PRISONERS ON THE SUBMARINE
Silently they watched the U-boat’s approach. At first she had been
only a low, grayish protuberance on the sea, all detail softened and
obscured by the last wreaths of haze, but now, a few hundred yards
distant, she was plain enough. They could see men on the deck forward
of the queerly shaped conning tower and the sunlight glinting on the
bow gun and the water curving away from the knife-like bow. Pete,
watching thoughtfully, said:
[Illustration: Silently they watched the U-boat’s approach]
“They’ll be askin’ us questions, Kid, if they take us aboard. They’ll
want to know things it ain’t good for ’em to know. If we don’t say
nothin’ they’re likely to bat us on the bean and drop us overboard
again. I guess the best way’ll be to sort o’ string ’em along, eh?”
“Lie, do you mean?”
“Well, I wasn’t callin’ it that, but maybe it is. If you don’t like to
do it, maybe you’d better leave the jollyin’ to me. I ain’t got no
conscience when it comes to deceivin’ a Hun an’ a enemy.”
“I don’t suppose it will be lying――exactly,” answered Dave. “Deceiving
the enemy is――is different. Why don’t they sheer off a little? Are they
trying to run us down?”
It did look so, for the U-boat came gliding on as straight for the two
boys as though it meant to thrust its slender nose between them. At the
last moment, however, when Dave was ready to throw himself back into
the water, it swung slightly and its long gray hull passed a few yards
away. On the bow was the inscription _U-H-37_. From the narrow deck a
dozen sailors gazed down on them, mildly curious, while an officer,
whose gold braid was tarnished and worn, stood beside the forward gun
and a second and younger officer leaned against the curving base of
the conning tower. Each, Dave observed, wore on his sleeve the two
stripes and crown of a lieutenant. The submarine’s engines had made a
very perceptible clamor during its approach, but now they were stilled,
and the underwater craft slowed and stopped. It was the officer at the
gun who spoke, and Dave thought he recognized him as the one who had
shouted to the _944_ through a megaphone. He used no megaphone now,
however, nor needed to, since only a dozen yards of water separated
boat and life buoy.
“What ship you from?” he asked in good English.
“United States Chaser _944_,” answered Pete.
“What you do in the water?”
“Shell knocked us in.”
“Want to come out?”
“You bet,” answered Pete, cheerfully.
The officer frowned mightily. “You talk to your officers like you talk
to me, eh?” he demanded. “Suppose I go away and leave you there?”
“Sorry, sir,” apologized Pete. But Dave thought he didn’t look very
sorry and feared for a moment that the U-boat commander would act on
his own suggestion. Instead, though:
“Swim here and we take you on board,” he said. “You Americans have no
manners. You are all pigs.”
They dropped off the life buoy and started for the submarine, but
the commander stopped them sharply. “Bring with you that buoy,” he
directed, adding grimly: “Maybe you need it again.”
A moment later, pulled aboard by some of the crew, they stood on
the steel deck and faced the commander. He looked to be about forty
years of age, and had a very round face adorned by a broad nose over a
grizzled mustache that ended in waxed points, and two sharp gray eyes
under heavy, bristling brows. He looked not unamiable, and his first
words were good-natured enough.
“You go below with this man and he will find you some dry clothing,”
he said. “Then I will have a little talk with you.” A hatch mid-way
between gun and conning tower was open and through this, one of the
sailors, a squat, sullen-faced youth, led the way. A ladder ran
straight down, and having descended it they found themselves in a
surprisingly long white-enameled compartment, lined with bunks on each
side. There was an indescribable odor down there, an odor that seemed
to combine the smell of oil and of stale sea water and damp clothing.
The bunks held only mattresses and tumbled gray blankets, and several
were occupied. From a locker beneath one the sailor pulled out a heap
of clothing which he spread out in silence on the floor of the narrow
passage for their inspection.
“I don’t want any of the dirty truck,” growled Pete. The sailor looked
up and spoke crossly in German, but neither knew what he said. “Sure,
that’s true enough,” said Pete, “but I ain’t hankerin’ for no disease,
Dutchy.”
