Dave Darrin and the German Submarines. Or, Making a Clean-up of the Hun Sea Monsters
TextCHAPTER 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.
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!”