Chapter I: On Patrol

The next day Dave and Pete were back on the “little old _944_,” a _944_ much the worse for wear, but displaying an air of consequence perhaps allowable in one who had in a mere handful of days braved destruction by the elements and survived two U-boat attacks. Only a few timbers indicated the former position of her after-house, the bow gun had been wrecked, there was a first-aid patch aft her beam on the starboard side, and one of the two small boats resembled a sieve more than anything else. There were lesser souvenirs of the engagements, besides, in the shape of broken railing, chipped woodwork, and a dented funnel.

There had been six casualties, the boys learned, exclusive of Dave, whose wound in the arm was now showing an intention to heal. Stearns was ashore in hospital with a fractured leg; one of the after gun crew, Malloy, was nursing a wound in his thigh from which a nice big piece of shrapnel had been excavated. Chuck Morgan was wearing a bandaged head, and there had been three minor injuries to other members of the crew. The appearance of Dave and Pete had created a genuine sensation. The _Lothrop’s_ boat had taken them across the harbor to where the _944_ was lying, awaiting her turn in the dock, and they were nearly alongside before those aboard the chaser recognized them. Then an audience of incredulous Jackies lined the rail and stared. Only the presence in the small boat of a dignified young ensign deterred them from audible comments on the miracle. But when Dave and Pete had clambered on deck and the _Lothrop’s_ boat had cast off again their shipmates swarmed about them and the air was full of questions. Even Chuck Morgan, looking, with his bandaged countenance, more than ordinarily unamiable, edged toward the group to listen.

Things were very confused for a few minutes, for half a dozen full-voiced fellows talked at once, but Dave gathered that he and Pete had been given up for good, and that their names had already been sent in as “missing.” No one, it seemed, had seen either of the lads go overboard, and the supposition was that they had been done for by the explosion that had wrecked the after-house. The possibility of their having been thrown into the water without being killed had been entertained, but no one had thought well of their chances of rescue. If being thumped on the back and called perfectly insulting names in affectionate tones were indications of cordiality, then Dave and Pete were surely welcome. They broke away as soon as possible and reported to Lieutenant Cowan. Their appearance in the doorway of the little ward room caused the lieutenant’s eyes to stand out and left him speechless for the moment.

“Come aboard, sir,” said Pete, saluting and grinning.

“Why――why, hang it, you men; I thought you’d gone!” exclaimed the luff. “Where――where’d you come from? What happened to you? Come inside and tell your story.”

When they had finished, or, rather, when Dave had finished, for Pete left the narrative to him, the lieutenant shook his head helplessly. “It doesn’t sound possible, Garson,” he said, “but if you both swear to it, why, I’ll have to believe it. You certainly had a run of luck, though! What did you think was going to happen to you when you escaped from the sub? Were you intending to swim to the Irish coast?”

“I guess we didn’t have any very special plan,” acknowledged Dave. “We sort of hoped to get picked up by one of the boats from the steamer, but we never saw any of them after we were in the water. The main thing, we thought, was to get away. We thought they’d probably put us in prison and keep us there for the rest of the war.”

“That’s what would have happened, of course. Thought you’d be of more use somewhere else, eh? Well, it was some risk, and you got out of a bad place pretty neatly when the _Lothrop_ found you. We got a report this morning that two boatloads from the _Indalia_――that’s the freighter they sank――were brought into Ventry last evening. About forty in all. There’s a third boatful still to hear from. Now tell me about that sub. How big do you think she was?”

The boys answered the lieutenant’s questions for a good quarter of an hour before he released them, and their replies were jotted down on a sheet of paper and ultimately found their way up the hill to Admiralty headquarters. They were on their way out when the lieutenant stopped them. “By the way, Rooney,” he said, “there’s just one thing more.”

“Yes, sir?”

“The next time a man goes overboard and you see him, if it’s during action you’re not to go after him. That’s not the game, my lad. Drop a life-buoy and report ‘man overboard’ to the officer of the deck, but that’s all. Your duty’s to stick to your station. Remember that hereafter. You, too, Garson. Attempting a rescue is fine, manly stuff, but it’s contrary to regulations. You are a necessary unit on your ship. When you leave your station you are interfering with the successful conduct of the ship. In time of action that is ordinarily inexcusable. To put it bluntly, men, it is better to lose one man by drowning than to have a second man away from his station. If the ship is not in action or preparing for action this does not apply. At such times the attempt to rescue a companion is permissible and commendable. You are still a new man, Rooney, and I shall overlook your――mistake. But――another time, remember! That’s all. Oh, by the way, get out of those German togs as soon as you can and sink them in the harbor!”

“Well, what do you know about that?” asked Pete when they were out of hearing. “Called down for tryin’ to save another ‘gob’ from drownin’!”

“I guess he’s quite right, though,” said Dave. “What happens to one man doesn’t much matter, Pete. It’s the ship we’ve got to keep in mind.”

“Huh! I wonder would he say the same if it was him that went overboard?” Pete sniffed. “Well, he’s the boss. Let’s get out o’ these dirty German uniforms before some one shoots us for spies!”

