Part 2

Outside the cafés, at the little tables, wine was flowing like water. One glass after another flung down with a toast to France. They didn't stop at that. I seen a little girl spring up on a table and hold her glass high; all the folks at nearby tables jumped to their feet, cheering her. I couldn't hear what she said, but suddenly she straightened up and began singing the "Marseillaise." Lord! The whole town caught up the tune--it came from everywhere. Women in open windows above the street, leaning way out over the sills, sang it; children in the street piped up; there wasn't no one too young or too old to join in.

The boys marching by grinned at her as they shouted it, and she waved to them.

At a crossing I caught sight of our little old woman. She was shelling out all the fruit on her stand to the boys as they passed. The tears was rolling down her cheeks, but she smiled at them just the same.

I didn't see her granddaughter until some time later; then I found her with a fellow who was dragging on his uniform coat and talking to her at the same time. She helped him fasten it, her eyes on his face. I never seen anyone look so hard at a man--as if she could eat him up with her eyes. When he left her she stood staring after him. I wormed my way in through the crowd until I got alongside of her and I took her arm, but she didn't seem to know I was there.

Bulletins was flashed every few minutes. No sooner would one get posted up than they would tear it down to make room for another. Above the roar of voices rang out the call to arms, and always from no place in particular men and men and men came pouring, keen to get into the Big Scrap.

You couldn't take a train if you wanted to. Everything was commandeered for the "military," as they call it over there.

The sun went down and the street lamps began to wink at you and still the excitement raged. Bulletins--crowds--trumpets--voices--soldiers arriving from Monte Carlo and a new set of cheers for them. No sleep for nobody, just moving through the packed streets listening to a snatch of conversation here and a snatch there.

And every passenger coach and freight train jammed with soldiers on their way to the concentration camp. Those who had any, wore the old French uniform--you know, the red pants and blue coats--great colors, but say, what cruel targets for Boche bullets they turned out to be!

Next day the cry went up for horses--they needed horses, and they got them. That's the Frenchies' spirit for you. Nothing is too much to do for their beloved country. Every farmer with a four-legged animal drove into Nice and gave him up gladly, and what's more brought in all his garden produce for the boys.

It was like a horse mart. I never seen so many sweating, rearing, stamping brutes. One farmer drove in a little blind mare he'd raised from a colt. Rummiest horse I ever seen. Wind-broke, with a coat that looked like the moths got into it. The old man seemed pretty fond of her, for he talked to her considerable before he parted from her. He didn't pay no attention to the crowd looking on, only he just kept whispering in her ear and stroking her nose. After a while he turned her over to the officer in charge.

"I have explained to my friend that she must fight for France and she has said in that case she is willing to go," he told them in French. They took her, too, and he hiked back a dozen miles or so without another word.

Once on the ship again, we laid in the harbor at Villefranche for a week, but from the deck you could see the little seaport town and that line of men that wound over the hill--tramping--tramping toward the sunset--thousands of them--an endless stream.

We went to Gibralter. Just to let you know how particular them British ships had become let me tell you that they halted us at sea one night and made us run up our colors. They weren't taking no chances.

We laid there another week--no liberty--nothing. We knew then we was in the War Zone. The gates were down and only the French and English allowed in. You couldn't even coal your ship, and what was more, we were in direct line of fire from the British guns behind us. We heaved a sigh as we started down to Tangiers, Morocco.

Some contrast! No excitement--no faintest hint of a war. Just a dirty Arab town with streets so narrow your shoulders graze the walls on either side. Dirt and flies and beggars.

We was burning up for news--we went crazy tied up there a month. Then we went home and learned what was happening. We heard about Verdun and the Kaiser promising to make Paris by Christmas and all such rot.

Folks asked us what we thought of the war. I used to say, "If you want to know _my_ opinion, I think the sooner we lend those Frenchies a hand the better!" and that's just what we're doing--at last!

