Part 1

[Frontispiece: "A destroyer is by no means a paradise of comfort"]

FULL SPEED AHEAD

Tales from the Log of a Correspondent with Our Navy

BY

HENRY B. BESTON

GARDEN CITY NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1919

Copyright, 1919, by DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian

Copyright, 1918, by The Atlantic Monthly Company Copyright, 1918, by The Curtis Publishing Company Copyright, 1918, by The North American Review Pub. Co, Copyright, 1918, by The American National Red Cross Copyright, 1918, by The Outlook Company

To MAJOR GEORGE MAURICE SHEAHAN HARVARD UNIT R.A.M.C.

A Forerunner of the Great Crusade.

PREFACE

These tales are memories of several months spent as a special correspondent attached to the forces of the American Navy on foreign service. Many of the little stories are personal experiences, though some are "written up" from the records and others set down after interviews. In writing them, I have not sought the laurels of an official historian, but been content to chronicle the interesting incidents of the daily life as well as the achievements and heroisms of the friends who keep the highways of the sea.

To my hosts of the United States Navy one and all, I am under deep obligation for the courtesy and hospitality everywhere extended to me on my visit. But surely the greatest of my obligations is that owed to Secretary Daniels for the personal permission which made possible my journey? and for the good will with which he saw me on my way. And no acknowledgment, no matter how studied or courtly its phrasing, can express what I owe to Admiral Sims for the friendliness of my reception, for his care that I be shown all the Navy's activities, and for his constant and kindly effort to advance my work in every possible way. To Admiral Hugh Rodman of the battleship squadron, his sometime guest here renders thanks for the opportunity given him to spend some ten days aboard the American flagship and for the welcome which makes his stay aboard so pleasant a memory.

To the following officers, also, am I much indebted: Captain, now Admiral Hughes, Captain J. R. Poinsett Pringle, Chief of Staff at the Irish Base, Captain Thomas Hart, Chief of Staff directing submarine operations, Commander Babcock and Commander Daniels, both of Admiral Sims' staff, Commander Bryant and Commander Carpender, both of Captain Pringle's staff, Commander Henry W. Cooke and Commander Wilson Brown, both of the destroyer flotilla, Lieutenant Horace H. Jalbert of the U.S.S. Bushnell, Lieutenant Commander Morton L. Deyo, Chaplain J. L. Neff, Lieutenant F. H. King, Lieutenant Lanman, Lieutenant Herrick, and Lieutenant Lewis Hancock, Lieutenant George Hood and Lieutenant Bumpus of our submarines.

I would not end without a word of thanks to the enlisted men for their unfailing good will and ever courteous behaviour.

To Mr. Ellery Sedgwick of the _Atlantic Monthly_, under whose colours I had the honour to make my journalistic cruise, I am indebted for more friendly help, counsel and encouragement than I shall ever be able to repay. And I shall not easily forget the kindly offices and unfailing hospitality of Captain Luke C. Doyle of Washington, D.C., and Mr. Sidney A. Mitchell of the London Committee of the United States Food Administration.

Lucky is the correspondent sent to the Navy!

H. B. B.

TOPSFIELD AND QUINCY, 1919

CONTENTS

Preface I An Heroic Journey II Into the Dark III Friend or Foe? IV Running Submerged V The Return of the Captains VI Our Sailors VII The Base VIII The Destroyer and Her Problem IX Torpedoed X The End of a Submarine XI "Fishing" XII Amusements XIII Storm XIV On Night Patrol XV Camouflage XVI Tragedy XVII "Consolidation not Coöperation" XVIII Machine against Machine XIX The Legend of Kelley XX Sons of the Trident XXI The Fleet XXII The American Squadron XXIII To Sea with the Fleet XXIV "Sky Pilots" XXV In the Wireless Room XXVI Marines XXVII Ships of the Air XXVIII The Sailor in London XXIX The Armed Guard XXX Going Aboard XXXI Grain XXXII Collision XXXIII The Raid by the River XXXIV On Having been both a Soldier and a Sailor

