Only the troopship’s quick turn to starboard had saved her. The torpedo had sped past by less than five feet from her rudder.
Another turn, and Dave came up with the scene of the explosion. Oh, cheerful sight! The water was mottled with great patches of oil. More cheering still, sundered bits of wooden fittings from a submarine floated on the water. Two dead bodies also drifted on the swells; the remaining Huns on the shattered craft must have gone down with the sea pest.
“Not bad work, Mr. Curtin,” Dave remarked, calmly, as the destroyer once more moved into her place in the escort line.
“May we have as good luck every time,” came the fervent response of the watch officer.
Word of the bomb hit had been signalled along the line. It was hard indeed that the soldiers were not allowed to cheer!
But had the morning’s work really begun?
CHAPTER IX—WHEN THE ENEMY SCORED
The sun had risen through a haze, which is in favor of a fleet on the defensive, as there is not so much glare from the water to confuse the vision of lookouts.
However, there was no attack in the next hour. The fleet continued on its way only as swiftly as the slowest transport could move, for it is an axiom at sea that the speed of a fleet is the speed of its slowest ship.
Suddenly Dave recalled to mind the prisoner, Jordan, locked in the brig below.
“Corporal,” he called down, as that noncommissioned officer of marines passed across the deck, “in case we are hit and are sinking, make it your duty to remember Jordan, in the brig. Turn him loose before we abandon ship—if the day’s work comes to that.”
“Humph!” Pete was saying to his soldier comrades forward on one of the leading transports. “The Germans must be hard up when they can send only one sub to tackle a fleet like this.”
“I don’t care if the Huns send fifty or a hundred of their pests,” broke in another soldier. “The subs have no show. Did you see that destroyer? Scoot! Pouf! Hm! Where’s that submarine now? I tell you, fellows, after all, submarines are good only for sinking unarmed schooners.”
“Still, they’ve sunk more than a few armed steamers,” argued a comrade.
“If they did,” maintained the former speaker, warmly, “then it was because the lookouts and gunners were asleep. You wait! If we meet a dozen of these Hun submarines to-day you’ll find that they won’t get any of our ships.”
“I’m going to do my bragging after we land,” interjected an old sergeant dryly. “I always enjoy my bragging best after I get over my scare.”
But the long quiet proved too good to last. The almost simultaneous barking of guns from three troopships and from two destroyers called swift attention to the fact that the fusillade was aimed at a periscope off starboard. Nearly a dozen shells struck the water all around the spot where the periscope had vanished. From about the same point a light streak appeared on the water.
Signalling back instructions to the transports as to their course, a destroyer darted out of line to go after the submarine after the fashion that Darrin had employed. Ere long the destroyer swerved in a sharp curve and headed back for her place in the escort line, signalling at the same time:
“Nothing left for us to do. A shell from one of the guns engaged hit the pest under water and poured oil on the troubled waters.”
In the meantime, the endangered transport, which had promptly and intelligently obeyed the steering order, had barely escaped the torpedo fired at her.
Spirits now ran high in the troopship fleet. Uncle Sam’s soldiers had seen the threatened ships saved, and had also seen Uncle Sam’s sailors show how easily a submarine may be fought—sometimes.
After that the fleet proceeded on its uninterrupted way for so long a time that the noon meal had been eaten calmly by the voyaging soldiers. Few of them thought it worth while to cut that meal short in order to go on deck again.
Especially did Pete and his friends feel indifferent to the best that the Huns could do out here on the water. Just then there came a terrific shock. It was an explosion, followed by a crash that caused the ship to stagger over to starboard, though she quickly righted herself.
“They’ve got us!” yelled Pete, jumping up from the table, overturning his coffee and starting for the upper deck on a run.
Then, ashamed of his nervousness, Pete stopped running and tuned down to a slow walk toward the companionway stairs from the mess deck. Others were running, with a resulting jam on the stairs.
“What are we going to do?” one soldier asked Pete.
“Do the same thing that we’ve been doing ever since we came into the Service, I guess,” drawled Pete. “And that is, we’re going to listen and obey orders. Stop shoving, you fellows. We won’t get up any faster for crowding.”
Soon staff and line officers appeared at the head of the stairs, issuing sharp, steady commands that stopped all signs of a possible panic.
“Keep your wits, men, and the last of you will reach shore all right,” called an officer who was forcing his way down the stairs. “Some of you men turn aside and give me a chance to get to the deck below.”
His coolness, and his willingness to be on the mess deck calmed the excitement of many a young soldier who was eager to get up to the spar deck. From a deck rail in front of the chart-house a major with a lusty voice shouted down:
“No excitement, men! This ship, if she sinks, will be a long time doing it. There will be time to get every man off, and it will be done if you listen to orders and obey them.”
That torpedo had struck deep into the ship’s vitals, stopping the engines instantly.
Only here and there was there a soldier who did not have his life belt on. These now scrambled for their belts.
From the flagship of the destroyers at the head of the line swift signals were wigwagged and repeated down the lines. One of them read:
“‘Logan’ stand by ‘Castle City’ for rescue work.”
Instantly Dave ordered the full-speed signal telegraphed to the engine room, then added, as the destroyer raced down the line:
“Keep all gunners and lookouts at their stations, Mr. Dalzell. Mr. Briggs will take charge of manning and lowering our two launches and the cutters, and will stand by to lower away.”
The destroyer “Adams” had already caught a hawse-line from the “Castle City” by the time Dave’s craft reached the scene. With the hawser made fast the destroyer was towing the stricken transport out of the fleet line.
“Lower away,” Dave commanded, after he had dashed past the “Castle City” and had lain to. Overboard went the launches and cutters, and Lieutenant Briggs was soon alongside the transport, which was also lowering well-filled lifeboats.
His own boats and the ship’s boats Briggs had towed in strings. On orders from the commander of the destroyer flotilla, other troopships halted long enough to take on the rescued ones.
Still another destroyer had to hasten to the assistance of the “Logan,” for the “Castle City” was rapidly settling lower in the water.
Never had naval small craft worked at greater speed, yet necessity moved faster. The transport had by now heeled well over to port. She could not keep afloat much longer.
“Those who cannot get into the boats now will have to jump,” shouted Dave Darrin.
So excellent was the control by the regimental officers on the “Castle City” that even now there was no panic. Soldiers gathered at the points indicated, and sprang overboard when ordered to do so. The ship’s crew, too, were now jumping.
Among them crept the destroyer “Logan,” her sailors throwing lines, while a side gangway was also lowered for the use of those who could swim to it.
Scores of soldiers were soon on the “Logan’s” deck. These were directed to seek warm quarters below where they could dry their clothing. Many of the soldiers preferred to remain on deck to aid in the rescue of their comrades. Having cast off after finishing her job of towing, the “Adams” was now busy, too, in rescue work.
