Chapter II: Submarine Chaser 944

A few months before, the craft on which Dave now found himself had been the pride of a wealthy New York man, and had seldom performed a more hazardous exploit than to bear its owner up and down the Hudson River between a palatial home and the city. To-day, shorn of gilt and draperies, made over, above deck and below, to fit her for her new requirements, it is doubtful if her former owner would have recognized her had he seen her lying beside a stone dock in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The immaculate white of her hull had disappeared under coats of lead-gray, and the same dull hue covered all superstructure, masts, small boats, and standing gear. Even the canvas jackets that covered the bow and stern guns and the lookout cage on the foremast were gray. A deck-house had been erected abaft the mainmast, while atop the wheel-house a bridge now stretched from side to side, a thing of pipe-iron and canvas. If one looked carefully over the bow one could just make out under the new paint the yacht’s former name, _Meteor_; but further back, in big black letters and numerals, was the legend: S C _944_.

The _944_ was a hundred and twenty-two feet over all, and had a beam and a draught that, while conducive to speed, had not been figured with deep sea voyaging in mind. Her twin oil-burning engines could send her along at a twenty-mile clip. She carried a complement of two commissioned officers and twenty-six enlisted men, most of whom, from captain down to mess attendant, were well under thirty. In fact, Lieutenant Cowan was but twenty-five, and the _944_ was his first command; and his junior and executive officer, Ensign Hyatt, was still younger by two years. Even the engineering head, a non-commissioned officer holding the rating of chief machinist’s mate, was well on the under side of thirty. So, it will be seen, on the _944_ enthusiasm took the place of hard experience.

But of enthusiasm there was plenty, as Dave discovered that first evening aboard. By that time they were somewhere in the broad waters of the Sound, while behind them trailed three other chasers. The sweltering heat of the August day had given way to the fresh coolness of night, and a little southeast breeze, straight from the twinkling lights of the distant shore, played a soft tune in the aerial that stretched between the short masts. Dave had eaten his first “chow” on board――had, in a fashion, learned the ropes――and was now on speaking terms with most of the crew. They were, he thought, a nice lot, and he was already looking on the _944_ as the Pride of the Navy, and congratulating himself on not having been relegated to the _Pennsylvania_ or _Arizona_! And perhaps he had some excuse for self-gratulation, for on a boat of the chaser size officers and men are thrown nearer together than on the big ships, and while there is never any letting down of the bars separating ward room from fo’c’sle, the conditions of living make for a closer intimacy and a greater esprit de corps. Dave’s watch was below that evening, and he swung his legs from his bunk in the little fo’c’sle and listened to the chatter of the others, the swish of water along the side, and the steady hum of the engines. The port watch were bewailing the fate that had kept them on the wrong side of the “pond” until now. “Dutchy,” who was a big two-fisted Dane, with a long body and short stumps of legs, lugubriously predicted in his slow and careful manner, that the war would be all over before they got across. Followed much speculating as to their destination. Mallory, second class radio man, held for Dover. Kennedy, gun pointer, said Bordeaux, having already made one trip to that port on an armed cargo boat. Pete Rooney favored Queenstown, principally, perhaps, because he had a hankering to set foot on the sod of his forebears. Todd, master-at-arms, third class, and British in everything save birth, would have it Plymouth. And some one else suggested Nantes. Dave was about the only one there who had no theory on the subject. He didn’t much care where they dropped anchor so long as it was “over there.” Every one seemed agreed on one thing, at all events, which was that it needed only their presence in French or British waters to bring the submarine menace to a speedy end, and Dave found himself confronted by a mental vision of Admiral Sims standing on the tip end of Ireland, shading his eyes and searching the horizon impatiently for sight of the _944_!

Later, Dave and Pete climbed up and made their way along the dark deck to the lee of the after-house. There, with the hulk of the three-inch gun black before them, and the light of the next chaser in line swaying astern, they became better acquainted. Fisher’s Island dropped away to port, and the _944_ began to dip and roll, and presently they went back to the fo’c’sle and turned in.

Dave stood morning watch, and was on deck when the first light of day came up over the eastern edge of the world. The _944_ was some fifty miles east of Cape Cod, and as the dawn brightened he saw that the four chasers had become four times four, and that a big gray cruiser, four-stacked, and bristling with eight-inch and six-inch guns, was hovering to southward. Most of the chasers were of one class, boats built for their work, capable and speedy looking 110-footers, but here and there a converted yacht, generally similar to the _944_, lent variety. Signals fluttered from the flagship, and were answered, and by the time the first rays of the sun were leveled along the ocean the flotilla of tiny adventurers had formed in a hollow square formation, and, with the big cruiser leading, were tossing the foam from their bows. All that day they steamed eastward over a summer sea, for all the world like a lot of little gray ducklings following a mother duck, and at night, with only stern lights showing dimly, they kept their places and dropped the miles steadily behind them.

