By Way of the Azores

Sometime in the 1930s, perhaps with the onset of middle-age crises, my grandfather, Robert Barrie Beattie sat down and wrote a 462-page chronicle concerning his 26-month naval experience in a leaky old fishing trawler converted into a Navy minesweeper (the Anderton [SP-530]) patrolling for mines and U-boats off the coast of France during World War I. The few attempts to have the work published were in vain. In spring 1979, while attending college, I lost my full-time student status and was working as a bartender and attending some classes at night. My grandfather, who had flunked out of Tufts some years earlier, gave me the original copy of his long-dormant manuscript to read. Here was the story of a young man my age who had joined the Navy in time of war in search of the sea and adventure. I was spellbound. For me the manuscript was an inspirational work, a reminder there were great things to be done in life. I met the challenge and took control of my situation. What follows here is an excerpt from the original manuscript adapted for publication.

Remembering the Old Man's [Chief Boatswain's Mate Frederick Mueller's] orders, I cast about for a place to sleep topside. The top of the afterdeck house looked inviting, so up I went only to find that most of my shipmates had been there first and staked a claim by leaving a mattress lashed to the rail. Disappointed, I turned to descend to the main deck, when I noticed a large slatted box almost seven feet long and three feet wide fixed to the deck just aft of the smokestack. The box contained a large coil of rope, neatly laid around the outer edge. In the center of the coil were four or five bags of potatoes. A large heavy tarpaulin lashed into place by several short lines covered the box. By rearranging the potato bags I managed to work my mattress into place. An excellent stateroom! The heat from the smokestack kept me warm while the tarp could be peaked with some cord and a stick to stave off the rain, and in really foul weather I could reef all sides down tight.

Mess that evening was that infamous staple meat dish of the old-time deepwater sailor, salt horse. As a boy, I had heard the old sailors refer to salt horse as salt junk. Many an old sea ditty had been composed referring to salt horse in derogatory terms and often to the extreme in profanity. On the Anderton, salt horse was prepared in a huge cauldron of boiling water and onions. The melted fat and grease would float to the top in a mass of steaming, thick, quaking scum, which emitted an ungodly smell. The meat was green in hue, tough as leather, and extremely salty to the taste. To complement the salt horse, we had baked beans in a manner, hard and soupy, that was completely foreign and unacceptable to the native New Englander. Also served were hard tack, rancid oleomargarine, and black coffee. After the dinner meal Kim, Converse, and I sat around the fantail commiserating about the chow none of us had eaten. The rest of the crew was in the same state, but we figured better to take care of the three of us—a much more manageable number.

I remembered my stateroom box and the sack of potatoes therein. I bolted topside and grabbed about a dozen or so from my box, and was on my way to the boiler room when I ran into Garreau, one of the Black Gang, sporting a bulging jumper. He had stolen some canned meat from the wardroom, so we decided to pool resources after I showed him my spuds. In the boiler room we discovered another pirate who had onions and some canned tomatoes. In a moment the onions were skinned and quartered along with the potatoes. All of which was dumped into a semi-clean coal bucket with a dish of salt water to bring a quick boil. The four of us finished the bucket dipping hard tack in to get the last bits, and all was washed down by a mess of black coffee from the engine room kettle. Amazing how a good meal can lift your spirits. We sat around the boiler room belching, farting, and telling sea stories for about two hours, and I got to thinking life on the Anderton wasn't gonna be too bad.

When I went on watch at 2000, the wind had freshened from the northeast and the spray was flying continually. Occasionally a sea would mount the rail and race down the deck, forcing us to close the lower half of the engine room doors. The Anderton was making an increasing amount of water, causing us to run the pumps every half-hour to keep her dry. In spite of our best efforts, by my midnight relief there was six inches of water in the bilge. I retired wearily to my potato box. The Anderton now was in a steady roll, so I slept on my stomach, arms and legs braced against the sides of my potato box, as she chugged through the night. Slowly I drifted off to a restful sleep, in spite of the building weather and seas.

