long remember, is situated, by a happy coincidence, in modern
London's most New Yorkish area. It stands, a huddle of low,
inconspicuous buildings, in just such a raw open space between three
streets as on this side prefigures the building of a new skyscraper;
the great, modern mass of Australia House lifts its imposing Beaux
Arts façade a little distance above it, whilst the front of a
fashionable hotel rises against the sky just beyond. The ragged
island, the sense of open space, the fine high buildings, ... "say,
wouldn't you think you were back in America again?" Yet only a few
hundred feet down the Strand, old St. Clement Danes lies like a ship
of stone anchored in the thoroughfare, and Samuel Johnson, LL.D.,
stands bareheaded in the sun wondering what has happened to the
world. The hut within is simply an agglomeration of big, clean,
rectangular spaces, reading rooms, living rooms, dormitories, and
baths always full of husky, pink figures, steam and the smell of
soap. Physically, Eagle hut is merely the larger counterpart of some
thousand others. The wonder of the place is its atmosphere. The
narrow threshold might be three thousand miles in width, for cross
it, and you will find yourself in America. All the dear, distinctive
national things for which your soul and body have hungered and
thirsted are gathered here. There is actually an American shoe
shining stand, an American barber chair, and, Heaven be praised,
"good American grub." It is a sight to see the long counter thronged
with the eager, hungry bluejackets, to hear the buzz of lively
conversation carried on in the pervading aroma of fried eggs,
favourite dish or sandwich of apparently every doughboy and tar.
One's admiration grows for the Y. workers who keep at the weary grind
of washing floors, picking up stray cigarette buts, and washing
innumerable eggy plates. I realized to the full what a poor old
college professor who "helped" in a hut on the French front meant
when he had said to me, "life is just one damned egg after another."
Of course sometimes the "hen fruit"--one hears all kinds of facetious
aliases at the Hut--gives way to _soi disant_ buckwheat cakes, a
dainty, lately honoured by royal attention. Should you stroll about
the buildings, you will see sailors and soldiers reading in good,
comfortable chairs; some playing various games, others sitting in
quiet corners writing letters home. There is inevitably a crowd
round the information bureau. Alas, for the poor human encyclopedia,
he lives a bewildering life. On the morning that I called he had
been asked to supply the address of a goat farm by a quartermaster
charged with the buying of a mascot, and he was just recovering from
this when a sailor from the Grand Fleet demanded a complete and
careful résumé of the British marriage regulations! Everybody seems
cheerful and contented; the officials are attentive and kind; the
guests good-natured and well-behaved.
Such is the combination of club, restaurant, and hotel to which our
Jack resorts. And there he lives content in his islet of America,
while London roars about him. During the week, he wanders, as he
says himself, "all over the place."
The good time ends with the Saturday ball game. Everybody goes.
Posters announce it through London in large black type on yellow
paper. "U.S. Army _vs._ U.S. Navy." The field is most American
looking; the "bleachers" might be those in any great American town.
The great game, the game to remember, was played in the presence of
the king. The day was a good one, though now and then obscured with
clouds; a strangely mixed audience was at hand, wounded Tommies,
American soldiers speaking in all the tongues of all the forty-eight
states, a number of American civilians from the embassy and the
London colony, groups of dignified staff officers from the army and
the navy headquarters, and even a decorous group of Britons dressed
in the formal garments which are de rigueur in England at any
high-class sporting event. Then in came the king walking ahead of
his retinue, ... a man of medium height with a most kind and
chivalrous face. Our admiral walked beside him. The band played,
eager eyes looked down, the king, looking up, smiled, and won the
good-will of every friendly young heart. A few minutes later, the
noise broke forth again, "Oh you Army!" "Oh you Navy," a hullaballoo
that culminated in a roar, "Play Ball!"
