World's War Events Volume III Part 16

Captain Bill decided to stay on the surface for a while. Then he went below to look over things. The cook, standing over some unlovely slop which marked the end of a half a dozen eggs broken by the concussion, was giving his opinion on destroyers. The cook was a child of Brooklyn, and could talk. The opinion was not a nice opinion.

"Give it to 'em, cooko," said one of the crew, patting the orator affectionately on the shoulder. "We're with you."

And Captain Bill laughed to himself.

The breakfast-hour was drawing to its end, and the very last straggler sat alone at the ward-room table. Presently an officer of the mother-s.h.i.+p, pa.s.sing through, called to the lingering group of submarine officers.

[Sidenote: The first of the flotilla to return.]

"The _X-4_ is coming up the bay, and the _X-12_ has been reported from signal station."

The news was received with a little hum of friendly interest. "Wonder what Ned will have to say for himself this time." "Must have struck pretty good weather." "Bet you John has been looking for another chance at that Hun of his."

[Sidenote: The appearance of the crew.]

The talk drifted away into other channels. A little time pa.s.sed. Then suddenly a door opened, and, one after the other, entered the three officers of the first home-coming submarine. They were clad in various ancient uniforms which might have been worn by an apprentice lad in a garage: old gray flannel s.h.i.+rts, and stout grease-stained shoes; several days had pa.s.sed since their faces had felt a razor, and all were a little pale from their cruise. But the liveliest of keen eyes burned in each resolute young face, eyes smiling and glad.

A friendly hullabaloo broke forth. Chairs sc.r.a.ped, one fell with a crash.

"h.e.l.lo, boys!"

"Hi, Ned!"

"For the love of Pete, Joe, shave off those whiskers of yours; they make you look like Trotzky."

"See any Germans?"

"What's the news?"

"What's doing?"

"Hi, Manuelo"--this to a Filipino mess-boy who stood looking on with impa.s.sive curiosity--"serve three more breakfasts."

"Anything go for you?"

"Well, if here isn't our old b.u.mp!"

[Sidenote: Captain Ned begins his story.]

The crowd gathered round Captain Ned, who had established contact (this is a military term quite out of place in a work on the navy) with the eagerly sought, horribly elusive German.

"Go on, Ned, give us an earful. What time did you say it was?"

[Sidenote: An enemy submarine that escaped.]

"About 5 a.m." answered the captain. He stood leaning against a door, and the fine head, the pallor, the touch of fatigue, all made a very striking and appealing picture. "Say about eight minutes after five. I'd just come up to take a look-see, and saw him just about two miles away, on the surface, and moving right along. So I went under to get into a good position, came up again, and let him have one. Well, he saw it just as it was almost on him, swung her round, and dived like a ton of lead."

The audience listened in silent sympathy. One could see the disappointment on the captain's face.

"Where was he?"

"About so-and-so."

"That's the jinx that got after the convoy sure as you live."

[Sidenote: Two blind s.h.i.+ps that tried to find each other under water.]

The speaker had had his own adventures with the Germans. A month or so before, he had shoved up his periscope and spotted a Fritz on the surface in full noonday. The watchful Fritz, however, had been lucky enough to see the enemy almost at once, and had dived. The American followed suit. The eyeless submarine manoeuvred about, some eighty feet under, the German evidently "making his getaway," the American hoping to be lucky enough to pick up Fritz's trail, and get a shot at him when he rose again to the top. And while the two blind s.h.i.+ps manoeuvred there in the dark of the abyss, the keel of the fleeing German had actually, by a curious chance, sc.r.a.ped along the top of the American vessel and carried away the wireless aerials!

All were silent for a few seconds, thinking over the affair. It was not difficult to read the thought in every mind, the thought of _getting at the Germans_. The characteristic _aggressiveness_ of the American mind, heritage of a people compelled to subdue a vast, wild continent, is a wonderful military attribute. The idea of our navy is, "Get after 'em, keep after 'em, stay after 'em, don't give 'em an instant of security or rest." And none have this fighting spirit deeper in their hearts than our gallant boys of the submarine patrol.

"That's all," said Captain Ned. "I'm going to have a wash-up." He lifted a grease-stained hand to his cheek, rubbed his unshaven beard, and grinned. "Any letters?"

"Whole bag of stuff. Smithie put it on your desk."

[Sidenote: "Trotzky" and "Rasputin."]

Captain Ned wandered off. Presently, the door opened again, and three more veterans of the patrol cruised in, also in ancient uniforms. There were more cheers; more friendly cries. It was unanimously decided that the "Trotzky" of the first lot had better take a back seat, since the second in command of the newcomers was "a perfect ringer for Rasputin."

"See anything?"

[Sidenote: A British patrol hunts a lost torpedo.]

"Nothing much. There's a bit of wreckage just off sh.o.r.e. Saw a British patrol boat early Tuesday morning. I was on the surface, lying between her and the sunrise; she was hidden by a low-lying swirl of fog; she saw us first. When we saw her, I made signals, and over she came. Guess what the old bird wanted--_wanted to know if I'd seen a torpedo he'd fired at me!_ An old scout with white whiskers; one of those retired captains, I suppose, who has gone back on the job. He admitted he had received the Admiralty notes about us, but thought we acted suspicious. Did you ever hear of such nerve?"

[Sidenote: Courage of the submarine patrol.]

When the war was young, I served on land with _messieurs les poilus_. I have seen the contests of aviators, also trench-raids and the fighting for Verdun. Since then I have seen the war at sea. To my mind, if there is one service of this war which more than any other requires those qualities of endurance, skill, and courage whose blend the fighting men call--Elizabethanly, but oh, so truly--"_guts_," it is the submarine patrol.

Copyright, Atlantic Monthly, October, 1918.

France took tender care of her wounded heroes, and the following narrative gives a number of touching incidents observed by one who visited several of the French hospitals and received stories and experiences from the wounded soldiers.

WOUNDED HEROES OF FRANCE

ABBe FELIX KLEIN

The descriptions which are to follow belong to history already ancient; to the end of 1917 and the beginning of 1918. So rapid is the march of events with us now!

[Sidenote: The enthusiasm of a wounded soldier in 1914.]