Part 6 (1/2)
Up and down they walked, talking together as though nothing out of the way were happening. I saw the s.h.i.+p settle for her last heave. No, they didn't leave her bridge. Why not? They were true British naval officers, that's the answer. They sank with her.
By that time every alarm on our s.h.i.+p was sounded--five long whistles, electric bells, a regular bedlam let loose. I never heard such a noise.
The life-boats swung out ready to drop. All hands were on deck except the engineers. They stand by in the engine room until a s.h.i.+p is struck.
As soon as she is. .h.i.t their job is to put out the fires and turn off the water--that is, if they aren't blown into the middle of next week first.
About eighty yards away the submarine came up and fired point blank at us. She missed us again and she submerged. That was the last we saw of her. The destroyers were working like little flashes of lightning, picking up the men in the water, darting here and there. You've seen those dragon flies in the pools--that's what the little gray fellows were, dragon flies--here, there, everywhere. I never saw such quick work.
Along about eight we pulled into Dover. All dark, except for a few smothered lights. We anch.o.r.ed and went up on deck. We were pretty glad to have land so near. You felt a lot safer. The comfort didn't last long, for we heard the queerest buzz in the sky above us--a long hum.
”Zeps! By Cracky!” yelled Bill in my ear. ”We're in for an air raid!”
Out of the blackness of the city before us leaped a million lights, cutting the darkness like a knife, hunting--hunting for those Zeps.
Searchlights turning their yellow blaze on the sky, whisking from one point to another, relentless in their scour of the heavens.
[Ill.u.s.tration: The Colt gun is an important weapon for landing parties.]
Now and then they would spot one of the great black bugs that buzzed on high with that tormenting hum keep it for a second in the radius of light, losing it as suddenly, and all the while the machine guns in the city pop-popped without taking a breath.
Now and then from the sky would be hurled a black something that flamed and thundered as it struck earth... . Bombs! ... Their red glare lighting up a roof--a cornice--a water front--showing groups of frenzied little black figures scurrying to shelter--then blackness once more and the pop-popping of the machine guns, spiteful, biting sound that never paused.
It lasted about half an hour. The Zeps circled Dover and went back. The guns stopped firing one by one, as though they had run down. The lights died out, save for a few on guard. Did we sleep well? We did not, in spite of the fact that we hadn't had our clothes off a single night while in the Zone.
”I bet we're going to have a swell time in London,” Bill told me. ”We sure have started off right!” We certainly had!
We had three days sh.o.r.e leave and we started out next day--sixteen of us--in our best bibs and tuckers, to see the sights. Were we glad to get ash.o.r.e? Chorus--we were! We took a little train--funniest train I ever saw. Reminded me of the Jim Crow cars back home. They were divided into first, second and third cla.s.s, but over there uniforms can ride wherever they choose, and we are expected to pay only half of a third-cla.s.s fare.
Remember, we were one of the first s.h.i.+pload of American sailors to put foot in London, and as such we were one of the sights of the city.
Crowds! Say! New Year's Eve around Times Square or Mardi Gras back home had nothing on the mob we drew there in Charing Cross.
They fought to see us. They elbowed and pushed and wormed their way in.
The girls threw their arms around us and kissed us, and the men cheered, but that wasn't all. They wanted to wish on the eagles on our sleeve--all of them did. And they wanted souvenirs--anything for souvenirs--b.u.t.tons or American loose change.
”Give us American dimes,” they'd cry. ”Give us American dimes,” and they fought for them. I had some Confederate money with me. They snapped it up.
Two bobbies--they are the English policemen, you know--came to our rescue, and packed us into taxies, but not before the crowd surged around us exclaiming about our caps--our little white canvas hats. They had never seen any like them. They wanted those, too. I don't know what would have become of us if the police hadn't taken a hand.
Say, by that time, we were hungry and thirsty, but we didn't dare get out for fear of starting another young mob. I felt like the President on inauguration day, or the King, or someone.
”Stop at a beanery,” yelled Bill to our driver, a little old man with round shoulders and a s.h.i.+ny coat. He c.o.c.ked an eye at us.
”Beg pardon, sir?” he said.
Bill replied, ”As me Allies, the French, put it, 'Jay fame.'”
Our driver wasn't a French scholar. He looked at me.