AT SEA IN A TYPHOON ON A UNITED STATES ARMY TRANSPORT
Story of a Voyage in the China Sea
Told by (name suppressed), a United States Army Officer
This is the private letter of a captain of the —— Infantry, United States Army. It was written at sea on the transport Thomas, somewhere between Keelung and Nagasaki in the China Sea. The army officer, whose name is withheld by request, tells how the transport, with the whole —— Infantry, officers with their families, and civilians, numbering 2,000, passed through a typhoon in a night of terror, paying high tribute to the discipline of the soldiers. It is one of those human documents that give a deep insight into the adventurous experiences of the American Army in the days of World War.
I—"HOW WE LEFT MANILA BAY"
U. S. Army Transport, Thomas,
At Sea, August 21, 1917.
I will tell you a tale of the China Sea, only it will differ from the usual sea tale in that it is absolutely true. The scene is laid to the east of Formosa and in the vicinity of the chain of the Ryukyu Islands, which extend in a general southwesterly direction from the southern end of Japan toward the northern end of Formosa.
At noon, August 15, 1917, the U. S. Army Transport Thomas slipped her moorings at Manila, amid usual scenes of farewells, bon-voyages, tears, handkerchiefs, flowers, the girls-left-behind-us, and with the military band playing "Alohaoe." It is a scene enacted the 15th of every month when the transport leaves for the homeland via Nagasaki. On board were the whole —th U. S. Infantry, with officers and their families, and civilians and crew,—a total of some 2,000 souls. As we passed the island fortress of Corregidor, military aeroplanes circled over the ship. The wish of all was for more power to the stokers—we could not get to San Francisco too soon. As we steamed along the west coast of Luzon, the weather was bright and the sea calm, but we knew that in another day rough weather could be expected. In the Balingtang Channel, between Luzon and Formosa, the sea is practically always rough; and those waters and to the east of Formosa are in the usual course of the typhoons. True to form, late in the afternoon of the 16th the sea became rough. I promptly took to my bunk, not being any kind of sailor. As I lay in my bunk next the port with the wind scoop out, I could feel the wind gradually rising and the alternate violent puffs and lulls were signs that a typhoon was brewing, as the master of the ship was well aware from his falling barometer. Later in the evening when I left my cabin for a few moments, my surmises were confirmed.
On the next day (Friday, August 17), we were well into the typhoon. The wind was violent and the sea both magnificent and awful. In a typhoon the wind blows the surface water into clouds of foam and spray. For all the world it looks like a snowstorm at sea. The waves were frightful. As the ship dipped down between them, the conviction was borne in upon us that if one were to land upon the ship's deck the lookout in the crow's nest would no longer sing out at the half hour: "All's well."
That night the storm seemed at its height; and it was an anxious, trying night, with the wind howling and the rain coming down in sheets. Very few went to sleep. The water could not be kept out. It came in through the ports and through the seams in the cabin roofs. On the top deck, stateroom doors were forced and the rooms flooded. Beds were wet and some cabin floors awash. The boat hove to and kept its nose to the wind. I later heard that we made eight miles in fifteen hours under steam, but we knew not how far we had been blown from our course. After about eight nerve-racking hours, the wind began to abate; and by Saturday, the 18th—although the wind and sea both remained high, with the weather thick and rainy—we firmly believed that we were running out of the typhoon. After drifting in heavy squalls and thick weather all day, I dozed away that night in a wet bed.
Later I was awakened by the rising wind, howling through the ship's passageways and superstructures. We were running into the typhoon again. No more sleep that night. Experienced mariners know that the way to get out of a typhoon is to keep the wind on the starboard bow and side, gradually working out or getting blown out. This our ship's master did not dare to do, for the chance would have been extremely good that the ship would be cast upon one of the many islands. He therefore elected to keep the wind on the port side and run through the typhoon.
The wind and sea soon became more violent than the night before. It was awe-inspiring. For a couple of hours it blew hard, and then at about 1:30 A.M. there came a sudden lull—with no air stirring, with a calm sea, and with the barometer falling precipitately. The pressure on the ear drums was intense.
II—"WE WERE FIGHTING A TYPHOON"
It was plain that we were in the very center of the typhoon, and that our most severe battle with the elements was just ahead. Some time around 4 A.M. the wind again arose suddenly, and the fight was on. It soon became terrific and well over 100 miles an hour—estimated by the First Officer as between 125 and 130 miles—the worst thus far we had experienced.
Now ensued a time of desperate peril that even a landlubber could appreciate. Many a prayer went up that night from lips that had not uttered one since the days of "Now I lay me down to sleep" at a mother's knee. Many a rough nature felt stirring within him thoughts and feelings that had been strangers many a year.
The awful force and roar of the wind, the violent pitching and rolling, the absolute darkness outside, the puny efforts of the big, powerful ship and its apparent helplessness, added to the fact that we knew we were in an unknown position in a sea in many places uncharted and dotted with coral reefs and islands,—all convinced us that we were in the immediate presence of the Great Adventure and that only the guidance of the Divine Hand could succor us.
