The U.S.S. Beukelsdijk was a unit of the United States Naval Overseas Transportation Service from 1918 to 1919. Her naval career was as peculiar as her name was unusual. Her cruise is the story of the men who manned her. This story is a striking picture of a democracy’s unpreparedness.
In 1917 there was hardly a Naval Reserve worth mentioning. What existed was on paper. With the few funds available, an attempt was made to train reserve personnel in the summer of 1916. But a reserve force cannot be conjured overnight to successfully transport an expeditionary force of 2,000,000 men.
To officer the 1917 “One-Ocean Navy” was a problem. How was it done? After war was declared, yachtsmen became officers with a stroke of the pen, crops of “Ninety-Day Wonder” ensigns appeared, and fresh-water sailors went to sea for the first time in their lives.
The officers of the Beukelsdijk were no exception. They came from all walks of life. These men were tumbled into her, as others like them were put aboard similar ships. They responded nobly and, when the moment came, they utilized the best they had and exercised command.
The Beukelsdijk was one of the Holland- America Line ships taken over by the United States Government in accordance with President Wilson’s proclamation of March 20, 1918. This proclamation and the subsequent absorption of Dutch ships was the outstanding application of the Law of Angary in modern times.
On March 20, 1918, the Beukelsdijk was lying laden with a cargo of Pocahontas coal in the harbor of San Juan, Puerto Rico. She was a turret whaleback ship with seven double masts. Originally built at Birkenhead, England, to carry Swedish iron ore from Narvik, to England, she was of the following dimensions: length, 440 feet; beam, 62 feet; and of 6,801 gross register tons. She had a reputed speed of 10.5 knots—but, as far as is known, she never did better than 8 knots.
On March 21, 1918, the Beukelsdijk’s Dutch master, having been apprised by the Dutch consul of the pending change, was not altogether upset when the little old-fashioned launch of the U.S.S. Vixen chugged alongside. About 20 American bluejackets clambered aboard and formed on the Beukelsdijk’s whaleback. Behind an ensign and a pay clerk, they climbed the ship’s ladder and fell in again on the poop deck. There the ensign, in accordance with orders from the Secretary of the Navy and in compliance with the orders of Commander William Russell White, Senior Officer Present afloat, took charge of the ship in the name of the United States.
The Dutch flag was hauled down by a member of the Dutch crew and the United States ensign, jack, and commission pennant were hoisted by the Navy’s sailors. The Master, his officers, and the boarding party saluted both flags. The vessel was declared a duly commissioned ship of the United States Navy and the pay clerk, as executive officer, set the watch as the Dutch crew left the ship.
The new commanding officer of the Beukelsdijk was an ensign from the National Naval Volunteers, the precursor of the present U. S. Naval Reserve. A young New York lawyer, his hobby had been yachting on Long Island Sound. Barring a two weeks’ cruise in the summer of 1916 to Block Island on one of the battleships of the Atlantic Fleet, he had never been to sea. When the United States entered the war in 1917, he was mustered into service as an ensign of the National Naval Volunteers and assigned to the U.S.S. Vixen as a Watch and Division Officer. He had never before served as commanding officer of a commissioned vessel of the United States Navy. Fate had another surprise for him. Shortly he was to take his ship on a voyage approximating half the distance around the world.
The acting executive officer of the Beukelsdijk was a pay clerk in the regular Navy. His qualifications for this job and the additional duties of a watch officer had some foundation in fact. He was making the Navy his career and in one of the steps up the ladder he had been an executive officer’s yeoman. He had graduated from the Massachusetts State Nautical School. However, when he came aboard the Beukelsdijk, the chances were that he was more familiar with a Ship’s Service Audit than with the inside of a Bowditch.
Two quartermasters from the U. S. Naval Reserve, one a first-class and one a second-class petty officer, had been sent over from the Vixen. They had just passed examinations for the rank of temporary ensigns and were considered qualified as watch officers. The engineer was a chief water tender and was eligible for appointment to warrant rank.
