utility?" "I'm talking about naval camouflage," answers the anti.
"On land your camouflaged object is usually stationary itself, and
stands in relation to a surface which is always stationary,--the
surrounding landscape. Out here, both surfaces, sea and vessel, are
constantly in motion and constantly changing their relation to each
other." "But I _saw_ a boat--" begins a pro. "Oh, cut it out,"
cries somebody else wholeheartedly, and the discussion ends exactly
where a thousand others have ended.
Whether camouflage be valuable or not, it certainly is the fad of the
hour. The good, old-fashioned, one-colour boat has practically
disappeared from the seas, and the ships that cross the ocean in
these perilous times have been docked to make a cubist holiday; the
futurists are saving democracy. There are countless tricks. I
remember seeing one boat with a false water line floating in a
painted sea whose roaring waves contrasted oddly with a frightfully
placid horizon, and I recall another with the silhouette of a
schooner painted on her side. I remember a little tramp
remorselessly striped, funnels and all with alternate slanting bands
of apple-green and snuff brown; I have an indistinct memory of a
terrible mess of milky-pink, lemon-yellow and rusty black, which
earned for the vessel displaying it the odious title of "The Boil."
We saw the prize monstrosity in midocean. Every school of camouflage
had evidently had a chance at her. She was striped, she was
blotched; she was painted in curves; she was slashed with jagged
angles; she was bone grey; she was pink; she was purple; she was
green; she was blue; she was egg yellow. To see her was to gasp and
turn aside. We had quite a time picking a suitable name for her, but
finally decided on the Conscientious Objector, though her full title
was "The State of Mind of a C.O. on Being Sent to the Front."
Finally destiny put in my path just the man I wanted to see, the
captain of a British submarine. "What do you think of camouflage?" I
asked.
"Well," he answered, after a pause, "I can't remember that it ever
hindered us from seeing a ship. Visibility at sea strikes me as
being more a matter of mass than of colour. The optical illusion
tricks are too priceless silly. Must amuse the Huns. You see if the
eye does play him false, Fritz detects the error with his gauges."
The P.C's, I am sure, will put this down as a bit of typical
submarine "side." Indignant letters, care H.M.S. X999.
XVI
TRAGEDY
Just at the fall of night, three days before, a weak and fragmentary
wireless had cried forlornly over the face of the waters for
immediate help, and had then ceased abruptly like a lamp blown out by
a gust of wind. The destroyers, stationed here and there in the vast
loneliness of the gathering dark, had heard and waited for "the
position" of the disaster, but nothing more came through the night.
Presently, it had begun to rain.
And now for three interminable and tedious days and nights rain had
been falling, falling with the monotony and purpose of water over a
dam. There being little or no wind the drops fell straight as
plummets from a sky flat as a vast ceiling, and the air reverberated
with that murmuring hum which is the voice of the rain mingling with
the sea. Rain greasy with oil it had gathered from the plates poured
in little streams off the deck; drops hissed on the iron of the hot
stacks. Clad in stout waterproof clothes, and wearing their
waterproof hoods, the crew went casually about their duties, their
hardy faces showing no sign of discomfort or weariness.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon of a January day.
Presently the lookout, from his station on the mast, reported:
"Floating object off starboard bow," and a few minutes later one of
the watch on the bridge reported two more floating masses, this time
visible to port. The destroyer was making her way into a vast field
of wreckage. Within the radius of visibility, there lay, drifting
silently about in the incessant rain, an incredible quantity of
barrels, boxes, bits of wood, crates, vegetables, apples, onions,
fragments of coke, life preservers and planks.
"See if you can spot a name on anything," said the destroyer's
captain. But though everybody looked carefully, not a sign of a name
could be seen. Mile after mile went the destroyer down the rain
lashed sea, mile after mile of wreckage opened before her.
"Life boat ahead showing flag!"
The captain raised to his eyes the pair of binoculars he wore hanging
from his neck, and peered out of the window by the wheel.
"Found her yet, sir?"
"Yes ... it's a small grey boat. Barely afloat, I guess. They've
got a shirt or something tied to a mast or an oar. We'll have a look
at it. Tell Mullens to have a couple of men stand by with boat hooks
in case we run alongside."
