The Boy Allies with the Victorious Fleets | Page 2

sister ships on either side.
"We're off," said Frank.
Away they sped in the darkness, a division of four Yankee destroyers,
tearing through the Irish sea on a rainy morning; Frank knew there
were four ships in line, but all he could see was his guide, a black
smudge in the darkness, a few ship lengths away on his port bow.
Directly she was blotted from sight by a rain squall.
"Running lights!" shouted Frank.
The lights flashed. Frank kept an eye forward. Directly he got a return
flash from the ship ahead, and then picked up her shape again.
Morning dawned and still the fleet sped on. Toward noon the weather
cleared. Officer and men kept their watches by regular turn during the
day. At sundown the four destroyers slowed down and circled around
in a slow column. The eyes of every officer watched the clock. They
were watching for something. Directly it came--a line of other ships,
transports filled with wounded soldiers returning to America. These
must be safely convoyed to a certain point beyond the submarine zone
by the Plymouth and her sister ships.
On came the transports camouflaged like zebras. The Plymouth and the
other destroyers fell into line on either side of the transports.

"Full speed ahead," was Captain Templeton's signal to the engine room.
"Take a look below, Frank," said Jack to his first officer.
"Aye, aye, sir."
Frank descended a manhole in the deck. He closed the cover and
secured it behind him. At the foot of the ladder was a locked door. As it
opened, came a pressure on Frank's ear drums like the air-lock of a
caisson. Frank threaded his way amid pumps and feed water heaters
and descended still further to the furnace level.
Twenty-five knots--twenty-eight land miles an hour--was the speed of
the Plymouth at that moment. It was good going.
Below, instead of dust, heat, the clatter of shovels, grimy, sweating
fireman, such as the thought of the furnace room of a ship of war calls
to the mind of the landsman, a watertender stood calmly watching the
glow of oil jets feeding the furnace fire. Now and then he cast an eye to
the gauge glasses. The vibration of the hull and the hum of the blower
were the only sounds below.
For the motive power of the Plymouth was not furnished by coal.
Rather, it was oil--crude petroleum--that drove the vessel along. And
though oil has its advantage over coal, it has its disadvantages as well.
It was Frank's first experience aboard an oil-burner, and he had not
become used to it yet. He smelled oil in the smoke from the funnels, he
breathed it from the oil range in the galley. His clothes gathered it from
stanchions and rails.
The water tanks were flavored with the seepage from neighboring
compartments. Frank drank petroleum in the water and tasted it in the
soup. The butter, he thought, tasted like some queer vaseline. But Frank
knew that eventually he would get used to it.
"How's she heading?" Frank asked of the chief engineer.
"All right, sir," was the reply. "Everything perfectly trim. I can get

more speed if necessary."
Frank smiled.
"Let's hope it won't be necessary, chief," he replied.
He inspected the room closely for some moments, then returned to the
bridge and reported to Captain Templeton.
The sea was rough, but nevertheless the speed of the flotilla was not
slackened. It was the desire of Captain Petlow, in charge of the
destroyer fleet, to convoy the transports beyond the danger point at the
earliest possible moment.
The Plymouth lurched up on top of a crest, then dived head-first into
the trough. On the bridge the heave and pitch of the vessel was felt
subconsciously, but the eyes and minds of the officers were busied with
other things. At every touch of the helm the vessel vibrated heavily.
Eight bells struck.
"Twelve o'clock," said Frank. "Time to eat."
The bridge was turned over to the second officer, and Frank and Jack
went below.
"Eat is right, Frank," said Jack as they sat down. "We can't dine in this
weather."
It was true. The rolling boards, well enough for easy weather, proved a
mockery in a sea like the one that raged now. Butter balls, meat and
vegetables shot from plates and went sailing about. It was necessary to
drink soup from teacups and such solid foods as Jack and Frank put
into their stomachs was only what they succeeded in grabbing as they
leaped about on the table.
The two returned on deck.
The day passed quietly. No submarines were sighted, and at last the

flotilla reached the point where the destroyers were to leave the
homeward bound transports to pursue their voyage alone. The
transports soon grew indistinguishable,