CHAPTER X

DAVE FALLS ASLEEP

Time passed. They rested at intervals and, having rested, swam again.

Gradually the fear of recapture passed. The moon was gone and the

limitless expanse of ocean was dark and submarine and prey were

swallowed in the gloom. They talked infrequently, conserving their

breath for the struggle for life. Always they listened for the sound of

oars and peered into the gray darkness with straining eyes. The small

boats from the steamship must be within a few miles, they argued, and

they longed for daylight. Gradually the eastern sky paled, then flushed

with rose and the sea became dimly visible in that direction. They

swam straight for the coming day, not hurriedly, but with slow, even

strokes that required a minimum of exertion. Pete had got his second

wind or had discovered a less exhausting way of breathing. Swimming

with life-vests on was more difficult than had at first appeared, for

the garments had a tendency to float them too high in the water. Dave

let some of the air from his, but it didn’t help much. As the sea and

sky lightened they searched anxiously for boats, but, although now and

then the crest of a distant wave, darker than others, set their hearts

leaping, they saw none. Daylight came fast, having once announced

itself. The western rim of the ocean faded from darkness to dusk,

from dusk to pearly gray. In the east the tender tint of rose changed

to yellow and, like a miracle, it was day! The orange rim of the sun

pushed itself above the horizon’s curve and dyed the tips of the little

waves with strange metallic colors. A tern cried overhead and swooped

downward to splash against the water and go beating up again, having

found its breakfast. But save for the bird, daylight came up over an

empty world.

“Those boats must have gone in the other direction,” said Dave, as they

rested again, with the pale sunlight dazzling their eyes with its long

beams. “But I don’t see why, Pete. The nearest land must be the French

coast, and that’s eastward.”

“Maybe the Huns sunk the lot of ’em,” replied the other grimly. “That’s

a favorite trick of theirs.”

“But we’d have heard the guns,” objected Dave. Pete nodded.

“Yeah, that’s so, too. Well, I don’t know much about this part o’ the

world, Kid. Ain’t there anythin’ but France lyin’ around here?”

“It depends on where we are, of course. I figure that we must be

somewhere west of France and south of Ireland. Maybe we’re making a

mistake in swimming east, Pete. Maybe we ought to go north. If we’re

nearer Ireland――”

“I guess it don’t cut much ice which way we swim,” said Pete. “The best

we can do is keep afloat. How you feelin’?”

Dave considered a moment. Then: “I’m tired,” he answered. “But I guess

I’m good for another hour or two’s swimming.”

“I’m not. Besides, what good’s it going to do us, Kid? We’re just as

likely to get picked up here as two miles away. Best thing for us is

to take it easy and not get all tuckered. I’m beginnin’ to think we’d

ought to have stayed where we was, Kid. It don’t look good to me.”

Dave said nothing. It didn’t look good to him, either. It would have

been very easy for him to have given way to panic just then. But he

took a grip on himself and once more raised himself from the water

and stared in all directions over the glinting waves. Something that

was surely not a green crest caught his attention. It looked to be the

better part of a mile away, and, having found it, he straightway lost

it again between the waves. It was fully a minute before it came into

sight a second time, and he saw that it was, if not actually a boat,

at least some floating object that promised aid. They made toward it

with weary muscles. It appeared to be drifting slowly southward, and

presently they had to alter their course in accordance. Gradually it

became clearer, and they could determine that it was not a boat, since

it lay too low in the water. It seemed hours before they at length

reached it. When they did it resolved itself into a hatch cover some

eight feet long by six wide. It was painted buff and had a figure 3 in

one corner in black. It was several minutes before Dave was able to

pull himself over the edge and lie sprawling on the curved surface.

Then he reached a hand to Pete, and the latter squirmed, panting hard,

out of the water. They stretched themselves face down on the wet

surface and lay there silent and motionless for a long time. The hatch

made an unquiet raft, for with their weights on it it lay low in the

sea and tilted and tossed continually. It was never for an instant dry,

since the waves washed across it, but they had no fault to find with

it, you may be certain.

I think each of them drowsed a little, with the sunlight warming their

chilled bodies, and then Dave sat up cautiously and Pete regarded him

dazedly for a moment and grinned slowly.

“Not so worse, Kid!” he sighed. “A little damp, but Oh, boy!”

“If we could only hoist something, Pete,” said Dave. “I’m afraid we

don’t show up very plain.”

“There’s nothin’ to hoist and nothin’ to hoist it on. We got to keep

our eyes peeled an’ when we see a ship we got to stand up, one o’ us,

an’ wave a shirt. You lie down an’ rest your hands an’ face, Kid, an’

I’ll be lookout for awhile.”

“No, you’re more tired than I am,” replied Dave. “You go to sleep and

I’ll do the ‘spotting.’”

Pete demurred at first, but finally consented. “If I roll off, Kid,”

he muttered, closing tired eyes, “fish me out, but don’t wake me,

see?” In less than a minute he was snoring deeply, sprawled out on

his back. Dave, swaying with the short toss of the hatch cover,

watched for smoke or sail, his own eyes threatening to close every

moment. The sun climbed higher and higher. His watch had stopped again

at a little after four, and he had to guess at the time and guessed

half-past eight. A myriad of tiny black birds swept overheard, rising

and falling, and disappeared against the blue of the sky. A gray mist

hid the horizon now, but there were few clouds in sight. After an hour

or so Pete awoke of his own accord and Dave slept. When he returned to

consciousness the sun was well overhead.

“You know what’s goin’ to get us, Kid,” observed Pete, soberly, “is

thirst. I could drink a bucket of water this minute and not know I’d

had it.”

“Shut up,” said Dave. “I was trying to forget it. How long can a fellow

go without water, Pete?”

“I don’t know. Seven days, is it? No, that’s a camel. Wish I was one o’

’em! It’s gettin’ mighty hot, too, Kid. That don’t help much, take it

from Pete!”

Talk lapsed. Thirst increased as the sun beat more hotly upon them.

What breeze there was came from the southeast, and was too faint to

afford much relief. They took turns at lying face-downwards to relieve

their eyes from the incessant glare and glitter of the dancing waves.

The afternoon, between two and four, was more intolerable than the

morning hours. They laved their heads and faces with salt water at

intervals, or held their wrists under. There was no sleepiness now;

only a languor that made movement, or even conversation, distasteful.

After a long, long while their shadows began to lengthen across the

raft and the breeze strengthened. Their mouths were dry and salty, and

talking, when they felt any inclination toward it, was difficult. Peter

said his tongue was getting too big for his mouth.

They searched the horizon continually, but without result. Once a

faint smudge of something that might possibly have been smoke showed

against the haze to the west, but it was gone almost before Pete had

drawn Dave’s attention to it. Shortly before sunset the breeze dwindled

again to a mere breath. They experienced no hunger, but had queer,

sharp pains inside them. They were beginning to lose hope of rescue

now, although neither said so. About eight o’clock Pete dozed off, and

Dave, feeling very lonely and despondent, sat and watched the shadows

grow in the hollows of the waves. The change from the extreme heat of

the sun to the chill of evening made him shiver in his damp clothes. He

lay down to escape what breeze was stirring and the water that washed

over the curving surface of the hatch seemed warm in comparison. He

closed his eyes for an instant and must have slept, for when he awoke,

startledly, the daylight had almost gone. Pete was leaning above him

and shaking him hard.

“Wake up, Kid! We’re all right! See who’s here!”

Pete’s words were thick and difficult to make out, but the tone of

them told enough to make Dave sit up quickly and peer about him in the

gray twilight. Black against the lingering radiance of the western

sky, so close that he could hear voices on deck, floated a long, slim

destroyer, while, halving the distance, was a small boat, heading

straight toward them.

Dave tried to speak, but for a moment his swollen tongue and dry lips

made no sound. When he did make himself heard his voice was only a

mumble.

“Is she――German?” he managed to ask.

“German!” babbled Pete, thickly. “No, sir, she’s good old U. S. A.,

Kid! And,” he added with an attempted laugh that sounded like a croak

of a raven, “we’re back home!”

“Back home?” repeated Dave, confusedly.

“Sure! A United States deck’s United States territory, ain’t it? And,

listen, Kid, there’s water over there! Fine, wet water! Oh, boy!”

Ten minutes later their troubles were over. They were heaped under

blankets in two narrow bunks and their parched throats had known the

blessed joy of a few sips of water. A young medical officer with an

ensign’s grade was in stern authority.

“You can have more presently,” he said. “Keep those blankets up to your

chin, you freckled face fellow! What’s that? Food? Oho, I guess there’s

not much the matter with you, then! Yes, you’ll get some broth after a

while. Now just stow the talk and keep quiet.”

They must have obeyed, for when Dave opened his eyes again the

destroyer’s engines were clattering and thumping busily and the ship

was swaying at a fine rate. Some one was playing on an accordion

further along the deck, and Dave, smiling contentedly, murmured the

words to the merry tune: “Where do we go from here, boys, where do we

go from here?” Then:

“Pete!” he called above the clamor of the engines and the creaking of

the hull.

“Hello?”

“Awake?”

“Sure!”

“How are you feeling?”

“Dry! Hungry, too! I could eat a raw dog!”

“So could I,” answered Dave, and was quite convinced that he meant it.

