They did that, shoving their crowded survivors out of the way to make room for the ceremony.
The Putt! putt! putt! comes nearer and nearer. Next, from out of the blackness of the ocean they make out a little motor-dory. Balanced out on the gunwale of the little dory, when it comes nearer, they see an American bluejacket smoking a cigarette. No one else was in the dory.
The dory ran alongside. It was about a 14-foot dory—no smaller one in the flotilla. The skipper of the 396 looked down at him. "What you want?"
The bluejacket removed the cigarette from his lips. "I'm from the 384, sir."
"Yes, yes, but what do you want?"
"I've come, sir"—he waved his cigarette-stub airily—"to take off the survivors. The captain thought I might be able to make one load of 'em."
When the big P. & O. liner reported herself torpedoed that evening, a destroyer—not one of ours—picked up the message 100 miles or so away; and at once radioed: Coming to Your Assistance—Give Position, Course, and Speed.
That was proper and well-intentioned, but as the 384 and the 396 were already standing by, a radio was sent back: Everything All Right—No Help Needed—Thank You.
That did not seem to satisfy the inquirer. Would Like to Help—Give Position, Speed, and Course.