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U. S. NAVAL INSTITUTE, ANNAPOLIS, MD.

PLANTING A WAR GARDEN

By CAPTAIN W. T. CLUVERIUS, U. S. Navy

"Ready for getting underway, sir."

Cold, raining, blowing. To meet all three conditions the captain was encased in overcoat, oilskins, and a windproof suit. "Heave round," he said, as he reached the bridge.

"A bit wetter if anything," casually remarked the commander, "and this chilly breeze means more snow on Ben Wyvis." "Cheer up," replied the captain, "it's another day."

Since June the sun had been seen all day on two occasions and the wind had never stopped its noise in Cromarty Firth from the time the Yankee Mining Squadron had arrived in Scotch waters. Half the force made port at Invergordon. Here are a naval dockyard and a town grown from 600 to 6000 during the war. Further up the firth, at the base, a thousand enlisted men assembled the "pills of perdition." Anchored below the dockyard, at a respectable distance, are the planters, loaded with 3000 mines and awaiting the word.

Dark at 3.30 in the afternoon and morning colors at 9-so they can be seen-there are still several hours of darkness remaining as the ships, without light or signal, heave up and stand out according to plan, as the Hun says. Time was in the summer when we could read flag signals all night long and it was mighty hard to get our men quiet on those sunshiny nights. There was no watch below. We are content now if we pick up the beacons on the ill-fated Natal sunk in the harbor in 1916, and point fair for the gates in the boom defences.

Cromarty Firth is well protected with three nets stretched between the Sutors. On either side, these mountainous cliffs,

pierced with guns, tower above the narrow channel through which we steam in single column. Behind us is a screeching of gate-tenders' whistles as the gates are closed and we head for the rendezvous at the sea buoy. From the southward, proceeding out of Inverness Firth, loom the dark shapes of the other ships of the force, with the squadron flagship San Francisco in the lead.

Inverness is the Highland capital. Here at the mouth of the Caledonian Canal our men, as at the other base, assembled mines for the ships at the Beauly Basin and Munlochy anchorages near the city. Here also the commander of the mine force has headquarters, with the Black Hawk as his flagship. These two bases, leased by the British Admiralty, are operated wholly by our men, and the Stars and Stripes flies over our admiral's office. The mines reach the bases by rail and canal from a fleet of carriers which discharge at the west coast ports of Kyle and Corpach. Here they are assembled, adjusted, tested, and delivered to the planters in lighters.

In the dead of night, then, the rendezvous is made at the Whistler, where already a flotilla of British destroyers is silently waiting for us-black blotches on a blacker landscape. Double column is taken by the planters, 400 yards interval and distance. To the right are the San Francisco, Roanoke, Housatonic, Aroostook, and Quinnebaug; to the left are the Shawmut, Saranac, Canandaigua, Canonicus, and Baltimore. Ahead is the leader of the escort, the Vampire, and disposed close aboard on the flanks are the destroyers of the flotilla. We follow the swept channel courses northward through Moray Firth and no signals needed until the 10-fathom curve is reached. A blinker tube flashes a beam; we slow to one-third speed for a few moments, "out paravanes," then resume speed.

We who exist to sow mines guard ourselves most scrupulously against reaping mines others have sown. We never move without our "fish" dashing along beside us and often against us and sometimes under us in a mad chase after each other. But they do give one a feeling of security, especially through areas the Hun is known to have mined. They work, too. One mine, with our cargo-pouff!

Daylight is upon us now and the rain stops, but the dropping wind means fog. Give us rain, give us wind, we beg for dark

ness. Fog, the world over, in peace and war, is the same unwelcomed guest.

Over goes the position buoy, towed astern, and on it the searchlight, and the dismal hooting of the whistles of the column leaders begins. Lucky leaders, with nothing to watch! The noise of the sirens of the destroyers, which have no whistles, is disconcerting. The Hun is forgotten. The fog is the enemy closer at hand now and far more enterprising.

Backing and filling, the following ships keep their places blindly. Paravanes have been known to come around the bows and try to catch the position buoy of the next ahead. They are exasperating at times.

Breakfast: a cup of cool coffee and some soggy toast, that's breakfast on the bridge instead of Oh! well, a hundred people would jump at your job in an instant. Besides, we have an axiom in the mine force which should be stimulating enough, it is this: "Stick to your job and go up with it."

At noon, a swirl of water under the bow tells us that Pentland Firth is near at hand, and in the lifting fog the Skerries' twin lighthouses stand out white and clear cut. Behind them is Scapa Flow into which the German fleet steamed one day with never a shot fired and the gates closed behind it-interned.