“What time is it, do you think?”

“Search me! And I don’t care. But if some guy don’t fetch me

somethin’――”

“Pour this into your lockers,” said a voice. It was the medical

officer again, and with him was a man in a soiled white jacket who

balanced bowls of steaming broth. They ate ravenously――or drank, if you

prefer――and then were allowed nearly a half cup of water apiece. And

after that Pete found his voice again.

“Gee, but that was great, sir!” he said. “Do I get any more?”

“Yes, in the morning,” answered the ensign, dryly. “And in the morning

you can tell me how you came to be floating around the sea on a hatch

cover, wearing German uniforms!”

“Easy, sir! I’ll tell you all about it now.”

“No, you’ll go to sleep,” laughed the doctor.

“Yes, sir,” answered Pete very obediently. “But will you tell me what

ship this is that we’re on, please?”

“This is the _Lothrop_. Where did you drop over from?”

“We was on Chaser _944_, sir, an’――”

“The _944_?” exclaimed the ensign. “Why, we convoyed her into

Queenstown day before yesterday. She’d been in a scrap with a Hun, she

reported, and was a bit knocked about. Lost her after-house and had

a hole knocked in her side. Well, we’ll put you back on her in the

morning, for we’re making Queenstown now. We’ve just picked up Fastness

Light. Now you’d better go to sleep, the two of you. Good night, boys.”

“Good night, sir, and thank you!”

Presently: “Did you hear that, Dave?” asked Pete.

But there was no answer from the bunk above. Pete chuckled to himself.

“The Kid’s asleep,” he muttered. “Won’t he be surprised when he wakes

up an’ sees the little old _944_ lyin’ alongside? Some boat, the little

old _944_, take it from Pete! Some Kid, too. Plucky little guy. Him

an’ me showed the Huns a trick, didn’t we, Petey? Huh? An’ we got a lot

more tricks, too, ain’t we? Sure ... we ... have! Lots ... more....”

Then there was silence in the lower bunk.

PART II

SWEEPING THE SEAS

CHAPTER I

ON PATROL

The next day Dave and Pete were back on the “little old _944_,” a _944_

much the worse for wear, but displaying an air of consequence perhaps

allowable in one who had in a mere handful of days braved destruction

by the elements and survived two U-boat attacks. Only a few timbers

indicated the former position of her after-house, the bow gun had been

wrecked, there was a first-aid patch aft her beam on the starboard

side, and one of the two small boats resembled a sieve more than

anything else. There were lesser souvenirs of the engagements, besides,

in the shape of broken railing, chipped woodwork, and a dented funnel.

There had been six casualties, the boys learned, exclusive of Dave,

whose wound in the arm was now showing an intention to heal. Stearns

was ashore in hospital with a fractured leg; one of the after gun

crew, Malloy, was nursing a wound in his thigh from which a nice

big piece of shrapnel had been excavated. Chuck Morgan was wearing a

bandaged head, and there had been three minor injuries to other members

of the crew. The appearance of Dave and Pete had created a genuine

sensation. The _Lothrop’s_ boat had taken them across the harbor to

where the _944_ was lying, awaiting her turn in the dock, and they were

nearly alongside before those aboard the chaser recognized them. Then

an audience of incredulous Jackies lined the rail and stared. Only

the presence in the small boat of a dignified young ensign deterred

them from audible comments on the miracle. But when Dave and Pete

had clambered on deck and the _Lothrop’s_ boat had cast off again

their shipmates swarmed about them and the air was full of questions.

Even Chuck Morgan, looking, with his bandaged countenance, more than

ordinarily unamiable, edged toward the group to listen.

Things were very confused for a few minutes, for half a dozen

full-voiced fellows talked at once, but Dave gathered that he and Pete

had been given up for good, and that their names had already been

sent in as “missing.” No one, it seemed, had seen either of the lads

go overboard, and the supposition was that they had been done for by

the explosion that had wrecked the after-house. The possibility of

their having been thrown into the water without being killed had been

entertained, but no one had thought well of their chances of rescue.

If being thumped on the back and called perfectly insulting names in

affectionate tones were indications of cordiality, then Dave and Pete

were surely welcome. They broke away as soon as possible and reported

to Lieutenant Cowan. Their appearance in the doorway of the little ward

room caused the lieutenant’s eyes to stand out and left him speechless

for the moment.

“Come aboard, sir,” said Pete, saluting and grinning.

“Why――why, hang it, you men; I thought you’d gone!” exclaimed the luff.

“Where――where’d you come from? What happened to you? Come inside and

tell your story.”

When they had finished, or, rather, when Dave had finished, for Pete

left the narrative to him, the lieutenant shook his head helplessly.

“It doesn’t sound possible, Garson,” he said, “but if you both swear

to it, why, I’ll have to believe it. You certainly had a run of luck,

though! What did you think was going to happen to you when you escaped

from the sub? Were you intending to swim to the Irish coast?”

“I guess we didn’t have any very special plan,” acknowledged Dave. “We

sort of hoped to get picked up by one of the boats from the steamer,

but we never saw any of them after we were in the water. The main

thing, we thought, was to get away. We thought they’d probably put us

in prison and keep us there for the rest of the war.”

“That’s what would have happened, of course. Thought you’d be of

more use somewhere else, eh? Well, it was some risk, and you got out

of a bad place pretty neatly when the _Lothrop_ found you. We got a

report this morning that two boatloads from the _Indalia_――that’s the

freighter they sank――were brought into Ventry last evening. About forty

in all. There’s a third boatful still to hear from. Now tell me about

that sub. How big do you think she was?”

The boys answered the lieutenant’s questions for a good quarter of an

hour before he released them, and their replies were jotted down on a

sheet of paper and ultimately found their way up the hill to Admiralty

headquarters. They were on their way out when the lieutenant stopped

them. “By the way, Rooney,” he said, “there’s just one thing more.”

“Yes, sir?”

“The next time a man goes overboard and you see him, if it’s during

action you’re not to go after him. That’s not the game, my lad. Drop

a life-buoy and report ‘man overboard’ to the officer of the deck,

but that’s all. Your duty’s to stick to your station. Remember that

hereafter. You, too, Garson. Attempting a rescue is fine, manly

stuff, but it’s contrary to regulations. You are a necessary unit on

your ship. When you leave your station you are interfering with the

successful conduct of the ship. In time of action that is ordinarily

inexcusable. To put it bluntly, men, it is better to lose one man by

drowning than to have a second man away from his station. If the ship

is not in action or preparing for action this does not apply. At such

times the attempt to rescue a companion is permissible and commendable.

You are still a new man, Rooney, and I shall overlook your――mistake.

But――another time, remember! That’s all. Oh, by the way, get out of

those German togs as soon as you can and sink them in the harbor!”

“Well, what do you know about that?” asked Pete when they were out of

hearing. “Called down for tryin’ to save another ‘gob’ from drownin’!”

“I guess he’s quite right, though,” said Dave. “What happens to one man

doesn’t much matter, Pete. It’s the ship we’ve got to keep in mind.”

“Huh! I wonder would he say the same if it was him that went overboard?”

Pete sniffed. “Well, he’s the boss. Let’s get out o’ these dirty German

uniforms before some one shoots us for spies!”

Later they told their story to their shipmates, this time Pete rendering

the narrative and doing it much more picturesquely than Dave could have.

The story lost nothing in the telling, and there were times when Dave

had to look away for fear that his expression might cause the audience

to doubt the truthfulness of the yarn. Not that Pete departed far from

facts, however, for the most that he did was embroider his tale, and so

make it slightly more colorful and absorbing. Perhaps it didn’t matter

much, in any case, for few of their fellows believed more than half of

what they were told.

Dave and Pete remained heroes for several days, and Pete was called on

so frequently to spin the story of their capture, imprisonment and

escape, that ultimately the story resembled the original narrative

only in its underlying structure. On shore he was a welcome addition

to all gatherings because of the yarn he could spin. The _944_ went

into dock two days after they rejoined her, and remained there most

of a week. Even then she was not ready for duty, since a new bow gun

was wanting and was slow in making its appearance. The Old Man and the

junior officer growled impatiently, and watched with frowning brows

the destroyers and chasers come and go. But the men, for the most

part, were well enough satisfied with the entertainment afforded by

Queenstown, especially since the “gobs” from other ships, returning

from their six-day periods of sea duty, reported a discouraging

dearth of German submarines. Dave and Pete saw all that was to be

seen of Queenstown and the nearby countryside, read home papers,

and wrote letters in the Y. M. C. A. hut, witnessed several games

of baseball――there was keen rivalry between various ships for the

supremacy of the make-shift diamond――and mingled with the men of other

ships, British and French, as well as American. Queenstown harbor that

summer was a busy place, with cruisers, destroyers, sweepers, mine

layers, and patrols coming and going at all hours, and a world of

activity ashore consequent on turning a sleepy old port, rimmed with

emerald green hills, into a modern naval base.

Life was not all liberty ashore, however, for the _944_ had to have a

new dress when her repairs were finished, and Dave learned how to wield

a paint brush with a fair degree of skill. Finally, one showery summer

afternoon the _944_ snuggled up to a quay and a new three-inch gun was

lowered aboard and secured to the bow platform, and Lieutenant Cowan

and Ensign Hyatt smiled their satisfaction, and the crew, weary by now

of the soft ease of life in port, smiled also. And the next morning

the _944_ weighed anchor and dropped down the harbor, past the forts,

picked her way daintily through the hidden perils of mine fields and

left Roberts Head astern.