You get so you love them if you stay around them awhile. They're so happy and cheerful, but when there's business to be done you can't put nothing over on them! I won't never forget that old fellow and his blind mare. Gee! How he did hate to part from her! But that didn't stop him from doing it. But then that's Frenchies for you--nothing is too much. . . !

COMMANDER WOODMAN SPEAKS:

THE STUFF HEROES ARE MADE OF

HONOR MEDAL FOR U. S. SAILOR

FIRST AWARD GOES TO OHIO MAN WHO SAVED BALLOON PILOT

WASHINGTON, Nov. 12.--The first naval medal of honor awarded during the present war was announced by Secretary Daniels to-day as the reward of Dennis O'Hara, who rescued the pilot of a kite balloon which was struck by a squall in the submarine zone.

The balloon was being used for observation purposes by a United States cruiser. The pilot was saved by O'Hara from the submerged basket of the balloon.

When is a hero not a hero? Do you know, if there is any one thing this war has proved to all of us, it is the fact that every man jack of us has a large and totally unsuspected slice of courage tucked away within him somewhere. We never used to think so. We used to suppose that the ability to be brave in the face of death was a great gift granted only to a chosen few.

Do you remember wondering how such heroes came to be born as the men of the "Light Brigade," who rode without a quiver straight into the jaws of hell? We read in our history books of Perry and Farragut, or we heard the veterans of the battles of Lake Erie and Mobile Bay tell the stirring tales. I used to suspect that these men, whose names went ringing down the halls of time, were of different stuff somehow--a sort of super-caliber--I never thought to see the day when the greatest deeds of fearlessness, of self-sacrifice, would be performed on the field of honor by the butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers of this country.

Take a clerk who has toiled at his desk for ten long years. He is afraid of death because he has time to be, but close up his books and dry his pen and let him join the army or navy--build him up--make his white blood red and send him on a destroyer or order him over the top--afraid of death! not much he isn't!--too intent on launching a depth charge or sniping a Hun to think about it.

Besides, once you get used to the idea that every minute may be your last you don't seem to mind it. You rather relax and you don't worry; you obey orders and stand by--and you are determined to be as game as the next fellow when the Great Call comes.

Heroism is a large word for all this. It is just a part of the day's work. That's what I like best about the youngsters in this war who have done deeds of bravery that can stand up beside any acts performed in the days gone by. They are indignant if you praise them. Yes, they are. They tell you impatiently that what they have done anyone else would do. Perhaps it is true. I guess so. But you have to let it go at that. They won't stand your making much of them. Not by a long shot.

Take the case of the boy on our ship. He was a capable chap, who went about his duties without attracting a bit of attention. Just one of those splendid cogs in the war machine--a Chief Petty Officer, who wasn't looking for glory or honor medals, but was just doing his job to the best of his ability.

Our trip over had been without thrills, unless you work up one on your own by wondering how it happens with the number of ships at sea minus a light there are so very few collisions. That always interested me. I remember one black night when we were shipping seas over the fo'ca'sle that were sending sprays to the bridge. The darkness hung about us like a velvet curtain. As far as we knew we were the one and only bark afloat on the whole Atlantic, and yet when dawn broke, we sighted a convoy going east. If it hadn't been for pure Yankee luck she might have been in the same latitude as we were. Had the meeting come a few hours earlier or our course been a trifle different the results might never have been told.

But that is side-stepping my story, isn't it? We had an observation balloon attached to our ship, which we flew with considerable success during the first part of the voyage. We were nearing the point where we expected to join the vessels sent out from France to meet us, and as the captain wanted the balloon to be aloft that morning, she was sent up a good bit earlier than usual.

It was a squally, rainy morning--the sort you expect in the North Atlantic. The sea was rough, and I suppose we were making about thirteen and a half knots. There was considerable wind on our starboard bow.

