When the Corsair arrived on the French coast there was nothing to indicate the vast American organization, military and naval, which was soon to be created with a speed and efficiency almost magical. Supply bases, docks, fuel stations, railroads were, at the outset, such as France could provide from her own grave necessities. Marshal Joffre and Lord Balfour had convinced the Government at Washington that if the United States delayed to prepare, it might be too late. Troops were demanded, above all else. Man power was the vital thing. And so these early divisions were hurried overseas to Pershing with little more than the equipment on their backs.
The Navy was aware of its own share of the problem which was to extend its fighting front to the shores of France as well as to the Irish Sea. To protect the ocean traffic to and from the United States, small, swift ships were required by the dozens and scores, but they could not be built in a day, and, as a British admiral expressed it, “This rotten U-boat warfare had caught all the Allies with their socks down.” Of the naval escort with the First Expeditionary Force, the cruisers returned to the United States for further convoy duty and the destroyers went either with them or were ordered to join the flotilla at Queenstown. For a short time the Corsair and another large yacht, the Aphrodite, were left to comprise the American naval strength on the French coast. On June 30th, Commander Kittinger received the following instructions from Rear Admiral Gleaves:
When in all respects ready for sea, proceed with the vessel under your command to Brest, France, and report to the Senior French Naval Officer for duty. Exhibit these orders to the Senior United States Naval Officer in Brest. Upon the arrival of Captain W. B. Fletcher, U.S. Navy, report to him for duty.
The tenor of these orders indicated the wise and courteous policy which Vice-Admiral Henry B. Wilson was later to develop with brilliant success—that of coöperation with and deference to the French naval authorities instead of asserting the independence of command which, in fact, he exercised. At this time Captain Fletcher had been appointed to organize the American “Special Patrol Force,” and he was daily expected to arrive in the yacht Noma. The ancient port of Brest was selected as the chief naval base because the French had long used it for this purpose, maintaining dockyards, repair shops, and arsenals, and also because the largest transports afloat could be moored in its deep and spacious harbor. Saint-Nazaire and Bordeaux became the great entry ports for cargo steamers during the war, while into Brest the huge liners carried twenty thousand or forty thousand troops in a single convoy.
WINNING BOAT CREW IN FOURTH OF JULY RACE WITH APHRODITE
“THE BRIDGE GANG”
The Corsair steamed into Brest on July 2d in company with the Aphrodite and duly reported to Vice-Admiral Le Brise, of the French Navy. Two days later a fleet of other yachts arrived from home and were warmly welcomed, the Noma, Kanawha, Harvard, Christabel, Vidette, and Sultana. With this ambitious little navy it was possible to operate a patrol force which Captain Fletcher promptly proceeded to do, acting in concert with the French torpedo boats, armed trawlers, submarines, and aircraft.
The Corsair lay in port ten days to coal, paint ship, and otherwise prepare for the job of cruising in the Bay of Biscay. An unofficial log, as kept by one of the seamen, briefly notes:
July 2nd. Sailed for Brest from Saint-Nazaire at 4 A.M. Arrived at 3 P.M. and received four submarine warnings on the way. We thought we saw two periscopes, but they may have been buoys. We have added a French pilot to our crew. No shore liberty, as we are too tired. We hear we are to be over here a long time, with Brest as our base.
July 3rd. I spent the day painting the bridge. The ship looks fine. I am also standing a twelve-hour watch in order to give the other signal-men shore liberty. We caught a bunch of mackerel over the side to-day and will fry them. The Aphrodite has challenged us to row them a race to-morrow. A big French dirigible went out to sea to look for submarines.
July 4th. A national holiday, but not for us. We won the race from the Aphrodite. The Noma and the Kanawha arrived this morning. They fought a submarine, but no damage was done on either side. We expect to get under way any minute and will look for the U-boat that shot at the Noma. We had water sports in the afternoon and they were good fun.
July 5th. The Sultana arrived to-day. She picked up all the survivors of the S.S. Orleans which was torpedoed on the 3rd. Five of them were put aboard this ship and their description of the sinking was harrowing. Only two lifeboats got away. Four men were killed. The ship sank in ten minutes. According to the dope, the Corsair will sink in three minutes, if struck. Cheerful, what?
