afternoon, and the little suburban train which leaves and pauses at
the Edinburgh Grand Fleet pier had not yet been brought to its
platform. The cold sunlight of a northern spring fell upon the vast,
empty station, and burnished the lines of rail beyond the entrance
arch. Two porters from the adjoining hotel, wearing coats of
orange-red with dull brass buttons, stood lackadaisically by a
booking office closed for the dinner hour. Presently, after a
piercing shriek intensified by the surrounding quiet, the suburban
train backed in with a smooth, crawling noise. Various folk began to
appear on the platform, a group of young British naval officers, a
handful of older sailors, a captain carrying a small leather affair
much like a miniature suit-case, a number of civilians, two "Jacks"
evidently on furlough, and a young sailor lad with a fine bull
terrier bitch on a leash. No one entered to share my compartment.
The train left behind the clean, grim town ... rolled on through
suburbs and through fields barely awake to the spring ... paused here
and there at tidy, little stations ... reached the station above the
pier. Somewhat uncertain of my path to the landing, I followed a
group of officers. A middle-aged soldier sentry with grey hair and
ruddy cheeks held me up for my pass, unfolded and folded it again
with extraordinary deliberation, and courteously set me on my way.
As yet there was no sign of the sea, nor had it once been visible
during the journey. One might have been on the way to play golf at
an inland field. The path to the pier descended a great flight of
steps and passed a space in which men were playing football.... A
turn down a bit of road, and I was looking at the fleet.
It lay in the great firth, in a monstrous estuary enclosed between
barren banks rising to no great height. Bare, scattered woodlands
were to be seen, a clump of cottages, a castellated house in a
solitary spot, a great wharf with a trumpery traveller's bookstall in
a wooden shed at its entrance, a huddle of grey roofs at the water's
edge on the distant side. Over a spur of land the smoke of a giant
dockyard rose in a hazy reek to the obscured and silvery sun. The
water in which the squadrons lay was for the moment as calm as a
woodland pool; in colour, green-grey.... An incredible number of
ships of war lying lengthwise in orderly lines, bows turned to the
unseen river of the rising tide, ... row after row, squadron after
squadron, fleet after fleet, ships of war, dark, terrible and huge,
no more to be counted than the leaves of trees. As far as the eye
could reach up and down the firth, ships. One beheld there the
mastery of the sea made visible, the mastery of all the highways and
the secret paths of the waters of earth. Because of this fleet ships
were able to bring grain from distant fields, great hopes were kept
aflame, and the life blood of evil ambitions poured upon the ground.
A grey haze lay at the mouth of the roads and somewhere in the heart
of it was target practice being held, for violent blots of light
again and again burst open the dim and veiling fog. Small gulls
passed on motionless wings, whistling. Now and then a vessel would
run up a tangle of flags. The signal light of a flagship suddenly
uttered a message with intermittent flashes of an unnatural violet
white glare.
Over earth and sea brooded the peace of empire.
XXII
THE AMERICAN SQUADRON
The morning found me a guest aboard the flagship of the American
battleship squadron attached to the Grand Fleet. Going on deck, I
found the sun struggling through thin, motionless mists. A layer of
webby drops lay on wall and rail, on turret and gun. Presently a
little cool wind, blowing from the land, fled over the calm water in
mottled, scaly spots, bringing with it a piping beat of rhythmic
music. Half a mile beyond the flagship, the crew of a British
warship were running in a column round and round her decks to the
music of the ship's band. An endless file of white clad figures bent
forward, a faint regular tattoo of running feet. Round and about
several of the giants were signalling in blinker. Beyond us stood a
titanic bridge, whose network was here and there smouched with
clinging vapour, and beneath this giant, a tanker laden with oil for
the fleet passed solemnly, followed by wheeling gulls. Presently two
American sailors, lads of that alert, eager type that is so intensely
and honestly American, popped out of a doorway and began to polish
bright work.
America was there.
