THE ARMADA
That was the twenty-second of June. All that day the destroyers held
their course, hidden from each other at times by fog and drizzle. In
the forecastle the talk was all of the transports that were somewhere
ahead there churning their way to the rendezvous laden with khaki.
They wondered how many ships they would find, who the convoyers were,
how many soldiers were aboard. It was all very exciting and thrilling,
and “Spud” Doolan, first-class shipfitter, played “The Star-Spangled
Banner” and “Hail, Columbia” on his harmonica with more than usual
feeling. Steve determined to be on hand when the transports were
sighted, and hoped hard that he might be on foretop lookout duty. But
he wasn’t, as it turned out. That night, in a light fog, the _Warren_
picked it up to twenty-one or -two knots and went slithering around
on the scouting line, managing to roll a fair thirty-odd and make it
necessary to brace oneself in the bunk. Then, in the morning, when the
transports should have been in plain sight, they weren’t, and Steve
going aloft to the canvas cage at seven had fond hopes and nearly
popped his eyes out in the effort to pierce the haze and pick up the
top of a mast. But save for the other members of the party, the ocean
was bare and he was below again, drinking coffee outside the galley
door, when word came down that smoke was showing. Almost instantly
the blowers sang a shriller note, the steering engine groaned and,
above-deck the four funnels fairly spouted black smoke. Joe came
sliding and dodging along the wet deck and joined Steve and others
at the forecastle break. Only dim glimpses for a minute or two, and
then from the ocean haze burst, startlingly near, the long length of a
troop-ship. And then another――and another――three, four, five―――― But
it was useless to try to count them. And then the _Warren_ was fairly
amongst them, signals fluttering, blowers roaring a merry tune――for it
was wise to make a smart appearance with the Admiral looking on from
the cruiser――and from every deck of every ship came a great cheer that
went on and on, arose and fell and arose again, while hats waved and
hoarse whistles bellowed. Steve, looking with a lump in his throat,
tried to cheer back with the others, and fluttered his white cap,
and thought there could never really be in all the world as many
khaki-clad American soldiers as looked down upon them as they sped
past. Later he learned how comparatively few the transports held, but
this morning, gazing at rank after rank of them, they seemed to him to
number into the hundreds of thousands! Such cheering as greeted the
destroyers! Such waving of broad-brimmed Stetsons! Such grinning of
countless faces leaning down from high decks! The cruiser, flagship,
four-stacked and a bit cluttered aft; a towering German prize with her
name gone but still legible; two fruiters――seaworthy looking craft;
and liners built for more fashionable passengers; these comprised the
armada that was making history with every turn of its screws.
“I wouldn’t have missed this for a million dollars,” said Joe in
a voice so low that Steve barely heard it above the noise of that
meeting. “It――it’s wonderful!”
Steve nodded. He didn’t want to speak just then for fear that the other
would suspect the lump in his throat and the moisture in his eyes.
But he did speak presently when, having cut her way through the heart
of the formation, the _Warren_ turned on her heel with a smartness
and precision that brought a gleam of gratification to the face of
the captain, and took up her station to port. Then Steve said in a
growl meant to disguise the fact that his voice held a tremour: “It’s
the――the biggest thing I’ve ever seen, Joe, and maybe I’ll never see a
bigger. I’ll never forget it, I guess.”
“Not likely to,” answered the other. “I wish some of the rest of the
fellows were here to see it with us. It would please old Han, wouldn’t
it?”
Steve nodded, and stealing a glance at his chum, was relieved to find
that youth’s eyes frankly wet. And, looking beyond, along the line of
faces, he saw more than one tear trickling down a weather-tanned nose
and more than one Adam’s apple working convulsively up and down in a
lean throat. “Phil and Harry might be aboard one of those for all we
know,” he said. “Han said they were handling a gun on a liner, didn’t
he?”
“Expected to, I think. Funny if they were on one of those transports,
though. Funny if they were looking at us this minute; or we were
looking at them, eh?”
“Yes. How many soldiers are there there, do you suppose?”
“About a million, I’d say! They’re regulars, aren’t they?”
“Yes. That ship over yonder, though, is filled with marines. I noticed
as we passed her.”
“Good old Billy Blues,” murmured Joe. “How’s the song go?
“‘If the Army or the Navy ever visit Heaven’s scenes,
They will find the streets are guarded by United States Marines!’”
With the destroyers steaming girdle-wise about the troop-ships, the
engines were tuned to standard speed――fourteen knots an hour――and code
signals fluttered. Joe, qualifying for signalman, had a busy time of
it for awhile. The transports hid themselves at times in the mid-ocean
haze to emerge again like shadows on the curtain of mist. At supper
time below there was evident an unusual seriousness, although every
man-Jack of them tried his best to carry off the scramble for food with
the customary levity. They were all thinking of the serried thousands
in khaki on those troop-ships and what their appearance on French soil
meant. And Browny voiced the thought of many when he remarked, potato
poised on the end of his fork:
“There’s a lot of those guys will never be sailin’ back again, fellows.”
