Entered suddenly about noon on Sunday, after the disconcerting fashion
of cruisers, one of our side flying the general recall, and telling us
to go down to the Flag. But when we reached that place we found neither
Flag nor battle ships, but the _Powerful_ and the _Terrible_, who took us
under their wing—all six of us, second and third-class cruisers. Till
that point we had been sizeable ships, but those two huge things dwarfed
us to mean little tramps. One never gets used to the bulk and height of
these berserk Campanias. Then we all began talking. Who knew anything
about anything; and who had dragged who round the walls of what? Our next
astern gave us one slateful of information which was rather dizzying.
That a cruiser at 7:30 that morning had reported to the Battle Fleet,
who had spent the night patrolling outside Blacksod Bay, ‘Enemy to
the Westward.’ That the Fleet had given chase; that the Flagship had
fired one gun when she came within three miles of the said enemy fifteen
miles West of Blacksod Bay. That the enemy had gone in to Blacksod Bay,
and, he believed, our own battleships had gone south to Bantry. (I have
already explained rudely what the enemy had done.)
That was all we could then arrive at. (The Fleet will learn no more when
the Real Thing arrives.) I went forward to hear the text commented on.
SEA-LAWYERS
Said the voice of unshaken experience, ‘We’ve been ’ad. Don’t
tell _me_.’
‘We ’aven’t. We’ve intercepted the beggar,’—a young sea-lawyer
began. ‘’E was rendezvousin’ back to Blacksod.’
‘What were the rules any’ow?’ a voice cut in.
‘We wasn’t fightin’ rules—we was fightin’ a man. I tell you
we’ve been ’ad. Didn’t I say so when we come round on that long
slant from Rockall way? ’E’s got round us some’ow.’
‘But look ’ere. The signals make it out we’ve won.’
‘’E won’t make it out we’ve won, though. Both sides’ll claim
it.’
‘That’s what they always do. When I was in——’
And one went on to tell of other Manœuvres in which he had apparently
taken a leading part, while we jogged Southward behind the _Powerful_ as
far as the Eastern entrance to Berehaven. But there were no battleships
in Bantry Bay. They had gone on to target practice, and presently we
cruisers dispersed among the headlands for the same business, with orders
to rendezvous a few miles South of the Fastnet, that well-worn mile-post
of the Transatlantic liner.
ALMOST INFERNAL MOBILITY
No description will make you realise the almost infernal mobility of
a Fleet at sea. I had seen ours called, to all appearance, out of the
deep; split in twain at a word, and, at a word, sent skimming beyond the
horizon; strung out as vultures string out patiently in the hot sky above
a dying beast; flung like a lasso; gathered anew as a riata is coiled at
the saddle bow; dealt out card-fashion over fifty miles of green table;
picked up, shuffled, and redealt as the game changed. I had seen cruisers
flown like hawks, ridden like horses at a close finish, and manœuvred
like bicycles; but the wonder of their appearance and disappearance never
failed. The _Powerful_ spoke, and in ten minutes the cruiser-squadron
had vanished; each ship taking her own matches and sulphur to make a
hell of her own. And what that hell might be if worked at full power
I could, presently, guess as we swung round a headland, and the bugles
began. At this point the gunner became a person of importance (in the
Navy each hour of the day has its king), and the captains of the guns
separated themselves a little from the common herd. Remember, we were
merely a third-class cruiser, capable, perhaps, of slaying destroyers
in a heavy sea, but meant for the most part to scout and observe. Our
armament consisted of eight four-inch quick-fire wire guns, the newest
type—two on the foc’sle, four in the waist, and two on the poop,
alternating with as many three-pounder Hotchkiss quick-firers. Three
Maxims adorned the low nettings. Their water-jackets were filled up from
an innocent tin-pot before the game began. It looked like slaking the
thirst of devils.
