The _Colodia_ was drifting more than a cable’s length from the wreck of
the German airship that had fallen into the sea. Philip Morgan and
George Belding were some minutes in dropping down to the wreck, each
upborne by his life buoy, the lines of which were payed out by their
comrades on the destroyer’s deck.
The ropes soon grew very heavy and had the ship been much further away
the two boys would have found the life rings of little aid to them.
However, when the waves swept them against the twisted framework of the
Zeppelin, they were still held well above the surface of the sea and
were able to seize parts of the wreckage.
Whistler signaled those on the _Colodia_ to cease paying out. Then he
turned to look up at the struggling men above his head. George Belding
cried:
“All right, Phil?”
He bawled the query so loud that Whistler heard him above the noise of
the sea and the creaking of the wreckage.
“Hunky-dory!” he returned. He pointed above, and Belding could easily
read his lips: “Which of these Heinies shall we get first?”
One man was already letting himself down toward the rescuers. By the
trimming on his uniform the American boys were positive he was an
officer--perhaps the commander of the Zeppelin.
“Tell that fellow to pass down those who are injured,” Whistler yelled
so that his friend could hear him. “I believe he’s going to try to hog
one of these buoys!”
Belding put up a hand to stop the German. The latter addressed the two
American lads in English.
“I am Herr Hauptman von Hausen. I am in command. Will your comrades draw
me aboard in the bight of that rope?”
“Not now, mein Herr,” shouted Whistler. “You’ve got gall to want to
leave your comrades who may be helpless! Get some of them down here--and
have a care that you do help them, too, or I’m not so sure that you will
ever get to the destroyer at all!”
“Impudence! I shall report you to your commanding officer,” declared the
Zeppelin’s captain fiercely.
“Believe me!” exclaimed Whistler, “that will do you a lot of good. Look
out for this fellow, George! Let’s see that he is hauled in last just
for that.”
“I’m with you,” agreed the other American. “Can you reach that young
chap just above your head? I believe he’s got a broken arm.”
Whistler had managed to climb out of the sea and stood upon one stay,
clinging to another. Now he reached up to aid the fellow George Belding
had spoken of. The German was no older than the lads from the
destroyer--a thin, pale fellow, his face drawn with pain, and his left
arm strapped clumsily to his side.
“He’s got a broken arm, all right,” Whistler shouted. “When I pass him
down, George, do you unbuckle his belt and fasten him with it to the
ring. Then he won’t be swept away, even if he has but one hand to cling
with. All ready?”
“Here, you!” exclaimed Belding, addressing the “Herr Hauptmann” in no
respectful tone. “Lend a hand, will you? If you don’t I’ll cut you
adrift.”
Belding had out his knife to cut a lashing and he looked as though he
would carry out his threat. The Zeppelin commander slid down the stay
and aided in lowering the younger German out of the wreck.
In five minutes they had him lashed as Whistler suggested to the life
buoy, and the young German was on his way to the destroyer. A third
inflated ring had been floated down to the tangle of débris drifting in
the rising sea. Both Morgan and Belding were aware that they must work
rapidly if they would save those of the Germans who were still alive.
The wreckage was shifting from moment to moment. One body suddenly
plunged beneath the tossing waves, but the Americans knew that the
victim was already dead.
The men beside the captain had cut themselves loose and crawled down to
the level of the sea. These two the rescuers sent away clinging to one
of the inflated rings, for they could both handle themselves pretty
well. But they kept Commander von Hausen until the first life buoy was
emptied and was sent back again,
The four bodies left above were not all of live men; the boys were sure
of that. And when they had got the first quartette of castaways started
for the destroyer, Belding climbed up to cut away the nearest man. He
was very weak, and after he was loosened from the stays he proved to be
unable to help himself.
The situation of the two boys from the destroyer was now becoming very
precarious indeed. They could not hang on here for much longer
themselves.
“One of us will have to go back with this fellow,” declared Belding.
“You take him, Phil. I am in better shape than you are.”
“Who told you so?” demanded the Seacove boy. “You take him. I’ll get
that other fellow up there and follow you. Al and the others are
floating another buoy down to us.”
“No,” said Belding. “I’ll lash this fellow here and he’ll have to take
his chance until we get his mate. Those two beyond are dead, aren’t
they?”
“Sure,” returned Whistler. “Poor things! Just think of their hanging on
here for so long.”
“Oh, yes,” growled Belding, but with some scorn. “You can see just how
much good it’s done that captain.”
They were close together or they could not have heard each other speak.
The wind shrieked and the waves roared, making a chorus of sounds that
well nigh drowned their voices.
With great difficulty they brought the second man down. Then, having
lashed each sufferer to a life buoy, Whistler Morgan and Belding set out
to swim beside them to the destroyer.
The waves were much higher now and the two lads were not so strong as
when they had come out to the Zeppelin. They never could have reached
the _Colodia_ without help, and, withal, they were pretty well exhausted
when they were drawn to the side of the pitching destroyer.
Cheers greeted them. The crew was generous always in acknowledging the
individual bravery of its members. However, when it was all over and
Phil and Belding had been treated by the doctor and were between
blankets, Frenchy was inclined to “josh” a little.
“By St. Patrick’s piper that played the last snake out of Ireland!” he
cried, “it will keep you broke for polish to shine up all your medals,
Whistler. If Commander Lang reports this to the port admiral, you and
Belding will get some junk to wear on the proud young chests of yez! And
there’s the medal ye got, Whistler, for grapplin’ wid the depth bomb and
sub chaser Three Eights!”