The immediate scenes were enough to inspire terror. The big steam whistle could be but faintly heard above the wind, when it was blown to call deck hands to clear away wreckage caused by the fall of the top of the front mast with the wireless antennae. In the galley, right outside my door, pots and pans and dishes and glassware were thrown about in continuous din and confusion. In staterooms, trunks, water bowls, and other loose articles were flying around. It was dangerous to be about. The thick glass of a port hole was broken to bits by a wave, and a woman so cut by the glass as to require many stitches for her wounds. In the troop decks many bunks were broken and fell to the floor. Several soldiers suffered broken legs, arms, or collar bones. The ship's doctor in his palmiest day in civil life I venture, never saw things coming his way half so thick and fast. The only way to remain in a bunk was by bracing and hanging to rail and hooks. The first streak of dawn showed about 5:30 A.M., Sunday the 19th, and, though welcome, revealed an awful sea and driving sheets of rain. This violence kept up most of the day, until late in the afternoon it appeared that wind and sea were somewhat abating. The barometer was slowly but steadily rising, and it was plain that we were running out of the typhoon. But night was upon us, and the Master had not had an observation of the sun for more than three days—since Thursday noon, August 16. The situation was perilous. A temporary respite only had been given.
The behavior of passengers, crew, and all during this time was remarkable. There was not a trace of panic or alarm. Some passengers, gathered in the main saloon, seated about tables, talked it over conversationally. Others remained in the social hall, in the passageways, or in staterooms awaiting quietly the expected call. Some officers were fully dressed in uniform, either khaki or white, others in swimming clothes of pajamas with bathrobe or raincoat over. The women also were in various degrees of preparation. There was no hysteria, weeping, or raising of voices.
And so the long Sunday night wore on with the three of us in our bunks, the little boy asleep and —— and I attempting to doze. We were destined for our third successive sleepless night. The wind and sea were still high. Some time before midnight I was brought to my feet in the middle of the cabin with a bounce, by a severe metallic blow against the ship's side. I turned on the light and the little boy awoke startled to get into bed with his mother on the couch and doze off again immediately. To this date I have not satisfactorily settled what caused that blow. It may have been the violent impact of one of four lost lifeboats against the hull or one of the parts of a broken davit hitting the side. Weak and dizzy and vomiting continuously I thought it best to remain up.
From some reason or other—misery or what not—the next event of which I write was unknown to me until after the happening. I therefore relate what I have heard from others, whose remembrances tally very well. I was conscious only that the ship was listing at a severe angle, with our trunks sliding across the room.
At about 11 P.M., it seems, the ship hit something twice, and in turn was struck on the starboard side by two big waves. The vessel remained rigid for several minutes (estimates vary from 5 to 25 minutes), not rolling in wave action, but taking the seas over the forecastle. During this time a soldier was swept overboard and his cries for help were heard by passengers as he was swept past. A life preserver was thrown towards him in the darkness,—all that could be done for the poor fellow. About this time the lookout up ahead saw a steep, black shape close at hand, but thought it was a low-hanging cloud. The First Officer saw it from the bridge and immediately sent an emergency signal to the engine room. We were merely drifting, so the engines were immediately reversed. The ship drew away carefully. After some time, I should say about half an hour, we appeared again to have reached the wind and rough water.
I have neglected to state that some time previously I had myself noticed (my stomach being a delicate instrument) a sudden lull in the chop of the water and a longer, smoother roll and a drop in the wind to almost nothing. As the barometer was rising we could not have been in the heart of the typhoon, and I remarked to an officer that we must be in the lee of some land. All this occurred between 10:30 P.M. and midnight. It is the universal belief that the black shape just ahead was in reality a high cliff. The further inference is—although not acknowledged by ship's officers—that while drifting under little or no headway the ship struck a sandbar as she dropped deep into the trough of the big waves, close to the cliff, and while there took two big waves on the starboard side. Then, when the engines were reversed, she pulled off and made away.
III—"IT WAS OUR LAST HOUR"
During all this time, though I had not noticed the two jars (being one of the very few who did not), I was conscious in my bunk that something serious had happened. As a ship's officer went by the cabin, I heard him say: "I'm going to see if the wireless won't work." I have learned since that the Master wanted to send the "S. O. S." out over the sea, and say that he would try to keep his ship afloat until daybreak. Inasmuch as he could not give our position this was but a last chance. I was not so sick that I could not comprehend that much in a flash. But the wireless was entirely out of commission. When the top of the mast went on Saturday night, the antennae had gone overboard with it. The latter had been roughly secured again to the mainmast, but the wind had driven the rain through the cabin and short-circuited the sending apparatus. About this time a man came into the passageway and began stripping the slats from a life preserver rack. He said there was danger of the wireless house on the top deck being swept away, and that he was going to take the men some life preservers.
There was much passing to and fro. Putting on raincoat over pajamas, I went out to look things over. In the saloon I found some fifteen or twenty persons grouped about the table, in all manner of attire. All were seated, talking in conversational tones. None had life preservers, though the word had been passed along to put them on and many in other parts of the ship had done so.