MAN-SLAYING DEVILTRIES
We found an eligible rock, the tip of a greyish headland, peopled by a
few gulls—the surge creaming along its base—and a portion of this we
made our target, that we might see the effect of the shots and practise
the men at firing on a water-line. Up came the beautiful solid brass
cordite cartridges; and the four-inch shells that weigh twenty-five
pounds apiece. (The little three-pounders, as you know, have their
venomous shell and charge together like small-arm ammunition.) The filled
belts of the Maxims were adjusted, and all these man-slaying deviltries
waked to life and peered over the side at the unsuspecting gulls. It
was ‘still’ throughout the ship—still as it will be when the Real
Thing arrives. From the upper bridge I could hear, above the beat of the
engines, the click of the Lieutenants’ scabbards (_Why_ should men who
need every freedom in action be hampered by an utterly useless sword?);
the faint clink of a four-inch breech swung open; the crisper snick of
the little Hotchkiss’s falling-block; and an impatient sewing-machine
noise from a Maxim making sure of its lock-action. On his platform over
my head the Navigating Officer was giving the ranges to
the rock.
‘Two thousand seven hundred yards, sir.’
‘Two thousand seven hundred yards,’—the order passed from gun
to gun—‘ten knots right deflection—starboard battery.’ The
gun-captains muzzled the rubber-faced shoulder-pieces, and the long lean
muzzles behind the shields shifted fractionally.
‘Try a sighting shot with that three-pounder!’
The smack of cordite is keener, and catches one more about the heart,
than the slower-burning black powder. There was a shrillish gasping
wail—exactly like the preliminary whoop of an hysterical woman—as
the little shell hurried to the target; and a puff of dirty smoke on the
rock-face sent the gulls flying. So far as I could observe there was not
even a haze round the lips of the gun. Till I saw the spent case jerked
out I did not know which of the clean, precise, and devilish four had
spoken.
WHEN THE REAL THING COMES
‘Two thousand four hundred,’ the voice droned overhead, and the
starboard bow four-inch quick-firer opened the ball. Again no smoke;
again the song of the shell—not a shriek this time, but a most utterly
mournful wail. Again the few seconds suspense (what will they be when the
Real Thing comes?) and a white star on the target. The cruiser winced a
little, as though some one had pinched her.
Before the next gun had fired, the empty cartridges cylinder of the first
was extracted, and by some sleight of hand I could not see the breech
had closed behind a full charge. A Martini-Henri could hardly have been
reloaded more swiftly.
‘Two thousand three hundred,’ cried the reader of that day’s
lessons, and we fell seriously to work; high shriek and low wail following
in an infernal fugue, through which, with no regard for decency, the
Maxims quacked and jabbered insanely. The rock was splintered and ripped
and gashed in every direction, and great pieces of it bounded into the
sea.
‘Two thousand one hundred.’
‘Good shot. Oh, good shot! That was a water-liner. . . . That was the
Marines’ three-pounder. Good! . . . Ah—ah! Bad. Damn bad! Short!
Miles short! Who fired that shot?’
A shell had burst short of the mark, and the captain of that gun was
asked politely if he supposed Government supplied him with three-pound
shell for the purpose of shooting mackerel.
And so we went on, till the big guns had fired their quota and the
Maxims ran out in one last fiends’ flurry, and target-practice for the
month was over. The rock that had been grey was white, and a few shining
cartridge-cases lay beside each gun.
SQUIRTING DEATH THROUGH A HOSE
Then the horror of the thing began to soak into me. What I had seen
was a slow peddling-out of Admiralty allowance for the month, and it
seemed to me more like squirting death through a hose than any ordinary
gun-practice. What will it be when all the ammunition-hoists are working,
when the Maxims’ water-jacket puffs off in steam; when the three-pounder
charges come up a dozen at a time to be spent twenty to the minute; when
the sole limit of four-inch fire is the speed with which the shells and
cases can be handled? What will it be when the Real Thing is upon
us?
And the smiling, careless faces answered with one merry accord: ‘Hell!
Every kind of Hell! _But_—things will happen.’
