Some of the original flotilla were chased and headed about by cruisers
after their attack on the six battleships, and a single shell from
battleship or cruiser reduced one of them to such a condition that she
was brought home by her sub-lieutenant and a midshipman. Her captain,
first lieutenant, gunner, torpedo coxswain, and both signalmen were
either killed or wounded; the bridge, with charts, instruments, and
signalling gear went; all torpedoes were expended; a gun was out of
action, and the usual cordite fires developed. Luckily, the engines
were workable. She escaped under cover of a smoke-screen, which is an
unbearably filthy outpouring of the densest smoke, made by increasing
the proportion of oil to air in the furnace-feed. It rolls forth from
the funnels looking solid enough to sit upon, spreads in a
searchlight-proof pat of impenetrable beastliness, and in still
weather hangs for hours. But it saved that ship.
It is curious to note the subdued tone of a boy's report when by some
accident of slaughter he is raised to command. There are certain
formalities which every ship must comply with on entering certain
ports. No fully-striped commander would trouble to detail them any
more than he would the aspect of his Club porter. The young 'un puts
it all down, as who should say: "I rang the bell, wiped my feet on the
mat, and asked if they were at home." He is most careful of the port
proprieties, and since he will be sub. again to-morrow, and all his
equals will tell him exactly how he ought to have handled her, he
almost apologises for the steps he took--deeds which ashore might be
called cool or daring.
The Senior Service does not gush. There are certain formulae
appropriate to every occasion. One of our destroyers, who was knocked
out early in the day and lay helpless, was sighted by several of her
companions. One of them reported her to the authorities, but, being
busy at the time, said he did not think himself justified in hampering
himself with a disabled ship in the middle of an action. It was not as
if she was sinking either. She was only holed foreward and aft, with a
bad hit in the engine-room, and her steering-gear knocked out. In this
posture she cheered the passing ships, and set about repairing her
hurts with good heart and a smiling countenance. She managed to get
under some sort of way at midnight, and next day was taken in tow by a
friend. She says officially, "his assistance was invaluable, as I had
no oil left and met heavy weather."
What actually happened was much less formal. Fleet destroyers, as a
rule, do not worry about navigation. They take their orders from the
flagship, and range out and return, on signal, like sheep-dogs whose
fixed point is their shepherd. Consequently, when they break loose on
their own they may fetch up rather doubtful of their whereabouts--as
this injured one did. After she had been so kindly taken in tow, she
inquired of her friend ("Message captain to captain")--"Have you any
notion where we are?" The friend replied, "I have not, but I will find
out." So the friend waited on the sun with the necessary implements,
which luckily had not been smashed, and in due time made: "Our
observed position at this hour is thus and thus." The tow,
irreverently, "Is it? Didn't know you were a navigator." The friend,
with hauteur, "Yes; it's rather a hobby of mine." The tow, "Had no
idea it was as bad as all that; but I'm afraid I'll have to trust you
this time. Go ahead, and be quick about it." They reached a port,
correctly enough, but to this hour the tow, having studied with the
friend at a place called Dartmouth, insists that it was pure Joss.