December 26, 1917 -- Across the Atlantic - Day 7 - Most Thrilling Day of Career

Don Martin diary entry for Wednesday, December 26, 1917: At sea – 415 miles.

This has been (at 5 p.m.) the most thrilling day in my career. Two torpedo destroyers appeared over the horizon at 7:30 a.m. I was asleep but Russell woke me and we went out and saw two destroyers (American) approach. Came within 1,000 feet of us, and began their patrol. Most of the passengers were out to see them. Many had not been to bed at all. Great relief now that convoy is with us. No question but passengers were very nervous. Though most of them pretend indifference. Am somewhat disturbed myself. Sea smooth at dawn but at noon stiff gale sprung up and now there is a heavy sea, almost too heavy for safety if we should have to take to the small boats. Destroyers hover about with spray flying all over them, but at times almost out of sight. Passengers are comforted somewhat but all know we are now right in the war zone. Wrote long letter to Dorothy on my typewriter, telling all about last night.

Carl Otto Czeschka, Warship at Sea (1915), Published by H. Bahlsens Keks Fabrik, Hanover, Germany, Leonard A. Lauder Postcard Archive, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. 

"World War I andthe Visual Arts" The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, Fall 2017

    Letter from Don Martin to Dorothy.

At Sea, Monday, Dec. 26, 1917

Dorothy:

     Our most exciting night has passed and it is interesting to see the relief of the passengers. Two torpedo boat destroyers flying the American flag appeared over the horizon at half past seven this morning and in a very few minutes passengers were crowding out on the decks to see them and wave a welcome. A few of the persons had been in bed sound asleep. Most of them had either remained fully dressed in the dining room or the cabins, or had sat or walked the deck. The night was ideal for a submarine attack – a glassy sea with a full moon. the St. Louis, tearing along at 21 miles an hour must have looked like a mountain etched against the moonlight. We were in the danger zone and it has been assumed from the start that German submarines are out on the Atlantic somewhere waiting for a convoy of 47 cargo ships which left New York a day ahead of us but which are three or four days behind us now, we having speed and they having none.   

     The scene on the ship last night was the most remarkable I have ever known. People had been gradually approaching a climax and it came last night when it was known that finally we were in the war zone and when the hope of a big blow and a dark or foggy night was gone. Either a fog or a storm would add to the security of the ship but instead of either we got one of the most perfect, if not beautiful nights, ever known at sea. For ten miles astern we could see the moonlight glistening on the water and for that distance at least we must have been visible to any submarine which was lurking about. Had one been approaching it would have been in the dark foreground and no matter how alert our watchers and gunners were, it could have slunk along, hurled a torpedo at us, and submerged without so much as giving us a tiny peep at it. About twenty men, naval cadets and gunners, were at their posts steadily all night. They stood around like statues with their gaze focused on the horizon. They never speak and passengers who ventured to ask them questions might as well have talked to a sphinx. It was all business and very tense business too. It was known that two torpedo boat destroyers were speeding out from the Irish coast to accompany us in. With them at hand the danger is lessened but by no means eliminated. A submarine can easily enough rise to the surface for an instant, get its range and discharge a torpedo and escape, but when the destroyers are around the submarines are disinclined to take any chance. The destroyers can go 40 miles an hour and occasionally rush upon a submarine and crush it before it can get far below the surface. Furthermore the destroyers are always there to pick up passengers and to prevent the submarines from coming to the surface and shelling a vessel. The hope of everyone last evening was that the destroyers would arrive with daylight. It was obvious that nearly everyone was more or less nervous and it is easy to understand why everyone should be; after all a plunge in the ocean is an unpleasant prospect. The moon was hidden by clouds for half an hour about nine o’clock but then the clouds drifted away and from that time on the moon stood out as brilliant as silver in a cloudless sky. The weather experts said there would be no breeze before daylight. 

