Chapter V: Convoy Duty

Followed a fortnight of uneventful existence. Back in Queenstown they made the most of the interims between sea duty, putting in all the time ashore that they could get, hobnobbing with “gobs” from the other ships, yarning and listening to yarns, rooting enthusiastically for this or that baseball team, reading and writing in the Y. M. C. A. hut, and exploring the neighboring villages and towns, for that was before the men were restricted to bounds. They found mail awaiting them, and a multitude of home papers and magazines, and Dave received a box of comforts from his mother that made him a bit homesick at first, and then cheered him up vastly. The three of them, Dave, Pete, and The Pickle, made that box look horribly empty in something under an hour!

The second period of duty on patrol brought nothing to liven the monotony. Fair weather held, and the six days outside were deadly monotonous, or would have been had there not always been the hope of something happening to keep their spirits up. Gun practice saved the day for many of them. Dave was trying his best to qualify for seaman gunner, and to that end studied diligently in what books he could buy or borrow, and watched Kennedy closely, and asked so many questions that he threatened to become a nuisance. Chuck Morgan remained as affable as ever, but he stood in such respect of The Pickle’s vocabulary that he generally avoided that youth’s society. He tried picking on Pete once or twice, and Pete good-naturedly let him get away with it until Chuck ill-advisedly referred to Pete as a Sinn Feiner. Then the fur flew until friends of the belligerents took their lives in their hands and parted them just in time to save them from the eye of the junior officer. Chuck got slightly the worst of the encounter, but, as Pete pointed out aggrievedly, he hadn’t got nearly what he would have had the fellows let them alone! After that Chuck remained on good behavior for some time.

Their second stay at the base was cut short by one day, and the _944_ slid out between the nets that guard the harbor entrance one twilight in company with four destroyers and a second chaser, and turned her nose west southwest. “Convoy duty,” said Briggs hopefully. “Maybe we’ll land a scrap this time. Only, if we do,” he added dejectedly, “those destroyers’ll jump in and hog the show.”

Still, there was no charge for hoping, and the crew of the _944_ dreamed beautiful dreams of a stand-up-and-knock-down shindy with a fine big Fritz. All that night and all the next day the six craft steamed westward in single-column formation, the gray destroyers in the lead and setting a sharp pace and the two chasers bringing up the rear. Behind the _944_ was one of the 110-foot boats, narrow beamed, low decked, with a square stern. She looked ridiculously small for the work in hand, but they had to acknowledge aboard the _944_ that she was certainly able and looked a heap like business. They had squally weather, with a rough sea, and the _944’s_ deck ran with water most of the time. As for the destroyers, reaching out in a long, slim, gray line ahead, they made no pretense of keeping dry. They simply buried their sharp noses into the chop and flung the seas over the swaying bridges and asked for more. In the graveyard watch of the second morning the engines ceased their humming, and it was known that the convoys had reached the rendezvous. They pitched and slopped around until dawn, making headway and no more, and then went on again lazily, the lookouts peering ahead into a gray mist. It was the middle of the forenoon before smoke was sighted. Then out of the haze crept twelve big transports, asking hoarse questions with their whistles, and fluttering a babel of conversation by wig-wag.

Two of the ships were laden with marines and the rest with army troops, and as the destroyers and chasers sped past, under the high sides, to take their positions, the air was filled with cheers and the long decks fluttered with waving hats. Aboard the little _944_ they clustered at the rail and grinned and waved back, and felt for some reason a bit chokey. Tier on tier of olive-drab forms loomed above them, so many that it seemed to Dave that every camp and cantonment back home must have been emptied aboard those big ships. Cheer after cheer followed them as they dashed by in a welter of spray, rather smartly they all hoped, and ducked across under the frowning bows of a big transport to take their position on the starboard flank. Signal answered signal, sirens screeched, and, as Pete said, Donnybrook Fair had nothing on them. Yet out of the confusion order came swiftly, and an hour after the junction of transports and convoys big ships and little were on their way again, the troopships in line of twos and the convoys on each flank. Westward they set their course, and satisfaction possessed the fo’c’sle of the _944_.

