Chapter 8
"I 'ad a cook. 'If comfort's the word,' says the cook, 'I might's well take along the wife's canary,' and 'e takes it along in a cage in one 'and, and a bag of clothes in the other. 'E's in the boat when 'e thinks to go back for a package of seed 'e'd left for the canary on the shelf in the galley. 'Hurry up with your bird-seed,' I says, and as I do a shell comes along and explodes inside of 'er old frame somewheres, and the cook says maybe 'e'll be gettin' along without the seed--the canary not being what you'd call a 'eavy eater, anyway.
"The mate 'ad a cameraw, and when we're clear of the ship he would stand up and set the cameraw on the shoulders of a Eurasian fireman, and take shots of the ship between shells.
"In good time one last shell 'its 'er, and down she goes. The U-boat moves off, and we see no more of 'er.
"It's a fine day and a lovely pink sunset, and there's a beautiful mild sirocco blowing off the African shore to make the 'ot night pleasant as we approach it in the boats. A man could 'ardly arsk to be torpedoed under more pleasant conditions, I say, and we continue to row toward the shore in 'igh 'opes. It's maybe two in the mornin' when we see the side-lights of a ship. She's bound east--a steamer--and we know she's a Britisher, because we're the only chaps carried lights in war zones at that time. Carryin' lights at night o' course made us grand marks for the U-boats, but there was no 'elp for it. A board o' trade regulation, that was, and no gettin' away from what the board o' trade says. We had our choice of carryin' lights and losin' our ships, or not carryin' lights and losin' our jobs. So we lost our ships. After a year and a 'alf of war some bright chap in the board said that maybe it would be a good idea to change the regulation about carrying lights, and they did. And about time, we said.
"Some of the crew were for 'ailing the ship in the night. ''Ail 'ell!' I says. 'D'y' think I want to be took into that rotten 'ole of a Port Said, or maybe Alexandria, and that end of the Mediterranean fair lousy with U-boats. Besides, we'll get 'ome quicker this way,' I says, and allows her to pass on. In the mornin' we run onto the beach, and 'ardly there when a crowd of Ayrabs come gallopin' down on 'orseback to us. 'We'll be killed now,' says the mate, and talks under his breath of stubborn captains, who wouldn't 'ail a friendly ship's light in the dark, but the only killing the Ayrabs do is two young goats for breakfast. And they make coffee that was coffee, and we had a lovely meal on the sand. And by and by they steered us along the shore to where was a French destroyer, which takes us over to Gibraltar, and from Gib we passed on through Spain and France to Havre. Three weeks that took, and I never 'ad such a three weeks in all my life. 'Eroes, ragin' 'eroes--that's wot we were!
"At Havre the French authorities took the mate's pictures out of the cameraw, and they never did give 'em back. Except for that, it was a fine pleasure, that land cruise 'ome.
"Lucky? Oh, aye, you may well say it. Three times in one week I 'ad me 'ot barth and my lovely sleep in me brahss bed--it's not to be looked for with ordinary luck, you know."
* * * * *
One day the destroyer to which I was assigned put to sea. There were other destroyers, and we were to take a fleet of merchantmen from the naval base to such and such a latitude and longitude, and there turn them loose. My friend's ship was of the convoy.
We made such and such a latitude and longitude, and there we turned them loose, signalling the position to them and waiting for acknowledgment. They acknowledged the signal. We then hoisted the three pennants which everywhere at sea means: Pleasant voyage! They answered with the three pennants which everywhere spells: Thank you. And no sooner done than away they belted, each for himself, and let the U-boats get the hindmost.
The hindmost here was the rusty old cargo boat of my friend. I could see her for miles after the others were hull down; and long after I could see her I could picture him--walking his lonely bridge and his ship plugging away at her 7 or maybe 7-1/2 knots across the lonely ocean.
Three times torpedoed and taking it all as part of his work! Some day they may get him and he not come back; and when they do the world will hear little about him. Hero? He a hero? Why a shore-going flunky had him bluffed for smoking a surreptitious cigarette in high quarters! 'Ero? Not 'im. Why 'e don't even wear a uniform.
