THE BATTLE FOR THE TROOPSHIP FLEET
Earlier that same evening a group of Uncle Sam’s soldiers stood at the
bow of a steamship. Back of them, on the spar deck, other groups lined
the rails on both sides.
For some minutes there had been silence, but at last one of the group in
the bow spoke.
“Late to-night I expect that we shall enter the outer edge of the Danger
Zone.”
“If the Huns and their subs are there to meet us it will kill a lot of
the monotony,” declared another soldier.
“I wonder if the Huns will put up any real excitement for us in that
line,” said a third.
“Getting nervous, Pete?” asked the first speaker, with a short laugh.
“Not a bit,” replied Pete, hiding a yawn with his left hand.
“Nothing to get nervous about,” spoke up a fourth soldier. “The Huns are
bully at sinking unarmed freighters, but so far, if they know anything
about getting convoyed troopships they haven’t used much of their
knowledge.”
“Still, they do get a troopship once in a while,” spoke up another
soldier, in a serious tone. “They may get us.”
“Won’t amount to much if they do,” declared Pete, boldly. “Some of us
would get off in the boats, and the rest of us would drop into the water
with our life-belts on. Then we’d soon be picked up by a destroyer and
we’d be all right again. Pooh! This so-called submarine ‘menace’ makes
me tired. With all their submarines and all their bluster the Huns don’t
do enough damage to our troopships to make it worth all the bother they
have to take.”
“Anybody going to stay awake all night, to see if we get it during the
dark hours?” inquired another.
“No; what’s the use? If we don’t get hit there is no use in losing our
sleep. If we do get hit there’s always plenty of time for the men to
turn out and fit their life-belts on.”
“If I thought we’d be attacked during the dark hours I’d like to stay up
here on deck to-night and be on hand to see what happens when the attack
comes,” said a soldier in a group that was moving bow-ward from the port
rail.
“Forget it,” advised a corporal. “The guard would chase you below if you
tried to stay on deck. After ‘hammocks’ is sounded no man is allowed on
deck unless he is on duty. If there is an attack to-night the guard will
have all the fun to divide with the forward gun-crew.”
A young naval petty officer standing just behind the bow gun wheeled
abruptly, eyeing the soldier lot.
“Don’t you fellows get nervous,” he said. “This is my seventh trip
across on a troopship, and to date the only thing I’ve seen to shoot at
is the barrel that is chucked overboard when we’re to have target
practice.”
“Who’s nervous?” demanded Pete.
“All of you,” replied the bluejacket calmly.
“Don’t you believe it!”
“That is not calling you cowards, either,” the bluejacket continued.
“And let me give you a tip. If we’re still afloat when daylight comes,
don’t any of you strain your eyesight looking for submarine conning
towers sticking above the water. There won’t be any. No matter how many
subs there may be about, they know better than to expose themselves with
so many destroyers around and all the troopships armed. The most that
any Hun submarine commander would show would be a foot of slim periscope
for a few seconds, and it would be so far away that no one but a fellow
used to looking for such things would see it. Want my advice?”
“If it’s any good,” nodded the corporal.
“It’s as good as can be had,” retorted the young bluejacket. “Here is
the line of thought for you. Unless you’re detailed for guard or lookout
duty, don’t bother looking for subs at all. Don’t even give any thought
to them unless the attack starts. Keeping your mind off submarines will
give you a better show to keep your hair from turning gray before you
reach the trenches.”
This troopship was one of the pair that led the fleet. A long double
line of ships it was. Some of the vessels were of eight or nine thousand
tons; others were smaller and still others much smaller. They moved in
two lines that were widely separated, and even in the lines the
intervals between ships looked long to a landsman. Ahead a torpedo boat
destroyer of the United States Navy scurried briskly, often scooting off
to one side of the course. Other destroyers were out to port or
starboard, while one craft manned by vigilant officers and men brought
up the rear of the long fleet.
Every now and then a destroyer, for no reason apparent to a landsman,
darted between ships and took up a new post, or else turned and scurried
back to its former relative position.
This fleet was the present ocean home of the One Hundred and Seventeenth
Division, United States Army. On one of the ships the most important
passenger was Major General Burton, division commander. On another
troopship the “big man” was Brigadier General Quimby, commanding the
Three Hundred and Twenty-second Infantry Brigade. Brigadier General
Sefton’s Three Hundred and Twenty-first Infantry Brigade was also with
the fleet, along with Brigadier General Strong’s brigade of one heavy
field artillery regiment and two light field artillery batteries.