The swamped boat, motionless as a stone in the driving rain, lay no
more than half a mile off. Voices eagerly discussed the possibility
of finding survivors.
"Alive? Course they ain't. Why, the boat's awash."
"Sure, but look at the flag."
"Those poor guys are gonners long ago."
Handled skilfully the destroyer crept alongside the motionless boat,
and presently those on the bridge looked directly down upon it. It
lay, floating on even keel, not more than six or seven feet off the
starboard side, and was held up by its tanks. A red flannel shirt
hung soggily against an upright pole, and coloured the shaft with the
drippings of its dye. The interior of the boat was but a deep
puddle, a dark puddle into which the rain fell monotonous and
implacable. Floating face down and side by side in the water lay the
fully clothed bodies of two men, whilst at the stern, sitting on a
seat just under water, with his feet in the water and his body
toppled over on the gunwale, could be seen a third figure dressed in
a kind of seaman's jacket. The wet cloth of his trousers clung
lightly to his thin legs and revealed the taut muscles of his thighs.
Then boat hooks fished out from the side of the destroyer and drew
the heavy craft in. A sailor cried out that all were dead.
"Any name on the boat, Hardy?" asked the officer standing by.
"No, sir."
"Very well. Cast off!" The life boat, watched by some rather
horrified eyes, slid alongside the destroyers, and drifted solemnly
behind.
"Now," said the captain, who had come on deck, "I want one tidy shot
put into that boat, Butler."
Ten seconds later, the roar of the four-inch at the stern burst
asunder the murmur of the rain, and the watchers saw the boat of the
dead crumple and disappear in the loneliness and rain.
XVII
"CONSOLIDATION, NOT COÖPERATION"
Talking one day with an English member of the House of Commons, I
asked him what he held to be the most important result of American
intervention.
"The spirit of coöperation which you have stirred up among the
Allies," he answered. "Not that I mean to say that the Allies were
continually quarrelling among themselves; the manner in which Britain
has shared her ships with other hard pressed nations would refute any
such insinuation, but not until you came on the scene was there a
really scientific attempt at the coördination of our various forces.
You were quite right to insist on a generalissimo. But of course the
great lesson you've given us has been through your Navy. There's
been nothing like it in the history of the allied forces. What an
extraordinary position Admiral Sims has won in England! His
influence is perfectly tremendous; there isn't another allied leader
who has a tithe of his power. I really do not think that there is a
parallel to it in English history."
Now this is no over-statement of the case. The influence of Admiral
Sims over the British people _is_ tremendous. All along he has had
but one watchword, "Consolidation, not Coöperation." It is a
splendid phrase, and Admiral Sims has turned it into action. The
way, I gathered from various members of the Staff and the Embassy,
had not been without its obstacles. For instance, once upon a time
certain American forces were to be sent into a distant area, and a
member of the Allied Naval Council sitting in London had taken the
stand that the little force should be supplied from the United
States. Immediately Admiral Sims pointed out that these American
forces must be considered as _allied_ forces and must be supplied
from the nearest and most convenient _allied_ sources of supply. And
he carried the day. Not only has the Admiral insisted on the
_consolidation_ of material forces; but he has also insisted on a
consolidation of the allied spirit. Himself a master of diplomacy
and tact, he loses no opportunity of reminding the individual
officers under his control to bear in mind the good points of other
services and to remember the fact that the success of this work would
be directly affected by their relations with their comrades of the
Great Cause. And this extraordinary consolidation of force and
spirit is precisely the thing which more than anything else takes the
attention of the visiting correspondent. "Consolidation, not
Coöperation"--it is a phrase that well might have been our allied
motto from the first.
While in London, I had several talks with Admiral Sims in his office
in Grosvenor Gardens. Of the many distinguished men it has been my
lot to interview, Admiral Sims stands first for the ability to put a
guest at ease. Tall, spare, erect, and walking with a fine carriage,
our Admiral is a personality whom the interviewer can never forget.
One has but to talk with him a few minutes to realize the secret of
the extraordinary personal loyalty he inspires. And he is as popular
in France as he is in England. Speaking French fluently, he is able
to carry on discussion with the French members of the Naval Council
in their own language.
"Consolidation, not Coöperation." There's a real phrase. And thanks
to the great man who said it and insisted upon it, we defeated the
common enemy.