July 6th. This was my first liberty in Brest. It is a very old town high on the cliffs. We went through the Duke of Brittany’s old castle which dates back some fifteen hundred years and was once the homestead of Anne of Brittany. The dungeons were mighty interesting. They surely did treat ’em rough in those days. These rooms are more than two hundred feet down in the solid rock and have been dark for ages. I should call them unhealthy. The tortures they used to inflict on the prisoners were diabolical. And yet you’ll hear gobs growling about the Navy. All of which reminds me that life on shipboard has been running along without much change. Several Russian destroyers came into the harbor this afternoon.
July 7th. A lot more of the men got Paris liberty to-day. We had a bad little accident on board. The hook at the bow of the small motor sailer pulled out when the boat was suspended about forty feet above the water. It fell and three men working in it were spilled into the drink. Mr. Mason, assistant engineer, struck his back and head and was badly bruised.... 9th. I certainly will be glad when the other signal-men get back from Paris. These twelve-hour watches are wearing me out. There are two rumors—one that we are to go to sea again for three days, put in at Saint-Nazaire, out again three days, and then back. The other rumor is that we are going to England. I hope this is correct. This is the first time I have felt homesick, and for some reason to-night I do. I guess it is because poor old Art Coffey is to be shipped back to the States. His eye trouble can’t be treated over here. Nothing has happened aboard ship excepting that the commander told Art that the Corsair would not go back home for a long, long time, if he could help it. Golly, but I would like to go; not to stay, but just to get a glimpse of home and the folks.
July 13th. Spent the morning washing my white clothes. A new rumor! We are to leave here Saturday for five days, put into Queenstown for coal and then back to the States, spend a couple of weeks there and then convoy the National Guardsmen or more of the Regular Army back. I hope this is true. How I would like to see a real country again. France is beautiful, but dead. Brest is no livelier than Edgartown and there is only one Paris. Its name is New York. This was Friday, the 13th, so I was mighty careful to watch my step. To-morrow is the French Fourth of July and it is a big fête day. Wish I were going ashore to see the celebration. Met some Yale men off the Harvard and they are very nice chaps. I am improving on the blinker signals and feel encouraged. No more dope!
The Corsair sailed next day on her first patrol cruise, and the author of the foregoing observations affords us a glimpse of what the job seemed like while they were becoming hardened to it. He goes on to say:
July 15th. At sea. A cold, rough day. I feel a bit shaky and have a sore throat. Our work out here is answering S.O.S. calls, looking for submarines, and convoying merchant ships. We convoyed one Dane and two Britishers most of the day. One of the Limies had swapped shots with a sub.... No chance to take off my clothes or wash. Took a practice shot at a barrel and hit it at half a mile.... 17th. Ran over a submarine at 2.15 A.M. but could not get a shot at it. This trip has been awful weather most of the time, rain, mist, wind, and fog. Nothing is dry on the whole ship. Anybody that says life in the Navy is a cinch has never been in it. If this war lasts a year we shall all be changed men.
July 20th. Back at Brest. The Harvard came in with survivors of two torpedoed ships. One crew had been blown up twice within twenty-four hours. They had been picked up and then the rescuing ship was sunk. The submarine took the captain and the gunner along as prisoners.... 21st. At sea. This has been a very exciting day. We have seen three submarines. We fired at one periscope and either hit it or near it. When the splash cleared away the submarine had disappeared. We were at our battle stations almost all day. We passed a great deal of wreckage, some of it barrels of oil and gasoline. Also passed an upset lifeboat with two masts and a beautiful big life-raft. We always cruise around such objects before approaching them, as they may be submarine bait. I stood the midnight watch and sighted a light which we headed towards. It turned out to be a large American schooner, deserted and on fire. The masts were gone and it was a complete wreck. We met a British Naval Reserve ship bound to Africa, a funny-looking craft for ocean work, flat-bottomed with side wheels.
July 23rd. To-day we had lots of excitement. In my watch I discovered an object five miles off which looked exactly like a periscope. I sounded the alarm and we approached it very carefully. It turned out to be a large piece of wreckage with a ventilator on top. More empty lifeboats to-day, and no clew to tell where they came from. At night Captain Kittinger sighted a strange ship which he swore was a submarine. It proved to be a British destroyer and the joke was on the skipper.
