OVER THERE
The rest of that day they spent most of their time hanging over the
taffrail and watching the disembarking of more fortunate passengers and
the lightering of much unsuspected freight which appeared miraculously
through the great hatches, boxes and bags and firkins, barrels and
crates and bales: foodstuffs, ammunition, machinery, clothing, copper
ingots, telephone insulators, two railway locomotives, a veritable
flock of automobile trucks, cases of picks and shovels, and, probably
not the least important of many things, several small and heavy wooden
boxes with rope handles which were conveyed from the transport under a
guard of a chubby-cheeked corporal and four privates of the Engineers.
The Army representatives went early ashore and, as those still aboard
the liner could plainly see, were received with honours on the quay.
Steve and Joe bitterly bewailed the fate that held them captive while
history was being made ashore there! They could see the lines of
British Tommies drawn up beyond the landing stage, the flashes of
colour from officers’ uniforms.
“Just our rotten luck,” groaned Steve. “I suppose they’ll keep us
herded on board this silly old hooker and finally dump us ashore at
some out-of-the-way place where there’s nothing but a million dollars’
worth of landscape and a pile of lumber!”
But Steve was wrong, for although they remained aboard the rest of
the day and all that night, their three companies of Bluejackets, all
that were left except the ship’s crew and a few of its officers, they
disembarked the next morning, bright and early, and, landing at a big
stone pier, were marched through the streets of the city to a wooden
barracks which had evidently been but recently vacated for them. What
became of the Engineers they never knew, for there was no sign of them
that day or on any other day of their stay in Plymouth. There were
plenty of hearty English cheers for them as they marched to their
quarters and so long as they stayed in the town they, to use their own
expression, “owned it.” The officer in command was liberal with leave
and they had a good time. They fraternised speedily with the British
Jackies with whom the city was filled and under their enthusiastic
pilotage, “saw the sights.” The harbour was a never-failing source of
interest, for within it and all the way down the sound to Penle Head,
merchantmen, transports, mine-layers, trawlers, destroyers, chasers and
lesser fry lay at anchor or hurried about important business. There
were submarines there, too, but they were elusive and only once did
either Steve or Joe set eyes on one. The boys shopped, spent hours in
the “Y.M.,” which was English for Young Men’s Christian Association,
writing home or eagerly perusing the ancient American papers and
magazines on file and promenaded along the Hoe. Steve wrote a letter to
his folks, and, of course, mailed dozens of picture post-cards, and Joe
followed suit. Joe also wrote to George Hanford, addressing it “U.S.S.
_Carthage_, Newport News, Va.,” being certain that the _Carthage_ was
no longer there but equally certain that the letter would ultimately
catch up with Han wherever he might be.
Two days after their arrival one of the three companies was marched
away in the direction of the railway station and after that inroads
were made on the remainder nearly every day until, after a week in
Plymouth, only a handful of their force remained and Steve and Joe,
impatient for action, made plaint to the friendly quartermaster, the
only petty officer left.
“You’ll move pretty soon,” was the consoling reply. “Don’t worry. In
fact, if I were you, I’d drop around to the Y.M.C.A. before night and
write your home letters. You may not have as good an opportunity again
for awhile.”
Cheered by that, they followed the advice, and were afterwards glad
that they had, for in the middle of the next forenoon the word came
to pack kits and at one they were marching back through the town,
all that was left of their band, thirty-odd in all, toward the water
front. There they boarded a small, snub-nosed steamer, a mine-layer
by profession but for this occasion doing duty as a transport, and
together with two companies of British infantry, set sail down the
sound. About them darted tiny despatch boats, while a grim-looking
torpedo boat swung out into mid-stream as they passed and a few
minutes later swished past them to take up her position ahead and act
as convoy. Soon they were cautiously picking their way through the
mine fields and skirting the cliffs and green uplands of Cornwall.
Behind them, a tall stone shaft against a sunlit sky, the Eddystone
light-house faded from sight. Later they swung around the famous
Lizard Head, and by that time Steve and Joe knew whither they were
bound.
“Queenstown, my lad,” informed a jovial British sergeant who had made
their acquaintance soon after sailing and who had indefatigably pointed
out the landmarks to them.
“Queenstown?” repeated Steve vaguely. “That’s in Wales, isn’t it?”
“Ho! ’Ark to the bloomin’ Yankee!” laughed the Sergeant. “It’s in
Ireland, Queenstown is. South coast, my laddie, and not ’arf bad. They
say you chaps are takin’ it over for a naval base. Sounds a bit odd,
eh? Bloomin’ Yankees a-flyin’ the Stripes-and-Stars――――”
“Stars-and-Stripes,” corrected Steve gently.
“Whatever it is,” accepted the Sergeant untroubledly, “from one o’ our
ports! This here war’s a queer bit o’ business, now ain’t it? I arsks
you!”