The _944_ carried two new men, in place of Groom and Stearns, and a

number of queer looking steel cylinders which had been lowered aboard

very respectfully and stored in the after-house. On the _944_ they

referred to them as “ash cans,” which they greatly resembled, but they

were in reality depth charges containing some two hundred and fifty

pounds of the high explosive familiarly known as “T N T” and cunningly

arranged to explode under water at a certain depth and calculated to

vastly incommode a submarine within a given radius. These depth charges

and a fine array of ammunition for the guns made the after-house a most

undesirable habitation during an action, and it was generally agreed by

the crew of the after gun that while it might serve well enough as a

shelter in time of peace, in time of battle it was not likely to prove

popular.

The two new members of the crew were both “rubber socks,” which means

that they were inexperienced men on their first sea duty. Both, too,

were reservists, and held seamen’s rating. At that time your regular

navy man looked down rather condescendingly on the naval reservist, to

put it mildly. Since then the latter has proved himself very thoroughly

and the regular accords him respect. But in that first summer of our

war with Germany members of the naval reserve had a rather hard row to

hoe, and the new recruits aboard the _944_, who had journeyed across

in the steerage of a transport, were no exceptions, although in their

case their troubles didn’t last long. They were both youngsters. Dill,

speedily nicknamed “The Pickle,” was short and rotund, with a round,

good-natured countenance, a hundred and eighty pounds of guileless

amiability. Carter was taller and far from stout, with a long, lean

face and a down-east drawl. His overshirt sleeves were too short for

his arms, which gave him an overgrown appearance, to which an unusually

long neck contributed.

The _944_ was out of sight of land toward evening, jumping about in a

choppy sea, and Carter was groaning unhappily in his upper bunk. Dill

was a better sailor, however, and took his “chow” with the rest of

his watch. He was inclined to be a little bit too sociable, I think,

a little bit too self-assured. It was only his way of letting his new

messmates know that he was ready to be friends, but it didn’t make a

good impression. He was viewed with pitying contempt at first, but as

that failed to have its effect, Kennedy gave him a hint.

“Say, Jack, no offense, but if I was you I’d feed my face and not try

to lead the conversation.”

“Why, I wasn’t,” disclaimed Dill, coloring. “What’s wrong with what I

said?”

“Nothing, I guess; but why say it? You amateurs are all right, but

you want to come in slow; see? Don’t rush it. You’re a reservist,

ain’t you?” The other nodded stiffly. “All right. Then when you’ve got

anything to say, reserve it. Get me?”

Dill closed up tight then and looked rather unhappy, while the rest of

the mess smiled――all, perhaps, save Dave, who felt sorry for the new

chap. He had the enlisted man’s usual contempt for “amateur gobs” as

they were called, but he wouldn’t have thought of showing it. Besides,

there was something likable about Dill, and Dave surmised that much of

his apparent ease of manner was assumed to hide a very natural feeling

of embarrassment. After chow Dave sought him out and proceeded to get

acquainted.

CHAPTER II

THE NEW “GOB”

At first Dill, still smarting under Kennedy’s squelching, was

suspicious, but presently he thawed out and they got on famously. As

near as Dave could determine from Dill’s story, the latter had entered

the Naval Reserve principally because he hadn’t wanted to return to

college in the fall.

“I didn’t do very well last year,” he confided, “and I’d have had to

make up two studies if I’d gone back. Besides, I’m no ‘grind,’ anyway.

Haven’t enough brain, I suppose. So when this thing broke loose I put

it up to my dad. Showed him I’d be more use ‘strafing’ Germans than

faking along for a college degree. He said he guessed I was right.

Said he understood it didn’t take much brain to shoot a gun and that I

might make quite a success of it. Of course, he wanted me to enter the

army. Was keen on having me go to Plattsburg, you know, and learn how

to polish a sword. But, gee, I’d make a peach of an officer, wouldn’t

I? So I heard about the reserves and hiked down to Newport. They gave

me the once over and said ‘Come right along in.’ Dad was mad at first.

Said he didn’t want me to be a common sailor, and a lot like that. I

told him I guessed I’d be a rather uncommon sailor, not knowing whether

salt water was something to gargle with or to put in your eye, and he

finally came around. I had two months of it at the Newport Station, and

it was all to the merry. There were some fine lads there. Then they

shipped a bunch of us to New London, where we bunked on a wharf and

made steel nets. I was there about ten days when they yanked a lot of

us away and shipped us over here on a transport. We were told we were

to fill vacancies on the destroyers, and I was crazy to get on one of

’em, but I lost out. Still, this isn’t bad. I dare say that I’ll see

just as much fun on this boat as on a destroyer, eh?”

“I think you may,” agreed Dave. “Did the other chap come over with you?”

“Carter? Yes. I didn’t know him, though. Never really noticed the chap

until we landed on the dock here yesterday. He says he was at the

station when I was, but I don’t remember him. Guess I’ll go and see if

I can do anything for him. He’s horribly sick, poor fellow.”

“I’ll go along,” said Dave. “Seasickness doesn’t seem to bother you

much.”

“Me? No, I’ve never been sick yet. I read once that you had to have

imagination in order to be seasick. Don’t know if it’s so, but I never

did have any imagination and I’ve never been sick; and there you are!”

They found some half dozen men in the fo’c’sle, among them Chuck

Morgan. One or two were reading, but the others were listening to

Chuck and appeared to be amused at his remarks. As Dave and his new

acquaintance entered Chuck was holding forth as follows:

“Yes, sir, there’s nothing better than a fine mess of salt pork and

greens for seasickness. There’s something about ’em that just reaches

the spot. You take a fine big chunk of pork, good and fat, fellers, and

you put it in a kettle with some water and you let it boil slowly. When

there’s about a half an inch of grease floating around on top the water

you put in your greens and you boil the whole mess for about two hours.

Then you slap a lot of the greens on a plate and cut off three or four

slices of nice juicy fat pork and you get some one to hold your head

up for you――”

Chuck was interrupted by a heart-rending groan from the upper bunk

behind him. He grinned broadly and winked at the audience.

“――And then you take one of those nice fat slices of greasy pork,” he

continued, “and sort of chew on it――”

“Cut it!” Dill pushed his way around the table and confronted Chuck

with blazing eyes. “You big slab-sided, wall-eyed, knock-kneed giraffe,

you! You pin-head! You vitrified lump of paleolithic pulp! Just open

your dirty mouth again, you button-eyed Swede, and I’ll bust you square

open! You’ve got a cheek, anyhow, sitting up and making sounds like a

man, you lacertilian skunk! You ought to be climbing a tree in a glass

case, with a label on, you stuffed anthropoid ape! What do you mean by

getting out and running loose? Back to the museum, you!”

Chuck Morgan’s face was a study. Blank amazement passed into a sort of

awe as Dill rained words on him without pause. His mouth dropped slowly

open and he gazed up at the fluent youngster in silent, fascinated

bewilderment, as yet too stupefied to be angry. As Dill ended, more

for want of breath than lack of words, there was a brief instant of

silence. Then a veritable howl of laughter arose in the fo’c’sle, in

which Dave joined. Then Chuck’s mouth closed, a flood of red flamed

into his lean, sallow face, and he jumped to his feet, overturning the

bench.

“Who you calling an ape?” he demanded. He towered over Dill by six

inches, but the recruit held his ground, paying no heed to the big,

clenched hand that Chuck swung back menacingly.

“You, you arboreal quadrumane! And I’m paying you a compliment,

too! Put that arm down or I’ll break it! You can’t scare me, you

apotheosized protoplasm! You know what you are? Well, you’re a newt, a

plain, ordinary newt! You’re not even a gecko! Just a newt!”

That was too much for Chuck. With a roar of rage he flung himself on

Dill. “Newt, am I?” he shrieked. “I’ll show you――”

What happened next was as extraordinary as it was unexpected. Chuck

went backward over the overturned bench and landed with a shock that

for the moment deprived him of the powers of speech or action. Dill

jumped nimbly after and shook a stern finger above his prostrate foe.

“Yes, sir, a newt!” he declared triumphantly. “An aquatic-tailed,

amphibian newt! And don’t you deny it! Don’t you open your mouth to

deny it! Don’t even think of it! You’re a common garden newt, always

was, and always will be! Just newt! That’s you, just newt!”

The onlookers were holding their sides now, and the little fo’c’sle was

noisy with laughter as Chuck, visibly shaken and perplexed by what had

happened to him, slowly climbed to his feet and subsided on the edge of

a bunk. He stared gloweringly at Dill, but there was profound respect

in his gaze. Then, sensing the ridicule in the laughter, he snarled at

the others:

“Oh, shut up,” he growled. “I’ll fix this kid all right, and I’ll fix

you guys if you laugh at me! He’s crazy, he is!” He observed Dill

again, wonderingly. “He――he don’t talk sense! But I’ll get him, see if

I don’t!” Chuck arose stiffly and made his way around the further side

of the table, his eyes furtively watching Dill. “No one can call me a

newt and get away with it!”

