dinner on our ship; but by and by we went back to the ward-room to
finish eating. It is always good business to eat--no knowing when a man
will be needing a good meal to be standing by him inside. And we were
still eating when the messenger came in with a radio. He passed it to
the skipper, who read it to himself, whistled, and then read aloud:
TORPEDOED--CLAN LINDSAY.
The _Clan Lindsay_ was another of our convoy, and she had been within
1,000 yards of our ship when we last came about to zigzag back across
the front of our column.
We looked at one another, and one said: "Well, you got to hand it to
Fritz for being on the job every minute."
And another: "Yes, but it looks like a big night to-night. Two in an
hour! And eighteen more ships and eight destroyers to pick from yet! If
he starts off like that, what d'y' s'pose he'll be batting by morning?"
The ward-room on our ship opens onto the ship's galley; and from the
ship's galley another door opens onto the deck. Through the open
galley-door just then came a muffled explosion--a great Woof!
We all thought just one thing--they've got us too!--and we all sort of
half curled up, and would not have been a bit surprised if the next
instant we found ourselves sailing through the deck overhead. The
feeling lasted for perhaps three seconds, and then our skipper,
happening to look up, saw that the colored mess-boy George was grinning
widely.
"What the devil you laughing at?" barked out our skipper.
George took his eyes off the galley-door, but his grin remained. Said
George: "Cap'n, I see de flame. The galley stove just done bust!"
The galley stove on our ship was an oil-burner. It had back-fired, and
so the loud Woof!
Later it came out that the _Clan Lindsay_ wasn't torpedoed at all; but
one of our destroyers dropped a depth charge so close to her to get a
U-boat that she thought she was.
* * * * *
The camouflaged big liner sank, but not until the two of our destroyers
standing by had taken off every one of the 503 passengers, one taking
the people off the deck, the other picking up those in the small boats.
One destroyer--the 396, say--took off 307 of these passengers. Her
skipper passed the word by radio to the 384, which had gathered in 196
passengers, including the commodore. The 384 got the message, only she
got it 7 instead of 307 people rescued.
"Seven survivors!" said the 384's skipper. "I wonder why she radioed
that?" He meditated over the puzzle and by and by solved it to his
satisfaction.
"Of course, what she wants is for us to take off the seven and add 'em
to our own." He took measures to meet the emergency, and then followed
this little incident:
Aboard the 396 they were busy trying to find space for their 307
passengers when a lookout heard a Putt! putt! putt! coming over the
water. The officer of the deck listened. Everybody on the bridge
listened. Putt! putt! putt! it came. The officer of the deck reported to
the skipper. The skipper wondered who it could be, when just then a
radio message arrived: "Am sending a boat--384."
"Sending a boat? What for?" He meditated over that puzzle and then he
solved it--as he thought. "Sure. That British commodore she picked up is
coming to see how the survivors aboard here are getting on. That's
it"--he turned to the watch-officer--"you know how these Britishers are
for regulations. Even in the midst of a mess like this we'll have to
kotow to his rank or he'll probably be reporting us. So rouse out six
side-boys, line 'em up, rig up the port ladder, have the bugler stand by
for ta-ra-rums and all that stuff."
They did that, shoving their crowded survivors out of the way to make
room for the ceremony.
The Putt! putt! putt! comes nearer and nearer. Next, from out of the
blackness of the ocean they make out a little motor-dory. Balanced out
on the gunwale of the little dory, when it comes nearer, they see an
American bluejacket smoking a cigarette. No one else was in the dory.
The dory ran alongside. It was about a 14-foot dory--no smaller one in
the flotilla. The skipper of the 396 looked down at him. "What you
want?"
The bluejacket removed the cigarette from his lips. "I'm from the 384,
sir."
"Yes, yes, but what do you want?"
"I've come, sir"--he waved his cigarette-stub airily--"to take off the
survivors. The captain thought I might be able to make one load of 'em."
* * * * *
When the big _P. & O._ liner reported herself torpedoed that evening, a
destroyer--not one of ours--picked up the message 100 miles or so away;
and at once radioed: COMING TO YOUR ASSISTANCE--GIVE POSITION,
COURSE, AND SPEED.
That was proper and well-intentioned, but as the 384 and the 396 were
already standing by, a radio was sent back: EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT--NO
HELP NEEDED--THANK YOU.
That did not seem to satisfy the inquirer. WOULD LIKE TO HELP--GIVE
POSITION, SPEED, AND COURSE.
