CHAPTER IX—“SCHMARDIE”
The Colodia was drifting more than a cable’s length from the wreck of the German airship that had fallen into the sea. Philip Morgan and George Belding were some minutes in dropping down to the wreck, each upborne by his life buoy, the lines of which were payed out by their comrades on the destroyer’s deck.
The ropes soon grew very heavy and had the ship been much further away the two boys would have found the life rings of little aid to them. However, when the waves swept them against the twisted framework of the Zeppelin, they were still held well above the surface of the sea and were able to seize parts of the wreckage.
Whistler signaled those on the Colodia to cease paying out. Then he turned to look up at the struggling men above his head. George Belding cried:
“All right, Phil?”
He bawled the query so loud that Whistler heard him above the noise of the sea and the creaking of the wreckage.
“Hunky-dory!” he returned. He pointed above, and Belding could easily read his lips: “Which of these Heinies shall we get first?”
One man was already letting himself down toward the rescuers. By the trimming on his uniform the American boys were positive he was an officer—perhaps the commander of the Zeppelin.
“Tell that fellow to pass down those who are injured,” Whistler yelled so that his friend could hear him. “I believe he’s going to try to hog one of these buoys!”
Belding put up a hand to stop the German. The latter addressed the two American lads in English.
“I am Herr Hauptman von Hausen. I am in command. Will your comrades draw me aboard in the bight of that rope?”
“Not now, mein Herr,” shouted Whistler. “You’ve got gall to want to leave your comrades who may be helpless! Get some of them down here—and have a care that you do help them, too, or I’m not so sure that you will ever get to the destroyer at all!”
“Impudence! I shall report you to your commanding officer,” declared the Zeppelin’s captain fiercely.
“Believe me!” exclaimed Whistler, “that will do you a lot of good. Look out for this fellow, George! Let’s see that he is hauled in last just for that.”
“I’m with you,” agreed the other American. “Can you reach that young chap just above your head? I believe he’s got a broken arm.”
Whistler had managed to climb out of the sea and stood upon one stay, clinging to another. Now he reached up to aid the fellow George Belding had spoken of. The German was no older than the lads from the destroyer—a thin, pale fellow, his face drawn with pain, and his left arm strapped clumsily to his side.
“He’s got a broken arm, all right,” Whistler shouted. “When I pass him down, George, do you unbuckle his belt and fasten him with it to the ring. Then he won’t be swept away, even if he has but one hand to cling with. All ready?”
“Here, you!” exclaimed Belding, addressing the “Herr Hauptmann” in no respectful tone. “Lend a hand, will you? If you don’t I’ll cut you adrift.”
Belding had out his knife to cut a lashing and he looked as though he would carry out his threat. The Zeppelin commander slid down the stay and aided in lowering the younger German out of the wreck.
In five minutes they had him lashed as Whistler suggested to the life buoy, and the young German was on his way to the destroyer. A third inflated ring had been floated down to the tangle of débris drifting in the rising sea. Both Morgan and Belding were aware that they must work rapidly if they would save those of the Germans who were still alive. The wreckage was shifting from moment to moment. One body suddenly plunged beneath the tossing waves, but the Americans knew that the victim was already dead.
The men beside the captain had cut themselves loose and crawled down to the level of the sea. These two the rescuers sent away clinging to one of the inflated rings, for they could both handle themselves pretty well. But they kept Commander von Hausen until the first life buoy was emptied and was sent back again,
The four bodies left above were not all of live men; the boys were sure of that. And when they had got the first quartette of castaways started for the destroyer, Belding climbed up to cut away the nearest man. He was very weak, and after he was loosened from the stays he proved to be unable to help himself.
The situation of the two boys from the destroyer was now becoming very precarious indeed. They could not hang on here for much longer themselves.
“One of us will have to go back with this fellow,” declared Belding. “You take him, Phil. I am in better shape than you are.”
“Who told you so?” demanded the Seacove boy. “You take him. I’ll get that other fellow up there and follow you. Al and the others are floating another buoy down to us.”
“No,” said Belding. “I’ll lash this fellow here and he’ll have to take his chance until we get his mate. Those two beyond are dead, aren’t they?”
“Sure,” returned Whistler. “Poor things! Just think of their hanging on here for so long.”
“Oh, yes,” growled Belding, but with some scorn. “You can see just how much good it’s done that captain.”
They were close together or they could not have heard each other speak. The wind shrieked and the waves roared, making a chorus of sounds that well nigh drowned their voices.
With great difficulty they brought the second man down. Then, having lashed each sufferer to a life buoy, Whistler Morgan and Belding set out to swim beside them to the destroyer.
The waves were much higher now and the two lads were not so strong as when they had come out to the Zeppelin. They never could have reached the Colodia without help, and, withal, they were pretty well exhausted when they were drawn to the side of the pitching destroyer.
Cheers greeted them. The crew was generous always in acknowledging the individual bravery of its members. However, when it was all over and Phil and Belding had been treated by the doctor and were between blankets, Frenchy was inclined to “josh” a little.
“By St. Patrick’s piper that played the last snake out of Ireland!” he cried, “it will keep you broke for polish to shine up all your medals, Whistler. If Commander Lang reports this to the port admiral, you and Belding will get some junk to wear on the proud young chests of yez! And there’s the medal ye got, Whistler, for grapplin’ wid the depth bomb and sub chaser Three Eights!”