Whistler tossed a boot at his tormentor’s head, but Frenchy dodged it
and escaped from the sick bay where the doctor had ordered Morgan and
Belding to remain for the time being. They were kept there with the
German lad with the broken arm until the next morning, when the friends
were ordered to appear before Commander Lang. The latter said with a
quizzical smile:
“I hear a bad report of you young chaps on one point. The Herr Hauptman
Frederich Wilhelm von Hausen says you were not sufficiently respectful
to him.”
“We weren’t, I guess,” admitted George Belding. “How about it, Phil?”
“I am afraid we did not pay sufficient attention to his High Mightiness,
sir,” rejoined Morgan. “You see, sir, we sent the wounded boy over
first. That captain was in too big a hurry.”
“Yes. Well,” drawled the commander, “I suppose I shall have to pass this
complaint along to the proper authorities. But I believe I can
congratulate you two lads on drawing down the United States gold life
saving medal for your act.
“You, Belding, have made an excellent mark for yourself on joining the
_Colodia_. We already knew what sort of metal Morgan was built of. Thank
you, my lads! If the surgeon gives you a true bill, you may turn to with
your watches.”
The boys saluted and departed for their stations. The destroyer was
making for port and the headlands were visible. But the storm had not
blown over and the ship was rolling forty-five to fifty degrees. If an
ordinary merchant ship rolls forty degrees her crew think that the end
has come and they will be wrecked; forty degrees is ordinary for a
destroyer to roll in the sea. Often moving about the _Colodia_ was
almost like climbing a sheer wall.
The two boys who had done so brave an act the day before were commended
on all sides; but their mates’ approbation took the form of good natured
joking, for which both Morgan and Belding were thankful.
They heard much comment regarding the German captives from the other
members of the crew. Especially did they learn certain things about the
youth with the broken arm whom they had first sent off to the destroyer
from the wreck of the Zeppelin.
He was named Franz Eberhardt, and he was in the sick bay instead of
being confined with the other prisoners. Hear Hans Hertig rail about
him:
“That feller is a schmardie--one o’ them German schmardies what you hear
about. I would like to have him workin’ on this _Colodia_. We would work
some of the schmardness out of him yet.”
“What’s the matter with him, Boatswain?” demanded Al Torrance.
“Huh! He tells me the Germans ain’t begun to fight yet! Sure! They will
lick all the world--let him tell it. He iss one Prussian.”
Phil Morgan got a chance to go down to the sick bay and interview the
young prisoner. The latter knew that Morgan was one of those who had
rescued him and his mates; but there was a certain arrogance about his
manner and speech that was not likely to make him friends among his
captors.
“Aren’t you worried about your position at all?” asked Whistler, when
they had talked for some time.
“Me?” repeated the German in very good English. “Why should I fear? I am
an Eberhardt. My uncle lived long in England and has friends there. I
shall make friends. The English do not dare treat us Germans badly, for
they know that in the end they will be beaten and we will punish them
severely if they treat prisoners unkindly. Oh, yes!”
“Say!” drawled Whistler, “where do you get that stuff? You must have
caught it from that von Hausen. He wanted to push you out of the way and
take your place in the life buoy.”
“Yes,” admitted the German youth simply. “He is _Hauptman_. Why not?”
“Good-_night_!” growled Whistler. “Our officers don’t do that. They
would consider it beneath them to be saved before their crew.”
Eberhardt, who was sitting up, shrugged his shoulders. “Yes?” he
repeated. “But of course, they are not _gnädige Herren_.”
“That means ‘noble sirs’,” scoffed Whistler. “No, thank heaven, we do
not have such a caste as that in America!”
“You have some very rich men--very rich. I have heard my cousin Emil
say. He knows many of them. Many are from German blood. Of course,
_when_ we finish the war, they will create a caste, as you call it, in
your United States. Cousin Emil says----”
“Who is your Cousin Emil?” demanded Phil Morgan more amused than angered
after all, by this kind of talk. “Is he in the States now?”
“Not yet,” said young Eberhardt, slyly looking at his inquisitor. “But
he is going.”
“Before the war ends? Not much chance of that.”
“Poof!” rejoined the German youth. “You cannot stop Emil. What he wants
to do, he does. He is a great man. He has been decorated by the
Emperor.”
“What department does he fight in?”
“Ah, he is greater than a fighter,” said young Eberhardt, shaking his
head. “He goes hither and yon--where he chooses. In France, England,
Italy, and now to your country, America.”
“A spy?” growled Morgan.
“Call him as you like. Cousin Emil is a wonderful man. Why, to fly from
our bases in Belgium to this England is nothing to Cousin Emil. He has
so traveled a dozen times. But this was my first trip.”
“You were not traveling with your cousin in that Zep, were you?”
“Ah, no. You say our sister _Luftshiff_--she is fallen?”
“Smashed all to pieces,” declared Whistler with satisfaction. “And her
crew prisoners--all but one.”
“Ah!” breathed Eberhardt, slyly smiling again. “And he who escaped?”
“What do you know about him?” asked Whistler in surprise. “That fellow
is a spy I bet! He was not a regular member of the Zep’s crew.”
“No? You saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he a man with a very sharp eye, a moustache like our Emperor, a tiny
beard here?” touching his lower lip.
“That’s the fellow!” cried Whistler. “Do you mean to say he is your
cousin Emil, and a spy?”
“Oh, no, my friend,” chuckled the “schmardie.” “Oh, no. I do not say
that. I merely say that man with the little beard on his lip--a goatee,
do you call it?--plays the cornet. You know, most cornet players wear
the little goatee, isn’t it so?”
Eberhardt laughed again and wagged his head, refusing to say more. As
for thanking Whistler for what he and Belding had done toward saving his
life, such a thought never seemed to enter the German youth’s mind.