I had been standing out on the boat deck in quiet solitude for nearly an hour. It was a starless, black night; nothing could be seen around me except the ship, which was ablaze with light. We were moving forward at a swift pace, creating a fine breeze. Looking down, occasionally I could see the white tops of the waves form silvery lines that spread for a short distance behind us and then were swallowed by the darkness. No one was around, for there were movies downstairs in the lounge. I finally decided to go down and join the other passengers.

The salon was crowded when I got there and I was disagreeably impressed with the tense and breathless atmosphere. Everyone was slightly nervous and it was very difficult to focus my attention on the screen. The same thought prevailed on all our minds; what was outside concealed by the opaqueness of the night? What strange ships might be lurking about us?

Suddenly I heard someone call in German. I was unable to catch the meaning and I had returned my attention to the picture when I noticed that little by little, the room was emptying and everyone was leaving. I followed them out, a little scared, I must admit, the film completely forgotten.

I noticed that the motion of the boat had stopped. Why? Much intrigued, I found most of my fellow passengers gathered on the rear end of the promenade. Looking down over the side of the ship, I saw a small life boat, tossing in the waves along side in a blaze of spotlights. It looked like such a slight thing, with a mast and a sail. There were men in it and another man very slowly climbing a rope ladder. As he reached the top, hands stretched out to catch him and hoist him over the rail. He was incapable of standing alone and had to be supported, while he took a long swallow of some alcoholic beverage. In the meantime, his mates followed up the ladder, each one more tired and disheveled than the preceding one. No one could stand, their legs just wouldn’t hold them up. Finally when the last man was up, our ship started, the little boat was cut loose and quickly disappeared into the night.

Around me, the people began moving away but I could not bring myself back to our interrupted movie. Leaving the crowd, I climbed again to the upper deck and it was there, a half hour later that I heard the complete story from the wireless operator.

The life boat had held thirteen men, survivors of a large tanker of the Dutch Free Navy. On their way to New York from Ireland, they had been torpedoed two weeks ago by a German submarine and had drifted for fifteen days in their lifeboat. There had been two boats but a storm on the first night had separated them. We had picked up the first mate’s boat, which had set a course for the Azores. This very same day, however, afraid of missing the islands, they had decided to head for the mainland. Later the chief mate told me that after the submarine had sunk the ship, it rose to the surface and a German officer had come out and called to them, asking if they had food and water. Upon receiving an affirmative answer, he said, “Gute Reise” (a good journey) and departed, leaving them alone on the broad ocean.

The fifteen days’ exposure, and especially, the lack of movement, had caused them much suffering. Their daily ration of two biscuits and a table spoon of water had not been sufficient to conserve their strength and it was several days before they were able to come on deck. Imagine their joy when they saw our big ship with the lights on and the huge illuminated American flag on the sides. They sent up their last flares and fortunately we close enough that the lookout had perceived them.

I was alone again, looking out as before, not seeing anything. I thought about that other boat, wondering if it wasn’t just over the horizon. The thought that I might find myself in a like position came to me and I was afraid, realizing the absolute insignificance of a person compared to the huge expanse of the great ocean. It was with a very philosophical turn of mind that I finally turned to go to bed.