The Corsair in the war zone

by Ralph Delahaye Paine

FOOTNOTES:

[4] A Year in the Navy. Houghton Mifflin Co.

[5] H. B. Wilson.

[6] Commander Frank T. Evans, U.S.N.

CHAPTER X
THE CORSAIR STANDS BY

This business gets more interesting every day and is by far the most fascinating industry I have ever undertaken [declared Lieutenant Schanze, in letters written during the autumn and winter]. Of course it is extremely strenuous, the long sea voyages into an eternally rough ocean, the cold, wet days and nights, and the everlasting vigil that must be kept despite wind, rain, fog, and storm. It gets to the nerves of the boys and a few of them show signs of weakening at times, but on the whole, and in my humble opinion, the Corsair has the most pugnacious and indefatigable bunch of fighters in the whole Navy.

You see, the Corsair and the Aphrodite were the first American war vessels to patrol the Bay of Biscay; consequently we are old-timers here and are looked up to by the others as being well versed in this game. The hard service is the best thing that could have happened to us. Being in a war without actually serving on the firing line would drive me looney, but as things have turned out I have the most wonderful opportunity to exercise all my mechanical ingenuity and experience and they have more than stood me in good stead.

This war work agrees with me better than anything I have engaged in. I am growing stouter and more vigorous and enjoying every minute of it.... If we bean a submarine and crow about it, everybody ashore gives us the horse laugh because we did not have the propellers or conning tower to show for it; and if some misguided sub takes a shot at us and the torpedo happens to miss and biffs one of the empty buckets we are escorting over the horizon, the Admiral roars until we dare not show our faces ashore. I recently heard the anti-submarine campaign assailed on the ground that the submarines are still at large and going strong. They are. But the submarine campaign of Germany is away past its zenith. It was passed several months ago and the lid is now being nailed down on its coffin.

We are over here in this mess up to our ears and we know what has taken place when the whole ocean seems to tremble and that sickening, muffled roar, whose direction defies discovery, comes to our ears. We know that another torpedo has found its mark. Does it make us gloomy? It does not. It cheers us up. Why? Because we can instantly diagnose just how it was done and we recognize that our enemy is becoming more timid, impotent, and desperate. Very soon every successfully exploded torpedo will cost the life of the sub that sent it. Instead of being the terror of the seas that they were last June and July, the U-boats now advertise the fact that the terror of the seas is the American destroyer.

The war goes booming along on an ever greater scale, and to those who are given this opportunity of viewing the panorama, it unfolds itself with a magnitude that defies all description. Could I but tell you of the vast works that America alone has put upon the landscapes here in France, you would believe my enthusiasm exaggerated. Details I cannot give, but as a comparison imagine a contract for the construction of a series of communities, each one about as large as Newark was ten years ago, and imagine them equipped with every modern improvement such as wharfage on a river-bank formerly barren, manufacturing plants for the fabrication of everything from wooden legs to steel ships, and then accept this as a fact already accomplished and doing business, and you can gather some idea of the tremendous efforts that have been put forth.

ROLLING OUT TO FIND A CONVOY

A LITTLE WATER ON DECK

For all this we are indebted, not nearly so much to the men here at the front as to those whose untiring efforts at home, in face of all kinds of criticism of the most venomous kind, have driven this enormous task to a successful culmination. I have a wonderful respect for our men at home who have had to stay home and accomplish things which they could never disclose to a naturally impatient and clamoring public. Had the Germans done such things as I have seen here accomplished by Americans, I would have taken off my hat to them and acknowledged the fact that German efficiency coupled with the advantages of a despotism was at least worthy of a close look. I dwell upon this phase of the situation because it has recently come to my attention, from most reliable sources, that there is a tendency toward gloom in certain quarters at home. The constant attacks made by conscientious critics, aside from the braying of the eternally discontented and the insidious whispers of the disloyal, are liable to make even the stoutest hearts falter at times.

I cannot too emphatically contradict every reason advanced to sustain a gloomy attitude of mind. There is every reason for the greatest enthusiasm and confidence. In fact, we over here on the firing line have a spontaneous kind of enthusiasm that comes only to the victorious. This war is a long and ferocious process in which each battle must be considered as a single shot fired only as a part of the ensemble. On land and sea things look better than they have in a long time. Every American effort is pure velvet for the Allied side. I trust our nation will now begin to see that America is a big and powerful fellow among the nations of the world and that, with just a little bit of careful attention, this European situation can be hammered into shape. The women of the country are, after all, pretty much the whole thing, for they can inculcate the spirit of fight and of happy confidence that nothing else can put into their boys. If the mother will adopt the old Spartan admonition of “Come home either with your shield or on it,” the boys will keep surging into this war with an ardor that no enemy can stop.

... My experiences thus far have brought me more laughs than it has been my pleasure to have in any other period of time. I must confess, however, that many of the laughs come when I view some of the situations in retrospect. At times, especially in the middle of a ruction, when literally tons of high explosives are being launched, we are too busily engaged to laugh. On such occasions we have to think rapidly and work fast.

One incident may be worthy of note. A flock of troop-ships was under escort through the torpedo zone. The eagle eye of a trained observer caught the tell-tale symptoms of a submarine trying to manœuvre into striking position. Activities began at once, if not sooner. Those of us whose job it was to look after the sub, did it. Those of us whose job it was to screen the troop-ships, did that. On one of the transports were many negroes who knew more about shore duties than seafaring. On the ship they were passengers pro tem.

The process of dealing with a submarine certainly must send thrills through a spectator who has never attended any rehearsals. The negroes in question were all novices and their chief emotion was primitive terror. The simultaneous explosion of forty or fifty barrels of dynamite made the whole ocean heave and rumble. Even those of us who were used to dropping ’em over and who were braced for the shock, felt considerably jolted.

The darky soldiers thought the end of creation had sure busted loose in epidemic form. One of them excitedly dug down into his pack and fished out a Bible. Opening it on deck, he knelt upon it, wrung his hands to Heaven and cried in accents that could be heard above the racket of the explosions, “O Lawd, O Lawd, I’se never gwine roll dem bones no mo’. Ah promise it. Ah promise it absotively.”

Another one decided that this method of imploring grace was worth imitating in the terrible crisis, so he rushed over and tried to get knee-room on the same Bible. Shoving his comrade aside, he managed to find a sacred anchorage and his supplication was, “Good Lawd Jesus, lemme see jes’ one green tree. Ah ain’t askin’ you to send me back home across dis yere big ocean till th’ war is done. Ah’ll stay right where I is put, but lemme see jes’ one green tree befo’ all dem German su’marines gobble dis pore niggah like Jonah an’ th’ whale.”

Half an hour after the excitement was over, these devout passengers were shooting dice as busily as ever. There were negroes in another unit which we escorted into France. In wandering about the port, they came across some of their own race, black troopers from the French African colonies. Negotiations were opened to start a conversation going, but they could find no common language until one of the bunch produced a pair of dice. This, it seems, instantly broke down the barrier, and they soon had going as fine a little game of international craps as a man ever saw. Both sides whooped and haw-hawed until traffic was blocked and the police interfered.

The convoy work in which the Corsair took part during the four months from February 15 to May 30, 1918, comprised the following cruises, arranged in the form of a summary so as to make the record more complete and also to suggest the volume of the shipping which was entrusted to the protection of the yachts and destroyers in French waters:

Feb. 16-20. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: Eugene Grozos, Mont Pelvoux, Kalfarli, Lenape, Mariana, Lamertin, Mundiale, Bergdalen, Amphion, Northern, Joseph Cudahy, Stensland, Ariadne, Lady of Gaspe, Thibet.

(Vessels in escort.) Corsair, Aphrodite, May, Regulus (F), Aventurier (F).

Feb. 25-28. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: El Occidente, Anglo Saxon, Erny, Borinquen, Montanan, Aurelien Sholt, Appelus, Balti, Gusta Vigiland.

(Vessels in escort.) Corsair, Aphrodite, May, Cassiope (F).

March 7-10. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: Luckenbach, St. Stephen, Millnock, Munares, Pearl Shell, Crecarne, Strathlone, Eschwick, Stellina, Anglo Mexican, Pennsylvanian, Hilda, Frances L. Kinney, Eagle, Felix Taussig, Dalblair, Camaguey, Oslang.

(Vessels in escort.) Corsair, Aphrodite, Nokomis, Rivoli (F), Cassiope (F).

March 16-19. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: Charlton Hall, Santiago, Mont Ventoux, Penmarch, Bay Douglas, New York, Dumfurland, Alf, Beaverton, Cantal, W. Mace, Bay Nyassa, Wachusett, El Orients, Woonsocket, Augvald, Ionian.

(Vessels in escort.) Corsair, Aphrodite, Nokomis, Rivoli (F), Marne (F).

March 20-21. (Eastbound to Gironde.) Ships in convoy: Mercury, Tenadores.

(Vessels in escort.) Corsair, Noma, destroyers Balch, Winslow, Sampson, Porter, Drayton, Parker.

March 25-27. (Eastbound to Gironde.) Ship of convoy: Mallory. (Vessels in escort.) Corsair, Noma, Wakiva, destroyers Rowan, Winslow, Benham.

April 3-4. (Eastbound to Gironde.) Ships in convoy: Powhatan, Martha Washington, El Occidente.

(Vessels in escort.) Corsair, Noma, destroyers Duncan, Caldwell, Sampson, Winslow, Parker, Connyngham.

April 8-22. Corsair acting as communication ship, at Verdon, and overhauling machinery at Bordeaux.

April 24-27. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: Indiana, Clare, Alexander Kielland, Daphne, Lyderhom, Peter H. Crowell, Canto, Kentuckian, Hunwood, Seattle, Oregon, Californian, Mocassin, Munindies, Munaires, Lake Tahoe, Santa Rosalia, Drake, Amphion, Oregonian, Newton.

(Vessels in escort.) Corsair, Aphrodite, Nokomis, Wakiva, Rivoli (F).

May 5-9. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: Mesopotamia, Jean, West Wind, Guantanamo, Monticello, Cristobal, Margaret, American, Iroquois, Chian, Artemis, Buenaventura, Sudbury, Lamertin, Edith, Nyanza, Amiral Grouse, Ariadne.

(Vessels in escort.) Corsair, Aphrodite, Wakiva, Rivoli (F).

May 13-16. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: El Capitan, Munsano, Castleman, Bergdalen, Westerner, Clara, Vaarli, Lake Placid, Gusta Vigiland, Winnebago, Luckenbach, Joseph Cudahy, Saxolin, Robert H. Thomas, Quincy, Thorwald Halvorson, Andre.

(Vessels in escort.) Corsair, Aphrodite, Nokomis, Rivoli (F).

May 21-23. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: Matsonia, Powhatan, Martha Washington, El Oriente, Minnesotan.

(Vessels in escort.) Corsair, destroyers Wadsworth, Nicholson, Monaghan, Roe.

