The camouflaged big liner sank, but not until the two of our destroyers standing by had taken off every one of the 503 passengers, one taking the people off the deck, the other picking up those in the small boats. One destroyer--the 396, say--took off 307 of these passengers. Her skipper passed the word by radio to the 384, which had gathered in 196 passengers, including the commodore. The 384 got the message, only she got it 7 instead of 307 people rescued. "Seven survivors!" said the 384's skipper. "I wonder why she radioed that?" He meditated over the puzzle and by and by solved it to his satisfaction. "Of course, what she wants is for us to take off the seven and add 'em to our own." He took measures to meet the emergency, and then followed this little incident: Aboard the 396 they were busy trying to find space for their 307 passengers when a lookout heard a Putt! putt! putt! coming over the water. The officer of the deck listened. Everybody on the bridge listened. Putt! putt! putt! it came. The officer of the deck reported to the skipper. The skipper wondered who it could be, when just then a radio message arrived: "Am sending a boat--384." "Sending a boat? What for?" He meditated over that puzzle and then he solved it--as he thought. "Sure. That British commodore she picked up is coming to see how the survivors aboard here are getting on. That's it"--he turned to the watch-officer--"you know how these Britishers are for regulations. Even in the midst of a mess like this we'll have to kotow to his rank or he'll probably be reporting us. So rouse out six side-boys, line 'em up, rig up the port ladder, have the bugler stand by for ta-ra-rums and all that stuff." They did that, shoving their crowded survivors out of the way to make room for the ceremony. The Putt! putt! putt! comes nearer and nearer. Next, from out of the blackness of the ocean they make out a little motor-dory. Balanced out on the gunwale of the little dory, when it comes nearer, they see an American bluejacket smoking a cigarette. No one else was in the dory. The dory ran alongside. It was about a 14-foot dory--no smaller one in the flotilla. The skipper of the 396 looked down at him. "What you want?" The bluejacket removed the cigarette from his lips. "I'm from the 384, sir." "Yes, yes, but what do you want?" "I've come, sir"--he waved his cigarette-stub airily--"to take off the survivors. The captain thought I might be able to make one load of 'em." * * * * * When the big _P. & O._ liner reported herself torpedoed that evening, a destroyer--not one of ours--picked up the message 100 miles or so away; and at once radioed: COMING TO YOUR ASSISTANCE--GIVE POSITION, COURSE, AND SPEED. That was proper and well-intentioned, but as the 384 and the 396 were already standing by, a radio was sent back: EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT--NO HELP NEEDED--THANK YOU.