When deeply laden and observed from afar, the Beukelsdijk had the silhouette of an oil tanker, but on closer approach her seven double masts and turret whaleback hull dispelled the illusion. If some U-boat commander saw her later when she was camouflaged, he must have questioned his eyesight. She looked like an overgrown steam shovel. Sturdily built, she was fit for any weather, but, aboard, the ordinary comforts of the day were missing. In the officers’ country, there was a bathroom with no other light than that admitted by a smal1 port. The bath tub was rusty and only sea water was available. The bathing procedure was to lather one’s self and then have one of the mess boys do the rinsing with a bucket of fresh water.
The officers’ cabins were small, with just enough space for two bunks, a wash- stand, and a small clothes closet. They were unbearable in the tropics. Sleep was almost impossible and was constantly interrupted by the swarms of rats that played hopscotch in and around the bunks. Black rats, gray rats, big rats, little rats —the whole run of the mine was on board.
The Beukelsdijk’s previous cargo had been grain and some of it had remained here and there in the crevices. These sources of food were soon exhausted by the hordes of rats. They had to forage and missed nothing. They ate soap, toothpaste, and even socks. Stowing this gear in the transoms every night made no difference to them. Any time that the transoms were not securely closed, the rats were there trying to get in.
For a while, the one bright spot on the ship was the wardroom, a veritable greenhouse. Potted plants, bulbs, and tropical plants made a cheerful little place of an otherwise drab and dreary room. As such, it was not to last long. The plants either died naturally or the rats ate them.
Shortly after her commissioning, a draft of bluejackets from the Vixen swelled the Beukelsdijk complement to a total of 51. All turned to with a will, as there was much to learn about the ship and a great deal of cleaning to do. It was obvious that she was not going to remain in port with a cargo of coal. While the opportunity presented itself, everyone took advantage of the time allowance.
On March 29, 1918, the Vixen received the following radiogram:
“From: opnav
To: vixen
IF PROVIDED WITH PROPER PERSONNEL AND IN OTHER RESPECTS READY FOR SEA DIRECT USS BEUKELSDIJK PROCEED TO BAHIA BRAZIL AND REPORT TO COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF, PACIFIC, USS PITTSBURGH, FOR FURTHER ORDERS. ACKNOWLEDGE. 15029.”
On the same day, a radio from Bunav advanced the Commanding Officer of the Beukelsdijk to the rank of lieutenant (junior grade); the two quartermasters were commissioned ensigns; and the chief water tender was given a warrant as machinist (T) U.S.N. With youth and gold braid, there was no doubt in the minds of the officers concerned that the ship was provided with proper personnel, and in all respects ready for sea.
Orders were received from the Vixen to get under way the next afternoon. Just before the Beukelsdijk sailed, a safe for the paymaster was swung aboard. For the first time in nine days he lost his troubled look. From then on, he was ready to stand all watches in comfort, for no longer did he have to cart his moneybag around.
Anyone who focused a long glass on the bridge of the Beukelsdijk, as she steamed out of San Juan Harbor, probably wondered where her officers were. The ship’s bridge, too, would have attracted attention—the pilot-house was just a small wooden box, large enough to shelter not so much the helmsman as the ship’s enormous steering wheel.
That the ship carried no wireless caused no comment—few ships were then so equipped. But as to the officers, they were probably the most nondescript- costumed officer personnel that ever took a Navy ship to sea. The commanding officer had no white uniforms, and he wouldn’t wear his blue uniform because of the heat. The pay clerk, the only one who had whites, refused to wear them. With youthful optimism he decided to save them to wear ashore when the ship reached South America. The newly commissioned ensigns and the warrant officer had no time to get uniforms before the ship sailed. But they had picked up a weird assortment of yachting caps. Yachting caps were de rigueur—they became the uniform of the day.
Thus the ship sailed, with one Bowditch, a Nautical Almanac, a signal book, a pair of parallel rulers, plenty of Dutch navigational charts, other Dutch nautical books —which no one could read—and no guns. However, the spirit was high and to all it was a serious but grand adventure.
The ship barely cleared San Juan Harbor, when she made the first of the many sudden stops that everybody sooner or later had to get accustomed to, nerve- wracking as they were. She stopped because of engine trouble—a hot high-pressure piston. After two hours, she resumed her first voyage as a naval unit. Throughout her career as a Navy ship, with many different sets of engineers, she made these mysterious pauses in her transit of the oceans.
