Читать книгу Over the Seas for Uncle Sam - Various - Страница 6

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Somewhere along in January, 1915, I shipped on the U. S. S. Utah. Always had a hankering after the sea, and then, to tell the truth, civilian jobs were pretty hard to land in 1915—you bet they were!

Once you're in the Navy you stay for a while. I liked it from the start. I got to know a thing or two about the guns, went to gunnery school; that's how I came to be made chief gunner's mate, I guess, and told to report for armed guard duty on May 29, 1917.

I drew an old tub. I suppose it had been used to carry a cargo of salt fish from Maine to Newfoundland, and here it was, painted fresh, and ready to cross the old Atlantic, which was fairly bristling with mines and lurking sea-devils.

We put to sea June 19th, and we reached the War Zone on July 3rd. I know what I'm doing, writing War Zone with capitals. You don't have to be told when you get there. You feel it in the air—it's like a wire vibrating; everyone's on edge, keyed up to G pitch.

It was my job to see that all lights were doused and all ports closed as soon as it got dark. I wasn't particular about the way I enforced orders just so I got them obeyed—and I saw to it that every man who carried a match was parted from it and that all pocket lights were put in a neat little pile—officers excepted, of course. They kept theirs.

Every hour I made a round of the ship, watching out sharp for a light. Important! Say, just suppose Fritz's sea-baby were lying off a few miles or so without the faintest idea that a merchantman, chuck-full of munitions, was a stone's throw away. Think how that German crew would feel if across the darkness they saw the flare of a match. Well, it would be apt to be lights out for us all that time—that's what.

The watch was doubled—four on and four off—a watch of good sixteen hours at a clip, with a life preserver on every minute of the time—that is, you were supposed to. On the transports the rule is carried out to the letter. Catch a man without a life belt and he can be pretty sure he'll be up for court-martial when he gets back to port.

But with us it was different. We kept them close by; some of the men slept in them. I had mine over my feet ready to snatch up in case of trouble.

It was July 3rd, remember, and we were feeling pretty good. My bunky was McCaffrey—Mac for short—a little red-headed, freckled Irishman from Wisconsin, the best that comes west of the Mississippi. We had it all fixed up to fire a gun off on the Fourth.

"Sure, it's a fine opinion Fritz'll have of us if he's thinkin' we're scared to let him know it's our big day back home," he argued.

I thought it was a great idea—I told him I'd stand by if he'd share the blame. Of course we knew darned well we'd never really pull it off, but it was good fun planning the whole thing just the same.

The sea was calm that night, for a wonder—just a gentle swell. We were on watch at eight, all on good lookout. Orders were to stand by, and the guns were primed, ready to shoot red hell into anything short of an ally.

I wish we could have had a close-up of us. Faces grim, tense from excitement, joking a bit under our breaths, wishing to Moses we could have a smoke, betting we'd get through without sighting anything better than our own reflection in the water.

Somehow we felt peppy. I guess it was thinking about the Fourth and what it stood for. Seemed queer to be in mid-ocean on the night before the Declaration of Independence was signed—yep, in the middle of a blooming black sea, with nothing in sight but a dash of white foam against your keel, where you cut along through a swell.

I'd just glanced at my radium watch and blessed the girl who gave it to me. It was nine. I glanced up. Not fifty yards away was a ribbon of white foam flung out on the water like a scarf, and, sticking straight out, by God, was the periscope of a German submarine.

No one waited for the command, "Fire when ready. … "

The ship was action electrified. I never saw a crew work like that. They fired point-blank and sent that periscope straight up to where all good periscopes go. Ripped her clean off.

We weren't sure we'd sunk her, but we figured we had. How did we feel? How do you think? That was celebrating the Fourth right and proper!

Mac, sweating like a horse, panting from excitement, managed to breeze by and chuckle.

"Didn't I tell you we'd shoot one off to show 'em who's who?"

It was a great night. We were heroes. We had knocked the stuffings out of a periscope; it stood to reason we'd sunk her.

We figured out how it happened. The submarine, when she was 'way out on the horizon line, must have seen us coming. She had evidently made a long detour, plotting our course and planning to arrive where she could take good aim and fire. What happened was that we changed our course, so that when she popped up she was plumb across our bow. Surprised! Wow! I bet her commander, if he's alive, hasn't closed his mouth yet!

