CHAPTER VIII

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?