July 26th. In port. To-day as per our weekly schedule we coaled ship with the usual results. Filth and coal dust everywhere. Instead of coaling I had to stand a twelve-hour signal watch. In sending a semaphore message to the Vidette I was nearly killed. A Spanish freighter was between the two ships and I had to climb into the rigging about fifty feet above the deck. As I could not hold on with either hand, only with my feet, it was ticklish work. I slipped and started to fall, but luckily caught hold of the rigging in time and saved myself. It was too close for comfort. A torpedo missed the Noma by ten feet. Wow!
July 27th. Sailed this morning to meet and escort U.S. troop-ships. The Aphrodite is supposed to be with us, but she blew a boiler tube and has gone back. We had a pretty close shave this afternoon. Ran into a mine field, but zigzagged through it and, thank God, dodged them all. A mine would blow every one of us to kingdom come without a chance to get a boat over.... 29th. Left the transports we were convoying at Saint-Nazaire and then put out to patrol our regular area. Escorted several ships to-day, most of them British. One of the Limies was an awful bonehead and when we demanded to know his nationality he showed no colors. We hoisted our battle flag at the fore, but he came to and ran up his ensign just as we were about to throw a shot across his bow. We convoyed a big Cunarder, the Tuscania, carrying mail and supplies from America to Falmouth and dropped her at the end of our patrol area. Our Queenstown destroyers probably picked her up after we left her.... 31st. Early this morning a Greek steamer got mixed in her bearings and nearly ran into us. We had to stop and back at full speed. This is the roughest day I have ever seen on the ocean. The waves are half as high as the mast. We are shipping water almost constantly and it is dangerous to walk on deck.
August 2nd. Left Saint-Nazaire convoying the Bohemian. This is the largest cargo ship afloat, and it is quite a feather in our cap to be given the escort duty. The roughest sea yet and it is impossible to enter our compartment below. Almost everybody seasick. A big wave carried away our hatch ventilator and mess gear last night with a terrible crash. I was asleep, and when the noise came and the water poured down on us I thought we were sinking. I grabbed my life-preserver and started for my station, but got word that all was well, so went back to my bunk. It was soaked, with six inches of water on the deck under me, but I slept anyhow.
STARTING THE SWIMMING RACE FROM A MOORING BUOY
WATER SPORTS ON THE FOURTH OF JULY. THE RACE BETWEEN LIFE-RAFTS WITH COAL SHOVELS FOR PADDLES
August 15th. Convoying the Celtic. We had been at sea only two hours when the fo’castle began shipping water which lavishly deluged the “hell-hole” below, as usual. I slept in the motor sailer and got wet, as usual. It rained on me all night and all I had was one blanket. My clothes dried out in the wind.... Left the Celtic and started for Brest. Got an S.O.S. call and headed for it. Found three ships there, but no sign of a torpedoed vessel. I understand that she was not sunk, but got away under her own steam. I slept in a boat again. Couldn’t stand it below decks. Hear we coal to-morrow and put to sea again at night. Hope it’s a lie.
August 19th. Got liberty after coaling ship and went ashore. Was hungry, so bought quite a dinner—one omelette, two steaks, two orders of peas and potatoes, tomato salad, three plates of ice-cream, five small cakes, two peaches, coffee, and some champagne. Wasn’t at all hungry when I got through. The life begins to agree with me.
It may be noted that in these extracts from the day’s routine of several weeks of active duty, the Corsair was engaged in patrolling a certain definite area of ocean and in escorting single ships through her block, like a policeman on a beat, or in saving mariners and vessels in distress. Incidentally she endeavored to lift the scalp of Fritz whenever opportunity offered. These areas, as laid off on the chart in degrees of latitude and longitude, would measure perhaps sixty by one hundred miles. The same system was employed by the Queenstown destroyer flotilla during the early months of its service. Some protection was given shipping and the submarines were driven farther offshore, but as an offensive campaign the patrol system was a little better than nothing. Of the destroyer patrol, Admiral Sims had this to say:
The idea is sound enough if you can have destroyers enough. We figured that to make the patrol system work with complete success, we should have to have one destroyer for every square mile. The area of the destroyer patrol off Queenstown comprised about 25,000 square miles. In other words, the complete protection of the trans-Atlantic trade would have required about 25,000 destroyers.