The Navy men, wearing uniforms of blue with red stripes, walked out
first, closely followed by the army in uniforms of grey-green. The
admiral, towering straight and tall above his entourage, threw the
ball. A pandemonium of yells broke forth. "Now's the time, give it
to 'em, boys, soak it to 'em, soak it to 'em, steady Army, give him a
can, run Smithie!" In a corner by themselves, a group of bluejackets
made a fearful noise with some kind of whirligig rattles. Songs rose
in spots from the audience, collided with other songs, and melted
away in indistinguishable tunes. British Tommies looked on
phlegmatically, enjoying it all just the same. There were stray,
mocking cat calls. It was a real effort to bring one's self back to
London, old London of decorous cricket, tea, and white flannels.
And of course, the Navy won. Over the heads of the vanishing crowd
floated,
Give 'em the axe, the axe, the axe,
Where? Where? Where?
Right in the neck, the neck, the neck,
There! There! There!
Who gets the axe?
ARMY
Who says so!
NAVY
It ends with a roar.
Then there is a celebration, and the next morning, his holiday over,
Jack is rounded up, and put into a railway carriage. The roofs of
London die away, and Jack, dozing over his magazines, sees in a dream
the great grey shapes of the battleships that wait for him in the
endless northern rain.
XXIX
THE ARMED GUARD
When the Germans began to sink our unarmed merchant vessels, and
announced that they intended to continue that course of action, it
was immediately seen that the only possible military answer to this
infamous policy lay in arming every ship. There were obstacles,
however, to this defensive programme. We were at the time engaged in
what was essentially a legal controversy with the Germans, a
controversy in which the case of America and civilization was stated
with a clarity, a sincerity, and a spirit of idealism which perhaps
only the future can justly appreciate. We could not afford to weaken
our case by involving in doubt the legal status of the merchantman.
The enemy, driven brilliantly point by point from the pseudo-legal
defences of an outrageous campaign, had taken refuge in quibbling,
"the ship was armed," "a gun was seen," "such vessels must be
considered as war vessels." We all know the sorry story. For a
while, our hands were tied. Then came our declaration of war which
left our Navy free to take protective measures. The merchantmen were
fitted with guns, and given crews of Navy gunners. This service,
devoted to the protection of the merchant ship, was known as the
Armed Guard.
It was not long before tanker and tramp, big merchantman and grimy
collier sailed from our ports fully equipped. Vessels whose
helplessness before the submarine had been extreme, the helplessness
of a wretched sparrow gripped in the talons of a hawk, became
fighting units which the submarine encountered at her peril.
Moreover, finding it no longer easy to sink ships with gunfire, the
submarines were forced to make greater use of their torpedoes, and
this in turn compelled them to attempt at frequent intervals the
highly dangerous voyage to the German bases on the Belgian coast.
Sometimes the gun crews were British; sometimes American. The
coöperation between the two Navies was at once friendly and
scientific.
The guns with which the vessels were equipped were of the best, and
the gun crews were recruited from the trained personnel of the fleet.
One occasionally hears, aboard the greater vessels, lamentations for
gunners who have been sent on to the Guard. These crews consisted of
some half-dozen men usually under the command of a chief petty
officer. A splendid record, theirs. They have been in action time
and time again against the Germans, and have destroyed submarines.
There is many a fine tale in the records of crews who kept up the
battle till the tilt of their sinking vessel made the firing of the
gun an impossibility. So far, the gunners on the merchant ships have
come in for the lion's share of attention. But there is another and
important side of the Armed Guard service which has not yet, I
believe, been called to the public notice. I mean the work of the
signal men of the Guard.