Surely it was one of the finest thoughts of the war to send this
squadron of ours. Putting aside for the instant any thought of the
squadron as a unit of naval strength, Americans and Britons will do
well to consider it rather as a splendid symbol of a union dedicated
to the most honourable of purposes, to the defence of that ideal of
fraternity and international good faith now menaced. They say that
when the American squadron came steaming into the fleet's more
northern base one bitter winter day, cheer after cheer broke from the
British vessels as they passed, till even the forlorn, snow-covered
land rang with the shouting.
It has recently been announced that our battleship squadron is under
the command of Admiral Hugh Rodman, which announcement the Germans
must have taken to heart, for Admiral Rodman is a man of action if
ever one there was. Tall, strongly built, vigorous and alert, he
dominates whatever group he happens to find himself in by sheer force
of personality. It would fare ill with a German who brought his
fleet under the sweep of those keen eyes. Admiral Rodman is a
Kentuckian, and a union of blue grass and blue sea is pretty hard to
beat, especially when accompanied by a shrewd sense of humour.
I talked with Admiral Rodman about the squadron and its work.
"Always remember," said he, "that this squadron is not over here, as
somebody put it, 'helping the British.' Nor are we 'coöperating'
with the British fleet. Such ideas are erroneous, and would mislead
your readers. Think of this great fleet which you see here as a unit
of force, controlled by one ideal, one spirit and one mind, and of
the American squadron as an integral part of that fleet. Take, as an
instance of what I mean, the change in our signalling system. We
came over here using the American system of signals. Well, we could
not have two sets of signals going, so in order to get right into
things, we learned the British signals, and it's the British system
we are using to-day.... There are American _ships_ here and British
ships but _only one fleet_.
Everywhere I went, I found both British and American officers keen to
emphasize this unity. Said a Briton---"Why we no longer think of the
Americans of 'the Americans'; we think of squadron X of the fleet.
It's just wonderful the way your chaps have got down to business and
fallen in with the technique and the traditions. We expected to see
you spend some time getting into the life of the fleet and all that,
you know; the sort of thing that a boy in a public school goes
through before he gets the spirit and the ways of the place, but your
people came along in the morning and had picked up everything by the
afternoon." And I found the Americans proud of the fleet's essential
oneness, proud to share in its great tradition, and to be a part of
its history. America is taking no obscure place. Her hosts have
given her the place of honour in the battle line.
[Illustration: An American battleship fleet leaving the harbor]
Battle--that was the thought of everybody aboard the fleet. If only
the German "High Canal" fleet would really come out and fight it to a
finish, or as an American lieutenant put it, "start something." The
Germans, however, knew only too well that the famous betoasted _Der
Tag_ would turn swiftly into a _Dies Iræe_ and preferred to
surrender. So for lack of an antagonist, the fleet had to be content
to keep steam up all the time and to know that everything was
prepared for a day of battle. But the fleet did far more than wait.
No statement of the Germans was more empty of truth than the silly
cry that the British fleet lies "skulking in harbour for fear of
submarines." The fleet was busy all the time. Again and again, a
visible defiance, it swept by the mine sealed mouths of the German
bases. For five years now, the fleet has been on a war footing
prepared for instant action, a tremendous task this. "If they only
had come out, the beggars."
A day with the fleet in port passed casually and calmly enough.
There was none of that melodrama which invests the war of the
destroyer and the submarine, and human problems seemed to lack
importance, for in the fleet man is somewhat shadowed by the immense
force he has created. On board there were various drills, perhaps a
general quarters practice drill that sends everybody scurrying to his
station. Hour after hour, the visitor sees the continuous and
multitudinous activity needed to keep a dreadnaught in shape as a
fortress, an engine, and a ship. Then, when the evening has come,
such officers as are off duty may sit down to a game of bridge or go
to their rooms to read or study quietly. There are great days when
kings and queens come aboard and are royally entertained. Twice a
week the entertainment committee of the fleet sent round a steel box
full of "movies." However, everybody enjoys them, and laughs. But
it is good to escape on deck again, and see the squadron and the
fleet beneath the haloed moon.
The shores about are quite in darkness, though now and then a glow
appears over the hidden dockyard as if some one there had opened a
furnace door. A little breeze is blowing a thin, flat sheet of cloud
across the moon; one can hear water slapping against the sides. The
sailors on watch walk up and down the decks, shouldering their guns.