The 27th of August 1917 opened cold and gray. A heavy sea was running and a strong northeaster was beginning to tear the white caps off the building waves. The Anderton's engine had slowed to 65 turns and she was making heavy weather of it, pitching and rolling with the seas on her port quarter. The well deck was constantly awash in green water, which made the passage from the engine room to mess hall hazardous and wet. I cautiously descended from the comparative safety of my potato box to stand my watch. With great timing and some gingerly footwork, I arrived in the engine room soaked to the skin. Standing near the boiler in deep consultation I found the Old Man, Ritter, and Kimball.

The bilges had gained rapidly during the graveyard watch, and were at the point where the engine crank dipped into four inches of water at each revolution, scooping gallons with each turn and throwing liquid about the engine room in a constant shower. There was a two-inch mixture of seawater, muddy coal, and ashes sloshing about the engine room floor plates, filling the boots of the laboring, cursing firemen. The increased motion of the Anderton over the previous ten hours was stirring up the contents of the bilge—the dregs of the ages—and as a result a horrific, prehistoric, God-awful stench permeated the engine and boiler rooms—a sweet, rich mix of rotted menhaden, oil, kerosene, and God knows what else. A muddy mixture of coal and ashes had spilled beneath the floor plates and was clogging the screens of the intakes to the bilge pumps. Every lurch and roll of the Anderton sent more coal from the bunkers down into the bilges. Three men of the Black Gang were waist deep in water, frantically digging up handfuls of sludge blocking the intakes. The situation was serious; the Old Man alternately cussed and cajoled the men to work harder. The men of the Black Gang needed little urging, because to a man the crew of the Anderton knew she was sinking.

At 0800 the water was six inches over the boiler room floor plates. Farther aft, the men were chest deep in putrid water, diving under to clear the intakes. Exhausted firemen stoked the fires with water-soaked coal. The Anderton was riding low and sluggish in answering the helm, so the Old Man sent the ship's carpenter forward to sound the water in the main hold. The levels were normal, so the main bulkheads were holding. At four bells (1000) the steam pressure had dropped to 60 pounds, the Anderton was loosing way, and the water in the engine room was up another foot. The fleet was hull down on the horizon, leaving the mother ship Bath (AK-4) about a mile off the starboard beam hovering, like a mother duck fretting over a distressed duckling. By noon the wind was at a full gale. Heavy combers were breaking over the starboard rail, turning the well deck into a constant turmoil of angry green sea. The Anderton was a foot lower in the water, wallowing pitifully with barely enough headway to keep her into the wind. When her fires went out, the Old Man calmly decided to prepare to abandon ship. Choking thick steam and smoke from the extinguished coals drove the Black Gang from the engine room. We prepared to leave; the Anderton was doomed.

Or so we thought. The Old Man was a fighter. Captain Mueller ordered all windows, portholes, and doors battened down and nailed into place. Without power, the Anderton had fallen off broadside, at the full mercy of the raging wind and sea, and she was rolling badly. The Old Man ordered a sea anchor constructed from some empty oil drums and wire rope. One of the crew shook his head and muttered something within earshot of the Old Man and got a swift kick in the ass for it.

At that point, we were more frightened of the Old Man than the storm raging about the Anderton. Upon completion, the sea anchor was launched (or rather washed) over board by an assisting sea. Slowly, the Anderton's bow swung into the wind and the wild rolling subsided. In the meantime all the navigating instruments, the communication equipment, and codebooks were loaded into one of the whaleboats. Captain Mueller then issued the order to abandon ship. We tried to appear brave and ordered as we entered the boats, but it was impossible with the wild seas and the knowledge that the Anderton was going down. In his haste to get into the whaleboat, Seaman First Class Barnes missed his footing and went sprawling into one of the forward thwarts, his arm over the gunwale. Before he could recover, the whaleboat rose violently on the next swell, crushing his arm against the stern. St. Charles, a medium-sized French Canadian, leaped across the whaleboat and dragged Barnes into the boat. White fragments of bone protruded from and glistened against puckered skin.

