captains to another who had appeared in old clothes.

"Going out at about half past nine with the X10. (The X10 was a

British submarine.) Just going to take a couple of shots at each

other. What are you up to?"

"Oh, I've got to give a bearing the once over, and then I've got to

write a bunch of letters."

"Wouldn't you like to come with us?" said the first speaker, pausing

over a steaming dish of breakfast porridge. "Be mighty glad to take

you."

"Indeed I would," I replied with joy in my heart. "All my life long

I have wanted to take a trip in a submarine."

"That's fine! We'll get you some dungarees. Can't fool round a

submarine in good clothes." The whole table began to take a friendly

interest, and a dispute arose as to whose clothes would best fit me.

I am a large person. "Give him my extra set, they're on the side of

my locker." "Don't you want a cap or something?" "Hey, that's too

small, wait and I'll get Tom's coat." "Try these on." They are a

wonderful lot, the submarine officers.

I felt frightfully submarinish in my outfit. We must have made a

picturesque group. The captain led off, wearing a tattered,

battered, old uniform of Annapolis days, I followed wearing an old

Navy cap jammed on the side of my head and a suit of newly laundered

dungarees; the second officer brought up the rear; his outfit

consisted of dungaree trousers, a kind of aviator's waistcoat, and an

old cloth cap.

The submarines were moored close by the side of the mother ship, a

double doorway in the wall of the machine shop on the lower deck

opening directly upon them. A narrow runway connected the nearest

vessel with the sill of this aperture, and mere planks led from one

superstructure to another. The day, first real day after weeks of

rain, was soft and clear, great low masses of vapour, neither mist

nor cloud, but something of both, swept down the long bay on the

wings of the wind from the clean, sweet-smelling sea; the sun shone

like ancient silver. Little fretful waves of water clear as the

water of a spring coursed down the alley ways between the submarines;

gulls, piping and barking, whirled like snow flakes overhead. I

crossed to one grey alligatorish superstructure, looked down a narrow

circular hatch at whose floor I could see the captain waiting for my

coming, grasped the steel rings of a narrow ladder, and descended

into the submarine. The first impression was of being surrounded by

tremendous, almost incredible complexity. A bewildering and

intricate mass of delicate mechanical contrivances, valves, stop

cocks, wheels, chains, shining pipes, ratchets, faucets, oil-cups,

rods, gauges. Second impression, bright cleanliness, shining brass,

gleams of steely radiance, stainless walls of white enamel paint.

Third impression, size; there was much more room than I had expected.

Of course everything is to be seen by floods of steady electric

light, since practically no daylight filters down through an open

hatchway.

"This," said the captain, "is the control room. Notice the two depth

gauges, two in case one gets out of order. That thick tube with a

brass thread coiled about it is a periscope, and it's a peach! It's

of the 'housing' kind and winds up and down along that screw. The

thread prevents any leak of water. In here," we went through a

lateral compartment with a steel door, thick as that of a small safe,

"is a space where wee eat, sleep and live; our cook stove is that

gadget in the corner. We don't do much cooking when we're running

submerged; in here," we passed another stout partition, "is our

Diesel engine, and our dynamos. Up forward is another living space

which technically belongs to the officers, and the torpedo room." He

took me along. "Now you've seen it all. A fat steel cigar, divided

into various compartments and cram jammed full of shining machinery.

Of course, there's no privacy, whatsoever. (Readers will have to

guess what is occasionally used for the phonograph table.) Our space

is so limited that designers will spend a year arguing where to put

an object no bigger than a soap box. We get on very well however.

Every crew gets used to its boat; the men get used to each other.

They like the life; you couldn't drag them back to surface vessels.

