The U-boat hunters Part 11

"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 circ.u.mstantial evidence.

Two other destroyers--the 396 and the 384, we will call them--went at once to the job of taking off pa.s.sengers from the sinking s.h.i.+p.

That was at five minutes to six, just before dark. It had interrupted dinner on our s.h.i.+p; 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+p opens onto the s.h.i.+p's galley; and from the s.h.i.+p's galley another door opens onto the deck. Through the open galley-door just then came a m.u.f.fled 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 s.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sengers, 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 pa.s.sengers. Her skipper pa.s.sed the word by radio to the 384, which had gathered in 196 pa.s.sengers, 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 s.p.a.ce for their 307 pa.s.sengers 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 a.s.sISTANCE--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, n.o.body 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 n.o.body 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 s.h.i.+P.

At which some one--n.o.body seemed to know who, but possibly some undistinguished enlisted radio man whose ears were becoming wearied--sparked out into the night: POSITION OF TORPEDOED s.h.i.+P? BETWEEN TWO DESTROYERS. HER SPEED? ABOUT FOUR FEET AN HOUR. HER COURSE? TOWARD THE BOTTOM OF THE ATLANTIC.

n.o.body ever found who sent that message; n.o.body 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 s.h.i.+p 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 gla.s.ses 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 h.e.l.l with her--ram her anyway!" snapped Lanahan.

The deck officer had not once taken the gla.s.ses off the periscope.

Suddenly he let drop his gla.s.ses, 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 s.h.i.+p sc.r.a.ped 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s. Young Captain Chisholm of the 323 was one.