Over the Seas for Uncle Sam — Reading Companion

They did not want praise for what they had done. They are an independent lot--our sailors--proud of their branch of service. "No drafted men in the navy," they tell you with a straightening of their shoulders.

And from the officers I learned of that deeper love--that worship of the sea--of the vessel placed in their hands to command. From them I heard for the first time of the value of a discipline iron-bound--rigid--a discipline that brooks no argument. There were stories of men who had hoped and dreamed all their lives of a certain cruise, only to find themselves transferred to the other end of the world. Did they utter a word of complaint? Not they! "Orders are orders"--that was enough for them!

And because those of us who send our men to sea are burning to know the tales they have to tell, I have made this little collection--the men's own stories, told in the ward to other round-eyed youths who gathered about the bed to hear, full of eager questions, prompting when the story moved too slowly.

What you read here are their stories--stories of whole-souled youths, with the sparkle of life in their eyes, with the love of adventure in their hearts. Jack Tar is an American clear through to his backbone!

New York, May 15, 1918.

We're not long on recitation, We're just rough and ready gobs, But we rate ten gadgets higher Than some smug civilian snobs. When we're out on well-earned shore leave Drummin' up a little cheer, Oh, we meet sleek city dandies Who object to sailors here. They are togged in pretty shirts Like a lady on parade, And they wouldn't touch a sailor With a hoe or with a spade. We may not be ornamental In the tinselled dancing halls, When the nation needs defenders We are there when duty calls. Though we can't hob-nob with laggards Who sleep in sheltered bed And we can't enjoy peace pleasures, We can join the hero dead.

CHIEF GUNNER BLAKE SPEAKS:

SOMEWHERE along in January, 1915, I shipped on the U. S. S. _Utah_. Always had a hankering after the sea, and then, to tell the truth, civilian jobs were pretty hard to land in 1915--you bet they were!

Once you're in the Navy you stay for a while. I liked it from the start. I got to know a thing or two about the guns, went to gunnery school; that's how I came to be made chief gunner's mate, I guess, and told to report for armed guard duty on May 29, 1917.

I drew an old tub. I suppose it had been used to carry a cargo of salt fish from Maine to Newfoundland, and here it was, painted fresh, and ready to cross the old Atlantic, which was fairly bristling with mines and lurking sea-devils.

We put to sea June 19th, and we reached the War Zone on July 3rd. I know what I'm doing, writing War Zone with capitals. You don't have to be told when you get there. You feel it in the air--it's like a wire vibrating; everyone's on edge, keyed up to G pitch.

It was my job to see that all lights were doused and all ports closed as soon as it got dark. I wasn't particular about the way I enforced orders just so I got them obeyed--and I saw to it that every man who carried a match was parted from it and that all pocket lights were put in a neat little pile--officers excepted, of course. They kept theirs.

Every hour I made a round of the ship, watching out sharp for a light. Important! Say, just suppose Fritz's sea-baby were lying off a few miles or so without the faintest idea that a merchantman, chuck-full of munitions, was a stone's throw away. Think how that German crew would feel if across the darkness they saw the flare of a match. Well, it would be apt to be lights out for us all that time--that's what.

The watch was doubled--four on and four off--a watch of good sixteen hours at a clip, with a life preserver on every minute of the time--that is, you were supposed to. On the transports the rule is carried out to the letter. Catch a man without a life belt and he can be pretty sure he'll be up for court-martial when he gets back to port.

But with us it was different. We kept them close by; some of the men slept in them. I had mine over my feet ready to snatch up in case of trouble.

It was July 3rd, remember, and we were feeling pretty good. My bunky was McCaffrey--Mac for short--a little red-headed, freckled Irishman from Wisconsin, the best that comes west of the Mississippi. We had it all fixed up to fire a gun off on the Fourth.

"Sure, it's a fine opinion Fritz'll have of us if he's thinkin' we're scared to let him know it's our big day back home," he argued.