May 27-30. (Westbound from Verdon.) Ships in convoy: Shoshonee, Crown of Seville, Walter Munson, Tunica, West Arrow, East Gate, Charlton Hall, Luciline, Absaroka, Westbridge, Corozal, Lorna, Westward, Pensacola, Millinocket, Darnholm, Admiral Neilly, Elmore, Sagua, Tamano, Texas, New York.

(Vessels in escort.) Corsair, Aphrodite, Nokomis Aisne (F).

Industriously employed in this service with the convoys, the Corsair encountered no slant of misfortune until June. Then came the loss of the fine cargo steamer Californian with holds and decks full of several million dollars worth of supplies for the American Army in France. This disaster was not the result of submarine attack. The ship was unlucky enough to bump a German mine about fifty miles off the entrance of the Gironde River while nearing port with the convoy and escort.

The Corsair stood by and made every possible effort to save the precious Californian endeavoring to haul her along at the end of a tow-line, but the damage was vital and salvage hopeless. It was one of those numerous episodes of the warfare at sea, as waged by the enemy, which seemed so enormously wasteful, so impossible for civilization to endure, this senseless obliteration of property on a scale without precedent in the whole history of mankind.

THE SINKING CALIFORNIAN. GOING, GOING, ALMOST GONE!

CALIFORNIAN SURVIVORS ABOARD THE CORSAIR

The Corsair found the convoy of eight ships in the afternoon of June 20th and took position with the other escort vessels, Aphrodite, May, Nokomis, and two French patrol boats. They steamed toward the coast at eleven knots without misadventure until early in the morning of the 22d. Then the Californian made a turn to the right, quitting the formation, and slowed speed until she came to a halt. Her crew could be seen jumping into the boats and letting them drop from the davits. There was no more ado about it than this, no sound of an explosion nor any disturbance of the sea. It was an uncanny, inexplicable thing to witness. From the bridge of the Corsair it was easy to perceive that the sailors of the Californian were proceeding, earnestly and eagerly, to abandon ship. It was done without disorder, but they were wasting no time.

The Corsair promptly swung to go near, at the order of Lieutenant McGuire, who was the officer of the deck. The yacht moved to the rescue with a speed which surprised even the Californian. Already the long, deep-laden steamer was settling by the head. One of the little French escort vessels had also hastened to the scene, but as she rolled in the trough of the ground swell, the sea slapped across her deck and the first boat to pull away from the Californian found so much difficulty in trying to lay aboard that the men semaphored the Corsair: “Will you please come and pick us up?” Presently the master of the big steamer and many of his crew were scrambling up the side of the Corsair, where Commander Porter strongly urged that an attempt be made to save the Californian. He was ready to tow if the water could be kept down in the flooded compartments. It was a sporting chance, but better than letting the ship drown before their eyes.

Cheered by this readiness to lend a hand, the executive officer of the Californian, with sixteen volunteers from their crew, returned on board and a ten-inch manila hawser was passed from the Corsair. Because the bow of the stricken ship had filled so fast and was almost buried in the sea, the hawser was made fast astern and the Corsair tried to tow her wrong end to, as offering the least resistance. The sluggish mass moved very slowly, perhaps two knots, but it was impossible to steer it. The plucky Corsair dug her toes in, as one might say, and pulled like a thoroughbred horse harnessed to a wagonload of stone.

When this first attempt proved futile, it was decided to try towing by the bow, but while they were dragging the hawser forward the engine-room bulkheads collapsed with a roar and the sea rushed in to fill the dying ship. She went down by the head, the stern rearing higher and higher in air, until the great hull towered in a vertical position, and there it hung for an amazingly long time. It was surmised that the bow had struck the bottom of the sea. Then the stern slowly dropped and vanished while the crew of the Corsair watched and wondered and felt very sad at heart.

No lives were lost; this was the redeeming feature, and the eighty-five officers and men of the Californian were all safely aboard the yacht where they were as hospitably cared for as the crowded quarters permitted. On the decks of the lost steamer were hundreds of Army motor-trucks, and one of the Corsair’s men, for lack of anything better to say, was heard to murmur as the sea swallowed them up:

“There’s some water in your carbureters this trip, and that’s no foolish jest.”

The dog rescued from the Californian remained aboard the Corsair as a souvenir and mascot, but the life in the Bay of Biscay was not to his taste, in spite of the efforts of the crew to make him feel at home. He was therefore detached and assigned to the U.S.S. (Auxiliary) Balti and sent to the United States, but fell down a hatch at Hoboken and was a total loss. For an epitaph, Kipling’s line seems apt, “We’re safer at sea again.”

Commander Porter’s official account of the loss of the ship reads as follows:

June 22, 1918

From: Commanding Officer,
To: Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France,
Via District Commander, Rochefort.

At 4.50 A.M. observed the U.S.S. Californian stop, turn to the eastward, and abandon ship. The Corsair immediately went about and closed on the Californian. At 5.15 A.M. two boats from the Californian were alongside and survivors came on board. I informed their Executive Officer that we were close to land and suggested that it might be possible to get the ship into port. He immediately ordered his firemen into a boat and returned to the Californian. The Corsair circled about the ship.

At 7.05 A.M. all hands abandoned the Californian and came on board the Corsair. The captain informed me that he could do nothing as the engine-room was filling with water. I told him that we would attempt to tow. He returned to the Californian with a boat’s crew, taking the end of our tow-line with him. As the Californian was down by the head and we had a fair wind, our tow-line was made fast to the stern.

At 7.55 A.M. we started ahead. At 8.20 A.M. it was found that we could not handle the ship by the stern; stopped and attempted to take the line forward. Before it could be made fast, the ship settled so rapidly that the crew was obliged to abandon her, and we hauled the tow-line on board. At 8.54 A.M. the bow of the Californian went down, apparently resting on bottom. At 9.04 A.M. the stern disappeared and Corsair proceeded. While waiting we hoisted two of the Californian’s boats on board. During these operations one French destroyer stood by.

It is believed by the Commanding Officer of the Californian that the damage was caused by a mine. Nothing was seen. No radio message was sent as antennæ was disabled by the explosion. There were no casualties.

The lost ship was commanded by Lieutenant Commander D. Mahlman, U.S.N.R.F., and was under charter to the United States Government. To the Board of Inquiry convened for the purpose, he presented his own story of the disaster, which was as follows:

At 4.50 A.M. felt an explosion amidships. Stopped the ship and ordered all hands to stand by the boats. The Engineer Officer reported water and oil leaking into the forward stoke hold. Sounded bilges and found three feet in No. 1; No. 2 full; and Nos. 4 and 5 empty. On examining the engine-room and stoke hold again, I found the water over the floor plates, the engineers meanwhile having the pumps working on the stoke hold bilge. The water was steadily gaining so I ordered the boats to be lowered and the ship abandoned.

Sent two boats away to the U.S.S. Corsair which was standing by, while I remained on board with Ensign Schwartz and boat’s crew to investigate further if it were possible to do anything to keep the ship afloat, the pumps being worked to the full capacity continually. Soon afterwards two boats from the Corsair returned to the ship with some of the officers and crew.

Extra efforts were made by the engineer force to gain headway on the incoming water. When the water had risen to the fire-boxes and continued to increase, on the report of the Chief Engineer that the water was beyond control, I ordered all hands to abandon ship. Having gone aboard the Corsair, the Commanding Officer asked me how long I thought the ship would keep afloat, to which I replied four or five hours. He then suggested towing, so I returned to the ship with my Executive Officer and sixteen men, taking a tow-line which was made fast to the stern, the best method of towing under the existing circumstances. No results were obtainable and an attempt was made to shift the tow-line to the bow.

While the tow-line was being shifted forward, from observations made by me in the engine-room it was evident that the ship could not stay afloat much longer as she was then rapidly settling by the head. I again gave orders to abandon the ship, which was done, and the Californian soon began to sink rapidly, going down bow first until the stern was almost perpendicular. Later the ship slowly righted and the stern disappeared entirely at 9.04 A.M. in Latitude 46° 17′ 15″ North, Longitude 2° 10′ 30″ West.

The Corsair had tried and failed, which was ever so much better than not trying at all, and as one of her men mournfully observed, “With any sort of a break in luck, we would have salvaged her and a cargo that was so valuable that the Army organization was figuring out some way of raising it during the summer.”

A MASCOT FROM THE CALIFORNIAN KNOWN AS “THE MUTT”

THE NEWFOUNDLAND PUP SAVED FROM THE FRENCH FISHING BARK

This was the only ship lost out of a convoy with which the Corsair operated during the long period of this service in and out of the Gironde, from June to November of 1918. On several occasions steamers were attacked and sunk or damaged just before joining or just after leaving the escort. These included the Montanan, the Westbridge, the Westward Ho, the Cubore, and the French cruiser Dupetit Thouars. When the S.O.S. calls came, the Corsair hurried to stand by, but other naval vessels happened to be nearer the scene and were able to save the survivors, or the ship managed to remain afloat, as in the case of the Westward Ho. A cruise in August, beginning on the ill-omened 13th, turned out to be anything but monotonous, from start to finish. The air was full of tragic messages from torpedoed ships. It was like a dying flurry of the German submarine campaign.

The excitement began with this entry in the Corsair’s record:

S.S. Tivives (third ship in right-hand column) signalled “Torpedo just passed our stern from starboard.” This ship notified Aphrodite by radio. Went to general quarters and searched but saw nothing except whales and porpoises. Wind was light and sea smooth. French destroyer Aisne, which was astern of us, apparently intercepted radio as he was observed to be searching.

A little later in this voyage came the following tale of disaster, as caught by the radio:

Intercepted from Marseilles, “Montanan torpedoed.”

Intercepted from Noma, “Westbridge torpedoed.”

Intercepted from Aphrodite, “Cubore torpedoed, 10 P.M. Friday.”

The Corsair and Aphrodite had left their outward-bound convoy at this time, according to orders, to steer for the rendezvous and make contact with a fleet of fourteen ships bound in for France. During the night a green Véry light flared against the cloudy sky to the southward. The Corsair headed for it at full speed, but could find no ship in distress and it was later conjectured that the signal might have come from the French destroyers which had remained to pick up the survivors of the Cubore.

Soon after this, several lights were sighted close to the water. It is hard to realize how unusual and arresting was such a phenomenon as this upon an ocean where ships had long shrouded themselves in darkness, screening every ray and glimmer lest it might betray them to a lurking enemy. The vision of officers and lookouts had so adapted themselves to these conditions that they were able to discern a shadow of a ship a mile away. In this instance, when vessels’ lights, several of them, were boldly displayed, the Corsair approached warily until it was possible to make them out as showing aboard a little flock of Breton fishermen. It was known that a French submarine was operating in this patrol area and the officers of the Corsair plausibly assumed that the lights might be a decoy for Fritz, so they concluded not to meddle with the situation.

