A BATTLE TRY-OUT FOR SOULS
Men had stood their watch by the guns all night long.
Boom! boom! From ahead came the sound of rapid firing. The commanders of
the three leading destroyers were seasoned men experienced in their
work, and were not likely to be shooting at mere shadows.
“At the best, it’s snap-shooting,” Dan uttered, almost disgustedly. “We
cannot do our marksmanship justice when we are contending with a
skulking enemy and seldom have anything more to aim at than a periscope
that’s up from four to seven seconds, or the wake caused by the conning
tower of a submarine running near the surface.”
“Occasional hits, however, show that a good deal can be accomplished by
snap shooting when real gunners do it,” rejoined Dave.
At this moment he read the signal for destroyers to maneuver at
judgment. Dave promptly gave orders that sent the “Logan” scooting
further away from the transport fleet, out on its port flank.
“Ahead, and zigzag,” Darrin ordered sharply. “All the zigzag that full
speed will allow.”
Her turbines turning at better than trial speed limit, the “Logan”
roared on her way like an angry bulldog with the speed of a grayhound.
Despite the speed, the zigzagging course kept Dave opposite the
troopship he had been guarding through the night.
Just astern of the “Logan” a periscope flashed up for a few seconds. A
gun was trained and fired, but the periscope had been withdrawn by the
time the shell got there. A tell-tale light streak appeared on the
surface of the sea astern of the destroyer, one of whose signalmen waved
a warning that was superfluous, for the troopship at which the torpedo
had been aimed had already started off on a zigzag course, and escaped
by a matter of feet.
From the head of the squadron came back the signalled order:
“All troopships zigzag!”
“Looks like a crazy marine waltz!” reflected Danny Grin as he caught a
second’s glimpse of this strange maneuver.
Darrin did not turn to see what had become of the submersible at which
one of the “Logan’s” shells had been fired. The enemy was undoubtedly
unharmed and under control, and there would be another destroyer on the
spot in a jiffy. Dave believed that they were not yet in the thick of
the Hun trap and he kept a sharp lookout ahead.
“Second destroyer astern of us just signalled a hit,” Dan uttered
presently, in a tone of glee.
“Must be the one that we tried for,” was Darrin’s comment.
In the meantime, both the British authorities and the American Admiral
at the base port were being constantly informed, through radio messages,
of just what was now taking place on this part of the sea.
“Assistance already on the way; watch for it,” came back the reply from
the admirals.
“Humph! There’s no vessel that sails that can reach us in season if it
didn’t start from port a few hours ago,” was Dalzell’s puzzled comment.
Not very long after that the leading ships of the fleet knew that they
were in the thick of the enemy ambush. The courses of several torpedoes
were observed, but, thanks to the zigzagging of the vessels, no
transport or escort had yet been hit.
“Signal coming, sir, to commanding officer of the ‘Logan,’” reported the
signalman on the destroyer’s bridge.
“‘Logan’ will drop out of line and hunt enemy submarines on commanding
officer’s judgment,” Dave Darrin read.
“That’s because of our record yesterday,” Dan Dalzell chuckled. “We are
looked upon as the star performers of the flotilla.”
“We’ll do our best to be the stars again to-day,” Dave confided to his
chum after he had given his orders.
With a rush and roar the destroyer headed northward, nor did Darrin come
about until he was something like fifteen hundred yards away from the
troopship line.
“Submarines usually try for hits at from six hundred to a thousand
yards,” he explained to Dalzell, as the racing craft hurried on her way.
“A German commander, with his eyes on the transports, might not think to
turn his periscope in the opposite direction at a time like this.”
“But his sound-detecting device will tell him where we are,” Dan hinted.
“Not with all the gun-fire and the noise of so many hurrying craft,”
Dave answered. “Wait and see.”
Phelps was sent to join the two seamen forward. From that position he
could see any torpedo trail that started between the “Logan’s” position
and the transport fleet. Within less than five minutes Phelps detected a
white line of seething foam, and Dave steered his ship straight to the
spot where the Hun craft was believed to be.
“Fire as fast as you can, Mr. Phelps,” was the order Darrin transmitted.
So closely had Phelps got the range that the “Logan” drove straight to
the torpedo’s source. There the long, vague outline of a submersible was
barely discernible under the deep blue of the sea.
“Over her!” Darrin ordered.
At their station the depth bomb men stood at alert, awaiting the word at
which the bomb would be released by the touch of a finger.
As the destroyer swept over the submersible’s hull Dave shouted:
“Let go bomb!”
It was then that the finger touch was applied. Over the stern slipped
the amazing mechanism which contained a steel shell. It was adjusted to
go off automatically at a depth of thirty feet. Nothing within a hundred
feet of the point of its explosion could escape being shattered.
Bump! came a heavy explosion. The “Logan” herself shook and plunged as a
column of water shot up astern.
Instantly Dave ordered the ship about, for the dropping of another bomb,
in case the first had failed.
No need, though, for the spreading of oil on the surface of the water
showed how effective a hit had been made.
“Now, for more of the pests!” uttered Dalzell, gleefully. “We must beat
our record of yesterday.”
Darrin did not reply. Outwardly calm, but with muscles set and every
nerve tensed to the tingling point, he stood almost on tip-toe, grasping
the forward rail, peering ahead and to either side.
But at least one German captain had caught him, so far out of line, for,
from the starboard watch, forward, came the brisk warning:
“Torpedo, sir, on the starboard bow!”
In the same instant Dave had seen it. The trail was racing to meet the
“Logan” well forward.
Not risking even the delay of a shouted order, Darrin reached for the
lever of the bridge telegraph and set the jingle bells in the engine
room a-clatter. His quick order threw the propellers into reverse and
then full speed astern. At the same time he swung the bow around.
Had he tried to zigzag it is doubtful if he could have escaped. Had he
gone straight ahead the torpedo would have hit him just below the
waterline.
As it was, the missile of destruction passed by a scant dozen feet from
the “Logan’s” bow.
This was the single instant of safety for which Darrin had worked. Now,
he ordered speed ahead, and swung around, sailing straight to the spot
where he believed the enemy to be.
By the time he was at that spot nothing was to be seen of the undersea
boat. Submerging to greater depth the wily Hun had glided away to
safety.
“Now, what does that German fellow mean by holding down our record in
that fashion?” Dan demanded, wrathfully. “He’s no sportsman, not to take
a chance.”
“He may get us yet,” was Darrin’s quiet answer.
It was Lieutenant Curtin who first discovered a number of small specks
away over in the eastern sky.
“They’re not clouds,” said Dave, eyeing the specks through his glass,
“but at the distance I can’t make out what they are.”
“If they can’t turn over submarines to us, I hardly care what they are,”
muttered Dan Dalzell to himself.
With the fleet dashing forward, and the specks moving nearer, it was not
long before watchful eyes behind glasses discovered just what the specks
were.
“Now, we’ll see something interesting,” quoth Darrin.
“They’re coming to take our glory, instead of adding to it,” Dan
insisted.
“What do you care who puts the Huns on old Ocean’s bed, as long as they
arrive there?” Dave asked, coolly.
“Will they put any Huns there?” Dalzell inquired, doubtfully.
“If they don’t, we can still sail in and help ourselves to the best we
can find,” laughed Dave.