LAND HO!
Joe leaned against the rail and gazed none too happily over leagues
and leagues of tumbled grey-green water. Overhead the sun had been in
hiding since dawn, but of late an occasional path of amber light had
momentarily shot through the dun clouds and turned to jewel colours the
crests of the rushing seas. Today the big liner was steady enough, but
for the first forty-eight hours she had rolled and pitched a deal more
than Joe had liked, with the result that a good half of that period
had been spent by him in his bunk. It hadn’t been a pleasant time,
for he and Steve and all the other men from the Training Station had
been assigned to steerage quarters, and the steerage bunks were not
what they might have been. Just now, however, what with a more settled
condition of his stomach and the occasional glints of sunshine across
a less boisterous sea, life looked a lot more attractive. Drill that
morning, held on the far from ideal drill ground of the after main
deck, had been a trying proceeding for him, and only the fact that the
“Luff” in command of them had almost tearfully begged for a decent
turn-out had prevented him from again claiming exemption. It was the
first drill with arms since leaving port, and the fact that a certain
exalted personage of the United States Army who wore three stars on the
collar of his service jacket was, together with his Staff, watching
that drill had made it very necessary indeed to show the best they had.
The drill, in spite of causing Joe much unhappiness at the time, had
set him up a lot and just now he was tentatively considering the matter
of dinner. Not having eaten anything of consequence for nearly two
whole days, his interest was only natural.
To starboard, so close that Joe could see the movements of the
lookouts in her fighting tops, ploughed a big lead-grey battleship, a
high-bowed, one-funnelled monster that had joined the liner sometime
and somewhere that first night of the journey. Joe didn’t know her
name, nor, if you believed them, did anyone else. It was remarkable
how little anyone knew――or professed to know――about anything these
days! Ahead of the liner transport steamed a smaller warship, a cruiser
with four funnels and masts that didn’t match. Some said she was the
_Montana_, but as no two persons could agree on the identity of the
battleship Joe didn’t have much faith in the correctness of this guess.
A second cruiser flanked them off the port and two fussy little torpedo
boats wallowed about, well in advance, like sportive dolphins. Those
convoys were a great comfort to Joe, although he sometimes doubted that
they would have time from their signalling, in case of a submarine
attack, to be of any service, for all day long, and way into the night
as well, the big battleship signalled to the cruisers, the cruisers
signalled back, the torpedo boats wig-wagged a bit on their own hook,
and, not to be entirely out of it, the liner semaphored whenever the
thought occurred to her. All of which, in view of the fact that there
was a continual hissing and buzzing in the wireless room, suggested
that there was a whole lot of conversation going on in that part of the
Atlantic Ocean!
The transport, which only a few months ago, had been a crack liner
plying between New York and an English port, carried a varied human
cargo at present. There was, first of all in importance, the Army
Officer and his Staff, and with them a small regiment of orderlies
and clerks. Then there were a number of Navy officers who appeared
to be sharing the work of navigation with the officers of the liner,
several hundred bronze-cheeked, capable-looking boys in olive-drab
whose hats bore the red-and-white cord of the Engineer Service, two
hospital units, very proud in their new uniforms, four gun crews to
man the five-pounders at bow and stern, the detachment of seamen to
which Joe belonged, numerous civilians, amongst whom were a full dozen
war correspondents, and the regular personnel of the steamship. The
big liner, however, was very far from crowded, although at Halifax,
before she had been towed out of the harbour, her decks had fairly
teemed with passengers. That farewell to America had been rather
stirring. Joe recalled the choky sensation that had been his as
whistles on the assembled craft had bellowed hoarse good-byes to them
and as, in the outer harbour, the sailors on the British cruisers
had waved and cheered, while on one of the ships the band had played
“The Star-Spangled Banner.” Before all that there had been a long
and tiresome trip on a train that had been frequently side-tracked,
during which they had slept as best they might in day coaches and, when
passing through towns, with curtains lowered at all windows. They had
had a half-day at Halifax before boarding the liner, but had not been
allowed off the big dock. And now, after nearly three days of tumbling
and tossing, they were far out on the broad Atlantic bound for a port
unknown. They were, though, getting used to official secrecy. Not once
since they had left Newport early one fog-drenched May morning had they
known their next destination. Steve had questioned the quartermaster in
charge of the detachment after they had entrained. The quartermaster
was a good-natured chap, popular with all and without any “side,”
and in response to Steve’s inquiry he had lowered his voice to a
confidential whisper.
“We’re not supposed to tell,” he had replied, “but if you won’t let it
go any further――――”
Steve had promised.
“Well, then, we’re going――――” the Q.M. looked cautiously around the
crowded car――“to an Atlantic port!”