“Don’t you dare say you aren’t!” thundered the youngster, shaking a

finger across the fo’c’sle. “Can you look me in the eye and deny it?

You can’t do it! You’ve got every mark of a newt! Look at those ears!

Look at that nose!” Dill’s voice arose triumphantly. “Look at those

feet! Newt’s feet! Newt’s feet, by jiminy!”

“Aw, shut up, you――you――” Chuck’s voice positively wailed, but the

right epithet failed him and he launched himself up the companion-way

with incoherent sounds of rage. A broad smile enveloped Dill’s round

countenance and he chuckled. Briggs, rubbing a sleeve across his

streaming eyes, said chokingly: “Jack, you’re all right! After this you

talk all you want to, ’cause you’ve certainly got the knack of it! I

wouldn’t have missed Chuck’s face for a million dollars!”

“Yes, but say, kid, what did you do to him?” asked another. “You didn’t

hit him, did you?”

“No, I just gave him a leg,” replied Dill, modestly. “I used to wrestle

a bit in college.”

After that night The Pickle had no more troubles. And, since he let

it be understood that Carter was a particular crony of his, no more

did the second new member of the _944’s_ crew. Carter recovered from

his illness the next day and, while he still looked extremely pale and

shuddered at sight of the morning beans and bacon, was able to go on

duty. Chuck Morgan let The Pickle severely alone, but he was frequently

seen observing the youngster surreptitiously in a puzzled way that

showed he had not lost interest in him. No one aboard took Chuck very

seriously, but Kennedy advised Dill to keep his eyes open. “He’s not

likely to stand up to you, Pickle, but he might drop a cartridge box on

your foot, or some little joke like that. He was asking me yesterday

what a newt was.” Kennedy chuckled. “I didn’t tell him because I didn’t

know. What is it?”

Dill explained and Kennedy looked disappointed. “Is that all?” he

asked. “Well, Chuck thinks it’s something pretty fierce, I guess. He

didn’t seem to mind the other things you called him, but ‘newt’ got

right under his skin. I saw him looking at his feet to-day, too,”

laughed Kennedy.

Dave liked Dill――his whole name it seemed was Robert Dunham Dill――and

for a day or two Pete was strangely taciturn and moody. What his

trouble was only appeared when he referred to Dill contemptuously as

“your friend, the Rah-rah Boy.” It dawned on Dave then that Pete was

jealous, and he set about working him out of it. But Pete was not to

be placated at once and it was another day or two before he returned

to good humor. Even then, however, he refused to accept The Pickle on

a friendly footing, and showed a tendency to pick a quarrel with that

youth on almost any provocation. Matters reached a head on the fourth

day of the _944’s_ sea duty.

Dill had several times amused the men by showing tricks of wrestling.

He was very modest of his prowess and had to be coaxed a bit before he

would perform. Then, with one or another of the men as adversary, he

showed various holds and always deposited the opponent neatly on his

back on the fo’c’sle deck when the time came. On the occasion mentioned

nine or ten of the “gobs” were looking on, amongst them Pete and

Dave. Briggs had managed to stave off defeat for the better part of a

minute, but was eventually landed, to the huge delight of the audience.

Whereupon Pete pushed forward.

“Come on, Percy,” he challenged. “Try me. I ain’t no Zbyszko, but I

might show you a trick at that.”

Dill viewed Pete doubtfully, aware of the latter’s unfriendliness.

“What’s the matter?” sneered Pete. “Ain’t scared, are you?”

Dill shook his head. “No, but this is fun, and you don’t sound as

though you wanted fun.”

“Sure, I want fun,” replied Pete, grinning. “I won’t hurt you, son.

Come on an’ show me some o’ them pretty tricks.”

“All right,” answered Dill quietly, “if you insist.”

“Yeah, that’s me, Mister Insist,” said Pete flippantly. “Everything

goes, eh?”

Dill’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “Just as you like. Ready?”

They circled for a moment in the narrow space of the fo’c’sle deck,

eyeing each other warily. Then. Pete sprang in and they grappled.

The audience was quite impartial and for a minute, while the two

struggled for holds, they applauded first one and then the other. Pete

was outweighed by The Pickle, but he soon showed himself a difficult

problem for the latter. Twice Dill tried a fall only to have Pete

squirm free. Then, locked again, heaving and panting, they struggled

without advantage to either for a long two minutes. At last, though,

Dill fairly lifted Pete from his feet, and they crashed together to

the deck, Dill on top. But Pete had managed to land on one hip, and

now, like a human eel, he squirmed over on his face in spite of the

other’s grasp. Twice Dill had him nearly over, but each time Pete

pried himself back. The third effort succeeded, however, and Pete was

being remorselessly flattened, when a shout of protest arose from the

watchers.

“Foul there, Pete!” “Quit gouging!” “Cut out the rough stuff!”

But Pete, his right hand in Dill’s face, only grinned. Dill strove to

pull his head away from the fingers that were clutching at eyes and

nose, but failed. Then: “Don’t do that,” he panted.

“Why not?” answered Pete. “You said――everything went!”

“All right!” Dill’s response was heard only by his antagonist. But

the others saw The Pickle come nimbly to his knees with arching back.

Pete’s hold broke. Before he knew what was to happen he found himself

turned heels-over-head, and he came slamming to the deck like a bag of

potatoes and with a suddenness and force that bewildered him for just

the fraction of time needed by Dill. Down came that youth with all his

one hundred and eighty pounds, and Pete’s body lay flat with the deck,

both shoulders and hips down.

A roar of applause greeted the victory, and Dill sprang to his feet.

The marks of Pete’s fingers were still on his face, and unconsciously

he put a hand up to his nose. But he was smiling quite amiably as Pete

arose. Knowing Pete’s quick temper, the audience waited for an outbreak

from that youth. But Pete only pulled his neckerchief into place in

silence.

“Try again?” asked Dill good-humoredly.

Pete shook his head, while one of his slow grins came over his freckled

countenance. “I got enough,” he said. “You win, bo. That was some toss,

take it from Pete. An’, say, if I hurt your face I’m sorry, see! Where

I learned what I know about wrestlin’ you can do anything you want to

short o’ usin’ a knife! That all right?”

“Sure!” agreed Dill. “It was fair. I agreed to it. If you had a bit

more weight, friend, you’d be a mighty good wrestler.”

“Yeah, I’d be a wonder,” agreed Pete. “But some time you got to show

me how you flipped me over, son. That was too quick for me to take any

notes!”

“All right,” laughed Dill. “Any time you like.”

“I guess he ain’t so bad,” announced Pete that night to Dave. “Any guy

that can keep his temper when he’s bein’ gouged is some lad. An’ he

sure is some boy at that mat game, take it from Pete!”

After that The Pickle became one of them and the three hung very close

together. Sometimes Carter, now known amongst his mates as “Yank,” made

a fourth, but Carter never quite fitted into the small circle for some

reason. Meanwhile I have got far ahead of my story, for all this time

the _944_ has been bucking the seas around “50-10,” and in the Summer

of 1917 no patrol could do that for long without scaring up some sort

of an adventure!

CHAPTER III

“CLEAR FOR ACTION!”

In August, although the United States was sending across destroyers and

chasers as fast as they came from the ways or could be made from craft

taken over from private ownership, the Allied patrol fleet in British

and French waters was still woefully small for the work it had to

perform. It was not until late in the following winter that it reached

proportions measurable with its task. With several thousand square

miles of sea to be constantly swept for enemy submarines and mines,

troopships and freighters to be convoyed and a sharp watch kept on

neutral shipping, the patrol fleet had its hands full. As a consequence

many tiny boats all too frail for the duty imposed on them did heroic

work that summer all the way from the Shetlands down to the Bay of

Biscay, and when the history of the war is written some of the biggest

feats will be credited to the smallest craft.

An area roughly triangular in shape containing approximately 170,000

square miles of sea was the territory assigned to the United States

flotilla under Admiral Sims. This area was plotted into squares and to

each square was allotted one or more patrol units whose duty it was to

guard the ocean contained within its imaginary sides. At the beginning

British and French ships performed fully half of the work there, but as

the United States increased her flotilla the Allies withdrew gradually,

leaving more and more of the sea to the American light cruisers,

destroyers and chasers. But in midsummer the area assigned to one pair

of patrol boats was discouragingly large and getting in touch with an

enemy submarine was more a matter of luck than good management. The

patrols spent usually six days at sea and then returned to port for

three. At all times when on duty each patrol was under orders of the

flagship of the division, and only special duty put her “on her own.”

Find Black Ball Head, on the southwest coast of Ireland, on your atlas

and follow straight south on the line of the tenth degree of longitude

for slightly over a hundred miles and you will have reached one corner

of that square of tumbling gray-green water assigned to the _944_. A

hundred and seventy miles eastward lie the Scilly Islands; beyond, the

entrance to the English Channel. Northward, nearing the Irish coast,

the ocean bottom rises and in those shallow waters an ordinary gale

raises a considerable rumpus. While there are many days when the ocean

around “50-10” is as still and calm as an inland lake, there are many,

many more when it is a tumbling welter in which a small craft pitches

and tosses all ways at once.