On every craft lookouts watched from deck and cage, for while never yet had a hostile periscope poked itself above those waters, there was no knowing when such a thing might happen. Dave had his first trick in the foretop cage the second day out. He toed the ratlines and squirmed into the little gray canvas cask that was barely big enough to hold him. Sitting erect, his head just topped the rim. Twelve feet below was the flying bridge in front and the big, squatty funnel behind. The breeze sang in his ears and made elfin music in the aerial wires. It was rather jolly up there at first, but after awhile the sunlight hurt his eyes and he began to weary of the ceaseless swing of his perch as the short mast canted from side to side. The motion wasn’t as soothing as that of a hammock. Watching the other chasers and the big cruiser grew monotonous, and searching the empty ocean for enemy periscopes was horribly idle. It was an event when he could report: “Smoke two points off the port bow, sir,” or “Sail dead ahead.” He didn’t exactly wish for a submarine, perhaps, but he came near it toward the last of his trick. He had two hours of it up there, and then slid down to make way for his relief.

Life those first two days was pleasant enough. He found his place and learned his duties, and became known to the rest of “the bunch” as “The Kid,” which title, since he was the youngest member of the crew, he was fairly entitled to. Pete Rooney figuratively adopted him, and as Pete was a popular and respected person, that fact was held to be in his favor. Chuck Morgan grouched, and gloomed at him, but Chuck was in the starboard watch, and they met not so frequently as they would have otherwise. The food was excellent, and the cook a wonder, and as long as the chaser behaved herself meals were jolly occasions. They had three days of perfect weather, with a light easterly breeze and a smooth sea, and then things happened.

Some time in the early morning of the fourth day Dave awoke from his dreams to find himself rolling from one side to the other of his bunk, and in danger of leaving it completely. The little boat was full of whines and creakings, while outside a northeast gale was howling loudly. The _944_ soon showed her shortcomings as a rough weather craft, for her narrow beam and light draught, while excellent for the purpose of pursuing submarines and eluding torpedoes, made her easy prey for a gale. Mess tables were of no use that morning, and even the Old Man and the luff ate breakfast with one hand and clung to something stable with the other. By that time the _944_ was thrusting her sharp, arching bow right into the waves, and the big seas were roaring back across her deck. They donned their life-vests and stretched the lifelines, but even then getting from one end of the boat to the other was a slow and risky business. One by one the companion craft disappeared from vision in the murk. The gale increased in fury that night, and after a wave had smashed in the wheel house as though it had been cardboard, the _944_ was swung about, tail to the storm, and went plunging and rolling south-westward.

The next day found them fighting hard. Portholes had been smashed and the lower deck was flooded half the time. Somewhere the seams had opened, and the hold fairly gurgled. The wireless went when the dynamo was flooded, and with that they lost their last touch with the flagship. On deck everything movable that had not been lashed tight had gone by the board, and much that still stood was broken or twisted. They managed to keep the water from the engine room only by pumping ceaselessly, and Dave took his turn with the others at standing almost waistdeep in water and clearing waste and débris from the top of the pump to keep it from clogging. Following seas climbed over the stern and threatened to make an end of the little craft. The water poured down the wardroom stairs in cataracts, and clothes, shoes, books, and papers floated about there in wild confusion. The _944_ carried two small boats, which were lashed in chocks amidships. These stood the pounding until, in the middle of the morning watch of the sixth day out, one of them broke loose and went banging to the rail.

Dave was one of those hurried to the rescue. Wrestling with a twelve-foot boat on a wet, slippery deck that stood at all angles, and under the hammering of a sixty-mile gale and giant seas, is man’s work, and so the half-dozen sailors found it. But they kept at it, holding tight when a wave thundered down on them, and then working like Trojans before the next, and they at last got the boat back in place, and were securing it with new lashings, when a warning cry sent them groping for holds. The sea that came aboard over the starboard stern looked to Dave, in the faint light of a single lantern, as high as a house. He didn’t expect to survive it himself, and didn’t expect the _944_ to. He took a strangle hold on the lifeline, crouched, and set his teeth.

Then he was down, with tons of water atop him, and his hold on the rope was torn away, and, choking and smothering, he was rolling helplessly across the canting deck. He tried to call out, but got only a mouthful of water for his pains, felt horribly frightened, and made frantic grasps with his hands.

After what seemed a very long time he found himself face down on the deck, with one hand clasped painfully about a boat davit and the lower half of his body suspended sickeningly over a void. He had no breath with which to call for aid, and scant chance in any case, for, with a crash that staggered the chaser, another seething cliff of water struck the counter and hurled itself forward. Dave heard a strangled cry in the darkness above the confusion of sound, and then, with a silent prayer for mercy, he flattened himself to the planks, felt the boat reel wildly, and knew that, despite his clasp on the davit, he must go over the side when that weight of water struck him.

There was a brief moment of suspense, during which Dave’s thoughts raced at lightning speed, and then, with the noise of Niagara, the solid wall of water struck the stern house and came leaping over and past with wild, resistless fury. Dave’s last gasp of breath was driven from his lungs under the impact, his straining fingers were torn loose, and, in a roaring flood, he went, turning over and over, into the maelstrom of the seas.