With destroyers ahead, astern, and on the beam, two hydroplanes circling and paralleling above, and a solitary observing balloon hovering over the Long Island shore, our ship and convoys stood boldly out to sea.
We were now in the war zone, easily within range of hidden mines and torpedoes, and, like the charger who scents the battle from afar, we thrilled and were glad with the thought of daring deeds before us.
The ship Chaplain was good Father McDonald, Captain United States Navy, one of the most beloved and notable figures of the war. Every evening at the sunset hour he would go to the bridge. The Commander of the Leviathan, Captain Bryan, together with his staff, would be there assembled; and, as the last rays of the sun sank beneath the waves, every soldier and sailor on board would stand rigidly at attention and offer prayer as Father McDonald would raise his hand in absolution and benediction.
How near God seemed in that vast, horizon-wide cathedral of the sea! Its vaulting dome more radiant than St. Peter's sculptured prayer; its altar, clothed with the lace of ocean foam; its pavement strewn with silvery sheen; its sanctuary light the candelabra of the stars. "I will lead thee into solitude and there I will speak to thy soul." God, Eternity, and Things Divine were here made real; and to each lonely boy wrapped in blanket on the dark cold deck, there came the message that:
"Far on the deep there are billows That never shall break on the beach; And I have had thoughts in the silence That never shall float into speech."
A town of 13,000 population, ashore, is one thing--at sea, it is something else! First of all the question of clothing, most young men back home are fastidious--here all must wear the life preserver style trimmed à la canteen, which means our canteen, filled with water ration, must be our inseparable companion--very much attached to us, as it were.
On shore, juvenile America spends his evenings downtown; here, he must remain at home--indoors, if you please, not even deck promenades being permitted. Again, to the average young man, the disposition of cigarette butts is of little concern--m'lady's best parlor centerpiece, polished floor or cherished urn usually preferred; woe betide the luckless Buddie who denies his poor dead fag decent burial in the ubiquitous spit kit! To throw butts, gum wrappers, matches or anything but glances overboard, clew to the vulture eye of the lurking submarine, was a positive court martial offense. It was beginning to be evident that Sherman was right!