“Bordeaux,” guessed Briggs joyfully. “Great! They say it’s some town, fellows. A chap I met the other day told me you can get regular back-home pie in Bordeaux. And cake! Say, boy, I’m not eating a thing till we get there!”

Meanwhile, you may be certain, no lookout napped at his station. On convoys and transports sharp eyes combed the sea for the challenge of an upthrust periscope or the slinking form of a dripping conning tower. Over the rims of swaying cages, down from lofty crow’s nests, lookouts peered all hours at a yeasty ocean, while from decks as well spotters leveled their glasses. The Pickle chuckled as he joined Dave in the lee of the funnel that afternoon.

“I know just how those doughboys over there are feeling to-day,” he said, in answer to the other’s look of inquiry. “I’ve been through it. You talk such a lot about the danger zone and get to thinking about it so much that when they pass you the word one night to sleep in your life-belts, and you know you’ve got there at last, you just naturally expect a torpedo to come flipping right into your bunk ’most any time. You don’t sleep a whole lot that first night, either. Maybe it is because life-belts aren’t as comfortable as pajamas, or maybe because every time a sailor stubs his toe at the far end of the ship you sit right straight up in bed and try to remember off-hand which way your boat is. Lots of us slept on deck that first night. They told us we mustn’t, but we did. There was something quite a bit cheering in the thought that when the ‘moldie’ struck us all we had to do was slide gently into the sea and strike out for Liverpool! Bet you they’re a nervous bunch over there just now.” He nodded toward the nearest of the big transports. “If some one drops a plate at mess there’ll be a rush for the decks that’ll make a subway crush look like a doll’s party.”

“I suppose you do feel sort of ticklish,” mused Dave. “Think what a prize one of those ships would be for a Hun. Imagine a torpedo bursting amidships yonder.”

“I’d rather not, thanks,” said Dill, dryly. “You’ve got a punk imagination, Kid.” After a moment he went on. “Funny about that steamer. When we first ran past her she looked sort of familiar to me, like an old friend who’s shaved off his mustache or――or parted his hair different. All daubed up with gray like that, she sort of puzzled me. Then I borrowed a pair of glasses and read her name on a lifeboat. She’s the old _Everglades_, and I’ve made three trips on her. Know her almost as well as I know my frat house. She used to run from New York to Savannah. See that timber arrangement on the upper deck almost at the end? Some sort of a signaling effect, I guess. Well, my stateroom was the one just for’ard of it. One, two, three――six from the thwartship passage. Seems funny to see her away out here and all smudged up with gray and filled with soldiers. Gee, war does funny tricks! I’ve had some mighty good times on that old ship,” he added with a chuckle.

Carter joined them, half seated himself on the narrow ledge about the funnel base without a word and bracing himself to the swing of the boat.

“How many troops do you suppose she has aboard?” asked Dave.

“Maybe fifteen hundred,” estimated Dill. “Maybe more than that. They’ve changed those ships all over inside and can pack ’em away like sardines. Gee, that’s queer, too! What are they doing there, fellows, all those guys in khaki? Where’d they come from? What’s it all mean, eh?” He shook his head in a hopelessly puzzled way. Carter viewed him in mild surprise, but made no answer. Dave nodded.

“It is funny,” he said. “Fifteen hundred American kids. Clerks and college boys and factory hands and day laborers a few months ago. Didn’t know whether a rifle was something to eat or a new game of cards. Now look at them! Yes, it’s――it’s mighty queer. What _are_ they doing?”

“Making men of themselves,” said Carter evenly. “Going across the ocean to fight a horde of murdering cowards, and maybe get killed doing it. Going over to set things right again in this world we’re living in. Taking their chances for those that will come after them, the kids of to-day and all the kids to come. That’s what this war seems to me, fellows, a war for the――the future generation, so they’ll be free and happy. It doesn’t seem to make such a lot of difference about us folks, we that are here now, does it? It’s our children and their children we’ve got to think about, isn’t it?”

“Blessed if I ever thought of it like that,” said Dill slowly. “But I see what you’re driving at, Yank. There’s something in it, too. I guess if we don’t settle this thing now, and for keeps, our kids’ll have mighty poor pickings. A war for the kids, eh? Well, maybe, Yank, maybe.”