Everybody being busy, nobody bothered to answer that. By and by came
another radio: THIS IS THE DESTROYER BLANK--GIVE POSITION, SPEED,
AND COURSE.
He was so evidently one of those Johnnies who are always volunteering to
do things not needful to be done that nobody paid any further attention
to him. But he kept right on sending radios. By and by, for perhaps the
seventh time, came: THIS IS THE DESTROYER BLANK--PLEASE GIVE
POSITION, SPEED, AND COURSE OF TORPEDOED SHIP.
At which some one--nobody seemed to know who, but possibly some
undistinguished enlisted radio man whose ears were becoming
wearied--sparked out into the night: POSITION OF TORPEDOED SHIP? BETWEEN
TWO DESTROYERS. HER SPEED? ABOUT FOUR FEET AN HOUR. HER COURSE? TOWARD
THE BOTTOM OF THE ATLANTIC.
Nobody ever found who sent that message; nobody inquired too closely;
but all hands thanked him. The flotilla heard no more from the
bothersome destroyer.
* * * * *
The business of hunting U-boats is a grim one. The officers and men
engaged in it do not like to dwell on the hard side of it. They do like
to repeat stories of the humorous side of it.
One of our destroyer commanders over there has a personality that the
others like to hang stories onto. He is a quick-thinking, quick-acting
man named--well, say Lanahan. He was one day on the bridge of his ship
when the lookout shouted: "Periscope!"
"Charge her!" yelled out Lanahan.
Away they went hooked-up for the periscope, which everybody could now
see--about 200 yards ahead.
"He's a nervy one--see her stay up!" said the officer of the deck, who
was standing beside the wheel, and had glasses on the periscope. And
then, hurriedly: "I don't like the looks of her, captain--it looks like
a phony periscope to me--as if there was a mine under it!"
"To hell with her--ram her anyway!" snapped Lanahan.
The deck officer had not once taken the glasses off the periscope.
Suddenly he let drop his glasses, grabbed the wheel and pulled it hard
toward him.
Lanahan had stepped to the wing of the bridge and was leaning far out to
get a glimpse of the U-boat. What he saw beneath him as his ship scraped
by was not a U-boat, but a great white mine. He watched it slide safely
past the bridge, past his quarter, past his stern. Then, turning around,
he said gravely to his deck officer:
"You're right--it _was_ a mine."
* * * * *
There was another young officer--Chisholm call him--who played poker
occasionally. He commanded a _flivver_, which is the service name for
the smaller class of destroyers, the 750-ton ones.
In our navy there are plenty of young officers who will tell you that
they never built destroyers which keep the sea better than that same
little flivver class. Young Captain Chisholm of the 323 was one.
One morning, having convoyed a fleet of merchant ships safely up the
channel, the 323 was one of a group of destroyers making the best of
their way to their base port. Officers and men who have been hunting
U-boats for a week or so do not like to linger along the road home; so
it was every young captain giving his ship all the steam she could stand
and let her belt.
It was breaking white water all around when they started. It grew
rougher. Chisholm in the 323 was going along at twenty knots when a
poker-playing chum came along in his big 1,000-ton destroyer. Her nose
hauled up on the quarter of the 323; up to her beam; up to her bridge.
As he passed the 323--and he passed quite close to let all hands view
the passing--the poker-playing friend leaned out and megaphoned across:
"What you making, Chiz?"
"Twenty knots!" hailed back Chisholm.
"I am seeing your twenty knots and raising you five!" returned the
other, and passed on.
"The boiler-riveted nerve of him!" gasped Chiz. "But let him wait!"
The sea grew yet rougher. The 323 was bouncing pretty lively, but
hanging onto her twenty knots. "And at twenty you let her hang if she
rolls her crow's nest under!" said Chisholm to his watch-officer, "and
I'll betcher we won't be acting rudder to this bunch going into port!"
It was at ten in the morning that the big one had passed them. It was
four in the afternoon, and the 323 was still going along at twenty knots
when from out of the drizzle ahead her bridge made out the stern and
funnels of a destroyer. It was Chiz's poker-playing chum, and his ship
was making heavy weather of it. The able little 323 came up to her
stern; breasted her waist, her bridge, and as he passed her (and he came
quite close to let all hands view the passing), young Captain Chisholm
leaned out from his bridge and roared through a long megaphone: "I
_call_ yuh!"
He beat the big one fifty minutes into the naval base.
