A long pole made by joining several sections of the pipe-frames of the crew’s bunks together with a mattress cover painted with red lead tied on the end, was, after some trouble, finally forced through this hole. The slight roll of the ship from the ground-swell caused our distress signal to wave back and forth. We also tried to give it additional motion by sliding it up and down as much as our cramped quarters would allow. From time to time the signal was pulled in to look for ships. Just before sundown the Captain took a final look. Again nothing in sight! It looked like another night in hell, perhaps several more, if we could live that long. He had just pulled his head in when he thought he heard a steamer’s whistle. Were his senses deceiving him? The thought came to him that he must be losing his mind. Now even his eyes were deceiving him, for there certainly seemed to be a ship out there where none had been before—and not more than a few hundred yards away. Could it have approached at such an angle that the projection of the stern kept it out of sight until close aboard? * * * * * It turned out to be a Coast Guard destroyer which had seen the flag, thought it looked suspicious—some rum-runner’s trick—and had come over to investigate. Well, we were soon out of our death-trap, thanks to some good seamanship on the destroyer’s part in keeping our stern up with her anchor-chain, while they quickly enlarged the hole so that we could be pulled out, many of our crew being half-dead from gas, strain and exhaustion. As the Captain, the last to leave the ship, climbed exhaustedly up the side of the destroyer, grimy, oily, unshaven, weary in mind and body, with throat and lungs raw from the chlorine gas, he was handed a radio from his Division Commander which had been intercepted by the destroyer, asking: “Why do you not make position reports?” He turned to his officers, who were waiting to see that he got aboard safely, and handed them the message. “Here, one of you answer this for me. My brain won’t work any longer; I am dead on my feet. Seems to me you had some sort of a bet on these messages, anyway.” “That’s right, we did,” said Bud, as he glanced at the radio, and out of force of habit, was about to turn to Jack Lansing and start in on who had won the bet, but he too was so exhausted he could not remember just what the bet was about—and what’s more, decided he did not care. “All right, Captain, I’ll attend to it for you. Shall I give the Division Commander the whole story?” he asked. “Hell, no! Get some sleep. Just reply ‘Position Vertical!’” [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 1929 issue of Blue Book magazine.]