Evening star., 1943-02-25
McLemore
Crosses Icy Atlantic
On old Mrs. Toughy'
BY HENRY McLEMORE.

the Mississippi, much less the At
lantic. Her sides patched, her gray
makeup peeling, she seemed so tiny
that the pier dwarfed her and she
listed even when tied to the wharf.
But the order called for clearance
at midnight and right on the stroke
of II she waddled out into the North
River to keep a rendezvous with the
convoy.
New York was dark that night
rainy, sleety, cold 1t was no night
to send off a tired, little old lady
on journey to England. She was
tired, too-no question about that.
After 5 months at sea she had had
only q days rest here, days rest
there as she beat her slow way from
Capetown. But, she had a mission
this night--a mission that would
help keep planes in the air, tanks
moving forward. guns firing.
SO she moved out into the chan
mel, passed Miss Liberty, passed the
Sandy Hook Light. I wonder where
she is now that she's gotten us here
without a scratch? We had hardly
gone down the gangplank before size
had turned around and with muf-
fed little cry of her whistle she wan
dered off once more into what Is
often the waters of no returning.
Poar Of tho
The sun is shining in England as
we write this. From our window we
| can see the Thames and hear the
roar of the city that is London.
| There's tub of hot water In the
next room with foamy soap and
there's bell to ring If we want any
thing. But the Old Lady and her
crew are not here to enjoy such
things. They are out there some
where pitching. tossing and all
working together to keep alive.
This may sound like what mas
ters of ceremonies in night clubs
call good, oldfashioned corn. Per-
| haps it is but those of us who got
here safely will always have a sweet
remembrance of that boat. You
can have your liners-our heart
belongs to Mrs. Toughy, let's call
| her. We can see her now, sticking
her face into the sea, every tired
muscle groaning and creaking but
Withal keeping moving.
Her lights out, her port holes
buttoned up, her food terrible. her
skipper, with a beard as red as
the flames from the Bad Place, is
on the bridge seeing to it that oil
Toughy keeps her place in line.
He hasn't had a good nights sleep
in weeks; neither has her engineer,
He knows that If her motors die
and they were due for an overhaul
ing as long ago as 1939-no one will
stop to lend aid The convoy will
sail on and oil Toughy can get
there as best she can.
Old, Battered and Tired.
While bringing us over OF Toughy
threatened to roll over and call it
quits dozen times. You could
| almost hear her say when a par
ticular big wave would break over
her, This is the finish. AS much
as the Allied Nations need boats,
they don't need me. I'm old and
battered and tired. I should have
been in dry dock long ago with
my children taking care of me-
There were times when her feeble
lights would go out. her ancient
hfeboats would be carried away,
water would beat through her tired
sides until her innards resembled
trout streams and she would get
lost from the rest of the convoy,
But she always managed to keep
right side up, her prov towards
England. Like a little train in one
Of Walt Disneys fantasies she
would talk to herself and keep I'D
her courage by putting, II can
make it. I can make it. I can
made it." At least that is what
we believe we heard her say on
more than one rough occasion.
OF Toughy had company. Her
closest companion most of the way
was a tanker. The tanker didn't
quite know what to make of the
ocean. One second she would dis
appear into the arms Of noun
famous trough. The next second
she would ride along on the waves
with the abandon and helplessness
of surf board rider.
Deep as Submarine.
Whenever We despaired of OF
Toughy's life we would stand on the
deck and look at the tanker. It was
taking worse beating and the men
who manned it must have looked at
us with envy, what with them riding
almost as deep as a submarine and
being surrounded with cargo that
needed only a spark to Great an in
ferno.
Then came the day when we
reached port. can't tell you where.
but can tell you how we felt as
we saw the friendly arms of Mother
Earth about US. We came into port
single file, boat after boat after
boat. We really were strangers. No
BOAT had ever spoken to another
boat save for quick little blinkings
of light by day.
But with the coming toward land
the boats talked their throaty Ian
guage and said, Eve are sure glad
we made it. Happy landings. God
bless you"
Same to you, Oh Toughy. May you
make many happy landings!
distributed by McNausht Syndicate. Inc)