ILLUSTRATIONS

"A destroyer is by no means a paradise of comfort" . . . _Frontispiece_

A flock of submarines and the "mother" ship in harbour

American destroyer on patrol

The last of a German U-boat

To enjoy their leisure between watches these officers of an American destroyer lash themselves into their seats

An American battleship fleet leaving the harbour

Even a super-dreadnought is wet at times

An American gun crew in heavy weather (winter) outfit

FULL SPEED AHEAD

I

AN HEROIC JOURNEY

A London day of soft and smoky skies darkened every now and then by capricious and intrusive little showers was drawing to a close in a twilight of gold and grey. Our table stood in a bay of plate glass windows over-looking the embankment close by Cleopatra's needle; we watched the little, double-decked tram cars gliding by, the opposing, interthreading streams of pedestrians, and a fleet of coal barges coming up the river solemn as a cloud. Behind us lay, splendid and somewhat theatric, the mottled marble, stiff, white napery, and bright silver of a fashionable dining hall. Only a few guests were at hand. At our little table sat the captain of a submarine who was then in London for a few days on richly merited leave, a distinguished young officer of the "mother ship" accompanying our under water craft, and myself. It is impossible to be long with submarine folk without realizing that they are a people apart, differing from the rest of the Naval personnel even as their vessels differ. A man must have something individual to his character to volunteer for the service, and every officer is a volunteer. An extraordinary power of quick decision, a certain keen, resolute look, a certain carriage; submarine folk are such men as all of us pray to have by our side in any great trial or crisis of our life.

Guests began to come by twos and threes, girls in pretty shimmering dresses, young army officers with wound stripes and clumsy limps; a faint murmur of conversation rose, faint and continuous as the murmur of a distant stream.

Because I requested him, the captain told me of the crossing of the submarines. It was the epic of an heroic journey.

"After each boat had been examined in detail, we began to fill them with supplies for the voyage. The crew spent days manoeuvring cases of condensed milk, cans of butter, meat, and chocolate down the hatchways, food which the boat swallowed up as if she had been a kind of steel stomach. Until we had it all neatly and tightly stowed away, the Z looked like a corner grocery store. Then early one December morning we pulled out of the harbour. It wasn't very cold, merely raw and damp, and it was misty dark. I remember looking at the winter stars riding high just over the meridian. The port behind us was still and dead, but a handful of navy folk had come to one of the wharves to see us off. Yes, there was something of a stir, you know the kind of stir that's made when boats go to sea, shouted orders, the splash of dropped cables, vagrant noises. It didn't take a great time to get under way; we were ready, waiting for the word to go. The flotilla, mother-ship, tugs and all, was out to sea long before the dawn. You would have liked the picture, the immense stretch of the greyish, winter-stricken sea, the little covey of submarines running awash, the grey mother-ship going ahead casually as an excursion steamer into the featureless dawn. The weather was wonderful for two days, a touch of Indian summer on December's ocean, then on the night of the third day we ran into a blow, the worst I ever saw in my life. A storm.... Oh boy!"

He paused for an instant to flick the ashes from his cigarette with a neat, deliberate gesture. One could see memories living in the fine, resolute eyes. The broken noises of the restaurant which had seemingly died away while he spoke crept back again to one's ears. A waiter dropped a clanging fork.

"A storm. Never remember anything like it. A perfect terror. Everybody realized that any attempt to keep together would be hopeless. And night was coming on. One by one the submarines disappeared into that fury of wind and driving water; the mothership, because she was the largest vessel in the flotilla, being the last we saw. We snatched her last signal out of the teeth of the gale, and then she was gone, swallowed up in the storm. So we were alone.