It was something like this:

Well, we pretty well patted ourselves on the back, but German submarines must travel in pairs, like rattlesnakes, or else she came back to life, for an hour later she struck us amidships.

You know it when you're struck. Rather! The crash—the roar—the tremendous vibration—for a full minute, as the big hulk trembles and shudders—the hiss of water rushing into the boilers, the steam gushing, the sudden listing, and, worst of all, the throb of the engines silenced. …

You never forget that silence, felt rather than heard. It means you're a goner for fair. Above all the orders, rapped out like the clip of a hammer on steel—that noisy silence sounds loudest in your ears.

"Stand by your guns. … " Sure we did. While there was still a chance we wanted to get a whack at that sub., but all the time I was worrying about Mac. He was taking a watch off. Could I reach him?

" … Get back, you damned fools. … "

" … Man the life-boats!"

" … Gee, that's a close one! Look spry or you'll wash overboard. … "

We didn't leave our post until the last life-boat swung clear and landed with her crew. A couple of boats had been smashed against the side of the ship and we heard the yells of their crew—nasty sound, that.

I forgot about my life-belt—I wanted to find Mac. I couldn't. It was pitch black. The water was waist deep and washing over you in gigantic waves. There was only one chance—to jump for it. I took it. I landed near the propellers. I could hear them churning fiercely—I could feel their suction drawing me to them. I guess I fought like a fiend. I'd heard about the death men die drawn into that blasted hole the ship makes when she goes down to Davy Jones.

I didn't think of home. I didn't think of my past sins. I just thought with every ounce of my strength that if I could keep swimming for a few seconds more I could be clear of that undertow. I made it.

All around me men were calling for help. I made out a life-boat a few yards away and hollered to them, and just then an oar floated by.

I never was so glad to see anything in my life. I rested on it and caught another. Two oars! Why, it was as good as a raft. I was safe—if only I could find McCaffrey in that black hell.

I yelled his name and heard a sputter behind me.

"For God's sake, save me——"

"Can't you swim?"

"No."

"Stay where you are; I'll get you."

It was Spick, one of the oilers—a big chap, weighing a good one-ninety.

"Steady! I'm coming."

He grabbed the oar and lay across it, a dead weight. Someone else pulled me down.

"Help!"

It was little Tucker, mess attendant, a kid of seventeen. He was all in. I shoved them both along, and they were heavy, let me tell you. Someone in the boat saw us and drew alongside. They lifted us in.

"Where's McCaffrey?" I asked them.

Just then I saw him. He was swimming straight for us. I let out a yell, but it died in my throat.

Straight out of the water, not twenty yards away, rose the gray bulk of the submarine, its greenish light casting a weird glow over that awful scene of struggling men. Fritz's war-baby had come back to gloat over the damage it had done.

Our captain, with his pocket light, was flashing the Morse code on the water as he floundered about.

From the deck of the submarine the commander's voice rang out. He spoke as good English as I do.

"What ship have I hit?"

Someone told him.

"Where is your captain?"

Silence.

"Where is your captain?"

Then it was that little Tucker, sitting forward, tense, leaned far out and yelled:

"Douse yer glim, Cap, douse yer glim. … "

Out it went. The commander gave an order. We couldn't hear it, but we were afraid he meant to make straight for us and cut us in two. We pulled away, but, instead, he was wishing us the best of luck to lie there and rot, and then they submerged—just vanished into the black water from which they had appeared.

We waited trembling, but nothing happened. There wasn't a boat in sight. The old hulk of our ship had gone down forever. I thought of the Captain and of McCaffrey.

"Let's get 'em now, mates," I urged. But from the direction in which we'd last heard them there came no sound. They weren't there. Nobody was. So we pulled away.

It was a leaky boat and we stripped off our shirts—anything we had on that was white, so that in case Fritz came back he could not sight us. We needed the shirts, all right, to stuff up the holes in the boat. Those who weren't stopping up the holes took turns bailing. We bailed like fiends—no time to think—no time for anything but to hope a convoy would pick us up.

Along toward dawn, at six-thirty to be exact, our own convoy sighted us. The boys were pretty stiff from exposure, but I was all right—all right and fighting mad—my matey had gone down.

"I'll get that Kaiser," I told them. And I will, too. That's why I'm shipping on a destroyer next. I'll get that Kaiser, see if I don't.

The navy's first capture—German submarine, U-58, surrenders to destroyer "Fanning."