Then at a touch from Lee the spark began to sputter. Adjustments, and it sputtered more.
“Now—now! It’s hitting it up! And I’m going to CQ Mobile till the cows come home!” muttered Lee between set teeth. “That’s the nearest big city and we got to have help out of ’em for down here—quick!”
To the crackle of the spark, the “urgent” call sped over watery waste and land ridges towards civilization.
Every few seconds Lee eased up on his telegraphic tapping and switched over to listen. “Ah, we’ve touched a station!”
“WDK talking! Point Hope Amateur Relay. Who are you, brother? New station, eh? Glad you’re on the air.” On and on the string of Morse rolled in.
“Idiot!” snorted Lee in disgust, switching his key back to transmission with a vicious jab. “We’ve got to have action, not gab!” Then with steady spark he hammered relentlessly, “S.O.S.—S.O.S.—S.O.S.—Help! Help! Save!”
That brought Station WDK up to taw in a hurry, knocked the gab out of him, and held him keyed for business. “Shoot! Who’s in trouble? We stand by to help!” flashed in the message.
Lee settled down to transmission. His code poured out in a steady stream from the brass pounder. “RL Amateur Station calling. Sargon River district flooded. Need immediate help. Cut off from everywhere—no railroads—no telegraph. Need food, tents, doctors. Pass on the call!”
On through the day Lee Renaud stuck to his pounder, CQing up and down the whole state of Alabama, sending word of the dire need. Mobile, Anniston, Birmingham—the cities over the state were tapped into touch.
Yes. Help was coming. Red Cross was answering the S.O.S. of the lone operator down in the flood country. “O.K. for you, Flood Station RL. On the way with supplies, tents, doctors, couple more radios and relief operators. Army Post sending emergency airplanes. Coast steamer at Mobile wants to head up the Sound for rescue work. Can she make it?”