WAR.
I.
Dinner in the wardroom had been over for some time, and the long table
in the centre of the apartment was cleared. The mess, though it was
close on ten o'clock, seemed very full of officers, far more crowded
than on ordinary evenings, and it was noticeable that all wore
'monkey-jackets'--the ordinary eight-buttoned reefer coats usually seen
in the daytime--instead of the customary mess-jackets, low waistcoats,
and starched white shirts.
The unusual size of the gathering was accounted for partly by the fact
that it happened to be the evening of 4th August 1914, when people were
expecting things to happen, and partly because a six-inch gun casemate,
which ordinarily served as an officers' smoking-room, had been bereft
of its furniture, supplied with a number of evil-looking shell, and had
otherwise been converted to the grim legitimate function for which it
had originally been intended--that is, as an armoured position for the
gun and its crew.
Pipes and cigarettes were going full blast, and the air in the wardroom
was blue with tobacco-smoke. A few of the occupants were seated in
arm-chairs or on the sofas, re-reading the morning papers or
assimilating the latest news from the early evening editions, which had
arrived with the last post at eight o'clock. But by far the greater
number were arguing and talking loudly, as was their habit.
The mess itself looked rather bare, for pictures had vanished from the
bulkheads, and the carpet, the piano, and certain other not strictly
necessary articles of furniture had disappeared. They had gone the way
of a good many other things--ashore out of harm's way, where their
presence could not be the cause of possible fires or splinters. Less
than a fortnight later, however, the younger members of the mess were
all clamouring for the return of the piano. They couldn't have their
sing-songs without it, they explained--which was perfectly true.
Moreover, they said, they were sick unto death of Peter Wooten's
bagpipes, the _padre's_ banjo, and Boyle's penny whistle, the only
other musical instruments in the mess; and so, after some discussion,
the piano came back, like the landlady's cat. The cabins, too, were
practically gutted. FitzJohnson, who loved comfort, nearly wept when he
entered his. His silk hangings and curtains, pictures, and photographs
had been torn ruthlessly from their fastenings and sent ashore. They
had filched his carpet and his chest of drawers. A score or so of
exquisite striped shirts, many suits of plain clothes, his uniform full
dress, frock-coats, and mess-jackets, which fitted his figure like a
glove, and shore-going boots of all kinds, shapes, and colours, had
been packed up in a box and sent to his long-suffering outfitter's for
storage. Little had been left him beyond his shallow bath, the drawers
under the bunk, a bookcase containing the King's Regulations and
Admiralty Instructions, the Addenda thereto, and a washstand.
Everything else seemed to have gone. He complained bitterly, poor
fellow, for his exquisite soul rebelled at this wholesale desecration.
The general atmosphere in the wardroom was by no means gloomy or sad.
On the contrary, every one seemed to be bubbling over with good
spirits. In some cases, perhaps, the hilarity was a trifle forced, for
when folk realise that war is practically inevitable they think they
must appear to be cheerful whatever their personal feelings may be. As
a consequence, they sometimes overdo it. But there were no signs of
depression; neither did one see the fierce aspect, tightly shut mouth,
puckered brow, and general 'do or die' appearance usually associated
with the eve of hostilities by sensational writers. They all knew that
the chances were fully 100 to 1 that they were about to take part in
the greatest struggle the world had ever known. Germany was already at
war with Russia; Teuton troops had violated the neutrality of Lùxemburg
and Belgium, and had crossed the French frontier at various points; so
it seemed impossible that Great Britain could refrain from joining in
the conflict.
Ever since the early afternoon things had been humming. Urgent
telegrams in cipher and wireless signals in code, the purport whereof
was unknown to any but the senior officers, had been pouring in all
day. Steam for full speed had been raised, and the ships were ready to
move at an instant's notice; while Captain Spencer had been on board
the flagship during the afternoon, and was away for a very long time.
But not till afterwards did any of them know that the British ultimatum
had already been handed to Germany.
Nobody was anything but cheerful. Their loyalty to their king, their
anxiety to fight and overcome in a just cause, and, if need be, their
readiness to die could not be expressed in mere words. There was no
necessity for it. They took all that as a matter of course. They had
been brought up to the idea ever since they had joined the service, so
why talk about it?
Cashley, the fleet paymaster, was vainly endeavouring to get up a four
at auction bridge. 'What about it, _padre_?' he asked. 'Going to take a
hand?'