At last, when no more heads appeared on the water, and no more men were in evidence on the decks of the sinking transport, the order was signalled for the rescue-work destroyers to stand clear.
“She’ll plunge by the head within five minutes,” Dalzell declared, as the “Logan” steamed clear.
Bang! bang! bang! Destroyer and troopship guns, up near the head of the line, had suddenly begun blazing away.
Half a dozen periscopes showed short lengths, briefly, above the water, but the number of faint streaks across the sea showed that other enemy submarines were attacking without first taking periscope sights.
“It’s the general attack on the fleet, that we expected!” Dave Darrin shouted from the bridge. “Stand by! Remember that fractions of seconds count in carrying out orders now.”
Then Lieutenant Beatty caught sight of a periscope above the water, some eight hundred yards away. One of the “Logan’s” forward guns spoke in sharp challenge. The biggest submarine sea fight of all was now on!
CHAPTER X—THE HOTTEST WORK OF ALL
From the troopship line, as the “Logan” dashed away, Darrin could hear the guns of the transports that were coming up and near enough to take part in the fight. Wherever a periscope showed itself it was bound to invite fire from half a dozen gunners in almost the same instant.
“Sorry, but you soldiers will all have to go inside and remain there,” ordered Lieutenant Dan Dalzell. “We have no room for any one on deck except our crew.”
To most of the soldiers it seemed hard to be deprived of a view of the only thing that interested them, but Navy officers, in issuing orders, have a way of speaking that does not admit of doubt as to their meaning.
“There goes the ‘Castle City’ by the bow,” called a lookout, but Dave Darrin, his eyes searching for a torpedo trail, took his word for it and did not turn to look.
“Torpedo wake, sir, three points off port bow!” sang out a lookout.
Dave turned this time; the telltale line was there. His orders rapped out and the “Logan” started by the shortest cut to reach that line and to locate its source.
Even as they raced to find that submarine, a gunner on the “Logan” fired at the briefly visible periscope of another enemy craft.
Suddenly, not more than two hundred yards away, a periscope reared itself in their path, though not more than two feet of its length appeared above the water.
Intensely alert, Lieutenant Beatty himself sighted and gave the order to fire. Nor was this an easy task, for the destroyer, to avoid ramming and ripping out part of its own hull, veered aside from the direct line.
“Fire!” yelled Beatty.
The shell gave a good report of itself. It was plain that it had made a hit of some sort, though below the surface.
The destroyer swung again to face its prey. Higher came the periscope, then the conning tower emerged. It was then observed that the conning tower had been struck and a hole put through it on one side. Small though the hole was, if the craft had submerged further instead of rising, she would have been submerged for all time.
Lieutenant Beatty calmly sighted for the next shot. Just as the deck of the undersea boat came awash the manhole sprang open and the heads of two German sailors appeared.
“They’re going to try to man a gun and fight us,” Darrin concluded, swiftly.
“Fire!” ordered Beatty, calmly.
That shot could not have been better placed. It struck the tower fairly, exploding inside. It killed both men at the manhole, hurling them into the sea. Probably it killed the officer in the conning tower as well.
Beatty did not stop here. Another shell had been loaded in at the breech of the gun, and he bent forward to sight just as the upper part of the hull came into view.
“Fire!” It was a clean hit, just at the water line. Hardly an instant later, it seemed, the same gun spoke again—another water-line hit.
“Bye-bye!” murmured Dave, as he ordered the course changed. There was no need to wait, or to plant another shot, for the inrush of water had settled the fate of that submarine so speedily that there wasn’t the slightest chance for any of the Huns to save themselves. That pest settled quickly, then disappeared from view.
“Clean work—great, Mr. Beatty!” Dave called down briskly.
Mr. Beatty, though he acknowledged the compliment with a salute, did not turn to look at his superior, as prescribed by regulations, for his keen, swift glance was sweeping over the waters ahead.
And not more than a hundred yards ahead of them a faint “wake” crossed their bow, headed for one of the ships of the transport fleet. Instantly the “Logan” turned into that trail, following it back at racing speed.
It looked like Dave Darrin’s lucky day, for they plunged over the dark, heavy shadow of something that was not far below the surface.
Knowing his speed and the length of his own craft Dave timed the instant just right, then shouted:
“Let go the bomb!”
A depth bomb was instantly released over the stern.
By the time that it exploded the speeding destroyer was safely out of the way of any danger from its effects. A huge, thick column of water rose, as if overboiling from a monster pot.
“Put about and go back to observe,” Darrin directed, nodding to the watch officer.
Even before they were fully about an exultant hurrah came from a lookout forward.
“Was she hit, lookout?” Dave shouted.
“‘Hit’ is the right word, sir,” came the response. “On that spot, at this minute, there’s more oil than water.”
In another instant Dave also beheld the big, spreading mass of oil. There was no need of investigating further. He turned in search of other enemy craft.
Ten minutes passed without sight of one near enough to engage Darrin’s attention. It would not be good judgment for the “Logan” to go hunting in some other craft’s territory.
At last, a thousand yards away, a conning tower, with only a stump of a periscope remaining, rose through the waves. Time was, in the war, when a shattered periscope obliged a submarine to choose between rising to the surface and sinking, but later periscopes were so adjusted that they could be shot away without imperilling the safety of the underseas craft. This emerging craft showed also a damaged tower, and the rising had to be of the quickest order.
“I hope that chap isn’t going to surrender,” muttered Dave, as he ordered the “Logan” headed straight toward the sea monster. “It takes too long, in a fight like this, to receive a surrender and remove the prisoners.”
In a very few seconds, however, the enemy relieved his apprehensions. Beatty fired two shots, both of which went a few feet wild. In that time the German commander rushed men out to the bow gun. Though her tower was damaged, the craft could still fight on the surface.
One after another eight German sailors leaped out to the deck, throwing their six-inch forward gun into fighting position.
R-r-r-r-rip! Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Two machine guns on the “Logan” were turned loose. One German sailor, then another, was hit, fell and rolled from the wet platform into the sea.
Bang! roared out Lieutenant Beatty’s gun, but the shot did nothing more than tear away a part of the conning tower’s top.
Still the machine guns played upon that Hun gun-crew. Three more of the enemy were laid low, two of them rolling overboard into the sea.
A flash leaped from the German gun. A swell, lifting the bow of the submarine at that instant caused the shell to go screaming overhead, so close to the bridge that the three officers there “ducked” without realizing that they were doing so.
Aiming for the German gun, Beatty sent in a shell that pierced the top of the hull twenty feet ahead of the gun.
“Cooler, old chap!” Lieutenant Beatty breathlessly adjured himself, and spent perhaps half a second more in the sighting this time.