We got through the night somehow or other. The next morning the ocean was a dirty brown-grey, and knots and wisps of cloud were tearing by close over the water. Every once in a while a great, hollow-bellied wave would come rolling out of the hullaballoo and break thundering over us. On all the boats the lookout on the bridge had to be lashed in place, and every once in a while a couple of tons of water would come tumbling past him. Nobody at the job stayed dry for more than three minutes; a bathing suit would have been more to the point than oilers. Shaken, you ask? No, not very bad, a few assorted bruises and a wrenched thumb, though poor Jonesie on the Z3 had a wave knock him up against the rail and smash in a couple of ribs. But no being sick for him, he kept to his feet and carried on in spite of the pain, in spite of being in a boat which registered a roll of seventy degrees. I used to watch the old hooker rolling under me. You've never been on a submarine when she's rolling--talk about rolling--oh boy! We all say seventy degrees because that's as far as our instruments register. There were times when I almost thought she was on her way to make a complete revolution. You can imagine what it was like inside. To begin with, the oily air was none too sweet, because every time we opened a hatch we shipped enough water to make the old hooker look like a start at a swimming tank, and then she was lurching so continuously and violently that to move six feet was an expedition. But the men were wonderful, wonderful! Each man at his allotted task, and--what's that English word, ... carrying on. Our little cook couldn't do a thing with the stove, might as well have tried to cook on a miniature earthquake, but he saw that all of us had something to eat, doing his bit, game as could be."

He paused again. The embankment was fading in the dark. A waiter appeared, and drew down the thick, light-proof curtains.

"Yes, the men were wonderful--wonderful. And there wasn't very much sickness. Let's see, how far had I got--since it was impossible to make any headway we lay to for forty-eight hours. The deck began to go the second morning, some of the plates being ripped right off. And blow--well as I told you in the beginning, I never saw anything like it. The disk of the sea was just one great, ragged mass of foam all being hurled through space by a wind screaming by with the voice and force of a million express trains. Perhaps you are wondering why we didn't submerge. Simply couldn't use up our electricity. It takes oil running on the surface to create the electric power, and we had a long, long journey ahead. Then ice began to form on the superstructure, and we had to get out a crew to chop it off. It was something of a job; there wasn't much to hang on to, and the waves were still breaking over us. But we freed her of the danger, and she went on.

We used to wonder where the other boys were in the midst of all the racket. One was drifting towards the New England coast, her compass smashed to flinders; others had run for Bermuda, others were still at sea.

Then we had three days of good easterly wind. By jingo, but the good weather was great, were we glad to have it--oh boy! We had just got things ship-shape again when we had another blow but this second one was by no means as bad as the first. And after that we had another spell of decent weather. The crew used to start the phonograph and keep it going all day long.

The weather was so good that I decided to keep right on to the harbour which was to be our base over here. I had enough oil, plenty of water, the only possible danger was a shortage of provisions. So I put us all on a ration, arranging to have the last grand meal on Christmas day. Can you imagine Christmas on a little, storm-bumped submarine some hundred miles off the coast? A day or two more and we ran calmly into ... Shall we say deleted harbour?

Hungry, dirty, oh so dirty, we hadn't had any sort of bath or wash for about three weeks; we all were green looking from having been cooped up so long, and our unshaven, grease-streaked faces would have upset a dinosaur. The authorities were wonderfully kind and looked after us and our men in the very best style. I thought we could never stop eating and a real sleep, ... oh boy!

"Did you fly the flag as you came in?" I asked.

"You bet we did!" answered the captain, his keen, handsome face lighting at the memory. "You see," he continued in a practical spirit, "they would probably have pumped us full of holes if we hadn't."

And that is the way that the American submarines crossed the Atlantic to do their share for the Great Cause.