I thought it was a great idea--I told him I'd stand by if he'd share the blame. Of course we knew darned well we'd never really pull it off, but it was good fun planning the whole thing just the same.

The sea was calm that night, for a wonder--just a gentle swell. We were on watch at eight, all on good lookout. Orders were to stand by, and the guns were primed, ready to shoot red hell into anything short of an ally.

I wish we could have had a close-up of us. Faces grim, tense from excitement, joking a bit under our breaths, wishing to Moses we could have a smoke, betting we'd get through without sighting anything better than our own reflection in the water.

Somehow we felt peppy. I guess it was thinking about the Fourth and what it stood for. Seemed queer to be in mid-ocean on the night before the Declaration of Independence was signed--yep, in the middle of a blooming black sea, with nothing in sight but a dash of white foam against your keel, where you cut along through a swell.

I'd just glanced at my radium watch and blessed the girl who gave it to me. It was nine. I glanced up. Not fifty yards away was a ribbon of white foam flung out on the water like a scarf, and, sticking straight out, by God, was the periscope of a German submarine.

No one waited for the command, "Fire when ready. . . ."

The ship was action electrified. I never saw a crew work like that. They fired point-blank and sent that periscope straight up to where all good periscopes go. Ripped her clean off.

We weren't sure we'd sunk her, but we figured we had. How did we feel? How do you think? That was celebrating the Fourth right and proper!

Mac, sweating like a horse, panting from excitement, managed to breeze by and chuckle.

"Didn't I tell you we'd shoot one off to show 'em who's who?"

It was a great night. We were heroes. We had knocked the stuffings out of a periscope; it stood to reason we'd sunk her.

We figured out how it happened. The submarine, when she was 'way out on the horizon line, must have seen us coming. She had evidently made a long detour, plotting our course and planning to arrive where she could take good aim and fire. What happened was that we changed our course, so that when she popped up she was plumb across our bow. Surprised! Wow! I bet her commander, if he's alive, hasn't closed his mouth yet!

It was something like this:

Well, we pretty well patted ourselves on the back, but German submarines must travel in pairs, like rattlesnakes, or else she came back to life, for an hour later she struck us amidships.

You know it when you're struck. Rather! The crash--the roar--the tremendous vibration--for a full minute, as the big hulk trembles and shudders--the hiss of water rushing into the boilers, the steam gushing, the sudden listing, and, worst of all, the throb of the engines silenced. . . .

You never forget that silence, felt rather than heard. It means you're a goner for fair. Above all the orders, rapped out like the clip of a hammer on steel--that noisy silence sounds loudest in your ears.

"Stand by your guns. . . ." Sure we did. While there was still a chance we wanted to get a whack at that sub., but all the time I was worrying about Mac. He was taking a watch off. Could I reach him?

". . . Get back, you damned fools. . . ."

". . . Man the life-boats!"

". . . Gee, that's a close one! Look spry or you'll wash overboard. . . ."

We didn't leave our post until the last life-boat swung clear and landed with her crew. A couple of boats had been smashed against the side of the ship and we heard the yells of their crew--nasty sound, that.

I forgot about my life-belt--I wanted to find Mac. I couldn't. It was pitch black. The water was waist deep and washing over you in gigantic waves. There was only one chance--to jump for it. I took it. I landed near the propellers. I could hear them churning fiercely--I could feel their suction drawing me to them. I guess I fought like a fiend. I'd heard about the death men die drawn into that blasted hole the ship makes when she goes down to Davy Jones.

I didn't think of home. I didn't think of my past sins. I just thought with every ounce of my strength that if I could keep swimming for a few seconds more I could be clear of that undertow. I made it.

All around me men were calling for help. I made out a life-boat a few yards away and hollered to them, and just then an oar floated by.

I never was so glad to see anything in my life. I rested on it and caught another. Two oars! Why, it was as good as a raft. I was safe--if only I could find McCaffrey in that black hell.

