FRITZ GETS TAGGED
I belong to the Black Gang. You don't hear much about us because our work keeps us below deck, and it's good hard work when you're making twenty knots—but I like it. I wouldn't change places with any gun's crew on earth, although they have more of a chance for their life if trouble comes. We have duties to perform right in our quarters in case a ship is struck that keeps us close to the engines—there's always danger there—especially aboard a coal-burning destroyer—and that's what I shipped on.
There wasn't any keeping me out of the navy. We have four honorable discharges hung up in our house. I used to show them to my kid. He's five, but awful smart. He knows all about them.
"That's from the War of 1776," he'll say, pointing to the first one.
"And that's from the Civil War, my great Grandpa fought in that."
The third one is for the Spanish-American.
"My grandpa fought in that one," he tells you.
And pretty soon, when this scrap is over there'll be a fourth one hanging alongside of the others and Bill can look at it and say, "My pop got that one in the biggest war of all."
I only wish the youngster was old enough to enlist himself. We're a fighting family. I joined the navy in 1915. I was on a battleship then, but when war broke they transferred me to a destroyer. We didn't go out until the cold weather had set in. All of us were given Arctic outfits and it's lucky we were—we needed them, believe me! You are mighty grateful for the heavy woollen pants and the jumper with a hood that covers your ears.
Destroyer duty is the most exciting of all, for, while merchant crafts go out of their way to avoid submarines, our game is to go out of our way to hunt them. It was like a game of hide and seek, with a destroyer "It," trying to tag Fritz if he'd only give us half a chance.
One of Fritz's pet stunts was to send us an S.O.S., giving us the exact location at sea of a vessel in trouble—oh, he was awful careful to see that you got it right, all you needed to do was to steam up to that spot and be blown clear out of creation.
Of course, all the calls for help weren't false. One day we came close enough to see a cargo ship in flames, and her crew being ordered over her side to open boats. "Burn the cargo and sink the ship," was Fritz's creed and if you think that being set afloat in a life-boat in December is an experience you'll forget in a hurry, you're wrong!
By the time we reached the survivors, half of them were dead—frozen where they sat, their bodies covered with ice.
We were on duty every minute of the day and night. I don't think any of the crew slept soundly for the seven months that we stayed at sea without ever touching shore. Think of it, seven months on a ship that's never still, zig-zagging, doubling on its own course—charging any floating objects in hopes of downing a Fritz.
My, but the troopships were glad to see us when we went out to meet them. We'd shoot up alongside of them, or cut clean across their bow, playing in front of them like a porpoise, as we asked them what sort of a trip they had had across and how things were going back home. We'd come so close to the convoy at times that they could almost reach out and touch us, then we'd dart away at the drop of a hat.
As Christmas came near, we hoped to touch port. We had been promised a Christmas ashore, but it seemed we had sudden orders to go out and pick up a convoy, so we headed for the open sea again.
Christmas Eve was biting cold. I went up for air and I was glad to hurry back to the engine room again. It was at least warm down there. The men who stood watch on deck were muffled to the eyes. I thought of my wife and the kid. I wondered if he was hanging up his little stocking and saying a prayer for his dad who was at sea. I hadn't heard a word from them, of course, since I had left home. But on that particular night they seemed very close to me. I could almost see our little sitting room, with a holly wreath in the window. I remembered just the corner where we always put up the Christmas tree and I thought of the fun we had trimming it and trying not to make a breath of noise to wake the kid. All this while I realized dimly that the boat was pitching harder than ever and my mate broke in with:
"We're in for a gale to celebrate Christmas proper."
We were, all right! They say it was the worst storm that had been seen off that coast in many a year. It was the highest sea I've ever been on. You could scarcely keep your feet, and as for food—our Christmas dinner consisted of hard tack and lucky we were to get that. You couldn't keep a thing on the ranges except the stationary kettles. They managed to make something that was supposed to be coffee in those and for twenty-two hours that was our chow.
There were moments through that long night when I thought we'd turn clean over. We never expected the rudder to hold with those giant waves breaking over the deck and turning everything to ice.
All the submarines afloat didn't give me the feeling of nearness to death that that storm had. I certainly was glad when the sea quieted down and the sun struggled through the clouds again.
Up to the first of the year we had not had a chance to get a shot at Fritz. He had been a bit too wily for us, getting in his dirty work before we arrived on the spot, leaving a trail of burning or sinking ships but no sign of himself. But we got our revenge. It was in January. We had met a string of troop and cargo ships from the States, which we were escorting to port. We were so near the coast that I guess most of the boys aboard were getting their things together preparatory to landing.
It was eight o'clock in the morning and I don't suppose any of us really dreamed of a submarine turning up so close to shore, when suddenly the shrill whistle from a transport made the air around it blue with its noise! A second later came the roar of guns and I knew sure enough that some tin fish had welcomed us!
I stood by in the engine room, which was my place in time of danger, listening with all my ears to the boom of our own guns. Oh, we were after Fritz all right!
The rumor drifted in to us that there were ten periscopes to be seen, but soon it came down to three. The guns from all the ships thundered—it was as if a battlefield were transported to the Atlantic Ocean.
The roar of guns deafened you, but you certainly got a thrill you never forgot. We worked like fiends. We knew they needed speed as never before. We were like cats after a mouse.
Someone sent up a shout and word came that oil had begun to show on the water—that meant one less submarine afloat! Again the roar of guns—again the shout! Two Fritzes sunk. . . !
In the midst of the firing came a strange new sound—a buzzing overhead. French airships to the rescue! They were not more than two hundred yards above us, dropping bombs as they flew. I listened for the sound of cheering—it came! A third Fritz sunk. In port the sinking was officially verified—three German submarines destroyed, read the record. Not bad, eh?
I don't believe a gun on any of the transports or destroyers was cold for fully two hours. When it was over, I went on deck for a breath of air. I was sweating like a horse and shaking all over from the strain. The instant I stepped on deck, Fritz got a shot at us, splintering our deck and taking one of my fingers along as a souvenir.
Now I ask you, wasn't that rum luck? If I'd only stayed below where I belonged, I'd still be plus a finger. The ship's doctor finished up the job, but I couldn't use that hand, and, believe me, it made me sore as anything. I knew I'd miss all the sport going by having to be sent home. I tried to argue with him. But he wouldn't listen to me—home I must go. There wasn't any two ways about it—orders is orders.
I traveled back on a transport. I was all right. My hand was healing fine. I wanted to stand watch on the way across, but they wouldn't let me. Treated me like a blooming invalid and gave me a month's liberty to get well. Well! I was well ten minutes after it happened.
No, I didn't tell my wife how I lost it. I said I'd been mixed up in an accident in the engine room. That was pretty near the truth. You can slip so easily with the ship pitching and rearing that it isn't hard to lose an arm that way. Oh, if I was to tell her that a sub carried part of my hand away, she'd worry to death about having me go to sea again. I'll break it to her after the war. Just now there's one thing on my mind—just one—to get back somehow in the Black Gang. I can handle a shovel—my arm's a bit stiff yet, but I'm all muscle. Believe me, they aren't going to shelve me just because one finger's gone! Not by a long sight!
I'm not going to miss one minute of this scrap if I can help it. My kid's going to be proud of my record before I get through—wait and see if he isn't!