[Illustration: An American gun crew in heavy weather (winter) outfit]
The arming of the merchant ships was the first defensive measure to
be adopted; the second, the gathering of merchantmen into escorted
groups known as convoys. Now a convoy has before it several definite
problems. If it was to make the most of its chances of getting
through the German ambush, it must act as a well coördinated naval
unit, obeying orders, answering signals, and performing designated
evolutions in the manner of a battleship squadron. For instance,
convoys follow certain zigzag plans, prepared in advance by naval
experts. Frequently these schemes are changed at sea. Now if all
the vessels change from plan X to plan Y simultaneously, all will go
well, but if some delay, there is certain to be a most dangerous
confusion, perhaps a collision. It is no easy task to keep twenty or
so boats zigzagging in convoy formation, and travelling in a general
direction eastward at the same time. Merchant captains have had to
accustom themselves to these strict orders, no easy task for some
old-fashioned masters; merchant crews have had to be educated to the
discipline and method of naval crews. Moreover, there have been
occasional foreign vessels to deal with, and the problem presented by
a foreign personnel. In order, therefore, to assure that
communication between the guide ship of the convoy and its attendant
vessels which is, in the true sense of an abused word, vital to the
success of the expedition, the Navy placed one of its keenest
signalmen on the vessels which required one. He was there to give
and to send signals, by flag, by international flag code, by
"blinker" and by semaphore. The wireless was used as little as
possible between the various vessels of the merchant fleet, indeed,
practically not at all.
The system of signalling by holding two flags at various angles is
fairly familiar since a number of organizations began to teach it,
and the semaphore system is the same system carried into action by
two mechanical arms. The method called "Blinker" has a Morse
alphabet, and is sent by exposing and shutting off a light, the
shorter exposures being the dots, the longer exposures, the dashes.
Sometimes "blinker" is sent by the ship's search light, a number of
horizontal shutters attached to one perpendicular rod serving to open
and close the light aperture. One used to see the same scheme on the
lower halves of old-fashioned window blinds. The international flag
code is perhaps the hardest signal system to remember. It requires
not only what a naval friend calls a good "brute" memory, but also a
good visual memory. Many have seen the flags, gay pieces of various
striped, patched, chequered, and dotted bunting reminiscent of a
Tokio street fair. The signalman must learn the flag alphabet,
committing to memory the colours and their geometric arrangement; he
must also learn the special signification of each particular letter.
For instance, one letter of the alphabet stands for "I wish to
communicate"; there are also numbers to remember, phrases, and
sentences. If a signalman cares to specialize, he can study certain
minor systems, for instance the one in which a dot and a dash are
symbolized by different coloured lights. A signalman must have a
good eye, a quick brain, and a good memory. It is a feat in itself
to remember what one has already received while continuing to receive
a long, perhaps complicated message. Because of these intellectual
requirements, you will find among the signalmen some of the cleverest
lads in the Navy. "Giles" such a lad, "Idaho," another, and "Pop"
was always "on the job."
The Guard has its barracks in a great American port. One saw there
the men being sorted out, equipped for their special service, and
assigned to their posts. A fine lot of real seafaring youngsters,
tanned almost black. The Navy looked after them in a splendid
fashion. Said one of the boys to me, "If I had only known what a
wonderful place the Navy was, I'd been in it long ago." The boys
were sent over in the merchant ships, were cleanly lodged in
excellent hotels once they got to land, and were then sent back on
various liners. The Armed Guard was a real seafaring service, and
its men one and all were touched by the romance and mystery of the
sea. They fell in with strange old tramps hurried from the East,
they broke bread with strange crews, they beheld the sea in the
sullen wrath it cherishes beneath the winter skies. One and all they
have stood by their guns, one and all stood by their tasks, good,
sturdy, American lads, gentlemen unafraid.
XXX
GOING ABOARD
Giles, who had just been sent to the Armed Guard from the fleet, was
waiting for orders in a room at the naval barracks. It was early in
the spring, the sun shone renewed and clear; a hurdy gurdy sounded
far, far away. The big room was clean, clean with that hard, orderly
tidiness which marks the habitations of men under military rule. A
number of sailors, likewise waiting for their orders, stood about.