In ancient days there was an etiquette in sea battles. No line-of-battle
ship fired at a frigate unless the latter deliberately annoyed her. Then
she blew the frigate out of the water. What will be the etiquette next
time? Suppose a cruiser met a battleship with one set of engines unusable
crawling along at eight knots. Would she jackal the lame thing and tempt
her into wasting ammunition? It is a risky game to play with sides no
thicker than an average tea-tray; but under circumstances it might be
lucrative. Would she—and a fast cruiser can do this—try to rush her
by night, destroyer-fashion? At the beginning of the war she might do
all sorts of things; at the end of it she would take exactly that kind
of liberty which experience of the other side’s _personnel_ had shown
to be moderately safe. There is no saying what she could or could not do
in heavy weather, and Navies that do not like heavy weather; tumble-home
boats unused to working in a sea; a beaky and a plated Navy, with big
tops that roll and strain, might suffer.
Therefore we must pray for foul weather, head-seas and steep swells,
gale that bewilders, cold that numbs, and small fine rain that blinds,
chills, and dispirits. Our men know them.
MEN WHO TAKE THEIR CHANCES
Under these conditions the possibilities of a good sea-boat are almost
illimitable, given always the men who know how to handle her—the men
who will take their chances. And as in the Army so in the Navy runs
the unwritten Law: ‘You must not imperil the property of the taxpayer
committed to your charge or you will be publicly broke; but if you do
_not_ take every risk you can and more also you will be broke in the
estimation of your fellows. Your men will not love you, and you will
never get on.’ To do him justice the junior officer steers a very fair
line between the two councils. Thanks to our destroyers, which give him
an independent command early in his career, he studies a little ingenuity
and artifice. They are young on the destroyers—the chattering black
decks are no place for the middle-aged—they have learned how to handle
200ft. of shod death that cover a mile in two minutes, turn in their
own length, and leap to racing speed almost before a man knows he has
signalled the engine-room. In these craft they risk the extreme perils
of the sea and make experiments of a kind that would not read well in
print. It would take much to astonish them when, at the completion of
their command, they are shifted, say, to a racing cruiser. They have been
within spitting distance of collision and bumping distance of the bottom;
they have tested their craft in long-drawn Channel gales, not grudgingly
or of necessity because they could not find harbour, but because they
‘wanted to know, don’t you know;’ and in that embroilment have been
very literally thrown together with their men.
ENOUGH TO SOBER ULYSSES
This makes for hardiness, coolness of head, and above all resource.
You realise it when you hear the dear boys talk among themselves. The
Naval man’s experience begins early, and by the time he has reached
his majority a Sub-Lieutenant should have seen enough to sober Ulysses.
But he utterly refuses to be sobered. There is no case on record of a
depressed Sub. It takes three of him to keep one Midshipman in order;
but the combined strength of the Assistant Engineer, the Doctor, and the
Paymaster will not subdue one Sub-Lieutenant. He goes his joyous way,
impartially and picturesquely criticising his elders and his betters;
diverse, undulating, and irrepressible. But when he stands on the bridge
at midnight and essays to keep the proper distance in front of the next
steel ram dreamily muttering through the water, ten knots an hour, two
hundred yards behind him—why then the Sub sweats big drops till he
gets used to it. Let us suppose he is third in a line of four, that the
hour is near midnight, and he has been on watch since eight. So far,
we have kept our distance beautifully: we have even sneered at the next
line a mile away to the right, where they have once or twice been ‘all
over the shop.’ In twenty minutes there will come relief, a bowl of
hot cocoa, three pulls at a pipe, and blessed bed. The Sub watches the
speed-lights of the next ahead, for as those lanterns change so must he
adjust his pace. But the next ahead is using up all the basest coal she
can find, and the wind blows not less than two million samples of it into
his straining eyes. He has—he had—the distance absolutely correct;
he would swear to it. The Quartermaster by the tiny wheel half heaves
up one big shoulder. Till that moment he has given no sign of life. The
Sub’s heel taps impatiently on the planking; his mouth hovers over the
engine-room voice tube; his lips open to speak to the Quartermaster in
case—in case it should be necessary to sheer out of line; for something
has gone wrong with the next ahead. She has badly overrun her station,
and sheers to the left of our leading ship. The Sub wipes the cinders
out of his left eye and says something.