Next morning another bevy of fishing vessels was seen, and the French submarine was with them, while a steamer was also standing by. Meanwhile the Corsair and Aphrodite had found the inbound convoy which had also a destroyer escort, and one of these, the Lamson, ran down to investigate the startling picture of a submarine calmly loafing about. The Frenchman promptly exploded a smoke bomb as the proper recognition signal, for he was taking no chances with a venomous Yankee destroyer which was known to be exceedingly quick on the trigger when a periscope or conning tower was etched against the horizon. It was agreed that there were much more healthy pursuits than to be ranging the Bay of Biscay in a French submarine.

Fortune had been unkind when the Corsair tried to pull the Californian into port, but the story was a happier one when next she had the opportunity to snatch a good ship from the greedy maw of the sea. How it was done is summarized in a letter written by Vice-Admiral Wilson, after the event:

U.S. Naval Forces Operating in European Waters
Forces in France
U.S.S. Prometheus, Flagship
Brest, France, 8 October 1918

From: Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France.
To: Lieutenant Commander W. B. Porter, U.S.N.R.F.
Subject: Commendation.

The Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France takes pleasure in commending the excellent seamanship and judgment displayed by you in the salvage of the Norwegian steamship Dagfin, as reported in your letter of September 17, 1918.

The Dagfin, a vessel of 2100 tons, loaded with general supplies for the Italian Government, had been totally disabled for six days with a broken shaft when sighted by the Corsair on September 10th, in Latitude 45° 3′ North, Longitude 8° 03′ West. The U.S.S. Corsair under your command maintained touch with the Dagfin until the heavy weather then prevailing had moderated, and towed her into port, a distance of three hundred miles through the submarine zone, arriving at Verdon on September 14th.

(Signed) Wilson

The Corsair happened to find this helpless Dagfin while scouting in search of a steamer of the convoy which had somehow gone astray. Insistent radio calls had failed to awaken a response from this missing Macona. She appeared to have lost her bearings and totally mislaid the rendezvous. The Corsair was too courteous to express annoyance, but her radio queries became more and more emphatic. The Macona was as elusive as a Flying Dutchman. At length the yacht concluded that she had done her honest duty and so turned in the general direction of the destroyer rendezvous, still keeping an eye lifted for the lost sheep of the convoy.

At 8.35 o’clock on the morning of September 10th, with the Macona still on her mind and the quest continued, the Corsair descried a steamer against the misty horizon and soon it was discovered that she was in distress and making no headway. By way of precaution the Corsair’s crew scampered to general quarters, because nothing could be taken for granted in war-time. Bearing down, the yacht hovered close to a sea-worn, dingy Norwegian tramp which wallowed inert and wore an air of profound discouragement. The sailors of the Dagfin flourished their caps and yelled with delight. It was obvious that they yearned to be plucked out of the submarine zone after six days and nights of exposure as a stationary target to any U-boat which might wander that way. Fritz was too unsportsmanlike to hesitate to shoot at a sitting bird.

The Corsair was willing to undertake a towing job in order to save the forlorn Dagfin and her cargo, but it was necessary to ask permission to leave the duty already assigned, and a radio was therefore sent to the Admiral at Brest. Meanwhile the sea was too rough to undertake the ticklish manœuvre of hooking onto the melancholy Norwegian and Commander Porter shouted through a megaphone that he would return and stand by. There was profound gratitude on the bridge of the Dagfin, but some deep-sea curses along the rail. To have rescue so near, and to behold the American warship depart! It was too much like having the cup of salvation snatched from one’s lips. Were they to be left at the mercy of the hell-begotten submarines?

Steering northward to take another look for the Macona, Commander Porter changed course to sweep a wider area and, after several hours, received a radio reply from Brest, “Stand by Dagfin. Tug will be sent when weather moderates.” This order was to be obeyed, blow high, blow low, and through two stormy days the Corsair rolled and plunged within sight or signalling distance of the Dagfin before any attempt could be made to board her. It was a furious gale, with squalls of snow and sleet, and the Corsair was so knocked about while heading into it that she had to turn and run before the sea under steerageway of four knots. The water came piling over the stern until the depth charges had to be shifted amidships to change the trim of the ship and lift the overhang a little. It was a man’s-size job, from beginning to end, this playing friend in need to the Dagfin.

With a sea anchor out, the Dagfin had been lying broadside to the waves, and this could not have increased the comfort of her crew. She was swept and drenched and miserable, and, at best, there is no luxury in a two-thousand-ton Norwegian tramp. At last the wind lost something of its evil temper and the sea was less confused. On the morning of September 12th the Corsair tried to get a line aboard, after receiving another radio from Brest, “Take Dagfin in tow when weather permits.” It was still too rough to put a boat over, so Commander Porter steamed to windward and attempted to float a line, buoyed by empty boxes, to the Dagfin, but the freighter’s drift was so much greater than the yacht’s that this scheme failed.

THE DAGFIN, BROKEN DOWN AND HELPLESS. THE CORSAIR STANDS BY

Nothing daunted, the skipper of the Corsair hauled his own ship around to leeward and deftly placed her where the line floated so close to the Dagfin that it was caught and hauled up by a boat-hook as she drifted upon it. To this light line the Corsair secured one hundred and fifty fathoms of ten-inch manila hawser, and the Dagfin heaved it aboard with a turn about the winch. To the end of the hawser the Norwegians bent fifty fathoms of chain, for the longer the tow-line the easier the strain in heavy weather. The Corsair secured her end of the hawser by means of a wire span leading to the two after gun mounts, and then she was ready to go ahead and pull her heart out. It is needless to remark that the yacht had not been designed or built to yank disabled freighters through the Bay of Biscay in the tail-end of a nasty gale of wind.

They went ahead, Corsair and Dagfin, and worked up to a speed of five knots, reducing it a trifle when the strain seemed too great. They slogged along in this manner until 8.30 P.M. when the chain parted and the Dagfin went adrift. Commander Porter describes the rest of it in his report:

We observed that the Dagfin had broken adrift, and when attempting to haul in our tow-line I found that it was weighted with the Dagfin’s chain which had parted in the hawse-pipe. A six-inch line was bent and used as a messenger to the forward capstan, but as this would hold only four turns, which rendered, the starboard capstan was used to assist. No lead blocks of sufficient size were available to keep the line clear of the deck-house, and both houses were damaged. It was difficult to stopper and secure the messenger to the wet hawser. This was chafed its entire length, although the ship went ahead slowly to angle the hawser slightly and reduce the bend over the lip of the chock.

After three hours’ work the hawser was all in and the chain let go. Had conditions been favorable, of course the chain could have been hove in through the hawse-pipe, but I desired to intercept the French tug Penguin, sent out from Brest, which was then close by. The strain had unlaid the hawser, and releasing the chain allowed the turns to take up again. Removing numerous kinks from a wet, ten-inch rope is a long, tedious job.

As the tug had passed us in the night and was not in sight at daylight, I closed in to pick up our tow. Attempting to throw a line on board, we could not get near enough to reach, as there was still a moderate swell and we were both rolling and surging. A boat was lowered and our hawser bent to the Dagfin’s cable, and at 7.45 A.M. we went ahead at six knots. The average speed for twenty-six and a half hours was actually six and a quarter knots.

At 8.15 the Penguin arrived and I had difficulty in communicating, as she could not comprehend semaphore signals nor was our language perfectly clear to them. Our radio communication had been very good, although I was more reluctant to use it than was the Penguin, especially in stating latitude and longitude. To my question, “What are your orders?” the reply was, “Bordeaux.” She also informed me that she could tow four knots and as this would not bring us into port before dark of the following day, I decided to continue towing and requested that the Penguin escort. I considered that the advantages of greater speed and a much shorter time at sea gave us the larger margin of safety.

In my opinion (with a very limited experience in towing) the method adopted was by far the best way of towing a ship. Not only is the windlass usually the strongest and most convenient place to secure to, but in the absence of a very long hawser the weight of chain sagging down makes an effective spring. There was never any undue strain and the Dagfin’s chain could not have parted if it had been in good condition.

In the early morning of September 14th the Corsair trailed into the mouth of the Gironde, doggedly kicking along at six knots, with the Norwegian water-bruiser dragging in her wake. There the Penguin took hold and the yacht went on alone to a berth at Pauillac, none the worse for the experience. It was all in the job, not so sensational as dropping depth bombs on a submarine, but perhaps requiring more courage, endurance, and seamanship. Commander Porter’s description of the tussle with the hawser is highly technical, but one catches glimpses of the hard and heavy toil of the sea and the ability to do the right thing in time of stress which comes only with experience. The sailors of the Corsair, many of them landlubbers only a year before, were learning the tricks of the trade.

It was back to the convoys again, the same old round of discomfort at sea and coaling ship in port, but the spirit of the great adventure had not been dulled. By way of change and respite, the Corsair was twice chosen to carry distinguished official visitors from one French base to another. The first occasion was on August 24th when the passengers comprised the party of members of the House Committee on Naval Affairs who were inspecting for themselves the American naval and military forces overseas—Chairman L. P. Padgett, D. J. Riordan, W. L. Hensley, J. R. Connelly, W. B. Oliver, W. W. Venable, J. C. Wilson, T. S. Butler, W. J. Browning, J. R. Farr, S. E. Mudd. J. A. Peters, and F. C. Hicks.

They were the guests of the Corsair from Royan to the great American aviation base at Pauillac, and their enthusiastic approval of the work of the Navy in the war was pleasant for the crew of the Corsair to hear. Their report, later submitted to the Secretary of the Navy, contained this non-partisan opinion, signed by Republican and Democratic members alike:

The committee visited and inspected the United States naval activities at Bordeaux, Moutchic, Pauillac, Rochefort, La Rochelle, La Pallice, Fromentine, Paimbœuf, Saint-Nazaire, Montoir, Le Croisic, L’Orient, Île Tudy, and Brest. The amount of money expended at these various stations mounts into the hundreds of millions of dollars and the activities involve the employment of thousands upon thousands of men. They represent activities on land and water, under the water, and in the air. They involve transportation of troops, munitions, equipment, food, and clothing from the United States into France of the value of untold millions. The duties and responsibilities of the Navy were to escort and convoy ships transporting troops, and all manner of effort and activity in the air, patrolling the seas against German submarines, and safeguarding the arrival and departure of ships, the construction of bases for the operation and the care of the enormous aviation organization, and also at the various bases providing first aid and hospital accommodations for the sick and disabled and the establishment of sanitary conditions, housing facilities, and numerous other activities essential to the proper care of the men, besides the many other efforts essential to the successful prosecution of the war.

Copyright by Underwood and Underwood, N. Y.

ADMIRAL HENRY T. MAYO, COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE ATLANTIC FLEET

The whole work was so colossal that while there may have been mistakes and matters subject to criticism in small details, they were lost in the magnitude of the success accomplished. Taken as a whole, by and large, the Navy has achieved a great work and is entitled to approval and commendation.