I yelled his name and heard a sputter behind me.

"For God's sake, save me----"

"Stay where you are; I'll get you."

It was Spick, one of the oilers--a big chap, weighing a good one-ninety.

"Steady! I'm coming."

He grabbed the oar and lay across it, a dead weight. Someone else pulled me down.

It was little Tucker, mess attendant, a kid of seventeen. He was all in. I shoved them both along, and they were heavy, let me tell you. Someone in the boat saw us and drew alongside. They lifted us in.

"Where's McCaffrey?" I asked them.

Just then I saw him. He was swimming straight for us. I let out a yell, but it died in my throat.

Straight out of the water, not twenty yards away, rose the gray bulk of the submarine, its greenish light casting a weird glow over that awful scene of struggling men. Fritz's war-baby had come back to gloat over the damage it had done.

Our captain, with his pocket light, was flashing the Morse code on the water as he floundered about.

From the deck of the submarine the commander's voice rang out. He spoke as good English as I do.

"What ship have I hit?"

"Where is your captain?"

"_Where is your captain?_"

Then it was that little Tucker, sitting forward, tense, leaned far out and yelled:

"Douse yer glim, Cap, douse yer glim. . . ."

Out it went. The commander gave an order. We couldn't hear it, but we were afraid he meant to make straight for us and cut us in two. We pulled away, but, instead, he was wishing us the best of luck to lie there and rot, and then they submerged--just vanished into the black water from which they had appeared.

We waited trembling, but nothing happened. There wasn't a boat in sight. The old hulk of our ship had gone down forever. I thought of the Captain and of McCaffrey.

"Let's get 'em now, mates," I urged. But from the direction in which we'd last heard them there came no sound. They weren't there. Nobody was. So we pulled away.

It was a leaky boat and we stripped off our shirts--anything we had on that was white, so that in case Fritz came back he could not sight us. We needed the shirts, all right, to stuff up the holes in the boat. Those who weren't stopping up the holes took turns bailing. We bailed like fiends--no time to think--no time for anything but to hope a convoy would pick us up.

Along toward dawn, at six-thirty to be exact, our own convoy sighted us. The boys were pretty stiff from exposure, but I was all right--all right and fighting mad--my matey had gone down.

"I'll _get_ that Kaiser," I told them. And I will, too. That's why I'm shipping on a destroyer next. I'll get that Kaiser, see if I don't.

CHIEF PETTY OFFICER WILSON SPEAKS:

THE French are a whole lot different from us--more easy-going-like. They make their money and spend it free. I like that about them. Not like some people I know who won't let go of a nickel once they gets a death grip on it.

Well, say, when we was anchored at Villefranche we come to know a thing or two about the Frenchies. Villefranche is just over the hill from Nice--a nice jaunt of a couple of miles or so, or if you've a mind to, you can take a little car that gets you there before you know it.

Nice is on the style of Atlantic City. If you ask me, I like Atlantic City better, but then that's because they speak United States there. Still Nice has a great bathing beach--you have to hand it to them--and you get so you like them little tables set out in front of the cafés, where they "parlez-vous" with each other and drink quarts of red ink.

We'd hike over to Nice every shore leave. Some of the crew went as far as Monte Carlo, but not me. I was satisfied. Besides, one place was as sporty as the other, if that was what you wanted. They was chuck-full of what the French call the "joie de vie," which in Yankee means "plenty of pep"--that's it.

You always felt happy there and the people was great! Didn't seem to take nothing serious--the Frenchies don't, in peace times. The women had a twinkle in their eye and a kind of sparkle about them, and the men said pretty things and twirled their canes--oh, they was a cheerful lot, all right.

Remember, all this was before the war. It was August. Hot. Still. Can't you see it? The sea, where our boat lay at anchor, calm as glass and blue as a turquoise. The sand along the beach, snow white.

