On August 27 (1914) we were hoping to meet the enemy early on the
following morning.
On August 28, at 3:45 A.M., "Action" was sounded off. Two
cruisers (supposed enemy's ships) having been suddenly observed,
had caused us to take up "stations" somewhat earlier than had been
anticipated. It was quickly discovered, however, that the cruisers were
our own. Shortly after, therefore, breakfast was piped to each watch
in turn, and at about 7 A.M. the enemy's ships were actually
sighted. From this time on to close upon 2 P.M., successive
actions were fought between various opposing forces of the two fleets.
The day was fine and calm, while the sun gleamed through a very hazy
atmosphere, in which patches of fog shortened up the visual distance
from time to time.
I remained on the upper deck during the earlier part of the affair, and
found it a most interesting and inspiring sight to watch our destroyers
and the _Arethusa_ and her divisions dashing at full speed after the
enemy, while soon the frequent spurts of flame from their sides, the
following reports, and the columns of water and spray thrown up by the
enemy's shells pitching short or over, began to create in most of us
a suppressed excitement which we had not hitherto experienced, telling
us that the "real thing" had begun, that an action was actually in
progress.
Shortly our interest was to multiply fourfold, when the order to fire
our own guns was given. After a time shells began to drop ominously
near. I retired to my station, a selected spot just below waterline in
the after bread room, one of the few available places in a ship of this
class where some of my party of first-aid men could be accommodated;
the other half of the party in charge of the sick-berth steward being
situated at a similar station forward. This period one found trying.
For knowledge as to how matters were progressing we had to rely upon
fragments of information shouted down the nearest hatchway from someone
in communication with those on the upper deck.
The rat-tat-tat! rat, tat, tat, tat! on our side from time to time,
as we got into the thick of it, told us plainly of shells pitching
short and bursting, whose fragments struck but did not penetrate the
ship's skin; it was a weird sound, occasionally varied by a tremendous
"woomp," which once at least made the paymaster, who was reclining
near me on a flour sack, and myself, look hard at the side close by
us, where we fully expected, for the moment, to see water coming in.
As a matter of fact, this shell entered some forty feet away, bursting
on entry into the Lieutenant Commander's cabin, while its solid nose
finally fetched up in the wardroom, where later on it was christened
"our honorary member." For this trophy I believe we have the _Mainz_ or
_Koeln_ to thank. The wardroom steward found a similar piece of shell
in his hammock that night. It had penetrated the ship's side and a
bulkhead before finally choosing its highly suitable place of rest.
The shells that missed us burst upon the surface of the ocean near by
and, strange as it may seem to those not familiar with such things, the
fragments flew from the water with sufficient force to dent the sides
of the ship and to kill men when they dropped on the deck.
When a shell actually struck our ship and penetrated the structure
there was a reverberating crash that roared from end to end and nearly
drove our eardrums in and made work of any delicacy impossible. It was
bad enough with us, but what must have been happening on some of the
German ships that were now sinking and were being pierced by great
shells from three sides at once I leave to some one with imagination.