“It’s wonderful, anyway,” said Dave, “all those boys picked up out of quiet, everyday, humdrum life and――and sort of melted over into soldiers and fighters in a jiffy. It――it makes you awfully proud that you’re an American, doesn’t it?”

“Sure,” responded Dill, more cheerfully. “Makes you want to flap your wings a bit and crow. Or――or blink your eyes and swallow!”

“I guess we’ve all always been proud of being Americans,” observed Carter quietly, “only we didn’t always know it.”

“Right-o,” agreed The Pickle. “And there’s only one thing that will ever make me change my mind about it.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, that’s――” He stopped and looked frowningly across the tumbling water. Then: “Suppose we fall down on this job, fellows. Suppose that after all the boasting we’ve done, because we have done a lot of it; too blamed much, and you both know it; suppose that after all our talk of what we are going to do, we――don’t do it! That would be pretty sickening, wouldn’t it?”

“We _will_ do it,” said Carter confidently. “We can’t help doing it. It’s in us. We do boast, but we don’t mean any harm. It’s just our way of showing our confidence, of being-what-do-you-call-it, optimistic. It’s just plain spirits. But we always make good our boasts, and that’s the main thing!”

“Hope you’re right,” commented Dill, unconvinced. “Anyway, I’m not hauling down my flag yet!”

That night they churned along under dark skies with never a glimmer showing, and the next day found themselves under a blue heaven again and bathed in the warm sunshine of early September. There were no alarms from the lookouts. The submarine might well have been a prehistoric myth for all the evidence they found. On the transports drills occupied much of the time, and from the _944_ they watched the olive-drab figures assemble on the deck of the _Everglades_ for setting-up drill in the morning and saw them hurrying to the life-boats later. Toward evening they all slowed down while one of the troopships made engine repairs.

Finally, soon after dawn the next day, they raised the French coast and at noon were passing through the estuary of the Gironde River, picking their way in single line between the hidden mines and nets, guided by a diminutive French cruiser with a kaleidoscopic hull. Bevies of trawlers crawled from their path and big cargo boats churned past them, going seaward. The ocean breeze had departed and a languorous warmth wrapped them as they followed the course of the winding channel. Green meadows descended gently to the river banks and picturesque white plaster houses with impossibly red roofs peeked at them from under the trees. Dave’s first glimpse of France was a happy one, for Bordeaux has a peculiar charm of Old World quaintness and color.

The convoys anchored below the city, while the transports sailed on and up and finally out of sight, lost in a forest of roofs and masts. There was liberty that afternoon for all who wanted it aboard the _944_, and Dave, Dill, and Pete went merrily ashore and saw the town. And there was much to see, much that was as unfamiliar as picturesque and curious. There were squads of German prisoners at work along the docks, phlegmatic and evidently contented, loading and unloading transports and merchantmen and guarded by colorful French soldiers with phenomenally long bayonets fixed to their rifles. The streets were filled with donkey carts, each presided over by a woman, and women drove the street cars as well. Soldiers on leave were everywhere, hobbling about on crutches or bandaged somewhere and always cheerful, or so it seemed to the boys. They saw all they could crowd into a few short hours; the markets, and the warm-hued old buildings and the goats that were driven from door to door and milked and many, many churches, in one of which they viewed a fine collection of mummies!

America, however, was fast working a change in the old city, for docks and warehouses and camps were going up overnight and the khaki-clad boys from the U. S. A. were everywhere in evidence. Outside the town a veritable village of wooden buildings was nearing completion, a camp to which the new troops were marched from the transports and quartered until they were sent off to the villages behind the lines. The _944_ lay in the Gironde that night and then, at sun-up, churned off, in company with the other chaser, and headed for Queenstown.

Penmarch Point, the easterly tip of France, was abreast at sunset and some time in the early morning the Scilly Islands were passed. The other chaser had passed from sight with darkness and the _944_, quite alone now and swinging along at some fourteen knots with only enough motion to deepen the slumber of the watch below, was approximately sixty miles west of Land’s End when the tragedy occurred.