Murder At Zero Hour

  Chapter 2

  The Past

  I will attempt to keep the stories of my childhood short, but the following facts may explain my future temperament and actions. My father, Paul Grant, was a pastor for a small church in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Though he was never a popular minister, he was certainly respected in the community. By all accounts he was a gentle man and was getting on in years when he was invited to England to be a visiting professor of theology at Cambridge. It was there that he met his wife-to-be.

  Upon his arrival in England, he rented a room at a nearby home where the landlord had an unmarried daughter named Edith. She was considered an old maid at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, and it was to some surprise that she started to show an interest in my father. One thing led to another, and they ended up getting married before his year at Cambridge was through.

  I never knew if their marriage was a loveless one or not, since to my young eyes they never seemed romantically inclined towards each other. But there must have been something initially there since after they returned to America, my mother was pregnant. It must have come to a surprise to the both of them. I imagine he wanted someone to look after him in his coming years of retirement. Instead, he was busy playing father. From her point of view, she was escaping a meaningless life in Cambridge. Her parents had kept her busy about the house, and this may have been her only way of escaping the drudgery.

  My childhood years seemed to be just like everyone else's – the usual fun and games with a few run-ins here and there. To tell the truth, my father was never that close to me, but more like the distant Victorian father. On the other hand, my mother kept close watch on me and filled my ears with stories of the old country. Those stories definitely had an effect on me. Growing up, I imagined England as my lost home. I had many fantasies of returning there to battle dragons and fight alongside King Arthur.

  As my father got older, his theological views became more radical. This certainly didn't suit the conservative church congregation that he preached at, so we were eventually forced to move from the city. My mother took it in stride, but as the years passed by, we ended up moving from town to town with a smaller congregation at each stop. My father could only stay in one place for a while before he would have to find yet another church. This was rarely by his own will, for as I said, his views were often out of step from the majority. This eventually caused some grief with my mother, but she pretended to take it well. She was the source of the family strength, and my father never had cause to abuse her trust. About the only time I remember her getting angry was when we were forced to leave a newly bought oven behind. She was a good cook and she hated to think of that wonderful contraption in the hands of another woman.

  When I was fourteen, we ended up in Olney, Illinois. It was a small town with one church, a schoolhouse, and only a handful of inhabitants. But still, it was paradise to a lad like me. The dilapidated farmhouse my father bought had a small stream in the back which provided countless hours of entertainment. Moving about as much as we did, made me somewhat of a recluse, and I really didn't need the company of others to be happy. But still, I managed to start a friendship with a local boy named Adam. We enjoyed hunting small game with our rifles, and we spent plenty of time exploring the countryside on our bicycles.

  Even with all our moving, school was easy. I found myself excelling at math. The other boys in school were farmer's sons, and most of them wanted nothing to do with the son of a pastor. But bullies are in every town and even though I was taller than the most, one of them tried to pick a fight with me after school. He was a bull-necked son-of-a-gun who was always causing trouble of some sort. His friends had gathered about, and he began to taunt me. By the time I struck out at him, my face was flushed with anger. I whipped him easy. No one there ever tried to start a fight with me again. I’ll admit now that I was a bit lonely with just my one friend, but I wasn't about to offer any of my friendship to those uncouth youths.

  I was quite happy at Olney until one school day a note arrived for the teacher. I was notified to go home at that instant. It seems that my father had gone down to the basement to retrieve some canned goods and when he did not answer my mother’s call, she went down to investigate. He was there, sprawled on the floor unable to speak. The doctor was sent for, and a stroke was the diagnosis.

  That stroke changed everything. We were given enough charity to get by, but the town still needed a new pastor until my father got better. He never did get better even though my mother spent months patiently nursing him. One evening, my dad slipped away. It was only ten days after my fifteenth birthday. At the time I didn't feel that much grief, but was proud that I was now the man of the house. I expected to work to keep my mother looked after.

