UNDER THE FOLDS OF A HOME MADE FLAG
Tuscania Torpedoing Feb. 5th, 1918
By Arthur J. Siplon Sr.
The day was bitter cold. The wind was whipping up the sea, and the low hanging
clouds heralded another storm. It was late afternoon on the 5th day of February,
1918. We had just moved into the Irish Sea from the North, as part of a military
convoy. To the right was Ireland and to the left at some greater distance was
the rugged coast of Scotland. We were cheered with the thought of reaching land
the next day, to be released from the cramped quarters of transport life, an
experience new to most of the fledging soldiers aboard. Suddenly, from nowhere
at all, came a warning. It was on everyone's lips, repeated in exciting tones,
"Were going to be torpedoed." It came so sudden the effect was electrifying.
Thirteen days previous we moved aboard the S.S. Tuscania, in New York harbor. It
was an Anchor Line ship, of British registry, engaged in carrying U.S. troops
overseas, in the opening months of the 1st World War. I was a member of the
100th Aero Squadron, Aviation Section of the Signal Corps. We had not yet become
the U.S. Air Force. We were part of a contingent of 2300 troops assigned to make
this voyage.
From New York we sailed past the Statue of Liberty, on our way to Halifax, Nova
Scotia. This city gave us our first vision of wars destructiveness. Shortly
before our arrival an ammunition ship collided with another craft in the harbor,
causing a terrific explosion, wiping out the major portion of the city.
Here we formed a convoy of twelve ships, with a naval craft assigned to take the
lead. The position of our ship was in the center of a triangular formation with
the S.S. Baltic just ahead of us, reported to be carrying 600 U.S. Army nurses.
Our trip overseas was a rough one, following a zig-zag coarse most of the time,
in an effort to escape prowling submarines.
It was shortly before the hour of six in the evening. The darkness of night was
fastly capturing the lingering light of the dying afternoon. Life on the ship
followed the regular routine, but an air of apprehensiveness seemed to grip
everyone, with the coming of the warning - then it came - a tremendous crash on
the starboard side. The cry went up suddenly from hundreds of excited lips,
"We've been torpedoed."
We followed instructions previously taught us at lifeboat drills. We moved to
our assigned positions with little loss of time. Here we found all was not well.
The ship's crew failed to display proper training in the handling of the
lifeboats and gear. In addition the ship immediately listed to the starboard,
thus making it difficult to release life craft on the port side. Men attempting
to take boats down were spilled into the chilling water like cubes out of a dice
box. This was caused by line's getting fouled, then some excited person would
cut it loose with an axe with disastrous results. One lifeboat was chopped loose
at both ends, and dropped on top of a loaded one already in the water, unable to
shove away from the hull. A number of British destroyers were present that had
joined our convoy three days before. They moved in to take off passengers. As
one drew near the bow its stern was about amidship of the Tuscania. Some of the
men thrown in the water from tumbling lifeboats were caught in the propeller
wash, while others were lost between the two ships. Sights of death and
drowning, of those jumping overboard was witnessed by many who remain calm, and
at their stations.
Many acts of heroism were observed as the minutes and hours moved by. While
there was some confusion, panic was pretty well kept under control, thus holding
down the death toll considerably.
Remaining in my place, I soon became aware of the fact that I did not have my
life preserver with me. A search about the deck failed to uncover any spare
ones, so I decided to get my own, under my bunk, a number of decks below. The
trip down was made without mishap, for there were still lights on, but they were
dim and flickering. As I was about to return above, they went out, leaving me in
the dark. I felt my way about and reached an upper companion way. I was still
feeling my way along when the lights came on again, though dimmer than before.
As I looked about I saw that I was near the front of an office with a grilled
window in it. The window was open as though someone had just left in a hurry.