Late in October the word came to the Corsair that the Commander-in-Chief of the Atlantic Fleet, Admiral Henry T. Mayo, and staff, would be graciously pleased to use the yacht (or fourth-class gunboat, to be precise) to take them from Royan to Pauillac. Now a four-starred admiral is absolutely top-hole in naval rank and dignity, and the three gold stripes above the broad band on his sleeve are viewed with awe and bedazzlement by the younger officers. To be a vice-admiral, or even a rear admiral, is a resounding distinction, but an admiral is so much more imposing that there are very few of him extant.

You may be sure that the Corsair was fit for minute inspection when the Commander-in-Chief of the Atlantic Fleet stepped aboard at Royan, with side boys at the gangway and the boatswain’s mate to pipe him with proper ceremony. The ship’s officers found him to be the affable gentleman and manly sailor which his reputation in the Navy had led them to expect. Admiral Mayo later recalled this trip in a letter to the writer of this story of the Corsair, and was kind enough to say:

Department of the Navy
General Board
Washington, August 22, 1919

Dear Sir:

Your letter of August 12th with reference to the war story of Mr. J. P. Morgan’s yacht Corsair reached me while absent on leave. My only opportunity to observe the Corsair was in a very short trip during which I was a passenger on board, but I do not hesitate to say that I received a most favorable impression as to the condition of the ship and the efficiency of the personnel at that time, and that the reports as to the general efficiency and good work of the vessel during her service on the French coast were of an extremely high character.

(Signed) Henry T. Mayo

CHAPTER XI
IN THE RADIO-ROOM

In this strange warfare against an enemy who fought, for the most part, under the sea, there was no more effective agency than the wireless telegraph or radio. It enabled the convoys to receive warnings and to steer safe courses, it brought help to hundreds of ships in distress, and as an offensive weapon enabled the Allied naval forces to locate and destroy a large number of German submarines. Without the highly developed employment of radio communication, it would have been impossible to protect the transportation of troops, food, and material. More than any other factor, the radio won the war at sea.

As soon as directional wireless was perfected and used, it became practicable to fix the position of a U-boat by means of the messages sent from it, and, as Admiral Sims has said, “Their commanders were particularly careless in the use of wireless. The Germanic passion for conversation could not be suppressed, even though this national habit might lead to the most serious consequences. Possibly also the solitary submarine felt lonely; at any rate, as soon as it reached the Channel or the North Sea, it started an almost uninterrupted flow of talk. The U-boats communicated principally with each other, and also with the Admiralty at home, and in doing this they gave away their position to the assiduously listening Allies. The radio direction-finder, by which we can instantaneously locate the position from which a wireless message is sent, was the mechanism which furnished much of this information. Of course, the Germans knew that their messages revealed their locations, for they had direction-finders as well as we, but the fear of discovery did not act as a curb upon a naturally loquacious nature.”

The radio service of the Corsair was considered unusually efficient by no less an authority than Admiral Wilson, who had occasion to write the following commendation:

Brest, France
29 April, 1918

From: Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France.
To: Commanding Officer U.S. Corsair.
Subject: Forwarding of radio dispatch.

1. An important message from the U.S.S. Seattle, addressed to the Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France, was intercepted by the U.S.S. Corsair and forwarded to destination via the District Commander Rochefort. This message was received in the Communication Office, Brest, about three P.M. Sunday, 28 April, 1918.

2. The Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France is greatly pleased with this proof of the alertness and efficiency of the radio personnel on board the U.S.S. Corsair. The message was not heard by the French high powered station, Brest, and while it was heard by the Flag Radio Station in Brest, it was not copied in its entirety because of interference from near-by stations, and the correct copy as received from the U.S.S. Corsair was of great assistance.

(Signed) Wilson

The Communications Officer of the ship, Ensign Gray, took the keenest interest in maintaining the radio operations at the top notch and a technical training at Annapolis aided a natural ability for this sort of work. The chief radio operator, H. C. Breckel, was an unusually valuable man for his position and felt a pride in the reputation of the Corsair’s radio-room which was shared by his “gang” of assistants. The spirit of the organization was indicated in the incident which caused Admiral Wilson to compliment it. The yacht was moored at Pauillac at the time, and was not required to keep a radio watch, but the operators were on the job nevertheless. The Seattle was standing by a Luckenbach steamer, more than a thousand miles out at sea, which had stripped its turbines and was in urgent need of help from Brest. The message went through because the Corsair caught and relayed it.

Every hour of the day and night an operator sat at a table in the little room which none of the crew was allowed to enter. With a receiver clamped to his head, he listened and heard a myriad faint and phantom voices. The air was filled with them. The mystery, the incredible magic and romance of it all, had become commonplace. Ships were talking to each other hundreds of miles apart, mere routine sometimes, and then the call for help, or the thrilling report of an escape from a submarine attack. And woven through it all was the continuous communication of the high-powered shore stations which shot into space the secret orders and inquiries of admiralties and war departments and statesmen.

The radio log of the Corsair recorded an immense variety of conversations, some of them quite informal, such as this chat with another vessel of the Breton Patrol:

“What do you know? What did you see last night?”

“We don’t know anything. We saw two submarines last night.”

“We saw a ship torpedoed about 7.00 this morning, but did not see the submarine.”

“Have you been copying much?”

“We have been copying mostly GLD messages and SOS messages and a few CHGT.”

“Here is an SOS that came in at 1.10 P.M.—CG. GLD de FFK de “VEK” 47:45 08:40 W. 11025.”

“We got that one and it did not mean that the last message was at 8.00 P.M. last night. We have got a few SOS messages. Have heard a lot of work.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Did you get that Allo from FFK?”

“I just got part of it and am waiting for a repetition.”

“Here it is. Allo 47:30 09:34 W. 1219.

“Thanks. Thanks.”

The garrulous U-boats seem to have kept up an endless stream of chatter, and the radio force of the Corsair learned to know and identify some of them, by their manner of sending, as if they were old acquaintances. One of the reports will give an idea of this curious interchange of communication which was carried on between hostile craft, unseen and hunting each other with deadly intent:

On November 21, 1917, the Corsair, Smith, Preston, Flusser, and Lamson were returning to Base, position approximately Latitude 47° 30′ North, Longitude 8° 40′ West. A number of enemy submarines were intercommunicating as follows:

At 8.36 P.M. one sub called another who answered, and two messages were sent. These signals came in very strong which indicated that subs were close to us.

At 8.59 P.M. the same sub transmitted another message to the one communicated with before.

At 9.01 P.M. a different sub called three others, one of which was the first sender.

At 9.18 P.M. Bruges began sending a message to the sub that called at 9.01 P.M.

At 9.57 P.M. Bruges was still heard.

At 10.16 P.M. a different sub called another which was the one who received the messages at 8.36 P.M.

At 9.36 P.M. the Corsair was called and received a message from Brest.

At 10.54 and again at 10.56 P.M. the Corsair was called by an enemy submarine using P.F.B., the same call used by Brest.

At 10.59 Corsair answered and told him to go ahead. Sub sent “3 H 5” and then his signals died out.

At 11.04 P.M. sub called Corsair and told Corsair to go ahead with message.

At 11.10 P.M. the same sub called a British convoy.

At 11.15 P.M. sub called Corsair and said go ahead with message.

At 11.16 Corsair called sub and sent a message, the groups of which were taken from several intercepted German messages.

At 11.17 sub acknowledged Corsair’s message.

At 11.25 P.M. sub called Corsair and asked for a repetition of the second group.

Corsair did not answer.

Sub repeated message. This time he was impatient as he said “Go ahead” twice.

The subs continued to intercommunicate during the night, and also with Bruges.

The radio service of the Corsair in the war zone was so important and essential a part of her activities that a description of it in some detail seems well worth recounting. Chief Radio Electrician H. F. Breckel went to the trouble of preparing a narrative which reads as follows, and it goes without saying that he was the man best fitted to undertake such a task:

I reported on board the U.S.S. Corsair, then at the Navy Yard, Brooklyn, during the last week in May, 1917, in accordance with orders from the Bureau of Navigation. At that time I was attached to the U.S.S. Ohio, then at Yorktown, Virginia, which was the war base of the Atlantic Fleet. Reporting to Ensign Gray, Communications Officer of the Corsair, I was told that I would be in charge of the operation of the radio department and to get things in shape for a long cruise away from any established base of supplies.

H. A. BRECKEL, CHIEF RADIO OPERATOR

ELECTRICIANS SWAN AND PLUMMER, OF THE HIGHLY EFFICIENT “RADIO GANG”

My first step was to make sure of a personnel which would furnish efficient service under all conditions. Four operators were necessary and this number was soon sent to the ship, and a better group of men could not have been found in any vessel. The radio force comprised:

Ensign Gray, U.S.N.R.F. (Radio Officer)

Harry F. Breckel, U.S.N. (Chief Electrician, Radio)

James A. Plummer, U.S.N.R.F. (Electrician, 1st Class, Radio)

Meriam H. Swan, U.S.N.R.F. (Electrician, 2nd Class, Radio)

Ivan E. Davis, U.S.N. (Electrician, 2nd Class, Radio)

Each man was given a thorough examination when he reported on board and the results indicated that all of them were proficient and reliable operators. We promptly set to work and the radio-room fairly hummed, day and night. The transmitting apparatus was inspected, calibrated to the proper wave lengths, and tested. The receiving apparatus was also overhauled, minor repairs made, and adjusted to receive the various wave lengths used by other U.S. naval vessels. Then the inspection included the various switch-boards, storage batteries, heating and lighting systems, motor generators, etc.

The radio-room was located on the main deck with doors opening directly on deck, so it was necessary to devise a lighting circuit which should automatically switch off the lamps when the doors were opened, as the ship moved in total darkness. After stocking up with spare parts, the antenna was given careful attention, for nothing is more exasperating than to have your wires carry away and to have to replace them in heavy weather.

During a trial run in Long Island Sound, the radio installation was tested under normal conditions of service and was found to be in first class shape. The very fine type of apparatus aboard the Corsair made only a few changes necessary in order to make it conform with the standards of the Navy. We operators were fortunate in stepping into a radio-room so efficiently and completely furnished. There was a large desk with space for the Radio Officer in his work of coding and decoding despatches, a bookshelf, several chairs, a large wall settee which I used as a bunk, and a safe in which were kept the code books, ciphers, and other confidential material. With regard to comfort, there was no better “radio shack” aboard any ship of the Navy.

There was steam heat and running water which was cold, but we discovered that we could obtain hot water for scrubbing clothes, paint-work, etc., from the steam radiator. I ask you, fellow “Sparks” and “ex-Sparks” of the Navy, can you picture such comfort and convenience in a real, honest-to-goodness man-of-war? And it all helped to maintain good service. Our gang also had a percolator along with the necessary watts from the ship’s generator, and the outfit could turn out a brew of “boiler compound” that would keep a Mississippi colored gentleman with the hook-worm wide awake. We surely had a home on board the old Corsair!