An ideal submarine crew works like a perfect machine. When we go out

you'll see that we give our orders by Klaxon. There's too much noise

for the voice. Suppose I had popped up on the surface right under

the very nose of one of those destroyer brutes. She might start to

ram me; in which case I might not have time to make recognition

signals and would have to take my choice between getting rammed or

depth bombed. I decide to submerge, push a button, the Klaxon gives

a yell, and every man does automatically what he has been trained to

do. A floods the tanks, B stands by the dynamos, C watches the depth

gauges and so on. That's what we call a crash dive."

"Over at the destroyer base," I said, "they told me that the Germans

were having trouble because of lack of trained crews."

"You can just bet they are," said the captain. "Must have lost

several boats that way. Can't monkey with these boats; if somebody

pulls a fool stunt--Good Night!" He opened a gold watch and closed

it again with a click. "Nine o'clock, just time to shove off. Come

up on the bridge until we get out in the bay."

I climbed the narrow ladder again and crept along the superstructure

to the bridge which rose for all the world like a little grey steel

pulpit. One has to be reasonably sure-footed. It was curious to

emerge from the electric lighted marvel to the sunlight of the bay,

to the view of the wild mountains descending to the clear sea. The

captain gave his orders. Faint, vague noises rose out of the

hatchway; sailors standing at various points along the superstructure

cast off the mooring ropes and took in bumpers shaped like monstrous

sausages of cord which had protected one bulging hull from another;

the submarine went ahead solemnly as a planet. Friendly faces leaned

over the rail of the mother ship high above.

Once out into the bay, I asked the second in command just what we

were up to. The second in command was a well knit youngster with the

coolest, most resolute blue eyes it has ever been my fortune to see.

"We're going to take shots at a British submarine and then she's

going to have a try at us. We don't really fire torpedoes--but

manoeuvre for a position. Three shots apiece. There she is now,

running on the surface. Just as soon as we get out to deep water

we'll submerge and go for her. Great practice."

A British submarine, somewhat larger than our American boat, was

running down the bay, pushing curious little waves of water ahead of

her. Several men stood on her deck.

"Nice boat, isn't she? Her captain's a great scout. About two

months ago a patrol boat shot off his periscope _after_ he made it

reasonably clear he wasn't a Hun. You ought to hear him tell about

it. Especially his opinion of patrol boat captains. Great command

of language. Bully fellow, born submarine man."

"I meant to ask you if you weren't sometimes mistaken for a German,"

I said.

"Yes, it happens," he answered coolly. "You haven't seen Smithie

yet, have you? Guess he was away when you came. A bunch of

destroyers almost murdered him last month. He's come the nearest to

kissing himself good-bye of any of us. Going to dive now, time to

get under."

Once more down the steel ladder. I was getting used to it. The

handful of sailors who had been on deck waited for us to pass.

Within, the strong, somewhat peppery smell of hot oil from the Diesel

engines floated, and there was to be heard a hard, powerful

knocking-spitting sound from the same source. The hatch cover was

secured, a listener might have heard a steely thump and a grind as it

closed. Men stood calmly by the depth gauges and the valves. Not

being a "crash dive," the feat of getting under was accomplished

quietly, accomplished with no more fracas than accompanies the

running of a motor car up to a door. One instant we were on the

surface, the next instant we were under, and the lean black arrow on

the broad moon-faced depth gauge was beginning to creep from ten to

fifteen, from fifteen to twenty, from twenty to twenty-five.... The

clatter of the Diesel engine had ceased; in its place rose a low hum.

And of course there was no alteration of light, nothing but that

steady electric glow on those cold, clean bulging walls.

"What's the programme, now?"

"We are going down the bay a bit, put up our periscope, pick up the

Britisher, and fire an imaginary tin fish at him. After each shot,

we come to the surface for an instant to let him know we've had our

turn."

"What depth are we now?"

"Only fifty-five feet."

"What depth can you go?"

"The Navy Regulations forbid our descending more than two hundred

feet. Subs are always hiking around about fifty or seventy-five feet

under, just deep enough to be well under the keel of anything going

by."

"Where are we now?"