There was a genuine sea-going quality in the tanned, eager young
faces. The conversation dealt with their journeys, with the ships,
with the men, the life aboard, the furloughs in London. "Bunch of
Danes ... good eats ... chucked Bill right out of his bunk ...
regular peach ... saw Jeff at the Eagle Hut..."
Presently a bosun entered. A man somewhere in the thirties, brisk
and athletic. One could see him counting the assembled sailors as he
came, the numbers forming on his soundless lips. The talk died away.
"How many men here?" said the bosun abruptly.
Several of the sailors began counting. There was much turning round,
a deal of whispered estimations. Every one appeared to be looking at
everybody else. Finally a deep voice from a corner said:
"Thirty-five."
"Any one down for leave?"
Some half dozen members of a gun crew just home from a long journey,
called out that leave had been given them.
"Anybody on sick list?"
There was no answer. In the ensuing silence, the bosun checked off
the answers on his list.
"I suppose you all want to go out."
"Sure!"
"Get in line." The bosun backed away, and looked with an official
eye at the sturdy group.
"All here, pack up and stand by. At eleven o'clock have all your
baggage at the drill office. I'll send a man up to get the mail."
The line broke up, keen for the coming adventure. Giles, the
signalman, walked at a brisk pace to his quarters... You would have
seen a lad of about twenty-two years of age, between medium height
and tall, and unusually well built. Some years of wrestling--he had
won distinction in this sport at school--had given him a tremendously
powerful neck and chest, but with all the strength there was no
suggestion of beefiness. The friendliest of brown eyes shone in the
clean-cut, handsome head, he had a delightful smile, always a sign of
good breeding. In habit he was industrious and persevering, in
manner of life clean and true beyond reproach. Giles is an American
sailor lad, a _real gob_, and I have described him at some length
because of this same reality. The sooner we get to know our sailors
the better.
Back in his quarters, he busied himself with packing his bag. Now
packing one of those cylindrical bags is an art in itself. First of
all, each garment must be folded or rolled in a certain way, the
sleeve in this manner, the collar in that (it is all patiently taught
at training stations) then the articles themselves must be placed
within the bag in an orderly arrangement, and last of all, toilet
articles and such gear must be stowed within convenient reach. A
clean smell of freshly washed clothes and good, yellow, kitchen soap
rose from the tidy bundles. In went an extra suit--"those trousers
are real broadcloth, don't get 'em nowadays, none of that bum serge
they're trying to wish on you," a packet of underwear tied and
knotted with wonderful sailor knots, and last of all handkerchiefs,
soap, and other minor impedimenta done up in blue and red bandanna
handkerchiefs. You simply put the articles on the handkerchiefs and
knot the four corners neatly over the top. There you have the
sailor. Only at sea does one realize to what an extent the bandanna
handkerchief is a boon to mankind. When the bag was packed, it was a
triumph of industry and skill. Shouldering it, the sailor walked to
the drill office. He was early. A good substantial luncheon had
been prepared. There were plates of hearty sandwiches. Just before
noon, a fleet of "buses" took them to the pier.
The day was clear but none too warm, and great buffeting salvos of
dust-laden wind blew across the befouled and busy waters of the port.
A young, almost boyish ensign gave each man his final orders, and a
kind of identification slip for their captains. The sailors of the
Guard, wearing reefers and with round hats jammed tightly on their
heads, stood backed against a wind that curled the wide ends of their
blue trousers close about their ankles. Presently, grimy, hot, and
pouring out coils of brownish, choking smoke, a big ocean-going tug
glided over to the wharf and took them aboard. Then bells ran, the
propeller churned, and the tug turned her corded nose down the bay.