At last, on that memorable 14th of June the ship pointed her bow to the eastward and steamed slowly down the Bay, with the dreary moans of fog-horns for farewell, and no cheers or blaring bands or fluttering flags. In the radio-room there was very little to do as we had been instructed to keep communication down to the minimum, for the enemy might infer from the amount of radio traffic in the air that some unusual movement was under way, or he might plot the exact positions by means of a direction-finder or radio compass. At the beginning of the war, naval vessels had a characteristic “spark” or “tone” quite different from the average commercial or naval shore stations, and an operator familiar with these variations could readily tell which was which. It was easy to understand why the troop convoys were kept as silent as possible.

For several days there was little radio work besides copying the Time and Weather reports which were broadcasted from the Arlington station, and intercepting for the skipper’s information all radio traffic heard by the operator on watch. In mid-ocean almost nothing was heard because we were out of range of the ordinary “spark stations,” but our “long wave” receiver, constructed by our own force, had no trouble in copying messages from such stations as Darien (Canal Zone), Tuckerton, New Jersey, Boston, and other high-powered naval radio stations while the Corsair was half way across the Atlantic. It was excellent work when you consider the fact that the special apparatus and “hook up” used were of the simplest type and that an amateur Audion detector bulb was employed.

When about five days out, the real job began. The Corsair was called by the flagship Seattle and a long code message received by the operator on watch. The apparatus functioned perfectly and there was every reason to believe that very little trouble, barring accidents, would be encountered. Soon we received orders to get in touch with the Birmingham, flagship of the second division of the convoy and to forward a message to her. After joining the second division, there was absolute silence for several days, and no radio signals were heard at all until we drew near to the coast of France and the edge of the war zone. Then traffic began to be heavy and the operators were busy copying messages into the “intercepted log book” almost every minute of the day and night.

This log was of great value to the captain, for the radio station of a fighting ship is an information bureau which maintains intimate touch with events occurring in other areas. In these days a man-of-war without a radio-room would be almost deaf, dumb, and blind. We knew that we were actually in the war when the distress calls from sinking ships or those which were under attack by submarines began to come hurtling through the air. This in itself was enough to prove the priceless value of the radio in saving life. For some time I kept a chart upon which were plotted all the positions of vessels which transmitted radio calls for help, but within two months so many of these calls had been received that I had little space left in which to record the new ones.

A typical distress call would come in like this:

SOS SOS SOS 48° 12′ North, 12° 00′ West. Torpedoed Sinking. S.S. John Luckenbach 1025.

When a submarine was sighted by an Allied vessel, a simple form of position report was broadcasted by the operator at once, as follows:

Allo (French for Hello) 49° 15′ N. 09° 06′ W. 0815 MXA.

The radio operator continued to broadcast these signals until an acknowledgment was received from one of the larger, more powerful coastal radio stations which immediately broadcasted the message on high power to all ships and stations for their information. The radio operators on vessels at sea which received this general warning would at once notify the captain who could thereby avoid the dangerous locality or proceed to the aid of the ship in distress.

After we had arrived at Saint-Nazaire the work of the radio-room did not cease, for we kept a continuous watch, intercepting every message of importance which we were able to copy. When the Corsair was ordered to proceed to Brest, it was necessary to observe the regulation which required all vessels desiring to enter that port to transmit by radio a special form of message, addressed to the port authorities, requesting permission. Failure to do so would have risked bombardment by the shore batteries. The reply from Brest stated whether or not the channel was clear of mines and enemy submarines.

The radio shore station at Brest was about five miles from the American naval base and was an old type, low frequency installation. The “spark” at the time of our arrival was very difficult to read through atmospheric electrical disturbances, and did not have sufficient range. However, after the American base was permanently organized, a modern installation replaced the old one and American naval operators were placed on duty to handle all radio traffic that concerned our naval and other shipping. This was a great improvement over the early method of letting the French operators handle it.

When the Corsair went out on patrol duty, the radio force caught many distress calls and submarine warnings, and the information enabled the ship to render aid on several occasions. In working with the Aphrodite when we covered adjoining patrol areas, the captains were able to exchange information concerning new situations to be dealt with and to operate in concert. The messages intercepted from the British radio station at Lands End were particularly useful and the operators kept a sharp lookout for them. At least one crew of survivors of a French fishing vessel was rescued by the Corsair because of a message intercepted from this coastal station.

In the later duty on escort with the convoys, the amount of traffic handled by the radio force was largely increased. Because of difficulties unforeseen, such as stormy weather, break-downs, etc., it was rarely that a convoy was sighted in the exact position designated. The radio enabled the escort commander to ask the convoy for definite information as to location, course, direction, and speed. It also kept the convoys clear of the enemy mine-fields. I recall an instance when the Corsair put into Penzance. The day before sailing from that port the radio operator on duty intercepted a message from the French high-powered station at Nantes, stating that the entrance to Brest had been mined by German submarines and that all ships were forbidden to approach. The Corsair thereupon waited at Penzance with her convoy until word was received that the Brest channel had been swept clear.

The severest test for the radio personnel came in December, 1917, when a hurricane almost finished the yacht. Early in the storm it was almost impossible for the operator on watch to stay in his chair although it was screwed to the deck. The climax came in the dead of night when a terrific sea struck the Corsair on the port side, stove in bulkheads, and lifted the hatch over the radio-room clear of the deck and allowed about a ton of icy sea water to pour in. The operator was half-drowned, as well as the whole installation, and the apparatus was rendered useless for the time. As the seas got worse, the water forced itself into the radio-room through the doors in spite of the fact that every crack was calked as tightly as possible. More than a foot of water piled up on the floor and there was no system of drainage, so every time the vessel rolled or pitched it all swashed up at one side of the room or the other.

AT THE EMERGENCY WHEEL. HEAVY WEATHER OFFSHORE

THE TRIM, IMMACULATE NAVY MAN. AFTER COALING SHIP

About this time the depth charges washed overboard and I can tell you that the “Sparks” on board the Corsair were sure they were up against a big proposition. Here we were, with the entire receiver swimming in water, the transmitting panel splashed with it, the motor generator submerged most of the time, our lead-in insulator and lead-in frequently grounded by the huge waves which swept clear over us, and yet facing a probable order from the skipper to send out a distress call. We were all soaked to the skin, impossible to brew any Java to warm us up, and all the time working hard to get the apparatus back into shape.

I gave up the receiver as hopeless and tried to clear the grounds on the motor generator while the rest of the gang tried to bale out the water, but the ocean came in faster than they could scoop it out. However, we managed to keep the water below the level of the commutator and the collector rings of the motor generator, and after clearing some of the worst grounds, during which the toilers were most beautifully “jolted,” we gave the transmitter a short test and it worked fairly well, considering the circumstances. Then I made my way up to the boat deck and between seas managed to clean a layer of salt off the lead-in insulator and gave it a heavy coat of oil.

Plummer and the rest of the gang were drying the various switches and other parts of the transmitter and we managed to fix things so that an S.O.S. could have been sent out. And all hands thought it was about time to shoot it. The deck force succeeded in nailing up some doors and canvas along the weather side of the radio-room, which was all that prevented it from being smashed in. If our bulkheads had gone there would have been no chance of keeping the transmitter in working condition.

When we found refuge at Vigo, a survey of the damage was made. The radio-room was simply a mess, like the rest of the ship, but within eight hours we had the entire installation restored to the best of health and ready for any emergency. Considering the fact that the radio-room had been flooded with sea water for two and a half days, we flattered ourselves that it was mighty speedy work.

During the long stay at Lisbon for repairs, we made a thorough overhauling of the radio equipment but had no traffic to handle excepting the press news from the Eiffel Tower which we copied for the crew and for the American Legation. Our visit at Lisbon will always be remembered as a very happy one. The people were most hospitable and seemed to enjoy entertaining the bluejackets. The radio-room was still in communication with Brest, 850 miles distant, but there was no occasion for talking with the base station.

The work of the radio force while on escort duty, after we returned to France, was much like that of the earlier cruises. It made us proud to receive a letter of commendation from Admiral Wilson for forwarding a message intercepted from the Seattle. I was sorry when, for a time, I was transferred to shore duty with the District Commander at Cherbourg and had to leave the radio-room of the Corsair. Plummer, my right-hand man, was left in charge of the situation. Shortly before the yacht sailed to the United States, I was lucky enough to make a little visit aboard. Nothing would have pleased me more than a chance to make the homeward bound voyage with the old crowd.

When the Corsair went to France, she had as fine a crew of men as were ever assembled on a deck. The radio force, with whom I worked and lived, got on splendidly together and made a record of successful operation which, I feel sure, compared favorably with that of any other naval vessel engaged in similar duties and laboring under the same kind of difficulties.

CHAPTER XII
THE LONG ROAD HOME

Although foreshadowed by rumor and report, the news of the armistice which meant the end of the war came as a certain shock to the ships and sailors on the French coast. It was curiously difficult to realize, because long service had made the hard routine a matter of habit and the mind had adjusted itself to the feeling that things were bound to go on as they were for an indefinite period. The old life, as it had been lived in the days of peace, seemed vaguely remote and discarded, and the Navy thought only of guarding convoys and hunting submarines, world without end. Then, at a word, on November 11, 1918, the great game was finished, the U-boats turned sullenly in the direction of their own bases to harry the seas no more as outlaws, and the darkened transports and cargo steamers ran without fear, the cabin windows ablaze with light.

It was this which most impressed the crews of the yachts and destroyers, that they would steer no more shrouded courses and dice with the peril of collision while they zigzagged among the huge ships that threatened to stamp them under, or dodged to find the rendezvous where the routes of traffic crossed and the nights were black and menacing. More by instinct than by sight, the Navy had learned to feel its way in the dark, and it was actually true that the ocean seemed unfamiliar when the running lights shone again and the almost forgotten rules of the road had to be observed.

The job was finished. Two million soldiers were in France to testify that the Navy had done its share. And now, as soon as the sense of bewilderment lifted, with one common impulse all hands of this battered, intrepid fleet that flew the Stars and Stripes talked and dreamed of going home. There was nothing else to it. All the sundered ties and yearnings awoke and the faces of these young sailors were turned westward, toward Sandy Hook instead of the roadstead of Brest and the fairway of the Gironde. Every wife and sweetheart was tugging at the other end of the long tow-rope.

The Corsair went to sea for her last convoy cruise on October 24th. Returning from this errand, she was ordered to Bordeaux and was moored there until November 10th for necessary repair work. On the day of the armistice she dropped down the river to Royan and the log-book makes no mention of one of the greatest events in the history of mankind, excepting this entry in the “Communication Record,” as a signal sent from shore by the Port Officer:

Have you any colors you can lend the French balloon station to-day?

