THE RADIO GUNNER
[Illustration: IN THE LABORATORY]
THE RADIO GUNNER
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1924
COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
“Certainly they give men rewards for doing such things,
but what reward can there be in any gift of Kings or
peoples to match the enduring satisfaction of having done
them, not alone, but with and through and by trusty and
proven companions?”
Kipling; _Sea Warfare_
CONTENTS
I A Scientist in the Making
II The Storm-Cloud
III The Mobilization
IV Progress in Jeopardy
V The Storm-Center Moves Eastward
VI The Hunt
VII The Fleet Arrives
VIII Dispatching the Secret Messenger
IX The Round-up
X The Power of Suggestion
XI Intrigue and Mischief
XII The Victim
XIII The Show-down
XIV The Battle
XV The Harbor at Sunset
ILLUSTRATIONS
In the Laboratory
And then the thing struck
“There’s your oil-slick, isn’t it, Captain?”
Fraser scratched on the ground diagrams illustrative
of the formations
Drawn by Heman Fay, Jr.
THE RADIO GUNNER
CHAPTER I—A SCIENTIST IN THE MAKING
1
Early in the twentieth century the annual Memorial Day parade was
passing through a New England town. The sun shone hotly down till the
tarvia of the road felt soft and sticky underfoot. At the head of the
procession the usual brass band led the way with martial music. Every
one in the town was out, the older citizens for the most part standing
reverently with uncovered heads, while the children, in anything but a
solemn mood, tagged along on the flanks of the band.
Jim Evans, a boy of six years, stood by the sidewalk in front of the
little white house in which he lived, his mother beside him, holding
him by the hand. At the rhythmic crescendo of the approaching music,
his pulse throbbed, and as the band swept by his eyes sparkled with
delight. Then came the aged veterans of the Civil War in their faded
blue uniforms, their grizzled white beards and wrinkled features
giving them a quaintness in the child’s eyes that made him want to
call his mother’s attention. He tugged at her hand and looked up at
her. The look in her face struck wonder to his childish soul; there
were tears in her eyes. He gazed at her in amazement. Tears had always
been to him the expression of childish grievance—nothing more. He had
never seen them shed by a grown-up. To his inquiring mind a mystery
had now presented itself. More than that, deep down within him there
was an awakening of something he had never felt before. His mother
looked down and saw the expression of wonder in the child’s serious
face. Her only answer was a tightening of her grip on his hand and a
quiver of the lip.
The sound of the beating drum died away down the street; the
procession was gone. The mother and child returned to the little
garden behind the house. Seating herself in a garden chair, she took
him in her lap.
“Jim,” she said in a low tender voice, “my father would have been
marching with those old men if he had lived. I remember so well when
he said ‘good-bye.’ I was a little girl about as big as you are, and
he picked me up in his arms and kissed me. Then he went away and never
came back. He died fighting bravely for all of us who stayed behind.”
Thus with the vision of the parade fresh in his eyes and the sound of
martial music still ringing in his ears, and with the wonder of this
new meaning of his mother’s tears stirring his soul, the tradition of
an heroic life and death, the most precious heritage of the mother,
was handed on to Jim, the small boy. In after years he never saw a
Memorial Day parade but the memory of that day rose vividly before
him, and he never forgot what the day stood for.
2
Eleven years after this incident, one October afternoon, Jim Evans,
now at boarding-school, had gone up into the laboratory in the top of
the schoolhouse to finish an experiment with a new radio hook-up
before putting on his football clothes. He had just become absorbed in
his task when he heard the ringing of a bell which sounded the fire
alarm. Every boy in the school had his duty in the fire brigade
assigned him, and all knew that this summons took precedence over
everything.
Evans dropped his tools and ran to a window overlooking the school
grounds. From his high position he could see the situation at a
glance. The school grounds comprised a superb grove of stately white
pines, the pride of the neighborhood. Within this grove, by its
western border, was a pond, and north of the pond the grove was
bounded for a short distance at its northwest corner by a small swamp,
choked with dense vegetation, a place frequented by a great variety of
bird life. West of the grove lay a wide expanse of low meadowland
overgrown with tall grass and thick bushes. After weeks of drought the
ground was parched and dry. A strong northwest wind was blowing, and a
brush fire burning in the meadow was sweeping rapidly toward the pine
grove, imminently threatening its destruction. Evans saw the boys dash
into a building and then, emerging with buckets and brooms, start on a
run, led by Sam Mortimer, chief of the fire brigade, to the south side
of the pond. Here lay the greater part of the boundary between the
meadow and the grove, and here it was that the shore of the pond was
most easily approached, for on the north it was lined with the dense
swamp vegetation. Evidently the plan of campaign was to form a bucket
line from the pond along the western edge of the grove to its southern
extremity. Evans could see that no one was detailed to deal with the
fire north of the pond; apparently it was assumed that the natural
moisture there would stop the fire. Now Evans had frequently haunted
this swamp in search of birds, and knew that the drought had reduced
it to a highly inflammable state. After a brief survey of the
situation, he ran downstairs and out toward the grove. By the time he
was out on the grounds the entire school, boys and masters, had
disappeared into the grove to the south of the pond. Evans ran for the
swamp where the smoke told him the fire was already entering the dense
growth of brush.