On the floor was stretched an officer with a bloody bandage on his left eye. When the two big waves struck he had been in the social hall. The sudden list of the ship had catapulted him across the hall toward the open door. He would have gone over the rail, but managed to fetch up against a seat and land unconscious. This is only one of numerous similar incidents. Going down the hall on my side of the ship—starboard—I met perhaps eight or ten officers and no women. Things were flying loose and it was dangerous to be up. There was no sign of panic. Conversation was general and light. Presently a small group struck up Harry Lauder's "I Love a Lassie, a Bonnie Hieland Lassie."
I had learned the real situation by this time, and was convinced that it was our last hour. Since then I have found that that belief was universal among all except a few who were ignorant of conditions. So I went back to my cabin to await events or orders, which promised to be immediate. I sat on the end of ——'s couch, wet with perspiration through weakness, sickness, and fear, too, I guess. She asked me if there was any danger, and I answered, "Yes, some danger, of course." She made no reply and seemed satisfied. Then I reached slyly under the bed for my revolver and cartridge belt. I had in mind the usual sea tale of stampede under such conditions and wanted to be ready. There was never an indication of necessity for it, however, I am bound to say. I did not reach for my life preserver, for fear of raising in her a feeling of panic. The little boy still slept. And so we waited. Nothing happened, and shortly afterward, as before related, by the sound of the wind and the feel of the sea I knew we had pulled away from the land into the open sea and would have at least a temporary respite.
IV—"WE TOSSED ABOUT THE OCEAN"
Now as to the conduct of the soldiers. It was splendid and magnificent, showing under extreme test the value of discipline and training. They had been held under hatches for two days, it being too dangerous on deck, so that they were in ignorance of exact conditions. They did know our plight was desperate. In the face of all this when the ship struck (as my First Sergeant afterwards told me), the non-commissioned officers assumed command of their men, and perfect order reigned. The word came to put on life belts. The men did so and lined up awaiting orders. The chaplains went from hatch to hatch and prayed with the men, who joined in earnestly. Many soldiers offered to save passengers. An officer went below and told the men the circumstances,—that we had drawn off the bar and that although temporarily safe were still in danger. The men cheered with a vim. It revived my faith in human nature to see that in this supreme test, no matter what their individual shortcomings may have been before, every man had the spark of manhood which measured up to the stern requirement. There was no doubt in their minds but that their last hour had come. It was too much to expect that life boats, even if they could have been lowered, could have existed in the sea. It was a solemn moment that will impress itself on the future of every thinking man board this ship.
During the rest of the night we tossed about the ocean, by some chance avoiding the shoals and reefs of the Ryukyu group in the vicinity of Iriomote Island (as later determined). There was a reaction and many people who had been awake more or less for three days dropped off into the sleep of exhaustion. After a while the passageways became cleared and no one was to be seen. As for myself lying in the top bunk holding my midriff with my hands, I tried to keep awake by once in a while raising feet to the cabin ceiling. In time even this failed and slumber came.
Dawn showed about 5:30 A.M. that Monday morning, bringing a foggy air but without rain for the first time since Thursday night. The sun was necessary for us to locate our position, and danger was imminent until this could be known. With what anxiety that morning (my first on deck) did the officers gather forward and watch the captain on the bridge, with his sextant ready to take a "shot" at the sun should it show itself. Several times it seemed about to break through, and finally at 2 P.M. it came out and an observation was made. After the latitude and longitude had been determined from this observation the captain found that his ship was near the island of Iriomote, or some 150 miles north-east of where he had guessed the vessel might be. In the meantime when the fog had lifted a little, a low-lying coral reef was seen off the port bow, not a mile away. Our course was changed to avoid this, and about noon we passed an island of some size on the port side showing dimly through the mist. The land could not be identified.
To-day, Tuesday, August 21st, the sun rose on a comparatively calm sea with some breeze. At about 7:30 A.M. about eight miles away on the port bow was seen a four-masted schooner, with all masts and spars in place and full sail set. We wondered if it had been caught in the storm and decided not, otherwise her rigging could not have been in such good shape. Evidently the master thought so too, as we continued on our course. As soon as sighting us the ship had flown the signal "B. N.," meaning "send assistance immediately." This was not seen by us at the distance, so the Stars and Stripes were lowered from top to half mast. This attracted our ship's attention and our course was changed. As we approached the schooner, we could see the crew working the pumps for dear life. It was the Irmgard of San Francisco, which had been laden with a cargo of copra and lumber. All the cargo had been lost. Upon reaching hailing distance and with the Irmgard's captain on the after deck in blue shirt and khaki trousers making a megaphone with his hands, the following conversation ensued:
Master of the Thomas: "What's the matter?"
Master of the Irmgard: "Ship half full of water. Crew can't hold out much longer. Been through a typhoon. Give us a tow and send aboard a machinist." A lifeboat was lowered, and our First Officer was sent aboard with the Second Engineer and a crew. Our First Officer reported to our Captain: "Six feet of water. Stand by. If she opens up she will go." A line was made fast, and at reduced speed—with our own ship severely damaged—we are now steaming to Keelung, the northern port of Formosa, to leave the Irmgard there and to go into drydock ourselves. The Irmgard could not have lasted over night, as her captain declared. And so ended happily another drama of the sea.