In the sailors’ diaries there was one brief note, but it concerned itself also with a mishap to the beef stew served on that day, as a matter of importance:

Armistice signed. Great stuff. Found a cockroach in the mulligan. Could you beat it?

From Royan the Corsair moved to Verdon, and there received orders on November 13th to proceed to sea and intercept incoming ships, warning them how to keep clear of mine-fields and instructing them as to destinations. The yacht went out, but received a radio next day from the District Commander, telling her to return to Pauillac. Another message set the crew to wondering:

Corsair detached from this District and will go to Brest. State requirements.

As soon as he could get ashore, at midnight, Commander Porter used the telephone to Rochefort and was informed by the District Commander that the Corsair “had a fine job ahead of her,” but here the information stopped. This was just enough to set everybody guessing wildly and once more “the scuttle-butt was full of rumors.” Pursuant to instructions the Corsair promptly took on supplies and sailed for Brest, arriving on November 16th. There the other yachts were all astir with the expectation of flying their homeward-bound pennants. They were soon to set out on the blithe voyage across the Atlantic, by way of the Azores and Bermuda—the first division comprising the Vidette, Corona, Sultana, Emiline, and Nokomis; in the second division the Christabel, May, Remlik, and Wanderer, veterans of the coastal convoy routes and the wild weather offshore.

BOATSWAIN’S MATE FRENCH BOUGHT A PET PARROT IN LISBON

“TOMMY,” THE SHIP’S CAT, WHO FINISHED STRONG IN THE HURRICANE

“TEDDY,” WHO WAS GIVEN A MILITARY FUNERAL WHEN HE SWALLOWED A NAIL

It was decreed otherwise for the Corsair and she was to remain six months longer in foreign waters, thereby rounding out a service of almost two years as a naval vessel. Captain John Halligan, chief of staff to Admiral Wilson, was kind enough to end the suspense and vouchsafe the information that the Corsair would go to England and hoist the flag of Rear Admiral S. S. Robison who was about to sail for Kiel to inspect what was left of the German Navy. This was a highly interesting assignment and the Corsair was envied by the other ships. In order to make her fit to serve as a flagship the depleted stock of china, linen, and silver was replaced, after persuasive arguments with the naval storekeeper at Brest. Several officers were detached at this time, which made room on board for an admiral’s staff. These were Ensign J. W. McCoy, Lieutenant S. K. Hall (J.G.), Lieutenant C. R. Smith (J.G.), Lieutenant R. V. Dolan (J.G.), and Ensign A. V. Mason, Assistant Engineer. The new arrivals in the war-room were Ensign E. F. O’Shea and Lieutenant E. B. Erickson, Assistant Paymaster.

On November 18th the Corsair sailed from Brest with the expectation of acting as the flagship representing the United States in the surrender and internment of the naval forces of Imperial Germany. As passengers she carried to England Captain E. P. Jessop, U.S.N., and Commander C. T. Hutchins, Jr., who had been commissioned to examine the German submarines. The orders included a stop at Saint Helens, Isle of Wight, for routing instructions. There the Corsair was told to seek further information from the patrol off Folkstone. War restrictions concerning war channels, mine-fields, pilotage, and closed ports were still in force.

Commander Porter jogged along until Folkstone was reached in the evening, and was there informed that there was no patrol, but that the channel was clear to Dover. A fog came down thick while the Corsair waited off Dover Breakwater for a pilot, but none appeared, so she went on her way through the Strait and past the Goodwin Sands, pausing to inquire at the North Gull light-ship if anybody had seen a Thames pilot thereabouts. Deal was suggested as a good place to look, so the Corsair returned and anchored there at midnight. No pilot could be found, however, so at five o’clock in the morning the skipper hove up his mud-hook and “trailed along” as he said, with some ships that were bound to the northward.

The pace was too slow to suit him, so he joined company with another group of vessels ahead and discovered, a little later, that they were mine-sweepers engaged in clearing the channel. This was considered a fairly good joke on the skipper. He said good-bye to this dangerous flotilla and steamed along alone, anchoring twice in a fog that was like a wool blanket, and fetched up for the night eight miles below Sheerness.

Asking permission of the patrol next morning to proceed up the Thames to Gravesend, the Corsair learned that her destination had been changed to Sheerness. Here she met with a disappointment. The cruiser Chester arrived unexpectedly and was selected as the flagship of Rear Admiral Robison, as was quite proper. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, however, and just after starting north for Rosyth and the Grand Fleet, the Chester was compelled to return with machinery disabled. The Corsair was ordered to proceed to Scotland in place of the cruiser and she left the Thames on November 30th to steam up into the gray North Sea, and the great war base near Edinburgh.

It was fondly believed on board that the yacht would be employed to take the American admiral across to visit the German naval ports, but they found him in the British battleship Hercules with the other admirals of the Allied naval commission, and they all sailed next day in this big ship for Kiel. This was rather hard medicine for the Corsair, to be disappointed again after singing for so long in hearty chorus that on the Kiel Canal they’d float and likewise knock the hell out of Heligoland, and now they were deprived of a sight of these notorious nests of the enemy’s warships.

It was something to remember, however, this visit to the North Sea and a sojourn with the grim squadrons of Admiral Sir David Beatty which had, through four weary, vigilant years held the German High Sea Fleet in check and made safe the surface of the seas for the shipping of the world.

The Corsair dropped anchor at Rosyth on the day that the American battleship division sailed for home, the first-class fighting ships of Rear Admiral Hugh Rodman which had shared the vigil at Scapa Flow in the gloomy Orkneys and had earned that farewell tribute which Admiral Beatty paid the American officers and men when he called them his “comrades of the mist.” A storm of British cheers bade a fare-you-well to the New York and her sister ships as their flag hoists and semaphores and blinkers talked for the last time in the British signal code, which they had used because they were, not an independent American squadron, but the Sixth Battle Division of the Grand Fleet and gladly operating as such.

The Corsair’s crew had seen much of the French Navy on active service, but this was the first opportunity for intimate contact with British ships and sailors. They found a spirit of cordial welcome and there was a pleasant interchange of calls, of entertainment on shipboard, motion-picture shows, and inspection of the mighty fighting craft which bore the scars of Jutland. Shore liberty at Edinburgh was a most interesting diversion, and the American sailors found that the Scotch people were fond of them and proud of the record for behavior left by the thousands of their comrades who had landed from Admiral Rodman’s battleships.

After twelve days in the Firth of Forth, the Corsair was relieved by the Chester and received orders to report at Portland, England. During the voyage north, Commander Porter had navigated through four hundred miles of swept war channels where the abundance of German mines was presumed to require the most ticklish care. The cleared passages were strewn with wrecks and most British merchantmen were anchoring at night. The Corsair had picked her way, not in a reckless spirit, but because she was due to reach her destination at a specified time and it was the habit of the ship to arrive when she was expected. While returning south to Portland, a pilot was taken on at Yarmouth and casual reference was made to the fact that the yacht had chosen the north channel into the mouth of the Thames while coming over from France.

“My word, but you are lucky beggars!” exclaimed the ruddy pilot. “You should have gone in by the south channel, you know. The other one is a bloomin’ muck o’ mines that ain’t been swept. You couldn’t wait a week for a bally pilot, eh? The sportin’ chance! I fancy it’s the proper spirit in a navy, what?”

At Portland the Corsair found the U.S.S. Bushnell which had served as the mother ship of the American submarine flotilla in Bantry Bay. With her waited five mine-sweepers and five submarine chasers all ready and anxious to sail for home. The yachts Harvard and Aphrodite had come over from Brest and were attached to the North Sea patrol. Later in the winter they were sent to Germany. The Aphrodite hit a mine en route, but luckily its action was delayed and, although damaged, she was able to make port. What aroused eager interest at Portland was a group of five German submarines, moored close to the Bushnell, which comprised an installment of the surrendered fleet of U-boats. Their frightfulness was done. Meekly they had crossed the North Sea, at the bidding of the victors, to be tied up all in a row as a rare show for the jeering comment of British and American bluejackets.

To the sailors of the Corsair it was fascinating to inspect and investigate these uncouth sea monsters which they had hunted and bombed with no more mercy than if they had been vermin. Instead of winning the war for Germany, they had turned the tide against her by arousing the United States to launch its armed forces in the cause of the Allies. And they had branded the German name with infamy and reddened German hands with the blood of thousands of slain seamen.

WITH THE GRAND FLEET AT ROSYTH

SURRENDERED GERMAN SUBMARINES TIED UP AT PORTLAND TWO AMERICAN SUBMARINES ARE WITH THEM

Christmas Day of 1918 was spent in this English harbor of Portland and the occasion was not as joyous as might have been, although the Corsair’s log of December 24th contained this entry:

Received the following general stores: 118 lbs. geese, 23 lbs. ducks, 12 bunches celery, 100 lbs. cauliflower, 50 lbs. Brussels sprouts, 85 lbs. beets, 700 lbs. bread, 5040 lbs. potatoes.

The home-made poetry inspired by this Christmas in exile seemed to lack the punch of former ballads as sung by the bluejackets’ glee club. One of the productions went like this, with a perceptible tinge of pathos:

“It was Christmas on the Corsair,

’Neath England’s cold, gray skies,

And one and all on board her

Hove long and pensive sighs.

“Some of us longed for our families,

Our wives and children dear,

While others wished for their sweethearts

And maybe shed a tear.

“We sailors, tho’ outwardly happy,

Were moved by memory

Of mother, home, and sweetheart,

So far beyond the sea.

“So while the war is ended

And gladness reigns supreme,

Yet to the boys on the Corsair,

Peace is an idle dream.

“Waiting for sailing orders,

The ships all on the bum,

This special duty is surely enough

To drive a man to rum.

“But the sailor believes in the doctrine

Of sunshine after rain,

And as soon as the job is over,

He is ready to try it again.

“So when we get back to the homeland,

As we will some day, we trust,

There isn’t one if called upon,

Who wouldn’t repeat or bust.

“The destroyers are gone to the west’ard,

The battleships, too, are home,

But this poor old yacht has been forgot

And is left here to finish ALONE!!”

On the day after this rather subdued Christmas, the Corsair was informed of her destination, which was Queenstown, Ireland, and her mission was to relieve the U.S.S. Melville as the flagship of Admiral Sims, Commanding the U.S. Naval Forces in European Waters. The Melville, the last word in naval construction as a repair and supply ship, had been nominally the flagship during the service of the destroyer flotillas at Queenstown, although the official headquarters and residence of Admiral Sims were in London. During this time the Melville had quartered Captain J. R. P. Pringle, the American chief of staff and his organization which coöperated with the British Admiral Sir Lewis Bayly in maintaining and directing the destroyer force.