Into the thicket he plunged and clawed his way through the tall bushes
till, half-suffocated with smoke, he reached the advancing line of the
fire. Down he went on his hands and knees and began scraping away the
dried leaves from the surface of the mud, now and again jumping to his
feet and uprooting bushes where the density of the growth required it,
then dropping again to his knees and working among the leaves like a
terrier. Thus he made across the path of the fire a swath where the
flames were stopped except in the strongest gusts of wind. Now and
then one of these would blow a burning leaf across the swath and start
the fire anew on the other side. Then Evans would jump back and stamp
out the fresh blaze. Once, when a runaway blaze threatened to spread
too fast to be stopped in this way, he threw himself on it and
smothered it with his body.
With feverish effort he struggled against the advancing flames,
fearful lest they should get beyond his control in the larger bushes
and trees by the edge of the pond and thus set fire to the entire pine
grove. But now he saw the water of the pond gleaming through the smoke
not far ahead, and redoubled his efforts to carry his swath of bare
earth to the water’s edge. Half-blinded with smoke he dug and clawed
and kicked away the leaves till at last he reached the muddy shore of
the pond, and with vast relief saw the last of the flames expend
themselves in the dried leaves west of the line.
He turned and walked back over the swath he had made, searching
carefully for embers that might start the fire anew. Only smouldering
embers did he find, and, stamping these out, he returned to the edge
of the pond satisfied that no more danger lay in this quarter. He then
skirted the shore of the pond and came to the south side where the
rest of the boys, having put out the fire in that quarter with their
bucket line, were assembling.
Evans approached the others, picking the thorns out of his fingers as
he came.
When Mortimer saw him he said, “Well, Jim, where in thunder have you
been?”
“In the swamp,” was the answer.
“What, looking for birds? There’s no fire there, is there?”
Evans looked at him a second before answering, then said quietly,
“No.”
“Didn’t you hear the fire bell?” said Mortimer.
“Yes,” said Evans.
“That’s a nice example to set the younger boys!” said Mortimer. “How
can we make anything of the fire brigade if the fellows in the
graduating class quit in an emergency like that? You ought to be put
in the jug.”
The eyes of half a dozen boys standing near were on Evans, but he said
nothing. The fire brigade was formally dismissed, and the boys
repaired to the gymnasium where they dressed for football practice. As
they were dressing, Evans spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. In
the line-up between the first and second teams, Evans, being one of
the smallest on the squad, played quarterback on the second. Usually
his game was not remarkable; he was criticized for too much
deliberation in the choice of plays. To-day he seemed possessed; he
was all over the field at once, picking up the ball on fumbles,
darting through the line and gaining ground, till Mortimer, captain of
the first eleven, coached his team to watch Evans and stop him. In
spite of all he could do to rally his team, Evans made a touchdown
which resulted in the defeat of the first eleven by the second, a
humiliation it had hitherto been spared.
As the boys were walking back to the locker building in their reeking
football clothes, the head-master drew Mortimer aside and said to him:
“Didn’t you have your whole fire brigade on the south side of the
pond?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mortimer.
“I suppose you thought the swamp on the north side would be too wet to
burn, and the fire would stop there anyway,” said the head-master.
“Surely.”
“I should have thought so, too,” said the head-master; “there’s
usually standing water all through there. Fortunately some one who
knew better than you or I went in there and saved the pine grove. I’ve
just been looking over the ground and found that the fire had gone
right into the middle of the swamp to where some one had scraped away
the leaves and stopped it. It was dry as tinder everywhere. Have you
any idea who could have done it?”
Mortimer was staggered.
“Jim Evans was in the swamp,” he said. “It must have been he. And I
called him down for not being on the job. Why didn’t he tell me?”
Mortimer hastened to find Evans and ascertain the truth.
“Why didn’t you tell me, you great chump?” he said.
“You seemed to take it for granted that I’d been making a fool of
myself, and I suppose that made me sore. Anyway, I didn’t feel like
going into explanations with those other fellows looking on.”
“Well, I’m going into explanations just as quick as I can,” said
Mortimer warmly.
“That’s mighty white of you, Sam,” said Evans, “but don’t make too
much fuss over it.”
Mortimer lost no time in telling all who had heard his sharp
rebuke—and more too—the truth of the matter.