For three days the _944_ encountered a choppy sea, with alternate

cloud and sunshine and early morning mists. Then the wind died and

shifted half-way around the compass, and a smiling ocean, as blue

as the Mediterranean and as peaceful as a mill-pond, greeted Dave’s

waking eyes. Scrubbing deck that morning was a delight. The chaser

merely courtesied to the waves, the sunlight danced on the water, and

the southerly breeze, scarcely more than a zephyr, whispered of sunny

Spain. Dave, bare of foot, with up-rolled trousers and not over-clean

dungaree, dropped his bucket over the side and whistled gayly as he

lifted it, full and splashing, above the rail. Being alive on such a

morning was a veritable adventure of itself. From the galley came the

heartening odor of coffee, an odor that, somehow, on shipboard will

follow a hungry sailor from billet-head to taffrail and even up to the

crow’s nest. Cleaning deck didn’t take long on the _944_, for there

wasn’t much of it, and in a short time Dave was below doing valiant

work with knife and fork. For once the mess table was down and usable

and morning chow was eaten in quite a Christian manner. One could fill

an aluminum cup almost full and not lose half the contents between

spigot and mouth. Spirits were high this morning and appetites amazing.

At seven Dave climbed the shrouds and snuggled himself in the gray

canvas cylinder above the bridge, relieving a hungry lookout to the joy

of coffee, bacon and potatoes. In all directions empty sea rewarded

Dave’s attention. The sun was well above the rim of the world and the

dancing waves caught its rays and flashed them about like so many tiny

mirrors. Small birds sped close to the laughing surface, peep-peeping

as they passed, and presently three playful dolphins dashed across the

bow, bringing a gasp to Dave’s lips and a spasm to his heart. A dolphin

appearing so without warning suggests just one thing, and Dave’s lips

were already forming the word “_Torpedo!_” when his second thought

whispered “Dolphin!” They kept the chaser company for longer than

Dave’s trick in the cage, cork-screwing along without apparent effort,

up and down, in and out, keeping their relative places as absolutely as

though on exhibition drill. It may be that dolphins have their troubles

in private, but to watch them one would never suspect it. No denizen of

air or water appears so joyous and care-free.

An hour aloft, during which not so much as a distant smoke smudge

marred the oyster-gray sky above the horizon, and Dave slid down again

and found Pete and shared a half cake of chocolate in the after-house.

Then came gun drill and when the canvas jacket was once more around

Betsy Ann’s slender form the forenoon was half gone. Why the stern gun

was called Betsy Ann no one seemed to know any more than why the bow

gun was called The Colonel. Guns, like dogs, must have their names.

Later Dave was curled up in the sun perusing a torn two pages of a

month old New York newspaper which fluttered gayly in the breeze that

roamed around the corner of the wheel-house. The _944_ was loafing

along at twelve knots and her engines hardly more than purred through

the open hatch. The splash of waves against the slim bow was soothing

and sleepy. So quiet was the scene that when Mallory, radio man, put

his head out of the tiny hutch and warbled something about his little

gray home in the west Dave jumped alarmedly. Then Mallory’s song ceased

abruptly and his shock head disappeared from sight and Dave heard the

_spit-spit-spat_ of the sparks again. A few seconds later a slip of

paper was borne upward to the bridge and the _944_ sprang into activity.

“S O S,” explained Briggs, straight from the wardroom. “American cargo

boat fighting off a sub over there.” He waved an arm westward. “We’re

going to have a look-see, Kid. Down on your marrow-bones and pray we

get there before the fun’s over!”

“How far away is she?” asked Dave eagerly.

“A hundred and something. I didn’t get that. There she roars!”

Briggs listened approvingly to the increasing hum of the engines and

cocked an eye funnel-ward. The smoke was coming heavier now, blacker

and greasier. The _944_ was swinging about and the waves were spraying

the forward deck. Eighteen knots――nineteen knots――and the chaser was

off on her mission of rescue. In the wireless hutch Mallory had ticked

off an answer:

“With you in five hours. Don’t surrender.”

Twenty minutes later the _Agawam_ spoke again: “Please hurry. Enemy has

range. Shells falling alongside. Course E N E.”

“It’s dollars to collar-studs,” observed Kennedy fretfully, “that some

one else will get there first. Rotten luck, I say, to raise your first

sub a hundred and fifteen miles away.”

“It isn’t our first,” denied Farrel, shellman.

“First since we’ve been on patrol, I mean. Stands to reason there’s

patrols nearer than we are. We’ll fetch up a couple of hours too late.”

“And a good thing, too,” offered another. “A swell chance we’ve got

with these three-inch pistols against the five-point-nines the Huns

have! They can knock us into a cocked hat twenty minutes before we get

the range.”

“Don’t worry,” said Kennedy. “They don’t all have those 15 centimeter

guns. Only the big ‘fishes.’ Anyway we can outshoot ’em. Just give me a

sight of a Fritz and I’ll bet a month’s pay that old Betsy Ann’ll have

something to say to ’em!”

Mallory’s inquiry, “What’s the good word?”, flashed into the air

shortly after eight bells, brought no answer, and gloom descended on

ward room and fo’c’sle. There was but one explanation, which was that

the _Agawam_ had been very thoroughly “strafed” by the submarine. But

there might be small boats to seek and, in any case, the _944’s_ duty

was to hike along at her best speed, which was twenty-three ordinarily,

but to-day, in a calm sea, was nearly a mile better. Chow was eaten

rather perfunctorily and was interrupted with much discussion. None of

them all was very hopeful. All agreed that it was a wild-goose chase

they were on, with mighty little hope of even glimpsing the goose, and

yet, when at shortly after 2 o’clock the foretop lookout called down:

“Smoke dead ahead!” dejection was forgotten. They flocked to points

of vantage, atop the boats, onto the railing, anywhere to lift their

vision over the curve of the sea. But for long minutes only the man in

the cage saw what he babbled of. “Black smoke, sir!” ... “Making east,

north-east!” ... “Might be fire, sir! A lot of it!” The lieutenant

poised impatient glasses to his eyes and waited. Then the cloud became

visible from the deck, and――

“Large steamer, sir, afire for’ard!” shouted the lookout.

“Can you see the enemy?” called the Old Man.

“No, sir, not visible.” Then, after a long minute: “Enemy spotted, sir!

Can see the flash of her gun about half a mile south of the steamer.”

“Clear for action!” called the lieutenant.

Up rose the fleeing steamer above the horizon, smoke clouds pouring

back for leagues against the sky; masts, then funnels and, at last,

long, dark hull. Glasses showed her plainly now. Through the brown

haze of smoke pinkish flashes showed at times. The _Agawam_ was still

fighting bravely as she fled. Six miles lay between now. The Old Man

looked despairingly at the telltale trail of smoke that flattened

out from the _944’s_ funnel. No hope of low visibility with that

advertisement above them! Below decks the engines raved and roared

and a flood of hot, oil-laden air issued gustily from the engine room

hatch and poisoned the deck. On the bridge the officers stood silent,

eyes glued to binoculars, legs astraddle, one hand on the rail with

knuckles showing white. Dave, lugging cartridge cases back to Betsy

Ann, silently prayed for the impossible. Kennedy was muttering as he

swung the gun around until its length almost paralleled the chaser’s

rail. The shell was in and the breech closed, but the lucky beggars

for’ard would get the first chance. Four depth charges trudged out on

the trucks, cards to be left in case the callers arrived too late.

“Bow gun,” was the call. “Ready down there?”

“Ready, sir!”

Into the voice tube then: “After gun. Are you ready?”

“Ready, sir!”

Silence and suspense. The distance was four miles now, but rapidly

lessening. The submarine was showing flashes as her deck guns spat,

the steamer fluttering signals and running her best of fourteen miles.

Brown smoke was oozing from the forward hold or thereabouts and

writhing back and down to hang in long, streaming clouds above the

sunlit sea. Three miles! Then two! And the enemy paying as yet no heed

to the interloper charging straight toward her. And now barely a mile

intervened. Chaser, steamer and submarine made the three points of a

triangle. The lookout warned: “They’re sighting on us, sir!” Far ahead

a column of water splashed in the sunlight.

The Old Man raised his straining hand from the rail beside him and

lowered his glasses.

“Commence firing,” he said.

CHAPTER IV

THE HUN SHOWS HIS TEETH

The Colonel barked and a three-inch shell sped across the water to

where the U-boat was curving the waves from her knife-like bow in

stern pursuit of the freighter. The shot was far short, though. Nor

was the shell with which the submarine returned the compliment any

more successful, for it struck the water well ahead of the _944_ and

went ricochetting harmlessly past. Then the submarine showed her

teeth. Around went her stern and she swept down toward the chaser, a

twelve-foot target now instead of a hundred-odd, her one gun firing

fast as the _944’s_ course brought that craft nearly broadside on. But

that was only for an instant, for then the chaser’s helm went over,

too, and the boats drew near on opposite courses.

“Four thousand yards!” announced the bridge. And then: “Port your

helm! Port! Steady!” Aft, Dave, watching with fast-beating heart, knew

what the lieutenant had in mind to do, and instinctively his hand

went out for something to hold to. But, although the maneuver was well

planned and well timed, the distance was too great, and the U-boat

slewed around, and the _944_, hoping to ram, slid harmlessly past. Not

harmlessly, either, for bow and after gun were busy, and for one short

moment the target lay before them point-blank.