In the balloon basket was a young officer. He understood managing the big bag, so we sent him up about a thousand feet. We passed through a rain squall and the balloon rode that tip-top. He telephoned to the officers below that he'd like to stay up for a while as the wind seemed to be dropping.

About a half-hour later we entered another rain squall. It was a nipping cold one--far colder than the first. The combination of chilled rain and strong wind was too much for the balloon. First thing we knew the bag had crumpled up like a crushed-in derby. And, before you could say "Jack Robinson," down she flashed like a shot, her buoyancy gone, and the little basket suspended about fifty feet below her, riding the crest of the big waves like a tub.

Inside the basket, busy as the busiest bee that ever came out of a hive, was that young officer, throwing out ballast as fast as the good Lord and his right arm would let him.

It had the desired effect. Up rose the balloon, until it climbed to about five hundred feet, but with its ballast gone it was like a kite without a tail--a wild balloon at the mercy of the wind. That was a sight you did not soon forget! All hands were on deck staring up with bated breath--a few tried to shout advice, but the gale drowned out their voices and the boy in the basket was far too busy hanging on for his life to heed us.

The facts of the case were that he was virtually a prisoner, with the ropes so twisted about the basket, as it swung on high in its fantastic dance of death, that he could not have saved himself if he would. We didn't get onto that at first. We rather expected to see him shoot like a projectile through the air. It certainly seemed to us that he must be the one exception to the law of gravitation, for by all rights he should have been hurled earthward at least a hundred times by that careening, dipping kite. And as it swung and lunged and turned over on itself in wild contortions it reminded me of a mad beast tugging frantically at its leash to be free.

There was only one chance of saving him and that chance was a small one against the almost certain sacrifice of many lives. To stop the ship was the one chance, but a ship with engines dead in the war zone is a first-class target for the subs, and I can tell you that any man with the responsibility of hundreds of lives on his shoulders is loathe to give the order. But the sight of that pitching, rearing devil, with its fragile cargo--one human life--was a sight no man could well resist, and the captain finally gave the order to slow down.

We went aft. The balloon hung over our port quarter, and, as we drew it toward the ship, we got hold of a trailing line from the nose of the bag. The big kite came docilely enough, as though it were tired of the game it had been playing and was sorry for the damage it had done. But the basket, with the man inside, was in the water, half submerged and in great danger of going down before help could possibly reach him.

Now here is where the hero part of the story comes in. It was so quietly done that we did not know, until we saw a man flash over the side of the ship and down one of the basket lines, that a rescue was being attempted.

The ship still had headway and the sea was running high, neither of which argued well for any chap trying to save a human being caught fast in a maze of rope.

The basket was three-quarters submerged. The boy inside was played out and could offer no help, but the C. P. O., clinging fast to his bobbing goal, went to work with his knife and a singleness of purpose that no mere raging sea could shake. He hacked away at the imprisoning ropes, his teeth clenched, and at last crawled into the basket and got a bowline under the officer's shoulders. We hoisted him aboard, and while we were doing it, the C. P. O. clambered up to the rail, where eager hands drew him over.

But he did not want our praise. It embarrassed him. What he wanted most of all was to get into dry clothes and to go about his duties. Hero! He grinned at the word. Just the same, that is what he was--a real American boy with steady nerves and quick eye and plenty of pluck. Oh, yes, there are lots of heroes at large these days, but they do hate like the very dickens to have you call them that to their face.

CHIEF YEOMAN LANG SPEAKS:

DEPTH BOMBS AND DESTROYERS

EIGHT years is a long time in the service. But it pays. Yep. Even if I never draw a commission I'll get a pension of one-third my full pay after another eight years, and if I stay in for thirty years, all told, I'll pull down over a hundred dollars a month for the rest of my days--me--just a chief yeoman. Now, that's not bad, is it?

I've seen quite some service. You know about that little party at Vera Cruz last year? I was right there in the front row. I've always been ready for a scrap provided they gave me destroyer duty. Nothing else goes with me. Once you get used to the feel of that rolling deck under your feet you can't be happy on any other bark afloat!

