Over the Seas for Uncle Sam. Various

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ voice rang out. He spoke as good English as I do.

      "What ship have I hit?"

      Someone told him.

      "Where is your captain?"

      Silence.

      "Where is your captain?"

      Then it was that little Tucker, sitting forward, tense, leaned far out and yelled:

      "Douse yer glim, Cap, douse yer glim. … "

      Out it went. The commander gave an order. We couldn't hear it, but we were afraid he meant to make straight for us and cut us in two. We pulled away, but, instead, he was wishing us the best of luck to lie there and rot, and then they submerged—just vanished into the black water from which they had appeared.

      We waited trembling, but nothing happened. There wasn't a boat in sight. The old hulk of our ship had gone down forever. I thought of the Captain and of McCaffrey.

      "Let's get 'em now, mates," I urged. But from the direction in which we'd last heard them there came no sound. They weren't there. Nobody was. So we pulled away.

      It was a leaky boat and we stripped off our shirts—anything we had on that was white, so that in case Fritz came back he could not sight us. We needed the shirts, all right, to stuff up the holes in the boat. Those who weren't stopping up the holes took turns bailing. We bailed like fiends—no time to think—no time for anything but to hope a convoy would pick us up.

      Along toward dawn, at six-thirty to be exact, our own convoy sighted us. The boys were pretty stiff from exposure, but I was all right—all right and fighting mad—my matey had gone down.

      "I'll get that Kaiser," I told them. And I will, too. That's why I'm shipping on a destroyer next. I'll get that Kaiser, see if I don't.

      

The navy's first capture—German submarine, U-58, surrenders to destroyer "Fanning."

CHIEF PETTY OFFICER WILSON

       SPEAKS:

       Table of Contents

WAR CLOUDS GATHER

       Table of Contents

      The French are a whole lot different from us—more easy-going-like. They make their money and spend it free. I like that about them. Not like some people I know who won't let go of a nickel once they gets a death grip on it.

      Well, say, when we was anchored at Villefranche we come to know a thing or two about the Frenchies. Villefranche is just over the hill from Nice—a nice jaunt of a couple of miles or so, or if you've a mind to, you can take a little car that gets you there before you know it.

      Nice is on the style of Atlantic City. If you ask me, I like Atlantic City better, but then that's because they speak United States there. Still Nice has a great bathing beach—you have to hand it to them—and you get so you like them little tables set out in front of the cafés, where they "parlez-vous" with each other and drink quarts of red ink.

      We'd hike over to Nice every shore leave. Some of the crew went as far as Monte Carlo, but not me. I was satisfied. Besides, one place was as sporty as the other, if that was what you wanted. They was chuck-full of what the French call the "joie de vie," which in Yankee means "plenty of pep"—that's it.

      You always felt happy there and the people was great! Didn't seem to take nothing serious—the Frenchies don't, in peace times. The women had a twinkle in their eye and a kind of sparkle about them, and the men said pretty things and twirled their canes—oh, they was a cheerful lot, all right.

      Remember, all this was before the war. It was August. Hot. Still. Can't you see it? The sea, where our boat lay at anchor, calm as glass and blue as a turquoise. The sand along the beach, snow white.

      It was a Saturday, and we had a forty-eight, which took us ashore at ten in the morning. Didn't want to miss no time on land. The day was so fine that we decided to foot it into town. Everything was green and growing and smelled good. We took our time and ambled into Nice long about chow. The minute we hit that port I knew for sure something was up.

      Oh, don't think there hadn't been war talk flying about. Sure there had, but, except for a general uneasiness, you wouldn't know nothing was doing. The Frenchies are like that—they don't hunt trouble, but when it comes—oh, boy! They sure are right there!

      We seen little groups of folks standing talking together. The shop keepers had left their shops, and joined the crowds on the street. They was waving their hands—they are great on that—everyone speaking at once. We come up close and listened. What we heard certainly made our ears ring!

      War! France was going to declare war on Germany! Queer how that black cloud seemed to change the whole complexion of that little sun-soaked town. I'd never seen the natives look like that before. There was a little old woman who kept a fruit stand—figs and peaches and what-not. She always had a grin for us fellows when we passed. She and her granddaughter. The granddaughter was a pretty girl—her cheeks was as red as the side of the peaches and she had black eyes and hair. They was always ready to swap a "bon jour" with us—but not today. The old lady was minding the stand alone. She looked kind of white—no smile—no wave of her hand. She told me her granddaughter had gone to the square where the bulletins was being posted. We beat it over.

      It was about three; no, I guess it was four, before the big crowds began to gather in the square. Up to that time there had been little groups drifting here and there, but by four the wagons had stopped at the corners, their drivers had climbed down from the seats and pushed their way into the mob, and the tram-car conductors and motormen just left their cars wherever they happened to shut off power, and shoved their way in for a view of the bulletins.

      I tell you, that little town was at fever heat! Excitement! Say, nothing beats a Frenchie at that! I've seen a lot of things in my time, but it certainly gave me a queer feeling in the pit of my stomach to realize just what those bulletins meant. It kind of got you to see that little pleasure city so dead serious all at once.

      Everyone in Nice was in that crowd—rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. The ladies from the Riviera, in their silks and satins—the tradespeople—the poor—all fighting for a view of the words flashed on the boards.

      Someone yelled, "Vive la France! Vive la France!" and a thousand voices caught it up until it rose and swelled like the roar of the combers in a storm.

      We had seen Nice quiet and peaceful and pretty—we saw a different Nice from that moment. They didn't waste no time. They began calling in the reserves. Do you know how they done it? Why, they'd simply gather them up as they went along the street. From buildings and shops and hotels and huts they poured—boys for the most part—some pulling on a coat and buttoning it as they ran, and women following them, always women—sweethearts and mothers—looking puzzled and dazed by it all, but never holding the boys back—not they!

      I never seen fellows mustered in that quick. The streets were СКАЧАТЬ