“I guess we’d better put them on until our own things are dry,” said
Dave. “If we don’t they may shoot us or something.”
“Maybe you’re right,” agreed Pete. “Hello, look here!” He held up a
blue cloth sailor’s cap, bearing the words, “_H. M. S. Owl_” on its
ribbon. “What do you know about that? British, ain’t it?”
Before Dave could reply the sailor snatched the cap from Pete’s hand
and tossed it into the locker, muttering angrily. Pete’s pale blue eyes
snapped and Dave looked for trouble, but, restraining his resentment,
the former stooped and picked up a suit of stained blue flannel and
proceeded to doff his own wet clothes which were trickling water on
the flooring. Dave followed his example. At that instant a terrific
crashing and clattering assailed their ears and they started in alarm.
But the sound was only that of the big Diesel engines taking up their
task again. There was a perceptible tremor of the frail steel hull and
through the open hatch above a fresh current of air blew into the
unfragrant quarters.
When they were dressed and their wet clothing had been taken charge of
by the sour-visaged sailor they were led aft along the passage, past
what appeared to be an officer’s stateroom, to the central station
beyond. This was a compartment slightly longer than wide, under the
conning tower. The walls were white, save where yellow rust stains
showed, and were beaded with moisture. A ladder led upward to the tower
and there was a bench at one side, but for the rest the place held only
a vast and confusing array of machinery; huge valves, immense dials,
steering wheels, compass, gauges, controllers, levers, and manifolds.
A periscope terminated here, too, and against one curving steel wall a
round clock ticked unheard above the roar and clatter of the engines.
Pipes and cables and spreading wires were everywhere overhead and
against the walls, and above the steering wheel a chart hung in a metal
frame. There was but one occupant of the compartment when they entered,
a petty officer, whose rating and branch mark, an anchor and cog wheel,
surmounted by a crown, in silver, was unfamiliar to them.
As the boat was on the surface it was being controlled from the
conning tower. Two electric lamps cast a wan glow over the place,
leaving it in a pale twilight through which the metal instruments
gleamed mysteriously. Fore and aft the passage seemed to continue
interminably, and aft, from which direction the clamor of machinery
came, the big engines were partly visible. Pete strolled across and
seated himself on the bench, but their custodian sprang toward him and
broke into angry growlings.
“Oh, all right, sport,” sighed Pete. “But if you’d been pushing a life
buoy all over the Atlantic Ocean you’d want to sit down, too.” He got
up, in obedience to the man’s gestures, and interested himself in the
reflector of the periscope, eyed by the sailor in sullen suspicion.
Several minutes passed. Their ears began to ache with the ceaseless
clamor of the engines, and the air, heavy with the odor of crude oil
and battery fumes, was oddly oppressing. Then the hatch above darkened
and the captain descended the ladder.
“Ah, you feel better now, yes?” he inquired genially. “So we have a
little talk.” He seated himself on the bench and observed them with
every indication of good will. “Your ship is a new ship, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Pete. “Built two months ago.”
“And you are both seamen? Not what you call petty officers?”
“Seamen, sir.”
“The American navy is a very fine navy, I know. I have been in your
wonderful country. You are building many new ships, I understand, to
make war on us.”
“Yes, sir, quite a bunch of ’em,” answered Pete cheerfully.
“Yes, maybe fifty, eh? Maybe a hundred?”
“I don’t know how many. They ain’t tellin’ us.”
“So? Well, we know――we in Germany.” He chuckled deeply and winked at
them. “We know much. You were on your way from New York when we met
you, eh?”
“Yes, sir; Syracuse, New York.”
“Syracuse?” The captain frowned. “Where is that?”
“Just south of New Rochelle,” said Pete gravely.
“So? And you were going to――?” He paused, questioningly.
“I don’t know, sir. They forgot to tell us that. Somewhere across.”
“Maybe Queenstown?” asked the officer, slyly.
Pete shrugged. “Maybe. Or Dover. Or Plymouth. I don’t know.”
“How happened it that you were by yourself alone?”
“There was some more of us, but we got lost in a storm.”