It was a Saturday, and we had a forty-eight, which took us ashore at ten in the morning. Didn't want to miss no time on land. The day was so fine that we decided to foot it into town. Everything was green and growing and smelled good. We took our time and ambled into Nice long about chow. The minute we hit that port I knew for sure something was up.

Oh, don't think there hadn't been war talk flying about. Sure there had, but, except for a general uneasiness, you wouldn't know nothing was doing. The Frenchies are like that--they don't hunt trouble, but when it comes--oh, boy! They sure are right _there_!

We seen little groups of folks standing talking together. The shop keepers had left their shops, and joined the crowds on the street. They was waving their hands--they are great on that--everyone speaking at once. We come up close and listened. What we heard certainly made our ears ring!

War! France was going to declare war on Germany! Queer how that black cloud seemed to change the whole complexion of that little sun-soaked town. I'd never seen the natives look like that before. There was a little old woman who kept a fruit stand--figs and peaches and what-not. She always had a grin for us fellows when we passed. She and her granddaughter. The granddaughter was a pretty girl--her cheeks was as red as the side of the peaches and she had black eyes and hair. They was always ready to swap a "bon jour" with us--but not today. The old lady was minding the stand alone. She looked kind of white--no smile--no wave of her hand. She told me her granddaughter had gone to the square where the bulletins was being posted. We beat it over.

It was about three; no, I guess it was four, before the big crowds began to gather in the square. Up to that time there had been little groups drifting here and there, but by four the wagons had stopped at the corners, their drivers had climbed down from the seats and pushed their way into the mob, and the tram-car conductors and motormen just left their cars wherever they happened to shut off power, and shoved their way in for a view of the bulletins.

I tell you, that little town was at fever heat! Excitement! Say, nothing beats a Frenchie at that! I've seen a lot of things in my time, but it certainly gave me a queer feeling in the pit of my stomach to realize just what those bulletins meant. It kind of got you to see that little pleasure city so dead serious all at once.

Everyone in Nice was in that crowd--rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. The ladies from the Riviera, in their silks and satins--the tradespeople--the poor--all fighting for a view of the words flashed on the boards.

Someone yelled, "Vive la France! Vive la France!" and a thousand voices caught it up until it rose and swelled like the roar of the combers in a storm.

We had seen Nice quiet and peaceful and pretty--we saw a different Nice from that moment. They didn't waste no time. They began calling in the reserves. Do you know how they done it? Why, they'd simply gather them up as they went along the street. From buildings and shops and hotels and huts they poured--boys for the most part--some pulling on a coat and buttoning it as they ran, and women following them, always women--sweethearts and mothers--looking puzzled and dazed by it all, but never holding the boys back--not they!

I never seen fellows mustered in that quick. The streets were choked with men--sharp orders rang out, and the blare of trumpets and rolling of drums. Say, I had to pinch myself to be sure I wasn't dreaming it! You read about such things, but you never expect to see them with your own two eyes!

Some few men had uniforms or parts of uniforms. Some carried old swords their fathers had fought with before them. Some of them sang as they marched to their barracks, arm in arm. Some broke away and ran ahead, calling to a pal, stopping to speak with an old friend. And always, lined up on either side of the street, was the raving, crazy mob that cheered them, flinging up their hats and waving handkerchiefs.

Outside the cafés, at the little tables, wine was flowing like water. One glass after another flung down with a toast to France. They didn't stop at that. I seen a little girl spring up on a table and hold her glass high; all the folks at nearby tables jumped to their feet, cheering her. I couldn't hear what she said, but suddenly she straightened up and began singing the "Marseillaise." Lord! The whole town caught up the tune--it came from everywhere. Women in open windows above the street, leaning way out over the sills, sang it; children in the street piped up; there wasn't no one too young or too old to join in.

The boys marching by grinned at her as they shouted it, and she waved to them.

At a crossing I caught sight of our little old woman. She was shelling out all the fruit on her stand to the boys as they passed. The tears was rolling down her cheeks, but she smiled at them just the same.