Later they told their story to their shipmates, this time Pete rendering the narrative and doing it much more picturesquely than Dave could have. The story lost nothing in the telling, and there were times when Dave had to look away for fear that his expression might cause the audience to doubt the truthfulness of the yarn. Not that Pete departed far from facts, however, for the most that he did was embroider his tale, and so make it slightly more colorful and absorbing. Perhaps it didn’t matter much, in any case, for few of their fellows believed more than half of what they were told.

Dave and Pete remained heroes for several days, and Pete was called on so frequently to spin the story of their capture, imprisonment and escape, that ultimately the story resembled the original narrative only in its underlying structure. On shore he was a welcome addition to all gatherings because of the yarn he could spin. The _944_ went into dock two days after they rejoined her, and remained there most of a week. Even then she was not ready for duty, since a new bow gun was wanting and was slow in making its appearance. The Old Man and the junior officer growled impatiently, and watched with frowning brows the destroyers and chasers come and go. But the men, for the most part, were well enough satisfied with the entertainment afforded by Queenstown, especially since the “gobs” from other ships, returning from their six-day periods of sea duty, reported a discouraging dearth of German submarines. Dave and Pete saw all that was to be seen of Queenstown and the nearby countryside, read home papers, and wrote letters in the Y. M. C. A. hut, witnessed several games of baseball――there was keen rivalry between various ships for the supremacy of the make-shift diamond――and mingled with the men of other ships, British and French, as well as American. Queenstown harbor that summer was a busy place, with cruisers, destroyers, sweepers, mine layers, and patrols coming and going at all hours, and a world of activity ashore consequent on turning a sleepy old port, rimmed with emerald green hills, into a modern naval base.

Life was not all liberty ashore, however, for the _944_ had to have a new dress when her repairs were finished, and Dave learned how to wield a paint brush with a fair degree of skill. Finally, one showery summer afternoon the _944_ snuggled up to a quay and a new three-inch gun was lowered aboard and secured to the bow platform, and Lieutenant Cowan and Ensign Hyatt smiled their satisfaction, and the crew, weary by now of the soft ease of life in port, smiled also. And the next morning the _944_ weighed anchor and dropped down the harbor, past the forts, picked her way daintily through the hidden perils of mine fields and left Roberts Head astern.

The _944_ carried two new men, in place of Groom and Stearns, and a number of queer looking steel cylinders which had been lowered aboard very respectfully and stored in the after-house. On the _944_ they referred to them as “ash cans,” which they greatly resembled, but they were in reality depth charges containing some two hundred and fifty pounds of the high explosive familiarly known as “T N T” and cunningly arranged to explode under water at a certain depth and calculated to vastly incommode a submarine within a given radius. These depth charges and a fine array of ammunition for the guns made the after-house a most undesirable habitation during an action, and it was generally agreed by the crew of the after gun that while it might serve well enough as a shelter in time of peace, in time of battle it was not likely to prove popular.

The two new members of the crew were both “rubber socks,” which means that they were inexperienced men on their first sea duty. Both, too, were reservists, and held seamen’s rating. At that time your regular navy man looked down rather condescendingly on the naval reservist, to put it mildly. Since then the latter has proved himself very thoroughly and the regular accords him respect. But in that first summer of our war with Germany members of the naval reserve had a rather hard row to hoe, and the new recruits aboard the _944_, who had journeyed across in the steerage of a transport, were no exceptions, although in their case their troubles didn’t last long. They were both youngsters. Dill, speedily nicknamed “The Pickle,” was short and rotund, with a round, good-natured countenance, a hundred and eighty pounds of guileless amiability. Carter was taller and far from stout, with a long, lean face and a down-east drawl. His overshirt sleeves were too short for his arms, which gave him an overgrown appearance, to which an unusually long neck contributed.

The _944_ was out of sight of land toward evening, jumping about in a choppy sea, and Carter was groaning unhappily in his upper bunk. Dill was a better sailor, however, and took his “chow” with the rest of his watch. He was inclined to be a little bit too sociable, I think, a little bit too self-assured. It was only his way of letting his new messmates know that he was ready to be friends, but it didn’t make a good impression. He was viewed with pitying contempt at first, but as that failed to have its effect, Kennedy gave him a hint.

“Say, Jack, no offense, but if I was you I’d feed my face and not try to lead the conversation.”

“Why, I wasn’t,” disclaimed Dill, coloring. “What’s wrong with what I said?”

“Nothing, I guess; but why say it? You amateurs are all right, but you want to come in slow; see? Don’t rush it. You’re a reservist, ain’t you?” The other nodded stiffly. “All right. Then when you’ve got anything to say, reserve it. Get me?”

Dill closed up tight then and looked rather unhappy, while the rest of the mess smiled――all, perhaps, save Dave, who felt sorry for the new chap. He had the enlisted man’s usual contempt for “amateur gobs” as they were called, but he wouldn’t have thought of showing it. Besides, there was something likable about Dill, and Dave surmised that much of his apparent ease of manner was assumed to hide a very natural feeling of embarrassment. After chow Dave sought him out and proceeded to get acquainted.