THE HOTTEST WORK OF ALL
From the troopship line, as the “Logan” dashed away, Darrin could hear
the guns of the transports that were coming up and near enough to take
part in the fight. Wherever a periscope showed itself it was bound to
invite fire from half a dozen gunners in almost the same instant.
“Sorry, but you soldiers will all have to go inside and remain there,”
ordered Lieutenant Dan Dalzell. “We have no room for any one on deck
except our crew.”
To most of the soldiers it seemed hard to be deprived of a view of the
only thing that interested them, but Navy officers, in issuing orders,
have a way of speaking that does not admit of doubt as to their meaning.
“There goes the ‘Castle City’ by the bow,” called a lookout, but Dave
Darrin, his eyes searching for a torpedo trail, took his word for it and
did not turn to look.
“Torpedo wake, sir, three points off port bow!” sang out a lookout.
Dave turned this time; the telltale line was there. His orders rapped
out and the “Logan” started by the shortest cut to reach that line and
to locate its source.
Even as they raced to find that submarine, a gunner on the “Logan” fired
at the briefly visible periscope of another enemy craft.
Suddenly, not more than two hundred yards away, a periscope reared
itself in their path, though not more than two feet of its length
appeared above the water.
Intensely alert, Lieutenant Beatty himself sighted and gave the order to
fire. Nor was this an easy task, for the destroyer, to avoid ramming and
ripping out part of its own hull, veered aside from the direct line.
“Fire!” yelled Beatty.
The shell gave a good report of itself. It was plain that it had made a
hit of some sort, though below the surface.
The destroyer swung again to face its prey. Higher came the periscope,
then the conning tower emerged. It was then observed that the conning
tower had been struck and a hole put through it on one side. Small
though the hole was, if the craft had submerged further instead of
rising, she would have been submerged for all time.
Lieutenant Beatty calmly sighted for the next shot. Just as the deck of
the undersea boat came awash the manhole sprang open and the heads of
two German sailors appeared.
“They’re going to try to man a gun and fight us,” Darrin concluded,
swiftly.
“Fire!” ordered Beatty, calmly.
That shot could not have been better placed. It struck the tower fairly,
exploding inside. It killed both men at the manhole, hurling them into
the sea. Probably it killed the officer in the conning tower as well.
Beatty did not stop here. Another shell had been loaded in at the breech
of the gun, and he bent forward to sight just as the upper part of the
hull came into view.
“Fire!” It was a clean hit, just at the water line. Hardly an instant
later, it seemed, the same gun spoke again—another water-line hit.
“Bye-bye!” murmured Dave, as he ordered the course changed. There was no
need to wait, or to plant another shot, for the inrush of water had
settled the fate of that submarine so speedily that there wasn’t the
slightest chance for any of the Huns to save themselves. That pest
settled quickly, then disappeared from view.
“Clean work—great, Mr. Beatty!” Dave called down briskly.
Mr. Beatty, though he acknowledged the compliment with a salute, did not
turn to look at his superior, as prescribed by regulations, for his
keen, swift glance was sweeping over the waters ahead.
And not more than a hundred yards ahead of them a faint “wake” crossed
their bow, headed for one of the ships of the transport fleet. Instantly
the “Logan” turned into that trail, following it back at racing speed.
It looked like Dave Darrin’s lucky day, for they plunged over the dark,
heavy shadow of something that was not far below the surface.
Knowing his speed and the length of his own craft Dave timed the instant
just right, then shouted:
“Let go the bomb!”
A depth bomb was instantly released over the stern.
By the time that it exploded the speeding destroyer was safely out of
the way of any danger from its effects. A huge, thick column of water
rose, as if overboiling from a monster pot.
“Put about and go back to observe,” Darrin directed, nodding to the
watch officer.
Even before they were fully about an exultant hurrah came from a lookout
forward.
“Was she hit, lookout?” Dave shouted.
“‘Hit’ is the right word, sir,” came the response. “On that spot, at
this minute, there’s more oil than water.”
In another instant Dave also beheld the big, spreading mass of oil.
There was no need of investigating further. He turned in search of other
enemy craft.
Ten minutes passed without sight of one near enough to engage Darrin’s
attention. It would not be good judgment for the “Logan” to go hunting
in some other craft’s territory.
At last, a thousand yards away, a conning tower, with only a stump of a
periscope remaining, rose through the waves. Time was, in the war, when
a shattered periscope obliged a submarine to choose between rising to
the surface and sinking, but later periscopes were so adjusted that they
could be shot away without imperilling the safety of the underseas
craft. This emerging craft showed also a damaged tower, and the rising
had to be of the quickest order.
“I hope that chap isn’t going to surrender,” muttered Dave, as he
ordered the “Logan” headed straight toward the sea monster. “It takes
too long, in a fight like this, to receive a surrender and remove the
prisoners.”
In a very few seconds, however, the enemy relieved his apprehensions.
Beatty fired two shots, both of which went a few feet wild. In that time
the German commander rushed men out to the bow gun. Though her tower was
damaged, the craft could still fight on the surface.
One after another eight German sailors leaped out to the deck, throwing
their six-inch forward gun into fighting position.
R-r-r-r-rip! Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Two machine guns on the “Logan” were
turned loose. One German sailor, then another, was hit, fell and rolled
from the wet platform into the sea.
Bang! roared out Lieutenant Beatty’s gun, but the shot did nothing more
than tear away a part of the conning tower’s top.
Still the machine guns played upon that Hun gun-crew. Three more of the
enemy were laid low, two of them rolling overboard into the sea.
A flash leaped from the German gun. A swell, lifting the bow of the
submarine at that instant caused the shell to go screaming overhead, so
close to the bridge that the three officers there “ducked” without
realizing that they were doing so.
Aiming for the German gun, Beatty sent in a shell that pierced the top
of the hull twenty feet ahead of the gun.
“Cooler, old chap!” Lieutenant Beatty breathlessly adjured himself, and
spent perhaps half a second more in the sighting this time.
Just before he fired, the Huns let go with their big piece again. The
shell struck the “Logan’s” foremast, damaging it, though the mast did
not go overboard.
Two sailors on lookout, hit by flying pieces of steel, were hurled into
the air. One dropped to the deck, a hopelessly mangled mass of torn
flesh; the other seaman was knocked overboard.
Dave turned to look at that wreck of a human being as it struck the
water. He knew there was no life in the man, so gave no order for
recovering the body.
Down below sailors sprang to lift the dead man, who had dropped there,
on to a stretcher. They carried him below, to be buried later.
Beatty did not delay his firing an instant. This time the shell struck
at the base of the enemy’s tower. A fragment of the exploding shell must
have hit one of the German gun-crew, for a man fell on his face and
rolled overboard. However, that mattered little in the fight, for still
Hun reinforcements came through what was left of the conning tower.
“I seem able to hit everything but that gun or the water-line,” fumed
Lieutenant Beatty, enraged with himself.
Hit though the tower had been, and though, also, three or four members
of the Hun crew must have been killed in those hits, the steering gear
of the submarine was still left and the grim craft was maneuvered in a
way to challenge admiration.
Considerate of the feelings of the officer with the forward guns, Darrin
had refrained from giving one order, but now passed the order to the
machine gunners to concentrate their fire on the enemy hull at the water
line.
The water alongside the submarine began spurting in tiny jets. This
sieve-like riddling would presently settle the fight, unless the Hun
gunners got in just one shot where it would tell best. The fight,
therefore, was not yet won by the destroyer.
“Fire!” ordered Beatty, in forced calm. Then, all in an instant, that
young naval lieutenant threw up his hands.