"Pretty close to the mouth of the bay. I'm going to shove up the

periscope in a few minutes."

The captain gave an order, the arrow on the dial retreated towards

the left.

"Keep her there." He applied his eye to the periscope. A strange,

watery green light poured out of the lens, and focussing in his eye,

lit the ball with wild demoniac glare. A consultation ensued between

the captain and his junior.

"Do you see her?"

"Yes, she is in a line with that little white barn on the island....

She's heading down the bay now.... So many points this way (this

last direction to the helmsman) ... there she is ... she's making

about twelve ... she's turning, coming back ... steady ... five, ...

six ... Fire!"

There was a rush, a clatter, and a stir and the boat rose evenly to

the surface.

"Here, take a look at her," said the captain, pushing me towards the

periscope. I fitted the eyepieces (they might have been those of

field glasses embedded in the tube) to my eyes, and beheld again the

outer world. The kind of a world one might see in a crystal, a

mirror world, a glass world, but a remarkably clear little world.

And as I peered, a drop of water cast up by some wave touched the

outer lens of the tube, and a trickle big as a deluge slid down the

visionary bay.

Twice again we "attacked" the Britisher. Her turn came. Our boat

rose to the surface, and I was once more invited to accompany the

captain to the bridge. The British boat lay far away across the

inlet. We cruised about watching her.

"There she goes." The Britisher sank like a stone in a pond. We

continued our course. The two officers peered over the water with

young, searching, resolute eyes. Then they took to their binoculars.

"There she is," cried the captain, "in a line with the oak tree." I

searched for a few minutes in vain. Suddenly I saw her, that is to

say, I saw with a great deal of difficulty a small dark rod moving

through the water. It came closer; I saw the hatpin shaped trail

behind it.

Presently with a great swirl and roiling of foam the Britisher pushed

herself out of the water. I could see my young captain judging the

performance in his eye. Then we played victim two more times and

went home. On the way we discussed the submarine patrol. Now there

is no more thrilling game in the world than the game of periscope

_vs._ periscope.

"What do you do?" I asked. "Just what you saw us do to-day. We pack

up grub and supplies, beat it out on the high seas and wait for a

Fritz to come along. We give him a taste of his own medicine; given

him one more enemy to dodge. Suppose a Hun baffles the destroyers,

makes off to a lonely spot, and comes to the surface for a breath of

air. There isn't a soul in sight, not a stir of smoke on the

horizon. Just as Captain Otto, or Von Something is gloating over the

last hospital ship he sunk, and thinking what a lovely afternoon it

is, a tin fish comes for him like a bullet out of a gun, there comes

a thundering pound, a vibration that sends little waves through the

water, a great foul swirl, fragments of cork, and it's all over with

the Watch on the Rhine. Sometimes Fritz's torpedo meets ours on the

way. Then once in a while a destroyer or a patriotic but misguided

tramp makes things interesting for a bit. But it's the most

wonderful service of all. I wouldn't give it up for anything. We're

all going out day after to-morrow. Can't you cable London for

permission to go? You'll like it. Don't believe anything you hear

about the air getting bad. The principal nuisance when you've been

under a long while is the cold; the boat gets as raw and damp as an

unoccupied house in winter. Jingo, quarter past one! We'll be late

for dinner."

Some time after this article had appeared, the captain of an American

submarine gave me a copy of the following verses written by a

submarine sailor. Poems of this sort, typewritten by some

accommodating yeoman, are always being handed round in the Navy; I

have seen dozens of them. Would that I knew the author of this

picturesque and flavorous ditty, for I would gladly give him the

credit he deserves.

A SUBMARINE

Born in the shops of the devil,

Filled with acid and crude oil,

And christened "A Submarine."

The posts send in their ditties

Of battleships spick and clean;

But never a word in their columns

Do you see of a submarine.

So I'll endeavour to depict our story

In a very laconic way;

So please have patience to listen

Until I have finished my say.