Lying on the desk in the office were stacks of money, as though preparing for a
payday. Glancing quickly at the money, I left in a hurry to regain my place with
the boat crew. When I arrived back, so of the boy's asked me where I had been. I
told them, and also related the information about the money. Two members of my
squadron, both rugged and Irish, wanted to learn more definitely about the
money. I gave them exact information. Shortly afterwards we were all separated.
Many were taken off by British destroyers and taken to Irish ports. I was not
among them. Upon our eventual assembly in Winchester, England inquiry was made
about all those who failed to appear. Each name was checked to learn if any of
the returned men had any knowledge about them. When it came to the names of my
two Irish friends, one man stepped out of line and reported the last time he saw
them, they were in a certain Irish city, and they were spending money like
"drunken sailors."
As the hour neared nine o'clock a cry went around the ship that it was "every
man for himself." It appeared that no more destroyers were coming a pal of mine
known as "Ragfoot" Smith, and some of the other boys wanted to go up on the deck
above, and try to lower a boat. No life boats had come down for quite some time.
After seeing what happened to some of the others, nobody wanted to take one
down. The list was so great to the starboard, that it appeared not to difficult
to swing one free there. This we did, and then came the hesitation to go down
with it, and keep the lines from fouling up. "Ragfoot" offered to go down in one
end, if I would go down with the other one. It was agreed, and we reached the
water without mishap. But no sooner did we hit the water, when the whole side
seemed to release the men who wanted to go with us. The lifeboat according to
our information was designed to carry 48 persons. By our reckoning, later in the
night we had at least 60 anxious passengers aboard. It appeared that this was
the last lifeboat to get away, and the last men to leave the ship. We found but
three oars within the boat with which to maneuver this unwieldy craft.
We had not much more than got free from the ship, by a couple of yards when a
cry went up from those who still had their eyes on the Tuscania. They screamed
"She's going down." Our mighty ship was leaving us. Just two and a half hours
ago it was steaming majestically towards Liverpool. Now it lowered it's wounded
stern, throwing its mighty bow into the air.
There it stood briefly, in stark silhouette against the stormy sky, then with a
muffled explosion the Tuscania slid below the waves. It left us with an eerie
and lonesome feeling.
It was a cold and stormy night into which we were cast. The bottom of the
lifeboat was quickly filled with water. There was a collapsible top, about a
foot high that could be forced up, this helped some. None of the men were
dressed to stand the cold or buffeting waves that broke over us. No one knew
where we were headed. While we could see some lights we had none to direct
would-be rescuers in our direction. Many men were saved by the searchers from
the British destroyers that went out in small boats, but ours was not seen by
them.
As the hours went by the intensity of the storm increased. We could not control
the boat, and it was caught sideways in the trough of the waves, and pitched
from crest to crest. Midnight came without relief, and one man who was ailing,
died of exposure. During the early hours of the morning, a cry went up, "a big
wave is approaching." We strained our eyes, and found off in the distance, land
could be dimly made out. Soon we could hear faintly the roar of the roll of
heavy surf. Shortly it became louder, sounding a threat of imminent disaster.
Still moving sideways in the trough of the waves we were suddenly caught with a
mighty heave and sent crashing into an immense rock. The lifeboat turned upside
down, spilling everyone into the angry sea. As I reached the surface, the boat
was bottom side up in front of me. I could hear men screaming and praying all
about me. With great effort I scrambled up on the bottom of the boat. My closest
pal, Wilbur Clark, of Jackson, Michigan, came up near me. He too, reached a
place on the boat, we were the only ones able to make it. But in just a brief
moment, a big wave drove us off into the sea again. It was then a matter of
being buffeted from rock to rock, washed in with the waves, and out with the
undertow. Just how long this pounding lasted there is no way to determine. When
it seemed that my last breath was reached, when the next one would be my final
one, I was struck forcibly in the chest. I grabbed with both hands. As the waves
went out I found I was on the point of a rock near shore. I gripped with all my
strength, and tried to recover my breath. As the next wave went out a dark
object was thrown up near me. It was another survivor, he was alive for I could
hear faintly him offering a prayer. He could hardly move, but I got him up,
placing him up on the rock near me. Though I was badly battered, two big cuts on
my head, my body bleeding in many places, my mind remained alert. Thinking that
the tide might rise, I placed the arms of the boy over the rock to hold him on,
and then scrambled on my hands and knees toward the solid wall of rock that
appeared to be the shore line. Crawling about I found a big crevice in the rock.