So there they are, the wheezing old cargo boats and their officers and crew. British, French, Italian, American, but mostly British.
No heroes, but the Lord help their people if they hadn't stayed on the job.
FLOTILLA HUMOR--AT SEA
We were a group of American destroyers convoying twenty home-bound British steamers. There was one ship, a _P. & O._ liner, a great specimen of camouflaging.
She was the only ship in the convoy that was camouflaged, and she rode in stately style two lengths out in front of the others. All of which made her a prominent object. Our officers felt like telling her to dress back; but she had a British commodore aboard, and for an American two or three striper to try to advise a British commodore--well, it isn't done.
All day long she rode out in front of the column, and all day long our fellows kept saying things about her.
"Isn't she the chesty one!"
"Look at the big squab with all that war-paint on--how does she expect any U-boat to overlook her?"
"That big loafer, she'd better watch out or she'll be getting hers before the day's gone!"
U-boats were thick around there. One of them must have come up, looked the convoy over, and said, "Well, there's nothing to this but the big one!" and, Bing! let her have it, for it was not yet quite dark when those who were looking at her saw a column like steam go into the air, a black column like coal follow it, and after that a column of water boiling white.
One of our destroyers hopped to twenty-five knots, dumped over a 300-pound "ash-can," and got Mister U-boat. At least, the British admiralty later gave her 100 per cent on the circumstantial evidence. Two other destroyers--the 396 and the 384, we will call them--went at once to the job of taking off passengers from the sinking ship.
That was at five minutes to six, just before dark. It had interrupted dinner on our ship; but by and by we went back to the ward-room to finish eating. It is always good business to eat--no knowing when a man will be needing a good meal to be standing by him inside. And we were still eating when the messenger came in with a radio. He passed it to the skipper, who read it to himself, whistled, and then read aloud: TORPEDOED--CLAN LINDSAY.
The _Clan Lindsay_ was another of our convoy, and she had been within 1,000 yards of our ship when we last came about to zigzag back across the front of our column.
We looked at one another, and one said: "Well, you got to hand it to Fritz for being on the job every minute."
And another: "Yes, but it looks like a big night to-night. Two in an hour! And eighteen more ships and eight destroyers to pick from yet! If he starts off like that, what d'y' s'pose he'll be batting by morning?"
The ward-room on our ship opens onto the ship's galley; and from the ship's galley another door opens onto the deck. Through the open galley-door just then came a muffled explosion--a great Woof!
We all thought just one thing--they've got us too!--and we all sort of half curled up, and would not have been a bit surprised if the next instant we found ourselves sailing through the deck overhead. The feeling lasted for perhaps three seconds, and then our skipper, happening to look up, saw that the colored mess-boy George was grinning widely.
"What the devil you laughing at?" barked out our skipper.
George took his eyes off the galley-door, but his grin remained. Said George: "Cap'n, I see de flame. The galley stove just done bust!"
The galley stove on our ship was an oil-burner. It had back-fired, and so the loud Woof!
Later it came out that the _Clan Lindsay_ wasn't torpedoed at all; but one of our destroyers dropped a depth charge so close to her to get a U-boat that she thought she was.
* * * * *
The camouflaged big liner sank, but not until the two of our destroyers standing by had taken off every one of the 503 passengers, one taking the people off the deck, the other picking up those in the small boats. One destroyer--the 396, say--took off 307 of these passengers. Her skipper passed the word by radio to the 384, which had gathered in 196 passengers, including the commodore. The 384 got the message, only she got it 7 instead of 307 people rescued.
"Seven survivors!" said the 384's skipper. "I wonder why she radioed that?" He meditated over the puzzle and by and by solved it to his satisfaction.
"Of course, what she wants is for us to take off the seven and add 'em to our own." He took measures to meet the emergency, and then followed this little incident:
Aboard the 396 they were busy trying to find space for their 307 passengers when a lookout heard a Putt! putt! putt! coming over the water. The officer of the deck listened. Everybody on the bridge listened. Putt! putt! putt! it came. The officer of the deck reported to the skipper. The skipper wondered who it could be, when just then a radio message arrived: "Am sending a boat--384."