XVIII
MACHINE AGAINST MACHINE
The year stood at the threshold of the spring; a promise of warmth
lay in the climbing sun; on land one might have heard the first songs
of the birds. At sea, the mists of winter were lifting from the
waters, and the sun, for many months shrunk and silver pale, shone
hard and golden bright. A fresh, clear wind was blowing from the
west, driving ahead of it a multitude of low foam-streaked waves.
There was not a sign of life to be seen anywhere on the vast disk of
the sea, not a trail, not a smudge of smoke on the horizon's circle,
not even a solitary gull or diver. The destroyer, dwarfed by her
world, ran up and down the square she had been chosen to guard. She
had the air of performing a casual evolution. There was never
anything to be found in this particular square. It lay beyond the
great highways; even the sight of a coaster was there something of a
rarity. Periscopes were never reported from that area, never had
been reported, and probably never would be. Caressed by the sun,
enveloped in the serenity of the day as in a mantle, the destroyer
went back and forth on her patrol.
The emergence of the periscope a quarter of a mile ahead off the
starboard bow had in it something so unattended that the incident had
a character of abnormality ... much as if a familiar hill should
suddenly turn into a volcano. It is greatly to the honour of the
ship's discipline, that those aboard were not staled by months of
unfruitful vigil, and acted as swiftly as if the destruction of a
submarine were matter of daily practice. There it lay, going
steadily along about two hundred yards away, ... a simple, most
unromantic black rod rising two feet or so above the waves. A white
furrow like a kind of comet's tail, streamed behind it, forever
widening at the end. Later on, they asked themselves what the
submarine could possibly have been doing. Seeking a quiet place to
come up to breathe, to effect repairs, to send out a hurried wireless
message?
It might have been a rendezvous between the two vessels. One felt
that the gods had brought to pass there no careless drama, but a
tragedy long meditated and skillfully prepared. The morning sun
watched, a casual spectator, the duel between the two engines of
violence.
There had been a command, a call of the summoning bell, a release of
power carefully stored for just such an event, and the destroyer
leaped ahead like a runner from the starting line. The periscope,
meanwhile, continued to plough its way straight ahead almost into the
teeth of the wind and the flattened, marbly waves. Presently, either
because the destroyer had been seen or heard on the submarine
telephone, the submarine began to submerge, sucking in a kind of a
foaming hollow as she sank. Aboard the destroyer, they wondered if
the keel would clear her, and waited for the shock, the rasping
grind. But nothing happened. The first depth bomb fell into the
heart of the submarine's swirl even as a well placed stone falls in
the heart of a pool. Trembling to the roar of her fans, the
destroyer fled across the spot, and turned. The wake of her passing
had almost obliterated the platter-shaped swirl the submarine had
left behind; one had a vision of the great steel cylinder tumbling,
bubbling down through green water to dark, harmless as a spool of
thread on the surface, but presently to be changed by the wisdom and
cunning of men into monstrous and chaotic strength. One, two, three,
four, five ... a thundering pound.... The submarine rose behind
them, her bow on the crest of the geyser, an immense, tapering rusty
mass, wet and shining in the placid glance of the day. From a kind
of hole some distance up the side, a stream of oil ran much like
blood from a small deep wound.... A gun spoke, and spoke again, a
careening whizz, ... ugly hollow crashes of tearing steel ... the sub
heeled far over on her starboard side ... those nearest heard, or
thought they heard, screaming ... the bow sank, tilting up the great
planes and propellers. A monstrous bubble or two broke on the
tormented surface just before she disappeared ... and with her going,
the calm of the spring morning, which had been frightened away like a
singing bird, returned once more to the tragic and mysterious sea.
XIX
THE LEGEND OF KELLEY
Kelley, not Von Biberstein or Hans Bratwurst, is his name, Kelley
spelled with an "e." The first destroyer officer whom you question
will very possibly have never heard of him, the second will have
heard the legend, the third will tell you of a radio officer, a
friend of his, who received one of Kelley's messages. So day by day
the legend grows apace. Kelley is the captain of a German submarine.