Several days at sea had a remarkable effect on the crew. Misgivings about the craft went overboard and all hands philosophically accepted her shortcomings. Despite warning that enemy submarines were operating in the ship’s path, and that a sharp lookout was to be kept for the long overdue U.S.S. Cyclops—somewhat similar to the Beukelsdijk in build—no one accumulated gray hairs. In fact, the incongruity of the situation seemed to whet everyone’s ingenuity. Overnight the ship became heavily armed with guns, two forward and two aft—wooden ones, of course. If these did not fool the enemy, elaborate plans were made to trap and ambush any boarding party that might be sent aboard. These activities showed a useful state of mind and helped to relieve the monotony of the trip.
The course as laid out, to Bahia, cleared the South American coast line by several hundred miles. A wide berth had been given to Fernando Noronha and Rocas, islands off the Brazilian bulge of South America. The ship was so far out that it became a joke. Each morning at 4:00 a.m., the pay clerk, who stood the midwatch—in order that he would not have to furnish sandwiches and coffee to another midwatch stander—always reported to his relief, the captain, that as yet he had not been able to pick up the African coast line.
As she plodded along, the big, clumsy bow of the Beukelsdijk pushed the broad Atlantic before it. Going across the equator her engines again suddenly stopped. Under ordinary circumstances this would have been a gracious gesture to King Neptune and his scribe, Davy Jones. However, no Jolly Roger was at the foremast and those of the crew who were not tinkering with the engines were busily scanning the horizon for others less friendly than such royal visitors. None of the officers and crew worried whether they appeared to be recalcitrant pollywogs at his Majesty’s Court. What the enemy had in store for the ship as she floated helplessly on a flat sea was the immediate concern. After seven hours of work, the engines finally turned over. Her crew had become shellbacks of King Neptune’s Court in absentia.
On April 16, 1918, after 18 days at sea, Point San Antonio Light, Bahia, was abeam. As the Beukelsdijk stood in, the U.S.S. Raleigh was observed at anchor. Recognition signals were made, and a few minutes later an order came from her to anchor. It had been expected that she would assign the Beukelsdijk a berth. Considering that the Beukelsdijk was still quite a way out, the Raleigh’s action was mystifying. The mystery was solved when the Raleigh put her navigator on board to pilot the ship to the proper anchorage. The ship’s Dutch charts of the harbor were antiquated and had she continued in on courses taken from them, she would have grounded.
At liberty time that afternoon, everyone who rated it wanted to make the first boat—not unusual on any ship. The significance of the urge on the Beukelsdijk is appreciated only when it is realized that her running boats were two 8-oared cutters. She had no steamer or power boat, in fact, she never had them during her career in the Navy. When liberty call was sounded, sailors appeared on the quarterdeck like white rabbits out of a magician’s hat. It was first come, first over the side, provided the uniform passed the officer of the deck. For the privilege of getting ashore first, the 8 men at the head of the line not only rowed themselves ashore, but also carried the officers, chief petty officers, and the boat crew of the watch. At times this row ranged from a mile to 3 miles. Needless to say, the boat crew of the watch, in rowing back to the ship, never extended themselves. Those of the liberty party who failed to make the first trip resigned themselves to spending another hour on board.
The Raleigh was coaled, and after making some minor engine repairs the Beukelsdijk left Bahia for Rio de Janeiro, pursuant to orders received from Admiral Caperton, Commander in Chief of the U. S. Pacific Fleet. The trip was without incident, and the Beukelsdijk dropped anchor in the beautiful harbor of Rio on May 2. The balance of the coal was distributed to the U. S. Navy ships present. While the ship was alongside the U.S.S. Cincinnati, two 6-pdr. were brought aboard and set up. The Beukelsdijk now felt very formidable.
At Rio, the cargo of rats was discharged. Everyone was willingly inconvenienced by the fumigation. At this time a visitor came aboard and stayed. She was a mongrel dog, and answered to the name of “Lady.” “Lady” had been to sea. You could see that by the way she got around the decks and the way she behaved. It was a lucky day when “Lady” came aboard. More of her later.