  In the end, things didn't work out that way. My mother wrote to my father's brother Samuel. I didn’t even know that my uncle even existed since my father had never even mentioned his name. In the end, we ended up moving to Chicago to be with him. I can tell you it was a shock to move to such a big city. And it was something else seeing those high buildings that seemingly touched the sky. My uncle's house was located on a little cul-de-sac in Garfield Park. It was a small place since my uncle was a frugal bachelor. But still, it was well-appointed and had more than enough room for my mother and me. I really don’t know what prompted my uncle to help us, but perhaps it was because he was a good man at heart. He had never married and worked long hours as a supervisor at the Griffin Wheel Factory where they made parts for Pullman railroad cars. He was an important man there and had more than enough money to support us.

  At first my uncle Samuel seemed so stern and unapproachable, but then one day he took me with to his job. I never saw anything like it in my life. The casting of the metal was fascinating to watch as the iron forges poured out red-hot molten metal. Afterwards, the parts were cleaned and assembled. My uncle listened patiently to all of my questions and answered the best he could. He had a wealth of knowledge and seemed to know everything there was to know. My questions seemed to please him, and after that trip, he started to take an active interest in me. Not only did he see that I went to the best school in town, but I also had a private tutor to hone my math and science skills.

  I owe that man plenty, for he treated me like his own son and was kind to my mother too. By the time I graduated from high school, I had a small group of friends with similar interests in math and engineering. I felt at ease with myself and gladly took up the challenge of the University of Illinois. At nights I worked at the factory, checking wheel tolerances and learning the trade of mechanical engineering.

  I had little free time for myself. While my other friends were out dating, I was hitting the books and working all the hours I could. I didn't want to feel obligated to anyone, not even my uncle Samuel, so I decided then that I was going to be a self-made man.

  I graduated from the university in 1912 and was immediately given a promotion at the Griffin Wheel Factory. There I toiled at my drafting table with several other engineers. Not exciting work, but the pay was excellent. I continued to live with my uncle and mother until I could find more favorable living circumstances. Not that I minded living with them, but I felt it would be best to soon strike off on my own. I craved independence and admit I was looking for some type of adventure. I began missing the feeling of freedom I had had when I was a younger. The open fields and the hidden paths of the countryside called me like a siren.

  In late June of 1914, Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated by a Serbian nationalist named Gavrilo Princip. No one at the time would have guessed that his actions would lead to war. Little did we know that Europe was just a house of cards waiting for the slightest nudge to make it topple. Of course the Austrians protested and sent their impossible demands to the Serbs. Meanwhile, the Serbs had the support of Russia, while the Austrians were counting on the Germans to help them. The Germans had their own plans and by August decla
red war on France and Russia. As the Kaiser advanced his army towards Paris, they swept into neutral Belgium, forcing the British to join the side of the Allies.

  America mostly looked at these proceedings across the ocean with distaste. It didn’t make any sense to us, and the stories of German atrocities were scarcely believed. We wanted nothing to do with this war and anyways, the general feeling was it would be over soon enough. I read with interest the German march on Paris, and how they were stopped by the French and British armies. With the brave actions of Sir John French, the British Expeditionary forces stopped the German army cold and forced them to dig in for a protracted fight. My heart cried out for the British losses since I never lost my love for my adopted homeland. My mother was in tears when I read her the news stories from England, and she worried about the families she knew. My own hatred for the Kaiser and his warmongering generals grew and grew with each passing day. I began to obsess over the war and wanted to help to put an end to it all.

  Fall turned into winter, and there was still no end in sight. America went on its own way, and the people did their best to ignore the war over there. It made for good newspaper headlines but really had little impact on their daily lives. Sure, there were some shortages of imported goods, but in a country as rich as America this didn’t hurt anyone but the most affluent.

  I still remember a conversation that I had with my uncle where he explained his feelings on the war. We had been talking after supper and discussing the general European situation. I was heady with the need to help the British people, but he only made me angrier by shaking his head like he was lecturing a child.

  “America is a nation of immigrants,” he said. “We left Europe to rid ourselves of the wars that plagued that continent. Why should we intervene and help the British or the French? Or for that matter the Russian Czar?”