The first time that I heard about him he figured as a young Irishman
of good family who had attached himself to the German cause in order
to settle old scores. "Lots of people know him in the west of
Ireland; he goes ashore there any time he cares to." Another
version, perhaps the true one, if there be any truth at all in this
fantastic business, is that Kelley is no Irishman but a cosmopolitan,
jesting German with a Celtic camouflage. No less a person than
Captain James Norman Hall testifies that the Germans in the trenches
often tried to anger the British troops by pretending they were
disloyal Irish. So perhaps Kelley is Von Biberstein after all. A
third version has it that Kelley is a Californian of Irish origin.
Those who hold to this last view have it that Kelley spares all
American ships but sends the Union Jack to the bottom without mercy.
Many and varied are Kelley's activities. He has penchant for sending
messages. "I am in latitude x and longitude y; come and get
me--Kelley," has come at the dead of night into the ears of many an
astounded radio operator. Others declare that these messages were
sent by Hans Rose, the skipper of the submarine which attacked the
shipping off Nantucket in 1916. All agree that Kelley was the beau
ideal of pirates. He sinks a ship and apologizes for his action, he
sees the women passengers into the boats with the grace and urbanity
of a Chesterfield, he comes alongside a wretched huddle of survivors,
supplies them with food, and sends out notice of their position.
When they ask his name, he replies "Captain Kelley," and disappears
from view beneath the sea. He goes ashore, and proves his visit with
theatre tickets and hotel bills. "London hotel bills made out to
Kelley, Esquire." He requests the survivors as a slight favour to
tell Captain Nameless of the Destroyer XYZ that his propeller shaft
needs repairing; that he, Kelley, has been seriously annoyed by
having to listen to the imperfect beat via the submarine telephone.
There is certainly a flavour of Celt in this chivalry tinged with
mockery.
I could never find anybody who had actually seen him, much to my
regret, for I should have been glad to describe so famous a person.
Months have passed since last I heard of him. Perhaps he is still in
the Irish Sea; perhaps he is now at Harwich, perhaps he has gone
aloft to join his kinsman "The Flying Dutchman." If so, let us keep
his memory green, for he was a pirate _sans peur et sans reproche_.
XX
SONS OF THE TRIDENT
Any essay on the British sailor must rise from a foundation of
wholesome respect. One cannot look at the master of the world
without philosophy. And British Jack is the world's master, for he
holds in his hands that mastery of the seas which is the mastery of
the land. He is a sailor of the mightiest of all navies, an
inheritor of the world's most remarkable naval tradition, a true son
of Britannia's ancient trident.
What is he like, British Jack? How does he impress those companions
who share the vigil of the seas?
To begin with the Briton is, on the average, an older man than our
bluejacket. British Jack has not gone into the Royal Navy "for the
fun of it" or "to see the world," as our posters say, but as the
serious business of his life. His enlistment is an eight-year
affair, and by the time that he has completed it, he rarely thinks of
returning to a prosaic life ashore. Thus it comes about that whilst
our American sailors are usually somewhere in the eager,
irresponsible twenties, British tars are often men of sober middle
age. One is sure to see, in any of the "home ports," the fleet's
married men out walking on Sunday with their wives and children,
forming together a number of honest, steady little groups whose hold
on the durable satisfactions of life it is a pleasure to see. The
"home ports" idea has well proved its value. It is simple enough in
operation. Each ship, according to the plan, bases on some definite
port, thus permitting poor Jack (who has enough of roaming at sea) to
have a steady home on land. In all the great British bases,
therefore, you will find these sailor colonies. I was well
acquainted with a retired Navy chaplain who ministered to such a
group. These families form a distinct group dependent on the Navy.
Marriages are performed by the naval chaplain, the ills of the flesh
are looked after by the fleet surgeons, and the rare troubles are
brought to the judgment of Jack's favourite officers.
Our American crews are gathered together from all over the vast
continent, British crews are often recruited from one section of the
country. For instance, a ship manned by a crew from "out o' Devon"
is known as a "West Country" ship and its sailors as "Westos." A
real Royal Navy man knows in an instant the character of any ship
which he happens to visit. The drawled "oa's" and oe's" of the West
tell the story. I once heard a "Westo" refer to an officious wharf
tender as a "bloody to-ad," a phrase that certainly has character.
Then there be ships based on Irish ports. Indeed, there are sure to
be Irish sailors on every ship, irresponsible, keen-witted Celts to
whom all devilment is entrusted.