There was a rending crash as the Betsy Ann scored and the sloping

wave-breaker forward of the conning tower melted from sight, taking

ventilating pipe with it. Dave saw one sailor throw his arms in air,

stagger, fall and roll from sight. A second sank to his knees and

reached gropingly for the deck. Then the conning tower intervened, for

the U-boat was making away, stern-on, pursued by the chaser’s fire.

“Got her!” Kennedy shouted triumphantly. “Got her! Quick with that

shell!”

[Illustration: “Got her!” Kennedy shouted triumphantly]

“Yeah, but she’s not much hurt,” said Pete. “She’ll go down now, take

it from Pete! What did I tell you?”

The _944_ was turning on her heel in pursuit, but the submarine had

had enough. She was no match for the chaser in speed, even though, as

German submarines went, she was small and fast, and she recognized

the fact at last. The Colonel was spouting the spray around her and

there was one shot that seemed as if it must have been an underwater

hit, and then the conning tower lessened in height above the waves,

the stern lifted and, like a gray turtle sliding off a log, the U-boat

went under. One last shot from The Colonel and the gun fire aboard the

chaser ceased. But she still had a card to play, and at the rail the

little crane was already swinging its burden outboard. Straight over

the swirl of the submerging U-boat shot the _944_. There was a splash

as the depth charge struck the water. The _944_ picked up her skirts

and fled, and from her wake, a hundred yards astern, a great column of

green and sudsy water shot twenty feet in air, hung an instant and fell

in a sunlit cascade of foam. Around on her heel again came the chaser.

Over went a second charge. Again the water columned upward. Twice more,

and then, circling slowly, the _944_ sought signs of victory.

Foam and bubbles alone marked the site of the explosions, and

disappointment was audible along the deck. Then one of the men called

attention to streaks of oil at a little distance, and a cheer broke

forth. But triumph was short-lived, for the lieutenant called down

from the bridge: “That’s only shell ‘slick,’ boys. She got away.” He

turned to the engine room telegraph, and the _944_ picked up her feet

again and made after the _Agawam_, now some two miles distant.

“What is shell ‘slick’?” asked Dave of Kennedy.

“Oil from the gas of an exploding shell,” was the answer. “If it bursts

on the water or near it, it always leaves an oily smudge. In target

practice we can generally tell where the shot’s gone by the ‘slick.’ I

don’t know if these depth bombs would send up oil, but I should think

they might. Half the yarns you hear about subs being destroyed are

just bunk. There’s some oil floating around on the surface, and a lot

of bubbles, and the other fellow shakes hands with himself and reports

that he’s sunk a Fritz. Like as not the oil was from his own shells and

the bubbles are just the bubbles that always rise when anything sinks

carrying air with it. I used to believe all those yarns, but you’ve got

to show me more than a smudge of oil and a few bubbles now.”

“Then you think we missed her, too?” asked Dave, disappointedly.

“Don’t think; I know. But at that, I’ll bet she got an awful jar when

that T N T went off down there! Wouldn’t wonder if the boss’s mustache

cup was knocked off the sideboard and all bust to pieces!”

They kept a sharp lookout, hoping against hope that the U-boat would

come back and again try conclusions, or that a “pal”――for it is very

generally believed that German submarines never operate alone――would

take up the gauntlet. But the episode appeared to be closed, for they

reached the steamer, which had now stopped her engines in response to

the chaser’s signals, without seeing anything more of the foe. The

_Agawam_ had fared rather badly. She was a big cargo boat of some 5,000

tons displacement and from her depth in the water it was evident that

she was loaded to capacity. She had carried a rifle forward and one

aft, and there was a machine gun amidships. Bow and after guns had

been put out of action by bursting shrapnel and only the machine gun

remained of use, and that had been powerless at the range presented

by the submarine. Those on the _944_ counted six evident hits on

the _Agawam_. Fortunately, only one shell had struck close to the

water-line, due, perhaps, to the fact that the steamer was unusually

low and so presented but a small target vertically. Most of the damage

had been above deck. The rail was torn away in three places for many

yards, the amidship deck structure was a mass of splintered ruins and

two boats were demolished. One of the three funnels was crumpled and

showed daylight clear through it, and the wireless had been wrecked

early in the engagement, which accounted for the _Agawam’s_ silence

after noon.

The most serious injury was from the one shell which had entered the

hull just at the water and in line with number one hold. The explosion

had set fire to her cargo there and smoke was still pouring forth

in billowing clouds as the _944_, sweeping alongside, hailed. The

captain answered from the remains of a badly treated bridge. The sub

had appeared at shortly after nine o’clock some three miles off the

starboard beam and the _Agawam_ had promptly changed her course and

used all speed. But she was loaded too deep for speed and after a

half-hour the U-boat had fired a shell that fell short. The _Agawam_

had then returned the fire without success, as the sub was beyond

range of her three-inch guns, and a running fight had ensued, with

the U-boat gradually finding her target. A lucky shot had soon put the

after gun out of commission, and the bow gun had been knocked from

its platform still later. The third mate, two members of the forward

gun crew and one sailor had been killed and six men were wounded. The

fire in the hold could be controlled, he thought, until they made

port, if they could manage a temporary patch of the hull. Fortunately,

the engines had not been damaged, and, more fortunately, a large

consignment of shells, which made up a third of the cargo, was stowed

in the after hold.

Lieutenant Cowan saluted. “I congratulate you, Captain,” he said

heartily, “on the plucky fight you put up and on your escape. I’m sorry

to say the dogs got away from us, sir. Now, in what way can I be of

service?”

“Stand by me, sir, to Liverpool. Can you do that?”

“I’ll convoy you past the cape, Captain, and arrange for you beyond

there. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“You might lend me some men to clear up this mess and stick a patch

over that hole. I’m short-handed a bit.”

“Certainly. Are you all right for medical supplies?”

“Plenty, thanks. My second mate is a bit of a saw-bones.”

The _944_ slung over a boat and eight eager men crowded in. Dave was

fortunate enough to be included. They toiled aboard the _Agawam_ until

nearly dark, by which time the deck was cleared of litter, the hole

in the hull was patched with two-inch planking, and the after gun was

restored to service. The bow gun was too badly wrecked for repairing.

Just how badly the steamer had fared was not revealed until the _944’s_

party had climbed on board. Then a full view of the battered deck lay

before them, and Dave marveled that the loss of life had not been far

greater. There was scarcely a foot of deck aft of the bridge that

did not show shrapnel scars. Dave talked with one of the forward gun

crew, a chap of nineteen, who gave his name as Edmunds, and who was

called Alvin by his pals, with whom he was trying desperately hard to

reconstruct the gun with the spare parts at their command.

“We tried to get the captain to bear down on the Hun and fight him. We

could have licked the tar out of him easy. But he wouldn’t. Said his

duty was to get his ship and cargo over. Maybe so, but it sure seemed a

shame not to get Fritz’s scalp. That old tin fish stayed out of range

most of the time, and when they gave us a chance they kept zig-zagging,

firing over one bow and then the other. They didn’t make a target big

enough to sight, hang ’em! But we got away, and I suppose we’d ought to

be thankful for that. But, gee! I wish you fellows had ‘strafed’ ’em!”

“So do we,” said Dave mournfully. “We landed twice and knocked away

their wave breaker, but then they went under and we lost them. And our

depth charges didn’t seem to feaze them any, either. It was tough luck.”

“Those squareheads are a lucky bunch, anyway,” said Edmunds. “If it

wasn’t for their fool luck the Kaiser’d be breaking stones up-river by

now! Well, I hope we meet up with that particular Hun again some day.

All I’m asking is a fair shot at her before I cash in. I’d give ninety

days’ pay and a week in brig for that!”

And the rest of the crew growled agreement.

Shortly after 7 o’clock the boarding party returned to the chaser and

the two craft started on their way again, headed for Cape Clear. The

_944_ suited her speed to the _Agawam’s_, and through a clear, starlit

night and over a calm sea they made their way at a trifle better than

ten knots. Once a patrol blinked at them, but aside from that nothing

transpired until, at sunrise, the green coast of Ireland arose from a

turquois sea. Off Toe Head a small United States destroyer bore down,

signaling, and the _944_ was relieved of her charge. Waving “Good-by

and good luck!” she swung about in a churning wake of foam and sped

southward again. From the stern Dave and The Pickle watched the plucky

_Agawam_ fade from sight, her path marked by a trailing cloud of brown

smoke from the burning cargo.

“Those Naval Guards on the merchantmen see some excitement, don’t

they?” mused Dill. “I don’t know but what they stand a better show than

we do to get action. Maybe we’d have done better if we’d gone in for

that job.”

Dave smiled. “Don’t you consider that we managed to scare up a little

action and excitement yesterday?” he asked.

“That?” The Pickle considered gravely. “Well, yes, I suppose you’d say

so. Still, there wasn’t much to it, now, was there? Look here, Kid,

what I joined this war for was――”

“To escape college,” laughed Dave.

“Partly that,” The Pickle acknowledged, with a grin, “and partly to get

a good whack at those――those blamed murderers! And my idea of a good

time is to go after ’em where they live and knock the everlasting tar

right out of ’em! Fight ’em to a fare-ye-well! This snooping around

just waiting for them to stick their heads up so you can hit ’em is

poor business. They don’t give you a show. They peek out, and if

there’s anything bigger than a tugboat in sight they duck again. They

certainly play it safe, don’t they?”