His reverence, deep in the _Globe_, looked up. 'Bridge,' he said,
shaking his head; 'not to-night, Pay; thanks, all the same.'
'What about you, No. 1?'
'Can't be done, Pay. Too busy, I'm afraid.'
'Busy! You're not busy now?'
Chase laughed. 'It's all jolly well for you to talk,' he answered
good-naturedly. 'You've the prospect of a night in your bunk. I may be
dragged out at any time to get the anchor up if we go to sea. Besides,
the sailors are at night defence stations, and it's my morning watch.
Heigho! it's jolly nigh time I turned in.' He glanced up at the clock.
'Won't any one play bridge?' the fleet paymaster inquired plaintively,
looking round. 'The night's still young.'
All the usual habitués of the game shook their heads in dissent.
'This isn't an evening for bridge at all,' chipped in the
engineer-commander disapprovingly, looking up over the edge of his
paper. 'We don't want to be like Nero, fiddling while Rome burnt.'
'What bunkum you talk, chief!' retorted Cashley. 'Because we're going
to war is no reason why we shouldn't have a little innocent amusement.
What about Drake and his game of bowls on Plymouth Hoe?'
'That yarn's all rot!' said the engineer-commander. 'I know it's quoted
in all the history books; but I don't believe it's true, all the same.'
'And I,' said Chase, knocking out his pipe, 'would most respectfully
submit, my dear Pay, that the defeat of the Spanish Armada took place
in Anno Domini 1588.'
'And what the deuce has that got to do with it?'
'Merely that such things as wireless telegraphy, submarines, and
destroyers steaming thirty-five knots weren't invented when Sir Francis
served in the Home Fleet under Lord Howard of Effingham.'
'Well,' Cashley observed with a sigh, seeing his efforts were quite
futile, 'I'm sure bridge wasn't invented in Drake's time either, or
he'd have taken to the game at once. It's an excellent stimulant for
one's brain. However, since you're all so mouldy, I suppose I must hie
me to the fastnesses of my apartment and turn in. Good-night,
everybody.' He left the wardroom and closed the door behind him.
'Poor old Pay!' the first lieutenant remarked with a yawn; 'he's so
devilish keen on his bridge. This is the first evening he's not had it
for weeks, and the old dear misses it. However, I shall follow his most
excellent example by retiring to my cabin.--Peter, old son,' he added,
kicking the senior watch-keeper gently as he sprawled in an arm-chair,
'you're keeping the middle watch at the guns, aren't you?'
'I am, No. 1,' Wooten nodded. 'What of it?'
'Be a good chap, and have me called if war's declared, if any one fires
a torpedo at us, or if you sight another Zeppelin.' He winked slyly at
FitzJohnson. 'Also, at ten minutes to four; and tell the messenger to
drag me out of bed. If you love me very much, Peter boy, you can have a
nice cup of hot cocoa waiting for me when I come up.'
Peter rose from his chair and blinked sleepily. 'My love for you, No.
1' he declared with great gravity, making a low bow with his hand on
his heart, 'has long since passed its platonic stage. I will prepare
your cocoa with mine own fair hands, and would even embrace your chaste
cheek before you retire to your couch.' He stretched out his arms and
advanced.
'Touch me if you dare, varlet!' Chase exclaimed, avoiding him neatly,
and darting to the door.--'Well, s'long, all you chaps; sleep well' He
paused with the door open.--'I say, Dook, old man!'
FitzJohnson looked up.
'If you see another Zep, old bird, you might take a photo of it.
There's a camera in my cabin.' He vanished, chuckling.
Some time after eleven P.M., when the wardroom had been closed for the
night and the officers had retired to their cabins, the sound of
frantic cheering suddenly echoed out over the water. It came from the
direction of the flagship; and Tickle, the officer of the watch in the
_Belligerent_, paused in his perambulation. It could only mean one
thing.
Ten minutes later he was reading his Majesty's message to Sir John
Jellicoe, the Commander-in-Chief of the Home Fleet:
'At this grave moment in our national history, I send to you, and
through you to the officers and men of the fleet of which you have
assumed command, the assurance of my confidence that under your
direction they will revive and renew the glories of the Royal Navy, and
prove once again the sure shield of Britain and her Empire in her hour
of trial.'
'And a jolly fine message, too,' Tickle muttered to himself. 'God bless
him!'
