WHEN THE ENEMY SCORED
The sun had risen through a haze, which is in favor of a fleet on the
defensive, as there is not so much glare from the water to confuse the
vision of lookouts.
However, there was no attack in the next hour. The fleet continued on
its way only as swiftly as the slowest transport could move, for it is
an axiom at sea that the speed of a fleet is the speed of its slowest
ship.
Suddenly Dave recalled to mind the prisoner, Jordan, locked in the brig
below.
“Corporal,” he called down, as that noncommissioned officer of marines
passed across the deck, “in case we are hit and are sinking, make it
your duty to remember Jordan, in the brig. Turn him loose before we
abandon ship—if the day’s work comes to that.”
* * * * *
“Humph!” Pete was saying to his soldier comrades forward on one of the
leading transports. “The Germans must be hard up when they can send only
one sub to tackle a fleet like this.”
“I don’t care if the Huns send fifty or a hundred of their pests,” broke
in another soldier. “The subs have no show. Did you see that destroyer?
Scoot! Pouf! Hm! Where’s that submarine now? I tell you, fellows, after
all, submarines are good only for sinking unarmed schooners.”
“Still, they’ve sunk more than a few armed steamers,” argued a comrade.
“If they did,” maintained the former speaker, warmly, “then it was
because the lookouts and gunners were asleep. You wait! If we meet a
dozen of these Hun submarines to-day you’ll find that they won’t get any
of our ships.”
“I’m going to do my bragging after we land,” interjected an old sergeant
dryly. “I always enjoy my bragging best after I get over my scare.”
But the long quiet proved too good to last. The almost simultaneous
barking of guns from three troopships and from two destroyers called
swift attention to the fact that the fusillade was aimed at a periscope
off starboard. Nearly a dozen shells struck the water all around the
spot where the periscope had vanished. From about the same point a light
streak appeared on the water.
Signalling back instructions to the transports as to their course, a
destroyer darted out of line to go after the submarine after the fashion
that Darrin had employed. Ere long the destroyer swerved in a sharp
curve and headed back for her place in the escort line, signalling at
the same time:
“Nothing left for us to do. A shell from one of the guns engaged hit the
pest under water and poured oil on the troubled waters.”
In the meantime, the endangered transport, which had promptly and
intelligently obeyed the steering order, had barely escaped the torpedo
fired at her.
Spirits now ran high in the troopship fleet. Uncle Sam’s soldiers had
seen the threatened ships saved, and had also seen Uncle Sam’s sailors
show how easily a submarine may be fought—sometimes.
After that the fleet proceeded on its uninterrupted way for so long a
time that the noon meal had been eaten calmly by the voyaging soldiers.
Few of them thought it worth while to cut that meal short in order to go
on deck again.
Especially did Pete and his friends feel indifferent to the best that
the Huns could do out here on the water. Just then there came a terrific
shock. It was an explosion, followed by a crash that caused the ship to
stagger over to starboard, though she quickly righted herself.
“They’ve got us!” yelled Pete, jumping up from the table, overturning
his coffee and starting for the upper deck on a run.
Then, ashamed of his nervousness, Pete stopped running and tuned down to
a slow walk toward the companionway stairs from the mess deck. Others
were running, with a resulting jam on the stairs.
“What are we going to do?” one soldier asked Pete.
“Do the same thing that we’ve been doing ever since we came into the
Service, I guess,” drawled Pete. “And that is, we’re going to listen and
obey orders. Stop shoving, you fellows. We won’t get up any faster for
crowding.”
Soon staff and line officers appeared at the head of the stairs, issuing
sharp, steady commands that stopped all signs of a possible panic.
“Keep your wits, men, and the last of you will reach shore all right,”
called an officer who was forcing his way down the stairs. “Some of you
men turn aside and give me a chance to get to the deck below.”
His coolness, and his willingness to be on the mess deck calmed the
excitement of many a young soldier who was eager to get up to the spar
deck. From a deck rail in front of the chart-house a major with a lusty
voice shouted down:
“No excitement, men! This ship, if she sinks, will be a long time doing
it. There will be time to get every man off, and it will be done if you
listen to orders and obey them.”
That torpedo had struck deep into the ship’s vitals, stopping the
engines instantly.
Only here and there was there a soldier who did not have his life belt
on. These now scrambled for their belts.
From the flagship of the destroyers at the head of the line swift
signals were wigwagged and repeated down the lines. One of them read:
“‘Logan’ stand by ‘Castle City’ for rescue work.”
Instantly Dave ordered the full-speed signal telegraphed to the engine
room, then added, as the destroyer raced down the line:
“Keep all gunners and lookouts at their stations, Mr. Dalzell. Mr.
Briggs will take charge of manning and lowering our two launches and the
cutters, and will stand by to lower away.”
The destroyer “Adams” had already caught a hawse-line from the “Castle
City” by the time Dave’s craft reached the scene. With the hawser made
fast the destroyer was towing the stricken transport out of the fleet
line.
“Lower away,” Dave commanded, after he had dashed past the “Castle City”
and had lain to. Overboard went the launches and cutters, and Lieutenant
Briggs was soon alongside the transport, which was also lowering
well-filled lifeboats.
His own boats and the ship’s boats Briggs had towed in strings. On
orders from the commander of the destroyer flotilla, other troopships
halted long enough to take on the rescued ones.
Still another destroyer had to hasten to the assistance of the “Logan,”
for the “Castle City” was rapidly settling lower in the water.
Never had naval small craft worked at greater speed, yet necessity moved
faster. The transport had by now heeled well over to port. She could not
keep afloat much longer.
“Those who cannot get into the boats now will have to jump,” shouted
Dave Darrin.
So excellent was the control by the regimental officers on the “Castle
City” that even now there was no panic. Soldiers gathered at the points
indicated, and sprang overboard when ordered to do so. The ship’s crew,
too, were now jumping.
Among them crept the destroyer “Logan,” her sailors throwing lines,
while a side gangway was also lowered for the use of those who could
swim to it.
Scores of soldiers were soon on the “Logan’s” deck. These were directed
to seek warm quarters below where they could dry their clothing. Many of
the soldiers preferred to remain on deck to aid in the rescue of their
comrades. Having cast off after finishing her job of towing, the “Adams”
was now busy, too, in rescue work.
At last, when no more heads appeared on the water, and no more men were
in evidence on the decks of the sinking transport, the order was
signalled for the rescue-work destroyers to stand clear.
“She’ll plunge by the head within five minutes,” Dalzell declared, as
the “Logan” steamed clear.
Bang! bang! bang! Destroyer and troopship guns, up near the head of the
line, had suddenly begun blazing away.
Half a dozen periscopes showed short lengths, briefly, above the water,
but the number of faint streaks across the sea showed that other enemy
submarines were attacking without first taking periscope sights.
“It’s the general attack on the fleet, that we expected!” Dave Darrin
shouted from the bridge. “Stand by! Remember that fractions of seconds
count in carrying out orders now.”
Then Lieutenant Beatty caught sight of a periscope above the water, some
eight hundred yards away. One of the “Logan’s” forward guns spoke in
sharp challenge. The biggest submarine sea fight of all was now on!