Chapter VII: Prisoners on the Submarine

Silently they watched the U-boat’s approach. At first she had been only a low, grayish protuberance on the sea, all detail softened and obscured by the last wreaths of haze, but now, a few hundred yards distant, she was plain enough. They could see men on the deck forward of the queerly shaped conning tower and the sunlight glinting on the bow gun and the water curving away from the knife-like bow. Pete, watching thoughtfully, said:

“They’ll be askin’ us questions, Kid, if they take us aboard. They’ll want to know things it ain’t good for ’em to know. If we don’t say nothin’ they’re likely to bat us on the bean and drop us overboard again. I guess the best way’ll be to sort o’ string ’em along, eh?”

“Lie, do you mean?”

“Well, I wasn’t callin’ it that, but maybe it is. If you don’t like to do it, maybe you’d better leave the jollyin’ to me. I ain’t got no conscience when it comes to deceivin’ a Hun an’ a enemy.”

“I don’t suppose it will be lying――exactly,” answered Dave. “Deceiving the enemy is――is different. Why don’t they sheer off a little? Are they trying to run us down?”

It did look so, for the U-boat came gliding on as straight for the two boys as though it meant to thrust its slender nose between them. At the last moment, however, when Dave was ready to throw himself back into the water, it swung slightly and its long gray hull passed a few yards away. On the bow was the inscription _U-H-37_. From the narrow deck a dozen sailors gazed down on them, mildly curious, while an officer, whose gold braid was tarnished and worn, stood beside the forward gun and a second and younger officer leaned against the curving base of the conning tower. Each, Dave observed, wore on his sleeve the two stripes and crown of a lieutenant. The submarine’s engines had made a very perceptible clamor during its approach, but now they were stilled, and the underwater craft slowed and stopped. It was the officer at the gun who spoke, and Dave thought he recognized him as the one who had shouted to the _944_ through a megaphone. He used no megaphone now, however, nor needed to, since only a dozen yards of water separated boat and life buoy.

“What ship you from?” he asked in good English.

“United States Chaser _944_,” answered Pete.

“What you do in the water?”

“Shell knocked us in.”

“Want to come out?”

“You bet,” answered Pete, cheerfully.

The officer frowned mightily. “You talk to your officers like you talk to me, eh?” he demanded. “Suppose I go away and leave you there?”

“Sorry, sir,” apologized Pete. But Dave thought he didn’t look very sorry and feared for a moment that the U-boat commander would act on his own suggestion. Instead, though:

“Swim here and we take you on board,” he said. “You Americans have no manners. You are all pigs.”

They dropped off the life buoy and started for the submarine, but the commander stopped them sharply. “Bring with you that buoy,” he directed, adding grimly: “Maybe you need it again.”

A moment later, pulled aboard by some of the crew, they stood on the steel deck and faced the commander. He looked to be about forty years of age, and had a very round face adorned by a broad nose over a grizzled mustache that ended in waxed points, and two sharp gray eyes under heavy, bristling brows. He looked not unamiable, and his first words were good-natured enough.

“You go below with this man and he will find you some dry clothing,” he said. “Then I will have a little talk with you.” A hatch mid-way between gun and conning tower was open and through this, one of the sailors, a squat, sullen-faced youth, led the way. A ladder ran straight down, and having descended it they found themselves in a surprisingly long white-enameled compartment, lined with bunks on each side. There was an indescribable odor down there, an odor that seemed to combine the smell of oil and of stale sea water and damp clothing. The bunks held only mattresses and tumbled gray blankets, and several were occupied. From a locker beneath one the sailor pulled out a heap of clothing which he spread out in silence on the floor of the narrow passage for their inspection.

“I don’t want any of the dirty truck,” growled Pete. The sailor looked up and spoke crossly in German, but neither knew what he said. “Sure, that’s true enough,” said Pete, “but I ain’t hankerin’ for no disease, Dutchy.”