* * * * *
There are two channels leading into the naval base port--call them West
and East. This same Chisholm was one day headed for port in the usual
hurry and was already well into the west channel when a signal was
whipped out from the signal hill. It was for his ship and it read: "West
Channel mined last night by U-boats. Proceed to sea and come in by East
Channel."
Chiz did not proceed to sea. All the harbor men who were watching saw
him come straight on through the gap in the barrage, and safely on to
his mooring. Also all the harbor knew that next morning he had to report
to the admiralty and explain.
The story of his explanation was not told by himself. But an officer
friend, a great admirer--call him Mac--had gone with him to the
admiralty. Here the next day Mac told the story in the smoke-room of the
King's Hotel:
"Well, Chiz went and--you know his courtly style--he has his cape over
his shoulders--and he salaams and says, 'Good morning, sir.'
"The old man looks up and says like ice: 'You got my signal yesterday
afternoon?'
"'I did, sir.'
"'Then why did you not turn back and come in by the other channel?'
"'Sir,' says Chiz, 'may I be allowed a few words?'
"'Very few. What have you to say?'
"'Sir,' says Chiz, 'I have been trained to believe that the one word a
naval officer should not know is fear. In our navy, sir, we reverence
the tradition of your own Admiral Nelson, who at the siege of Copenhagen
put his glass to his blind eye and said: "I see no signal to withdraw!"
and continued the fighting to a victory.'
"'Have you a blind eye, too?'
"'My sight is good, thanking you, sir, for inquiring, but in my own navy
we also have the tradition of Admiral Farragut, who at Mobile Bay said:
"Damn the torpedoes--go on!" and his fleet went on to victory. And there
was Admiral Dewey, who said: "Damn the mines!" at Manilla, and went on
to victory.'
"'What are you coming at?' roars the old man. 'Did you get my signal?'
"'I did, sir. And my first instinct--the instinct of all our naval
officers--is to obey all orders of our superiors, sir. But I was well
into that channel when I got the signal, sir. And as I have said, sir,
my first instinct was to obey orders. But also I stop and reflect, for I
have also been trained to believe that hasty judgments work many evils,
sir, and I consider and find myself saying to my deck officer: "This
ship, Mac, is 300 feet long, and under her stern there are two big
propellers. If ever we turn this 300-foot ship in this channel with
those two propellers churning and there's any loose German mines around,
there won't be a blamed one of 'em she'll miss. But if I keep her
straight on, there's a chance. So hell's afire!" I says to Mac--"there's
only one thing for us to do now and that is to keep straight on!" And I
kept straight on, sir--and, I beg leave to report it now, sir--we made
our mooring safely.'
"And that's all there was to that," concluded Mac.
There was a long silence in the smoke-room when Mac had done, and then a
voice asked: "If Chiz had gone to sea and come in by the other
channel--it was almost dark at the time--he would have been too late to
make the barrage, wouldn't he?"
"He sure would," said Mac.
"Which would mean that he would be kept turning his wheels over outside
the net all night?"
"He sure would."
"As it was, he got in in plenty of time for that little game up-stairs
last night?"
"He was in a little game," admitted Mac.
Another silence, and then another voice: "Well, poker or no poker,
Chiz's dope on that damn-the-torpedo stuff isn't the worst in the
world!"
FLOTILLA HUMOR--ASHORE
The incident reported in the previous chapter was not young Chisholm's
first interview with the British admiral.
Mac went on to tell how when, after his first cruise, Chiz came to the
naval base to report. He had heard that the old fellow in charge
believed that the Lord made the earth for admirals, especially British
admirals, but beyond that he knew nothing of his peculiarities.
However, after his cruise, Chiz went whistling up the hill to report. By
and by he was admitted to the presence of the admiral, who was seated at
a flat desk in the middle of the room, gazing straight ahead.
The old chap looked pretty frosty. Chiz waited a moment, then ventured a
cheery "Good morning, sir."
The face at the desk did not even turn to look at him, but the thin lips
almost opened and a rasping voice said: "Got anything to say to me?"
Chiz was one of the sociable souls, and he would have liked to sit down
and talk in an informal way of several little sea things that he thought
were fairly interesting. But he had not been asked even to sit down, and
the voice froze him. So, "Why, no sir, nothing special to report," was
all he could find to say.
"H-m. Nothing to say? Then why waste my time or your own? Might as well
get out, hadn't you?"
Chiz got out.
