"Down We Go"

One member of what a New York Times headline described as a POLYGLOT LOAD which reached Manhattan on the Holland-America liner Pennland last week was a certain Miss Joy Allen Duncan, 19, tall, hazel-eyed Virginian, chatty as a debutante about one of the most harrowing civilian experiences the war at sea has turned up.

One day, said Miss Duncan, she and a man named Douglas Miller were lunching together (Miss Duncan was traveling with her aunt) aboard the Norwegian freighter Ronda, standing up through the North Sea en route from Antwerp to Hoboken. Suddenly the ship "shuddered awfully." Glass tinkled, Miss Duncan remembered, and vases broke.

"It's precisely ten minutes of one," said Mr. Miller, eyeing his watch.

As the couple rushed out on deck, there were three muffled explosions. The ship, which had evidently struck a string of mines, began to nose down by the head.

"Decks are awash, down we go in precisely two minutes," said Mr. Miller, eyeing his watch.

There was no time to man boats. As the ship listed and Miss Duncan was swept against a cabin, all she could think about was the stories she had read of the suction of sinking ships.

"Down we went," she told reporters, "with Mr. Miller eyeing his watch. . . . I was in the suction. ... I kept going down, and it kept twisting me around and carrying me down. I fought hard. I am a good swimmer and I finally washed out of the suction. ... I had to have air, I just had to get air. . . ."

She made her way to the surface ("it was swell, that air"), grabbed a floating barrel, helped some men gather planks for a raft.

"Then along comes the carpenter whistling something in Norwegian. He was pulling hard in the tiny dinghy. That's the workboat the sailors use when they paint the ship. It usually holds six. In the end we had twenty. . . . The men had to lie on top of each other, and we had to bail all the time.

"That first night in that cold water was ghastly. I prayed hard for the first time in years (but not out loud) and I guess some of the men did, too."

Within a short time German planes circled the boat. "As each bomber swooped down on us, [the sailors] shook their fists and yelled what sounded like 'Flu, Flu, Flu.'* I laughed at them. . . . But it really was ghastly of those bombers to do that--it made those fine, strong, young Norwegian seamen feel so very helpless, against those with whom they have no war."

After 38 hours in the water five men clinging to the jury raft had to be dragged aboard the dinghy. On the third night of drifting without food or water, they sighted a ship. The first mate took out his bosun's whistle and "blew and blew and blew for some twenty minutes. It was that tiny whistle that made the Italian rescue ship [Provvidenza] change her course and head for us. They let down a rope ladder, but we all had to be helped to be dragged up. Whiskey and wine were given to the men. Auntie and I drank water. We refused food, we were that tired. So they let us go to sleep. Well, that's all."

That was all for Joy Allen Duncan and her Auntie, who, Joy neglected to say, lost her 13-year-old daughter in the sinking, but it was not all for many a skipper who must continue to dodge mines, many an unsung hero who must sow them, many an even braver man who must sweep them to make way for men o' war, transports, supply ships. Technique learned in the bitter school of 1914-18 is now in full play on both sides of World War II.

Standard anchored sea mine is 300 Ib. of TNT in a steel case about three feet in diameter, providing enough airspace to float it. The "uncontrolled" mine, which goes off at contact of any heavy object upon the "horns" (containing detonators) with which it is studded, is usually anchored by a sinker at such depth as will keep it invisible at low tide. U. S. mines used in World War I had 35-ft. antennae attached to their horns which greatly increased their contact range. For harbor defense, "controlled" mines are fitted with electrically charged detonators discharged by a key from shore, or capable of being switched off to render them harmless to friendly ships. The harbor at Southampton is now guarded by a curtain of mines which is drawn aside to let friendly ships enter.

When the last Armistice was flashed, a minesweeping force sped into the Dardanelles and in 24 hours removed 600 British and enemy mines, to let the fleet move in to Istanbul. At home, Britain's mine-sweeping fleet contained 17,000 ships, with Great Grimsby, the fishing port at the mouth of the Humber River, as their main base. Shallow-draft fishing boats, motor launches, even paddle steamers were pressed into service. In the first two months of that war, for every two mines swept up, one trawler was lost. By 1918, the rate was 80 mines swept per ship lost.

There are two main methods of minesweeping: 1) towing a serrated cable between two ships, which cuts mine cables or ropes when engaged, 2) a single ship towing two cables held away from its bow and deep in the water by "paravanes" (torpedo-shaped bodies with wings and pontoons and cutter). Method No. 2 is slower: the trawler travels an average of twelve knots and the path swept is only about 200 yards. Chief drawback of method No. 1 is breakage of the sweeper cable.

*Norwegian for airplane: flyvemaskin.

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