AT TORPEDO TARGET PRACTICE
"Hello, Dan."
Sam Hickey peered over the edge of his hammock in the early morning.
"What is it?" answered Davis sleepily.
"I wonder whether we have missed reveille."
"What's that?" Dan sat up very suddenly.
"I thought that would fetch you awake in a hurry," chuckled the
red-headed boy, snuggling down under his bedclothes, one eye peering
over at his companion.
"That's mean of you, to wake me up so early in the morning," grumbled
Dan. "I was having such a fine sleep, too. I was dreaming----"
"I was dreaming. I'll bet I had a better dream than you did. I
dreamed I was the captain of the 'Long Island,' with four gold stripes
around my sleeve. Then I woke up. That was too fine a dream to sleep
over very long at a time."
"Pipe down the guff," growled several voices from the depths of other
hammocks. "What do you think this is--a pink tea?"
"No; it's a deck picnic," answered Sam, as the bugle blew the reveille,
summoning all hands from their hammocks. The men in the corridor with
the Battleship Boys scrambled down from their hammocks in no enviable
frame of mind, for Hickey had spoiled at least five minutes of their
sleep, which was of no small consequence at that hour of the morning.
Sam seized his clothes and ran for the shower bath, anxious to get his
bath over before the men of his division got there. They were not in a
pleasant frame of mind, and the boy considered it prudent to keep clear
of them until they "got their eyes open," as he expressed it to himself.
The early morning work was finished up and then came breakfast. By
this time the battleship was swinging along past Fire Island light.
The sea was fairly calm and the sun was shining brightly.
"I wonder what we are going to do up here?" questioned a jackie, as
they were at their breakfast.
"Up here? Where are we headed for!" demanded Sam. "Looks to me as if
we were going to butt into a sand bank, the way the ship was headed
when I came below."
"I think we are going into Fort Pond Bay," answered someone.
"Never heard of the place. Is it a pond?" asked Hickey innocently.
"Hear the landlubber talk. Yes, red-head, it's a pond; a
sloppy-weather pond with the current so swift at times that if you were
to go swimming in it, you'd want your port and starboard anchors out
all the time."
"What are we going to do in the pond?"
"The Old Man hasn't taken me into his confidence yet," scoffed a
sailor. "I am expecting to hear from him most any time now."
"Ordering you to appear at mast court, eh?" questioned Sam maliciously.
"That'll be about all for you, red-head."
"Better look out or Dynamite will be mixing it up with you," warned
another. "Won't you, Dynamite?" nodding at Dan.
"I think I have had all the mixing-up that I want," answered Davis,
with a short laugh. "If you don't believe it, just look at this
bandage on my head."
"Yes, Dynamite's a sore head," suggested a shipmate. "I'd be willing
to trade heads with you, if what's in yours could go with it."
At this there was a laugh all around the table. Dan blushed. He did
not like these broad compliments. But, to Dan Davis' credit, be it
said that, instead of making him conceited, they served quite the
opposite purpose. They made him the more determined to merit the good
things that were said of him.
"Torpedo practice to-day," announced a sailor, coming in at that
juncture from his watch on deck.
"What range?" asked some one.
"I hear it is a four-thousand-yard range."
"That will give us all a chance to go out for a row."
"For what?" questioned Sam.
"For the exercise, red-head. We jackies never have anything to do, you
know, so they have to send us out for a row, now and then."
"We don't have to row in a common whaleboat or a cutter. We've got
something better in which to row," retorted Hickey.
"Got something better?"
"Yes."
"Maybe you're going to run the captain's motor boat."
"No; not yet. Maybe we'll be doing that later. Just now we're going
to content ourselves with the gig."
"The gig!"
"Sure thing."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the racing gig. Didn't you know Dan and myself were
members of the racing crew now?"
"No; I didn't know anything of the sort. You kids on the crew? That's
a joke. If we fellows who have been in the service a year or two get
on the crew we think we're lucky."
"Is that right, Davis?" spoke up one of the men further down the table.
"Partly, Bob. We have been chosen for a tryout. We may make such a
miserable failure of it that they will put us out of the boat after the
first practice spin."
"I'm not so sure about the red-head, but I'll risk your making a mess
of anything that you try," answered the jackie addressed as Bob. "I
won't say you're lucky, for the good things generally go to them that
deserve them," continued the sailor wisely. "Leastwise, that's been my
observation. I notice not many of them have ever come my way, though.