The alternative and by far the more effective scheme was to group a number of merchant vessels or transports and send them out from port or take them in with a sufficient force of destroyers and yachts to screen the convoy from submarine attack. Valuable ships could not be allowed to run by themselves. This was the procedure worked out and generally adopted after the United States had come into the war, and it made possible the enormous task of placing two million men in France and feeding a large part of Europe besides.
When the Corsair was on the Breton patrol, in company with other American yachts, it was difficult to realize how few U-boats were actually cruising at one time and how great were the odds against finding one in a designated patrol area.
Now in this densely packed shipping area [declared Admiral Sims], extending, say, from the north of Ireland to Brest, there were seldom more than eight or ten submarines operating at any one time. The largest number I had record of was fifteen, but this was exceptional. The usual number was four, six, eight, or perhaps ten. We estimated that the convoys and troop-ships brought in reports of sighting about three hundred submarines for every submarine actually in the field. We also estimated that for every hundred submarines the Germans possessed, they could keep only ten or a dozen at work in the open sea. Could Germany have kept, let us say, fifty submarines constantly at work on the great shipping routes in the winter and spring of 1917, before we had learned how to handle the situation, nothing could have prevented her from winning the war. Instead of sinking 850,000 tons in a single month, she would have sunk 2,000,000 or 3,000,000 tons.
With such handicaps it was all the more creditable to the Corsair and her sister yachts that they were able to accomplish so much in the summer of 1917, before they were shifted to the troop and supply convoys. It was knight-errantry, in a way, this work of the Breton Patrol—rough-riders of the sea whose spirit was akin to that of the impetuous regiment which Theodore Roosevelt led at Santiago. The Breton pilots were eloquent in admiration, but shrugged their shoulders at the notion of weathering a Bay of Biscay winter in these yachts, so slender, so elegant, of such light construction, of a certainty built for pleasure and le sport!
The programme of patrol duty sent the larger yachts out two and two, each pair to be relieved after four days at sea. The Corsair and Aphrodite were coupled as cruising in adjoining areas, and when they returned to port the Noma and Kanawha went out to take the same stations. The smaller yachts of the “Suicide Fleet” were assigned areas nearer the Breton coast, where they guarded the shipping that flowed alongshore between the Channel and the ports of France and Spain. The Patrol Instructions included the following plan of operation:
When on an area patrol, vessels shall steer courses to cover the area but the method adopted must be irregular. Do not proceed with such regularity that the vessel’s position may be plotted.
When on a line patrol, vessels shall proceed along the line of patrol until reaching its extremity when a return over the same line will be made. The courses steered must be such that the advance of the vessel will be along the base course.
When on patrol, vessels shall speak all ships sighted. Obtain the following information:
If the vessel spoken is a valuable vessel, and is bound to a port on the west coast of France, below Latitude 48° 30′ North, she may be escorted. The fact that you have taken her under escort is to be sent to the Base by radio, in code, in following manner:
Example: “Baltic under escort, bound to——”
When acting as escorting vessel, keep on exposed bow of convoy and about 1200 yards ahead of her. Insist that all vessels zigzag day and night. Escorting vessels to break joints when courses are changed. Leave patrol and return to Base in time to arrive at or about scheduled time.
A WET DAY FOR THE DECK WATCH
FRENCH AND UNDERHILL ARE DOLLED UP FOR THE CAMERA
Calls for assistance from vessels will be answered and in case of disaster crews are to be rescued if possible. Report rescue of survivors by radio in order to receive instructions.
Ordinary cruising speed of the faster vessels should be at least twelve knots. Fires should be kept under all boilers. The slower vessels should maintain a speed of nine knots or over.
Ships returning from patrol will signal, using numerals, the amount of coal and water needed. Coaling may commence upon arrival in port or be done the day after arrival.
When it was desired to have the Corsair find and escort some particular ship or assemblage of them through part of the danger zone, such instructions as the following were sent to her commander:
United States Patrol Squadron, Flag Office
Brest, France, 27 July, 1917
Group Operation Order No. 2.
Force:—Group D.—Corsair, Aphrodite.
American convoy, speed 12 knots, escorted, should arrive Saint-Nazaire 27 July. Make preparations so that it can be piloted to destination without anchoring and without stopping at sea. Saint-Nazaire has been informed. Proceed in company as far as practicable, 28 July, to a position about 50 miles west of Belle Isle, relieving Kanawha and Noma.