Just before he fired, the Huns let go with their big piece again. The shell struck the “Logan’s” foremast, damaging it, though the mast did not go overboard.
Two sailors on lookout, hit by flying pieces of steel, were hurled into the air. One dropped to the deck, a hopelessly mangled mass of torn flesh; the other seaman was knocked overboard.
Dave turned to look at that wreck of a human being as it struck the water. He knew there was no life in the man, so gave no order for recovering the body.
Down below sailors sprang to lift the dead man, who had dropped there, on to a stretcher. They carried him below, to be buried later.
Beatty did not delay his firing an instant. This time the shell struck at the base of the enemy’s tower. A fragment of the exploding shell must have hit one of the German gun-crew, for a man fell on his face and rolled overboard. However, that mattered little in the fight, for still Hun reinforcements came through what was left of the conning tower.
“I seem able to hit everything but that gun or the water-line,” fumed Lieutenant Beatty, enraged with himself.
Hit though the tower had been, and though, also, three or four members of the Hun crew must have been killed in those hits, the steering gear of the submarine was still left and the grim craft was maneuvered in a way to challenge admiration.
Considerate of the feelings of the officer with the forward guns, Darrin had refrained from giving one order, but now passed the order to the machine gunners to concentrate their fire on the enemy hull at the water line.
The water alongside the submarine began spurting in tiny jets. This sieve-like riddling would presently settle the fight, unless the Hun gunners got in just one shot where it would tell best. The fight, therefore, was not yet won by the destroyer.
“Fire!” ordered Beatty, in forced calm. Then, all in an instant, that young naval lieutenant threw up his hands.
CHAPTER XI—A TRAP AND ITS PREY
Not that he was hit. Oh, no! Beatty’s last shot had done its work well. In the enemy’s hull, at the water-line, a great, jagged hole had appeared.
Responding to the inrush of water the submarine heeled. And then a strange sight was witnessed. Just as the breathless sailors on the “Logan” looked for the underseas craft to plunge under the waves she did something very different.
How it happened no one can ever tell; the cause none can guess with anything like certainty.
Did a chorus of despairing shrieks come from the bowels of that dying sea monster? There were those on the “Logan” who were sure they heard cries of terror.
The last shot.
Instead of sinking, the submarine continued on over—and turned turtle. Her dripping hull glistened in the forenoon sun!
It was too much for the tensed nerves of the American sailor men.
“Hurrah!” they let loose. “Hurrah! Hur—”
“Stop that cheering!” rose Darrin’s heaviest tones over the tumult. “The enemy are dying.”
“They’re only Huns!” answered a voice from below.
But the cheering died away and Dave’s voice carried far as he answered:
“I know they’re only Huns, and a bad lot, but they fought us well. We’ll cheer for the victory later, but not for the fate of men who are dying there.”
Darrin then gave the order to steam in close and to stand by to rescue any swimmers who might appear in the water.
Twice the “Logan” circled the overturned enemy. Save for two of the men who had been shot away from the submarine’s gun platform, and who were dead, none of the enemy were to be found.
Now it was that the young commanding officer had an opportunity to turn about and see how it was faring with the other American vessels.
All firing had ceased. The fleet was proceeding on its way. Darrin was some distance astern of the rearmost ships of the troopship fleet.
“Men, it looks as if our fight were over for the present,” Dave called down in hearty cheery tones. “From the bridge we cannot see the head of the fleet, nor can we hear the sound of firing.”
Accordingly all speed was jammed on. The “Logan,” saluting the rearmost scout of the destroyer flotilla, steamed on to return to her own position in the line. As he passed a sister ship Darrin signalled:
“How many transports lost?”
“Only the ‘Castle City,’ we understand,” came the response.
“Any lives lost?”
“We don’t know.”
“We lost two men.”
“Condolence,” signalled the rearmost rear-guard craft.
“Any naval vessels lost?” Dave inquired.
“None that we know about.”
“How many enemy submarines sunk?”
“Several; don’t know the number,” replied the other destroyer.
“Now you may cheer in earnest, if you want to,” Darrin shouted down from the bridge as the news was passed around.
And right royally did those jackies cheer. The rescued soldiers were now permitted on the “Logan’s” deck, and contributed their own quota of cheers.
Dan came up to the bridge with a paper in his hand.
“The commanding general of the Army division will be asking for the names of soldiers on the various ships of the naval fleet who were rescued from the ‘Castle City,’” Dalzell explained. “So I’ve taken the names of all the Army people we have aboard the ‘Logan.’ Here’s the list. It foots up seventy-seven enlisted men, with two officers.”
“Good enough,” rejoined Dave. “Keep the list until called for.”
No sooner was the destroyer within signalling distance of the transport that carried Major-General Burton, than a wigwagged demand came for that list. It was received and checked up.
The American loss, to the Army, had been one troopship, one officer and five enlisted men; to the Navy, with no ships lost, four men had been killed, including the two on the “Logan,” and one seaman had been wounded.
The German loss in officers and men could only be guessed at. But it was definitely known that thirteen of the Kaiser’s submarines had been sent to the bottom.
“However,” Lieutenant-Commander Darrin observed, when he and his executive officer had considered the report, “we are not yet through the Danger Zone. We may have another battle stiffer than the one just concluded.”
“Tell me something!” begged Danny Grin, his eyes gleaming. “Out of the thirteen pests sunk four are placed to the credit of the ‘Logan.’ Are we the people—or something like it—in this morning’s job?”
“Now run along,” Dave advised laughingly, “and don’t allow your head to be enlarged, either on your own account or your ship’s. The best we can claim, Danny-boy, is that we were very fortunate. As officers and men we’re no better than are to be found all through the Navy.”
“There’s one question I’d like to ask you before I trot,” Dan insisted, with one of his famous grins.
“What is it?”
“It may have some bearing on future fight engagements,” Dalzell continued, his grin slowly fading.
“When will you find time to tell me what the question is?” Darrin asked smiling.
“How many submarines were probably engaged this morning?”
“I haven’t any more idea than you have. I was too fully occupied with our own affairs to be able to watch the whole field.”
“But that document led us to believe that about sixty would be engaged,” Dalzell continued. “The question is, how many submarines were pitted against the fleet this morning?”
“I don’t know how many,” Dave admitted. “But I see your point. If the entire sixty were not engaged—and I doubt if any such number attacked—then we must look for a second mass attack.”
“Yes, sir,” nodded Dalzell, now wholly the serious, subordinate naval officer.
“The thing is worth taking up,” said Dave. “I’ll signal Captain Rhodes on the flagship of the destroyer flotilla and find out what he has to say.”
Back came Captain Rhodes’ answer within a minute:
“No accurate figures at hand. Believe enemy numbered something like thirty craft. Extreme vigilance needed until we reach port.”