"Sending a boat? What for?" He meditated over that puzzle and then he solved it--as he thought. "Sure. That British commodore she picked up is coming to see how the survivors aboard here are getting on. That's it"--he turned to the watch-officer--"you know how these Britishers are for regulations. Even in the midst of a mess like this we'll have to kotow to his rank or he'll probably be reporting us. So rouse out six side-boys, line 'em up, rig up the port ladder, have the bugler stand by for ta-ra-rums and all that stuff."
They did that, shoving their crowded survivors out of the way to make room for the ceremony.
The Putt! putt! putt! comes nearer and nearer. Next, from out of the blackness of the ocean they make out a little motor-dory. Balanced out on the gunwale of the little dory, when it comes nearer, they see an American bluejacket smoking a cigarette. No one else was in the dory.
The dory ran alongside. It was about a 14-foot dory--no smaller one in the flotilla. The skipper of the 396 looked down at him. "What you want?"
The bluejacket removed the cigarette from his lips. "I'm from the 384, sir."
"Yes, yes, but what do you want?"
"I've come, sir"--he waved his cigarette-stub airily--"to take off the survivors. The captain thought I might be able to make one load of 'em."
* * * * *
When the big _P. & O._ liner reported herself torpedoed that evening, a destroyer--not one of ours--picked up the message 100 miles or so away; and at once radioed: COMING TO YOUR ASSISTANCE--GIVE POSITION, COURSE, AND SPEED.
That was proper and well-intentioned, but as the 384 and the 396 were already standing by, a radio was sent back: EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT--NO HELP NEEDED--THANK YOU.
That did not seem to satisfy the inquirer. WOULD LIKE TO HELP--GIVE POSITION, SPEED, AND COURSE.
Everybody being busy, nobody bothered to answer that. By and by came another radio: THIS IS THE DESTROYER BLANK--GIVE POSITION, SPEED, AND COURSE.
He was so evidently one of those Johnnies who are always volunteering to do things not needful to be done that nobody paid any further attention to him. But he kept right on sending radios. By and by, for perhaps the seventh time, came: THIS IS THE DESTROYER BLANK--PLEASE GIVE POSITION, SPEED, AND COURSE OF TORPEDOED SHIP.
At which some one--nobody seemed to know who, but possibly some undistinguished enlisted radio man whose ears were becoming wearied--sparked out into the night: POSITION OF TORPEDOED SHIP? BETWEEN TWO DESTROYERS. HER SPEED? ABOUT FOUR FEET AN HOUR. HER COURSE? TOWARD THE BOTTOM OF THE ATLANTIC.
Nobody ever found who sent that message; nobody inquired too closely; but all hands thanked him. The flotilla heard no more from the bothersome destroyer.
* * * * *
The business of hunting U-boats is a grim one. The officers and men engaged in it do not like to dwell on the hard side of it. They do like to repeat stories of the humorous side of it.
One of our destroyer commanders over there has a personality that the others like to hang stories onto. He is a quick-thinking, quick-acting man named--well, say Lanahan. He was one day on the bridge of his ship when the lookout shouted: "Periscope!"
"Charge her!" yelled out Lanahan.
Away they went hooked-up for the periscope, which everybody could now see--about 200 yards ahead.
"He's a nervy one--see her stay up!" said the officer of the deck, who was standing beside the wheel, and had glasses on the periscope. And then, hurriedly: "I don't like the looks of her, captain--it looks like a phony periscope to me--as if there was a mine under it!"
"To hell with her--ram her anyway!" snapped Lanahan.
The deck officer had not once taken the glasses off the periscope. Suddenly he let drop his glasses, grabbed the wheel and pulled it hard toward him.
Lanahan had stepped to the wing of the bridge and was leaning far out to get a glimpse of the U-boat. What he saw beneath him as his ship scraped by was not a U-boat, but a great white mine. He watched it slide safely past the bridge, past his quarter, past his stern. Then, turning around, he said gravely to his deck officer:
"You're right--it _was_ a mine."
* * * * *
There was another young officer--Chisholm call him--who played poker occasionally. He commanded a _flivver_, which is the service name for the smaller class of destroyers, the 750-ton ones.
