Chapter XXII: Old Friends Come Aboard

They were back in Queenstown two mornings later, returning by way of Fishguard. The _Warren_ was at anchor and waves of heat above her four grey stacks indicated that she was getting ready for business once more. That noon the starboard mess was entertained with a vivid first-hand account of a Zeppelin raid on London. There was a big batch of mail in the afternoon, and Joe and Steve each fared well. The home papers proved interesting reading, for they covered a period of nearly three weeks, during which much had happened back in what Steve called “the little old U. S. A.” The draft for the National Army had been made, the government had taken over all merchant ships of twenty-five hundred tons or more then building and the President had put his signature to a bill to control the country’s food supply. In Russia, too, events had transpired, for because of the disaffection of certain regiments the army was in general retreat in Galicia. But from Flanders came better news, for the British and French had smashed the German lines over a twenty-mile front. Rumours of that success had reached them before, but experience had proved the advisability of discrediting most rumours. That advance made up for the disruption of the Russian defences in the east, in Steve’s opinion, but Joe refused to be placated by it and stated his opinion of the Russians in an earnest manner that carried conviction. There was no argument forthcoming, for although his audience consisted of half the starboard watch no one had the heart to disagree.

The _Warren_ put in an eventful turn on patrol that lasted six days and nights, most of which were squally. The events, though, were neither novel nor exciting, but consisted of false alarms, unfruitful chases and frequent battles with the gales. Back in port Steve came down with a cold that put him ashore in the hospital for two days, but just before the destroyer weighed anchor again he came piling back, better but by no means well. Joe lectured him severely, but Steve only grinned.

The second morning out the wireless picked up a call for help from an American steamer which had just entered the danger zone on the eastward passage. The _Warren_ was a good sixty-five miles off, but she kicked up her heels and started for the scene. The boys will always remember that bit of steaming, for the destroyer ran straight into the seas at a gait just under thirty knots for more than two hours. The waves were high in consequence of the gales which had been lashing the Atlantic for more than a week and life on the bridge was no better than a prolonged shower bath. The seas washed the deck clean aft of the forecastle and every opening of the hatches brought buckets of water down to the lower deck. There were times when the _Warren_ stuck her nose so far under that it seemed only a miracle could wrench it out again. But she always shook herself free and staggered on, leaping and bucking like a broncho. Even the foretop cage was a spray-drenched place during those wild hundred and forty minutes. But the _Warren_ did herself proud, and every man-Jack aboard thrilled to the plucky struggle she made. In the radio hutch such messages as “Hold on, we’re coming!” “With you in forty minutes!” and “Stick it out!” were sent at intervals, but there came no reply from the steamer and it seemed that the destroyer was to be too late. But the Old Man was taking no chances and as the _Warren_ drew near the scene the bow guns were manned and the little ship was in readiness.

It was just after six bells when the foretop spotter gave the word that smoke was ahead. Before that they had heard the sounds of gunfire and a cheer broke out when the submarine was sighted a mile or so away from the steamer which lay, evidently helpless, rolling in the seas. The _Warren_ made straight for the U-boat, but the latter had apparently got wind of the destroyer’s approach, for she submerged quickly before the _Warren_ could get within range. Circling repeatedly about the spot, the destroyer let go five depth-charges, but no signs of the enemy were seen again.

Later they got the steamer’s story. She had just entered the danger zone when a lookout reported a submarine on the port bow. Immediately the U-boat fired a shell which passed a few yards from the steamer’s stern. The captain then sent out his wireless appeal for help, since the location of the submarine was such that escape seemed impossible. A long range battle began between the two craft, the steamer firing at nine thousand yards and the submarine manœuvring to keep out of range and at the same time keeping up a running fire. The steamer’s shells fell short, but the U-boat made several hits, wounding four men. After the battle had gone on almost two hours, during which the steamer’s gun crews fired two hundred and sixty shots and the submarine two hundred and thirty-four, the latter made a lucky hit, exploding a shell in the engine room and putting the vessel out of commission. The submarine had then approached nearer and had continued to rain shots, but for some reason, perhaps in the hope of taking the steamer afloat, had fired no torpedoes. The steamer’s wireless had been disabled shortly after the beginning of the engagement and the _Warren’s_ messages had not reached her. Consequently the captain had been as surprised as delighted when he had seen a low streak of black smoke to the northeastward and, later, the destroyer ploughing toward him head-on. He had given up all hope of saving his vessel at the time of the destroyer’s unexpected appearance.

The surgeon and two assistants made a perilous trip across to the steamer and attended to the wounded, after which the _Warren_ stood by while engine repairs were made with great difficulty. Toward night the two ships started for the French coast. They lost each other once but came together again soon after daylight and the _Warren_ steamed within sight until the steamer was safely in-shore.

That incident was fairly typical of the sort of work that fell to the _Warren_, although sometimes she arrived at the scene too late and sometimes, as on a later occasion, her services went for nought because of the pigheadedness of a skipper. That time the _Warren_ was convoying a steamer with new engines which had never been properly worked in. Instead of keeping in column she kept up a series of zig-zag excursions to port and starboard that puzzled the _Warren’s_ commander considerably. When she had crossed the destroyer’s bows the fourth time in less than an hour the _Warren_ signalled and the reply came back that she couldn’t slow down to the destroyer’s pace. “You’ll have to,” replied the _Warren_. “Dangerous channel ahead. Keep astern and follow.” So said the destroyer’s blinker in the semi-darkness of early morning. Whether the cargo boat read the signal aright or, reading, couldn’t make up her mind to obey, wasn’t apparent just then. But the natural thing happened, for the steamer piled herself up on a reef and went down with three thousand tons of much needed coal. The _Warren_ rescued the crew of thirty men and, metaphorically shrugging her shoulders, went off on her business.