The war has not been without influence on the naval personnel.
British Jack had, in his own social system, a place of his own. He
is not looked down upon, for the British bluejacket has been, is, and
forever ought to be the best loved of national figures. Sons of
"gentlemen," however, I use the word here in its British sense, did
not join the Royal Navy as enlisted men. Such a thing would have
been regarded as "queer" (no mild word, in Britain), and the crew
certainly would have looked upon any such arrival as an intruder.
But just as the war has placed University men side by side in the
ranks with troopers like Kipling's Ortheris, so has it placed among
the enlisted personnel of the Royal Navy a large number of men from
the educated and wealthier class. There hung in the Royal Academy
this spring a portrait of a British bluejacket, a pleasant-looking
lad some nineteen or twenty years of age with blond hair, a long face
and honest eyes of English grey. It was entitled "My Son." Almost
invariably the older visitors to the exhibition, when looking at this
picture, would fall to talking of the change in the social system
which the portrait symbolized.
There are always a number of boys on British ships, for the British
hold that to be a good sailor, one should early become familiar with
the sea. The status of "boy" is a kind of distinct rating, and these
youngsters are addressed by their last names, viz., Boy Bumblechook
or Boy Stiggins. They have shown up wonderfully well. One has but
to recall little Cornell of Jutland to see of what stuff these lads
are made.
The British sailor's uniform is picturesque and characteristic, but
certainly less attractive than ours. It is cut not of broadcloth or
of serge, but of heavy blue worsted, and a detachable collar of blue
linen falls back upon the blouse. Our sailors are forever washing
the blouses to keep the white stripes of the collar clean; the Briton
has only his collar to care for. And there is a difference between
the national builds as marked as the difference twixt the uniforms.
Our Jack is rangy, lean and quick-moving, the Briton heavier,
shorter, and more deliberate. In hours of leisure, the Briton busies
himself with knitting, wood-carving or weaving rag rugs; the
American, driven by the mechanical genius of the nation, hurries to
the ship's machine shop to pound a half-crown into a ring.
The sons of Columbia and the sons of Britannia get on very well
together. At the big club house at the Irish base, there are always
little groups of British sailors to be seen, quiet, well-behaved
fellows who watch everything with British dignity. Our bluejackets,
however, are far more chummy with British soldiers than with Britons
of their own calling. Navy blue and khaki are forever going down the
street arm in arm. The tar is always keen to hear of the front.
Tommy does the talking. After all, there is a difference in the
vernacular. Witness this poem which I reprint from the August number
of _Our Navy_. It is by a Navy man, Mr. R. P. Maulsley. The word
Limey, here shortened to "Lima," means, used as a noun, a British
sailorman; used as an adjective, British. The term had its origin in
the ancient British custom of giving lime juice to ward off scurvy.
THE LIMA AND THE YANKS
By R. P. Maulsley
It was nice and cozy in the "Pub,"
And blowing cold outside.
By the fireplace sat two gobbies,
America's joy and pride.
When a Lima from a cruiser
Thought their talk he'd like to hear,
And sat down just behind them,
With a half o' pint of beer.
And o'er a flowing mug of ale,
That held about a quart,
He heard them swapping stories
About their stay in port.
"Say, this is sure some burg,
Tho' it ain't the U.S.A.,
But did you pipe the classy Jane,
That passed us on the quay?
"She gave me some sweet smile, bo,
And winked her pretty eye,"
"Get out, you big hay-maker,
It was for me she meant to sigh."
"G'wan you homely piece of cheese,
You're talkin' thru' your hat,
I'll betsha just ten plasters,
It was me she was smiling at."
"I'll take that up old-timer,
Why, that's some easy dough,
We'll have another round,
And then we'll have to blow.
"And if I lamp that broad, kid,
And she cottons to me quick,
I'll buy her everything in town,
And make that ten look sick."
They arose and left the Lima,
A gasping in some chairs,
And as they left the room,
He heard them on the stairs.
"Like candy from a baby,
I'll take your coin this day,
And have a high old time and--
Say, how did you get that way?"
The Lima emptied his tankard,
And caught the barmaid's eye,
"I 'eard them Yanks a tarkin',
But what the bloomin' ell'd they seye?"
XXI
THE FLEET