"Clear that man aft!" bellowed the Old Man. We jumped into action and moved Barnes, now in a semiconscious state, to the rear of the whaleboat. This was the first injury of the trip and detracted badly from our fearful delight that the Anderton indeed was sinking and a warm berth awaited each of us on the Bath. I was a portside oarsmen on the last boat away. The Old Man was at the tiller. He took one more look at the Anderton, turned, and spit. "Give way together," he said as we pulled away on all oars. The Bath by this time had steamed back to a point on our beam and was carefully drifting down on us, her pumps dribbling fuel oil to lay the turbulent sea for our approach.

We were treated royally on the Bath, given a substantial hot meal, dry clothes from the ship's stores, and warm berths. Most remarkable to me was the relative stability of the Bath's deck as compared to the dancing cockleshell antics of the Anderton. After eating our full, a group of us lost children gathered on the fantail to discuss the day's events. We talked quietly in groups, while the smoking lamp was out. A few sneaked a pipe. It was bliss: warm, dry, secure, with full bellies, and out from under the Old Man's despotic rule. The Anderton, on the other hand, alone and deserted, still was riding at her sea anchor, down by the stern. I took one last look before turning in and wished her straight to hell. I slept the sleep of the just that night.

Six hours later I had a rude awakening. The Old Man was roughly shaking me into consciousness.

"Beattie! Stand to! Damn you! Find Kimball and get him topside now!"

On deck I found one of the Anderton's whaleboats swung over the side with four more of the crew standing by. In the distance, the Anderton rode the swell of a quieted sea. She was afloat, and looked as if she would remain so for a long time. I cursed her, under my breath, as I pulled away on the oar. All save the Old Man were of the same mind that morning. As God is my judge, any self-respecting ship would have foundered in that storm.

The rest of the morning was uneventful. After a cursory inspection for damage the rest of the crew was brought back over. The Bath pulled alongside and dropped a four-inch suction hose from her engine room to ours and in short time the Anderton was pumped dry. Once the water was low enough, the fires were lit and new coal delivered from the Bath. By 1400, the Anderton once again was under way.

At six bells (0600) on 1 September, the weather was glorious. The Anderton was leisurely plowing through a calm green Atlantic at her staid six knots. Clanking in engine and groaning in frame she seemed content in her state, which put her crew in a generally good mood. Aft on the quarterdeck, the Black Gang relief watch was enjoying the pleasant breeze and a last breath of fresh air before heading into the engine room. For some reason unknown to us, the Old Man had asked for and been granted permission to run ahead of the fleet for scout duty. He often requested scout duty when the wind was strong and on the quarter. Under these conditions a steady draft was deflected down the ventilators into the fire room, supplying air that would fairly lift the grate bars from the furnaces. The bridge rang for all full ahead and the Anderton sped up to 12 knots. Before long the fleet was reduced to wisps of smoke on the horizon.

I was leaning against the port railing enjoying the sunrise when the crows' nest hailed the Old Man, who was just leaving the wardroom.

"Captain Mueller, smoke ahead sir!"

"Where away?" snapped the Old Man.

"Two points on the starboard bow."

The Old Man sprinted back to the wheelhouse, and in a moment the quartermaster was atop the pilothouse trying vainly to wigwag the approaching ship. The radio was frantically sputtering out Morse code while international signals fluttered at our masthead. Frequently in the past few days we had passed such lumbering merchantmen, always to be given some sort of recognition signal. The mystery ship deliberately altered course and was coming at us, a white wave rolling under her forefoot, black smoke belching from her two funnels. The Anderton's whistle blasted out—general quarters. The steamer now looked dreadfully ominous and threatening as I watched her from the engine room door. The deck of the Anderton was a mass of confusion; ammunition passers were making their way to the gun mounts hugging three-inch shells to their chests. Those detailed to handle the cartridge belts passed them to the browning .30-caliber machine guns. In the engine room, things were tranquil, as there was nothing to do but to wait on orders from the bridge. We had been warned that German commerce raiders, disguised as merchantmen, were reported to be operating in the area. The ship closed on us rapidly, flew no colors, and refused to answer the radio, wigwag, or acknowledge us in any way. The Old Man figured the mystery steamer was intent on ramming us. She bore down on the Anderton, closing to within a thousand yards. As a last resort, Captain Mueller blew a series of blasts on the whistle; still no response.

