Presently I had the honour to meet a Lieutenant-Commander-Admiral who
had retired from the service, but, like others, had turned out again at
the first flash of the guns, and now commands--he who had great ships
erupting at his least signal--a squadron of trawlers for the protection
of the Dogger Bank Fleet. At present prices--let alone the chance of the
paying submarine--men would fish in much warmer places. His flagship
was once a multi-millionaire's private yacht. In her mixture of stark,
carpetless, curtainless, carbolised present, with voluptuously curved,
broad-decked, easy-stairwayed past, she might be Queen Guinevere in the
convent at Amesbury. And her Lieutenant-Commander, most careful to pay
all due compliments to Admirals who were midshipmen when _he_ was a
Commander, leads a congregation of very hard men indeed. They do
precisely what he tells them to, and with him go through strange
experiences, because they love him and because his language is volcanic
and wonderful--what you might call Popocatapocalyptic. I saw the Old
Navy making ready to lead out the New under a grey sky and a falling
glass--the wisdom and cunning of the old man backed up by the passion
and power of the younger breed, and the discipline which had been his
soul for half a century binding them all.
"What'll he do _this_ time?" I asked of one who might know.
"He'll cruise between Two and Three East; but if you'll tell me what
he _won't_ do, it 'ud be more to the point! He's mine-hunting, I
expect, just now."