There is nothing speedier or lighter on the high seas. She will ride the waves like a bottle that's corked up. Not following the trough of the swell like a man o' war, but bobbing right over the white caps or burying her nose deep in the water as she cuts through.

. . . And spray! Say! If it wasn't for the shield around the fo'c'stle-gun, you'd swim to Europe. As it is the combers sweep the deck in rough weather like a young Niagara. High boots help you some, but the only way to guarantee keeping a good man aboard is to lash him to the gun.

There is a temporary shelter for the gun crew in the pilot house, but say, when the waves get too sassy the gunners aren't ashamed to rig up a line which they hold on to pretty tight let me tell you, as they stand by.

Greatest sport in the world to have an ice-cold spray breaking over your deck. Yes, and freezing so hard you have to take a hatchet and chop it. You never are entirely dry, and you're never sure each minute won't be your last. But, say, you wouldn't change places with a commander on the biggest warship afloat!

Queer, how you come to love the bobbing little devil. I guess it's human nature. The more cantankerous a proposition is the more you like to handle it. And salt water doesn't hurt you any. Good for you. Don't they give you salt baths and charge you a stiff price? Well, we get the treatment free. Pretty soft, I call it.

We had a great crew. I was chief yeoman, with a job of clerk, and in time of action I had to work the range-finder. I was pretty busy, but I did have time to ring in a few laughs at the ship's pet. He was a Swede--Ole Hjalmar, and big! Say, he was eight feet high--or, anyway, six-two, with a voice like a bull. He was mostly ears, and he had blond hair and high cheek bones. His face was red from the high winds. It browns mine, but it made him look like a ripe tomato.

He hated his pink cheeks. We used to guy him about them, but most of all we made fun of the big gold rings in his ears, and say, I don't think there was a square inch of him that wasn't tattooed--stars and pigs and anchors and eagles all over him!

Education didn't bother him any. The only writing he did in the twenty years' service was to sign his name to his pay checks. But he was always ready with a laugh. He was boatswain's mate and his job was official scrubwoman and then when an officer gave command he had to pass the word.

I remember one day we were expecting to make port that afternoon. It was wash-day and as we changed our course it happened that the clothes we had hung out in the sun to dry found themselves in the shade. Our bags were still wet, so Ole was told to pass the word to the men to shift their clothes to the other side of the ship.

"Aye, aye, sir," boomed Ole's big bass,--then he gave the command.

"All you men who iss got clothes ver de sun isn't iss, put 'em ver de sun iss iss. . . ."

Say, that got us! and Ole never did hear the end of "ver de sun iss iss." That was all right, as it turned out, but next time--well, this is what happened.

We anchored in an English port and like every good "bloomin' bloody Yank," as our British cousins call us, we got out our bats and balls ready to play United States baseball. We had four cracking good teams on the ship. The first and fourth would play, then the second and third. The competition was pretty close and we were tickled to death when the American Consul got a tract of land for us and we went ashore to show those Johnnies a regular game, after watching cricket for an hour or two.

Well, after several days of games, some of the men began abusing their shore privileges, and the officers knocked it off and kept us aboard--no liberty at all!

Gee, we certainly longed to get off the boat. There was land only a hand's throw away--and there was a whole diamond going to waste and games tied. One afternoon, after talking the matter over, we plucked up courage and drew lots. It fell on me to go up to the Officer of the Deck and ask for a Recreation Party.

I did.

He didn't waste any breath at all. "No," he said, so I slunk back to my mates. But we didn't let the matter rest. Every ten minutes another one of us would march up with the same request. The O. D. got sore. Ole was on watch.

"Pass the word," the O. D. commanded crisply, "_No Recreation Party whatsoever!_"

Ole did.

"_No Recreation Party what's er matter?_" he hollered.