Communicate with and join convoy. Radio FFK and FFL for IL (use AFR) the probable hour of the entrance into the Loire. Pilot the convoy as far as G’d Charpentier where river pilots will be ready. Unless otherwise ordered, steer to pass south of Belle Isle. The convoy must not stop at sea or anchor.
The Corsair’s log-book and the official War Diary, which was sent as a record to the Navy Department, are so laconic and technical that one might conclude the Breton Patrol to be lacking in all adventure. They serve to check up the yarns spun by the crew, however, and have the merit of accuracy. Omitting the daily entries of courses, position, and speed which could interest nobody, the commander’s record of the first cruise out of Brest reads like this:
July 14, 1917. Under way from Brest for patrol area. Spoke to British steamer Ardandeary bound for Falmouth with general cargo.
15th. Speed 14 knots to investigate intercepted S.O.S. Spoke to British steamer Itola for Falmouth with general cargo. Spoke to Danish steamer Alf from Montreal for Havre, course east, speed 9 knots, with general cargo. She was not zigzagging and was making a great deal of smoke.
16th. Exchanged recognition signals with three French destroyers, escorting cargo ships. Intercepted S.O.S. from British steamer Devon City, light, for Newport News. She had sighted a periscope and fired five rounds at same and it disappeared. Fired one shot from No. 2 gun at a floating barrel, making a hit, distance about 400 yards. Arrived south limit of patrol area. Changed course to west, parting company with steamer Devon City.
17th. Headed for steamer on horizon. Spoke to British steamer Medford for Plymouth with cargo of mineral phosphate. Changed course to escort Medford. Held target practice on floating wreckage. Changed course to east, speed 12 knots, making best of way to Brest.
18th. Moored at Base.
19th. Coaling ship.
20th. Cleaning ship and preparing for cruise.
Two more cruises were made in the month of July, but they furnished no thrilling episodes beyond the discovery of the burning American schooner Augustus Weld which, no doubt, had been shelled by a U-boat. What had become of her crew was left to conjecture. This noble four-master was one of many Yankee sailing vessels which dared the war zone, tempted by the chance of fabulous profits, until the War Risk Board refused to grant them insurance. The easiest marks in the world for submarines, they loafed along in infested waters, at the whim of the fickle winds, or drifted becalmed with towering canvas that was visible for many miles. Some of them were sailed by sun-dried skippers from Maine and Cape Cod who vowed they “would take her to hell and repeat if the bonus was big enough.” The episode of the blazing, derelict schooner profoundly impressed the crew of the Corsair. It was their first glimpse of the heartless havoc of the U-boat.
They were learning that the service in the war zone was not all adventure and exhilaration, but, for the most part, monotonous toil and discomfort, just as the soldier in the trenches had found it out for himself. To be wet and cold and slung about in a rolling ship, to return to port and shovel coal until almost ready to go to sea again—this was to be their lot month after month. The danger of it was always present, but they soon became cheerfully indifferent. It went without saying that at the explosion of a torpedo the yacht would fly apart like a box of matches, but these young men snored soundly in their uneasy bunks until the cruel boatswain’s mate bade them “show a leg” or “rise and shine.”
With the elasticity of the American spirit they adjusted themselves to this new manner of life and to the ways of the Navy. Their language suffered an extraordinary sea change. They talked the lingo of the bluejacket, which is not so much slang as a strong and racy sort of expression. The officers were called “bolo-men” because they adorned themselves with swords on official occasions. One spoke of the ship’s cooks as “food destroyers,” or “belly robbers,” which was sometimes unjust. To pipe down for mess, or the call to meals, was shortened to “chow down,” and the meal pennant was the “bean rag.” “A hash mark” had nothing to do with food, but was the service stripe on a sailor’s sleeve.
THE BURNING AMERICAN SCHOONER AUGUSTUS WELD
FROM THE CORSAIR’S MAIN-TOP THE CONVOY STEAMS OUT
A “canary” was a man who slept in a hammock instead of a bunk, and when he got up in the morning he “hit the deck.” The Corsair never departed from port, but always “shoved off,” and when her crew was granted liberty they “hit the beach.” Instead of putting on clean clothes they “broke them out.” This phrase was used in so many ways that a boyish seaman whose best girl had discarded him for a doughboy was heard to confide that he “had broke out a pippin of a new one.”