“And the others? They were what you call chasers, like yourself?”
“Cruisers, sir; seven of ’em.”
“So? What were the names?”
Pete hesitated a bare instant. Then: “I don’t know ’em all, Captain.
There was the _Greenwich_ an’ the _Chelsea_ an’ the _Bronx_ an’ the
_Harlem_.”
“You are lying, eh?” purred the officer. “There are no such ships in
the American navy.”
“These is all new ones.”
“Ah, and how large are they?” asked the other, suspiciously.
“Well, middlin’ big, sir. I don’t know exactly. I guess the _Bronx_ is
about 8,000 tons. An’ the others is about like that.”
“Where did you part company with them?”
“Can’t say exactly. About two days out of Syracuse.”
“Where were they going to?” asked the officer.
“Same place we was, but I don’t know where that is.”
“Maybe they carried soldiers. Or maybe you had troop ships with you,
too?”
“No, sir. Not this time.”
“How many soldiers have left your country to fight against us?”
“About a thousand,” answered Pete, unblushingly.
“A thousand! What you mean?” The captain scowled ferociously. “More,
more than a thousand has come across! Many thousand! Stop your lying to
me or I throw you straight into the ocean!”
“Well, that’s what I heard,” said Pete, untroubledly. “Maybe two
thousand. You can search me.”
“Search you? What I search you for? What talk is it that you make?”
“That’s just a sayin’, Captain. What we call slang.”
“So? Well, don’t talk with me slang. What is the trouble with this man?
Can he not talk?”
“Sure, he’s a fine little talker, Captain, but he ain’t all there.”
Pete dropped his voice confidentially and tapped his head and winked.
“He is what we call ‘nutty.’ Get me?”
“‘Nutty?’ Crazy, you mean?” The captain observed Dave with new interest
and in silence for a long minute. Then he nodded his head. “Yes, he
looks not quite right. What is your name, you?”
“David Garson,” prattled Dave. “I’m eighteen years old and small for my
age, but they say I’ll grow.”
“Small! Grow! What is he saying? Never mind. It does not matter.” The
captain lost interest in Dave and returned to his questioning. For
another quarter of an hour he put all kinds of inquiries at Pete and
received all kinds of answers. Occasionally he looked suspicious, but
on the whole appeared satisfied with the information. He asked about
the sentiment in the United States regarding conscription, how many men
were in training, when they were to be sent across, how many United
States ships were operating in French and British waters, what their
armament was, where they were based. And he wanted to know how America
felt toward Germany, and whether she expected to win the war. And,
finally, he asked whether a certain German restaurant was still doing
business in New York! In the end he said:
“Now I require you to give me your parole, your promise not to attempt
to escape. Then you are treated fine and get plenty of food, and I put
you ashore pretty soon. Well?”
“Nothin’ doin’, sir,” replied Pete.
“Eh? What you mean, nothing doing? Much will be doing if you do not do
like I say!”
“That’s all right, too,” said Pete doggedly, “but you don’t get any
promise like that from us, Captain. If we get a chance to beat it,
we’re goin’ to beat it, take it from Pete!”
The captain frowned more ferociously than ever, and for a fearsome
moment Dave, who had all through the latter part of the interview tried
to look as vacant and unintelligent as he knew how, was horribly afraid
that he would order them shot or tossed into the sea. But after an
instant the captain’s frown vanished and he chuckled.
“You are brave, my man. Also you tell the truth, eh? Well, so be it.”
He laughed good-naturedly. “You have my full permission to――what you
say?――‘beat it’――if you can! But since you do not give your parole,
you must work for your living, yes. And if you do not work like you are
told you will be punished. Maybe you like that better, eh?”
“Sure, we’ll work, Captain. Just as long as you don’t ask us to sink
any of our own ships, we’re right on the job.”
“So? We shall see.” He spoke in German to the sailor. Then: “Go with
this man,” he directed. “He will show you where are your bunks. You
will go neither forward nor aft from the quarters. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain waved his hand. “_Vorwärtsgehen!_” he ordered.
“Meanin’ _heraus mit_ us,” muttered Pete.