On we steam past Copinsay and turn into Stronsay Firth through the heart of the Orkneys. In the early stages of our work we used to go eastward from Copinsay and were soon busy mining. Later we had closed ourselves out, along with the Hun, and had to go west into the Atlantic and come into the North Sea again between the Shetlands and the Orkneys in order to continue operations on the northern boundary of the barrage.

This fine morning as we gayly turn into Stronsay waters, suddenly "bang," and a green flag flutters from the leader's yard

arm.

"Submarine sighted to port!"

"Battle stations; close up; smoke screen "-from the San Francisco.

The escort leader dashes ahead at 35 knots, firing as he goes. The left flank destroyers let go depth charges, and you cannot see the planters for smoke. This is no place for the TNT Squadron. Mr. Hun dashes across the San Francisco's bow to starboard and the right flank destroyers pepper his trail with the

bombs. He dives, and in a moment disappears in the deep, windswept water. The escort is recalled, it never leaves us for long. There may have been excitement for 15 minutes, but it was certainly submerged in dark disappointment when that "sub" escaped.

On between bleak, forbidding shores with never a tree in sight, we reach Westray Firth just in time to be caught in a windward tide. In a moment there is commotion. Out of a clear sky and with but little wind, planters and destroyers are picked up by uncrested seas, tossed about on top for a moment, and then dashed broadside into the trough-and the planters are 5000- and 6000-ton ships. It is simply a series of tidal waves in which the waters of the Atlantic Ocean rushing through these narrow channels among the islands encounter the winds of the North Sea which resent such intrusion-and there is rough-house for fair.

Sea after sea calmly rolls aboard forward and sweeps aft before you can say Oh! or close a hatch. Our beautiful formation has now the appearance of a set of lead soldiers thrown hastily back into their box. It is go as you please to keep clear. The destroyers suffer cruelly, but they rise gamely after each eclipse, with seas streaming from their decks, and plunge along with us. In an hour we are through it and we know the moment the Atlantic gets us. We make certain of the security of the mines on the tracks as we labor around Noup Head, which frowns high above us, covered with mist and spray. Our gyroscopic compasses cannot stand that racket, they always go out at Noup Head. It is a dour spot at best.

Midnight, and Fair Isle, the guiding star for friend and foe, comes into sight and leads us back into the North Sea. As we square away for the mining point, over goes the taut wire from the rear ships.

Taut wire navigation is a great institution. Each ship has a machine carrying a dial and a renewable spool wound with 120 miles of piano wire. Tie the end of the wire to a grate bar, over it goes, and there you are. A mile's a mile and no question about it. When we first heard of this style of navigating one man said it would be too much trouble to reel up the wire again. Another thought it would simplify matters a great deal. “Tie one

end to the pier as you go out and you are bound to get back, fog or no fog," he said.

Standing eastward for 50 miles we sight the Primrose-a British war-type of auxiliary built to do anything-standing by her marker buoy. To the northward on the smoky horizon is cruising the screen, a squadron of battleships and another of light cruisers attached to the Grand Fleet. Sometimes our own Sixth Battle Squadron supported us while we worked, and the sight of their cage-masts was cheery and most homelike. To the south of us is the barrage. It finally stretched across the North Sea, 200 miles and more between the Orkneys and the southern Norwegian coast. Thirty miles wide is this barrier, destined to trap the "sub" at any depth and to discourage any attempts of the High Seas Fleet or the Hun raiders to get to sea.

The barrage is made up of several systems of mine fields, each averaging 2000 yards in width, extending east and west across the area. Each planting of our force meant 55 miles of a system in five continuous fences, or lines of mines, laid at different levels. This is the way it is done:

In column, the planters round the Primrose, who picks up her buoy and away she goes to the northward with the escort-that is our safe side just now. "Ships right 90" into mining formation. A single flag from the San Francisco and a "PLANT" flashed on the bridge telegraph and the planting begins.

Steaming in line abreast 10 big ships disgorge a mine every 15 seconds, breaking joints with each other so as to leave no holes. Some of the planters have three deck-loads of mines and others two. This means elevators to the launching deck. Two of the ships have only one mine deck with mines on four tracks. The installations are similar. The mine cases are secured to their anchors which are fitted with wheels. The mines complete, with final adjustments made, are moved aft along the tracks by traction winches to the traps and thence overboard by signal from the mine booth. The speed is regulated throughout; no noise, no orders. Signals flash along the tracks on the sentry indicators. The mining crews work as gun's crews, like clockwork. Nothing simpler, as down the line of planters is seen the steady splash, splash, astern. The speed is usually 12 knots, though satisfactory planting has been done by the faster ships at 17 knots in a seaway. Woe betide a planter if she should stop while planting in that

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