Whistler tossed a boot at his tormentor’s head, but Frenchy dodged it and escaped from the sick bay where the doctor had ordered Morgan and Belding to remain for the time being. They were kept there with the German lad with the broken arm until the next morning, when the friends were ordered to appear before Commander Lang. The latter said with a quizzical smile:
“I hear a bad report of you young chaps on one point. The Herr Hauptman Frederich Wilhelm von Hausen says you were not sufficiently respectful to him.”
“We weren’t, I guess,” admitted George Belding. “How about it, Phil?”
“I am afraid we did not pay sufficient attention to his High Mightiness, sir,” rejoined Morgan. “You see, sir, we sent the wounded boy over first. That captain was in too big a hurry.”
“Yes. Well,” drawled the commander, “I suppose I shall have to pass this complaint along to the proper authorities. But I believe I can congratulate you two lads on drawing down the United States gold life saving medal for your act.
“You, Belding, have made an excellent mark for yourself on joining the Colodia. We already knew what sort of metal Morgan was built of. Thank you, my lads! If the surgeon gives you a true bill, you may turn to with your watches.”
The boys saluted and departed for their stations. The destroyer was making for port and the headlands were visible. But the storm had not blown over and the ship was rolling forty-five to fifty degrees. If an ordinary merchant ship rolls forty degrees her crew think that the end has come and they will be wrecked; forty degrees is ordinary for a destroyer to roll in the sea. Often moving about the Colodia was almost like climbing a sheer wall.
The two boys who had done so brave an act the day before were commended on all sides; but their mates’ approbation took the form of good natured joking, for which both Morgan and Belding were thankful.
They heard much comment regarding the German captives from the other members of the crew. Especially did they learn certain things about the youth with the broken arm whom they had first sent off to the destroyer from the wreck of the Zeppelin.
He was named Franz Eberhardt, and he was in the sick bay instead of being confined with the other prisoners. Hear Hans Hertig rail about him:
“That feller is a schmardie—one o’ them German schmardies what you hear about. I would like to have him workin’ on this Colodia. We would work some of the schmardness out of him yet.”
“What’s the matter with him, Boatswain?” demanded Al Torrance.
“Huh! He tells me the Germans ain’t begun to fight yet! Sure! They will lick all the world—let him tell it. He iss one Prussian.”
Phil Morgan got a chance to go down to the sick bay and interview the young prisoner. The latter knew that Morgan was one of those who had rescued him and his mates; but there was a certain arrogance about his manner and speech that was not likely to make him friends among his captors.
“Aren’t you worried about your position at all?” asked Whistler, when they had talked for some time.
“Me?” repeated the German in very good English. “Why should I fear? I am an Eberhardt. My uncle lived long in England and has friends there. I shall make friends. The English do not dare treat us Germans badly, for they know that in the end they will be beaten and we will punish them severely if they treat prisoners unkindly. Oh, yes!”
“Say!” drawled Whistler, “where do you get that stuff? You must have caught it from that von Hausen. He wanted to push you out of the way and take your place in the life buoy.”
“Yes,” admitted the German youth simply. “He is Hauptman. Why not?”
“Good-night!” growled Whistler. “Our officers don’t do that. They would consider it beneath them to be saved before their crew.”
Eberhardt, who was sitting up, shrugged his shoulders. “Yes?” he repeated. “But of course, they are not gnädige Herren.”
“That means ‘noble sirs’,” scoffed Whistler. “No, thank heaven, we do not have such a caste as that in America!”
“You have some very rich men—very rich. I have heard my cousin Emil say. He knows many of them. Many are from German blood. Of course, when we finish the war, they will create a caste, as you call it, in your United States. Cousin Emil says——”
“Who is your Cousin Emil?” demanded Phil Morgan more amused than angered after all, by this kind of talk. “Is he in the States now?”
“Not yet,” said young Eberhardt, slyly looking at his inquisitor. “But he is going.”
“Before the war ends? Not much chance of that.”
“Poof!” rejoined the German youth. “You cannot stop Emil. What he wants to do, he does. He is a great man. He has been decorated by the Emperor.”
“What department does he fight in?”
“Ah, he is greater than a fighter,” said young Eberhardt, shaking his head. “He goes hither and yon—where he chooses. In France, England, Italy, and now to your country, America.”
“A spy?” growled Morgan.
“Call him as you like. Cousin Emil is a wonderful man. Why, to fly from our bases in Belgium to this England is nothing to Cousin Emil. He has so traveled a dozen times. But this was my first trip.”
“You were not traveling with your cousin in that Zep, were you?”
“Ah, no. You say our sister Luftshiff—she is fallen?”
“Smashed all to pieces,” declared Whistler with satisfaction. “And her crew prisoners—all but one.”
“Ah!” breathed Eberhardt, slyly smiling again. “And he who escaped?”
“What do you know about him?” asked Whistler in surprise. “That fellow is a spy I bet! He was not a regular member of the Zep’s crew.”
“No? You saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he a man with a very sharp eye, a moustache like our Emperor, a tiny beard here?” touching his lower lip.
“That’s the fellow!” cried Whistler. “Do you mean to say he is your cousin Emil, and a spy?”
“Oh, no, my friend,” chuckled the “schmardie.” “Oh, no. I do not say that. I merely say that man with the little beard on his lip—a goatee, do you call it?—plays the cornet. You know, most cornet players wear the little goatee, isn’t it so?”
Eberhardt laughed again and wagged his head, refusing to say more. As for thanking Whistler for what he and Belding had done toward saving his life, such a thought never seemed to enter the German youth’s mind.