The period of enlistment was a “hitch” or a “cruise.” The depth charges were seldom called such, but figured as “mines,” “ash cans,” or “battle-bricks,” and the deck upon which they were carried was always “topside.” Almost any foreigner was a “Spic,” barring the Briton who was always a “Limey.” The yeomen, gunner’s mates, and quartermasters of the Corsair were “politicians,” which slurred their habits of industry. “Four bells” meant to move rapidly, and the weary sailor did not fall asleep, but “calked off.” At the mess table it might divert a landsman to see the catsup bottle pass in reply to a request for the “red lead,” or to hear, “Put a fair wind behind the lighthouse” when the salt cellar was desired.
During these early months of foreign service, both the morals and the morale of a ship’s company were bound to be tested. Jack ashore was traditionally presumed to take the town apart to see what made it tick. But this was a different navy, just as the American Army was to set new standards of behavior and self-respect. Among the crew of the Corsair were all sorts and conditions of youth released from the restraints of home ties and subjected to all the demoralizing influences which must ever go hand-in-hand with war. It was a saying among troops freshly landed, when they were inclined to run riot, that France had gone to their heads, and there was something in the excuse.
It was most noteworthy that the conduct of the sailors of the American naval forces was everywhere commendable, whether ashore in Brittany, or at Queenstown, or with the Grand Fleet at Edinburgh. They were, in a sense, on honor to acquit themselves as became the flag and the uniform, and in character, intelligence, and upbringing a large percentage of them represented the best blood of the United States. This was true of the Corsair and also typical of the other ships manned by the Naval Reserve Force on the coast of France.
Shore liberty at Brest was diverting as a respite from the crowded ship and its routine, but the novelty was soon dispelled. It was picturesque and colorful to ramble in the Rue de Siam where the soldiers and sailors of many races jostled each other, but until the Y.M.C.A. established its social centre in the port there was not much else to do than eat and loaf and drink white wine and red. Of the three days in port, coaling ship consumed so much time and energy that leisure hours ashore were brief. There was no coaling machinery at this important French naval base, and the American yachts had the back-breaking job of filling baskets from barges alongside and heaving the fuel aboard to be stowed in the bunkers. The grimy slaves of the shovel envied the Queenstown destroyers when these smart, immaculate craft tarried to fill their fuel tanks with oil by inserting a hose in the deck and then fled back to their own base.
Among the songs inspired by the day’s work it is no wonder that the fo’castle or the “black gang” quartets should have led the close harmony in such stentorian plaints as the following:
COAL ON THE CORSAIR
(Tune of “Cheer for Old Amherst”)
There were temptations enough, Heaven knows, to live recklessly when the liberty boats hit the beach, but the Corsair’s record was excellent and her officers were proud of it. During July and August of 1917, when the crew was new to the game and the tendency to run wild was perhaps strongest, almost all the offenses for which the commander held mast and which were passed upon by deck court-martials comprised overstaying liberty by a narrow margin of minutes and other small infractions of the strict disciplinary code of the Navy. And it should be mentioned that the enlisted force was permitted to be ashore no later than nine-thirty o’clock in the evening. During the whole sojourn of the Corsair in foreign waters, not a member of her company was punished by a general court-martial. By way of indicating how naval justice was dispensed, the entries in the log will be found to read like this:
| 20 minutes overtime from liberty. | Lose pay amounting to $5.00 |
| 35 ” ” ” ” | ” ” ” ” ” |
| 47 ” ” ” ” | ” ” ” ” ” |
| Smoking below decks. | ” ” ” ” ” |
| Disorderly and creating a disturbance after pipe down. | ” ” ” ” ” |
| Insubordination and insolence to a warrant officer. | Warned. |
| Not keeping an efficient lookout. | ” |
| Not making up bunk. | ” |
| Not relieving watch on time. | Excused. |
“COAL ON THE CORSAIR, FILL EVERY BIN.”
“WE WORK LIKE HELL, BOYS, TILL IT’S ALL IN.”
As was bound to happen, an occasional “drunk and disorderly” was included in these lists, but there were many kinds of men aboard and such entries were amazingly infrequent when one considers the circumstances. And the exiles of the Corsair learned that there was possibly as much truth as poetry in the jingle which ran through the ships of the Breton Patrol: “The Guy that Rates the Croix de Guerre”: