CHAPTER IITHE STORM-CLOUDThe next act of our story opens in the year 1937. An international crisis of the most momentous nature had just come to a head in Europe.For some years past a group of powerful men in Constantinople, intriguing diplomatists and financial magnates, had been quietly developing a scheme for world domination. By a process of peaceful penetration, aided liberally by the adroit use of secret agents, they had obtained complete control of the Balkan Peninsula and Asia Minor, and for the first time in history reaped the harvest of a proper development of the rich natural resources of these areas. Thus enriched, the coalition had spread its tentacles all around the Mediterranean till it held Italy and Spain firmly in its grip; and yet by respecting the nominal independence of these countries the power which it had over them was cleverly concealed from the world.Much of Russia was entangled in the snare. Being once more promised a realization of the fools’ dream of communism, the adherents of Bolshevism were won over into an alliance. By propaganda promising the dawn of a new day of freedom, the enthusiastic support of the peasants, long oppressed by the sinister strangle-hold of the Soviets, was enlisted in behalf of the new combination.The old Pan-Islam spirit of the Moslems was vigorously exploited, and thus a powerful underlying motive force was brought to bear on the furtherance of the scheme.A substantial Turkish navy was built, and with money furnished by the coalition, Greece, Italy, and Spain were encouraged to build strong navies, too. No one of these navies was big enough to excite much suspicion in England or America, and no one but the coalition and its secret agents knew that these three navies were planned with a view to forming parts of one great whole. With diabolical cunning the gigantic plot against the world had been laid, and no exigency had been overlooked. Then suddenly in the early summer of 1937, the fruits of this vast intrigue appeared. Italy and Spain found themselves committed to an alliance with Constantinople with a view to obtaining complete control of the Mediterranean Sea. Through the work of a body of spies, unique in preparedness and efficiency, France suddenly found her Mediterranean fleet paralyzed, and before she could make a move to defend them, her ships were seized without a blow. With astonishing rapidity the various navies, thus reinforced, were mobilized and operated as a coördinated fleet. England had but few ships in the Mediterranean at the time, and these were soon engaged in battle by overwhelming numbers, and sunk, after putting up the stiffest resistance imaginable against fearful odds. Then Malta and Egypt were attacked and seized. The south coast of France was occupied with an invading force; all important points on the north coast of Africa were taken, and the control of the Mediterranean became complete, with the exception of Gibraltar.The British Navy was rushed to the defense of this stronghold, and had they passed the strait a naval action would have ensued which might have saved Europe then and there from the specter of the new Byzantine Empire. But this exigency, like others, had been anticipated. As the great navy steamed into the straits, supposedly under the protection of Gibraltar, a vast battery of sixteen-inch guns mounted on railway cars opened a withering fire from the Spanish shore at Tarifa. Less than half of the capital ships passed through this barrage, and most of those, before they were well out of range, ran into a mine-field stretching across the strait, laid at night some weeks before by enemy submarines and made ready for action by wire from Tarifa as the fleet approached.A handful of battleships, cruisers, and destroyers escaped the trap, and bravely faced their fate in the defense of Gibraltar. But the waiting enemy had now such an overwhelming advantage in numbers that their doom was sealed. Cut off by land and sea, it was of course only a matter of time before Gibraltar fell.And now England was left with her mighty navy gone, all but the few ships that were in dry-dock and couldn’t be sent in time, and a few obsolete vessels purposely left at home.All Northern Europe rose to fight the Constantinople Coalition. England, France, Belgium, Holland, Germany, Poland, and the Scandinavian nations placed troops in the field. And soon two giant armies faced each other entrenched in a battle-line extending from the Pyrenees to the Alps and thence along mountain barriers where such existed, eastward to the Caspian Sea. In the development of land warfare, defensive measures had outstripped offensive measures, and especially strong were the defensive methods used by the Mediterranean forces. Consequently ground could be gained by the northern armies only at the cost of prohibitive losses. A military deadlock ensued, and the problem became one of attrition. In natural resources in the Eastern Hemisphere the Mediterranean group had slightly the better situation, but what counted still more was control of the Atlantic Ocean, and through it, access to the resources of the Western Hemisphere.This control by the Mediterranean Powers being undisputed, virtually all commerce between North America and Northern Europe was cut off. The resources of Northern Europe sufficed to maintain the war for the present, but clearly materials from the Western Hemisphere would in time be a necessity if the war was to go on.Through the summer months America maintained neutrality, although it was daily becoming clearer to those whose vision extended beyond the balance-sheet of the current month that, as in 1917, civilization was at stake, and the sooner America shouldered her share of the fight the better it would be for all the world, herself included.This was the situation when on a warm sunny morning in September one of America’s newest destroyers crossed Cape Cod Bay at a thirty-knot speed, and, gliding smoothly into Provincetown Harbor, dropped anchor. As the chain rattled down, a tall, well-built man in civilian clothes stood on the bridge beside the skipper and surveyed the harbor. Presently his eye rested on a small sailboat, ketch-rigged, of some thirty-six feet over-all length, making toward them about a quarter of a mile away.“I guess that’s my boat, skipper,” said the civilian.“Going round the Cape in that, are you? She’s not over-roomy, but she looks like a good sea boat,” was the answer.A boat was lowered; the civilian left the bridge, shook hands with the skipper, and was soon on his way toward the sailboat which presently shot up into the wind and, with her sails flapping, gradually lost headway as the motor-boat from the destroyer came up on her starboard quarter. The passenger clambered over the side and into the cockpit of the little ketch, a sailor handed him his suitcase, and with a parting word of thanks to the crew of the motor-boat he sat down to look about him.At the wheel was a man not over middle height, compact and strong-looking, with a clear, ruddy complexion, dressed in a pair of khaki trousers and gray flannel shirt, a striking contrast to the officers of the destroyer. The new skipper wasted no time in greetings, but with eyes intent on the movements of the motor-boat just shoving off, reached for the starboard jib sheet, pulled it in and held it till the sailboat payed off to port and gathered steerageway. Then, trimming the jib over, he settled back comfortably and said, “Well, how are you? Had a nice trip across the Bay, didn’t you?”“Beautiful; those destroyers glide along like a dream. This is a cozy little boat you’ve got, Jim; where’s your crew?”“You’re my crew to-day,” said the skipper. “Lord! I don’t want a crew killing time about the deck. That’s the advantage of this size and rig; I can handle her alone, and yet she’s big enough for comfortable cruising, and safe in any sea there is. I couldn’t afford a crew if I wanted one; so I’m glad I don’t. Take your valise below and have a look round, don’t you want to? Take the port bunk, my gear’s on the starboard.”His friend acted on the suggestion and with a landsman’s clumsiness engineered himself and his valise down the hatch into the coziest, snuggest little cabin he had ever seen. Presently he returned to the cockpit.“Looks like a nice little place to duck in out of the wet.”“It is rather a nice little cabin,” said the skipper. “To tell the truth, this boat just suits me, and I feel as much at home on her as I do anywhere in the world. I used to fancy something fast and racy as my ideal of a sailboat, but as I get older I incline more to this sort of thing, seaworthy and comfortable, fit to ride out any gale that blows.”“You don’t look so awfully old yet,” said the other.“I don’t suppose I do,” said the skipper, “but if I remember rightly I’m only a year younger than you.”“That’s so,” said the other. “I’m forty, and they tell me I look five years older than I am. But you don’t look any older than you did in college.”