The elaborate and smoothly running machine of operation, supply, equipment, and personnel had come to a halt with the armistice. The destroyers had fled homeward. The barracks and dépôts for material at Passage, a little way up the river, had been almost emptied, and the great naval aviation base on the other side of Queenstown Harbor was like a deserted city. All that remained was what Admiral Bayly called the job of “cleaning up the mess.” For this the American chief of staff was required to linger on the scene, but it was decided to send the Melville home and the Corsair was elected to take the place, or, as her men said, “it was wished on her.”

On December 27th the yacht tied up alongside the Melville in Queenstown Harbor, and three days later Captain Pringle and his staff transferred their offices and living quarters. This group of officers comprised Commander A. P. Fairfield, Lieutenant Commander D. B. Wainwright (Pay Corps), Lieutenant A. C. Davis, Ensign W. B. Feagle. Soon the Corsair was alone as the only American naval vessel in this port which had swarmed with the keen activity of scores of destroyers and thousands of bluejackets. To build up this force and keep it going at top speed had been an enormous task, but it was no slight undertaking to pull it down again. Winter rains and sodden skies made Queenstown even drearier than when the liberty parties of destroyer men had piled ashore to fill the American Sailors’ Club, or surge madly around and around in the roller-skating rink, or live in hope of cracking the head of a Sinn Feiner as the most zestful pastime that could be offered.

Dashing young destroyer officers no longer lingered a little in the pub of the Queen’s Hotel for a smile from a rosy barmaid with the gift of the blarney, and a farewell toast before going to sea again, while the Royal Cork Yacht Club, down by the landing pier, seemed almost forlorn without the sociable evenings when American and British naval officers had swapped yarns of the day’s work and talked the “hush stuff” about mystery ships and U-boats that would never see their own ports again.

High up the steep hillside, the White Ensign flew from the mast in front of Admiral House, and Admiral Sir Lewis Bayly, austere, efficient, but very human, one of the ablest officers of the British Navy, still toiled at his desk or puttered among his flower gardens in the rare hours of leisure, but his occupation as Commander-in-Chief of the Coasts of Ireland was mostly in the past tense. Soon he was to retire, with the stripes of a full admiral on his sleeve and a long list of distinctions following his name, Knight Commander of the Bath, Companion of the Victorian Order, the Legion of Honor of France; but more than these he valued the friendship and high respect of the American naval force at Queenstown, memorable because it was here that, for the first time, the British and the American navies had worked and dared as one, salty brothers-in-arms, to conquer the sea and make it safe against a mutual foe.

THE CORSAIR AT QUEENSTOWN, AS FLAGSHIP OF ADMIRAL SIMS

All of this the Corsair perceived in retrospect while Captain Pringle finished his fine record of service by disposing of all the odds and ends of work demanded of him before the Stars and Stripes could be hauled down and Queenstown finally abandoned as a base. As soon as the Corsair arrived in port, opportunity was offered the Reserve officers and men to quit the ship and go home, instead of detaining them longer on foreign service. Three officers and thirty men took advantage of the chance and felt, fairly enough, that the war was over and the call of duty no longer imperative. Other officers came to the ship in their places—A. T. Agnew, Assistant Surgeon, who had joined at Rosyth, Ensign C. R. Bloomer, Boatswain A. R. Beach, and Boatswain H. W. Honeck.

It was a long and tedious duty, lasting almost three months, this serving as the flagship at Queenstown, but he also serves who only stands and waits, and this was true of the Corsair. The aftermath of the war was mostly drudgery, with all the fiery incentive and thrilling stimulus removed, but the need was just as urgent and the Navy responded, displaying the spirit which was best exemplified by Rear Admiral Strauss and his mine-laying fleet which placed a barrier of forty thousand mines across the upper end of the North Sea and then manfully, uncomplainingly, spent a whole year in sweeping them up again.

One pleasant souvenir of the stay at Queenstown was a copy of the following letter from Admiral Sir Lewis Bayly:

The Captain of the Dockyard has informed me that valuable assistance was given by officers and men of the U.S. Navy in extinguishing the fire in the Dockyard yesterday, Tuesday. I desire to thank you very much for the assistance so smartly and ably given.

On March 20th the Corsair left Queenstown for Spithead and Cowes to meet a number of large German merchant ships and, as the flagship of Admiral Sims, represent the United States in the business of transfer to the American flag, as provided in the terms of the armistice. The departure from Ireland caused no heart-breaking regrets, although many congenial friendships had been formed ashore. For weeks the crew had been more interested in sewing stitches in the homeward-bound pennant than in any attractions that foreign ports could afford. Rumor had been misleading as usual, and hopes often deferred.

At Cowes the Corsair found four American destroyers, the Woolsey, Lea, Yarnell, and Tarbell, and the naval tug Gypsum Queen which had been sent to do the work in hand. Drafts of American sailors had been brought from Brest, La Pallice, Queenstown, and English ports to man the German liners after their own crews had been taken out of them. Commander T. G. Ellyson, U.S.N., acted as the representative of Admiral Sims and was in charge of the transfer. While at Cowes he lived on board the Corsair, with his staff. The London Times described the episode as follows:

During the last few days a number of German merchant ships which have been surrendered to the Allies under the Armistice conditions have arrived at Cowes roadstead. The Hamburg-American liners Cleveland and Patricia were the first to arrive, and they were followed by the Cap Finisterre, the Kaiserin Auguste Victoria, the Graf Waldersee, the Zeppelin, and the Kronprinz Friedrich Wilhelm, making seven of the eight expected at this port. The La Plata is expected to arrive in a day or two.

In place of the smart, spick-and-span German merchant sailors of pre-war days, these large vessels, ranging up to 24,500 tons, were mostly manned by motley crews of Germans, many wearing bowler hats and untidy civilian dress. Many of them speak English and in conversation showed that they were familiar with the Solent and local shipping, while others had been to Cowes in Regatta times. One officer stated that he had been there on the ex-Kaiser’s yacht Meteor. These Germans are not allowed ashore but are transferred to the Cap Finisterre, in which they will return to Germany when the La Plata arrives. They have brought their own provisions with them but they have been reprovisioned here.

New crews have been provided for the surrendered ships by the American Navy, representatives of which are superintending the transfer of the crews and the dispersal of the German ships which have left for other ports. The Cleveland, Kronprinz Friedrich Wilhelm, and Pretoria have sailed for Liverpool, the Kaiserin Auguste Victoria and Graf Waldersee for Brest and the Zeppelin for Plymouth. The German ships fly the blue and white flag of the Inter-Allied Nations and have an American escort, including the armed yacht Corsair, destroyers, submarine chasers, and store-ships.

The North German Lloyd liner Zeppelin, with an American crew on board, arrived at Devonport yesterday. The remainder of the American naval forces at Plymouth will embark on her to-day, and after coaling and taking on stores, the Zeppelin will leave for Brest and the United States.

Up to yesterday twenty-four of the one hundred German vessels allocated to Leith had arrived there. A number of the ships were new; in fact this voyage was their maiden one. When the total is complete, the vessels will form a very handsome addition to the shipping in the port. The conduct of the sailors is said to be satisfactory. There were rumors that there was among the crews of some of the vessels a revolutionary spirit, but these had no foundation. The crews are reported to be eager and willing to do all that is required of them.

The duty of taking part in the distribution of German shipping, in which the naval representatives of the United States were concerned, took the Corsair next to Harwich, the important East Coast base of England, at which the main fleet of German submarines was surrendered to Rear Admiral Sir Reginald Tyrwhitt, R.N. It was at Harwich that the British submarines had rested and refitted between their perilous patrol tours across the North Sea when they stalked the U-boat in a deadly game of hide-and-seek which Fritz lacked the courage to play. The British losses had been heavy, many a gallant submarine erased from the list as missing with all hands, but the toll of U-boats had been much greater and the results were worth the price they cost.

SEAMAN HENRY BARRY, BEFORE THEY WISHED ANOTHER JOB ON HIM

GUNNER’S MATE SIMPSON HOPES TO SPOT THAT SUB

Out of Harwich had dashed that wonderful light cruiser division under Admiral Tyrwhitt, always under two hours’ steaming notice to run north as a tactical unit of the Grand Fleet or to tear at thirty knots for the Strait of Dover to help defend and keep clear the main road to France. And now the cruisers and destroyers and submarines no longer moved restlessly in and out of Harwich Harbor to patrol the North Sea, and Harwich was again a railway terminus on the route to Antwerp and the Hook of Holland. As the American flagship, the Corsair tarried there through part of April before sailing to Southend to execute similar orders and duties. England was green and blooming with the loveliness of its rare springtime, and the men of the lonely American yacht were more than ever absorbed in thoughts of flying that homeward-bound pennant.

At length there came an order from London, transmitted through the cruiser Galveston which was also at Southend, that seemed to promise the Corsair a start on the long road home:

On completion of transfer of stores and quota of draft of the German steamship Brandenburg, you will proceed to Plymouth, England, with the vessel under your command, arranging to arrive in the afternoon of May 7th. On arrival report to the Commander-in-Chief, U.S. Naval Forces, European Waters, for use of the Secretary of the Navy.

Secretary Daniels and his party were at this time on their way to France and the United States after visiting the Allied naval organizations. The Corsair was designated to carry them from Plymouth to Brest, and the British Admiralty carried out its part of the programme with the most punctilious attention to detail, as is shown in the printed memorandum under “Devonport General Orders” which was signed by Admiral Cecil F. Thursby:

Embarkation of Mr. J. Daniels, Secretary of the U.S. Navy.

U.S. Yacht Corsair and one U.S.T.B.D. will arrive P.M. 7th May and will be berthed as follows,—Corsair alongside Resolution, bows to southward, if possible. T.B.D. alongside No. 1 wharf, unless she requires oil when she will proceed to Orangeleaf and complete with fuel.

The train conveying Mr. Daniels and party will arrive at No. 6 wharf at 0800 on Thursday, 8th May. The Commander-in-Chief will receive Mr. Daniels. The Vice Admiral Commanding First Battle Squadron and staff and the Admiral Superintendent are requested also to be present at the wharf. (Dress No. 5 without swords.)

A working party of three petty officers and twenty men in No. 5 dress, in charge of a warrant officer, is to be provided by Depot, and to be at No. 6 wharf by 0745 to transfer baggage from train to Corsair. As soon as Mr. Daniels and party and all baggage have been embarked, Corsair will proceed down harbor. Admiral Superintendent is requested to arrange for a tug to be in attendance.

The Corsair arrived punctually at Plymouth and was waiting to obey the foregoing instructions when, at midnight, there came a telegram which quite overshadowed the episode of carrying the Secretary of the Navy, with all due respect to the dignity of his office. The message, for which the yacht had waited so long, came in the form of a smudged carbon copy as sent through the U.S. Naval Post-Office, but in the eyes of those who scanned it the document was beautiful. It read:

U.S.S. Corsair hereby detached duty European Waters. Proceed Brest with Secretary of Navy and report to Admiral Halstead. Load any personnel for which space is available and then proceed New York, touching at Azores if necessary. Transfer any flag records to U.S.S. Chattanooga before leaving Plymouth.