After that Steve gave it up and joined with the others in singing
“Where Do We Go From Here?”
That, however, they were off for foreign service was no great secret,
for they had had extra clothing issued to them, and that could mean
nothing else. They had been excited and jubilant, and, at the same
time, more astonished than they were willing to show. Why they,
“greenhorns” to a man, had been selected instead of some of the fellows
with months of training behind them was a problem. Of course they
pretended that it was because they had shown exceptional ability, but
secretly they greatly feared that an error had been made and were
scared to death that someone in authority would discover the fact and
summon them back to the Station. There was a distinct feeling of relief
when the train started away!
They were having some sort of a drill on the battleship now. Joe
could see the sailors and marines swarming the decks and thought he
could hear a bugle. That was scarcely probable, however, as the big
ship was some distance off and the wind, as proved by the smoke from
the funnels, blew in a direction away from the liner. He had made up
his mind that it was fire drill they were busy with over there when
someone ranged himself at his side. It was Steve, looking very healthy
and hearty. Joe slightly resented the fact that his chum had not
experienced more than a qualm of seasickness.
“We’re getting into the U-boat zone, they say,” announced Steve, “and
tonight we’ve all got to sleep in life-preservers. What do you know
about that?”
“I’ll bet they’ll be mighty uncomfortable,” commented Joe. “How long do
we stay in the zone?”
“Oh, right along until we make port, I guess. They say up forward that
we’re going to Bordeaux. I don’t know if it’s so, though.”
“I know if it’s so,” replied Joe pessimistically. “It isn’t!”
“How do you know?”
“Common sense, Steve. We _thought_ we were going to Boston when we
started from Newport and we went to Halifax. If we _think_ we’re going
to Bordeaux we’re certain sure to bring up at――at Liverpool, or any
place we don’t expect.”
“Well, maybe we won’t bring up anywhere,” said Steve cheerfully, “if
we meet up with one of those torpedoes. We’ll just stay where we are,
perhaps.”
“I’d hate to be a U-boat around here,” answered Joe, peering forward
for a glimpse of the plunging vanguard of business-like torpedo boats.
“I guess I wouldn’t have much chance.”
“Oh, not in the daytime,” agreed the other, “but at night a sub could
sneak up, I guess, and take a shot and get away with it.”
“How would they know where we were at night? There isn’t a light to be
seen on any of us. Fact is, it makes me feel a lot more uneasy to know
that a big bunch of steel like that over there is almost treading on
our heels every night than it does to think about U-boats. Suppose we
lagged a little and that battleship or one of those cruisers tried to
climb aboard over our rail? I think we ought to show a light astern,
anyway.”
“Oh, that’s all right. The captain stands there every night and smokes
a cigar, you see. All the other ships have to do is watch the end of
his cigar and they know where we are! There won’t be any more night
signalling, I guess. I say, watch this, Joe!”
Four sailors came along the deck and paused at a life-boat which
rested on chocks nearby. In a very business-like way they proceeded to
swing it outboard after which they secured it with new lashings to the
davits, tested the falls and passed on to the next.
“Safety first!” murmured Steve. “Looks like business, what?”
Joe nodded soberly. “I guess I’m not going to mind sleeping in my
life-preserver as much as I thought,” he said. “Also, I’ll bet that
tomorrow morning when we have our next boat drill I’ll be the first
one at station!”
Steve laughed. “Good thing we didn’t have to abandon ship yesterday,
eh? What would you have done, Joe?”
“I’d have stayed right there in my bunk,” was the prompt reply, “and
gone down with the ship. When you’re sufficiently seasick I guess a
torpedo would be a――a happy relief!”
“Fine! You’d have got your name in despatches as a bloomin’ hero. I
guess if anything happened right now Abie would be the hero. He’s been
as sick as a dog ever since we passed Devil’s Island Light, poor chap.
I asked him a few minutes ago if there was anything I could do for him
and he said: ‘Yes, go away and leave me alo-o-one!’”
“Does a fellow get over being seasick, or――or what?” asked Joe. “What’s
the good of being a sailor if you have to lie in your bunk when the
fun’s going on?”
“Oh, you get over it pretty soon,” answered Steve, comfortingly.
“Remember how jolly sick you were on the _Adventurer_ that time off the
Isles of Shoals? Well, you weren’t bothered again all the rest of the
voyage. The fact is, I rather wish I’d been laid up already and had it
over with, because I’m plaguey sure I’ll have to have mine before I’m
through.”
“I hope you’re right. I mean about getting over it. Suppose we went to
one of those chasers or torpedo destroyers! Gee, you can get seasick
just watching one of those tubs!”