“I’m generally supposed to be still in the twenties. I judge that my sheltered and quiet existence in the laboratory, together with lots of outdoor life, camping, cruising, etc., has kept me young, while battling with the storms of a busy world has been ageing you.”The skipper of the sailboat was Jim Evans; his passenger, Sam Mortimer. Through the years since college their friendship had endured, yet their lives led them so far apart that they seldom came together. Evans’s career as a scientist had brought him happiness, but no fame. His reputation for work of the highest quality was known only to a handful of experts competent to judge.Mortimer’s career in politics had, on the other hand, placed him increasingly in the limelight, till in the spring of 1937 he found himself shouldering no less a responsibility than that of Secretary of the Navy, just as the European crisis was coming to a head. His predecessor had been none too competent, and in consequence his six months in office had been almost wholly taken up with reorganization in the Department, and little time had been left him to study the principles of naval policy, strategy, and tactics. His knowledge of naval affairs was small, and indeed he knew little of seafaring lore in any form. In years gone by he had made one or two short cruises in a small boat with Evans, but since then his recreations had been golf and tennis, and all his professional attention had been focused on politics. As yet no action had been taken by the American Government toward joining in the war, and the public had little idea whether any was to be expected; but to the Cabinet it was evident that action must come soon. Now Mortimer was keenly aware that the question of naval control of the Atlantic Ocean would soon be resting on his shoulders more directly than on those of any other man living; small wonder, then, that he felt overwhelmed by the responsibility he saw approaching. The American Navy was large and powerful, and, reinforced by such French ships as had been outside the Mediterranean and such British ships as had escaped disaster, it was about an even match for the consolidated navy of the Mediterranean Powers. On its efficiency rested the control of the Atlantic.Early in September Secretary Mortimer left Washington for Boston to spend three days examining the resources of the First Naval District. He had spent a harassed and busy summer struggling to get the navy ready for the task which each week made it seem more probable was to devolve upon it. Every week the consciousness of his inability to see with an expert’s eye the large problems of naval strategy distressed him more. His brain was in a whirl, and he felt that he must for one day at least get off and give himself over to relaxation.In this crisis the old desire to see Evans came over him; the sense of reliance on his friend, though often forgotten, was still there. He had telegraphed Evans asking if he could spare a day when they might get off by themselves and have a good talk. Evans had replied, suggesting a sail round Cape Cod as the most complete escape from the interruptions which would pursue them were they to remain in the haunts of men. Evans had his boat at Provincetown, and Mortimer, on completing his business in Boston, boarded a destroyer at the Navy Yard in the early morning and joined his friend in time to make a good start round the Cape.The wind was west, and a little beating to windward brought the boat clear of Provincetown Harbor and around Race Point, where they started their sheets, then jibed and began the long reach down the Cape, by Highland Light, keeping close in shore where the sandy and pebbly beach and the bluffs behind presented a pleasing if somewhat monotonous picture.As these two stanch friends sat chatting together in the cockpit of thePetrel, as Evans called his boat, dropping Highland Light astern and picking up Nauset, their talk drifted toward the topic that was harassing Mortimer by day and night.“How much have you kept up with navy affairs since you left the service after the war?” he asked of Evans.“Enough to know that the engineering men of the service have made wonderful strides in development in various fields, especially in communications, opening possibilities undreamed of in 1918, and that through the perennial difficulties of personnel, these developments are not utilized to anything like the extent they might be. To tell the truth, the navy has always interested me intensely; it has been a hobby of mine to read Mahan and other standard writers during my spare time, as well as the Naval Institute Proceedings. I’ve also kept in touch with some of the radio men I knew in the war who have stayed in the service, and I have watched with great interest the progress in radio communication that has taken place.”“My God, I wish I had your knowledge of the subject,” said Mortimer. “Law and politics have taught me some things, but they haven’t taught me the principles of naval policy and naval operations, and those are the things I want to know now.“I suppose you realize,” he went on, “that we may not be able to stay out of the European vortex much longer.”“On the face of it,” answered Evans, “I should say we were due in it right now. I haven’t heard the ‘inside dope,’ but I can’t conceive of our staying out much longer, all things considered.”“Well, I trust your discretion enough to say that you have sized it up about right. There won’t be many weeks more of neutrality; and then a big load comes on our Department.”“I should say it was a clear case,” said Evans, “that the whole game hung on our navy. While the enemy keep their fleet intact and maintain the complete control of the Mediterranean, the Northern armies can never score a decisive victory; and if the Turks are left in control of the Atlantic the attrition will all come on our side. We must establish and keep up a steady flow of supplies from both North and South America to maintain even the present status; and we must destroy their navy to win the war.”Thus the conversation progressed to a discussion of the basic principles of naval policy and strategy, in which Mortimer, as more than once before, found himself marveling at Evans’s clearness and breadth of vision. None of the admirals at the heads of bureaus in Washington had seemed able to see things in so large a perspective; none had helped him to grasp the fundamental principles of the problem before him as this man, trained in science, yet versed in naval affairs as well.The small cabin clock struck two-bells.“Let’s have some lunch, Sam,” said Evans. “Take the wheel, steer as you’re going, due south, while I get the stuff out.”He disappeared down the hatch with the nimbleness of a boy in his teens, and began to prepare a simple lunch over an alcohol stove. As Mortimer sat at the wheel with the warm wind off the Cape Cod shore fanning his cheek, he pondered over this simple child of Nature, to all appearances a college boy on a vacation, whose characterization of the crisis offered so much food for thought.Soon Evans reappeared in the cockpit with an appetizing meal which they ate in camp style, Evans steering and eating at the same time, not appreciably to the detriment of either task. Again he left Mortimer at the wheel while he addressed himself to the task of cleaning up. When next he came on deck, he found Mortimer manifestly drowsy and a good two points off the course. The warm shore wind, the peace and quiet and the relaxation from constant strain, conspired to overcome him. Evans reached below for a pillow and placed it on the lee side.“Here, stretch out on the cockpit seat and take a good nap,” he said.Mortimer relinquished the wheel, and soon was fast asleep.When next he waked the afternoon was well advanced. The air felt rather close and muggy, and so hazy was it that the sun shone dimly, and the land, only three or four miles away, was scarcely visible.“Where are we?” he asked.“There’s Chatham nearly abeam,” said Evans. “The barometer’s falling; I think we may get a squall.”“Your boat will stand it, I trust?”“She’ll stand it, all right,” said Evans with a laugh. “She’ll stand anything that blows. The only practical question is whether to take the short cut between Bearse Shoal and Monomoy. It saves two or three miles, and if it’s going to be rotten weather it’ll be more comfortable for old men like us to get into some sheltered water before dark.”“What is there against the short cut?”“Well, if it should get thick with rain it would be a little hard to see where we were, and there are shoals on both sides; also it’s all so shoal there that a heavy squall from the northeast would kick up an infernal rip with the tide running the way it will be when we get there. But then, a rip can’t hurt us unless it’s bad enough to let her touch bottom in the trough, and it would take a first-class hurricane to do that.”“Well, all I ask is that you avoid a serious shipwreck, for I’ve responsibilities ahead that I really ought not to sidestep.”“You can trust thePetrelto get you through,” said Evans.“Not to mention her skipper,” answered Mortimer.Still the west wind held and the little boat stood on till Chatham was on the starboard quarter and no longer visible through the haze. The air still felt warm and heavy; in the northeast, through the haze, dark clouds could be dimly seen gathering. Evans trimmed in his sheets and luffed toward the point of Monomoy. Pollock Rip Slue Lightship was visible, and on that Evans took a careful bearing and wrote it down, together with the time. Monomoy could barely be seen as a faint white line of sand to the westward. No landmark there could be identified, but Evans noted the bearings of as much of it as he could see, then studied the chart. He took a look round at the sky, left the wheel, and glanced at the barometer.“Glass is falling fast,” he said. “Take the wheel a minute while I put on rubber boots and oilers; then you can do the same.”He dived below and soon came up dressed in oilskins and sou’wester, took the wheel, and sent Mortimer down to put on his spare set. Suddenly a chill wind struck from the northeast; the sails went over and fetched up on the sheets to starboard.“What’s up?” called Mortimer from below.“Wind’s shifted; nothing much yet,” answered Evans as he trimmed over the jib and slacked the main sheet.Mortimer came on deck. Evans was looking now at the compass and now at the clouds in the northeast, already looking murky and ominous.“I’m heading for that short cut,” said Evans. “I could still go out round Pollock Rip, but it would waste a lot of time and we’ll be all right in here. I know where we are well enough to hit the channel; if it blows hard the rip will be rather sensational at the shallowest point, but won’t do us any harm. She’s built so strong that even if she did touch the sand in the trough of a wave, it wouldn’t hurt her.”The wind was now blowing freshly from the northeast and thePetrelwas driving along before it at a good speed.“Isn’t it about time to reef?” asked Mortimer.“We shan’t need to. That’s the beauty of this rig; you can shorten sail to your heart’s content without reefing.”The clouds grew darker and the wind increased till whitecaps appeared and dotted the sea, and the little boat sped on before it with increasing speed.“Time to get in the mainsail,” said Evans; “take the wheel; steer southwest by west, and hold your course as close as you know how.”Then he let go the halyards, and running forward with a couple of stops in his hand, had the sail down and roughly furled in a few seconds.“Now,” he said, taking the wheel again, “she’ll stand a whole lot of wind this way. Hold the chart for me. This channel isn’t buoyed, and the chart helps.”Even with only the mizzen and jib thePetrelmade good speed; and now with the stiff wind and east-running tide, the whitecaps were increasing to good-sized breakers. Then the dark clouds to windward gathered themselves into a huge black knot, black as ink and roughly funnel-shaped. Like a giant projectile this black mass approached, coming at an astounding speed.“This is going to be a good one,” said Evans. “It’ll be thick in a minute, I wouldn’t mind seeing a landmark ahead. Ah! there’s Monomoy Light.”Straining his eyes he could barely make out the lighthouse and get an approximate bearing on it. But Mortimer’s eyes were riveted on the colossal black storm-cloud whirling through space toward him in a way that fairly took his breath away.“The jib’s all we’ll want when this hits,” said Evans, and in another second or two he had the mizzen down and a stop around it.AND THEN THE THING STRUCKAnd then the thing struck. So violent was the blow that it seemed as if the boat might be lifted from the water and carried through space. The air was full of flying water—sheets of spray blown from the tops of the waves, while overhead a darkness almost like the night closed in. Rain came driving horizontally in sheets, and lightning flashed round half the horizon. It was impossible to see a quarter of a mile.Mortimer looked at Evans whose eyes scarcely left the compass, and saw in his face alertness, steadiness, and strength; and the fear which such an overwhelming outburst of the fury of the elements had naturally aroused in him was effectually quelled.Almost as quickly as it had come the black cloud blew over, leaving a sense of dazzling brightness by contrast, although the sky was still heavily clouded. For three or four minutes the wind blew with almost unabated fury, the little boat scudding bravely before it under her jib. Then the wind moderated enough to relax the tension, but still blew hard enough to make them glad of shortened sail.“Eighty miles an hour, I’ll bet, during the height of that,” said Evans. “All of forty, still.”And now the waves had become high and steep and short.“We’re getting into that tide rip I spoke of; the water’s getting shoal. The sand’s so white it looks shoaler than it really is.”Mortimer looked ahead and saw through the rain great whitecaps forming an almost solid line like the breakers on a beach, and in the troughs of the waves the white sand bottom gleamed alarmingly near.“Lord! are we going into that?” he asked.“She won’t touch, and the waves can’t hurt her. They may come aboard now and then, but they’ll drain right out through the cockpit scuppers. You might close the cabin hatch.”The waves grew higher and steeper, and now they were in a mass of breaking whitecaps. Each wave lifted the little boat up, and with her nose deep down in the trough, she would dash forward with amazing speed till the wave broke all around her and she came to a stop in a smother of foam. Looking back, it often seemed as though the waves, towering high and curling over the stern, would swamp the boat completely, but each time the stern rose gracefully, and at most a few gallons of water would splash into the cockpit.“I didn’t suppose any boat could live in this,” said Mortimer.“It sometimes surprises me to see how well she rides these things,” answered Evans. “I’d like to see that lighthouse again to make sure we’re in the channel. We should in a minute, as the rain’s letting up, and we’re getting near to it. There it is. We’ll be through most of it in a minute now.”Then, with series of plunges, in each of which it seemed as if she must drive her bow into the white sand, so close below the surface it appeared, thePetrelpassed through the roaring breakers into the deeper water beyond, where, rough as it was, it seemed like a haven of refuge compared with the rip they had come through.Mortimer breathed more freely. “I don’t mind saying I felt scared coming through that,” he said. “I’m glad you know this game as well as you do.”“I’m not sorry to be through it myself,” said Evans. “It was quite rough enough for a bit. I don’t think I ever saw such an ugly squall, and I’ve seen some bad ones. Still, as long as I had that bearing on Monomoy Light we were in no danger. Quarter of a mile out of the channel, it’s so shoal she might have hit.”“What would you have done if you hadn’t got that bearing?”“I guess I’d have stood off and waited till it cleared enough to see the lighthouse, or else beat out round Bearse Shoal, and that would have been a hell of a rough thrash to windward; still, it wouldn’t have hurt us any.”“It looks to me as if the gods had a way of fighting on your side,” said Mortimer. “Do you always get away with it when you take a chance like that?”Evans looked serious. “I don’t know as I can claim that,” he said, “but Fortune has been pretty good to me in her own way. Maybe I was rather foolish to go through that. It will be smoother from now on; there’ll be some small rips, but nothing like that one. I think we’d better make for Hyannis. We could anchor in Chatham Roads, but that would be exposed if the wind turned southwest. Hyannis is a good harbor in any wind, and it will be easy getting in after dark with Bishop and Clerk’s and the harbor range lights to steer by. It’ll be handier for you in the morning, too. Take her while I hoist the mizzen; we may as well have that now.”In another minute the little boat was speeding on before the gale under mizzen and jib. The rain had subsided, but a leaden twilight was closing in. Monomoy appeared as a low white streak of sand on the starboard beam. Hugging it close, they rounded Monomoy Point and luffed to clear the north end of Handkerchief Shoal. Evans went below and lit the running lights, then, starting a fire in the small coal stove in the galley, put some potatoes and rice on to boil. Then he came on deck with some pilot biscuit and chocolate, and the two friends settled down in the snug little cockpit to enjoy their sail through the shoals in the gathering darkness.Soon their talk drifted back to the all-important topic of the coming crisis.“It always seemed to me,” said Evans, “that a navy could conveniently be likened to a living organism, a man, for instance. A man has senses—sight, hearing, etc.—which tell him what’s happening about him. Nerves carry the impressions from the sense organs to the central station, the brain, where information is sorted into the springs of action; other nerves carry messages from the brain to the muscles that work the arms and legs—and incidentally the teeth. Now in the navy your patrols, scouts, planes, drifters, etc., with their observers and hydrophones, and all forms of radio receiving apparatus, are the senses, and I should include under that head, spies. In place of the muscles, fists, and teeth you have the ships’ engines and the guns, torpedoes, bombs, and such like. The nervous system is the general staff which determines policy, the admirals who execute it, and communications which are the nerves that bring information into the navy’s brain, and in turn give the word for action. Communications, of course, comprise flag signals, blinkers, semaphores, couriers, postal service, telephones, telegraph, radio, and the newer methods, such as infra-red rays.“Now it seems to me the importance of communications hasn’t been emphasized half enough. The methods available are highly developed, but their value isn’t clearly enough appreciated. You can hardly find a finer, keener, better-trained bunch of men anywhere than the officers of our navy, but the profession has grown so complex and the duties to be learned so manifold that it takes an exceptional man to grasp all the possibilities science has developed and to see them in a proper perspective. The average naval officer takes far more interest in ordnance and gunnery than he does in communications. The difference between an athlete and a lummox is not in the muscles, but in the nervous system which coördinates their action. Provided the muscles are not atrophied or diseased, they’ll do what the nerves tell ’em to. Now gunnery is obviously important—so obviously that the personnel tends to look on it as the whole thing. Of course it must be efficient, but it has been ever since Sims made it so; it must be kept up to the mark, but it is a strong tradition in the navy to keep it so, and I don’t think you’ll have any trouble on that score. It is intelligence and coördination, and communication in particular that you must look out for in order to make your fighting strength effective. Just as the skill and wisdom of the gunnery officer direct the titanic force of the guns to the point where it is most telling, so the controlling mind, acting through communications, directs the force of the entire fleet; that’s the field where the minimum energy will yield the largest return; put your best efforts in there.”“Don’t forget morale,” said Mortimer.“Quite right,” said Evans; “morale is more than half the fight; without it no amount of skill or intelligence will avail; but without the aid of the mind morale is flung helpless at the mercy of superior skill in an opponent. I am inclined to assume morale; and I believe it is a justified assumption, for to stress and foster it is a tradition well maintained in our service.”Evans went on to explain to Mortimer some of the methods of communication which had been developed: the internal communications in a ship, the dual use of a single antenna to receive two messages simultaneously on different wave-lengths, the use of infra-red rays for secret messages between ships in a fleet, and many other things which Mortimer had never had time to learn.“I wish I could make you Director of Naval Communications,” said Mortimer. “Unfortunately the rank that goes with that position is rear admiral. Under the existing regulations the highest rank I could give you is lieutenant-commander. If you were a captain, I could make you a temporary rear admiral in order to hold that position, but I don’t know of any way that it could be done straight from civil life.”“If I were you I wouldn’t try to make me an admiral or even a lieutenant-commander,” answered Evans. “Professional naval officers are apt to resent having men out of civil life put over them with superior naval rank. They’d feel that I was ‘striped way up,’ even as lieutenant-commander, and that I hadn’t earned my rank. I should encounter friction and difficulties in consequence. I sure want to help you in any capacity I can, but my suggestion is that you make me a warrant officer, say radio gunner.”“Radio gunner!” exclaimed Mortimer; “that’s a pretty small job for you. You’d be subordinate to a lot of ensigns just out of Annapolis.”“It’s not necessarily such a small job; officers of high rank are apt to heed the advice of a dependable warrant officer, regarding him as a technical expert. Often they respect a warrant officer who knows his business a good deal more than they do ensigns and lieutenants. If he works his opportunities right, he may put over more than purely technical ideas. A man who doesn’t use his opportunities right won’t get very far in warfare though he wears the gold braid of an admiral.”The night had closed in dark as pitch, and the wind swept on furiously from the stormy sky. Evans steered his little boat over the waves, guided by the familiar lights in the distance. To the south the lights of a tow of barges and a coasting schooner, threading the ship channel through the shoals, grew dimmer and finally were lost in the murk.The conversation drifted on to the question of the use of scientists in war. Evans summed up his views on this point as follows:“Make free use of scientists, but use them with skill. A scientist in war, if he hasn’t engineering sense as well as scientific spirit, is apt to be like a drunken man trying to make a speech; his mind is so discursive he can never get to the point. In peace the best measure of a scientist’s merit is the patience with which he can seek truth for its own sake, and his indifference to the application of his work to tangible results. In war this point of view is out of season; the man’s value then depends on his impatience to apply all he knows to getting results of the most tangible kind. At the dinner hour we sit down to eat our food and digest it; the dinner hour over, eating becomes unseasonable, and we must absorb what we have eaten and utilize it in the performance of the day’s work.“In the war with Germany a vast amount of time was wasted by scientists who couldn’t adapt their points of view to war-time conditions. They insisted on laying their foundations with the same painstaking thoroughness and patience with which they would pave the way to a new theory of light; they kept before them the same ideal of perfection which the highest standards of peace-time scholarship demand. The Armistice found them still laying their foundations, and their efforts all wasted, as far as winning the war was concerned. Of course it pays to keep some fundamental work going on the chance of the war lasting a good many years, but there’s such a thing as sense of proportion about it; and that’s what lots of scientists lack.”“How is the non-scientific head of a big department to know whether a line of research promises to bring results in a finite time or not?” asked Mortimer.“That’s difficult,” said Evans. “The best thing is to have on hand some men of large caliber whom you can trust to have engineering sense as well as scientific vision, and make them keep the others in the paths of reason.”Among other things Evans pointed out the great importance of weather forecasting in naval warfare.“It doesn’t take much imagination to see that it might come in handy to know a little beforehand when something like what hit us to-day is coming. Imagine trying to carry out some kinds of naval operations during the worst of that squall. Then the direction of the wind may affect the visibility in different directions, so as to make it a decisive factor in a naval action.”“Weather prediction is still pretty much a matter of guesswork, isn’t it?” asked Mortimer.“No, there’s a good deal of science to it,” said Evans, “and there’s more coming to fruition than is generally known. Professor Jeremy is probably the ablest meteorologist in the world. He has been doing some wonderful research on the causes of weather changes, and I believe he’s in a way to reach some very important conclusions before long. You couldn’t do better than put him in charge of your Naval Weather Service, with a free hand to do things his own way. He’d have a sense of proportion, and go at the most practical kind of research which would in a few months give our navy so much better knowledge of weather prediction than the enemy as to be a really important military advantage. Then the trouble would be to make the admirals appreciate what they had, and use it.”They had now crossed the open sheet of water between Monomoy and Point Gammon, and had passed Bishop and Clerk’s lighthouse a mile to leeward, till it was already receding on the port quarter. The outline of Point Gammon showed dimly to windward. Taking a bearing on Hyannisport Light, Evans luffed and trimmed in the sheets a bit. Soon they were in the lee of Point Gammon where the water was smoother, and steering north-northwest picked up the spindle on Great Rock on the weather bow. Passing this they luffed close on the wind till they sighted the breakwater to leeward just before they brought the range lights in line. Inside the breakwater, Evans kept off and steered for the lights in the cottages that line the harbor shore, while the dark line of the land ahead loomed nearer and nearer, and its outline grew more distinct. The riding lights of some of the larger boats at anchor were now quite distinguishable from the cottage lights beyond. Evans went forward, cleared the anchor, and hauled down the jib, then returning to the wheel he picked his way in past some of the larger vessels to a snug anchorage near a group of Cape Cod catboats. The gale was still blowing hard and showed no signs of moderating, so he let go both anchors and gave them a generous allowance of scope. He made all snug on deck in spite of the darkness, with an alacrity born of long experience and the most intimate familiarity with every rope and cleat on his boat; then put up the riding light. With a careful look around he went aft into the cockpit, saying:“Well, we’re all snug here. The holding ground’s good, so it can blow all it’s a mind to, and we shan’t drag. Let’s go below, get out of these wet oilers, and have something to eat.”The hour was late for supper—a fact which did not militate against their appetites. In the cabin there was warmth from the little galley stove where the potatoes and rice were now done. Evans opened a tin of canned chicken and stirred the contents into the rice.“Supper’s ready,” he said, putting some plates and bread on the table. “This chicken-rice mixture is about the easiest thing to get ready on a rough day, and it makes a pretty good meal in itself.”They fell to like a pair of wolves, and Mortimer declared he had never found a meal more to his liking.After supper Evans tumbled the débris into a big dishpan and began a hasty but effective dish-washing.“Can I help?” asked Mortimer.“You can wipe,” answered Evans, and tossed him a dish towel.Before turning in, Evans took another look at the weather which still showed no signs of changing, and then the tired men took to their bunks, and darkness reigned in the little cabin except for a glimmer from the riding light through a porthole forward.Tired as he was, it was some time before Mortimer fell asleep. The excitement of the squall and the novelty of his surroundings kept him awake, listening to the wind shrieking in the rigging. But the gentle rocking of the boat in her sheltered anchorage lulled him off at last to a deep sleep.Next morning he waked to hear Evans shaking the ashes out of the galley stove. The wind had moderated and the sky showed signs of clearing. After a plunge overboard and a good breakfast, Mortimer felt better than he had for months. Evans rowed him ashore in his dinghy in time to catch the train, and before they parted it was settled that Evans should go to Washington in a fortnight’s time and be enrolled as a radio gunner in the navy.Evans took advantage of the northeast wind which was still blowing strong to make the run to New Bedford. With a single-reefed mainsail, for comfort in handling, as he was alone, he made the run through Wood’s Hole and across Buzzard’s Bay in six hours or so, and dropped anchor in New Bedford Harbor some time before sunset. As he sailed across the bay he pondered the problem confronting his friend.“It’s strange,” he said to himself, “on what capricious things the great affairs of the world sometimes depend. But Sam will make good, even if he does seem to know less about the navy than I do. He’s able, he’s dead in earnest, and he’s open-minded; damn few secretaries have been more than that.”He racked his brains to think how he could help his friend, and in his mind there grew the framework of a strong organization of engineering men so mobilized as to place at the disposal of the navy the efficient use of the best that science could offer.At New Bedford he arranged to have his boat hauled out for the winter.“I don’t expect to put her in commission next summer,” he said to the man at the shipyard; “you’d better be prepared to store her for a second winter.”
The next act of our story opens in the year 1937. An international crisis of the most momentous nature had just come to a head in Europe.
For some years past a group of powerful men in Constantinople, intriguing diplomatists and financial magnates, had been quietly developing a scheme for world domination. By a process of peaceful penetration, aided liberally by the adroit use of secret agents, they had obtained complete control of the Balkan Peninsula and Asia Minor, and for the first time in history reaped the harvest of a proper development of the rich natural resources of these areas. Thus enriched, the coalition had spread its tentacles all around the Mediterranean till it held Italy and Spain firmly in its grip; and yet by respecting the nominal independence of these countries the power which it had over them was cleverly concealed from the world.
Much of Russia was entangled in the snare. Being once more promised a realization of the fools’ dream of communism, the adherents of Bolshevism were won over into an alliance. By propaganda promising the dawn of a new day of freedom, the enthusiastic support of the peasants, long oppressed by the sinister strangle-hold of the Soviets, was enlisted in behalf of the new combination.
The old Pan-Islam spirit of the Moslems was vigorously exploited, and thus a powerful underlying motive force was brought to bear on the furtherance of the scheme.
A substantial Turkish navy was built, and with money furnished by the coalition, Greece, Italy, and Spain were encouraged to build strong navies, too. No one of these navies was big enough to excite much suspicion in England or America, and no one but the coalition and its secret agents knew that these three navies were planned with a view to forming parts of one great whole. With diabolical cunning the gigantic plot against the world had been laid, and no exigency had been overlooked. Then suddenly in the early summer of 1937, the fruits of this vast intrigue appeared. Italy and Spain found themselves committed to an alliance with Constantinople with a view to obtaining complete control of the Mediterranean Sea. Through the work of a body of spies, unique in preparedness and efficiency, France suddenly found her Mediterranean fleet paralyzed, and before she could make a move to defend them, her ships were seized without a blow. With astonishing rapidity the various navies, thus reinforced, were mobilized and operated as a coördinated fleet. England had but few ships in the Mediterranean at the time, and these were soon engaged in battle by overwhelming numbers, and sunk, after putting up the stiffest resistance imaginable against fearful odds. Then Malta and Egypt were attacked and seized. The south coast of France was occupied with an invading force; all important points on the north coast of Africa were taken, and the control of the Mediterranean became complete, with the exception of Gibraltar.
The British Navy was rushed to the defense of this stronghold, and had they passed the strait a naval action would have ensued which might have saved Europe then and there from the specter of the new Byzantine Empire. But this exigency, like others, had been anticipated. As the great navy steamed into the straits, supposedly under the protection of Gibraltar, a vast battery of sixteen-inch guns mounted on railway cars opened a withering fire from the Spanish shore at Tarifa. Less than half of the capital ships passed through this barrage, and most of those, before they were well out of range, ran into a mine-field stretching across the strait, laid at night some weeks before by enemy submarines and made ready for action by wire from Tarifa as the fleet approached.
A handful of battleships, cruisers, and destroyers escaped the trap, and bravely faced their fate in the defense of Gibraltar. But the waiting enemy had now such an overwhelming advantage in numbers that their doom was sealed. Cut off by land and sea, it was of course only a matter of time before Gibraltar fell.
And now England was left with her mighty navy gone, all but the few ships that were in dry-dock and couldn’t be sent in time, and a few obsolete vessels purposely left at home.
All Northern Europe rose to fight the Constantinople Coalition. England, France, Belgium, Holland, Germany, Poland, and the Scandinavian nations placed troops in the field. And soon two giant armies faced each other entrenched in a battle-line extending from the Pyrenees to the Alps and thence along mountain barriers where such existed, eastward to the Caspian Sea. In the development of land warfare, defensive measures had outstripped offensive measures, and especially strong were the defensive methods used by the Mediterranean forces. Consequently ground could be gained by the northern armies only at the cost of prohibitive losses. A military deadlock ensued, and the problem became one of attrition. In natural resources in the Eastern Hemisphere the Mediterranean group had slightly the better situation, but what counted still more was control of the Atlantic Ocean, and through it, access to the resources of the Western Hemisphere.
This control by the Mediterranean Powers being undisputed, virtually all commerce between North America and Northern Europe was cut off. The resources of Northern Europe sufficed to maintain the war for the present, but clearly materials from the Western Hemisphere would in time be a necessity if the war was to go on.
Through the summer months America maintained neutrality, although it was daily becoming clearer to those whose vision extended beyond the balance-sheet of the current month that, as in 1917, civilization was at stake, and the sooner America shouldered her share of the fight the better it would be for all the world, herself included.
This was the situation when on a warm sunny morning in September one of America’s newest destroyers crossed Cape Cod Bay at a thirty-knot speed, and, gliding smoothly into Provincetown Harbor, dropped anchor. As the chain rattled down, a tall, well-built man in civilian clothes stood on the bridge beside the skipper and surveyed the harbor. Presently his eye rested on a small sailboat, ketch-rigged, of some thirty-six feet over-all length, making toward them about a quarter of a mile away.
“I guess that’s my boat, skipper,” said the civilian.
“Going round the Cape in that, are you? She’s not over-roomy, but she looks like a good sea boat,” was the answer.
A boat was lowered; the civilian left the bridge, shook hands with the skipper, and was soon on his way toward the sailboat which presently shot up into the wind and, with her sails flapping, gradually lost headway as the motor-boat from the destroyer came up on her starboard quarter. The passenger clambered over the side and into the cockpit of the little ketch, a sailor handed him his suitcase, and with a parting word of thanks to the crew of the motor-boat he sat down to look about him.
At the wheel was a man not over middle height, compact and strong-looking, with a clear, ruddy complexion, dressed in a pair of khaki trousers and gray flannel shirt, a striking contrast to the officers of the destroyer. The new skipper wasted no time in greetings, but with eyes intent on the movements of the motor-boat just shoving off, reached for the starboard jib sheet, pulled it in and held it till the sailboat payed off to port and gathered steerageway. Then, trimming the jib over, he settled back comfortably and said, “Well, how are you? Had a nice trip across the Bay, didn’t you?”
“Beautiful; those destroyers glide along like a dream. This is a cozy little boat you’ve got, Jim; where’s your crew?”
“You’re my crew to-day,” said the skipper. “Lord! I don’t want a crew killing time about the deck. That’s the advantage of this size and rig; I can handle her alone, and yet she’s big enough for comfortable cruising, and safe in any sea there is. I couldn’t afford a crew if I wanted one; so I’m glad I don’t. Take your valise below and have a look round, don’t you want to? Take the port bunk, my gear’s on the starboard.”
His friend acted on the suggestion and with a landsman’s clumsiness engineered himself and his valise down the hatch into the coziest, snuggest little cabin he had ever seen. Presently he returned to the cockpit.
“Looks like a nice little place to duck in out of the wet.”
“It is rather a nice little cabin,” said the skipper. “To tell the truth, this boat just suits me, and I feel as much at home on her as I do anywhere in the world. I used to fancy something fast and racy as my ideal of a sailboat, but as I get older I incline more to this sort of thing, seaworthy and comfortable, fit to ride out any gale that blows.”
“You don’t look so awfully old yet,” said the other.
“I don’t suppose I do,” said the skipper, “but if I remember rightly I’m only a year younger than you.”
“That’s so,” said the other. “I’m forty, and they tell me I look five years older than I am. But you don’t look any older than you did in college.”
“I’m generally supposed to be still in the twenties. I judge that my sheltered and quiet existence in the laboratory, together with lots of outdoor life, camping, cruising, etc., has kept me young, while battling with the storms of a busy world has been ageing you.”
The skipper of the sailboat was Jim Evans; his passenger, Sam Mortimer. Through the years since college their friendship had endured, yet their lives led them so far apart that they seldom came together. Evans’s career as a scientist had brought him happiness, but no fame. His reputation for work of the highest quality was known only to a handful of experts competent to judge.
Mortimer’s career in politics had, on the other hand, placed him increasingly in the limelight, till in the spring of 1937 he found himself shouldering no less a responsibility than that of Secretary of the Navy, just as the European crisis was coming to a head. His predecessor had been none too competent, and in consequence his six months in office had been almost wholly taken up with reorganization in the Department, and little time had been left him to study the principles of naval policy, strategy, and tactics. His knowledge of naval affairs was small, and indeed he knew little of seafaring lore in any form. In years gone by he had made one or two short cruises in a small boat with Evans, but since then his recreations had been golf and tennis, and all his professional attention had been focused on politics. As yet no action had been taken by the American Government toward joining in the war, and the public had little idea whether any was to be expected; but to the Cabinet it was evident that action must come soon. Now Mortimer was keenly aware that the question of naval control of the Atlantic Ocean would soon be resting on his shoulders more directly than on those of any other man living; small wonder, then, that he felt overwhelmed by the responsibility he saw approaching. The American Navy was large and powerful, and, reinforced by such French ships as had been outside the Mediterranean and such British ships as had escaped disaster, it was about an even match for the consolidated navy of the Mediterranean Powers. On its efficiency rested the control of the Atlantic.
Early in September Secretary Mortimer left Washington for Boston to spend three days examining the resources of the First Naval District. He had spent a harassed and busy summer struggling to get the navy ready for the task which each week made it seem more probable was to devolve upon it. Every week the consciousness of his inability to see with an expert’s eye the large problems of naval strategy distressed him more. His brain was in a whirl, and he felt that he must for one day at least get off and give himself over to relaxation.
In this crisis the old desire to see Evans came over him; the sense of reliance on his friend, though often forgotten, was still there. He had telegraphed Evans asking if he could spare a day when they might get off by themselves and have a good talk. Evans had replied, suggesting a sail round Cape Cod as the most complete escape from the interruptions which would pursue them were they to remain in the haunts of men. Evans had his boat at Provincetown, and Mortimer, on completing his business in Boston, boarded a destroyer at the Navy Yard in the early morning and joined his friend in time to make a good start round the Cape.
The wind was west, and a little beating to windward brought the boat clear of Provincetown Harbor and around Race Point, where they started their sheets, then jibed and began the long reach down the Cape, by Highland Light, keeping close in shore where the sandy and pebbly beach and the bluffs behind presented a pleasing if somewhat monotonous picture.
As these two stanch friends sat chatting together in the cockpit of thePetrel, as Evans called his boat, dropping Highland Light astern and picking up Nauset, their talk drifted toward the topic that was harassing Mortimer by day and night.
“How much have you kept up with navy affairs since you left the service after the war?” he asked of Evans.
“Enough to know that the engineering men of the service have made wonderful strides in development in various fields, especially in communications, opening possibilities undreamed of in 1918, and that through the perennial difficulties of personnel, these developments are not utilized to anything like the extent they might be. To tell the truth, the navy has always interested me intensely; it has been a hobby of mine to read Mahan and other standard writers during my spare time, as well as the Naval Institute Proceedings. I’ve also kept in touch with some of the radio men I knew in the war who have stayed in the service, and I have watched with great interest the progress in radio communication that has taken place.”
“My God, I wish I had your knowledge of the subject,” said Mortimer. “Law and politics have taught me some things, but they haven’t taught me the principles of naval policy and naval operations, and those are the things I want to know now.
“I suppose you realize,” he went on, “that we may not be able to stay out of the European vortex much longer.”
“On the face of it,” answered Evans, “I should say we were due in it right now. I haven’t heard the ‘inside dope,’ but I can’t conceive of our staying out much longer, all things considered.”
“Well, I trust your discretion enough to say that you have sized it up about right. There won’t be many weeks more of neutrality; and then a big load comes on our Department.”
“I should say it was a clear case,” said Evans, “that the whole game hung on our navy. While the enemy keep their fleet intact and maintain the complete control of the Mediterranean, the Northern armies can never score a decisive victory; and if the Turks are left in control of the Atlantic the attrition will all come on our side. We must establish and keep up a steady flow of supplies from both North and South America to maintain even the present status; and we must destroy their navy to win the war.”
Thus the conversation progressed to a discussion of the basic principles of naval policy and strategy, in which Mortimer, as more than once before, found himself marveling at Evans’s clearness and breadth of vision. None of the admirals at the heads of bureaus in Washington had seemed able to see things in so large a perspective; none had helped him to grasp the fundamental principles of the problem before him as this man, trained in science, yet versed in naval affairs as well.
The small cabin clock struck two-bells.
“Let’s have some lunch, Sam,” said Evans. “Take the wheel, steer as you’re going, due south, while I get the stuff out.”
He disappeared down the hatch with the nimbleness of a boy in his teens, and began to prepare a simple lunch over an alcohol stove. As Mortimer sat at the wheel with the warm wind off the Cape Cod shore fanning his cheek, he pondered over this simple child of Nature, to all appearances a college boy on a vacation, whose characterization of the crisis offered so much food for thought.
Soon Evans reappeared in the cockpit with an appetizing meal which they ate in camp style, Evans steering and eating at the same time, not appreciably to the detriment of either task. Again he left Mortimer at the wheel while he addressed himself to the task of cleaning up. When next he came on deck, he found Mortimer manifestly drowsy and a good two points off the course. The warm shore wind, the peace and quiet and the relaxation from constant strain, conspired to overcome him. Evans reached below for a pillow and placed it on the lee side.
“Here, stretch out on the cockpit seat and take a good nap,” he said.
Mortimer relinquished the wheel, and soon was fast asleep.
When next he waked the afternoon was well advanced. The air felt rather close and muggy, and so hazy was it that the sun shone dimly, and the land, only three or four miles away, was scarcely visible.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“There’s Chatham nearly abeam,” said Evans. “The barometer’s falling; I think we may get a squall.”
“Your boat will stand it, I trust?”
“She’ll stand it, all right,” said Evans with a laugh. “She’ll stand anything that blows. The only practical question is whether to take the short cut between Bearse Shoal and Monomoy. It saves two or three miles, and if it’s going to be rotten weather it’ll be more comfortable for old men like us to get into some sheltered water before dark.”
“What is there against the short cut?”
“Well, if it should get thick with rain it would be a little hard to see where we were, and there are shoals on both sides; also it’s all so shoal there that a heavy squall from the northeast would kick up an infernal rip with the tide running the way it will be when we get there. But then, a rip can’t hurt us unless it’s bad enough to let her touch bottom in the trough, and it would take a first-class hurricane to do that.”
“Well, all I ask is that you avoid a serious shipwreck, for I’ve responsibilities ahead that I really ought not to sidestep.”
“You can trust thePetrelto get you through,” said Evans.
“Not to mention her skipper,” answered Mortimer.
Still the west wind held and the little boat stood on till Chatham was on the starboard quarter and no longer visible through the haze. The air still felt warm and heavy; in the northeast, through the haze, dark clouds could be dimly seen gathering. Evans trimmed in his sheets and luffed toward the point of Monomoy. Pollock Rip Slue Lightship was visible, and on that Evans took a careful bearing and wrote it down, together with the time. Monomoy could barely be seen as a faint white line of sand to the westward. No landmark there could be identified, but Evans noted the bearings of as much of it as he could see, then studied the chart. He took a look round at the sky, left the wheel, and glanced at the barometer.
“Glass is falling fast,” he said. “Take the wheel a minute while I put on rubber boots and oilers; then you can do the same.”
He dived below and soon came up dressed in oilskins and sou’wester, took the wheel, and sent Mortimer down to put on his spare set. Suddenly a chill wind struck from the northeast; the sails went over and fetched up on the sheets to starboard.
“What’s up?” called Mortimer from below.
“Wind’s shifted; nothing much yet,” answered Evans as he trimmed over the jib and slacked the main sheet.
Mortimer came on deck. Evans was looking now at the compass and now at the clouds in the northeast, already looking murky and ominous.
“I’m heading for that short cut,” said Evans. “I could still go out round Pollock Rip, but it would waste a lot of time and we’ll be all right in here. I know where we are well enough to hit the channel; if it blows hard the rip will be rather sensational at the shallowest point, but won’t do us any harm. She’s built so strong that even if she did touch the sand in the trough of a wave, it wouldn’t hurt her.”
The wind was now blowing freshly from the northeast and thePetrelwas driving along before it at a good speed.
“Isn’t it about time to reef?” asked Mortimer.
“We shan’t need to. That’s the beauty of this rig; you can shorten sail to your heart’s content without reefing.”
The clouds grew darker and the wind increased till whitecaps appeared and dotted the sea, and the little boat sped on before it with increasing speed.
“Time to get in the mainsail,” said Evans; “take the wheel; steer southwest by west, and hold your course as close as you know how.”
Then he let go the halyards, and running forward with a couple of stops in his hand, had the sail down and roughly furled in a few seconds.
“Now,” he said, taking the wheel again, “she’ll stand a whole lot of wind this way. Hold the chart for me. This channel isn’t buoyed, and the chart helps.”
Even with only the mizzen and jib thePetrelmade good speed; and now with the stiff wind and east-running tide, the whitecaps were increasing to good-sized breakers. Then the dark clouds to windward gathered themselves into a huge black knot, black as ink and roughly funnel-shaped. Like a giant projectile this black mass approached, coming at an astounding speed.
“This is going to be a good one,” said Evans. “It’ll be thick in a minute, I wouldn’t mind seeing a landmark ahead. Ah! there’s Monomoy Light.”
Straining his eyes he could barely make out the lighthouse and get an approximate bearing on it. But Mortimer’s eyes were riveted on the colossal black storm-cloud whirling through space toward him in a way that fairly took his breath away.
“The jib’s all we’ll want when this hits,” said Evans, and in another second or two he had the mizzen down and a stop around it.
AND THEN THE THING STRUCK
AND THEN THE THING STRUCK
And then the thing struck. So violent was the blow that it seemed as if the boat might be lifted from the water and carried through space. The air was full of flying water—sheets of spray blown from the tops of the waves, while overhead a darkness almost like the night closed in. Rain came driving horizontally in sheets, and lightning flashed round half the horizon. It was impossible to see a quarter of a mile.
Mortimer looked at Evans whose eyes scarcely left the compass, and saw in his face alertness, steadiness, and strength; and the fear which such an overwhelming outburst of the fury of the elements had naturally aroused in him was effectually quelled.
Almost as quickly as it had come the black cloud blew over, leaving a sense of dazzling brightness by contrast, although the sky was still heavily clouded. For three or four minutes the wind blew with almost unabated fury, the little boat scudding bravely before it under her jib. Then the wind moderated enough to relax the tension, but still blew hard enough to make them glad of shortened sail.
“Eighty miles an hour, I’ll bet, during the height of that,” said Evans. “All of forty, still.”
And now the waves had become high and steep and short.
“We’re getting into that tide rip I spoke of; the water’s getting shoal. The sand’s so white it looks shoaler than it really is.”
Mortimer looked ahead and saw through the rain great whitecaps forming an almost solid line like the breakers on a beach, and in the troughs of the waves the white sand bottom gleamed alarmingly near.
“Lord! are we going into that?” he asked.
“She won’t touch, and the waves can’t hurt her. They may come aboard now and then, but they’ll drain right out through the cockpit scuppers. You might close the cabin hatch.”
The waves grew higher and steeper, and now they were in a mass of breaking whitecaps. Each wave lifted the little boat up, and with her nose deep down in the trough, she would dash forward with amazing speed till the wave broke all around her and she came to a stop in a smother of foam. Looking back, it often seemed as though the waves, towering high and curling over the stern, would swamp the boat completely, but each time the stern rose gracefully, and at most a few gallons of water would splash into the cockpit.
“I didn’t suppose any boat could live in this,” said Mortimer.
“It sometimes surprises me to see how well she rides these things,” answered Evans. “I’d like to see that lighthouse again to make sure we’re in the channel. We should in a minute, as the rain’s letting up, and we’re getting near to it. There it is. We’ll be through most of it in a minute now.”
Then, with series of plunges, in each of which it seemed as if she must drive her bow into the white sand, so close below the surface it appeared, thePetrelpassed through the roaring breakers into the deeper water beyond, where, rough as it was, it seemed like a haven of refuge compared with the rip they had come through.
Mortimer breathed more freely. “I don’t mind saying I felt scared coming through that,” he said. “I’m glad you know this game as well as you do.”
“I’m not sorry to be through it myself,” said Evans. “It was quite rough enough for a bit. I don’t think I ever saw such an ugly squall, and I’ve seen some bad ones. Still, as long as I had that bearing on Monomoy Light we were in no danger. Quarter of a mile out of the channel, it’s so shoal she might have hit.”
“What would you have done if you hadn’t got that bearing?”
“I guess I’d have stood off and waited till it cleared enough to see the lighthouse, or else beat out round Bearse Shoal, and that would have been a hell of a rough thrash to windward; still, it wouldn’t have hurt us any.”
“It looks to me as if the gods had a way of fighting on your side,” said Mortimer. “Do you always get away with it when you take a chance like that?”
Evans looked serious. “I don’t know as I can claim that,” he said, “but Fortune has been pretty good to me in her own way. Maybe I was rather foolish to go through that. It will be smoother from now on; there’ll be some small rips, but nothing like that one. I think we’d better make for Hyannis. We could anchor in Chatham Roads, but that would be exposed if the wind turned southwest. Hyannis is a good harbor in any wind, and it will be easy getting in after dark with Bishop and Clerk’s and the harbor range lights to steer by. It’ll be handier for you in the morning, too. Take her while I hoist the mizzen; we may as well have that now.”
In another minute the little boat was speeding on before the gale under mizzen and jib. The rain had subsided, but a leaden twilight was closing in. Monomoy appeared as a low white streak of sand on the starboard beam. Hugging it close, they rounded Monomoy Point and luffed to clear the north end of Handkerchief Shoal. Evans went below and lit the running lights, then, starting a fire in the small coal stove in the galley, put some potatoes and rice on to boil. Then he came on deck with some pilot biscuit and chocolate, and the two friends settled down in the snug little cockpit to enjoy their sail through the shoals in the gathering darkness.
Soon their talk drifted back to the all-important topic of the coming crisis.
“It always seemed to me,” said Evans, “that a navy could conveniently be likened to a living organism, a man, for instance. A man has senses—sight, hearing, etc.—which tell him what’s happening about him. Nerves carry the impressions from the sense organs to the central station, the brain, where information is sorted into the springs of action; other nerves carry messages from the brain to the muscles that work the arms and legs—and incidentally the teeth. Now in the navy your patrols, scouts, planes, drifters, etc., with their observers and hydrophones, and all forms of radio receiving apparatus, are the senses, and I should include under that head, spies. In place of the muscles, fists, and teeth you have the ships’ engines and the guns, torpedoes, bombs, and such like. The nervous system is the general staff which determines policy, the admirals who execute it, and communications which are the nerves that bring information into the navy’s brain, and in turn give the word for action. Communications, of course, comprise flag signals, blinkers, semaphores, couriers, postal service, telephones, telegraph, radio, and the newer methods, such as infra-red rays.
“Now it seems to me the importance of communications hasn’t been emphasized half enough. The methods available are highly developed, but their value isn’t clearly enough appreciated. You can hardly find a finer, keener, better-trained bunch of men anywhere than the officers of our navy, but the profession has grown so complex and the duties to be learned so manifold that it takes an exceptional man to grasp all the possibilities science has developed and to see them in a proper perspective. The average naval officer takes far more interest in ordnance and gunnery than he does in communications. The difference between an athlete and a lummox is not in the muscles, but in the nervous system which coördinates their action. Provided the muscles are not atrophied or diseased, they’ll do what the nerves tell ’em to. Now gunnery is obviously important—so obviously that the personnel tends to look on it as the whole thing. Of course it must be efficient, but it has been ever since Sims made it so; it must be kept up to the mark, but it is a strong tradition in the navy to keep it so, and I don’t think you’ll have any trouble on that score. It is intelligence and coördination, and communication in particular that you must look out for in order to make your fighting strength effective. Just as the skill and wisdom of the gunnery officer direct the titanic force of the guns to the point where it is most telling, so the controlling mind, acting through communications, directs the force of the entire fleet; that’s the field where the minimum energy will yield the largest return; put your best efforts in there.”
“Don’t forget morale,” said Mortimer.
“Quite right,” said Evans; “morale is more than half the fight; without it no amount of skill or intelligence will avail; but without the aid of the mind morale is flung helpless at the mercy of superior skill in an opponent. I am inclined to assume morale; and I believe it is a justified assumption, for to stress and foster it is a tradition well maintained in our service.”