  “They’re fighting for freedom,” I said proudly. I could feel my temper rising even though I never had much reason to argue with my uncle before.

  “Freedom?” my uncle chuckled. “Britain and France have colonies all over the world, and they keep them rich by exploiting the less fortunate. The Russians are even worse with an economy built on slave labor. They are all fighting to keep themselves in power. The Germans would like to get their hands on those resources. Now you have to agree that is a foolish thing to be involved with.”

  I admit that my uncle was a bit of a socialist in his kinder moods. “But look at the atrocities the Germans have committed,” I replied testily.

  “Propaganda is a tool both sides use,” he said judiciously. “I’m sure the British have their own number of incidents they won’t bother reporting to their press. That is, if there is any freedom of the press left over there.”

  I knew it was no use arguing with my uncle any further, so I gave up at that point. Even the sinking of Lusitania did not budge him from his views on the war. But it certainly made up my mind. For some months I had grown dissatisfied with my boring job and was thinking of leaving Chicago to go and fight against the Germans. The drowning of those innocent victims on that helpless ship was the final straw. If I could join the British Army, then I would have the adventure I craved.

  I went ahead and made my plans in secret. The next day, after work, I went to the bank and withdrew the several hundred dollars I had saved over the years. The bank teller gave me an odd look, for I was well-known for depositing my substantial leftover earnings. After checking the train schedules, I then spent the night packing a small leather suitcase and writing a rather sentimental letter to my mother. I won’t go in the details of my message, except it really was written with the true love a son has for his mother. I had never been parted from her before and I feared she would be most upset by my leaving. But she was in good stead with my uncle, and she had no fears of the future. I wondered how my uncle would handle the news and thought he would probably wash his hands of me.

  Early the next morning, I left before anyone else was up. It was my habit to leave early for work, so I did not expect them to be suspicious of my absence. I knew I wouldn't be missed until that evening and by that time, I would be far away.

  As usual, the train station was busy with morning travelers. I bought a ticket for a sleeper car to New York City. It was more expensive to travel this way, but I wanted the privacy to fully appreciate my little adventure. I had plenty of money tucked away in my wallet, and I wanted to thoroughly enjoy myself. The train pulled out in time and I felt a rush of excitement as my journey started. At this point, I’ll admit I had some misgivings, but they were quickly overcome as I watched the scenery blur by as the train picked up speed. We went past the Indiana steel mills and were soon eating up the miles of Ohio. The May weather was beautiful, and the smell of spring was in the air. The new leaves were green, and it only added to the sensation of being free from all responsibility.

  I took my lunch and dinner in the dining car, watching my fellow travelers with great interest. It wasn't long before evening came, and I was lying in my bed listening to the rails underneath. I fell asleep to the gentle movement of the passenger cars swaying back and forth.

  I woke up to the sound of the porters calling out our upcoming destination and gathering luggage. New York was only an hour away. After excitedly changing my clothes, I greedily watched out the window as we drew into the city limits. I knew New York was a big place, but even I was surprised by the large number of people and buildings. The train chuffed into the station and stopped in a gush of steam. I gripped my leather suitcase and jumped down to the platform. Though I was used to city life, the amount of sheer humanity in Grand Central Station overwhelmed me at first.

  A man suddenly went sprawling against me. As I helped to pick him up, he apologized profusely. He was a rat-faced little man with suspicious eyes. He quickly tipped his dilapidated hat in thanks and disappeared into the teeming crowd.

  I shrugged it off, continued on and fought my way to the 42nd Street exit. It was teeming with people of all walks of life, and I managed to catch a cab to the Waldorf hotel. I was living high on the hog, but the experience of spending money so wantonly was quite enjoyable. I never had the inclination to spend so frivolously, and it felt good to enjoy the best things in life.

  When we reached the hotel, I stepped down from the taxi and the cabbie handed my suitcase over. I reached for my wallet to pay the fare and found it was missing. I had been robbed.

  At this point I didn’t show any panic, even though I could feel my heart beating hard against my chest. I still had some change in my pocket which was just enough to pay for my fare. I handed over the money to the cabbie and felt bad that I couldn’t give the poor fellow a decent tip. I knew right away that my wallet had been stolen at the Grand Central Station by that rat-faced man. Now it was clear that it had been no accident. I had been the victim of a professional pickpocket looking for easy pickings. I must have looked naïve enough for him to take the chance. There was no reason to summon the police, since by now I couldn’t even clearly remember the thief’s face. Even if the police investigated, it would be a long time before I would see that money again. There I was, stranded in New York City, with not even enough money for a flophouse.

  I had been planning that afternoon to go down to the passenger ship offices in order to book a second class cabin to England. I could have waited a few days for the ship to leave, spending my time taking in the sights of New York City. Now I had to think fast and find another way overseas. I was too proud to wire my uncle for help, so instead, I started heading towards the direction of the waterfront. Perhaps I could steal aboard a ship or find work on a steamer.

  After asking for directions, I took a long walk towards the offices of several shipping lines. I found a city teeming with different languages and men of the sort I had never seen before. Chicago was large, but I had to admit it did not approach the majesty of New York City. I only wished I had more time for se
eing it before I made my journey across the ocean.

  I found the White Star Lines and checked the schedules posted outside. I found that a ship called the HMS Adriatic was leaving that very night for a seven day trip to Liverpool. After noting down the wharf it was berthed at, I started towards the docks. It was some time and a few wrong turns before I finally made it to the wharf. The sea had a distinctly fishy smell, not at all what I expected from my readings as a boy. I wrinkled my nose as I looked down the line of docked ships.

  Still carrying my suitcase, which seemed heavier than when I left the train station, I found the Adriatic. She was a big two funnel ship – much bigger than I expected. There was a flurry of activity around it. Luggage was being loaded, and there was a line of passengers moving up the gangplank where their tickets were being checked. A separate gangplank was being used by the crew, and some sailor was guarding the entrance against possible stowaways. I couldn’t see any way on the ship unless I could bluff my way through the lines of passengers. Surely visitors would be on board to say their last goodbyes.

  I wandered up and down the dock, looking for any other way to gain access into the ship. I stopped and considered climbing up the mooring lines, but feared I had neither the strength nor the courage to do so. Anyways, I could have been spotted and that would be the end of that. I decided then to walk straight on board and take a chance I wouldn't be questioned due to my fine clothes. It was an odd shot, but at this point I couldn’t think of any other way onboard.

  Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the man standing next to me until he tugged on my sleeve. I took a step back in surprise and saw an older gentleman who had a stoop. He wore a grimy coverall and a grease-stained flat cap popular with the working class. His hands were well-worn with work and blackened with coal dust. He said something to me, but I couldn’t make out it what it was.

  He saw my confusion and slowly repeated the words again, “She’s a fine ship,” was what I finally heard. Mind you, I’ve only heard my mother’s cultured British accent, and back then I couldn’t easily recognize the distortions of the Cockney.

  “Yes, she is,” I commented amiably enough. I continued staring at the ship wistfully.

  “Do you have friends on board or are you waiting for someone?” As he spoke, his words slowly became more understandable and I didn't need to strain my ears as much. His accent had a pleasant rolling lilt that I found enjoyable to listen to - little did I know the wide variety of accents I was about to encounter in the future.

  I said cautiously, “I’m looking for a way to get to England so I can join the army over there, but I’m afraid my money was stolen when I got here to New York.”

  “Stolen?” he asked kindly. “Well, you are dressed like a gentleman if I do say so myself. Why don't you head on over to the bank and get some more money?”

  I shook my head. “I'm not that much of a gentleman. I'm a stranger here and don't expect my uncle back in Chicago would like to know where I am going.”

  “Ah, I see – you’re a runaway. I did the same thing myself when I was a boy. But I was a wee younger than you are. Tell me, can you do some hard work?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “You see, I’m on the stoking crew of the Adriatic. I must admit that I'm getting on in years. This is supposed to be my last trip across. I can’t do the work I once did, but if you help me out, I’ll get you onboard.”

  This was definitely a stroke of luck. I asked cautiously, “If I could inquire, what exactly are your duties?”