We eat where'er we can find it,

And sleep hanging up on hooks;

Conditions under which we're existing

Are never published in books.

Life on these boats is obnoxious

And this is using mild terms;

We are never bothered by sickness,

There isn't any room for germs.

We are never troubled with varmints,

There are things even a cockroach can't stand;

And any self-respecting rodent

Quick as possible beats it for land.

And that little one dollar per diem

We receive to submerge out of sight,

Is often earned more than double

By charging batteries all night.

And that extra compensation

We receive on boats like these,

We never really get at all.

It's spent on soap and dungarees.

Machinists get soaked in fuel oil,

Electricians in H2SO4,

Gunner's mates with 600 W,

And torpedo slush galore.

When we come into the Navy Yard

We are looked upon with disgrace;

And they make out some new regulation

To fit our particular case.

Now all you battleship sailors,

When you are feeling disgruntled and mean,

Just pack your bag and hammock

And go to a submarine.

THE RETURN OF THE CAPTAINS

The breakfast hour was drawing to its end, and the very last

straggler sat alone at the ward room table. Presently an officer of

the mother ship, passing through, called to the lingering group of

submarine officers.

"The X4 is coming up the bay, and the X12 has been reported from

signal station."

The news was received with a little hum of friendly interest.

"Wonder what Ned will have to say for himself this time." "Must have

struck pretty good weather." "Bet you John has been looking for

another chance at that Hun of his." The talk drifted away into other

channels. A little time passed. Then suddenly a door opened, and

one after the other entered the three officers of the first home

coming submarine. They were clad in various ancient uniforms which

might have been worn by an apprentice lad in a garage, old grey

flannel shirts, and stout grease stained shoes; several days had

passed since their faces had felt a razor, and all were a little pale

from their cruise. But the liveliest of keen eyes burned in each

resolute young face, eyes smiling and glad. A friendly hullaballoo

broke forth. Chairs scraped, one fell with a crash.

"Hello, boys!"

"Hi, John!"

"For the love of Pete, Joe, shave off those whiskers of yours; they

make you look like Trotsky."

"See any Germans?"

"What's the news?"

"What's doing?"

"Hi, Manuelo" (this to a Philipino mess boy who stood looking on with

impassive curiosity), "save three more breakfasts."

"Anything go for you?"

"Well, if here isn't our old Bump!"

The crowd gathered round Captain John who had established contact

(this is military term quite out of place in a work on the Navy) with

the eagerly sought, horribly elusive German.

"Go on, John, give us an earful. What time did you say it was?"

"About 5 A.M.," answered the captain. He stood leaning against a

door and the fine head, the pallor, the touch of fatigue, all made a

very striking and appealing picture. "Say about eight minutes after

five. I'd just come up to take a look-see, and saw him just about

two miles away on the surface, and moving right along. So I went

under to get into a good position, came up again and let him have

one. Well, the bird saw it just as it was almost on him, swung her

round, and dived like a ton of lead."

The audience listened in silent sympathy. One could see the

disappointment on the captain's face.

"Where was he?"

"About so and so."

"That's the jinx that got after the convoy sure as you live."

The speaker had had his own adventures with the Germans. A month or

so he shoved his periscope and spotted a Fritz on the surface in full

noonday. The watchful Fritz, however, had been lucky enough to see

the enemy almost at once and had dived. The American followed suit.

The eyeless submarine manoeuvred about some eighty feet under, the

German evidently "making his get-a-way," the American hoping to be

lucky enough to pick up Fritz's trail, and get a shot at him when the

enemy rose again, to the top. And while the two blind ships

manoeuvred there in the dark of the abyss, the keel of the fleeing

German had actually, by a curious chance, scraped along the top of

the American vessel and carried away the wireless aerials!

Full Speed Ahead: Tales from the Log of a Correspondent with Our Navy · 第 1 / 10 段