II

INTO THE DARK

I got to the Port of the Submarines just as an uncertain and rainy afternoon had finally decided to turn into a wild and disagreeable night. Short, drenching showers of rain fell one after the other like the strokes of a lash, a wind came up out of the sea, and one could hear the thunder of surf on the headlands. The mother ship lay moored in a wild, desolate and indescribably romantic bay; she floated in a sheltered pool a very oasis of modernity, a marvellous creature of another world and another time. There was just light enough for me to see that her lines were those of a giant yacht. Then a curtain of rain beat hissing down upon the sea, and the ship and the vague darkening landscape disappeared, disappeared as if it might have melted away in the shower. Presently the bulk of the vessel appeared again: gliding and tossing at once we drew alongside, and from that moment on, I was the guest of the vessel, recipient of a hospitality and courtesy for which I here make grateful acknowledgment to my friends and hosts.

The mother ship of the submarines was a combination of flag ship, supply station, repair shop and hotel. The officers of the submarines had rooms aboard her which they occupied when off patrol, and the crews off duty slung their hammocks 'tween decks. The boat was pretty well crowded, having more submarines to look after than she had been built to care for, but thanks to the skill of her officers, everything was going as smoothly as could be. The vessel had, so to speak, a submarine atmosphere. Everybody aboard lived, worked and would have died for the submarine. They believed in the submarine, believed in it with an enthusiasm which rested on pillars of practical fact. The Chief of Staff was the youngest captain in our Navy, a man of hard energy and keen insight, one to whom our submarine service owes a very genuine debt. His officers were specialists. The surgeon of the vessel had been for years engaged in studying the hygiene of submarines, and was constantly working to free the atmosphere of the vessels from deleterious gases and to improve the living conditions of the crews. I remember listening one night to a history of the submarine told by one of the officers of the staff, and for the first time in my life I came to appreciate at its full value the heroism of the men who risked their lives in the first cranky, clumsy, uncertain little vessels, and the imagination and the faith of the men who believed in the type. Ten years ago, a descent in a sub was an adventure to be prefaced by tears and making of wills; to-day submarines are chasing submarines hundreds of miles at sea, are crossing the ocean, and have grown from a tube of steel not much larger than a life boat to underwater cruisers which carry six-inch guns. Said an officer to me:

"The future of the submarine? Why, sir, the submarine is the only war vessel that's going to have a future!"

On the night of my arrival, once dinner was over, I went on deck and looked down through the rain at the submarines moored alongside. They lay close by, one beside the other, in a pool of radiance cast by a number of electric lights hanging over each open hatchway. Beyond this pool lay the rain and the dark; within it, their sides awash in the clear green water of the bay, their grey bridges and rust-stained superstructures shining in the rain, lay the strange, bulging, crocodilian shapes of steel. There was something unearthly, something not of this world or time in the picture; I might have been looking at invaders of the sleeping earth. The wind swept past in great booming salvoes; rain fell in sloping, liquid rods through the brilliancy of electric lamps burning with a steadiness that had something in it of strange, incomprehensible and out of place in the motion and hullabaloo of the storm. And then, too, a hand appeared on the topmost rung of the nearer ladder, and a bulky sailor, a very human sailor in very human dungarees, poked his head out of the aperture, surveyed the inhospitable night, and disappeared.

"He's on Branch's boat. They're going out to-night," said the officer who was guiding me about.

"To-night? How on earth will he ever find his way to the open sea?"

"Knows the bay like a book. However, if the weather gets any worse, I doubt if the captain will let him go. George will be wild if they don't let him out. Somebody has just reported wreckage off the coast, so there must be a Hun round."

"But are not our subs sometimes mistaken for Germans?"

"Oh, yes," was the calm answer.

I thought of that ominous phrase I had noted in the British records "failed to report," and I remembered the stolid British captain who had said to me, speaking of submarines, "Sometimes nobody knows just what happened. Out there in the deep water, whatever happens, happens in a hurry." My guide and I went below to the officers' corridor. Now and then, through the quiet, a mandolin or guitar could be heard far off twanging some sentimental island ditty, and beneath these sweeter sounds lay a monotonous mechanical humming.

"What's that sound?" I asked.

"That's the Filipino mess boys having a little festino in their quarters. The humming? Oh, that's the mother-ship's dynamos charging the batteries of Branch's boat. Saves running on the surface."