“I guess we’d better put them on until our own things are dry,” said Dave. “If we don’t they may shoot us or something.”

“Maybe you’re right,” agreed Pete. “Hello, look here!” He held up a blue cloth sailor’s cap, bearing the words, “_H. M. S. Owl_” on its ribbon. “What do you know about that? British, ain’t it?”

Before Dave could reply the sailor snatched the cap from Pete’s hand and tossed it into the locker, muttering angrily. Pete’s pale blue eyes snapped and Dave looked for trouble, but, restraining his resentment, the former stooped and picked up a suit of stained blue flannel and proceeded to doff his own wet clothes which were trickling water on the flooring. Dave followed his example. At that instant a terrific crashing and clattering assailed their ears and they started in alarm. But the sound was only that of the big Diesel engines taking up their task again. There was a perceptible tremor of the frail steel hull and through the open hatch above a fresh current of air blew into the unfragrant quarters.

When they were dressed and their wet clothing had been taken charge of by the sour-visaged sailor they were led aft along the passage, past what appeared to be an officer’s stateroom, to the central station beyond. This was a compartment slightly longer than wide, under the conning tower. The walls were white, save where yellow rust stains showed, and were beaded with moisture. A ladder led upward to the tower and there was a bench at one side, but for the rest the place held only a vast and confusing array of machinery; huge valves, immense dials, steering wheels, compass, gauges, controllers, levers, and manifolds. A periscope terminated here, too, and against one curving steel wall a round clock ticked unheard above the roar and clatter of the engines. Pipes and cables and spreading wires were everywhere overhead and against the walls, and above the steering wheel a chart hung in a metal frame. There was but one occupant of the compartment when they entered, a petty officer, whose rating and branch mark, an anchor and cog wheel, surmounted by a crown, in silver, was unfamiliar to them.

As the boat was on the surface it was being controlled from the conning tower. Two electric lamps cast a wan glow over the place, leaving it in a pale twilight through which the metal instruments gleamed mysteriously. Fore and aft the passage seemed to continue interminably, and aft, from which direction the clamor of machinery came, the big engines were partly visible. Pete strolled across and seated himself on the bench, but their custodian sprang toward him and broke into angry growlings.

“Oh, all right, sport,” sighed Pete. “But if you’d been pushing a life buoy all over the Atlantic Ocean you’d want to sit down, too.” He got up, in obedience to the man’s gestures, and interested himself in the reflector of the periscope, eyed by the sailor in sullen suspicion. Several minutes passed. Their ears began to ache with the ceaseless clamor of the engines, and the air, heavy with the odor of crude oil and battery fumes, was oddly oppressing. Then the hatch above darkened and the captain descended the ladder.

“Ah, you feel better now, yes?” he inquired genially. “So we have a little talk.” He seated himself on the bench and observed them with every indication of good will. “Your ship is a new ship, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Pete. “Built two months ago.”

“And you are both seamen? Not what you call petty officers?”

“Seamen, sir.”

“The American navy is a very fine navy, I know. I have been in your wonderful country. You are building many new ships, I understand, to make war on us.”

“Yes, sir, quite a bunch of ’em,” answered Pete cheerfully.

“Yes, maybe fifty, eh? Maybe a hundred?”

“I don’t know how many. They ain’t tellin’ us.”

“So? Well, we know――we in Germany.” He chuckled deeply and winked at them. “We know much. You were on your way from New York when we met you, eh?”

“Yes, sir; Syracuse, New York.”

“Syracuse?” The captain frowned. “Where is that?”

“Just south of New Rochelle,” said Pete gravely.

“So? And you were going to――?” He paused, questioningly.

“I don’t know, sir. They forgot to tell us that. Somewhere across.”

“Maybe Queenstown?” asked the officer, slyly.

Pete shrugged. “Maybe. Or Dover. Or Plymouth. I don’t know.”

“How happened it that you were by yourself alone?”

“There was some more of us, but we got lost in a storm.”

“And the others? They were what you call chasers, like yourself?”

