One of Ours
Book IV: The Voyage of the Anchises
Chapter II
It was midnight when the men had got their supper and began unrolling their
blankets to sleep on the floor of the long dock waiting-rooms,—which in other
days had been thronged by people who came to welcome home-coming friends, or to
bid them God-speed to foreign shores. Claude and some of his men had tried to
look about them; but there was little to be seen. The bow of a boat, painted in
distracting patterns of black and white, rose at one end of the shed, but the
water itself was not visible. Down in the cobble-paved street below they watched
for awhile the long line of drays and motor trucks that bumped all night into a
vast cavern lit by electricity, where crates and barrels and merchandise of all
kinds were piled, marked American Expeditionary Forces; cases of electrical
machinery from some factory in Ohio, parts of automobiles, gun-carriages,
bath-tubs, hospital supplies, bales of cotton, cases of canned food, grey metal
tanks full of chemical fluids. Claude went back to the waiting room, lay down
and fell asleep with the glare of an arc-light shining full in his face.
He was called at four in the morning and told where to report to
headquarters. Captain Maxey, stationed at a desk on one of the landings,
explained to his lieutenants that their company was to sail at eight o'clock on
the Anchises. It was an English boat, an old liner pulled off the Australian
trade, that could carry only twenty-five hundred men. The crew was English, but
part of the stores,—the meat and fresh fruit and vegetables,—were furnished by
the United States Government. The Captain had been over the boat during the
night, and didn't like it very well. He had expected to be scheduled for one of
the fine big Hamburg-American liners, with dining-rooms finished in rosewood,
and ventilation plants and cooling plants, and elevators running from top to
bottom like a New York office building. "However," he said, "we'll have to make
the best of it. They're using everything that's got a bottom now."
The company formed for roll-call at one end of the shed, with their packs and
rifles. Breakfast was served to them while they waited. After an hour's standing
on the concrete, they saw encouraging signs. Two gangplanks were lowered from
the vessel at the end of the slip, and up each of them began to stream a close
brown line of men in smart service caps. They recognized a company of Kansas
Infantry, and began to grumble because their own service caps hadn't yet been
given to them; they would have to sail in their old Stetsons. Soon they were
drawn into one of the brown lines that went continuously up the gangways, like
belting running over machinery. On the deck one steward directed the men down to
the hold, and another conducted the officers to their cabins. Claude was shown
to a four-berth state-room. One of his cabin mates, Lieutenant Fanning, of his
own company, was already there, putting his slender luggage in order. The
steward told them the officers were breakfasting in the dining saloon.
By seven o'clock all the troops were aboard, and the men were allowed on
deck. For the first time Claude saw the profile of New York City, rising thin
and gray against an opal-coloured morning sky. The day had come on hot and
misty. The sun, though it was now high, was a red ball, streaked across with
purple clouds. The tall buildings, of which he had heard so much, looked
unsubstantial and illusionary,—mere shadows of grey and pink and blue that
might dissolve with the mist and fade away in it. The boys were disappointed.
They were Western men, accustomed to the hard light of high altitudes, and they
wanted to see the city clearly; they couldn't make anything of these uneven
towers that rose dimly through the vapour. Everybody was asking questions. Which
of those pale giants was the Singer Building? Which the Woolworth? What was the
gold dome, dully glinting through the fog? Nobody knew. They agreed it was a
shame they could not have had a day in New York before they sailed away from it,
and that they would feel foolish in Paris when they had to admit they had never
so much as walked up Broadway. Tugs and ferry boats and coal barges were moving
up and down the oily river, all novel sights to the men. Over in the Canard and
French docks they saw the first examples of the "camouflage" they had heard so
much about; big vessels daubed over in crazy patterns that made the eyes ache,
some in black and white, some in soft rainbow colours.
A tug steamed up alongside and fastened. A few moments later a man appeared
on the bridge and began to talk to the captain. Young Fanning, who had stuck to
Claude's side, told him this was the pilot, and that his arrival meant they were
going to start. They could see the shiny instruments of a band assembling in the
bow.
"Let's get on the other side, near the rail if we can," said Fanning. "The
fellows are bunching up over here because they want to look at the Goddess of
Liberty as we go out. They don't even know this boat turns around the minute she
gets into the river. They think she's going over stern first!"
It was not easy to cross the deck; every inch was covered by a boot. The
whole superstructure was coated with brown uniforms; they clung to the boat
davits, the winches, the railings and ventilators, like bees in a swarm. Just as
the vessel was backing out, a breeze sprang up and cleared the air. Blue sky
broke overhead, and the pale silhouette of buildings on the long island grew
sharp and hard. Windows flashed flame-coloured in their grey sides, the gold and
bronze tops of towers began to gleam where the sunlight struggled through. The
transport was sliding down toward the point, and to the left the eye caught the
silver cobweb of bridges, seen confusingly against each other.
"There she is!" "Hello, old girl!" "Good-bye, sweetheart!"
The swarm surged to starboard. They shouted and gesticulated to the image
they were all looking for,—so much nearer than they had expected to see her,
clad in green folds, with the mist streaming up like smoke behind. For nearly
every one of those twenty-five hundred boys, as for Claude, it was their first
glimpse of the Bartholdi statue. Though she was such a definite image in their
minds, they had not imagined her in her setting of sea and sky, with the
shipping of the world coming and going at her feet, and the moving cloud masses
behind her. Post-card pictures had given them no idea of the energy of her large
gesture, or how her heaviness becomes light among the vapourish elements.
"France gave her to us," they kept saying, as they saluted her. Before Claude
had got over his first thrill, the Kansas band in the bow began playing "Over
There." Two thousand voices took it up, booming out over the water the gay,
indomitable resolution of that jaunty air.
A Staten Island ferry-boat passed close under the bow of the transport. The
passengers were office-going people, on their way to work, and when they looked
up and saw these hundreds of faces, all young, all bronzed and grinning, they
began to shout and wave their handkerchiefs. One of the passengers was an old
clergyman, a famous speaker in his day, now retired, who went over to the City
every morning to write editorials for a church paper. He closed the book he was
reading, stood by the rail, and taking off his hat began solemnly to quote from
a poet who in his time was still popular. "Sail on," he quavered,
"Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State, Humanity, with all its fears, With all
its hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate."
As the troop ship glided down the sea lane, the old man still watched it from
the turtle-back. That howling swarm of brown arms and hats and faces looked like
nothing, but a crowd of American boys going to a football game somewhere. But
the scene was ageless; youths were sailing away to die for an idea, a sentiment,
for the mere sound of a phrase . . . and on their departure they were making
vows to a bronze image in the sea.