  “I shovel coal,” he said proudly. “And then I shovel some more until they tell me to stop shoveling. We have to keep boilers going to keep the steam up if the ship wants to go anywhere.”

  I was familiar with the operation of steam since we used various steam-powered machines at our shop to lathe and turn the wheels as they were being manufactured. We used an enormous amount of coal to keep the boilers going. I’ve watched the men laboring to keep the furnaces going. It was grueling work, and only the most unskilled were put into that job. “It’s hard work,” I said uneasily.

  “Aye, it is at that. But at least it is honest work. Anyways, it will build you up for the army.”

  I hesitated only a moment before saying, “I’ll take your offer. My name is William Grant.” I offered my hand.

  He reached out a calloused hand and we shook. “My name is Isaac Mills,” he said with a grin. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Now we must hurry and get on board before we are left behind.”

  With those words, Isaac hurried up the crew's gangplank with me in tow and nodded to the man standing guard. The man was a big burly brute, but he merely stared at me before letting us pass. My new friend then led me to an iron wrought stairway which we took down. We descended further into the deeper levels of the ship, each step echoing against the metal walls. After an interminable distance, we arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

  We walked awhile longer on a suspended catwalk, my head ducking past a maze of pipes. I was in the bowels of the ship, and the hum of the engines was growing louder with each step. The great boilers that ran the propellers loomed ahead – they were massive. I could only whistle in appreciation as I looked up at them through the dim carbon lights.

  “She's a good ship,” Isaac said proudly. “She can do up to eighteen knots if we put our back into it.”

  I didn't know enough about ships to comment intelligently so I merely nodded. “Is it safe to be down here?” I asked. I was feeling claustrophobic with the iron weight of the ship above me. If this ship was to sink, this was clearly the most dangerous place to be. How much time did the stokers in the Lusitania have to get to the top? It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  He laughed and said, “You’ll get used to the feeling soon enough.”

  We went past the boilers and I could hear the scrape of the shovel against iron. A knot of men were laboring in front of the open furnace door, shoveling in masses of coal. Coal was piled up everywhere on the bottom of the deck. I watched them work until the mighty door of the furnace shut with a clang. I wondered again what kind of situation I had gotten myself into.

  “Hello gents,” Isaac called out to his fellow workers.

  When they saw me, they came over. Their faces were streaked black with coal, and in the gloom I could barely make out their features. They looked much like devils working over the furnaces of hell.

  “This here is William,” my friend said, pointing at me. “He needs some help.”

  “Hello everyone,” I mumbled. Toothy smiles flashed through their soot-stained faces. I shook hands with everyone and cringed at the thought of the future of the fine clothes I was wearing. This was going to be some dirty work.

  “This Yank wants to go and fight the Hun,” Isaac added. This brought some further words of encouragement from the assembled men. They now seemed quite keen to help me out.

  “Now, son,” one of the men warned, “Keep your head down and don’t pay attention to anyone. The lieutenant in charge here wouldn’t recognize any of us in broad daylight, so I’m sure he will just ignore you if you stay quiet enough.”

  “I can handle that,” I replied since at this point I had nothing to lose. A shovel was then placed into my hands, and I took off my jacket to help with the shoveling. It was harder work than I imagined. The men sang some songs to pass the time. At that time I couldn’t figure out the unfamiliar words, so I just hummed along as I scooped coal into the open furnaces. Isaac stood to the side without working and offered me words of encouragement. He soon told me the ship was about to make steam and leave the confines of the harbor.

  Suddenly, I could feel movement under my feet. Within a few minutes, the ship began to sway and roll violently. Even living in Chicago near Lake Michigan, I admit I have had little experience with boats. While I fought to keep my footing, I noticed the other workers glancing towards me with a keen interest. Fighting
the urge to sit down and rest, I kept on working even though I felt sick to my stomach. As long as I kept concentrating at the task at hand, I could keep my last meal down.

  “How are you feeling?” Isaac asked as he slapped me hard on the back. My stomach gurgled uncomfortably. My last meal seemed like a long time ago, but something was bound to come up if the rolling of the ship did not cease.