“There you are,” Dave said, when the signal had been read. “Take command, Mr. Dalzell, and be the sharpest little sailor on the ocean. I’m going below on another matter.”
Once at his desk in the chart-room Dave sent for Seaman Ferguson.
“Does Seaman Jordan smoke cigarettes?” asked Darrin.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he really addicted to them?” Dave continued.
“Is he, sir?” exclaimed Ferguson. Then: “Pardon me, sir, for answering like that. Jordan smokes his head off when he can get the chance and has enough of the pesky things.”
“Thank you,” Dave nodded. “That is all, except the caution to say nothing to any one about my question. Send Reardon here.”
Big, red-faced, with huge hands, a deeply bronzed skin and a sly, merry twinkle in his eyes, Reardon was a sailor of the best type. Dave knew the man’s loyalty and shrewdness, as well as Reardon’s great faculty for holding his tongue at need.
“Reardon,” directed Dave, “place a chair here at the desk and write a note at my dictation with this pencil.”
“Aye, aye, sir! Ready,” announced Reardon, taking his seat and picking up the pencil in his big right hand.
“Write this,” said Dave. “‘Sorry for you. Looks like you got a raw deal. I’ll be glad to help you, if you want cigarettes or anything. Don’t nod or speak to me, but wait for your chance to slip this paper back to me. Write on it what you’d like.’”
“Now,” Darrin resumed, as the sailor looked up, “go below and stand where the guard at the brig can see you, but don’t let your shoes make enough noise for Jordan, who’s in the brig, to hear you. Signal to the guard to stroll slowly in your direction. When he reaches you tell him that you are ordered by me to slip a note to Jordan, but that the guard is not to mention the fact to any one. Tell the guard, from me, to stand so as to give you a chance to slip the note. Then, twenty minutes later, you are to get down there again and give Jordan a chance to hand you his reply. Slip this pencil in with the note.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Not even his eyes expressing any question or curiosity, Reardon left the chart-room. Going below he stepped into the passage-way that led to the brig. Cat-footed he walked along until he caught the eye of the marine guard. From the point where he halted Reardon was not visible to any one standing at the grated steel door of the little, cell-like brig in which serious offenders against discipline were confined until tried or released.
Reardon’s first signal was to place a warning finger over his lips. Then he brought his hand up to a smart salute, next pointing above, which the marine at once understood to mean that Reardon was there on an errand for some officer. Next by stepping softly, and motioning with his hand to the floor, and then to his own position, he signified that he wished the marine to come to him.
No fool was Fitch, private in the Marine Corps, which contains few if any fools. So well did he understand that the occupant of the brig had no suspicion that his guard was looking at any one beyond. Then Private Fitch took a few turns in the passageway, after which, yawning slightly, and humming softly to himself, he strolled along the passageway until he reached the big sailor.
“I’ve orders from Lieutenant-Commander Darrin to slip a note and a pencil to Jordan in the brig,” whispered Reardon. “You’re not to see me. Bye and bye you’re to give Jordan a chance to write an answer, which I’ll come back and get.”
“Lieutenant-Commander Darrin’s orders, eh?” whispered the marine, eyeing the big sailor keenly.
“Which the lieutenant commander gave me himself,” nodded Reardon. “And you’re not to say anything about the matter.”
“Go ahead, when you’re ready,” nodded Private Fitch, turning and strolling back.
A full two minutes Reardon waited. Then, making no further effort to walk softly, the big fellow stepped down the passage way.
“Looking for a berth in the brig?” asked Fitch, jocosely.
“Now, why should I?” demanded Reardon. “And me a good conduct man. ’Tis more likely you’ll get a place there yourself.”
“Not me,” returned the marine. “There are only six of us and a corporal on board, and we’re all needed. You know, Reardon, marines are important people, since one marine is the fighting equal of three sailors.”
“Is it so, now?” demanded Reardon, in an amused tone, as he halted before the brig door. “What time did ye get up this morning, Mister Fitch?”
Pacing the floor behind the barred door with the restless step of a caged animal, Seaman Jordan only scowled at the bantering pair. But Reardon had halted with his back close to the steel bars. In one hand behind him was a pencil with a scrap of paper folded around it.
Jordan hesitated. He was afraid of some trap, but his position was desperate. He was accused of treason. Perhaps this big sailor was a friend in need. After a moment or two of hesitation, Jordan prolonged his walk until it brought him close to the bars. Then, while Private Fitch was glancing down at the lock of his rifle, Jordan stealthily grasped note and paper and dropped them in a pocket.
Reardon remained for a few moments more, bantering the marine good-humoredly. Soon after Reardon had gone, the marine strolled slowly out of sight. In the brief interval before he was back Jordan hastily scanned the note. It looked utterly innocent. Turning the paper over, Jordan hurriedly wrote:
“Cigarettes and matches, as soon as you get a chance. There are times when the guard isn’t here. When in action, and all hands at quarters, there’s a long chance to smoke.”
Twenty minutes later Seaman Reardon returned, “joshed” the marine briefly, and secured pencil and paper from the prisoner.
Seaman Jordan waited a long time for his cigarettes and matches. For Dave Darrin, as soon as he had received the paper and Reardon had saluted and gone out, went to the safe and took from it the paper that had been fished out of the bottle rescued from the deep. For some minutes Darrin compared the writing on the two pieces of paper.
“Of course, one is in German script, and the other in English,” Dave communed with himself. “But let us see what Phelps thinks of it.”
Ensign Phelps, who was a bit more than an amateur handwriting expert, came at request and scanned both papers. Then he went out, returning with a magnifying glass with which he examined both writings.
“Of course the two different styles of script make the comparison difficult,” Mr. Phelps declared. “Still, I am certain a better qualified expert than I will say that the same hand executed both writings.”
“Then Jordan’s last chance is gone, I’m afraid,” replied Dave gravely, as he took the two sheets and filed them carefully in the safe. “Before, there was a chance for Jordan to get off at his trial by court-martial, for, while Seaman Ferguson was morally certain that Jordan dropped the bottle overboard, he would not be able to swear positively to it. If this note given by him to Reardon, however, proves Jordan of being the writer of both sheets, then his conviction as a traitor looks pretty certain. Phelps, these are the most serious days in the history of our great country. If any man in the American uniform is a traitor to our Flag and cause, then I want to see him punished.”
“That would mean death at the hands of a firing squad,” mused Ensign Phelps.
“Death before a firing squad,” Darrin assented gravely. “It is the only punishment for such a crime!”
CHAPTER XII—DAVE HUNTS A BIGGER FIGHT
Of much less beam for her length than the average yacht, the “Logan” was rolling from side to side at a dizzy angle when Dave Darrin, after a nap of an hour and a half in the chart-room, turned out.