Evans went on to explain to Mortimer some of the methods of communication which had been developed: the internal communications in a ship, the dual use of a single antenna to receive two messages simultaneously on different wave-lengths, the use of infra-red rays for secret messages between ships in a fleet, and many other things which Mortimer had never had time to learn.
“I wish I could make you Director of Naval Communications,” said Mortimer. “Unfortunately the rank that goes with that position is rear admiral. Under the existing regulations the highest rank I could give you is lieutenant-commander. If you were a captain, I could make you a temporary rear admiral in order to hold that position, but I don’t know of any way that it could be done straight from civil life.”
“If I were you I wouldn’t try to make me an admiral or even a lieutenant-commander,” answered Evans. “Professional naval officers are apt to resent having men out of civil life put over them with superior naval rank. They’d feel that I was ‘striped way up,’ even as lieutenant-commander, and that I hadn’t earned my rank. I should encounter friction and difficulties in consequence. I sure want to help you in any capacity I can, but my suggestion is that you make me a warrant officer, say radio gunner.”
“Radio gunner!” exclaimed Mortimer; “that’s a pretty small job for you. You’d be subordinate to a lot of ensigns just out of Annapolis.”
“It’s not necessarily such a small job; officers of high rank are apt to heed the advice of a dependable warrant officer, regarding him as a technical expert. Often they respect a warrant officer who knows his business a good deal more than they do ensigns and lieutenants. If he works his opportunities right, he may put over more than purely technical ideas. A man who doesn’t use his opportunities right won’t get very far in warfare though he wears the gold braid of an admiral.”
The night had closed in dark as pitch, and the wind swept on furiously from the stormy sky. Evans steered his little boat over the waves, guided by the familiar lights in the distance. To the south the lights of a tow of barges and a coasting schooner, threading the ship channel through the shoals, grew dimmer and finally were lost in the murk.
The conversation drifted on to the question of the use of scientists in war. Evans summed up his views on this point as follows:
“Make free use of scientists, but use them with skill. A scientist in war, if he hasn’t engineering sense as well as scientific spirit, is apt to be like a drunken man trying to make a speech; his mind is so discursive he can never get to the point. In peace the best measure of a scientist’s merit is the patience with which he can seek truth for its own sake, and his indifference to the application of his work to tangible results. In war this point of view is out of season; the man’s value then depends on his impatience to apply all he knows to getting results of the most tangible kind. At the dinner hour we sit down to eat our food and digest it; the dinner hour over, eating becomes unseasonable, and we must absorb what we have eaten and utilize it in the performance of the day’s work.
“In the war with Germany a vast amount of time was wasted by scientists who couldn’t adapt their points of view to war-time conditions. They insisted on laying their foundations with the same painstaking thoroughness and patience with which they would pave the way to a new theory of light; they kept before them the same ideal of perfection which the highest standards of peace-time scholarship demand. The Armistice found them still laying their foundations, and their efforts all wasted, as far as winning the war was concerned. Of course it pays to keep some fundamental work going on the chance of the war lasting a good many years, but there’s such a thing as sense of proportion about it; and that’s what lots of scientists lack.”
“How is the non-scientific head of a big department to know whether a line of research promises to bring results in a finite time or not?” asked Mortimer.
“That’s difficult,” said Evans. “The best thing is to have on hand some men of large caliber whom you can trust to have engineering sense as well as scientific vision, and make them keep the others in the paths of reason.”
Among other things Evans pointed out the great importance of weather forecasting in naval warfare.
“It doesn’t take much imagination to see that it might come in handy to know a little beforehand when something like what hit us to-day is coming. Imagine trying to carry out some kinds of naval operations during the worst of that squall. Then the direction of the wind may affect the visibility in different directions, so as to make it a decisive factor in a naval action.”
“Weather prediction is still pretty much a matter of guesswork, isn’t it?” asked Mortimer.
“No, there’s a good deal of science to it,” said Evans, “and there’s more coming to fruition than is generally known. Professor Jeremy is probably the ablest meteorologist in the world. He has been doing some wonderful research on the causes of weather changes, and I believe he’s in a way to reach some very important conclusions before long. You couldn’t do better than put him in charge of your Naval Weather Service, with a free hand to do things his own way. He’d have a sense of proportion, and go at the most practical kind of research which would in a few months give our navy so much better knowledge of weather prediction than the enemy as to be a really important military advantage. Then the trouble would be to make the admirals appreciate what they had, and use it.”
They had now crossed the open sheet of water between Monomoy and Point Gammon, and had passed Bishop and Clerk’s lighthouse a mile to leeward, till it was already receding on the port quarter. The outline of Point Gammon showed dimly to windward. Taking a bearing on Hyannisport Light, Evans luffed and trimmed in the sheets a bit. Soon they were in the lee of Point Gammon where the water was smoother, and steering north-northwest picked up the spindle on Great Rock on the weather bow. Passing this they luffed close on the wind till they sighted the breakwater to leeward just before they brought the range lights in line. Inside the breakwater, Evans kept off and steered for the lights in the cottages that line the harbor shore, while the dark line of the land ahead loomed nearer and nearer, and its outline grew more distinct. The riding lights of some of the larger boats at anchor were now quite distinguishable from the cottage lights beyond. Evans went forward, cleared the anchor, and hauled down the jib, then returning to the wheel he picked his way in past some of the larger vessels to a snug anchorage near a group of Cape Cod catboats. The gale was still blowing hard and showed no signs of moderating, so he let go both anchors and gave them a generous allowance of scope. He made all snug on deck in spite of the darkness, with an alacrity born of long experience and the most intimate familiarity with every rope and cleat on his boat; then put up the riding light. With a careful look around he went aft into the cockpit, saying:
“Well, we’re all snug here. The holding ground’s good, so it can blow all it’s a mind to, and we shan’t drag. Let’s go below, get out of these wet oilers, and have something to eat.”
The hour was late for supper—a fact which did not militate against their appetites. In the cabin there was warmth from the little galley stove where the potatoes and rice were now done. Evans opened a tin of canned chicken and stirred the contents into the rice.
“Supper’s ready,” he said, putting some plates and bread on the table. “This chicken-rice mixture is about the easiest thing to get ready on a rough day, and it makes a pretty good meal in itself.”
They fell to like a pair of wolves, and Mortimer declared he had never found a meal more to his liking.
After supper Evans tumbled the débris into a big dishpan and began a hasty but effective dish-washing.
“Can I help?” asked Mortimer.
“You can wipe,” answered Evans, and tossed him a dish towel.
Before turning in, Evans took another look at the weather which still showed no signs of changing, and then the tired men took to their bunks, and darkness reigned in the little cabin except for a glimmer from the riding light through a porthole forward.
Tired as he was, it was some time before Mortimer fell asleep. The excitement of the squall and the novelty of his surroundings kept him awake, listening to the wind shrieking in the rigging. But the gentle rocking of the boat in her sheltered anchorage lulled him off at last to a deep sleep.
Next morning he waked to hear Evans shaking the ashes out of the galley stove. The wind had moderated and the sky showed signs of clearing. After a plunge overboard and a good breakfast, Mortimer felt better than he had for months. Evans rowed him ashore in his dinghy in time to catch the train, and before they parted it was settled that Evans should go to Washington in a fortnight’s time and be enrolled as a radio gunner in the navy.
Evans took advantage of the northeast wind which was still blowing strong to make the run to New Bedford. With a single-reefed mainsail, for comfort in handling, as he was alone, he made the run through Wood’s Hole and across Buzzard’s Bay in six hours or so, and dropped anchor in New Bedford Harbor some time before sunset. As he sailed across the bay he pondered the problem confronting his friend.
“It’s strange,” he said to himself, “on what capricious things the great affairs of the world sometimes depend. But Sam will make good, even if he does seem to know less about the navy than I do. He’s able, he’s dead in earnest, and he’s open-minded; damn few secretaries have been more than that.”
He racked his brains to think how he could help his friend, and in his mind there grew the framework of a strong organization of engineering men so mobilized as to place at the disposal of the navy the efficient use of the best that science could offer.
At New Bedford he arranged to have his boat hauled out for the winter.
“I don’t expect to put her in commission next summer,” he said to the man at the shipyard; “you’d better be prepared to store her for a second winter.”