  “Fine,” I gulped. “Tell me, does the ship always move in such a fashion?”

  He laughed and said, “I can tell you haven’t been to sea before. We’ve just left the safety of the harbor and entered into the sea proper. Honestly, this is nothing yet. I’ve been in some serious blows where all you can do is hold on to the deck and pray you will live to see the next day.”

  “I see,” I said weakly and continued shoveling at the coal in front of me one careful scoop at a time.

  “It’s about suppertime,” he added.

  My stomach churned violently at the idea of eating. “I’m really not hungry right now,” I said weakly.

  “Aye, you do look a little green,” he admitted. “That’s too bad. I was about to have the cook fry up some nice eggs and bacon.”

  The thought of greasy food was enough to make me drop on my knees, deep in nausea. Before I knew it, I was suddenly vomiting on the floor. I could hear the laughter of the men. This was their idea of a joke and before I grew angry, I checked myself. I needed to stay on board for only a few more days and there was no reason to make enemies out of these humble men. So I blurted out between heaves, “Tell the cook that I won’t require his services as I have no need to eat right now.”

  They laughed at my response.

  Isaac helped me up after my heaving ceased. “I’m afraid we like to have our little jokes,” he said kindly. “Don't take it too personally.”

  “It always happens with the new man,” I said weakly. My mouth was sour with the taste of vomit and the deck continued to spin dizzily around me.

  “Now, Mr. Grant, I’m afraid you will have to get some rest and get over this sea-sickness.” He walked me over to their sleeping quarters which seemed a long ways away. He then set me down on a moldy cot that was covered with a rough wool blanket. A nearby bucket rested on the ground and it looked like a good place to rest my head for now.

  I heard him say, “All new sailors get a little seasick. You’ll get over it soon.”

  I’m afraid that any of his further words were lost in a new torrent of vomiting. As he left, I decided I was really was ill. I rested uneasily as the ground swayed up and down. This was hardly the position I expected myself to be in and I reflected deeply on my own state of misery. At this point the thrill of the adventure was beginning to lose its sheen. I don’t remember how many hours passed, but the clatter of footsteps past the sleeping quarters reminded me that men were still at work. Eventually I had the strength to pull myself up on the cot and fall into a fitful sleep.

  In what seemed like a minute, hands shook me awake. I wiped at my encrusted eyes. Looking at Isaac standing above me, it took me a moment to realize where I was. “How long have I been asleep?” I grunted.

  “All night,” he answered back kindly. “I have some beef broth and water for you.”

  “Food doesn’t seem particularly inviting right now,” I admitted.

  “The wind has died down a bit, and it has been smoother going. You may want to try some food if you are to be feeling any better.”

  The motion of the ship had lessened. Swinging my legs down to the floor, my stomach didn’t feel quite so shaky. The smell of the broth was good, so I reached out and took a tentative sip. It stayed down, so I took another. I realized I was thirsty so I took the tin cup from his hand and tried some water. It was cold and felt good against my ravaged throat.

  “You are looking better,” Isaac said as he watched me finish the broth. “Definitely a bit of color has returned to your cheeks.”

  Perhaps I did feel a bit better, but I was still awfully weak. “I'm not sure I can take your place at the furnace today,” I said cautiously.

  “That's alright, William. But I expect you will be better by tomorrow. I remember the first day I went out to sea. I was just a farm lad and had swum in nothing but a river before. Once the boat left port, I was just as sick as you are – maybe even a little sicker. The men on board found it amusing to see a landlubber losing his lunch. I suppose us old sailors are all the same in the end.”

  I gave him a weak smile and said, “I haven't been in anything bigger than a rowboat before. And that was just in Lake Michigan. I never knew how much the ocean tosses these boats about. At least it was never mentioned in the books I read.”

  “You'll learn that there is a big difference between real life and anything you read in those books of yours.”