     In the smoking room men were playing cards, chess or checkers – incidentally I played six games with the ship’s champion, an English pilot who had defeated all the naval men on board, and beat him six straight, showing I daresay that I was not overcome with nervousness – and in the big dining saloon a concert was going on. There was singing and various other forms of amateur entertainment and it really was pretty bad. Henry L. Stimson of New York, formerly Secretary of War and candidate for Governor against Dix in 1910 presided. I know him quite well. He is a lieutenant colonel of artillery, volunteer, and is going straight to France. He is quite a favorite on board. He made a hit with the crowd, numbering about 500, in the dining room when he spoke of the willingness of everyone these days to take any risk to aid in the battle against German barbarism. Then he said he would quote from a Christmas letter which he had opened yesterday. “It is a letter I hold very sacred,” he said (meaning of course that it was from his wife) and it says, “No matter where you may go, or however your career may end, I shall always be glad you went because it was the right thing to do.” 

     A couple of Englishmen sang and I wouldn’t have blamed the Germans just then if they had torpedoed the ship. They were abominable. A half dozen American officers sang and played and were a noticeable improvement. The concert began at nine o’clock and lasted until eleven. Then people drifted out to the decks and went to the two lounging rooms – the music room and the library. The cabin doors – that is the doors to the sleeping apartments were open all night and many persons walked or sat on the deck with life preservers on. The life boats were swung out from the davits and hung over the side of the ship so they could be quickly lowered. That was a somewhat disquieting situation. It accentuated the danger everyone knew he or she was in. The ship quivered constantly and groaned, indicating that the captain was putting on all his power to hasten toward the torpedo destroyers which were flying out to escort us to shore.  It was the first time the vessel was being forced. Some of us who had talked with the officers of the ship understood what it all meant. The smooth sea and the moonlight disturbed the sailors. They knew that at any moment a torpedo might slip through the water, leaving no trail that could be detected and giving no clew to the presence of a foe. Consequently they were eager to get to the rendezvous, to fall under the protection of the torpedo boats, or hornets of the sea as they are called. Ten o’clock in the morning was the time set for meeting with the protectors. The extra speed we took on anticipated this time nearly three hours. 

     I sat around with others till one o’clock. Then I sat in the dining room for an hour. Next I sat in Mr. Russell’s room, across the aisle from mine, for a short time and at three o’clock lay down with part of my clothes on, to get some rest. I quickly fell asleep and the next I knew Mr. Russell who had not lain down at all, came in and shook me. I was sound asleep but was up in an instant, in such a daze that I wasn’t sure whether he said a torpedo or a torpedo boat destroyer had arrived. 

     In two minutes I was on the deck. It was eight o’clock. The wind had started and a fairly good sea was running. On the deck were perhaps 200 persons. They were all looking in one direction. I noticed that their expression had changed over night. Everyone was speaking to everyone else. Officers with binoculars were gazing at the horizon, and women, with slippers on, as well as men with bath robes, were swarming out of the cabins to see what it was all about. 

    Far to the East we could see a speck. A wreath of smoke floated from it. As English pilot gazed at it with glasses and almost shouted, “It’s an American destroyer – she’s two masts.” People hurried around to find someone to tell it all to. Women who had risen from the library and music room settees, fatigued, cross and irritable, put their arms around one another and even the sailors themselves, stolid as they always seem, smiled and took an interest. Presently a second speck appeared a mile south of the first one. Another destroyer. They grew larger steadily. The officers said they were about ten miles off. It seemed hardly five minutes before they loomed big against the sky and their smoke screes looked warlike against a sky tinted with a rising sun. 

     All the passengers crowded to the forward decks and pressed as far against the gun ropes as they dared. In a very few minutes the larger of the two destroyers swung around and we had a full view of her. The crew was standing against the deck house, waving. A signal officer was standing on the highest point of the deck house signaling to our ship. He told us to put on all speed and to head toward a certain point. The people on t his ship waved handkerchiefs hats and neck scarfs and shouted to the men on the destroyer. It was but a moment before the other protector, a much smaller craft, swung around on the other side and her crew waved good morning to us. The people on the St. Louis ran around talking to one another with excitement and joy. If there had at any time been any doubt that the passengers – and this applies to the army and navy officers too – had been greatly alarmed, the relief and happiness they felt as the destroyers came alongside, proved that they had indeed been worried if not frightened.

