This attack upon the Newcastle Boy had been particularly brutal. There were four wounded men in the mate’s boat. If the captain’s boat were lost, the missing would total twenty-six.
The Colodia, swinging in wide circles through the rough sea, remained near the scene of the catastrophe until morning. They discovered no trace of the sunken ship, although the mate declared she had gone down within a mile of the spot where the destroyer had picked up the survivors.
But at daybreak the watchful lookouts did spy a broken oar and part of the bow of the captain’s lifeboat—its air-compartment keeping it afloat. No human being was there to be seen, and the conclusion was unescapable that the Hun had done his best to “sink without trace” another helpless boat’s crew.
It was mid-afternoon, however, before the Colodia left the vicinity of the tragedy. There was a desire in the hearts of her crew and officers to sight the submarine that had committed this atrocity.
Finally, however, the American naval vessel was swung about for port and began to pick up speed. These destroyers never seem to go anywhere at an easy pace; they are always “rushed” in their schedule.
Having given up hope of catching the particular submarine that had sunk the Newcastle Boy, the Colodia’s lookouts did not, however, fail to watch for other submersibles. Men stationed in the tops, on the bridge, and in both bow and stern, trained keen eyes upon the surrounding sea as the destroyer dashed on her way.
Ikey Rosenmeyer and his special chum, Frenchy Donahue, were in the bows on watch. Even those two “gabbers,” as Al Torrance called them, knew enough to keep their tongues still while on duty; and nobody on the destroyer had keener vision than Ikey and Frenchy.
Almost together the two hailed the bridge:
“Off the port bow, sir!” while Ikey added “Starboard your helm!”
A great cry went up from amidships. The Colodia escaped the object just beneath the surface by scarcely a boat’s length. Men sprang to the depth-bomb arms and the crews to their guns.