  With those words he left me to attend to his duties. I felt bad letting him take my place at work, but I felt too weak to do anything else. The day went slowly as I had nothing to occupy my time but my own thoughts. I admit I thought of my poor mother and how my uncle must feel betrayed by my actions. But it was too late to do anything about it right now. Perhaps once I reached Liverpool, I would send them a telegram to tell them that I was safe.

  By that evening I felt good enough to stand and tend to my own needs. I didn't eat in the mess for fear of being discovered by an officer. Instead, I stayed by the furnaces and talked to the men as they worked over the relentless fires. It was a good time spent since I began to clearly pick up on their different dialects. They were good fellows, each with a story to tell how they entered into the merchant navy. Many of them were too old to fight in the trenches or thought it was safer to take the chance with the German submarines prowling the Atlantic.

  I broached the sinking of the Lusitania with them and one of them spat on the ground. He said, “That ship wasn't carrying no arms. That's German propaganda that is.”

  “But how could one torpedo sink an entire ship so quickly?” I asked. For the papers were full of stories of secret arm shipments being made by the British. I didn't know what to believe.

  “Those Huns have secret weapons,” the man said harshly. “We had better hope to God that we don't get hit with one of those special torpedoes.” The other men around him mumbled in agreement before going back to their tasks.

  I went to bed that night and woke feeling rested. By this time the movement of the ship didn't bother me in the slightest, and I was able to walk without feeling dizzy. I took my place near the furnace and spent the day shoveling coal. In the gloom, the few officers that came by ignored me and I was able to go through the day unnoticed. When I took a break and checked myself in the mirror, I found the reason why. I was covered in coal dust from head to foot. I don't think my own family would have recognized me.

  We went on this way for four more days and I grew used to the scheduled life of the sailor. My muscles no longer ached, and I found the work easy enough, if not a little boring. That evening, I was getting off my shift and was looking forward to a good supper before turning in. I had all but forgotten of the war until alarm bells began to ring throughout our deck.

  “What is it?” I asked the man nearest to me.

  He shrugged and said, “Someone must have spotted a periscope. People been a little edgy since the Lusitania went down.”

  Isaac was near. He tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Let’s go topside and see what’s going on.”

  We ran up the stairs to the crew deck on top. The sudden glare of sunlight burned my eyes and it took a few moments before I could even see the ocean around us. It was a beautiful view with the sun hanging low on the sea-swept horizon. A group of passengers on the deck below were huddled together, pointing off in the distance towards the setting sun. I couldn’t see what the passengers were looking at, but the captain must have taken the threat seriously since the ship began to zigzag back and forth across the waves.

  “I wish I had
a telescope,” Isaac groaned as he shielded his eyes. “I can’t see a damned thing out there.”

  “Do you think we’re in any danger?” I asked. I continued to scan the horizon. The sun was blinding and would provide excellent cover for a submarine on the hunt.

  “Nah, more than likely just some jumpy crew seeing a whale.”

  “It’s happened before,” one of the crewmen next to me muttered.

  “What’s that there?” I asked pointing out to sea. I had caught the glimpse of a white wake coming towards us.

  “It’s a torpedo!” someone shouted.

  Everyone watched silently as the torpedo grew closer. I held my breath as it sped past the stern of the boat. We breathed a collective sigh of relief until a binocular-wielding officer yelled, “Tell the bridge hard to port. Here comes another one!”

  The order was relayed across the ship and it swung hard to left. My eye caught the trail of the torpedo as it crossed where the prow would have been if we hadn’t turned. I looked down at my hands and they were white with fear from the pressure of holding on to the railing. It was one thing to meet your opponent face-to-face and another thing to be a target for an unseen enemy. I would have done anything to have a rifle or cannon to shoot back with, but the White Star Lines had decided that submarines wouldn’t prey on defenseless passenger ships. I would have like to take that damned company president of theirs and put him on this ship and ask him how it felt to be the target.

  An officer above shouted at us, “Get back to work everyone. We need all the steam we can muster.”

  So Isaac and I hastily returned to the furnaces and began shoveling coal. I don’t think I ever worked so hard or those fires were ever stoked so hot. Any extra distance we could get between us and the slower moving submarine would be a godsend.