The wind had freshened; spray dashed over the decks and water flooded the scuppers. Every now and then a spurt of water raced across the bridge as the destroyer heeled over in that roughening sea.
Dave had pulled on his rubber boots, strapping the hip extensions high up. His sheepskin coat was fastened up tightly under his chin, and the collar turned up over the lower part of the knitted helmet that he drew over his head.
Thus covered and concealed until his mother would not have known him had she encountered him unexpectedly, Dave stepped out on deck, clumsily clambering the steps to the bridge, one hand holding tightly to the hand-rail. Dalzell was up there, standing not far from Lieutenant Curtin. Forward, up in the bow, looking half drowned, paced an ensign whose night glass was not long at any time from his eyes.
On the superstructure amidships another officer paced, and still another on the deck astern.
There was little sleep for any officer. Not one of them but was aware that at any instant the lurking foe might strike, and then would begin a desperate, tragic game of blind man’s buff over the slashing, spray-topped waves.
A shaded light threw a confined ray on the bridge compass. Dave barely glanced at this latter instrument, for had not Dan been there while the young commander slept?
“Nothing seen, sir; some signals—that’s all,” was Dalzell’s terse report.
No grin appeared on Dan’s face now. It had been a tense vigil for him.
“Go below and get some sleep,” urged Dave.
“Don’t need any,” Dalzell declared stubbornly.
“It’s an order, then, Mr. Dalzell,” Dave answered briefly.
Grumbling, Dan took a final look into the night, then slowly clambered down the steps.
“I’m aware, sir, that an attack may be tried at any minute,” said Lieutenant Curtin, “but don’t you believe that it will be postponed until after daylight?”
“Yes,” Darrin made reply. “And if we’re to have an attack between here and port, I’d rather have it to-night. Neither troopship nor destroyer is showing lights, so the Huns couldn’t use their periscopes. They might, of course, use their sound devices, and launch torpedoes towards the sources of sounds, but that’s a clumsy and wasteful way of torpedoing an enemy. Attacking on a night like this, the only sure way would be for them to come to the surface. That would give us an ideal chance. With searchlights playing in every direction we’d pick up a lot of the submarines and hit them within the first minute and a half. No; unless for the novelty of the thing, the German commander won’t risk a night attack. Results for him are more certain just after dawn. I believe, as much as I believe anything, that the enemy’s submersibles are now waiting for us at the point where they figure that we will be at dawn.”
“It will be great to meet them at their convenience,” remarked Curtin, after a pause of a few minutes. “After what we did to them yesterday forenoon we know how we can rush some of ’em to the bottom, and leave the rest so far astern that they’d have to come to the surface to overtake our troop-ships.”
“We know what we did, but we don’t know that we can do it again,” Darrin retorted. “The greatest mistake that we can make is to become over-confident. That never pays when dealing with any enemy, and least of all when the Hun is the enemy. We got away yesterday, Curtin, but has it struck you that we may have met the inferior half of the underseas fleet that the enemy has concentrated against us? Yesterday forenoon’s work may have been play compared with the job that has been cut out for us. The surest way to lose a few destroyers, a few transports and thousands of soldiers and sailors, is for the naval officers with this fleet to let their confidence get the better of their alertness. Even in spite of our utmost watchfulness and best work, we may lose five thousand American lives before we reach port.”
“Maybe our country would fight better hereafter if we did,” muttered the younger officer. “A loss like that would serve to rouse Americans rather than to kill their fighting instinct.”
“But confidence in the Navy would be largely gone,” Dave rejoined. “At present the folks at home are whooping up the Navy. That’s because we’ve had such fine luck so far. Let us lose several thousand soldiers at sea and then see how much our home people would boost for the Navy. We’re judged by the goods we deliver in the form of results.”
Not all of this had been said in continuous conversation, for not once did either officer remove his gaze from the black waters around them. Dave and his junior officer had spoken by snatches as they came together.
Off to starboard, several hundred yards, the dimly defined shape of a huge transport appeared. The transport ahead of her, and the one behind her, had to be located by judgment rather than by vision.
“A fellow cannot help getting nervous out here—I mean nervous for the transports,” said Lieutenant Curtin, ten minutes later. “Before you came up, sir, there was a time when neither Mr. Dalzell nor I could see that nearest troopship at all.”
“Did you change your course?” asked Dave, with a smile.
“No, sir; I knew we must be right, for we had followed the course to a fine line. But it was uncanny, just the same—the knowledge that we must guard the transports, combined with the belief that they had slipped miles away.”
“Before you came across to this side of the ocean, Mr. Curtin, you were inclined to be a bit stout, weren’t you?” Dave quizzed.
“Nineteen pounds over weight, sir.”
“Cheer up! You won’t grow fat during this war.”
“I don’t care about loss of sleep, or anything,” declared the junior officer, earnestly. “I believe that I could get along without sleep, except when in port, if we could range the seas with a daily average of one enemy submarine sunk.”
“If you could do that, and the other destroyers did anything at all,” laughed Darrin, “the seas would soon be as safe as they were in 1913.”
“Do you remember that time, sir, a month ago, when we answered an S. O. S. call and arrived in time to jump at a submarine engaged in shelling the small boats that were pulling away from the wrecked Norwegian steamer?”
“Yes.”
“We missed that infernal Hun. He got away, and I am certain that I didn’t sleep a real wink in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Take things more easily,” Dave advised. “Do your best, Curtin, and then if the Hun boat gets away, take it out in chuckling over the big scare you gave the enemy officers and crew. That’s the way I do.”
Calling the officer amidships on the deck to take a turn on the bridge with Lieutenant Curtin, Dave, after receiving the engine-room report over the bridge telephone, went on a swift but thorough tour of inspection. Dark as it was, he discovered that the breech mechanism of one of the forward guns was not oiled to his fancy. Three or four other slight oversights he found, and promptly rapped out orders to remedy the faults.
“In a campaign like this,” he told Ensign Carter, tersely, “there can be no knowing at what moment we shall be called upon to fight for our lives, nor how many seconds of fatal delay may be caused by any lacking detail. Constant inspection is the only way to be certain that one is up to fighting mark. Inspection is not enough when made only by commander and executive officer. ‘Inspection’ should be engraved on the brain of every watch and division officer.”
Dave glanced at the chronometer in the chart-room on his way to the bridge, and knew that the first streaks of dawn should appear in the east in fifteen minutes. Sending the relieving officer back to his station amidships, Darrin resumed his bridge vigil.
First signs of dawn came in due time. The light gained in strength until the long line of the transport fleet stood revealed, extending back further than the eye could see. Obeying signals, some of the destroyers stood further out from their charges and then raced on ahead to inspect that portion of the sea which must very soon be traversed.
