Part 20

"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.