Escorted by the American destroyer Conner, the Corsair made a fast and comfortable run to Brest. The passengers were the Secretary and Mrs. Daniels; Rear Admiral David W. Taylor, Chief of the Bureau of Construction and Repair; Rear Admiral Robert S. Griffin, Chief of the Bureau of Steam Engineering; Rear Admiral Ralph Earle, Chief of the Bureau of Ordnance; Commander Stewart E. Barber, Pay Corps, who was officially attached to the Corsair; Commander Percy W. Foote, personal aide to the Secretary; and Private Secretary May.

Brest Harbor was a familiar panorama to the few men aboard the Corsair who had shared the toil and excitement of those early months of patrol work offshore, almost a year before. Now, however, the transports were crammed with troops homeward bound, and there was no more convoying the “empty buckets” out of Saint-Nazaire and Bordeaux and Quiberon Bay, nor was there any chance of a brush with the persistent U-boat which had been dubbed “Penmarch Pete.”

The Corsair undertook her good-bye courtesies and ceremonies, one of them a luncheon party on board, at which the guests were Rear Admiral A. S. Halstead who succeeded Admiral Wilson as commander of the naval forces in France; Major General Smedley D. Butler, commanding the embarkation camp at Brest; Vice-Admiral Moreau and Rear Admiral Grout of the French Navy and Mme. Grout; and Commander Robert E. Tod, Director of Public Works at Brest.

THE HOMEWARD-BOUND PENNANT. “WE’RE OFF FOR LITTLE OLD NEW YORK, THANK GOD”

Not much time was wasted in port. Two days after arriving, on May 10th, the bunkers were filled with coal, and there was precious little cursing over the hard and dirty job which had so often caused the crew to agree that what General Sherman said about war was absurdly inadequate. It was different now. Every shovel and basket of coal meant steam to shove the old boat nearer home. That homeward-bound pennant trailed jubilantly from the masthead, a silk streamer of red, white, and blue, one hundred and eighty feet long, into whose folds had been fondly stitched the desires, the yearnings, the anticipations of every man in the ship. Only a few of them had stood, with bared heads, on the Corsair’s deck when she had been formally commissioned as a fourth-rate gunboat of the United States Navy in May of 1917, and the bright ensign had whipped in the breeze.

Many of that company had seen service in other ships and some were civilians again, but memory was apt to hark back to the Corsair with a certain affection and regret. And wherever they were to be, these youthful sailors would feel a thrill of pride and kinship at sight of a Navy man and they would kindle to the sentiment:

“But there’s something at the heart-strings that tautens when I meet

A blue-clad sailor-man adrift, on shore leave from the fleet.”

Lieutenant McGuire, bred to the sea and experienced in ships, thought it over after he came home and wrote these opinions of the Corsair’s company and the work they did:

It was a pleasure to watch how eagerly the boys took hold of their new jobs and how rapidly they became good sailors. For a comrade to stand by in danger, give me first of all a plain, every-day, American gob. He is not so much on the parade stuff, but offer him a chance to risk his skin or his life for his friend or his flag and he is there every time.

If this war has helped us as a nation in no other way, it has, I believe, taught hundreds of thousands of men the meaning of their country’s flag, taught them to love it as their own, and that to die for it is an honor to be prized.

While the duty abroad was pretty strenuous at times, yet the average American has the faculty of making friends in every port, which helped to pass the few hours at his disposal when not engaged in coaling ship. How we did envy the boys in the oil-burners!

The chief petty officers and petty officers of the American Navy are exceptionally intelligent and proficient in their duties, and on many occasions helped the average Reserve officer over rough places. I also felt great admiration for the officers with whom I served and came in contact, both Regular and Reserve.

CHAPTER XIII
HONORABLY DISCHARGED

Of the old crew, the crew which had sailed with Pershing’s First Expeditionary Force, only two officers and eighteen men watched the frowning headlands of Brittany sink into the sea as the Corsair turned her bow to follow the long trail that led to the twin lights of Navesink and the skyline of New York. A day at the Azores for coal and she laid a course for Bermuda and another brief call before straightening out for the last stretch of the journey. On May 28th she steamed into her home port after an absence just a little short of two years. There was no uproarious welcome when the gray Corsair slipped through the Narrows and sought a berth at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The war had ended more than half a year earlier. It was already an old story, but the ship had done her duty and was content with this.

A few days later she ceased to be enrolled in the United States Navy. There was no ceremonious formality and the documents in the case were exceedingly brief, but they signified the end of a story which had added a worthy page to the annals of American manhood. “Ships are all right. It is the men in them,” said one of Joseph Conrad’s wise old mariners. This was true of the Corsair and the other yachts of the Breton Patrol. And so the Navy Department spoke the last word in this concise order:

Headquarters of the Third Naval
District, Brooklyn, New York
June 6, 1919

From: Officer in Charge, Material Department.
To: Commanding Officer U.S.S. Corsair, S.P. 159.
Subject: Orders.

Proceed to W. & A. Fletcher Shipyard, Hoboken, N.J., June 9, 1919. Place the vessel out of commission in accordance with orders enclosed herewith, and deliver the vessel to representative of the owner, Mr. J. P. Morgan. Have enclosed receipts in duplicate signed and return to this office.

(Signed) C. L. Arnold,
Captain, U.S.N.

(Enclosure.) The U.S.S. Corsair is hereby placed out of commission, June 9th, 1919.

Her owner surmised that the Corsair had been run to death and worn out in the Bay of Biscay, that she was to be regarded rather as a relic than a yacht; but in this Mr. Morgan was happily disappointed. The staunch ship was still fit to be overhauled and made ready for the peaceful and leisurely service of other days. In her old berth at Fletcher’s Yard she swarmed with artisans instead of bluejackets, and they found many things to be done besides restoring the furniture, fittings, partitions, and so on.

Copyright, 1899, by C. E. Bolles, Brooklyn

THE CORSAIR WHEN IN COMMISSION AS A YACHT BEFORE THE WAR

A stalwart man may tumble down three flights of stairs and escape without a broken neck, but he is bound to be considerably shaken up. This was painfully the case with a yacht which had been kept going month in and month out, the fires drawn from under her boilers only when she positively declined to make steam enough and was in a mood to protest against such unfair treatment. That December hurricane had been a bruising, almost fatal experience, and the repairs made at Lisbon could not be called final.

As a ship, however, the Corsair had strongly survived the ordeal, and soon she began to resume the semblance of a shapely, sea-going yacht. The graceful bowsprit was restored to the clipper stem, the deck cleared of gun mountings, and the overhang was no longer cluttered with the gear of the depth bombs. Chief Engineer Hutchison returned to his own engine-room, and there was clangor and clatter as gangs of mechanics repaired, replaced, and tuned up machinery which had been driven to the limit of endurance.

The Corsair’s steaming record in foreign service had amounted to 49,983.6 miles from June, 1917, to December, 1918, when she ceased cruising to spend her time in English ports and at Queenstown. The distance, by months, was as follows:

1917:
June	3244.4 miles
July	3358.7
August	3441.5
September	3343.7
October	2994.4
November	3045.6
December	557.1 (Engine counter disabled in hurricane)
1918:
January	880.9 miles (at Lisbon)
February	2635.8
March	2519
April	1279.3
May	3554.5
June	3823.8[7]
July	3609.8[7]
August	4300[7]
September	4027[7]
October	1155.7 (Repairs)
November	1030.4
December	1182

On July 31st, less than two months after being placed out of commission as a naval vessel, the Corsair hoisted the Commodore’s flag of the New York Yacht Club. Trim and immaculate, she proceeded to her anchorage at Glen Cove, to await cruising orders. There were differences, however, and the Corsair was not the same as of old. Freshly painted, the hue of her funnel and hull was the gray of the Navy. For a season, at least, the glistening black of her hull was not to be restored. It seemed more fitting, somehow, that in this way she should recall her long service in helping guard the road to France.

Upon her funnel were two service chevrons. The regulations awarded a stripe for the first three months overseas and another for a full year thereafter, until the date of the armistice. The decks were scraped and holystoned and spotless, but where the guns had been there were wooden plugs to mark the half-circles of the mounts, and the pine planking was scarred where cases of shells had been dragged to be ready for the swift team-work of the agile gun crews. These, too, were marks of honor which it seemed a pity to obliterate. They signified that the Corsair was something more than a yacht.

Another memento and reminder, to be highly regarded by the ship’s company of those stirring days, is a letter from the Commander-in-Chief of the United States Naval Forces in European Waters, who desired that his “well done” should be included in this record. It is placed here by way of “good-bye and fare-ye-well,” as the old chantey sang it. Admiral Sims writes as follows:

Naval War College
Newport, Rhode Island
1 December, 1919

My dear Mr. Paine:

To undertake to write the complete story of any one ship of the American Navy and its experiences in the war zone seems to me a task very well worth while. Needless to say, the work of the yachts and their personnel on the coast of France was splendid, and I am only too glad to have an opportunity to express my appreciation of them.

Because of the shortage of vessels suitable for convoy and escort duty, and the gravely urgent circumstances, the yachts were sent across with little time for preparation or training and with few officers and men of the Regular Navy in their complements. They were an emergency flotilla, but I felt confident that they would quickly adapt themselves to the arduous conditions of their service in European waters.

What did surprise me was that they were able to weather a winter in the Bay of Biscay and to stay at sea with the convoys when yachts were presumed to be tucked in harbor. This was greatly to the credit of the courage, seamanship, and hardihood of the men who served in them. It was conspicuously true of the Corsair’s encounter with the December hurricane in which she almost foundered, but succeeded in making port at Lisbon. A similar spirit was shown when this vessel stood by the disabled steamer Dagfin and towed her three hundred miles through an area in which enemy submarines were operating.

With a steaming record of 50,000 miles on foreign service, with the unusual number of fourteen enlisted men appointed as commissioned officers, and with repeated commendations from the Force Commander in France, such a yacht served with honor to the flag and the Navy and deserves the verdict of “Well Done, Corsair.”

Very sincerely yours
Wm. S. Sims
Rear Admiral, U.S. Navy

Copyright by Keystone View Co., N. Y.

ADMIRAL WILLIAM S. SIMS, COMMANDING THE U.S. NAVAL FORCES IN EUROPEAN WATERS

The yacht will always be tenanted with brave memories. And I am sure that to her owner and to Captain Porter, as long as she shall float, the Corsair will seem to have caught and held in the fabric of her somewhat of the spirit of those high-hearted young Americans who manned and sailed and fought her in the war zone. For a ship which has faithfully withstood the manifold ordeals of the sea becomes something more than a mere artifice of wood and steel. She seems almost sentient, like a living thing to those who have shared her fortunes, and therein is the immemorial romance of blue water.