“If we don’t run into something before the middle of the forenoon,” Dave confided to Dan, who now reappeared on the bridge after a short rest, “I shall feel easier. The nearer we draw to land the more help is likely to be afloat near us.”
Just then a boom came over the water. A gun of one of the foremost trio of destroyers had spoken. Swiftly the signals came back.
Dave gave the order to have all hands sounded to quarters.
“Gentlemen,” said the young commander after the crew had reached the deck, “this morning’s work will undoubtedly be the real test. Within twenty minutes we’ll be in the thick of a real fight!”
CHAPTER XIII—A BATTLE TRY-OUT FOR SOULS
Men had stood their watch by the guns all night long.
Boom! boom! From ahead came the sound of rapid firing. The commanders of the three leading destroyers were seasoned men experienced in their work, and were not likely to be shooting at mere shadows.
“At the best, it’s snap-shooting,” Dan uttered, almost disgustedly. “We cannot do our marksmanship justice when we are contending with a skulking enemy and seldom have anything more to aim at than a periscope that’s up from four to seven seconds, or the wake caused by the conning tower of a submarine running near the surface.”
“Occasional hits, however, show that a good deal can be accomplished by snap shooting when real gunners do it,” rejoined Dave.
At this moment he read the signal for destroyers to maneuver at judgment. Dave promptly gave orders that sent the “Logan” scooting further away from the transport fleet, out on its port flank.
“Ahead, and zigzag,” Darrin ordered sharply. “All the zigzag that full speed will allow.”
Her turbines turning at better than trial speed limit, the “Logan” roared on her way like an angry bulldog with the speed of a grayhound.
Despite the speed, the zigzagging course kept Dave opposite the troopship he had been guarding through the night.
Just astern of the “Logan” a periscope flashed up for a few seconds. A gun was trained and fired, but the periscope had been withdrawn by the time the shell got there. A tell-tale light streak appeared on the surface of the sea astern of the destroyer, one of whose signalmen waved a warning that was superfluous, for the troopship at which the torpedo had been aimed had already started off on a zigzag course, and escaped by a matter of feet.
From the head of the squadron came back the signalled order:
“All troopships zigzag!”
“Looks like a crazy marine waltz!” reflected Danny Grin as he caught a second’s glimpse of this strange maneuver.
Darrin did not turn to see what had become of the submersible at which one of the “Logan’s” shells had been fired. The enemy was undoubtedly unharmed and under control, and there would be another destroyer on the spot in a jiffy. Dave believed that they were not yet in the thick of the Hun trap and he kept a sharp lookout ahead.
“Second destroyer astern of us just signalled a hit,” Dan uttered presently, in a tone of glee.
“Must be the one that we tried for,” was Darrin’s comment.
In the meantime, both the British authorities and the American Admiral at the base port were being constantly informed, through radio messages, of just what was now taking place on this part of the sea.
“Assistance already on the way; watch for it,” came back the reply from the admirals.
“Humph! There’s no vessel that sails that can reach us in season if it didn’t start from port a few hours ago,” was Dalzell’s puzzled comment.
Not very long after that the leading ships of the fleet knew that they were in the thick of the enemy ambush. The courses of several torpedoes were observed, but, thanks to the zigzagging of the vessels, no transport or escort had yet been hit.
“Signal coming, sir, to commanding officer of the ‘Logan,’” reported the signalman on the destroyer’s bridge.
“‘Logan’ will drop out of line and hunt enemy submarines on commanding officer’s judgment,” Dave Darrin read.
“That’s because of our record yesterday,” Dan Dalzell chuckled. “We are looked upon as the star performers of the flotilla.”
“We’ll do our best to be the stars again to-day,” Dave confided to his chum after he had given his orders.
With a rush and roar the destroyer headed northward, nor did Darrin come about until he was something like fifteen hundred yards away from the troopship line.
“Submarines usually try for hits at from six hundred to a thousand yards,” he explained to Dalzell, as the racing craft hurried on her way. “A German commander, with his eyes on the transports, might not think to turn his periscope in the opposite direction at a time like this.”
“But his sound-detecting device will tell him where we are,” Dan hinted.
“Not with all the gun-fire and the noise of so many hurrying craft,” Dave answered. “Wait and see.”
Phelps was sent to join the two seamen forward. From that position he could see any torpedo trail that started between the “Logan’s” position and the transport fleet. Within less than five minutes Phelps detected a white line of seething foam, and Dave steered his ship straight to the spot where the Hun craft was believed to be.
“Fire as fast as you can, Mr. Phelps,” was the order Darrin transmitted.
So closely had Phelps got the range that the “Logan” drove straight to the torpedo’s source. There the long, vague outline of a submersible was barely discernible under the deep blue of the sea.
“Over her!” Darrin ordered.
At their station the depth bomb men stood at alert, awaiting the word at which the bomb would be released by the touch of a finger.
As the destroyer swept over the submersible’s hull Dave shouted:
“Let go bomb!”
It was then that the finger touch was applied. Over the stern slipped the amazing mechanism which contained a steel shell. It was adjusted to go off automatically at a depth of thirty feet. Nothing within a hundred feet of the point of its explosion could escape being shattered.
Bump! came a heavy explosion. The “Logan” herself shook and plunged as a column of water shot up astern.
Instantly Dave ordered the ship about, for the dropping of another bomb, in case the first had failed.
No need, though, for the spreading of oil on the surface of the water showed how effective a hit had been made.
“Now, for more of the pests!” uttered Dalzell, gleefully. “We must beat our record of yesterday.”
Darrin did not reply. Outwardly calm, but with muscles set and every nerve tensed to the tingling point, he stood almost on tip-toe, grasping the forward rail, peering ahead and to either side.
But at least one German captain had caught him, so far out of line, for, from the starboard watch, forward, came the brisk warning:
“Torpedo, sir, on the starboard bow!”
In the same instant Dave had seen it. The trail was racing to meet the “Logan” well forward.
Not risking even the delay of a shouted order, Darrin reached for the lever of the bridge telegraph and set the jingle bells in the engine room a-clatter. His quick order threw the propellers into reverse and then full speed astern. At the same time he swung the bow around.
Had he tried to zigzag it is doubtful if he could have escaped. Had he gone straight ahead the torpedo would have hit him just below the waterline.
As it was, the missile of destruction passed by a scant dozen feet from the “Logan’s” bow.
This was the single instant of safety for which Darrin had worked. Now, he ordered speed ahead, and swung around, sailing straight to the spot where he believed the enemy to be.
By the time he was at that spot nothing was to be seen of the undersea boat. Submerging to greater depth the wily Hun had glided away to safety.