In the light one might believe the basketry of the woven masts to be
spun of delicate silver bars. Behind us ride the other vessels of
the squadron, a row of dark, triangular shapes. The great columnar
guns, sealed with a brazen plug, seem mute and dead. The curtain of
a hatchway parts, and a little group of officers come on deck to
watch a squadron go to sea. One by one the vessels, battleships and
attendant destroyers glide past us into the dark, and so swift and
silent their motion is that they seem to be less self-propelled than
drawn forward by some mysterious force dwelling far beyond in the
moonlit sea. A slight hiss of cleaving water, the length of a
hurrying grey fortress beneath the moon, and the last of the squadron
vanishes down the roads. For a little time one may see the
diminishing glares of blinker lights. Squadrons of various kinds are
forever leaving a fleet base to go on mysterious errands, squadrons
are ever returning home from the mystery and silence of the sea.
A friend comes to tell me that we have been put on "short notice,"
and may leave at any instant.
XXIII
TO SEA WITH THE FLEET
On the morning of the day that the fleet went out, there was to be
felt aboard that tensity which follows on a "short notice" warning.
Officers rushed into the wardroom for a hasty cup of coffee and
hurried back to their beloved engines; the bluejackets, too, knew
that something was in the air. A visitor to the flagship will not
have to study long the faces of his hosts to see that they are an
exceptional lot of men. Whilst among the destroyers there is a good
deal of the grey-eyed ram-you, damn-you type; on a battleship there
is a union of the elements of thought and action which is very fine
to see. Nor is the artist element lacking in many a countenance. I
remember a chief engineer whose ability as an engineer was a word in
the fleet; it was easy to see, when he took you through his
marvellous engine room, that he enjoyed his labour as much for the
wonder of the delicacy, the power and the precision of his giant
engines as he did for their mere mechanical side of pressures and
horsepower. Nor shall I ever see a more perfect example of
coördination and competence than a turret drill at which I was
invited to assist. From the distinguished young executive to the
lowest rated officer in "the steerage," every man brought to his task
not only an expert's understanding of it, but a love of his work,
which, I think it is Kipling that says it, is the most wonderful
thing in all the world. The vessel was very much what Navy folk call
a "happy ship." I must say the prospect of going out with the fleet
and with such a wonderful crowd did not make me keenly miserable.
"If they only would come out, ah, if...!"
"So we are still on an hour's notice," I said to one of my hosts in
the hope of getting some information.
"Yes, back again. At two o'clock this morning the time was extended,
but after seven we were put back on short time once more."
"I suppose the time is always shifting and changing?"
"Yes, indeed. You know we are always on an hour's notice. Pretty
short, isn't it? You see we don't want the Germans to get away with
anything if we can help it. Got to be ready to sail right down and
smash them. Nobody knows just why the time changes come. Somebody
knows something of course. Perhaps one of the British submarines on
outpost duty off the German coast has seen something, and sent it
along by wireless.
I asked about the German watch on the British bases.
"Subs. Everybody's doing it. I suppose that two or three are
hanging off this coast all the time trying to get a squint at the
fleet. It's what we call keeping a 'periscope watch' ... run by the
naval intelligence. Little good anything they pick up about us does
the Germans! Safety first is their daring game. What they are
itching to do is to pick off one of our patrol squadrons that's gone
on a little prospecting toot all by itself. They'd try, I think, if
they weren't mighty well aware that not a single ship of the crowd
that did the stunt would ever get back to the old home canal."
Presently a sailor messenger arrived, stood to attention, saluted
snappily, and presented a paper. The officer read and signed.
"You're in luck," said he. "We are going out ... due to leave in
three hours. Whole fleet together, evidently. Something's on for
sure.... Hope they're out." And off he hurried to his quarters. I
saw "the exec." going from place to place taking a look at
everything. Pretty soon the chaplain of the flagship, an officer to
whose friendly welcome and thoughtful courtesy I am in real debt,
came looking for me.