Almost simultaneously came the official intimation that a state of war
existed between Great Britain and Germany as from eleven P.M. on 4th
August. The news spread like wildfire, and the 'Belligerents,' not to
be outdone, left their hammocks _en masse_, crowded on the upper deck,
and gave vent to their pent-up feelings and enthusiasm in volley after
volley of cheers. They were quite irrepressible, and before very long
the 'squeegee band,'[29] composed of two drums, a dozen fifes, many
mouth-organs, and an unholy number of mess kettles and other noisy
utensils, was marching round the deck making the night hideous. The
noise did not cease till well after midnight.
[29] Most ships, even those carrying proper musicians, have a
home-made band formed by the men themselves. It always goes
by the name of the 'squeegee band,' though why I cannot say.
War had come.
II.
The chaplain leant back in his chair with a yawn, knocked out and
refilled his pipe, lit it, and then gazed wearily and with great
distaste at the pile of letters and post-cards on the table in front of
him. He, Peter Wooten, the senior watch-keeper, and Hannibal Chance,
the captain of marines, were the three officers whose unenviable duty
it was to censor all the outgoing private correspondence of the
officers and men. As a rule they took the days in turn; but on
Saturdays and Sundays, when the men had had more time to themselves and
more opportunities for writing, the mail bound London-wards assumed
colossal proportions, and all three censors had to buckle to to get the
work done in time. To-day happened to be a Sunday, and his reverence
had retired to his cabin after tea with a bag full of letters and
post-cards to be read through before he took his evening service at six
o'clock. Wooten and Chance were in their respective apartments doing
the same.
It was a dismal job at the best of times, this prying into other
people's private correspondence, and the _padre_, for one, hated
it. But he realised it was necessary. The censorship had been enforced
from the very outbreak of hostilities; and though letters could be
written, provided they were presented unsealed, post-cards seemed more
fashionable. They were examined, stamped 'Passed by Ship's Censor,' and
then despatched in sealed bags to the G.P.O., London, whence they were
forwarded to their destinations. Sealed letters, uncensored, could also
be sent in the ordinary way; but these were subject to considerable
delay in transmission, and were not very popular. They could, moreover,
be examined at any time if considered at all suspicious. The movements
of the fleet or of individual ships, and details of other vital matters
which might be of use to the ever-inquisitive Hun, were rigidly taboo.
The restrictions, sweeping as they were, did away at one fell swoop
with practically all the subject-matter for an ordinary peace-time
communication; but in spite of it officers and men found plenty to
write about, and plenty of people to write to. Long-forgotten
grandmothers, aunts, female cousins, and other people's sisters seemed
to have come up to the scratch in a most extraordinary way, and those
men who had few friends and relations, and whose correspondence was
limited in ordinary times to perhaps one letter a month, now received
and wrote three or four a week. Very nice for the men, no doubt, to be
able to feel that those at home took an interest in their welfare, but
rather trying for the censors in a ship with a company of eight to nine
hundred souls.
Taking up his blue pencil, the _padre_ selected a missive from the
pile in front of him. It was from FitzJohnson, and was addressed to his
outfitter:
'DEAR SIR,--I shall be much obliged if you will kindly send me as
soon as possible one pair of uniform trousers, one pair of patent
leather evening pumps, and one uniform cap, size 6-7/8. The last
monkey-jacket I had from you a week ago I am returning for
alteration. It is rather tight across the'----
Having got thus far, his reverence inserted the letter in its envelope,
moistened the flap with a small sponge, and then dabbed at it with a
large rubber stamp and pushed it aside. It was 'passed' all right; but
he vaguely wondered what on earth the Dook proposed to do with
dancing-pumps on board a battleship in time of war.
The next missive, a post-card, written by some one to his wife, was
slightly more exciting:
'MY DEAR WIFE,--a p.-c. to let you know that I am still alright,
dear, hoping you and the children are the same dear. received your
letter alright dear and I was pleased to hear that you are getting
on alright also the children. well, Darling, I am sending you the
flannel dear hope you will get it alright. I hope you get my
Post-cards regular. I see by your letter you have not got any yet.
let me know if you have got the money yet dear if not I will send
you a letter to copy out and send for it it will be quite alright
dear. let me know as soon as possible Dear. so now with love to you
dear and the children with many kisses from your loving husband,
'BERT.'
The _padre_ chuckled, stamped the affectionate and strangely punctuated
effusion, and passed on to the next.