3
The next year Evans and Mortimer were freshmen together in college.
The friendship between them was firmly established, but in the larger
number of boys with whom they were thrown the divergence of their
tastes caused them to see less and less of each other. Mortimer was
universally liked and socially prominent. Altogether he was a
distinguished figure in his class. Evans devoted himself assiduously
to scientific study, and in his leisure time his strong love of
outdoor life usually led him away from, rather than toward, the haunts
of men. For this reason, as well as because of his reserved and
retiring disposition, he was socially comparatively obscure, though
respected and beloved by the few with whom he became intimate.
Few would have supposed that one so obviously a leader as Mortimer
could ever want to lean for support in any exigency of life on one
younger than himself. Yet there were times when he felt depressed or
when his philosophy of life seemed clouded with doubts. At such times
he was apt to stroll over to Evans’s room where the two friends would
have a “heart-to-heart” talk, often lasting well into the night; and
always the clouds of confusion or doubt would disappear.
The spring following their entrance into college came that great
turning-point in history, when in April, 1917, America entered the
war. Mortimer enrolled in the first Plattsburg Camp where he applied
himself so well to his training for the army that, in spite of being
only twenty years old, he won the commission of first lieutenant.
After many months in a training camp he was promoted to captain and
sent overseas. His company continued in training in France till the
last two months of the war when it was sent into action in the
Argonne. Mortimer served with distinction and won an enviable
citation.
Evans, being a proficient radio operator, enlisted at once in the navy
and was put through the intensive course for radio electricians, and
then sent abroad on a destroyer.
When he left his home the parting was not easy. His mother was a
widow, and he her only child; he was all she had. But in the spirit
with which the Spartan mothers gave to their sons the shields they
were to carry into battle, saying as they did so, “Return with it, or
on it,” Jim Evans’s mother bade him Godspeed with a brave smile on her
lips. He had a tradition to live up to, and she thanked God he was
able to do it.
During the last months of the war the destroyer to which Evans was
attached was among those basing on Queenstown and performing the
arduous duty of meeting the great convoys from the States, far out at
sea, and escorting them through the danger zone to safety.
The life on these slim fighting ships was a strange one indeed. As
they slid silently out of the harbor past Haulbowline, three, four, or
five in column, they never knew what might be in store for them. Then
as they passed Daunt Rock and, forming their scouting line, plunged
into the head seas that swept their narrow decks, there came the test
of the sailor’s morale. To learn to live and carry on in their cramped
quarters, rolling, pitching, and thrashing about till it seemed as if
neither flesh and blood nor steel could stand it any longer, while the
cold, gray rollers, washing over the ship from stem to stern, chilled
the very soul, was a feat that seemed to call for even more than human
powers of adaptation.
But it was not always rough and dreary. There were days of sparkling
sunshine and calm seas, days when Evans’s spirit expanded and he
rejoiced in the grandeur of the ocean. And as he became more and more
accustomed to the life, his love of the sea, born at first in his
childhood acquaintance with it on the New England coast, became
deeper, till it was woven into every fiber of his being.
Soon after the Armistice, Evans went to London on leave. He now wore
the uniform of a Chief Petty Officer, having risen through the
successive grades of radio electrician to chief. In London he met Sam
Mortimer, and they had a happy evening together. Mortimer told of the
days and nights at the front in mud, rain, shell-fire, and gas.
“How was it on the destroyers?” he asked of Evans.
“Pretty hard to stick it at first,” was the answer. “In those early
days when we first started bucking the head seas going out to
seventeen degrees west to look for convoys, I’d just want to curl up
in the lee of a stack where I could breathe fresh air and still not be
drenched to the skin with the spray and green seas washing over the
decks. I didn’t care a hang half the time if I made good or not. And I
was just crazy for the sight of the green hills of Ireland and the
spires of Queenstown, the snug berth at the mooring buoy and the
liberty party ashore. Then I waked up to the fact that the messages I
had to copy in those tedious watches in the radio room were very close
to the heart of our naval strategy; handling them mechanically like an
automaton, I was losing a golden opportunity to read the controlling
mind. I began to notice things, and I saw a wonderful evolution going
on. Sailing orders which at first required long messages were later
transmitted in a few brief signals. Every month saw new growth of
efficiency in handling communications and disposing the forces. We
have the British chiefly to thank for that—especially Admiral Bayly.
“Toward the end I got to feel more like part of the ship; I got so I
didn’t mind, no matter how rough it was, and then the real spirit of
the sea got hold of me. As an old sailor said, life at sea clears the
corruption of the beach right out of your system. I’ve got now so that
when the old ship leaves Corkbeg Light astern and puts her nose into
the Atlantic, I feel that I’m getting back into my native element.”
“I like the ocean on a nice calm day,” said Mortimer, “but I’d never
feel like that.”