“Now, what does that German fellow mean by holding down our record in that fashion?” Dan demanded, wrathfully. “He’s no sportsman, not to take a chance.”
“He may get us yet,” was Darrin’s quiet answer.
It was Lieutenant Curtin who first discovered a number of small specks away over in the eastern sky.
“They’re not clouds,” said Dave, eyeing the specks through his glass, “but at the distance I can’t make out what they are.”
“If they can’t turn over submarines to us, I hardly care what they are,” muttered Dan Dalzell to himself.
With the fleet dashing forward, and the specks moving nearer, it was not long before watchful eyes behind glasses discovered just what the specks were.
“Now, we’ll see something interesting,” quoth Darrin.
“They’re coming to take our glory, instead of adding to it,” Dan insisted.
“What do you care who puts the Huns on old Ocean’s bed, as long as they arrive there?” Dave asked, coolly.
“Will they put any Huns there?” Dalzell inquired, doubtfully.
“If they don’t, we can still sail in and help ourselves to the best we can find,” laughed Dave.
CHAPTER XIV—TEAM WORK BETWEEN SKY AND WATER
From mere specks the oncoming objects grew larger and larger, until, to the unaided eye, they stood plainly revealed as hydroairplanes.
They were British, too, and built especially for the purpose of detecting and destroying submarines. Tommy Atkins calls this type of airplane a “blimp.”
From high up in the air observers are able, when the light is right, to see a submarine at a depth of about one hundred feet below the surface. Having detected a submerged enemy craft the hydroairplane flies over it, dropping a bomb.
“That they can see a submersible at such a depth makes me wonder why the hydroairplane doesn’t take the place of the destroyer,” observed Lieutenant Curtin.
“The crew of a hydroairplane can see the submarine at a greater depth under water than can a destroyer,” Dave explained, “but owing to the height at which they are obliged to observe they cannot drop their bombs as accurately.”
“Then the chaps yonder are not likely to be of much service to us to-day.”
Coming still nearer, one of the hydroairplanes made signals which the flagship of the destroyer flotilla answered. Then through the fleet ran the signalled message:
“When possible the hydroairplanes will destroy enemy boats by bombing. A smoke bomb in the air will denote position of submarine at that moment. Destroyer commanders will act accordingly.”
“Then the British flyers yonder will fight on their own account, or scout for us, as seems best,” Dave announced.
One of the great flying craft neared the position into which the “Logan” was steaming. Suddenly she swooped a bit lower and let go an object that dropped fast, going out of sight under the water.
There was a turmoil ahead among the waves. As the destroyer moved forward those on her decks saw oil spreading over the water.
“Signal a hit, then follow the airship,” Dave directed.
Moving, now, no faster than did the destroyer, the hydroairplane scurried about through the air, swooping, banking, diving and rising. At last, apparently she located another submarine. A bomb dropped, but Dave, driving his ship through the water after the explosion, found no tell-tale oil signs.
“Wide of the mark,” signalled the Britisher.
Presently the hydroairplane again caught sight of the prey it was stalking. Another bomb fell, but still no hit.
“We’ll fly just over the enemy,” wirelessed the hydroairplane. “At the instant you’re fairly over we’ll signal you.”
“That’s the right way to hunt,” declared Danny Grin, under his breath.
Acting on the suggestion Darrin steamed in until he was directly under the air craft. The signal came. Dave ordered a bomb dropped, and steamed rapidly away from the place of the coming explosion. Then he swung around, driving back at full speed.
“A hit,” signalled the airship.
“Easy, when you do all the work,” Darrin signalled back. “Be good enough to find us another mouthful.”
By this time the cannonading on all sides had become incessant. Despite the cloudiness of the night, the day had turned out bright, in a season when bright days do not abound in these waters. On such a day, though the periscope metal is dull, the drops of water adhering to the shaft make it a fairly bright mark.
Wherever a periscope showed, the handlers of more than one gun took a chance at it. Several broad patches of oil marked the graves of Hun submersibles and their crews.
The wake made by a conning tower was sure to lead a destroyer away in pursuit of that same tower. The hydroairplanes followed many of these wakes, in nearly every instance locating the sea monsters for the destroyers.
Besides, the torpedo trails in themselves served to lead the destroyers to many an enemy craft.
“This is the right combination,” Dan muttered to Lieutenant Curtin. “Airship and destroyer combined have an advantage that puts the submersible on the run or out of commission altogether. It takes the credit away from the destroyer too.”
“I don’t care where the credit goes, if the pests are sunk,” Curtin answered. “If we had had these airships yesterday we wouldn’t have lost the ‘Castle City.’”
“But the hydroairplanes do not go so far out as we were sailing yesterday,” Dalzell reminded the watch officer.
“I know it, but I believe that a type could be made that would have no difficulty in crossing the ocean from shore to shore.”
Now the “Logan’s” guns were at it again, with a barking din that made conversation difficult.
By this time only one hydroairplane remained with the head of the fleet, which was believed to have passed through the submarine ambush. The others and a decided majority of the destroyers were now maneuvering anywhere from the middle to the rear end of the transports.
Finally the fight centered on the tail end of the transport fleet. Here the submarines were doing their best to “get” a transport.
Another hour, and the fleet believed itself to be clear of that submarine concentration. Not that vigilance was relaxed, however. No troopship had been struck to-day, but the fine work might be easily undone by carelessness on the part of either hydroairplane or destroyer commanders.
Two hours after the attack began Darrin received signalled orders to return to his former position in the escort line.
“Thus endeth the second chapter—apparently,” commented Danny Grin.
During this engagement, as on the day before, the soldiers who crowded the destroyer had been ordered from the decks during the fight. They were now notified that they might come out.
It was one o’clock in the afternoon when the leading hydroairplane signalled a report that the sea ahead was strewn with wreckage. Ship after ship sailed through this mute evidence of the enemy’s presence and detestable work. Spars with clinging cordage floated by. Wooden hatchcovers, overturned boats, oars, chairs, wooden boxes, bales of soaked cotton and what-not were in the litter that strewed the sea over a broad area.
One of the overturned lifeboats was overhauled. The name on her stern showed that she belonged to a nine-thousand-ton freighter, carrying a naval gun crew and fore and after guns.
“The loss of the ship is bad enough,” said Dave, soberly, “but there is nothing to indicate how many lives were lost.”
An hour later, however, three boats, containing some forty men, women and children, were overhauled. The freighter had carried passengers.
When the lifeboats had been overhauled, and the occupants taken off by the destroyer “John Adams,” the shivering wretches had a sad tale to tell. It was at that moment believed, and afterwards confirmed, that some sixty persons had lost their lives.
“Even after we pulled away in the small boats,” sobbed an American woman, “the brutes shelled us.”
