The voices of hundreds of struggling men rang in on our ears and we were helpless to aid them.
The Commander called the nurses to him.
"You go next," he told them. "The Matron and I will jump last."
They were the bravest, coolest lot of girls I have ever seen. They climbed the rail, hand in hand. They hesitated a second—with a shudder at what lay before them, then they leaped forward. . . . I could not look. Only the Commander and I remained. He drew me to the rail.
"I can't do it," I cried, drawing back. But he was very firm.
"Come," he said quietly, "it will soon be too late."
He helped me up. My heart was thumping like a trip-hammer in my breast. I could not—I could not—could not jump. He drew me down suddenly. I lost my footing and plunged after him. The water closed over me. It seemed hours before I came to the top. For a long time I could not move. At length I began to swim. I knew enough to get as far away as I could from the suction that would draw me as the ship sank.
Three hours later patrols picked us up.
And yet, I love the water. If I am ashore and cannot sleep, I pretend my room is a cabin and that I am on a quietly rocking sea. That is why I entered the Navy nurse corps of my country when she declared war on Germany.