My guide knocked at a door. Within his tidy, little room, the captain who was to go out on patrol was packing the personal belongings he needed on the trip.

"Hello, Jally!" he cried cheerily when he saw us. "Come on in. I am only doing a little packing up. What's it like outside?"

"Raining same as ever, but I don't think it's blowing up any harder."

"Hooray!" cried the young captain with heart-felt sincerity. "Then I'll get out to-night. You know the captain told me that if it got any worse he'd hold me till to-morrow morning. I told him I'd rather go out to-night. Perfect cinch once you get to the mouth of the bay, all you have to do is submerge and take it easy. What do you think of the news? Smithie thinks he saw a Hun yesterday.... Got anything good to read? Somebody's pinched that magazine I was reading. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, that ought to be enough handkerchiefs.... Hello, there goes the juice."

The humming of the dynamo was dying away slowly, fading with an effect of lengthening distance. The guitar orchestra, as if to celebrate its deliverance, burst into a triumphant rendering of Sousa's "Stars and Stripes."

My guide and I waited till after midnight to watch the going of Branch's Z5. Branch and his second, wearing black oilskins down whose gleaming surface ran beaded drops of rain, stood on the bridge; a number of sailors were busy doing various things along the deck. The electric lights shone in all their calm unearthly brilliance. Then slowly, very slowly, the Z5 began to gather headway, the clear water seemed to flow past her green sides, and she rode out of the pool of light into the darkness waiting close at hand.

"Good-bye! Good luck!" we cried.

A vagrant shower came roaring down into the shining pool.

"Good-bye!" cried voices through the night.

Three minutes later all trace of the Z5 had disappeared in the dark.

III

FRIEND OR FOE?

Captain Bill of the Z3 was out on patrol. His vessel was running submerged. The air within, they had but recently dived, was new and sweet, and that raw cold which eats into submerged submarines had not begun to take the joy out of life. It was the third day out; the time, five o'clock in the afternoon. The outer world, however, did not penetrate into the submarine. Night or day, on the surface or submerged, only one time, a kind of motionless electric high noon existed within those concave walls of gleaming cream white enamel. Those of the crew not on watch were taking it easy. Like unto their officers, submarine sailors are an unusual lot. They are real sailors, or machinist sailors, boys for whose quality the Navy has a flattering, picturesque and quite unprintable adjective. A submarine man, mind you, works harder than perhaps any other man of his grade in the Navy, because the vessel in which he lives is nothing but a tremendously intricate machine. In one of the compartments the phonograph, the eternal, ubiquitous phonograph of the Navy, was bawling its raucous rags and mechano-nasal songs, and in the pauses between records one could just hear the low hum of the distant dynamos. A little group in blue dungarees held a conversation in a corner; a petty officer, blue cap tilted back on his head, was at work on a letter; the cook, whose genial art was customarily under an interdict while the vessel was running submerged, was reading an ancient paper from his own home town.

Captain Bill sat in a retired nook, if a submarine can possibly be said to have a retired nook, with a chart spread open on his knees. The night before he had picked up a wireless message saying that a German had been seen at sundown in a certain spot on the edge of his patrol. So Captain Bill had planned to run submerged to the spot in question, and then pop up suddenly in the hope of potting the Hun. Some fifteen minutes before sun down, therefore, the Z3 arrived at the place where the Fritz had been observed.

"I wish I knew just where the bird was," said an intent voice. "I'd drop a can right on his neck."

These sentiments were not those of anybody aboard the Z3. An American destroyer had also come to the spot looking for the German, and the gentle thought recorded above was that of her captain. It was just sun down, a level train of splendour burned on the ruffled waters to the west; a light, cheerful breeze was blowing. The destroyer, ready for anything, was hurrying along at a smart clip.

"This is the place all right, all right," said the navigator of the destroyer. "Come to think of it, that chap's been reported from here twice."

Keen eyes swept the shining uneasy plain.