"Come along," he cried, "you are missing the show. They're beginning
to go out already. You ought to be on deck," and seizing me by the
arm, he rushed me energetically up a companionway to the world
without. There I learned that the departure of the Grand Fleet was
no simultaneous movement such as the start of an automobile convoy,
but a kind of tremendous process occupying several hours. The scout
vessels, were to go first, then the various classes of cruisers and
the destroyer flotillas with whom they acted in concert, last of all
the squadrons of battleships. Our own sailing time was three hours
distant and the outward movement had already begun.
[Illustration: Even a super-dreadnought is wet at times]
The day was a pleasant one, the sun was shining clear and a fresh
salty breeze was blowing down the estuary. The officers, however,
shook their heads, talked of "low visibility," and pointed out that
an invisible mist hung over the water, whose cumulative effect was
not at all to their liking. First there went out a new variety of
submarine, steam submarines of extraordinary size and speed; there
followed a swift procession of destroyers and lighter cruisers, many
signalling with blinker and flag. The outgoing of the destroyers was
a sight not to be forgotten, for more than anything else did it
impress upon me the titanic character of the fleet. _Destroyers
passed one every fifty seconds for a space of many hours_. You would
hear a hiss, and a lean, low rapier of a vessel would pass within a
hundred yards of the flagship and hurry on, rolling, into the waiting
haze of the open sea, and as you watched this first vessel leave your
bow astern, you would hear another watery hiss prophetic of the
following boat. On our own vessel all boats had long before been
hoisted to their places; there were mysterious crashing noises, bugle
calls, a deal of orderly action. Time passed; a long time full of
movement and stir. The greater vessels began to go out, titans of
heroic name, _The Iron Duke_, _Queen Elizabeth_, _Lion_. A broad
swirling road of water lay behind them as one by one they melted into
that ever mysterious obscurity ahead. Then with a jar, and a torrent
of crashing iron thunder dreadful as a disintegration of the universe
itself, our own immense anchor chains rose from the water below, and
the American flagship got under way. We looked with a meditative eye
on the bare shores of the firth wondering what adventures we were to
have before we saw them again. Behind us the mist gathered, ahead,
it melted away. And thus we stood out to the open sea. Night came,
starlit and cold. Just at sun-down one of the British ships
destroyed a floating mine with gun fire. I sought information from
an officer friend.
"What about the mine problem?"
"Never bothers us a bit, though the Germans have planted mines
everywhere. This North Sea is as full of them as a pudding is of
plums."
"Why is it then that the fleet doesn't lose ships when out on these
expeditions?"
"Because the British mine sweepers have done so bully a job."
"But once you get beyond the swept channels at the harbour mouths,
what then?"
"The mine-sweepers attend to the whole North Sea."
"You mean to say that the Admiralty actually clears an ocean of
mines?"
"To all intents and purposes, yes. Haven't you read of naval
skirmishes in the North Sea? They are always having them. Many of
those skirmishes take place between patrol boats of ours and enemy
patrols. Of course it's a task, but the British have done it. One
of the most wonderful achievements of the war."
"Suppose the Germans try to reach the British coast?"
"They do their best to find the British path. As a result, the
Germans are always either bumping into their own mines or into ours.
I feel pretty sure that their loss from mines has been quite heavy."
"Where, then, are the German cruising grounds? Doesn't their fleet
get out once in a while?"
"Not to the outer sea. Once in a while they parade up the Danish
coast, never going more than two or three hours from their base. Our
steady game, of course, is to nab them when they are out, and cut off
their retreat. If the weather had held good at Jutland, this would
have been done. But the Germans now hardly ever venture out.
Destroyers of theirs, based on the Belgian coast, try to mix things
up in the Channel once or twice a year, but the fleet seems to stick
pretty closely to dear old Kiel."
"Any more information in regard to this present trip?"
"Not a thing. It's always mysterious like this. Yet in twenty
minutes we may be right in the thick of the world's greatest naval
battle."
The next morning I rose at dawn to see the fleet emerge from the dark
of night. A North Sea morning was at hand, cold, windy and clear.