It was a letter from one of the sub-lieutenants to his aunt Janet--a
rich Aunt Janet, judging from the letter. He thanked her affectionately
for one pound of peppermints, a beautiful knitted muffler, and a pair
of mittens, and assured her that they would keep him as warm as toast
during the rigours of the coming winter. And did Aunt Janet know of any
place where one could buy cheap but reliable vacuum flasks to hold a
quart, and a decent pair of six-power prism binoculars? He had broken
his own, he said, but had heard that those made by Messrs Ross of
Cockspur Street, London, were very good. He was not quite certain,
however, and would like to have her advice before buying them. He added
one or two bloodthirsty remarks about Huns, remarks calculated to
reduce the good lady to a state of considerable alarm if she was at all
inclined to be timid, furnished the information that he was as fit as a
fiddle, and remained her loving nephew.
The censor smiled, remembered that the young officer in question had
written to numerous other ladies thanking them for winter comforts, and
asked himself how many mufflers, mittens, balaclava helmets, body
belts, and pairs of socks the sub really possessed. They must run into
dozens.
He stamped and sealed the letter, took the next envelope which came to
hand, but, having read a few lines of its contents, frowned:
'DERE WIFE'--it ran--'i hope this finds you as it leaves me. we
have had a terrible time, and last week we had a fierce and bloody
battle in the North sea with the Germans, sinking many of them and
some of ours likewise was sunk and many brave lads killed, we come
back into harbour with the mainmast gorn and the funnels nearly
falling down with the holes in them the ship was a terrible sight
and the skipper was wounded bad but still fought on, the commander
was killed and 40 men likewise the engineer commander and the chief
pusser wot was in the sick bay at the time. Our ship done gallant
and our decks running in blood i am alright and did not suffer a
scratch but still feel the strain it was awful and now dere wife
goodbye and many kisses from your loving husband
TED.'
The _Belligerent_, to the great disgust of her ship's company, had not
as yet been in action, while every one of her officers and men was
still very much alive and kicking. The whole letter was a tissue of
lies from beginning to end, and what had induced the man to write it,
or had led him to imagine that the censors would pass it, the _padre_
could not think. He glanced through the bloodthirsty missive again,
picked up the envelope and looked at the address, and then stretched
out a hand and pressed an electric bell-push.
'I want to see Stoker Walley of No. 67 mess,' he said when a bluejacket
messenger answered his ring.
Ten minutes later there came a knock at the door. 'Did ye send for
Stoker Walley, surr?' inquired a voice.
'Yes,' said the _padre_ wearily. 'Come inside, Walley.'
The stoker, a burly fellow six feet tall, and broad in proportion,
removed his cap, entered gingerly, and stood strictly to attention. He
was unused to being invited into officers' cabins.
'Did you write this letter to your wife, Walley? the chaplain asked,
picking up the offending missive.
'Oi did, surr,' said the man, not the least abashed.
'Don't you know that the censorship regulations forbid you to say
anything about the movements of ships or what they're doing?'
'Oi do, surr. But what Oi've put in me letter isn't what's been
happenin', surr.' He was perfectly correct in his statement, for what
he had written was nothing but the wildest fiction.
The _padre_ smiled. 'No,' he remarked, turning round in his chair and
looking up at him, 'I dare say it isn't true. But doesn't it strike
you, Walley, that you're doing a very wrong thing in writing like this?
The letter's a falsehood from beginning to end.'
'Oi didn't mean no harm, surr,' the stoker protested, rather puzzled.
'No, perhaps not. Have you ever heard of the Defence of the Realm Act?'
'Oi have not, surr.'
'Well, I believe the Act lays it down that any one spreading false
information is liable to a very severe penalty. You don't want to be
punished, do you?'
'Oi do not, surr,' said Walley stolidly, quite unable to understand how
he had offended. 'Oi've never been a defaulter since I joined the
navy.'
'You'll soon get into trouble if you write letters like this,' the
_padre_ observed grimly. 'Suppose I took this one to the captain,
and asked him to read it? I think you'd find he would regard it as a
very serious offence.'
'Oi'm sorry, surr, if Oi've done wrong, surr,' the stoker answered,
nervously fidgeting with his cap. 'Oi only wrote a bit of a yarn like
t' amuse the missis.'
'To amuse your wife!' ejaculated the chaplain. 'Surely, surely your
wife must be feeling a little anxious about you?'
'P'r'aps, surr. Oi don't rightly know,' admitted the culprit. 'P'r'aps
she is a bit anxious like, surr.'