NOW BEGINS THE FUN
Now begins the fun. The leading ship has slowed a certain number of
revolutions—say, from ten knots to nine and a half; but she has not
changed her speed-lights in time. We slide out to the right of our next
ahead, swiftly and quietly. And now we must all mark time, as it were,
till our leader straightens herself. That which was a line has suddenly
become a town on the waters; representing roughly three-quarters of a
million sterling in value, ten thousand tons weight, and eight hundred
lives. Our next ahead lies on our port bow, and—oh, horror!—our
next astern is alongside of us. Heaven send that the Captain may not
choose this hour to wake. The Sub has slowed her down to eighty-five,
but engines are only engines after all, and they cannot obey on the
instant. Meantime we can see into the chart-room of her that should have
lain behind us. A Navigating Lieutenant sprawled half over the table,
cap tilted over forehead to keep out the glare of the lamp, is poring on
a chart; we can hear the officer of the watch on her bridge speaking to
his Quartermaster, and there comes over to us a whiff of Navy tobacco.
She is slowing—she has slowed with a vengeance, and when ships slow
too much they lose steerage-way, and, what is far worse, they wake the
Captain. This strikes the Sub with lurid clearness; but the impetus of
the recent ten knots is on us all, and we are all going much faster than
we think. Again his foot taps the deck.
ARE THEY NEVER GOING TO SLOW?
Are they never going to slow in the engine-room? The pointer on the dial
before the Quartermaster moves through some minute arc, and our head
falls off to the left. It is excessively lonely on this high and lofty
bridge, and the spindle-shaped hull beneath looks very unmanageable.
Our next ahead draws away slowly from our port bow, and we continue at
a safe distance to starboard of her. The line is less of a lump and more
of a diagonal than it was. Our next astern is sliding back to where she
belongs. Now, two revolutions at a time, the Sub lets us out till he
sees our erring sister ahead return to her place, and joyfully slinks
in behind her. The Sub mops his heated brow, thanking Heaven that the
Captain didn’t wake up, and that the tangle was straightened before
the end of the watch. But speed-lights unless properly handled—as ours
are handled—are, he doubts not, an invention of the Devil. So, also,
is the Fleet; so are all cruisers; and the sea and everything connected
therewith.
Now comes the judgment! Our leader, of course, cannot signal back down
her line, but the signal must be repeated from the leading ship of the
line to starboard. Thus, you see, we read it diagonally. A dull glow
breaks out at the mast-head of that transmitter of wiggings—and a
wigging it is for somebody—a wigging in drunken winks—long and short
ones—irresistibly comic if you don’t happen to be in the Service.
Once again we are saved. The avenging electric spells out the name of
our next ahead, a second-class cruiser—and then—‘_Why don't you
keep station_?_’_ Let us thank God for second-class cruisers and all
other lightning-conductors!
The middle watch comes up; the Sub demands of the stars and the deep
profound about him: ‘Who wouldn’t sell a farm and go to sea?’
descends the bridge in one light-hearted streak, and three minutes later
is beautifully asleep, the ship’s kitten purring under his left ear.
But the Captain was awake all the time. The change of speed roused him,
and he lay watching the tell-tale compass overhead, his mouth at the
bridge voice-tube; one eye cocked through the open port, and one leg
over the edge of the bunk—in case. The Sub must learn his business by
himself—must find confidence in isolation precisely as the Captain did
a quarter of a century ago. It is not good for him to know that he is
being watched.
Next morning the Captain makes a casual allusion to ‘massed fleets in
line of sixes and sevens.’ ‘It was our next ahead, sir,’ says the
Sub deferentially. ‘Yes, it was the next ahead when I was a Sub,’ is
the reply. ‘I know that next ahead.’ Then the wardroom, to whom the
Sub has been confiding the success of his manœuvres, ask him whether he
got to windward of the ‘owner’—much.
HOW THE SUB GETS LEARNING
And that is one of the ways in which youth gets learning. On a big
battleship, they tell me, the Sub is little better than the Midshipmen
he despises. He lives in the gun-room, he goes to school, he is sent on
errands, and if he is good he is allowed to preserve discipline while
a fraction of the decks are being washed. But on a third-class cruiser
he is a watch-officer, an ornament of the ward-room, pitched into
responsibility, and he enjoys himself, as I have tried to
show.