In our navy there are plenty of young officers who will tell you that they never built destroyers which keep the sea better than that same little flivver class. Young Captain Chisholm of the 323 was one.
One morning, having convoyed a fleet of merchant ships safely up the channel, the 323 was one of a group of destroyers making the best of their way to their base port. Officers and men who have been hunting U-boats for a week or so do not like to linger along the road home; so it was every young captain giving his ship all the steam she could stand and let her belt.
It was breaking white water all around when they started. It grew rougher. Chisholm in the 323 was going along at twenty knots when a poker-playing chum came along in his big 1,000-ton destroyer. Her nose hauled up on the quarter of the 323; up to her beam; up to her bridge. As he passed the 323--and he passed quite close to let all hands view the passing--the poker-playing friend leaned out and megaphoned across:
"What you making, Chiz?"
"Twenty knots!" hailed back Chisholm.
"I am seeing your twenty knots and raising you five!" returned the other, and passed on.
"The boiler-riveted nerve of him!" gasped Chiz. "But let him wait!"
The sea grew yet rougher. The 323 was bouncing pretty lively, but hanging onto her twenty knots. "And at twenty you let her hang if she rolls her crow's nest under!" said Chisholm to his watch-officer, "and I'll betcher we won't be acting rudder to this bunch going into port!"
It was at ten in the morning that the big one had passed them. It was four in the afternoon, and the 323 was still going along at twenty knots when from out of the drizzle ahead her bridge made out the stern and funnels of a destroyer. It was Chiz's poker-playing chum, and his ship was making heavy weather of it. The able little 323 came up to her stern; breasted her waist, her bridge, and as he passed her (and he came quite close to let all hands view the passing), young Captain Chisholm leaned out from his bridge and roared through a long megaphone: "I _call_ yuh!"
He beat the big one fifty minutes into the naval base.
* * * * *
There are two channels leading into the naval base port--call them West and East. This same Chisholm was one day headed for port in the usual hurry and was already well into the west channel when a signal was whipped out from the signal hill. It was for his ship and it read: "West Channel mined last night by U-boats. Proceed to sea and come in by East Channel."
Chiz did not proceed to sea. All the harbor men who were watching saw him come straight on through the gap in the barrage, and safely on to his mooring. Also all the harbor knew that next morning he had to report to the admiralty and explain.
The story of his explanation was not told by himself. But an officer friend, a great admirer--call him Mac--had gone with him to the admiralty. Here the next day Mac told the story in the smoke-room of the King's Hotel:
"Well, Chiz went and--you know his courtly style--he has his cape over his shoulders--and he salaams and says, 'Good morning, sir.'
"The old man looks up and says like ice: 'You got my signal yesterday afternoon?'
"'I did, sir.'
"'Then why did you not turn back and come in by the other channel?'
"'Sir,' says Chiz, 'may I be allowed a few words?'
"'Very few. What have you to say?'
"'Sir,' says Chiz, 'I have been trained to believe that the one word a naval officer should not know is fear. In our navy, sir, we reverence the tradition of your own Admiral Nelson, who at the siege of Copenhagen put his glass to his blind eye and said: "I see no signal to withdraw!" and continued the fighting to a victory.'
"'Have you a blind eye, too?'
"'My sight is good, thanking you, sir, for inquiring, but in my own navy we also have the tradition of Admiral Farragut, who at Mobile Bay said: "Damn the torpedoes--go on!" and his fleet went on to victory. And there was Admiral Dewey, who said: "Damn the mines!" at Manilla, and went on to victory.'
"'What are you coming at?' roars the old man. 'Did you get my signal?'
"'I did, sir. And my first instinct--the instinct of all our naval officers--is to obey all orders of our superiors, sir. But I was well into that channel when I got the signal, sir. And as I have said, sir, my first instinct was to obey orders. But also I stop and reflect, for I have also been trained to believe that hasty judgments work many evils, sir, and I consider and find myself saying to my deck officer: "This ship, Mac, is 300 feet long, and under her stern there are two big propellers. If ever we turn this 300-foot ship in this channel with those two propellers churning and there's any loose German mines around, there won't be a blamed one of 'em she'll miss. But if I keep her straight on, there's a chance. So hell's afire!" I says to Mac--"there's only one thing for us to do now and that is to keep straight on!" And I kept straight on, sir--and, I beg leave to report it now, sir--we made our mooring safely.'