The convoy lay at anchor at the very mouth of the roads. A
miscellaneous lot of vessels, mostly of British registration; some
new, some very, very old. The pick of the group was a fine large
vessel with an outlandish Maori name; Giles heard later that she had
just been brought over from New Zealand. The inevitable grimy-decked
tankers and ammoniacal mule boat completed the lot. An American
cruiser lay at the very head of the line, men could be seen moving
about on her, and there was much washing flapping in the wind. The
tug went from vessel to vessel, landing a signalman here, a gun crew
there. One by one the lads clambered aboard to shouts of "See you
later," and "Soak 'em one for me." Giles was almost the last man
left aboard the tug. Presently he darted off busily to a clean
little tramp camouflaged in tones of pink, grey, and rusty black.
The tug slid alongside caressingly. There were more bells; a noise
of churning of water. Over the side of the greater vessel leaned a
number of the crew, a casual curiosity in their eyes. Seafaring men
in dingy jerseys opening at the throat and showing hairy chests. A
putty-faced ship's boy watched the show a little to one side.
Presently an officer of the ship, young, deep-chested and with a
freshly-healed, puckering, star-shaped wound at the left hand corner
of his mouth, came briskly down the deck and stood by the head of the
ladder.
Giles caught up his bag, clambered aboard, and reported. The officer
brought him to the captain. Then when the formalities were over, the
second mate took him in charge, and assigned the lad his quarters and
his watches.
The convoy set sail the next morning just as a pale, cold, and
unutterably laggard dawn rose over a sea stretching, vast and empty,
to the clearly marked line of a distant and leaden horizon. The
escorting cruiser, flying a number of flags, was the first to get
under way; and behind her followed the merchantmen in their allotted
positions, each ship flying its position flag.
Giles watched the departure from the bridge. Behind him the vast
city rose silent above the harbour mist; ahead, rich in promise of
adventure and romance, lay the great plain of the dark, the
inhospitable, the unsullied, the heroic sea.
XXXI
GRAIN
This is "Idaho's" story. He told it to me when I met him coming home
early this summer. We were crossing in a worthy old transatlantic
which has since gone to the bottom, and Idaho, at his ease in the
deserted smoking room, unfolded the adventure. "Idaho, U.S.N.," we
called him that aboard, is a very real personage. I think he told me
that he was eighteen years old, medium height, solidly built,
wholesome looking. The leading characteristic of the young, open
countenance is intelligence, an intelligence that has grown of itself
behind those clear grey eyes, not a power that has grown from
premature contact with the world. Until he joined the Navy, I
imagine that Idaho knew little of the world beyond his own
magnificent West. I consider him very well educated; he declares
that preferring life on his father's ranch to knowledge, he cut high
school after the second year. He is a great reader, and likes good,
stirring poetry. He is an idealist, and stands by his ideals with a
fervour which only youth possesses. And I ought to add that Idaho,
in the words of one of his friends, is "one first-class signalman."
This is Idaho's story, pieced together from his own recital, and from
a handful of his letters.
The crowd aboard the naval tug was so festive that morning, and there
was such a lot of scuffling, punching, imitation boxing and jollying
generally that Idaho did not see the vessel to which he had been
assigned till the tug was close alongside. Then, hearing his name
called out, the lad caught up his baggage, and walked on into the
open side of a vast, disreputable tramp. The lad later learned that
she had been brought from somewhere in the China Sea. The
_Sebastopol_, Heaven knows where she originally got the name, was a
ship that had served her term in the west, had grown old and out of
date, and then been purchased by some Oriental firm. Out there, she
had carried on, always seaworthy in an old-fashioned way, always
excessively dirty, always a day over due. When the submarine had
made ships worth their weight in silver, the _Sebastopol_ must have
been almost on the point of giving up the ghost. Presently, the war
brought the old ship back to England again. Her return to an English
harbour must have resembled the return of a disreputable relative to
an anxious family. And in England, in some tremendously busy
shipyard, they had patched her up, added a modern electrical
equipment and even gone to the length of new boilers. But her
engines they had merely tuned up, and as for her ancient hull, that
they had dedicated to the mercy of the gods of the sea.