132 



THE WORLD'S ADVANCE 



cles' wild, despairing calls crashed out 

 again and again over the angry waters. 

 Not a ship answered. Then, far across 

 the great land and water wastes, came 

 the cheery call of an Alaskan station. It 

 had his message but could not send him 

 direct aid; the voice of its powerful 

 spark, however, would be lifted in an 

 added appeal for succor. The minutes 

 passed, the time was growing short. 

 Tense, straining every faculty for a 

 sound in his head telephones, the faith- 

 ful operator scorned the death that crept 

 toward him in the rising sea. Suddenly 

 the far-away land station called again; 

 it had picked up two vessels near by, the 

 Humboldt and the Rupert City, and they 

 were then headed for the Ohio. Eccles 

 told the captain, and then turned to the 

 task of sending messages to the approach- 

 ing ships, directing them to his exact 

 position. 



Twenty minutes after the ill-starred 

 vessel struck, the waters flooded the en- 

 gine room and silenced his instruments. 

 He arose then and stood out on the deck, 

 watching the last of the departing life- 

 boats. One of the relief vessels hove into 

 view and a great cry of exultation came 

 from the throats of harassed passengers. 

 It seemed certain that all would be 

 saved. Just at that moment a vicious 

 comber swept down on the staggering 

 Ohio, lifted her high off her precarious 

 position and crashed her down on the 

 cruel rocks. In an instant she was gone, 

 and with her the man who had saved 

 her helpless humans in the face of tre- 

 mendous odds. 



Conspicuous on the face of the shaft 

 is the name of Jack Philips, the martyr 

 to duty in the great Titanic disaster of 

 April 15, 1912. His bravery, coolness 

 and skill in time of immortal stress bring 

 uplifting memories to a still shuddering 

 public. To the very magnitude of that 

 great ocean tragedy in which he figured 

 is due the recognition of the wireless 

 operating fraternity for which the monu- 

 ment stands the one lasting memorial 

 this country has raised to them. It 

 was the shock of horror which then re- 

 verberated around the world that awak- 

 ened a grateful humanity to a sense of 

 obligation and started the flow of con- 

 tributions which soon afterward assumed 



proportions sufficient to defray the ex- 

 pense of erecting the memorial. William 

 Lawrence Bottomley, of the firm of 

 Hewitt & Bottomley, architects, volun- 

 tarily offered his services and furnished 

 gratuitously the design which was se- 

 lected after a competition; the Marconi 

 Company contributed five hundred dol- 

 lars as a nucleus and passengers on coast- 

 wise vessels willingly subscribed the bal- 

 ance of the fund in smaller amounts. 

 No intensive solicitation was made, no 

 propaganda prepared to aid the raising 

 of the desired sum; as the principal 

 speaker at the unveiling remarked, it was 

 a direct refutation of the contention that 

 "in the rush of our affairs we are all too 

 prone to forget great deeds." 



To the Philips brand of courage, then, 

 must be attributed this monument from 

 the people. A more noble example of 

 the heights young men can rise to in 

 meeting an emergency will never be 

 known. On the night of the disaster he 

 was tired out after a long vigil in the 

 wireless room. He had worked uninter- 

 ruptedly for seven hours the preceding 

 day, effecting some needed repairs. 

 Under the regular routine he was not 

 due off watch until midnight, but his 

 assistant, Harold Bride, appreciating the 

 strain of the overtime labor, had insist- 

 ed upon relieving him earlier in the eve- 

 ning. Thus it was that Bride was stand- 

 ing beside when the ship hit the iceberg. 

 Refusing to give up his post, Philips 

 continued at the key from the time the 

 first SOS call was sent until his instru- 

 ments no longer would work. He had 

 established communication with the Car- 

 pathia and other vessels, had given them 

 the ship's position and received assurance 

 of speedy rescue; his captain had told 

 him: "You have done your duty. You 

 are free now ; every man for himself in 

 a time like this !" But Philips stayed. 

 Refusing even to stop for an instant to 

 adjust a life preserver, he bent resolutely 

 over the little rubber knob that spelled 

 salvation to the helpless passengers and 

 continued sending out reports that would 

 aid in picking up the laden lifeboats. 



Only when the last flickering sputter 

 had come from his key did he give a 

 thought to himself. The lifeboats had 

 long since gone, and, fearless and calm, 



