Everybody being busy, nobody bothered to answer that. By and by came another radio: This is the Destroyer Blank—Give Position, Speed, and Course.
He was so evidently one of those Johnnies who are always volunteering to do things not needful to be done that nobody paid any further attention to him. But he kept right on sending radios. By and by, for perhaps the seventh time, came: This is the Destroyer Blank—Please Give Position, Speed, and Course of Torpedoed Ship.
At which some one—nobody seemed to know who, but possibly some undistinguished enlisted radio man whose ears were becoming wearied—sparked out into the night: Position of Torpedoed Ship? Between Two Destroyers. Her Speed? About Four Feet an Hour. Her Course? Toward the Bottom of the Atlantic.
Nobody ever found who sent that message; nobody inquired too closely; but all hands thanked him. The flotilla heard no more from the bothersome destroyer.
The business of hunting U-boats is a grim one. The officers and men engaged in it do not like to dwell on the hard side of it. They do like to repeat stories of the humorous side of it.
One of our destroyer commanders over there has a personality that the others like to hang stories onto. He is a quick-thinking, quick-acting man named—well, say Lanahan. He was one day on the bridge of his ship when the lookout shouted: "Periscope!"
"Charge her!" yelled out Lanahan.
Away they went hooked-up for the periscope, which everybody could now see—about 200 yards ahead.
"He's a nervy one—see her stay up!" said the officer of the deck, who was standing beside the wheel, and had glasses on the periscope. And then, hurriedly: "I don't like the looks of her, captain—it looks like a phony periscope to me—as if there was a mine under it!"