“I suppose they do. But they’re doing what they’re here for; and

they’re doing it a sight too well to please me. Some one’s got to do

the sort of thing we’re doing, Bob. It may be kind of disappointing,

but it’s necessary, and it’s going to count.”

“Hope so,” grumbled Dill, “but it isn’t my idea of war. Still, if Uncle

Sam wants it done, why I’m the lad for it. What he says goes!”

CHAPTER V

CONVOY DUTY

Followed a fortnight of uneventful existence. Back in Queenstown they

made the most of the interims between sea duty, putting in all the

time ashore that they could get, hobnobbing with “gobs” from the other

ships, yarning and listening to yarns, rooting enthusiastically for

this or that baseball team, reading and writing in the Y. M. C. A. hut,

and exploring the neighboring villages and towns, for that was before

the men were restricted to bounds. They found mail awaiting them, and

a multitude of home papers and magazines, and Dave received a box of

comforts from his mother that made him a bit homesick at first, and

then cheered him up vastly. The three of them, Dave, Pete, and The

Pickle, made that box look horribly empty in something under an hour!

The second period of duty on patrol brought nothing to liven the

monotony. Fair weather held, and the six days outside were deadly

monotonous, or would have been had there not always been the hope of

something happening to keep their spirits up. Gun practice saved the

day for many of them. Dave was trying his best to qualify for seaman

gunner, and to that end studied diligently in what books he could buy

or borrow, and watched Kennedy closely, and asked so many questions

that he threatened to become a nuisance. Chuck Morgan remained

as affable as ever, but he stood in such respect of The Pickle’s

vocabulary that he generally avoided that youth’s society. He tried

picking on Pete once or twice, and Pete good-naturedly let him get away

with it until Chuck ill-advisedly referred to Pete as a Sinn Feiner.

Then the fur flew until friends of the belligerents took their lives in

their hands and parted them just in time to save them from the eye of

the junior officer. Chuck got slightly the worst of the encounter, but,

as Pete pointed out aggrievedly, he hadn’t got nearly what he would

have had the fellows let them alone! After that Chuck remained on good

behavior for some time.

Their second stay at the base was cut short by one day, and the _944_

slid out between the nets that guard the harbor entrance one twilight

in company with four destroyers and a second chaser, and turned her

nose west southwest. “Convoy duty,” said Briggs hopefully. “Maybe we’ll

land a scrap this time. Only, if we do,” he added dejectedly, “those

destroyers’ll jump in and hog the show.”

Still, there was no charge for hoping, and the crew of the _944_

dreamed beautiful dreams of a stand-up-and-knock-down shindy with a

fine big Fritz. All that night and all the next day the six craft

steamed westward in single-column formation, the gray destroyers in

the lead and setting a sharp pace and the two chasers bringing up the

rear. Behind the _944_ was one of the 110-foot boats, narrow beamed,

low decked, with a square stern. She looked ridiculously small for the

work in hand, but they had to acknowledge aboard the _944_ that she

was certainly able and looked a heap like business. They had squally

weather, with a rough sea, and the _944’s_ deck ran with water most of

the time. As for the destroyers, reaching out in a long, slim, gray

line ahead, they made no pretense of keeping dry. They simply buried

their sharp noses into the chop and flung the seas over the swaying

bridges and asked for more. In the graveyard watch of the second

morning the engines ceased their humming, and it was known that the

convoys had reached the rendezvous. They pitched and slopped around

until dawn, making headway and no more, and then went on again lazily,

the lookouts peering ahead into a gray mist. It was the middle of the

forenoon before smoke was sighted. Then out of the haze crept twelve

big transports, asking hoarse questions with their whistles, and

fluttering a babel of conversation by wig-wag.

Two of the ships were laden with marines and the rest with army troops,

and as the destroyers and chasers sped past, under the high sides, to

take their positions, the air was filled with cheers and the long decks

fluttered with waving hats. Aboard the little _944_ they clustered at

the rail and grinned and waved back, and felt for some reason a bit

chokey. Tier on tier of olive-drab forms loomed above them, so many

that it seemed to Dave that every camp and cantonment back home must

have been emptied aboard those big ships. Cheer after cheer followed

them as they dashed by in a welter of spray, rather smartly they all

hoped, and ducked across under the frowning bows of a big transport to

take their position on the starboard flank. Signal answered signal,

sirens screeched, and, as Pete said, Donnybrook Fair had nothing on

them. Yet out of the confusion order came swiftly, and an hour after

the junction of transports and convoys big ships and little were on

their way again, the troopships in line of twos and the convoys on each

flank. Westward they set their course, and satisfaction possessed the

fo’c’sle of the _944_.

“Bordeaux,” guessed Briggs joyfully. “Great! They say it’s some town,

fellows. A chap I met the other day told me you can get regular

back-home pie in Bordeaux. And cake! Say, boy, I’m not eating a thing

till we get there!”

Meanwhile, you may be certain, no lookout napped at his station. On

convoys and transports sharp eyes combed the sea for the challenge of

an upthrust periscope or the slinking form of a dripping conning tower.

Over the rims of swaying cages, down from lofty crow’s nests, lookouts

peered all hours at a yeasty ocean, while from decks as well spotters

leveled their glasses. The Pickle chuckled as he joined Dave in the lee

of the funnel that afternoon.

“I know just how those doughboys over there are feeling to-day,” he

said, in answer to the other’s look of inquiry. “I’ve been through it.

You talk such a lot about the danger zone and get to thinking about

it so much that when they pass you the word one night to sleep in your

life-belts, and you know you’ve got there at last, you just naturally

expect a torpedo to come flipping right into your bunk ’most any time.

You don’t sleep a whole lot that first night, either. Maybe it is

because life-belts aren’t as comfortable as pajamas, or maybe because

every time a sailor stubs his toe at the far end of the ship you sit

right straight up in bed and try to remember off-hand which way your

boat is. Lots of us slept on deck that first night. They told us we

mustn’t, but we did. There was something quite a bit cheering in the

thought that when the ‘moldie’ struck us all we had to do was slide

gently into the sea and strike out for Liverpool! Bet you they’re a

nervous bunch over there just now.” He nodded toward the nearest of the

big transports. “If some one drops a plate at mess there’ll be a rush

for the decks that’ll make a subway crush look like a doll’s party.”

“I suppose you do feel sort of ticklish,” mused Dave. “Think what a

prize one of those ships would be for a Hun. Imagine a torpedo bursting

amidships yonder.”

“I’d rather not, thanks,” said Dill, dryly. “You’ve got a punk

imagination, Kid.” After a moment he went on. “Funny about that

steamer. When we first ran past her she looked sort of familiar to

me, like an old friend who’s shaved off his mustache or――or parted

his hair different. All daubed up with gray like that, she sort of

puzzled me. Then I borrowed a pair of glasses and read her name on a

lifeboat. She’s the old _Everglades_, and I’ve made three trips on her.

Know her almost as well as I know my frat house. She used to run from

New York to Savannah. See that timber arrangement on the upper deck

almost at the end? Some sort of a signaling effect, I guess. Well, my

stateroom was the one just for’ard of it. One, two, three――six from

the thwartship passage. Seems funny to see her away out here and all

smudged up with gray and filled with soldiers. Gee, war does funny

tricks! I’ve had some mighty good times on that old ship,” he added

with a chuckle.

Carter joined them, half seated himself on the narrow ledge about the

funnel base without a word and bracing himself to the swing of the boat.

“How many troops do you suppose she has aboard?” asked Dave.

“Maybe fifteen hundred,” estimated Dill. “Maybe more than that. They’ve

changed those ships all over inside and can pack ’em away like sardines.

Gee, that’s queer, too! What are they doing there, fellows, all those

guys in khaki? Where’d they come from? What’s it all mean, eh?” He shook

his head in a hopelessly puzzled way. Carter viewed him in mild

surprise, but made no answer. Dave nodded.

“It is funny,” he said. “Fifteen hundred American kids. Clerks and

college boys and factory hands and day laborers a few months ago.

Didn’t know whether a rifle was something to eat or a new game of

cards. Now look at them! Yes, it’s――it’s mighty queer. What _are_ they

doing?”

“Making men of themselves,” said Carter evenly. “Going across the ocean

to fight a horde of murdering cowards, and maybe get killed doing it.

Going over to set things right again in this world we’re living in.

Taking their chances for those that will come after them, the kids of

to-day and all the kids to come. That’s what this war seems to me,

fellows, a war for the――the future generation, so they’ll be free and

happy. It doesn’t seem to make such a lot of difference about us folks,

we that are here now, does it? It’s our children and their children

we’ve got to think about, isn’t it?”

“Blessed if I ever thought of it like that,” said Dill slowly. “But I

see what you’re driving at, Yank. There’s something in it, too. I guess

if we don’t settle this thing now, and for keeps, our kids’ll have

mighty poor pickings. A war for the kids, eh? Well, maybe, Yank, maybe.”

“It’s wonderful, anyway,” said Dave, “all those boys picked up out

of quiet, everyday, humdrum life and――and sort of melted over into

soldiers and fighters in a jiffy. It――it makes you awfully proud that

you’re an American, doesn’t it?”