Speculation ran riot as to what disposition would be made of the Beukelsdijk, now that she was empty. The speculation did not last long. Orders were received to proceed to Santos, Brazil, to take on a cargo of coffee. On June 4, the ship left Santos with 17,000,000 pounds of it. According to Captain Baker, (S. C.), U. S. Navy, who had made the purchase, this was the largest single shipment of coffee ever made up to that time.
On this departure, the Beukelsdijk’s crew went down to the sea with more d’aplomb. They had brought her down— well then, they could take her back. They were overconfident.
Shortly after a landfall and a departure had been made on Point Harrison Light, Barbados, the pay clerk, who was standing the midwatch, was awakened from his romantic reveries by the furious barking of “Lady.” The pay clerk, in no uncertain language, told the bos’n of the watch to go forward and dispose of her. Try as he might, the bos’n could neither put his hands on the dog nor quell her.
“Lady” got herself well out in the eyes of the ship, and with much wagging of the tail and intermittent whining, she continued her barking, occasionally turning her head to the bos’n, as if she had a message for him. After five minutes of this, perhaps the most astonished bos’n in the world leaped to his feet and sang out: “Land! Ho!”
The Beukelsdijk heeled sluggishly to starboard, and none too soon. She had almost become a part of the landscape at the foot of Mount Pelee on the island of Martinique. For breakfast, “Lady” received a bath and extra rations. Closer attention was thereafter given to the probable effects of trade winds and current sets.
After bunkering at St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, the voyage to New York continued. Coming up the South Atlantic coast line, several suspicious objects resembling periscopes were seen. Inasmuch as submarine warnings had been broadcast for the vicinity, it seemed that a perpetual general quarters condition existed until the ship arrived in New York on July 8. The erstwhile “youngster” officers now felt themselves to be a thoroughgoing competent lot, having sailed the Beukelsdijk safely on a voyage of over 12,000 miles. This exultation was short-lived, for on the morrow the “Old Man” and several officers were detached.
The ship entered dry dock for a thorough overhauling and general repairs. She came out with, among other things, two 4-inch guns, wireless, and her face lifted— at least that was the impression you got from her camouflage—no wrinkles, new lines, and freshly painted.
Where five officers had navigated her before, the ship now had 16 officers assigned to her. Whereas the original commanding officer was a Lieutenant (j.g.), his successor was a Lieutenant Commander—and this “two-and-a-half striper” was a story in himself.
He was 6 feet 4 inches in height and weighed close to 240 pounds. He had a bellowing voice which could be heard from stem to stern. When he sounded off, it fell upon you like angry seas upon a beach—it pounded and engulfed every thing in its path.
This “Old Sea Dog” had just come from command of a small Atlantic coastwise freighter. His blue uniform was still spotless, the gold on his sleeve yet untarnished, and he had been in the Navy before. Released as a bos’n in 1892, he had been recommended for re-enlistment. He had little respect for college degrees or nautical schools of any description.
Of the senior officers on board, all of whom were from the coastwise merchant service, the most interesting was the navigator, who had never been to sea in a steamboat. He was a deep-water sailor- man, hailing from the State of Maine. At the age of 21 he had been a captain of a four-masted schooner in the African west coast trade. Now in the early thirties, his already long years at sea had made him a mystic. He was intensely religious, and before going on watch each morning, at 4:00 a.m., he always read a passage from the Bible. He never swore, never took a drink, and women had no part in his life. Yet, withal, the Navigator had a grand sense of humor, almost puckish at times. He was a good shipmate. After the war, he got married. With his bride, he took a schooner, loaded with coal, out of Hampton Roads, Virginia, bound for Africa, and was never heard of again.
[IMAGE]
Courtesy Office of Naval Records and Library, Navy Department
DESTROYER ON CONVOY DUTY, 1918
All of the junior officers reporting on board had been detailed for instruction purposes. Pelham Bay Naval Training Station had sent three ensigns, and the Stevens Institute of Technology sent two warrant machinists. The Army was represented by a supercargo from the Quartermaster Corps. None of these had ever been to sea, and just the talk of going to sea seemed to make several of them seasick.