     The narrow porpoise-like destroyers – you know they draw but a few feet of water and cut the waves like a knife – are now zigzagging along beside us, probably not more than 1,000 feet away. They are signaling constantly with flags and the passengers of course do not know what the messages are. The less the passengers know, in fact, the better off they are. Both destroyers are painted to look like the ocean (camouflage) and the waves split and break over them in great clouds of spray. I do not think I have ever seen a spectacle quite so thrilling. The little hulls are almost out of sight at times, being completely submerged. But they are ready at a second’s notice to give battle to submarines and presumably will convoy us safely into Liverpool.

     Last night was the most nerve racking of all, I expect, although there will be plenty of excitement tonight. This will be our last at sea. We will wake up in sight of the coast of Ireland and at eight o’clock, it is expected, will be at the dock in Liverpool. I shall spend the night, if I am permitted to leave the ship, at the Adelphia Hotel in Liverpool, which is said to be the best hotel in England. If we are compelled to stay on the ship till Friday morning, I will probably stay at the Adelphia Saturday night and go to London Sunday. I want to have a look at Liverpool and, as a matter of fact, will welcome one night in a soft, good sized bed, with no danger of being attacked by a submarine. 

     No one of course knows what may happen between now and tomorrow evening, but the supposition is that the destroyers will be able to get everybody to safety in case a submarine manages to shoot a torpedo into us. Everyone feels more secure at least but I imagine it will be a worn and weary company which will land in Liverpool. The women especially are affected. A woman in third class, with three children, looks as if she hasn’t slept in three days and I imagine she hasn’t. I cannot say that I have not felt uneasy but I have not been scared. I have not felt that I would not have a fair chance to escape, without crowding out anyone else, and that is all one can expect. But it is very evident, to one who crosses at this time, that the dangers are much greater than one is led to believe. In fact no one has any business to cross the Atlantic now unless it is absolutely necessary. I wouldn’t have you on here for a million dollars. I would be worried then. It is odd how the human point of view changes. Many of the passengers say quite nonchalantly that they expect at least half the passengers will be saved if we are struck – not a word about the other half! All the men sort of agree informally that in case of an accident they will make it a point to see that the women with children are taken care of first. Danger seemingly breeds a sort of heroic gallantry and I have no doubt that if a torpedo should strike the St. Louis and sink her there would be found a very chivalrous body of men.

     Do you know Dorothy that I have already written what would be almost a two column story about last night – I mean this letter would make that much. Still it is not often that one gets an opportunity to write at first hand an article about a night ride through the danger zone on a steamship which is being hunted by submarines – a steamship which, with cargo and all, is worth fifteen million dollars. If something should still happen and I should be fortunate enough to get to a cable office the chances are that I would take this letter and cable most of it to the Herald, not as a letter but as a story of the night. I haven’t written it exactly for a girl of eleven or twelve but you will understand it all and if you don’t Mother will read it so you will.  

     I don’t know what has been going on during the last hour, but probably nothing much. I came directly to my room from breakfast and now I shall put on a sweater and overcoat and go on the deck and join the rest of the ship’s company in watching the boats glide and circle around us, burying their noses in the waves and sending up clouds of greenish, silvery spray which rise a hundred feet in the air. I will very likely spend most all of the day on the decks and tonight will sleep with my clothes on. It sounds foolish but it is a nice precaution. If the ship should be struck the lights would go out immediately and one would have difficulty in dressing. Safety in a rowboat would depend largely upon the way a person is dressed and so it is well enough to be dressed and ready. It is only one night more anyhow and the beds are so uncomfortable that a little more discomfort makes no difference. I may write you a short addition to this letter later in the day. If anything worthwhile occurs I certainly will. Tomorrow I will write briefly because I will have a lot to do then and will mail the whole literary output from Liverpool.

With love,

    Dad

Here is a record on the voyage so far – 

Dec 20 – 277 miles

Dec 21 – 373

Dec 22 – 375

Dec 23 – 407
Dec 24 – 387