There were Engineers and Medical Corps units on the ships of this fleet,
Quartermaster field transportation units, Signal Corps men, and units of
various other auxiliary branches of the service. First and last, some
twenty-four thousand officers and men of the Army. Some of the ships
carried horses and mules, others tractors. Great quantities of
ammunition of all types were carried by this fleet; stores of food and
medicines, batteries of artillery, ambulances—in a word, all the vast
quantities of equipment, ordnance, clothing and the other items that go
to meet the demands of troops on foreign field service.
A really huge Armada it was, considering the actual number of fighting
men that it carried. A dark, uncanny-looking fleet it was, too, with an
air of stealth and secret enterprise that could not be dispelled.
Nowhere on any of the troopships did a light glow that could, by any
possibility, be seen by those aboard another craft. Visible lights had
been forbidden from the very moment that the ships had set sail from
American ports.
To this rule of no visible lights the sole exception, occasionally to be
observed, was the use of the red, white and blue electric lights that
sometimes glowed briefly from the yard-arms of the vessels. These
lights, slangily called “blinkers,” convey necessary messages from one
war craft to another at sea.
Nineteen thousand fighting men and some five thousand to serve them
behind the fighting lines in France, were thus crossing the ocean, under
dark skies, and with every ship in complete darkness. It was a weird
sight, and Uncle Sam’s soldiers aboard these ships had not yet gotten
over the wonder of it.
All through the fleet, conversations as to the probability of submarine
attack on the morrow, or on succeeding days, were infrequent and brief.
Hardly a soldier, however, was fooled by the absence of talk on the
subject. Each soldier knew that he was thinking a good deal about the
chances of the ship’s being torpedoed on the high seas, and he knew,
too, that his comrades were thinking of the same thing.
At last the bugles through the fleet softly sounded the call to turn in.
Nearly all of the men had remained up on deck this evening. Now they
stole below, hurriedly making up their bunks, and as hurriedly
undressing and getting in under the blankets before “taps” should sound.
And so the decks were left to the gun-crews, to the lookouts and the
members of the guard posted there. Below, on the berth-decks, some of
the soldiers slept little, if any, that night. Others went promptly and
soundly asleep.
It was on this same night that Lieutenant-Commander Dave Darrin was
presently obliged to put out of his mind, as far as possible, further
thought of the supposed treachery of Seaman Jordan, for they were on
their way to the rendezvous where they were to meet the troopship fleet.
Dan Dalzell, as executive officer, came in breezily, saluting briskly
and giving his cheery report as to the results of his inspection:
“All secure, sir.”
Dave was on the bridge, with Lieutenant Briggs, when Ensign Phelps came
to report that he had been unable to find any of the looked-for bottles
in Jordan’s duffle-bag or other effects, or, for that matter, anywhere
else.
“Very good, Mr. Phelps. Thank you. I recommend that, until your watch is
called, you get all the sleep you can. To-morrow there may be no sleep
for any of us.”
Later in the night cautious signals, “blinker” lights, were observed off
the port quarter.
The “Logan,” comprehending, replied with her own “blinkers.” The two
craft presently came closer, and after that kept each other company, for
the destroyer “John Adams” was also bound for the rendezvous of the
early morn.
Two hours before dawn Darrin gave the order to lie to. The “Adams” also
stopped her engines, nearly, for the destroyers had reached the point of
rendezvous. Soon afterward a third destroyer signalled and joined; not
long after that a fourth. There were two more on hand before dawn.
Through the dark sky came three short, quick flashes of a searchlight.
It was the “Logan” that returned this signal. Then other signals were
swiftly exchanged with the craft to the westward.
“The troopship fleet is going to be punctual to the minute,” Darrin
remarked to his watch officer.
“And our biggest time will be ahead of us, sir, I’m thinking,” responded
Lieutenant Briggs.
“In a way the big time will be welcome,” smiled Dave. “Even if we are
unfortunate enough to sustain some losses the Hun will get the worst of
it.”
“Why do you say that, sir?” Briggs inquired.
“Because, so far, in every encounter with naval vessels or troopships
the Hun has seemed fated to get the worst of it.”
In the east a pale light appeared in the sky. This slowly deepened. Then
came the early red and orange tints of what promised to be a bright day.