With a below deck cargo of small arms ammunition and a topside load of boxed airplanes, the Beukelsdijk left New York on August 3, en route to Hampton Roads, from which port she sailed on August 6 with 26 other ships for English and French ports. The escort for the convoy on the trip over was H.M.S. Coronado—an armed British merchantman. However, for the first two days out of Hampton Roads, we had two U. S. Navy destroyers. It was well we had them.
In the early morning of the day we sailed, the Standard Oil Company’s tanker Jennings and the Diamond Shoal lightship at Cape Hatteras had been torpedoed by a German U-boat. As we steamed, silhouetted against the morning sun on August 7, the U-boat caught up with us. The formation broke up, ships began zigzagging, and the ships on the starboard column let loose with their guns. The destroyers gave chase and the rest of us scattered. We reassembled the next noon at our appointed rendezvous.
Considering the size of the convoy, the unfamiliarity of the individual ships’ personnel to steaming in formation, zigzagging, etc., and the lack of standardization in the revolutions per minute of each ship’s engine, it was remarkable that there were no casualties. However, there were moments—on our ship, at least—when those on watch gripped the handrails waiting to hear the inevitable crash and grind of a collision. These moments always came from the same quarter—from the Frenchman astern. Even in broad daylight, he never seemed to be able to keep the distance interval. At least twice a watch he would get within 50 yards of the Beukelsdijk. Often, apparently to be devilish, he would overlap the Beukelsdijk on either quarter. We wanted none of him. He was loaded with 4,000 tons of TNT, and the ship that almost blew Halifax, Nova Scotia, off the map had only 3,000 tons.
On August 22, 16 days out of Hampton Roads, and about 300 miles west of Brest, the convoy was picked up, in a roaring gale, by four American destroyers, the two nearest the Beukelsdijk being the U.S.S. Rowan and Conner. Two days later, a landfall was made on Bishop’s Rock, Scilly Isles, England.
During the forenoon of that day, the escort was increased by four British destroyers and two American seaplanes. In the afternoon, the convoy split, one-half going to English and the other half to French ports.
At 12:15 a.m., on August 25, 19 days out of Hampton Roads, our anchor was dropped in Rosecanval Bay off Pointe Espanol, Brest. The next morning, the rest of the convoy moved south without us. After breaking down six times on the voyage over, the Beukelsdijk apparently had expended herself in making port. Her engines refused to turn over when the time came for the convoy to sail.
The next afternoon, she was towed inside the breakwater and moored close to the repair ship, U.S.S. Bridgeport. She lay there until September 20, before a daily working detail of 25 men from the Bridgeport could put her into shape.
With repairs completed the Beukelsdijk set forth again. The escort down the French coast consisted of several French torpedo boats, the American tug Gypsum Queen, and a few converted American yachts. The convoy was composed mostly of Scandinavian ships. After an overnight stop in Quiberon Bay, the ship went inside the locks at St. Nazaire on September 23. Incidentally, behind the mine nets at Quiberon Bay, well inshore, were the hulls of two unfinished French Line ships, the Paris and the Normandie.
The Beukelsdijk's cargo was discharged by October 19. Another day was given over to coaling ship, which was done by German prisoners. Later there was cause to regret this. Leaving St. Nazaire in a coastwise convoy, overnight stops down the coast were made at Quiberon Bay and La Pallice. At Verdon Roads, Gironde River, a large convoy of merchantmen, practically all of them in ballast, assembled from October 19 to 24 for the dash back home.
On October 25 some 40 ships churned down the chocolate-colored Gironde out to the blue Atlantic. In order to escape German submarines reported operating in and around the approaches to the Gironde, a diagonal course was sailed towards the Spanish coast for the first 24 hours. A southwester on October 29 dispersed the convoy.
Alone, tossed and buffeted by a south- wester, life was not made any more enjoyable when, in the early morning of November 1, fire was discovered in the coal bunkers. In addition, about 20 miles to the north of us, a U-boat had been reported in the morning’s submarine warnings. The blaze was fought all day with little success. During the night, it began to get out of control and a number of the crew were overcome in fighting it. The Captain decided to run for the Azores. In the evening of November 2, the ship anchored, bunkers on fire, behind the breakwater at Horta, Island of Fayal, in the Azores. Several days later the fire was under control. Upon examination, a quantity of oily rags was found in the bunkers. The German prisoners at St. Nazaire had left some souveniers.