“A cook in our boat was hit,” a man took up the narrative. “The shell struck him at the waist, hurling his head and trunk overboard and leaving his legs in the boat. And a child’s head was shot from its shoulders. You noticed the splashes of blood in our boat? I’m fifty-nine years old, but if any recruiting officer in four armies will accept me I’m ready to enlist and fight these beasts—navy or army!”
“And I’m going to enlist!” quivered a young boatswain’s mate. “I can’t get into the trenches soon enough. I won’t take any German prisoners at the front, either,” he added, significantly.
Late in the afternoon, not many miles from the submarine base, French and American destroyers waited to escort the transport fleet the rest of the way to France. At about that same hour the evening papers in Berlin declared that an American transport fleet had been encountered, and that nine of the ships, containing more than twenty thousand American soldiers, had been sent to the bottom. The truth was that one transport had been sunk and eleven Americans killed and wounded!
Many of the destroyers that had brought in the transport fleet to the point where the new escort awaited it, now turned seaward once more. Dave Darrin and the “Logan,” however, were under orders to go to the base port, for the trial of Ober-Lieutenant von Bechtold was close at hand.
When Dave and Dan went ashore they took with them Seaman Jordan under close guard.
After slipping that note to Seaman Reardon and then receiving no further results from it, Jordan had suddenly suspected the ruse that was likely to put his neck in a noose. So now, as he went ashore, that young seaman was gloomy and pallid.
Hardly had Darrin stepped on the wharf when a waiting jackie saluted smartly.
“Why, hullo, Runkle!” cried Dave, halting, for this sailorman had been of great assistance to him in former undertakings.
“I’m glad to see you, sir,” exclaimed Runkle, who bore the device of a boatswain’s mate. “I thought you were in these waters, sir.”
“And I wish I had you on my ship, Runkle,” Dave went on, earnestly.
“Begging your pardon, sir, I see that you have Hartmann a prisoner.”
“Who?”
“Hartmann.”
“Do you mean the sailor under guard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You call him Hartmann?”
“Yes, sir—Gus Hartmann—old Jake Hartmann’s son. I ought to know him. We hail from the same home town.”
“Speak to him,” murmured Dave, then turned to the prisoner with:
“Jordan, here’s a boatswain’s mate who says your name is Hartmann.”
“It must be so, sir, if he says so,” returned Jordan, sulkily.
“Then you admit your name to be Hartmann?”
“No, sir; but I can see that I am not to get any show whatever, so I may as well give up hope.”
“Runkle,” said Dave, after signalling to the guard to take the prisoner on, “I shall have to arrange for you to be on hand. That young man will undoubtedly be tried for treason. He enlisted under an American name, and your testimony that his real name is Hartmann will be valuable for the prosecution.”
“If young Hartmann is guilty of treason,” Runkle burst out hotly, “I would be glad enough to have the job of drowning him myself.”
“Is Jordan, or Hartmann, a citizen of the United States?”
“He was born in America, I understand, sir, but his father was born in Germany, and, so I was told, never took out naturalization papers.”
When the accused sailor had been locked up, and three secret service men came on board, Dave Darrin aided them in searching for more of the bottles that glowed when dropped in water.
Jordan, or Hartmann, had been employed at times under the ship’s painter. In the paint storeroom the secret service men, after some search, found a board in the floor, back of some boxes, that could be pried up, moving on a hinge. In a hiding place underneath were four bottles identical with the bottle which Darrin had recovered from the water.
Reporting to American Base Headquarters, Dave was much astonished to find orders there relieving him from command of the “Logan.”
“I didn’t know my work had been as bad as that,” Darrin smiled.
“Not bad work at all,” replied the staff officer who had handed him the order. “In the first place, you’ll be here to attend the court-martial of Ober-Lieutenant von Bechtold. Then there’s the case of your own seaman, Jordan, or whatever his name may be. You’ll have to testify at his court-martial, too. After both trials are over you will be ordered to the new duty to be given you.”
“I don’t suppose that I am expected to inquire what that new duty is?”
“As yet I cannot tell you about the new duty.”
“Who will command the ‘Logan,’ if I may ask?”
“Curtin. He has just received his step, and is now a lieutenant-commander.”
“And I have my step, too!” cried Danny Grin, coming up behind his chum and waving an official looking envelope. “I’m a lieutenant-commander. Been detached from service on the ‘Logan’ and must await new orders.”
“That goes for both of you,” said the staff officer smilingly.
“I wish I had a line on the new duty, though,” said Dalzell, as he turned away.
“So do I,” half-sighed Dave. “But wishing doesn’t do much for a chap in the Service.”
Turning, they walked briskly toward the naval club frequented by British and American naval officers. There, by good luck, they found Curtin, who had just come ashore.
“There are orders for you at the admiral’s office,” Dave reported. “I may as well tell you, Curtin, that Dalzell and I are detached for other duties; that you have gotten your step to a lieutenant-commandership and that you are to swing the ‘Logan’ from now on. Congratulations, old man! And I know you’ll make a record at your new post, just as you have made in your lower grades.”
“And remember, my boy,” grinned Dan, “we won’t be a bit jealous, no matter if you succeed in sinking the Kaiser’s entire submarine fleet!”
Curtin’s face showed his joy. He immediately wrote and submitted to the censor a cablegram informing his wife that he had been promoted and given a command. Further information he could not send.
“What are we going to do this evening, Danny-boy?” Dave inquired.
“I don’t know, but I expect my activities will be confined to guessing what my new line of service is to be.”
“If Curtin has attained to independent command, there’s a big chance that you will also,” Dave observed.
“That would separate us,” muttered Dan, looking almost alarmed. “David, little giant, I don’t believe I’ll be able to serve as well if I’m not on the same craft with you.”
“Nonsense!” laughed Darrin.
“Fact!” Dan insisted.
“Then what are you going to do when you become an admiral?”
“I’ll have lots of time to think that over,” retorted Dalzell.
Three days later the von Bechtold trial came off before a court-martial of British naval officers. The German commander was found guilty of having landed in Ireland as a spy, and was condemned to be shot, a sentence soon afterward carried out. He would give no information about the civilian found dead on the submarine, but the stranger was believed to have been a civilian government official from Berlin.
Right after that Hartmann, alias Jordan, was placed on trial before an American court-martial on a charge of treason. His trial was short because the prisoner broke down and confessed his identity as a German spy. He implicated two German spies then in Ireland, both of whom had been masquerading as Swedish ship-brokers. These two latter were captured, tried by the British naval authorities, and sentenced to death. Jordan was ordered shot, and soon afterward paid the penalty of his crime before a firing squad.
Runkle, who had been a witness against Hartmann, alias Jordan, was now detached from the ship on which he had been serving, and was placed on waiting orders.