“Sure,” responded Dill, more cheerfully. “Makes you want to flap your

wings a bit and crow. Or――or blink your eyes and swallow!”

“I guess we’ve all always been proud of being Americans,” observed

Carter quietly, “only we didn’t always know it.”

“Right-o,” agreed The Pickle. “And there’s only one thing that will

ever make me change my mind about it.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, that’s――” He stopped and looked frowningly across the tumbling

water. Then: “Suppose we fall down on this job, fellows. Suppose

that after all the boasting we’ve done, because we have done a lot of

it; too blamed much, and you both know it; suppose that after all our

talk of what we are going to do, we――don’t do it! That would be pretty

sickening, wouldn’t it?”

“We _will_ do it,” said Carter confidently. “We can’t help doing it.

It’s in us. We do boast, but we don’t mean any harm. It’s just our way

of showing our confidence, of being-what-do-you-call-it, optimistic.

It’s just plain spirits. But we always make good our boasts, and that’s

the main thing!”

“Hope you’re right,” commented Dill, unconvinced. “Anyway, I’m not

hauling down my flag yet!”

That night they churned along under dark skies with never a glimmer

showing, and the next day found themselves under a blue heaven again

and bathed in the warm sunshine of early September. There were no

alarms from the lookouts. The submarine might well have been a

prehistoric myth for all the evidence they found. On the transports

drills occupied much of the time, and from the _944_ they watched

the olive-drab figures assemble on the deck of the _Everglades_ for

setting-up drill in the morning and saw them hurrying to the life-boats

later. Toward evening they all slowed down while one of the troopships

made engine repairs.

Finally, soon after dawn the next day, they raised the French coast and

at noon were passing through the estuary of the Gironde River, picking

their way in single line between the hidden mines and nets, guided by a

diminutive French cruiser with a kaleidoscopic hull. Bevies of trawlers

crawled from their path and big cargo boats churned past them, going

seaward. The ocean breeze had departed and a languorous warmth wrapped

them as they followed the course of the winding channel. Green meadows

descended gently to the river banks and picturesque white plaster

houses with impossibly red roofs peeked at them from under the trees.

Dave’s first glimpse of France was a happy one, for Bordeaux has a

peculiar charm of Old World quaintness and color.

The convoys anchored below the city, while the transports sailed on

and up and finally out of sight, lost in a forest of roofs and masts.

There was liberty that afternoon for all who wanted it aboard the

_944_, and Dave, Dill, and Pete went merrily ashore and saw the town.

And there was much to see, much that was as unfamiliar as picturesque

and curious. There were squads of German prisoners at work along the

docks, phlegmatic and evidently contented, loading and unloading

transports and merchantmen and guarded by colorful French soldiers with

phenomenally long bayonets fixed to their rifles. The streets were

filled with donkey carts, each presided over by a woman, and women

drove the street cars as well. Soldiers on leave were everywhere,

hobbling about on crutches or bandaged somewhere and always cheerful,

or so it seemed to the boys. They saw all they could crowd into a few

short hours; the markets, and the warm-hued old buildings and the goats

that were driven from door to door and milked and many, many churches,

in one of which they viewed a fine collection of mummies!

America, however, was fast working a change in the old city, for docks

and warehouses and camps were going up overnight and the khaki-clad

boys from the U. S. A. were everywhere in evidence. Outside the town a

veritable village of wooden buildings was nearing completion, a camp to

which the new troops were marched from the transports and quartered

until they were sent off to the villages behind the lines. The _944_

lay in the Gironde that night and then, at sun-up, churned off, in

company with the other chaser, and headed for Queenstown.

Penmarch Point, the easterly tip of France, was abreast at sunset and

some time in the early morning the Scilly Islands were passed. The

other chaser had passed from sight with darkness and the _944_, quite

alone now and swinging along at some fourteen knots with only enough

motion to deepen the slumber of the watch below, was approximately

sixty miles west of Land’s End when the tragedy occurred.

CHAPTER VI

FLOATING PERIL

Submarine mines are not, contrary to a general belief among folks

ashore, deliberately released on the surface and allowed to float

away in the hope that ocean currents will bear them into the path of

shipping. That is a far too hit-and-miss method for the “efficient”

Germans. Mines are expensive things to manufacture and the enemy does

not knowingly waste them. What she does is release them, either from

mine-laying submarines or from surface boats, with weight and buoyancy

nicely adjusted so that they will anchor themselves and float at a

given depth below water. The anchor, generally of the familiar mushroom

type, is attached to a steel cable which unwinds until automatically

stopped by a hydrostatic valve. The valve may be adjusted at will,

and when the ocean depth is known it is a simple matter to plant the

mine so that it will float at the desired depth below the surface,

usually from eight to twelve feet. Still, errors of adjustment are

sometimes made and frequently the tide is not taken sufficiently into

consideration. The air chamber is filled at a certain pressure in

port, but this pressure frequently changes before the mine is laid, in

which case the mine does not float at the desired depth. In high water

and a strongly running tide the mine rises obliquely from the anchor.

Consequently, when the pull of the tide ceases the mine straightens

perpendicularly and often shows itself above water.

There are, however, such things as floating mines, as many an

unfortunate ship has discovered to its sorrow; but they are mines that,

in some fashion or other, have become separated from their anchors.

Generally such mines, if picked up unexploded, show the cable to have

been broken, just how is a matter of conjecture, although there are

cases where the mine has become detached from the cable or the cable

has come away from the anchor. Doubtless of the hundreds of thousands

of mines planted by the countries at war, a fairly large proportion

go astray. Scarcely a day passes that many are not found and either

salvaged or blown to pieces, and the marvel is that more destruction

is not caused by these irresponsible weapons. It is only necessary

to exert a nine-pound pressure against one of the several “horns,”

or firing pins, which project from the body of the mine in order

to explode the three, four or five hundred pounds of gun-cotton or

trinitrotoluol within, and the slightest bump of a vessel’s hull is

sufficient.

Why fate should have brought the _944_ and a floating mine together at

the entrance to St. George Channel is beyond me, but it did.

Dave was fast asleep in his bunk in that hour before the dawn, curled

up very snugly and peacefully dreaming of―― But he never remembered

his dreams, for his waking was far too abrupt. He was conscious of

a frightful grinding, crashing explosion, of being hurled through

space, and of coming into violent contact with something very hard and

unyielding. Darkness and confusion surrounded him. Succeeding the sound

of the explosion, deep silence held for a long moment. Then cries of

alarm, command and conjecture broke forth. Dave picked himself from the

floor of the fo’c’sle, collided with some one, and made blindly for

the companion. He made out Pete’s voice in the sudden babel of noise.

“They’ve got us!” Pete was saying angrily. “The dirty Huns have got

us!” Dave pushed up the ladder and sprang toward the boats. Orders

were coming now.

“Cut those lashings! Steady, men! Don’t rush! All together, now, heave!

Make fast to the falls!”

The deck was canting and the port railing was under water when the boat

on that side was swung outboard on its davits. From the waist clouds

of white steam billowed spectrally in the darkness. After the first

minute or two of confusion silence reigned aboard the chaser, a silence

broken only by the rushing of escaping steam from the boiler room, the

commands of the officers, and the orderly bustle of the men. There was

little time to lose, for it was apparent at once that the explosion had

done for the _944_ and that she would remain afloat but a short while.

Perhaps eight minutes elapsed from the moment of the catastrophe to the

instant that the order “Clear away!” was given. The port boat had no

difficulty, but the starboard, because of the chaser’s cant, was nearly

overturned in lowering. One man went into the water, but was pulled

out again. Having pulled clear, the two boats lay by. The lieutenant

had returned to his quarters to secure the code books and papers, and

those in the boats awaited his return anxiously, the starboard boat

lying close to the stern, ready to take him off. Fortunately, the sea

was fairly calm and the night only moderately chill, for few of the men

were dressed in more than their underclothes and life-vests. The _944_

was settling rapidly, going down port side under and slightly by the

bow.

The port boat, minus two of her complement of fourteen, drifted away,

and Ensign Hyatt ordered them to paddle back closer to the other boat.

The two vacancies were caused by the absence of Pruitt and Low, both

of the engine room force. They and one other had been killed, although

whether by the explosion or by escaping steam was not known. Many of

the men on duty at the time had suffered injuries, but none seriously.

“She’ll sink in a minute now,” said Pete anxiously at Dave’s back. Both

he and Dill were in the port boat and unhurt. “I wish the Old Man would

hurry up.”

Then, almost before the last word was past his lips, there was a

warning cry from the starboard boat, the oars backed water, and the

gallant little _944_ buried her nose and went from sight. There was

a swirl of water that made the life-boats dance for a minute like

cockles, and then silence, emptiness, and darkness.

The two boats dashed forward across the spot, and the lanterns were

held to sweep the water. But there was no sign of the lieutenant. Back

and forth they paddled, calling and listening, and at last, when it

seemed certain that the chaser’s commander had perished with his ship,

a faint hail came from the darkness ahead of the port boat. The men

bent quickly at their oars, and the lantern’s rays flickered anxiously.

In a moment they saw him, a darker splotch on the waves, and presently,

nearly exhausted, but clutching his precious papers, the lieutenant was

pulled into the boat.