I moved into it and it rose above the water line. Back into it, there was a rock
shelf with a cave opening about three feet high. Upon returning to the boy, we
managed slowly and painfully to reach the cave together. Here we tried to find
some protection against the bitter cold. We snuggled up into each others arms
like a couple of cub bears in an effort to keep from freezing to death. When the
first streaks of daylight appeared, we saw a light moving in the distance. We
called out as loudly as we could and then the light started moving in our
direction. It finally arrived and proved to be a kindly Scotch farmer who lived
near by in the headlands. He said he thought something happed last night off his
rocky shore, and came down to look around. He told us that we were on the Island
of Islay, off the coast of Scotland, and had landed on the most rocky and most
dangerous part of the whole Scottish coast line.
As daylight arrived, a most terrible sight met our eyes. Many dead bodies were
found being washed about the sea. A number of men were badly injured with broken
arms and legs and other injuries. My close pal, Wilbur Clark, who shared a brief
moment with me on the upturned boat was among the lifeless forms that met our
gaze. "Ragfoot" Smith was also numbered with them.
This kind farmer took us to his home some distance away. All those who could
walk helped the injured. When we arrived there, his first act was to gather all
possible food and serve his unexpected guest. His wife made scones on an ancient
fireplace, fired with peat. With the scones she served hot invigorating tea
until her supply was completely exhausted.
Word was sent to Port Ellen, the nearest village seven miles away. It was to
this place we were taken. The injured were transported in horse drawn two wheel
carts, while those like myself, who could struggle along, walked the entire
distance. Upon a close check it was found that from our boat there were but six
men alive, the rest had perished on the rocks, in the pounding surf. We suffered
the greatest loss as far as was known of any boat that reached the shore. The
kindly folks of the village of Port Ellen proved to be angles of mercy. Many of
the mothers gave up the best clothing of their husbands and grown sons, some of
them being away to war.
There were two small hotels in the village, and they filled up their rooms with
survivors. In some rooms three men were placed if they could administer to their
own needs. Some men, however, did not survive that first night because of the
terrible exposure they suffered.
When an accurate check could be taken it was found that 132 men were alive,
though many badly injured, and 87 were dead. It was an overwhelming task to ask
this small village to assume funeral arrangements for such a large number. The
heavy hands of Death had brought them problems they were ill-prepared to meet.
They did not hesitate, every human effort possible was put forth by them to take
care of matters in an orderly fashion.
To properly honor these dead, who came so unexpectedly into their midst, they
created a new cemetery. On the rocky headland overlooking the sea, a final
resting place was prepared, a spot where the ocean air of Scotland would pass
over on a Westerly course toward home, where the Irish sea in its more placid
moments would lap ceaselessly at the foot rocks until the coming of Eternity.
While the preparations for the mass funeral went forward with heavy hearts, a
discovery was made, there was no American flag available for the services. It
didn't seem proper to bury a soldier so far from home without the comfort of the
flag, for which he gave his life.
The answer was not slow in coming. It came from the generous hearted mothers of
the village of Port Ellen. They would make a flag, with their own hands, just as
Betsy Ross had made the first one. They searched their homes and found the
necessary Red, white, and blue. They cut out the white stars and tenderly sewed
them on the field of blue.
The services were held, into a massive grave, the bodies of these American boys
were carefully lowered. Among them my close pal, Wilbur Clark, 18 years old, and
the honor student of his high school class.
Note: the flag that was mentioned now is part of the Smithsonian Collection in
Washington D.C.