"Forward gun! Fire one round, solid shot, across her bows!"

Crash! The forward gun fired. A string of international colors appeared on the mystery ship's halyards spelling out "What Ship?" She was directly starboard of us at that point, her screws madly thrashed the water at full astern. An irate little figure with a horn appeared on her fly bridge. "This is the captain of His Majesty's Ship Sussexshire," he said. "By what authority do you dare to fire on us?"

"Captain, with all sincerity I wish you, your limey crew, and His Majesty's Ship straight to hell!" yelled Captain Mueller without aid of horn. "Next time you'll answer when challenged, or by all that's holy I'll sink you for gunnery practice!" We also were dressed out roundly for our performance at general quarters. The captain of the forward gun crew was reduced in rate for firing over the steamer amidships, rather than across her bows. In addition, he had served the gun a high explosive shell, rather than solid shot as he had been ordered. A quartermaster was reduced for issuing Springfield rifles without bolts. And Seaman First Class Gans was detailed to mess duty and "captain of the head" for dropping his boltless Springfield overboard when the forward gun fired.

The events of 7 September 1917 provided a fitting climax to the last leg of our ocean crossing. The Anderton received warnings that a Boche submarine was sighted ten miles south of the breakwater at Ponte Del Gada, our destination, roughly 100 miles from our position. A double watch was posted at the masthead and crow's nest. Visibility was about 800 yards, the weather was hazy and heavy. The Old Man hove to and made a sounding with the greased lead, which gave him bottom at 90 fathoms, a sure sign we were approaching the Azores. As we slowed to heave the lead, the C-tubes [a rudimentary hydrophone, also called T-tubes because of their shape] were ordered over the port and starboard sides. Converse and I were the only trained operators, so I manned the port side set. Immediately I heard the sound of screws, the bearing dead ahead and close. I called across to Converse, who took the same reading. The hair on the back of my neck fairly bristled. Our hearts pounding, the report was rendered to the Old Man, who directed us to confirm our reading. This time we were surprised and terrified to hear the screws stop and start again, as if we were being stalked. The Old Man ordered "All ahead full! Sound general quarters!" We were off in a cloud of black smoke, the decks alive with well-rehearsed preparation.

The Old Man, unruffled, ordered the wheel brought over on the bearing sent to the bridge. Twice in the next hour we stopped to listen, heard the screws, and were off again in a mad rush of creaking seams and black smoke pouring from our old smokestack. Suddenly, from the crow's nest, came the cry, "Submarine, two points off the starboard bow!"

This was followed by the near simultaneous crash of forward and aft three-inch guns. From my station I could see a low-lying hulk in the water barely discernible through the mist, ominous and foreboding. Thank God it was broadside to us, so we did not eat one of her torpedoes just yet. The ammunition servers did their jobs well as four more shots rang out in quick succession, and just as fast they were answered by two returning shots. Our guns fired again and the Old Man bellowed from the bridge, "Cease fire, Goddamn your eyes, cease fire!"

The submarine—or the whale, as it turned out—was unharmed, flipped a gigantic tail into the air, and dove beneath the surface. There was no doubt about it. The Old Man leaned on the rail, shaking his head and muttering. The silence after the engagement smote the ears. The gun crews looked at each other sheepishly and grinned. The Old Man muttered, "Damn fools," and re-entered the pilothouse. Within minutes, the flagship Wakiva II poked her stubby nose out of the mist. Evidently the Anderton and Wakiva II had been stalking each other with the C-tubes. When the Anderton had opened fire on the sleeping whale, the Wakiva II, fearing she was being fired on, returned fire blindly. The Old Man was furious at the gun crews for shooting high and missing the whale, but no punishments were meted out.

The following morning at 0500, as the mists cleared the lookout sounded "Land ho!" with all the emotion that the termination of a transatlantic crossing could evoke. Within 20 minutes the high mountainous headland of St. Michele emerged from the sea—a doubly beautiful sight, bringing forth a spontaneous cheer from the crew. The Wakiva II, riding our port quarter, clamped down on her whistle and the Anderton soon followed suit, until the Old Man bellowed, "Lay off that horn you idiot!"