“Well, we’ll make a decent place of it by the time we’re through,” said
Joe. “We’ve tackled tougher jobs than Queenstown!”
The Sergeant was inclined to be indignant until a twinkle in Joe’s eye
put him right. Then he chuckled and clapped a broad hand on the boy’s
shoulder. “That’s your bloomin’ Yankee swank, eh? Well, listen to me,
laddies; if you’ll clear out some o’ those blarsted Irish rebels while
you’re there you’ll be gettin’ the thanks o’ the nation presented to
you on a silver platter! An’ there’s no two ways about that!”
“Sinn Feiners, you mean?” asked Steve. “Are there any of those in
Queenstown?”
“They’re all over the shop,” was the disgusted reply. “Cork’s the
worst, though, around where you’re goin’. There’s Lands End there, do
you see? And over there are the Scillies.”
“Sillies?” asked Steve, observing a group of Tommies across the deck as
he obeyed the Sergeant’s tug at his arm. “Is that what you call them?”
“What else would I call ’em? There’s St. Mary and St. Agnes and a lot
more the names of which I don’t know.”
“It’s the Scilly Islands he’s talking about,” explained Joe. “I see
them, I think. What are those funny looking boats over there, sir?”
“Mine sweepers at work. And there’s a sub lyin’ hove to, just awash,
beyond ’em. Passin’ the time o’ day, likely. Every time I look at one
o’ those things I thank my lucky stars I’m in the Army!”
Their craft was not a very fast traveller and it was nearly midnight
when it crept into Cork Harbour, bearing a freight of rather cold and
very hungry humanity. The few lights of Queenstown twinkled beckoningly
and they were all eager to feel the land under foot again. They
disembarked on a darkened quay and, parting from their friends the
infantrymen, stumbled over a rough, cobbled street that led them along
the outskirts of the town and finally reached the destination, a new
barrack building, smelling strongly of fresh pine. Hot coffee was all
they had that night, but by that time they were far too sleepy to want
more, and soon after arrival they were fast asleep.
The next morning they breakfasted luxuriously amongst friends from
their own land. The number of United States sailors and marines
already on hand quite staggered the boys. Save for the new buildings
already erected or in course of construction they might easily have
thought themselves back at home at one of their own naval bases.
United States marines paced back and forth on guard duty, sailors were
everywhere, officers hurried about and, high over one building, the
Stars-and-Stripes fluttered in a stiff breeze. And that was not all
to make them feel at home, for in the harbour lay a small flotilla of
their own destroyers and chasers, as well as a big Navy collier which
was unloading supplies, while, farther out, a grey scout-cruiser was
anchored. There were British boats, too, and one green-grey destroyer
which the boys later learned was Japanese. Every variety of naval craft
was there, from submarine to battle cruiser, including destroyers
and torpedo boats and chasers, sweepers, trawlers and layers and a
shrill-voiced, _chug-chugging_ swarm of launches.
Their first day on Irish soil was scarcely a pleasant one so far
as weather was concerned, for a chilling breeze blew and showers
descended at dishearteningly regular intervals. But Steve and Joe had
small time to think of weather, for as soon as breakfast was eaten
they were hurried away to a long shed where they were set to loading
ammunition on lighters. It was evidently important work, for all hands
were at it, sailors and marines alike, while a worried-looking ensign
trotted around and urged them on. But it was done by the middle of the
afternoon and then Steve and Jack and others of their depleted company
returned to barracks, very tired and stiff, with full intention of
applying for leave to see the town. But their Q.M. had other ideas.
“Orders, men!” was their greeting. “Buckman, Spencer, White and Conner
report aboard destroyer _Chauncey_ right away. She’s sailing at
five. Smythe, Foster and Chapman report aboard _Chaser 17_. Corson,
Levinskey, Ingersoll and Strauss to the destroyer _Warren_. Get a move
on, all of you, and hustle down to the first landing. Don’t forget your
outfits.” The Q.M. folded the list in his hand, nodded and turned away.
Steve and Joe were gazing at each other in consternation. “I’m going to
ask him,” blurted Joe as the officer made for the door.
“So am I,” said Steve. They hurried after the quartermaster, saluted
and blurted out their request almost in chorus.
“Couldn’t you let us go together, sir?” they asked anxiously. “We don’t
care where we go, sir,” added Joe, “just so that we’re on the same
boat.”
“Yes, I guess so,” answered the officer. “Here, let’s see.” He pulled
his list out of a pocket and found his pencil. “You both report to the
_Warren_.” He raised his voice. “Levinskey!”
“Yes, sir.”
“You report aboard _Chaser 17_ instead of the _Warren_. Get it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Well, good-bye, you fellows, and good luck to you. Be a
credit to my training.” He shook hands, smiling, and then as the boys
thanked him turned and made his way across the yard in the rain. Steve
heaved a sigh of relief.
“Gee,” he said, “that was a narrow squeak, Joe! The Allies came mighty
near losing the war then!”