"An American lieutenant-commander in this place must rate about seven
numbers below a yellow dog," said Chiz to Mac when he came out.
Chiz had four days in port (Mac is still telling the story) after that
cruise, and two days after his visit to the hill there was a
cricket-match between a team from our flotilla and a team from theirs.
The idea was for all hands to forget rank for a while, get into the
game, and so cement the entente between the two nations.
Chiz was picked for one of our team, and you all know what a husky he
is, and what he used to do with a baseball-bat. There aren't many who
ever hit 'em any further or oftener than Chiz on the old Annapolis
ball-field. He was one of the first of our fellows to go to bat. He's
standing there--in the box, or whatever they call it, waiting for one to
his liking; and looking around the field wondering where he will place
it when he gets one to his liking. And as he looks he spies his friend
the admiral, playing what we'd call left field. And just beyond the
admiral the ground sloped away for a hundred yards or so.
Chiz hefts his bat--and you know those cricket-bats, what they look like
and how they feel after you've been used to meeting fast ones with a
narrow baseball-bat. They are wide and heavy and springy. Chiz doesn't
pay any attention to three or four balls that come along, except to fend
them away from the wicket with his wide cricket-bat. He knew what he
wanted, and by and by he got one--one about knee-high with a little
incurve to it. Chiz sets himself and swings and whale-O it goes, over
the old admiral's head and down the slope beyond.
Chiz makes all the runs the law allows--six, I think it is--and he's
sitting resting on the wide part of his cricket-bat before the admiral
even shows the top of his head over the hill with the ball. When he does
and heaves it about half-way to the pitcher, or bowler, or whatever they
call him, he's out of breath.
Chiz sets himself for another one knee-high with an inshoot, and when he
gets one he whales it again, and away trots the admiral on another hunt
down the hill. And Chiz makes six more runs before they even see the top
of the admiral's head over the brow of the hill.
The third time, and the fourth time, Chiz sets for a knee-high one with
an inshoot to it, and the third time and the fourth time he belts it
over the old fellow's head and down the long slope. But on the fourth
time the old fellow doesn't throw the ball in. He walks in with it and
he calls in the high official umpires, or whoever they are in charge,
and they have a conference, and the next thing they call the game off.
By this time, doubtless (so the word was passed), the American officers
have caught the idea of the game, and next time there would be a real
game and so on.
But there was no next game. However, next day Chiz puts out to sea, and
when he's into port again he calls up on the hill as per instructions.
And by and by he is passed again into the presence, who is sitting just
as before at the flat desk in the middle of the room, and gazing
straight before him.
This time Chiz doesn't speak, not even to say; "Good morning, sir." And
the graven image at the desk doesn't speak either, and there's a silence
for maybe a minute, and then the old fellow barks out: "What are you
standing there for? You wish to see me?" And Chiz barks out in his turn:
"No, sir, I don't wish to see you."
"You do not wish to see me? Then what are you doing here?"
And Chiz cracks out: "I'm here because your orders compel me to be here,
sir."
_Zowie!_--that straightened the old boy up. He took a look at Chiz, and
he says, after a while and almost pleasantly: "Have a chair."
And Chiz has a chair, and they have a talk, and after that Chiz finds
him a lot easier to get along with. Chiz says now that the old fellow
isn't such a terrible chap--not after you get onto his curves.
* * * * *
When we first came over (Mac is still speaking), most of the topsiders
over here were strong for the entente stuff, and a good thing, too--why
not?
Our fellows were mostly strong for it, too--two or three so strong that
it was hard to tell whether they were Americans or something else--even
their accents.
And, as I say, most of the officers of our own over here were for
it--most of them. But you can't rid everybody overnight of
long-inherited notions. There was one chap we used to meet, and he sure
was the most patronizing thing!
Now, we know we haven't the biggest navy in the world, but as far as it
goes we think it is pretty good. As good as anybody's, man for man, and
ship for ship--but let that pass.
This chap, who never could see anything in our navy, came in here one
day. He wasn't bad. He was just one of those naturally foolish ones who
thought he was a little brighter than his company. The topsiders would
be working night and day to create good feeling, and he was the kind
would come along and break up the show--not exactly meaning to.
This was in the hotel bar here, where a bunch of us were easing off
after a hard cruise, when he comes along. He doesn't like the names of
our destroyers. In his navy there was significance in the names they
gave to a class of ships.