“That’s right,” someone agreed, “but you can say the same of us, I’m
thinking.”
“’Tain’t the same,” answered Browny, shaking a lugubrious head. “Those
fellows have got to go ‘over the top.’ ’Tain’t the same, I’m tellin’
you.”
“Maybe the war’ll be over by the time they get ready to butt in,” said
Truso. “Tame the U-boats, son, and what’s Germany got left?”
“That’s so,” another agreed. “The old war’s going to be settled right
out here on the briny, fellows, and we’re the little cut-ups that are
going to settle it!”
“Forget it! Fritz won’t give in so easy.” Hearn impaled another potato
and dipped into the butter. “It’s going to take a lot more of those
fellows in khaki than we’ve got our hands on yet. There’ll be a lot
of little white crosses with ‘U.S.A.’ on ’em sprinkled around France
before Billy Kaiser’s on his back. Well, we’re in it, and I’m hoping
the folks back home get it into their thick heads after awhile and
buckle down to the job. One thing’s sure, though. Those cheerin’,
grinnin’ boys are going to make us mighty proud we’re Americans before
they’re through!”
“That’s no dream,” agreed someone. “Here’s to ’em!” And he drained his
coffee.
There were alarms galore during the following two days. Warnings of
skulking submarines lying in wait reached them and more than once the
course was changed. By day it was no uncommon sight to see a destroyer
spout smoke and rush off into the distance and to hear a “three-inch”
bark. But always the object fired at proved harmless. The troop-ships
kept their places in the lines, some with an evident effort, and
gradually the coast of France grew near. Then came a still evening
when a following breeze held the heavy smoke from the stacks straight
in air like so many black pencils against the glow of sunset, and that
night, slowing down and feeling their way through the mine fields, the
flotilla caught the land-smell.
And then an umber sail in the growing light, a Breton fisherman ducking
her way over hidden perils with the careless gaiety of a butterfly.
Then more sails, of a dozen colours, floating casks and skimming birds,
and the loom of the green-clad shore of France magically in sight. A
French cruiser sallied out and did the honours, a small and exquisite
two-stacker on whose decks the red tassels of the men’s caps made dots
of colour. From the _Warren_ they could even see the closely-trimmed
beards of her officers. Subsequently a fussy gunboat lay in wait, and
then, slowing down, the American ships formed in single column and,
guided by the gunboat, nosed into the estuary.
Sardine fishing boats, with sails of bright blue and faded pink were
passed. Vividly green farms lay sloping to the river, dotted with
century-old trees. Every promontory held a glittering light-house,
each as thoroughly foreign to the eager eyes of this American legion
as the high, red-roofed houses that presently stood, sentinel-like,
amidst the fields. Overhead two airplanes sailed majestically. Slowly,
dignifiedly the long columns steamed up the picturesque river. The news
had evidently already reached the city, for on one bank motor cars were
speeding toward them. Even at that distance one could see the white
flutter of handkerchiefs. And over all the Summer sunlight fell and
drenched the armada with a golden glory. And this was France――at last!
Finally the city itself came into sight around a long curve of the
river, and a poplar-lined esplanade kept them company, while a
forest of masts and cranes marked the dockyards. About them now a
covey of small boats, steamers, launches, row-boats were gathered.
The moving-picture industry was alert on the deck of a tipsy little
side-wheeler. The column parted and the troop-ships went slowly on
up toward the basin, while the thousands along the sea-wall waved
and cheered and shouted blessings and greetings in a language that
lamentably few aboard the flotilla could understand. But the meaning
was plain enough, and on the transports the lean-faced, khaki-clad men
waved and cheered and shouted back, and joked, too, although some of
them could more easily have wept.
One by one the troop-ships disappeared into the basin to be warped
through the gates of the lock to the inner basin and there unloaded.
On the cruiser, astern of the _Warren_, the boatswain’s pipe shrilled
and an orderly commotion ensued. Down the ladder stepped the Admiral
and took his seat in a blue-grey gig, the sun glinting on an inspiring
amount of gold bullion. Then off sped the gig to the landing, while the
cheers grew shriller and the Admiral’s hand came stiffly to salute. The
_Warren’s_ hooks were down now, and wistful eyes sought the shore, but
whether liberty was to be granted or not was something none could say.
The strains of a band floated down from the outer basin. Overhead a
graceful airplane circled in the sunlight. And in such manner, after
nearly a century and a half, America paid the first installment of her
debt to France.