“There’s the troopship fleet!” cried Darrin, joyously. “The head of it
anyway. We’ll soon see more of it.”
Lieutenant Briggs held his glass for a full thirty seconds on the first
ships visible to the westward.
“And there goes our signal to join!” exclaimed Darrin, as bunting broke
from the foremast of the leading destroyer with the fleet. “Acknowledge
the signal, Mr. Briggs, and give the order for full speed ahead.”
Racing westward went six torpedo boat destroyers to meet their comrades
of the Navy and of the Army.
As they drew nearer, those on the destroyers could see a wild waving of
hats by the soldiers crowding the decks of the leading transports. One
moment the hat-waving was visible; then as suddenly it ceased, and the
spar decks were nearly bare of men, for mess-call had sounded for
breakfast. The only soldier who fails to answer mess call is a sick or a
dead one.
“Follow second destroyer on port line,” came the signal from the leading
destroyer to the “Logan.” “After taking position meet any emergency
according to best judgment.”
So the “Logan” raced along to the north of the fleet, then made a swift,
curving sweep and moved into the assigned position.
From the decks of the nearest transports, soldiers, as they returned
from their meal, blithely waved their caps again. Cheering was
forbidden, as such noise would drown out orders that might be given for
the handling of the ship. But those Of Dave’s jackies who could, waved
back good-humoredly.
For some minutes after taking position, Darrin found himself running
along with the troopship “Cumberland,” and the distance between them was
but a few hundred yards.
Dave had turned to watch the movements of the destroyer ahead in the
line when he heard a starboard lookout call:
“Torpedo coming, sir, on the port beam!”
Like a flash Darrin wheeled to behold the oncoming trail.
Lieutenant Curtin, now on the bridge watch, gave quartermaster and
engine-room swift orders, while Ensign Phelps signalled the
“Cumberland.”
Like a racehorse in full career, the “Logan” bounded forward and made a
sharp turn to port. At the same time the “Cumberland” obliqued sharply
to starboard.
On came the torpedo. The soldiers on the troopship deck watched its
course with fascinated eyes.
The “Logan,” having swerved enough only to clear the deadly missile, now
darted in again, her nose striking what was left of the torpedo trail.
On she dashed, gun and bomb crews grimly waiting, every man on duty
alert on the destroyer’s decks.
Cutting the wind the “Logan” raced on her way, her bow throwing up a
huge volume of water. Dave, on the bridge, saw his staunch little
fighting craft near the starting end of the tell-tale torpedo trail. And
there on the water, moving eastward and at right angles with the
direction of the path, was an ill-defined, bulky something which, from
the destroyer’s bridge, looked like a submerged shadow.
Quickly rasping out a change in the course, Dave saw the “Logan”
overtake that shadow in a matter of seconds. The shadow was much less
distinct now, for the sea pest was submerging to greater depth.
It was Darrin himself who seized the handle of the bridge telegraph.
Answering the signal sent by Dave to the engine room, the “Logan” made a
magnificent leap forward just as the destroyer’s bow reached the point
over the tail of the shadow.
“Let go the depth bomb!” he roared. The signal was passed to the bomb
crew to “let go!”
Over went the bomb. The “Logan” still leaped forward.
Then, astern of the rushing craft, came a muffled roar. A great mass of
water shot up into the air, like a compressed geyser. Before the column
of water had had time to subside big bubbles of air came up in myriads
and burst on the surface.
The instant after the explosion of the depth bomb, the “Logan” turned on
the shortest axis possible, her propellers slowing down somewhat.
“The ‘Cumberland’ is still afloat and not hit, thank Heaven!” Darrin
uttered fervently.
Only the troopship’s quick turn to starboard had saved her. The torpedo
had sped past by less than five feet from her rudder.
Another turn, and Dave came up with the scene of the explosion. Oh,
cheerful sight! The water was mottled with great patches of oil. More
cheering still, sundered bits of wooden fittings from a submarine
floated on the water. Two dead bodies also drifted on the swells; the
remaining Huns on the shattered craft must have gone down with the sea
pest.
“Not bad work, Mr. Curtin,” Dave remarked, calmly, as the destroyer once
more moved into her place in the escort line.
“May we have as good luck every time,” came the fervent response of the
watch officer.
Word of the bomb hit had been signalled along the line. It was hard
indeed that the soldiers were not allowed to cheer!
But had the morning’s work really begun?