There was another case of pigheadedness soon after which, however, did not end disastrously. The convoy in that case was an American freighter, a rusty old junk of a ship that almost racked herself to pieces in the effort to keep her place in the column. The first night the _Warren’s_ lookout observed, to his horror, that the tramp was showing a stern light that might easily have been seen twenty miles away.

“Dim that stern light!” ordered the destroyer’s captain.

“It’s only what we always carry,” was the response.

“Dim it,” was the prompt reply, “or I’ll blow it off you!”

It was dimmed.

The _Warren_ picked up strange guests at times. One bright and blowy morning a trampish-looking steamer came close and signalled that she was under sealed orders from London and had on board survivors from the crew of a British steamer torpedoed at daylight. She asked if the _Warren_ would take them aboard. The executive gestured despair, but a whaleboat was lowered from the tramp and the survivors of the _Castle Something_――no one there ever found out her exact name――were tumbled into it. They were a strange looking lot when they reached the _Warren’s_ deck. Cingalese, they were, with black skins and straight hair matted from hours in the water. Most were clad only in blankets and iodine-stained bandages. They were washed and freshly bandaged and fed hot coffee and stowed forward, fourteen philosophical Mohammedan castaways who expressed neither resentment at Fate nor gratitude for rescue. They ate and dozed and jabbered softly amongst themselves and were finally put ashore on the west coast of Ireland in a drizzly dusk.

And so life went with the “Suicide Fleet.” In three months of service the American flotilla had collectively steamed over five hundred thousand miles in British waters, and so far without the loss of a life or a serious mishap. Patrolling the sea lanes, convoying merchantmen and troop-ships, fighting the submarines, rescuing survivors of torpedoed craft: that was their duty and they performed it well. And meanwhile they gained by experience, officers and men. They learned new things constantly, such as smoke-screening, hardly more than a theory with them before, and the use of depth-charges. And gunnery improved day by day. The _Warren_ in September had a record of a shattered periscope at two thousand yards. That was Number Four gun, and there was no living with that crew for days afterwards!

Steve and Joe became first-class seamen in due time, and, to get ahead of our story somewhat, in the Autumn Joe received his reward for the _Sundsvall_ exploit when he was made a gunner’s mate of the second class and blossomed forth proudly in his rating badge of spread eagle, crossed guns and two chevrons. Steve was divided between pride in his chum and envy of his fortune, and secretly determined to win his petty officership too. Whether he did or did not does not belong to this narrative. Nor does the way in which he did it!

It was well toward the last of August and on a beautifully warm day that the _Warren_, skimming a leisurely path across a shining ocean with almost no swell, sighted a speck in the distance. They were some three hundred and forty miles off the Irish coast. Steve had just finished his turn aloft and was standing near the port torpedo tube in conversation with Jack Higgins when the word went down to the bridge and was answered by the straining of the steering cables as the _Warren_ turned her nose to starboard.

“Wonder what it’ll be this time,” muttered Jack when they could see the object from the deck and had made her out a small boat. “Maybe Chinese, eh! We haven’t had any Chinese yet. Awfully careless of the Old Man, too.”

Twenty minutes later eighteen chattering, half-starved men were helped over the side: seamen, firemen, a ship’s steward and two lads in the bedraggled uniform of the United States Naval Reserve. Of the latter one carried the mark of a gun-pointer and the other of a seaman gunner. Steve, watching curiously and sympathetically as the pale-faced throng came aboard, suddenly gave a startled exclamation.

“_Phil!_” he gasped.

The lad with the gun-pointer’s insignia on his sleeve turned and looked along the deck in the direction of the voice. Then his tired face lighted up and a tremulous smile flitted across it as he held up a hand in greeting. Steve, scarcely believing his eyes, edged nearer. The second Reserve gunner was looking, too, now, and he also grinned and formed words with his lips that Steve couldn’t read. Then they were all hustled below and Steve set excitedly forth to find Joe. He hadn’t far to go, for Joe was one of a group looking on from further aft. Steve grabbed him and pulled him around.

“Did you see?” he cried.

“See? See what?”

“See who came aboard!”

“Sure. A dozen and a half hungry――――”

“No, but the fellows in Reserve uniforms! Did you recognise them!”

“Not a bit. Who were they? Say, what’s the big idea, Steve? You look all upset.”

“It’s Phil and Harry!” declared Steve in a breath.

“Finnan haddie? _What’s_ Finnan haddie? Say, for the love of――――”

“Oh, dry up and listen! _Phil and Harry_, I said! Phil ... and....”

“Never!”

“Honest!”

“_Get out!_”

“Cross my heart, Joe! What do you know about it, eh?”

“Where are they?” Joe started toward the hatch, but Steve seized him.

“Wait! No use going down now. The Old Man’ll have them, I guess. Wait till they’ve had some eats. They saw me. I yelped right out when I caught sight of Phil, and the junior luff looked daggers at me. Couldn’t help it. Say, honest, doesn’t it beat everything?”

“It sure does! Still, there’s no reason why they shouldn’t be here, you know. I suppose they got strafed.”

“Do you really? Aren’t you the bright little laddie? What made you think that?” Steve was too excited to talk sense. “Just because they were in a life-boat a-floating around the ocean you jump at the conclusion that they’ve been strafed. Gee, but you’re a regular Sherlock W. Holmes, you are, Joe! Think of old Phil and Harry turning up like this! I wonder what happened.”

“So do I,” replied Joe resolutely, “and I mean to find out.” And, avoiding Steve’s grasp he strode to the hatch, squeezed through and tumbled down the ladder. Steve followed on his heels, but it wasn’t until a full hour later that the four members of the Adventure Club found themselves together in the lee of the stern gun and that Steve and Joe heard the story of the sinking of the _Arapahoe_.