All went well, except for a few seas we took over the side, until three o’clock Monday morning. I was in my bunk below decks at the time and, by the way, all I had on in the line of clothing was my underwear and the heavy sweater sent me from home. It was the first time since the day I watched the Antilles go down that I had turned in without all my clothes on. We figured that we were free from the danger of submarine attack in such a rough sea, hence our “nighties.” I fell asleep about midnight and was slumbering peacefully when I heard and felt an explosion and woke to find everybody making for the hatches. Dazed, I ploughed through about four feet of water, almost naked, and popped on deck. There it looked to me as though the old ship had been almost blown in two. Deck-houses and hatches were all messed up and the yacht seemed to be slowly settling. We made for the boats only to find them smashed, and then waited for orders.
The cry went round, “All hands save ship,” and if you hear that once you’ll never forget it. By this time I had scooted through the yeoman’s office and grabbed enough clothing together so I could lend a hand on the topside. It was the coolness of the officers and men that saved us from watery graves. We tore apart every table and door below decks to mend things until we could make port. I don’t believe the ship will ever go to sea again, except that she may be put in good enough shape to take us back to France from Lisbon about the middle of February or thereabouts.
Of the destroyers which were caught offshore and rode out the hurricane, the Reid was blown into Oporto, severely knocked about. Her log recorded:
December 17th. Torpedo truck carried away and washed overboard. Lost machine lathe and wherry. Whaleboat smashed and ice-box, life-preserver locker and vegetable locker broken loose by seas breaking aboard. Lost life-buoy light, compass binnacle light, guard to wheel chains, etc. 8 A.M. to noon, steaming as in previous watch. Having serious main engine bearing trouble, due to salt water in lubrication system. At 9 A.M. passed U.S.S. Corsair close aboard and asked her to stand by and assist us back to Brest. (Corsair had answered our S.O.S. from near by.) Lost sight of Corsair at 10.30 A.M., due to rain squalls and heavy weather. Foot of water in firemen’s compartment through hatch, and engine-room and all other compartments flooded.
The engine-room log of the Reid makes interesting reading, for the Corsair was in much the same plight:
Heavy sea swept over engine-room hatch at 4.30 A.M., carrying away ventilators and lathe and flooding engine-room. Glass covering to oil manifold carried away and settling tank flooded. Bearings running warm. Too much water running from sea.
The Smith destroyer lost both masts and a fireman overboard who was rescued after an hour when the cook swam to him with a line. The paint locker was stove in and the yeoman’s office washed out, which meant the loss of many painful hours of paper work. The vessel spent two weeks in dry-dock in Brest. The Roe and the Monaghan were nearer the coast, and although each lost a mast they scudded for shelter in time to avoid the worst of the blow. The Flusser and the Warrington were badly battered and had to lay off for repairs. The Preston limped into Lisbon, sighting the Corsair just outside the port, and the two ships remained there together until they could be made fit for sea again.
That lively historian of the Reid, Seaman (later Lieutenant) Timothy Brown, added some bits of life in a storm which the crew of the Corsair considered appropriate to their own unhappy hours:
As the elements continued to harry us, I could notice a changing sentiment among certain members of the crew. Several expressed the opinion that she would soon break in two in the middle. It was only a question of time. Others were too far gone to have any opinion about anything, and these afflicted ones lay helpless, clutching at whatever they could gain a hold. They were attended by their close friends. Our lawyer clung to a table and scribbled on a pad. He was framing a poor devil’s will. A brave lad from the Middle West suggested that it might be well to throw out some ballast—too much water was flowing through the hatches to feel comfortable. He said we might spare a ton or two from the forward hold which was crammed with provisions. A deck-hand passed the buck to the engineering department, which he said was about to sink the ship with enough truck to outfit several auxiliary cruisers, including solder bars, sal ammoniac, bolts and nuts, brass unions, rat-tail files, tallow candles, and flake graphite. None of the engineering department people would give up a pound. The only volunteer was a seaman who said, if necessary, he could spare a guitar.
... I reached the bridge deck unobserved and was drinking in the glorious sight. It felt fine to be so high that nothing could hit you but the spray. I hooked my elbow around a metal support of the searchlight platform. The officers had no good hand-holds and were slipping about like drunken men on roller skates. Our captain was almost unrecognizable in a saffron-colored slicker that hung down to his heels, and on his head was perched a sou’wester to match. He reminded me of the old salt who swings an enormous fish over his shoulder and advertises cod liver oil. Our junior lieutenant appeared to have unusually good sea legs, for he could stand with his arms folded, shifting from foot to foot, stolid and Napoleon-like. Our ensign was staggering under the weight of a life-preserver and a number of coals, all bundled up like an Eskimo, nothing showing but his eyes. Our chief petty officers, hanging under the wings of the chart-house, had not shaved for days and looked as if they might have made good if given a try-out as modern Captain Kidds. Grotesque figures draped in horse-cloth outer clothing, topped with hoods, aviator style, hovered wherever they could find a corner.