What oars are you going to pull?"
"I can't say, Bob. That depends upon Mr. Harper."
Envious glances were directed upon the Battleship Boys from all parts
of the mess.
"I know how they happened to get in for a try-out," announced a member
of the mess. "Black and White were to row in the crew. Instead,
they'll be holding down the deck of the brig for the next thirty days."
"I was in there once," said Sam, with a grin that brought a shout of
laughter.
"A fellow doesn't know what the sailor's life is like unless he gets in
the brig."
"I think I should be satisfied without knowing, then," answered Dan.
"I came pretty close to it once. That was enough for me."
By the time the jackies had finished their breakfast the "Long Island"
was plowing into Fort Pond Bay, and an hour later her starboard anchor
was let go. The ship's prow swung into the tide. The decks were
thronged with sailors cleaning ship, while others were getting the
small boats ready for the work of the day. It was a busy scene, one in
which the Battleship Boys evinced the keenest interest, for they had
never seen torpedo practice before. Dan had some knowledge of the
operation of these weapons of modern warfare, but he was anxious to see
the torpedoes fired.
First, the two steamers were swung out and lowered to the water, where
they were made secure to the lower booms. The captain's motor boat
came next. Two officers went off in her to place the target for the
torpedo practice. This was nothing more than a bamboo fish pole with a
red flag secured to it.
The target was planted in a shallow place in the bay off near the shore
of Gardiner's Island, after they had measured off the course, a
distance of four thousand yards from the ship. It was not intended
that the torpedoes should hit the target, which was placed merely as a
guide for the ordnance officer to fire at. Coming within a hundred
feet of it, either way, would be considered pretty good shooting.
In the meantime the torpedo officer was far down in the hold of the
ship, in the torpedo room, getting ready the huge, fish-like monsters
for the flight they were soon to take. There were six of the deadly
instruments of warfare down there. Dan would have liked to go below to
see how the torpedoes were fired by compressed air, but his duties
would not permit him to do so.
"Seaman Hickey and Davis report for signal duty!" called a boatswain's
mate.
"That's us," nodded Dan. "I guess we are going out. That will be
fine."
"Man the small boats and patrol the torpedo course," commanded an
officer from the bridge. "Davis, you will go out with the motor boat.
Hickey, remain on board for signal duty here. We will put some of your
class in the small boats, and distribute them along the course,"
ordered a quartermaster.
Dan's class in wig-wag work had made marvelous progress. They were now
nearly as proficient in signal work as had been the regular signal
corps, who were working on one of the other ships some five miles to
the northeast from where the "Long Island" lay. None of Dan's men had
worked at such long range before. He was glad, therefore, that he had
been assigned to go out on the range, for he could keep a watchful eye
on his men. He had perfect confidence in Sam. The station Hickey had
was very important, for he was to receive messages and to send messages
to all the small boats of the fleet.
"Now, all small boats keep clear of the torpedo course, so that none of
you get hit. Don't fall in too soon after the torpedo goes by. We
want the course kept clear so that we can follow it with our glasses.
Take your places on the range."
The two steamers whistled shrilly, as, with a procession of small boats
in tow, they started out over the course.
"Hickey, take your place abaft of the bridge, within hailing distance
of the commanding officer," ordered the quartermaster.
Sam stationed himself by the side of the box where the signal flags
were kept, and, leaning against it, focused his spyglass on the rapidly
receding small boats.
"Up starboard anchor!" commanded the executive officer.
Anchor chains rattled as the huge anchor was slowly raised from the
sandy bottom of the bay. The torpedoes were to be fired while the ship
was under full speed.
"Once over the course, then fire on the return," ordered the captain.
"Port, fire first."
"Aye, aye, sir."
The battleship completed her course at right angles to the course over
which the torpedo was to be fired, then swung about.
"Full speed ahead, both engines. Raise the red flag."
The firing signal was hoisted to the peak.
"Are you ready, Mr. Ordnance Officer?"
"All ready, sir."
"Sound a long blast on the siren."
The weird voice of the siren shrieked its warning over the waters,
while the prow of the battleship was rolling up a great white wave as
the ship raced along at full speed.
"Fire!" came the quick word of command.
The ordnance officer pressed a button, his eyes on the target.
A dull, muffled explosion followed.