“I wish they would put us on one of ’em,” said Steve devoutly. “What
I’m afraid of is that we’re going over for shore duty. Crocker says
we’re taking over one of the English bases and he thinks we fellows
will have to get things ready there. That’ll be perfectly vile, won’t
it?”
“Better than Newport,” said Joe. “We’ll be around where things are
doing, anyway. Say, isn’t it ’most dinner time?”
“Pretty near.” Steve grinned. “You must be feeling better, old scout.”
“I’m mighty hungry, if that means anything. Let’s go down and be on
hand, eh?”
“All right. We haven’t had our French lesson yet. Maybe there’ll be
time for it. Come on.”
“I can’t study French on an empty stomach,” grumbled Joe, following the
other down a companion-way. “Besides, I know what beef is, and coffee
and bread. And I can say _une table_ and _une plat_ and _une tasse_,
and I know that a newspaper’s a _journeaux_――no, that’s two newspapers.
Well, anyway, I know enough French to get along with.”
“Never mind how much you know,” replied Steve sternly. “You get your
little book and behave yourself.”
“Some day,” murmured Joe, “that little book――I mean _petite livre_ is
going to accidentally fall overboard into _le mer_, which will be _tres
beau_!”
That afternoon the sun came out gloriously and life was well worth
living again, and the next morning the sea had calmed to such an extent
that the sorely-tried Abie crawled out of his bunk and subsided in
a sheltered corner of the deck, hope once more visible on his pale
countenance. By way of varying the monotony the crow’s-nest watchers
got up a submarine scare which brought joy to the crew of the after gun
and caused a wild commotion below decks until the suspected periscope
proved to be only an empty nail keg. Again, just at sunset, the two
torpedo boats suddenly swerved northward, with smokestacks belching,
and, at a distance of several miles, fired three shots between them.
Whether they had really seen anything was never known on the liner.
Sleeping with cork life-preservers strapped around one proved no more
comfortable than Joe had predicted, but orders were orders and, after
all, one did feel a certain sense of security that almost atoned for
the discomfort.
They had a most exasperating way of holding boat drill at a different
time every day on that transport. Only let a chap get settled to a game
of seven up or high-low-Jack and the fire bell rang alarmingly and he
had to tumble up on deck with his life-belt, donning it as he went, and
take his station by the particular boat to which he had been assigned
at the commencement of the voyage. The only thrilling feature of boat
drill was that you could never be absolutely sure until you had reached
the deck that this time the alarm wasn’t something more than just
make-believe, that it didn’t really mean “prepare to abandon ship!”
But no untoward incident marred the peacefulness of that trip across.
If the German submarines sighted the expedition they took good care to
keep out of view, so far as those on the liner ever knew, at least. And
finally one afternoon the lookouts in the forward crow’s nest broke
into full cry: “Smoke two points off the starboard bow!... Smoke dead
ahead!... Smoke broad off the starboard bow!... Smoke one point off the
port bow!”
There was a wild rush from below as the message went around that
the British convoy was sighted. Fast they came, four grim black
destroyers, punching the seas into spray before them. Signals then
from one of the pack, answered from the battleship; gay-hued bunting
fluttering in the sunlight. The new convoy swung around without pausing
and took positions, and the big lead-coloured battleship and the
cruisers and one of the torpedo boats put their helms over and went
back the way they had come, their duty done. Joe, watching them grow
smaller and smaller, sighed.
“They’re going back home, Steve,” he murmured.
“Yes, the poor things! It’s hard luck, isn’t it?”
“Oh!” Joe considered that phase of it a moment in silence. Then he
smiled. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “And maybe they aren’t
really as pleased as they look. But the stern of that nearest cruiser
certainly did look happy!”
The remaining torpedo boat fell in behind and did her best to keep up
with the procession, but it was evident from the smoke she belched that
she was having no easy task, for the new convoy set a hard pace for an
old-fashioned coal-burning craft like her.
Fair weather carried them through another day and then there was a
fog. But there came no alteration of the speed, and the liner fairly
shook with the reverberations of her big engines. The next morning the
fog was gone again and just after six bells the lookouts once more
brought a thrill to those within sound of their excited voices.
“Land ho!” was the cry that came down from aloft. “Land ho, sir! Two
points off the starboard bow!”
On the bridge below the four officers, two of the Navy and two of
the ship, who had had their glasses levelled for some time on the
faint streak along the horizon only nodded. It was some time before
what looked like a cloud bank resolved itself into what Steve called
“honest-to-goodness land,” but when it did a cheer went up from the men
lining the rails, and a magic word passed from one to another:
“_England!_”
A few hours later the transport dropped her anchors in Plymouth harbour.