Now seas have their characters even as various areas of land, and
there is as much difference between the North Sea and the Irish Sea
as there is between a rocky New England pasture and a stretch of
prairie. The shallow North Sea is in colour an honest salty, ocean
green, and its surface is ever in motion; a sea without respite or
rest. It has a franker, more masculine character than the
beleaguered sea to the west with its mottlings of shadow and shoal
and weaving, white-crested tide rips. A great armament, scouts,
destroyers, and light cruisers had already passed over the edge of
the world, and only a very thin haze revealed their presence. Miles
ahead of us in a great lateral line, a number of great warships, vast
triangular bulks, ploughed along side by side, then came the American
squadron in a perpendicular line, each vessel escorted by destroyers.
Behind us, immense, stately, formidable and dark, the second American
ship followed down the broad river of our wake which flowed like
liquid marble from the beat of the propellers. And behind the
American squadron lay other ships, and over the horizon the bows of
more ships still were pointing to the mine-strewn German coast. The
Grand Fleet line, _eighty miles long_, rode the sea, a symbol of
power, an august and visible defiance. Standing beneath the forward
turret, beside the muzzles of the titan guns, I felt that I had at
last beheld the mightiest element of the war.
Tightly wrapped in a navy great coat, the young officer whose guest I
had been at turret drill walked up and down the deck watching the
southeastern horizon. What eagerness lay in his eyes! If we only
might then have heard a heavy detonation from over the edge of the
dawn-illumined sky! ... All day long we cried our challenge over the
sealed waters ahead.
Were "they" out? To this day, I do not know. The ways of the fleet
are mysterious. Certainly, none came forth to accept our gage of
battle. A time passed, and we were in port again. We saw the
vessels we had left behind, the supply ships, tugs, oil tenders,
colliers ... all the servants of the fleet.
Down in the wardroom, the tension relaxed. The anchor chain rattled
out; once more the universe seemed to part asunder. The mail had
arrived, joyous event. Somebody put a roll of music into a rather
passé player piano, and let loose an avalanche of horribly orderly
chords.
And all the time the Olympians were preparing, not the battle of the
ages, but the Great Surrender!
XXIV
"SKY PILOTS"
We know him as chaplain, the gobs use the good old term "Sky Pilot,"
and the British call him "Padre." His task, no light one, is to look
after the spiritual and moral welfare of some thousand sailor souls.
He is general counsellor, friend in need, mender of broken hearts,
counsel for the defence, censor, and show manager. Now he comes to
the defence of seaman, first class, Billy Jones, whose frail bark of
life has come to grief on the treacherous reef of the installment
plan, and for whose misdemeanours a clamouring merchant is on deck
threatening to "attach the ship." Now he is assuring the clergyman
of the church on the hill that 2nd class petty officer Edgar K. Lee
(who is going to marry pretty little Norah Desmond) is not, as far as
he knows, committing bigamy. They tell of a chaplain of the
destroyer force who, pestered beyond bearing by these demands that
the American bridegroom be declared officially and stainlessly
single, floored his tormentor by replying: "I've told you that as far
as we know the man's unmarried. We can't give you any assurance more
official. He may be bigamous, trigamous, quadrugamous, or," here he
paused for effect, "pentagamous, but I advise you to risk it." The
land sky pilot is said to have collapsed.
Aboard the flagship of the Grand Fleet, the chaplain of the vessel
was my guide, counsellor, and friend. In the words of one of the
sailors, "Our chaplain is a real feller." And indeed it would have
been hard to find a better man for the task than this padre of ours
with his young man's idealism, friendliness, and energy. In addition
to his welfare work, he had his duties as a de-coder, and his spare
time he spent tutoring several of the enlisted personnel who were
about to take examinations for higher ratings. It is a great
mistake, by the way, to imagine that a violent gulf lies between the
commissioned officer and the enlisted man. One finds the higher
officer only too glad to help the sailor advance, and many times have
they said to me, "Don't write about us, write about the sailors; get
to know them; get their story." On this particular ship many of the
younger officers were, like the chaplain, giving up their spare time
to help the ambitious men along. Correspondence school courses are
great favourites in the Navy, and have undoubtedly helped many a
sailor on to a responsible rating.