Because several hundred tons of coal had been dumped overboard in fighting the bunker fire, 300 tons were bought at Horta. The price paid per ton was staggering. If America was saving the world for democracy by paying $45 a ton at Horta against $5 a ton in Norfolk, Virginia, the paymaster suggested that the thing be done up in grand style by getting it at St. Helena, where it would cost $75 a ton.
The coal company was not without a sense of humor. In an offhand manner, to show their appreciation for the $13,500 bit of business that had been dropped into their laps, the Captain received several chickens. Now there were plenty of chickens on the Island; therefore, it appeared that no one was parting with anything of value. Some of the wardroom felt that the company might have given a dinner. The Captain turned over custody of the hens to the “Jack of the Dust.” After several days at sea, the Jack of the Dust was summoned to the bridge by the Captain, who said:
“Jack of the Dust, did any of my chickens lay?”
“Yes, Captain,” replied the youngster meekly, “they all laid down and died.”
The ship left Horta on November 8 in the late afternoon. Barely clear of Fayal, she developed engine trouble again. By this time, everyone on board was inured to these breakdowns. In fact, instead of running a pool on the day’s run, a “breakdown” pool was substituted. To win, the day had to be picked and the approximate hour of the casualty. Each day she failed to break down, the “kitty” was anted. No one won on this breakdown. Credulous as most of us were regarding the ship’s engine performance, none was so skeptical as to believe she would stop so soon after leaving port.
The balance of the trip home was a letdown after receipt of the following radiogram on November 11:
“from: commander, u.s. naval forces, Europe, to: all ships.
ARMISTICE WITH GERMANY SIGNED. HOSTILITIES TO CEASE AT ONCE. THERE ARE STILL A NUMBER OF GERMAN SUBMARINES AT SEA IN VICINITY OF GIBRALTAR AND SOME PROBABLY HAVE NOT RECEIVED PROMPT INFORMATION OF ARMISTICE. TAKE MEASURES TO FORESTALL ATTACK BY THEM. 111211.
SIMS.”
On November 22, the ship anchored in Lower New York Bay off 79th Street, Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. She had been gone 16 weeks.
After having an engine overhauled, she left New York in ballast, on January 6, 1919, en route to Galveston, Texas. There she took on 23,000 bales of cotton and 6,000 tons of steel rails. The cotton freight rate at that time was about $30 a bale and the rate on rails $60 a ton. The freight bill amounted to nearly $1,000,000.
Just after she sailed for Havre, France, on January 29, the rate on cotton dropped to about $5 a bale and the rate on rails to $30 a ton. This reduction in shipping charges did not affect her cargo. She was well out to sea when the slash occurred. Who took the loss? That’s anybody’s guess.
Shortly after her arrival at Havre, on February 28, an unfortunate accident occurred. One of the boilers exploded, killing two men. Repairs delayed sailing to Rotterdam, Holland, until April 24. On May- 18, 1919, in the presence of officials from the Holland-America Line, owners of the ship, the Ensign of the United States was slowly hauled down by the commanding officer. The ship was then declared out of commission by order of the U. S. Naval Port Officer in Rotterdam.
The cruise of the Beukelsdijk typifies the adventures of the yachtsmen, the “Ninety-Day Wonders,” and the freshwater sailors, who, in 1917, went across the sea in ships. Inexperienced and untrained —but unafraid—they were doing, in their time and place, what they thought they should be doing. They questioned not the quality of the war implements given them. They didn’t know enough. Faith in themselves was their guiding force. Unprepared democracy demanded much—but gave little.
In the present crisis, it’s a different story. A fair-sized Naval Reserve personnel is trained and ready. Not enough for a “Two-Ocean Navy,” but certainly more than we had in 1917. To fill this increased officer demand, steps have already been taken. The new Naval Reserve midshipmen schools graduated their first ensign class this fall. We may be working on “borrowed time,” but the Navy’s making the most of it! We lacked an adequate Naval Reserve in 1917. It won’t happen this time!