“Cruisers, sir; seven of ’em.”

“So? What were the names?”

Pete hesitated a bare instant. Then: “I don’t know ’em all, Captain. There was the _Greenwich_ an’ the _Chelsea_ an’ the _Bronx_ an’ the _Harlem_.”

“You are lying, eh?” purred the officer. “There are no such ships in the American navy.”

“These is all new ones.”

“Ah, and how large are they?” asked the other, suspiciously.

“Well, middlin’ big, sir. I don’t know exactly. I guess the _Bronx_ is about 8,000 tons. An’ the others is about like that.”

“Where did you part company with them?”

“Can’t say exactly. About two days out of Syracuse.”

“Where were they going to?” asked the officer.

“Same place we was, but I don’t know where that is.”

“Maybe they carried soldiers. Or maybe you had troop ships with you, too?”

“No, sir. Not this time.”

“How many soldiers have left your country to fight against us?”

“About a thousand,” answered Pete, unblushingly.

“A thousand! What you mean?” The captain scowled ferociously. “More, more than a thousand has come across! Many thousand! Stop your lying to me or I throw you straight into the ocean!”

“Well, that’s what I heard,” said Pete, untroubledly. “Maybe two thousand. You can search me.”

“Search you? What I search you for? What talk is it that you make?”

“That’s just a sayin’, Captain. What we call slang.”

“So? Well, don’t talk with me slang. What is the trouble with this man? Can he not talk?”

“Sure, he’s a fine little talker, Captain, but he ain’t all there.” Pete dropped his voice confidentially and tapped his head and winked. “He is what we call ‘nutty.’ Get me?”

“‘Nutty?’ Crazy, you mean?” The captain observed Dave with new interest and in silence for a long minute. Then he nodded his head. “Yes, he looks not quite right. What is your name, you?”

“David Garson,” prattled Dave. “I’m eighteen years old and small for my age, but they say I’ll grow.”

“Small! Grow! What is he saying? Never mind. It does not matter.” The captain lost interest in Dave and returned to his questioning. For another quarter of an hour he put all kinds of inquiries at Pete and received all kinds of answers. Occasionally he looked suspicious, but on the whole appeared satisfied with the information. He asked about the sentiment in the United States regarding conscription, how many men were in training, when they were to be sent across, how many United States ships were operating in French and British waters, what their armament was, where they were based. And he wanted to know how America felt toward Germany, and whether she expected to win the war. And, finally, he asked whether a certain German restaurant was still doing business in New York! In the end he said:

“Now I require you to give me your parole, your promise not to attempt to escape. Then you are treated fine and get plenty of food, and I put you ashore pretty soon. Well?”

“Nothin’ doin’, sir,” replied Pete.

“Eh? What you mean, nothing doing? Much will be doing if you do not do like I say!”

“That’s all right, too,” said Pete doggedly, “but you don’t get any promise like that from us, Captain. If we get a chance to beat it, we’re goin’ to beat it, take it from Pete!”

The captain frowned more ferociously than ever, and for a fearsome moment Dave, who had all through the latter part of the interview tried to look as vacant and unintelligent as he knew how, was horribly afraid that he would order them shot or tossed into the sea. But after an instant the captain’s frown vanished and he chuckled.

“You are brave, my man. Also you tell the truth, eh? Well, so be it.” He laughed good-naturedly. “You have my full permission to――what you say?――‘beat it’――if you can! But since you do not give your parole, you must work for your living, yes. And if you do not work like you are told you will be punished. Maybe you like that better, eh?”

“Sure, we’ll work, Captain. Just as long as you don’t ask us to sink any of our own ships, we’re right on the job.”

“So? We shall see.” He spoke in German to the sailor. Then: “Go with this man,” he directed. “He will show you where are your bunks. You will go neither forward nor aft from the quarters. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain waved his hand. “_Vorwärtsgehen!_” he ordered.

“Meanin’ _heraus mit_ us,” muttered Pete.