"And that's all there was to that," concluded Mac.
There was a long silence in the smoke-room when Mac had done, and then a voice asked: "If Chiz had gone to sea and come in by the other channel--it was almost dark at the time--he would have been too late to make the barrage, wouldn't he?"
"He sure would," said Mac.
"Which would mean that he would be kept turning his wheels over outside the net all night?"
"He sure would."
"As it was, he got in in plenty of time for that little game up-stairs last night?"
"He was in a little game," admitted Mac.
Another silence, and then another voice: "Well, poker or no poker, Chiz's dope on that damn-the-torpedo stuff isn't the worst in the world!"
FLOTILLA HUMOR--ASHORE
The incident reported in the previous chapter was not young Chisholm's first interview with the British admiral.
Mac went on to tell how when, after his first cruise, Chiz came to the naval base to report. He had heard that the old fellow in charge believed that the Lord made the earth for admirals, especially British admirals, but beyond that he knew nothing of his peculiarities.
However, after his cruise, Chiz went whistling up the hill to report. By and by he was admitted to the presence of the admiral, who was seated at a flat desk in the middle of the room, gazing straight ahead.
The old chap looked pretty frosty. Chiz waited a moment, then ventured a cheery "Good morning, sir."
The face at the desk did not even turn to look at him, but the thin lips almost opened and a rasping voice said: "Got anything to say to me?"
Chiz was one of the sociable souls, and he would have liked to sit down and talk in an informal way of several little sea things that he thought were fairly interesting. But he had not been asked even to sit down, and the voice froze him. So, "Why, no sir, nothing special to report," was all he could find to say.
"H-m. Nothing to say? Then why waste my time or your own? Might as well get out, hadn't you?"
Chiz got out.
"An American lieutenant-commander in this place must rate about seven numbers below a yellow dog," said Chiz to Mac when he came out.
Chiz had four days in port (Mac is still telling the story) after that cruise, and two days after his visit to the hill there was a cricket-match between a team from our flotilla and a team from theirs. The idea was for all hands to forget rank for a while, get into the game, and so cement the entente between the two nations.
Chiz was picked for one of our team, and you all know what a husky he is, and what he used to do with a baseball-bat. There aren't many who ever hit 'em any further or oftener than Chiz on the old Annapolis ball-field. He was one of the first of our fellows to go to bat. He's standing there--in the box, or whatever they call it, waiting for one to his liking; and looking around the field wondering where he will place it when he gets one to his liking. And as he looks he spies his friend the admiral, playing what we'd call left field. And just beyond the admiral the ground sloped away for a hundred yards or so.
Chiz hefts his bat--and you know those cricket-bats, what they look like and how they feel after you've been used to meeting fast ones with a narrow baseball-bat. They are wide and heavy and springy. Chiz doesn't pay any attention to three or four balls that come along, except to fend them away from the wicket with his wide cricket-bat. He knew what he wanted, and by and by he got one--one about knee-high with a little incurve to it. Chiz sets himself and swings and whale-O it goes, over the old admiral's head and down the slope beyond.
Chiz makes all the runs the law allows--six, I think it is--and he's sitting resting on the wide part of his cricket-bat before the admiral even shows the top of his head over the hill with the ball. When he does and heaves it about half-way to the pitcher, or bowler, or whatever they call him, he's out of breath.
Chiz sets himself for another one knee-high with an inshoot, and when he gets one he whales it again, and away trots the admiral on another hunt down the hill. And Chiz makes six more runs before they even see the top of the admiral's head over the brow of the hill.
The third time, and the fourth time, Chiz sets for a knee-high one with an inshoot to it, and the third time and the fourth time he belts it over the old fellow's head and down the long slope. But on the fourth time the old fellow doesn't throw the ball in. He walks in with it and he calls in the high official umpires, or whoever they are in charge, and they have a conference, and the next thing they call the game off. By this time, doubtless (so the word was passed), the American officers have caught the idea of the game, and next time there would be a real game and so on.