“What I want to do now more than anything,” said Evans, “is to go for
a good long cruise in my own boat when I can go where I want, turn in
when I want, and get up when I want.”
“I’ll do that with you when we get home,” said Mortimer.
“That’s a go,” echoed Evans warmly. “Don’t forget it.”
“You bet I won’t,” said Mortimer.
4
Before the end of the winter these two young men were back in college,
finishing the courses they had begun. The summer vacations were for
Mortimer so well occupied with house parties and travel that the
promised cruise was forgotten.
After college Mortimer studied law. As a student of this profession,
though of average thoroughness, he was more especially characterized
by brilliance; he could take in the “headlines” of a subject quickly
and well. After a short apprenticeship as a lawyer, he turned his
attention to politics in which he made for himself a brilliant and
successful career.
Evans took up research in physics as his life-work, and after a year
in the great Cavendish Laboratory of Cambridge, England, he found a
place in the physics department of one of the leading American
universities. His researches dealt with the problems of atomic
structure and dynamics, and in this work he was deeply absorbed,
giving little time to anything else, except during his vacations when
he made a point each year of taking a substantial allowance of outdoor
life, usually cruising in a small sailboat along the New England coast
and often as far as Nova Scotia or the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. Thus he
kept the elasticity of youth, and with it an ever-increasing
self-reliance, so that no problem presented to him by wind or tide or
fog could catch him without adequate resource.
Three years after graduation the class of which Evans and Mortimer
were members held a reunion at their Alma Mater in June. Mortimer, now
as always the leader in his class, was the central figure, usually
surrounded by groups of warm friends chatting about old times and war
times, or discussing questions of the day. Once during the reunion he
contrived to get off in a corner with Evans.
“What about that cruise we planned in London?” he said. “Six years
have gone by and we don’t seem to have pulled it off yet.”
“Name your day this summer,” said Evans, “and I’ll take you on.”
“I’m scheduled for a vacation the first of August. How would that suit
you?”
“That suits me fine. My boat will be in the harbor; just come to my
laboratory and we’ll go aboard.”
“That’s a date,” said Mortimer; “don’t forget.”
On August first Mortimer appeared at the Physics Building and asked
for Evans. A crotchety _diener_ in faded overalls showed him to a room
in the basement far removed from the light of day. Within, the sight
which met his eye was what appeared to be a hopeless snarl of junk.
There was a maze of glass tubing bent into all sorts of bizarre
shapes, some of it covered with crumpled bits of sheet lead or tinfoil
from the wrapping of a cake of chocolate; there were wires leading
every which way with no apparent vestige of order; there were old
wooden packing-boxes serving as supports, rusty nails bent upward for
hooks, nondescript objects tied together with twine or stuck together
with wax. Yet within this crazy jumble were instruments whose
construction required the highest refinement of manual skill that can
be found in all the world. The entire set-up was the culmination of
years of patient planning, designing, and assembling. Crude as it
appeared, it was in reality the key to some of the profoundest secrets
of Nature; and no man on earth save Evans knew how to use it. In the
midst of this strange assortment of matter, Evans sat on an empty
packing-box, his eye glued to the eye-piece of an optical instrument.
“Well, Jim, are you coming sailing?”
Before answering, Evans scribbled some figures on a scrap of paper.
Then he turned to Mortimer.
“Good Lord, Sam, is it the first of August already? I’d clean lost
track of time.”
“That’s what it is; and there’s a fine sailing breeze.”
“Sailing breeze or no, I can’t knock off now. I’ve been sweating all
summer to get this experiment going right, and it’s going at last to
the Queen’s taste.”
“Well, where do I come in? I’ve come all the way from New York to go
cruising with you.”
“I tell you what,” said Evans, after a moment’s reflection, “you go
down to the harbor and find Jones’s store. Get whatever looks good in
the way of fresh food; I’ve got plenty of canned goods and staple
groceries on board. Get the stuff delivered at Salter’s Landing. I can
finish up this experiment by midnight, and I guess after that it won’t
hurt me to get it out of my system for a while. Go to the movies or
anything you like, and then come here with a taxi about midnight, and
we’ll get aboard as quick as we can.”
Clearly the man of science could no more be budged till his cherished
experiment had yielded its golden fruit of knowledge than can the moon
be diverted from her course in the skies. No exploration of new
continents, no searching for hidden gold can lure the spirit on with
so strong an appeal as the unknown law of Nature awaiting the crucial
experiment, planned and prepared for months, and then appearing at
last like the light of day when the experiment is done and the
measurements construed with the power of reason.
Mortimer obeyed, and wandered off to spend the afternoon and evening
on the water-front of the harbor. The next day the two friends sailed
a sparkling sea together in a tiny cruising knockabout—boys once more.