That finished him. He lost a rank on account of it. Poor Ole, he got in dutch for fair!

We were convoying merchant and troop ships, going out to meet them and bringing them back to port. We started out one cold October day with a raging gale blowing. The sea was like a seething caldron--the waves were mountain high. We had on all the warm things we owned, but, at that, we were ice wherever the water struck us.

I was muffled to the eyes. Esquimos had nothing on me and I could see we were in for some stiff duty. It wasn't a matter of one day--it was a matter of eight days on a raging sea--no chance to take off your socks even--life-preservers on every minute of the time--watching out sharp for Fritz.

A flock of us met the ships we were to bring in and we started to steam back to our base, when we had the shock of our lives!

It was early morning, barely light. The sky was a gray line, as if you took a paint brush and slapped a streak from east to west. The water was gray and we men on the bridge rubbed our eyes, for right in front of us, not five hundred away--standing out black against the sky--was a German submarine.

We figured she had laid there all night--and was going to send our flagship to the bottom if she could--but she couldn't have looked over her shoulder, because she didn't seem to know we were there.

Well, we were after her like a streak of greased lightning. That was just what we had been praying for; as we charged her we fired; we were almost on top of her, trying to ram her, when she submerged; we passed right over her as she went down; you could see the bubbles and spray.

Then we launched our depth charges--"ash cans," as we call them. They look like a ten-gallon drum. You set them off when you are traveling full speed right above your blooming submarine--fifteen knots we were making.

Quick! Say, it's the speediest work in the world, because, once your charges are dropped, you have to beat it or get blown up yourself--as it is you can feel the explosion for yards around. Well, we dropped four--and got out of the way. As for the sub . . . zowy! Up she came to the surface, ripped wide open. Then she stood up on her end and sank as if somebody had pulled her down by the tail.

One man of the German crew floated out of her before she sank for all time, and Ole, before we could stop him, had lashed a rope around himself and was overboard hauling him in. The German was dead, so he couldn't give us any information. Worse luck! But we didn't let that make us feel blue. I tell you we were a pretty pleased bunch. You feel good all over when you get a German sub. They are so blamed much like a crook waiting in a dark alley to stab a man in the back. Yon owe it to society to knock him out good and proper.

Yep, great crew ours. Some say destroyer duty takes nerve, but the reason I like it is that you don't feel like sleeping on your job; you're just too blamed afraid you'll miss the thrill of your life if you do. It's a great life! Take it from me!

HOSPITAL APPRENTICE DUDLEY SPEAKS:

IN TRAINING

I DIDN'T know what I wanted to enlist in--I didn't care. All I thought about was that war was declared. That set my New England blood boiling, I suppose, and I didn't waste any time. I happened to be in Baltimore. I scooted down to a recruiting station and joined the Navy.

They asked me what branch of service I wanted to go in for. I said I didn't give a hang just so long as I'd get a chance to go across and do a thing or two to the Huns. They chose the Hospital Corps for me. It sounded all right. I didn't dream of the hard work I was letting myself in for.

After I'd left the station I called up mother on long distance. She was visiting in Connecticut. I told her I had joined. She said she knew I would and that she was glad I had not waited a day. That's mother all over for you. I think every ancestor she ever had fought in some war or other. No slackers in this family!

It was April. I had on an unlined suit and a light cravenette when three hundred of us left Baltimore at eleven next day. We were going to Newport. At five that afternoon we took the Fall River line. It was pretty chilly then. I kept wondering why the dickens I hadn't brought along an overcoat--but you didn't speak about being cold, although I'll bet three-fourths of the men on that boat were chattering. We were in the navy now--fine sailors we'd make if we complained about a chill!

We arrived in Newport between four and five in the morning, and anchored until daybreak. I thought it would never come. The sky was grayish. I hadn't slept all night and I was beginning to wish we'd get somewhere where I could turn in for a good rest,--but no such luck.