"Take _Viper_, _Adder_, _Moccasin_, and so on--they suggest things y'
know. Dangerous to meddle with and all that sort of thing, y' know. But
your people name your ships after men evidently--_David Jones_,
_Conyngham_, _McDonough_. I say, who are they--Presidents or senators or
that sort, or what?"
Lanahan was there--the hell-with-her-ram-her-anyway Lanahan--and we all
just naturally turned him over to Lanahan, who had west-of-Ireland
forebears, and never did believe in letting any Englishman put anything
across--nothing like that anyway.
"You never read much, I take it, of our history?" says Lanahan.
"Your history? My dear chap, I had hard work keeping up with my own."
"No doubt. But you've heard of the American Revolution?"
"I dessay I have--Oh, yes, I have!"
"Well, you spoke of Jones. If you mean John Paul, then there was a naval
fight one time in the North Sea--the _Serapis_ and the _Bonhomme
Richard_."
"I say, old chap, I didn't mention John Paul Jones. _David Jones_ is the
name of your destroyer out in the harbor now."
"David Jones? Let me see. Why, sure, David Jones was a New England
parson who boarded around among the God-fearing neighbors for his keep
on week-days and preached the wrath of God and hell-fire for his cash
wage--five pound a year--on Sundays. He was a devout man. If thy finger
offend thee, cut it off. But a sort of muscular Christian, too. If thy
enemy cross thee, go out and whale the livers and lights out of
him--same as we're trying to do to the U-boats now.
"Well David lived in the shadow of the church till he was thirty-seven
years of age. Then the Revolution broke, and David, in whose veins
flowed the blood of old Covenanters, took a running long jump into it.
He started in as deck-hand or, perhaps, it was cook's helper, but there
was salt in his veins too, and rapidly he learned his trade. And soon
rose in his new profession until he was master of his own ship, and, as
master, raising the devil among the coasters which used to cruise out of
Maritime Province ports in those days. The captures he made of vessels
loaded with hay and potatoes, and so on, materially reduced the high
cost of living for New England folks in those days.
"Conyngham? He was a young American lad who did not come of any
particularly good old stock, meaning that he did not come from
Massachusetts or Virginia probably. He went to sea as a midshipman on
an American sloop-of-war. And he turned out to be some little middy.
Ensign, lieutenant, commander--man, he just ran up the ladder of naval
rank. And got a ship of his own--a fine, young, able sloop-of-war, and
with this sloop-of-war he would run out from the French channel ports
and harry the English coast and English shipping. Never heard of him?
No? Well, well!--and he so famous in his day that King George put up a
reward of 1,000 pounds for his capture dead or alive. But they never
captured him.
"And Barry? He was the Wexford boy who captured 200 English prizes more
or less in the West Indies. Paul Jones trained under Barry before he had
a ship of his own. And McDonough? He--but am I boring you?"
"No, no--it is very interesting."
"I am glad. Well, McDonough was the commodore who fought the battle of
Lake Champlain against your people. He opened that battle with prayers
for the living and closed it with prayers for the dead. You want to
watch out for those fellows who pray when they go to war. Their technic
is sometimes pretty good. Their spirit is always good. While Mac was
looking over the booty after that fight, a funny thing happened. He----"
"I say, old chap, it's all very interesting, exceedingly interesting,
but what d'y' say to another little nip before I go? I've got to run
along to see the chief now. What will you have to drink?"
"Sure. A nip of Irish, if you please. And here"--Lanahan held up his
glass--"here's to the memory of dead heroes--may they always be
preferred to crawling reptiles when it comes to naming our fighting
ships!"
After the other fellow had gone Lanahan turned to us. "Say, fellows, I
know I got Paul Jones and Barry and McDonough right, but how near was I
on Davey Jones and Conyngham? Something tells me I got their histories
mixed."
* * * * *
This admiral, of whom our fellows used to spin the yarns, was a unique
character. He lacked imagination, and he had the manner of a rat-terrier
toward people not of his own kind; but he was one good executive.
Devotion to duty--conscience--those were his beacon lights. He had been
known, when the minister of the local church wasn't up to standard, to
walk into the pulpit, and deliver the sermon himself. Before he came to
take command of this coast district the U-boats had been raising Cain
there. There was a fleet of steam-trawlers handled by their old fishing
captains and crews, whose special duty it was to sweep up the waters
just outside the harbor for mines. It was at that time a dangerous
business, but it was also monotonous. It was a duty most easy to evade.