'Of course she is, Walley. Any woman is bound to be anxious with her
husband at sea in war-time. Tell me now, truthfully, do you really
think that a letter like this will make her feel any less anxious? You
go into gruesome details of a fight at sea which has never taken place,
and expect her to be--er--amused. 'Pon my soul, I've never heard of
such a thing.'
'Oi'm sorry, surr. Oi didn't mean no harm.'
The chaplain sighed. 'Well,' he pointed out, 'I consider you acted very
wrongly in writing this letter at all; and besides that, you're being
very unfair to your wife. After all, she deserves a little
consideration--what?'
'Ye haven't seen me wife, surr,' said the stoker. 'She likes a bit of
excitement now and then.'
The chaplain got rather annoyed. 'I dare say she does,' he answered;
'but that is no excuse for your sending her a letter which is nothing
but a pack of lies. Now look here, Walley,' he added very sternly, 'if
I took this matter forward you would find yourself in serious trouble.
I don't want that to happen, though, so I'll tear it up; but you must
promise me faithfully you'll never write a letter like this again. Will
you promise?'
'Oi will, surr,' said the man, looking genuinely frightened. 'Thankin'
ye very much all the same, surr.'
The censor tore the letter into minute fragments and dropped it into
the waste-paper basket. 'There,' he said, 'that's the last you'll hear
of it, Walley; but don't let it occur again. You can keep the envelope,
and if you're quick you'll just have time to write another letter
before the mail leaves. No horrors this time, mind. Tell your wife
you're well and happy, and all that sort of thing. D'you understand?'
'Oi do, surr,' the stoker replied sheepishly, taking the envelope.
'Thank ye, surr.' He left the cabin.
'Heigho!' yawned the _padre_, resuming his unwelcome occupation;
'I've been in the service for seven years, but it seems I don't
understand the men yet. I wonder if I ever shall!' He often asks
himself the same question.
III.
'I'm fed up wi' this 'ere war!' exclaimed Pincher Martin, flinging away
the fag-end of a cigarette with a petulant gesture. 'It's bin goin' on
fur over four bloomin' months, an' we ain't see'd a ruddy thing yet!'
'Th' way some o' you blokes talks makes me fair sick,' Able Seaman
Billings retorted. 'S'pose yer 'ad see'd somethin', as yer calls it,
yer might 'ave lost th' number o' yer mess. W'y carn't yer be content
wi' wot ye've got? That's wot I wants ter know.'
Pincher snorted. 'Content wi' wot I've got!' he jeered. ''Ow kin I be?
I reckons I wants ter fight, same as other blokes.'
Joshua laughed. ''Ark at th' little cock-sparrer!' he said, turning to
M'Sweeny. 'Did ye 'ear wot 'e sed, Tubby?'
'I did, chum,' agreed M'Sweeny severely, sucking hard at a particularly
evil-smelling pipe. ''E sez 'e wants ter fight, an' I reckons 'e'll git
orl 'e wants afore long. We'll all git more'n we wants in th' way o'
fightin' afore we've finished this 'ere war. Them Germans ain't fools.'
'Don't yer want ter fight yerself, Tubby?' Pincher inquired.
M'Sweeny thought for a moment. 'Carn't say 'xactly as 'ow I don't,
Pincher, an' carn't say as 'ow I does.'
'Wot yer jine th' navy fur else?'
'Jine the navy! W'y, I jines th' navy 'cos I thought it wus a good
perfession.'
'Fightin' perfession,' Pincher supplemented.
'Yus; but yer don't seem t' understand wot I means,' Tubby explained.
'It's like this 'ere. I don't mind fightin' if it comes ter fightin';
but I sez that any bloke wot sez 'e likes it arter 'e's once 'ad it is
a bloomin' liar. I ain't afraid o' them Germans,' he added. 'I ain't
afraid o' any one wot I knows of; but I sez war's a norrible thing.'
'An' so it is,' agreed Joshua. 'You wait till yer 'as yer fu'st little
bu'st up, Pincher; yer won't want another fur a bit. It's orl right ter
talk th' same as yer do, but yer don't know wot it's like same as me
an' Tubby.'
'But you an' Tubby ain't never bin in action,' Pincher protested.
'No, we ain't,' said Billings. 'But we ain't 'ot-'eaded young blokes
same as you. We thinks abart things, an' looks at things more serious
like. We doesn't mind fightin' w'en it comes; but we ain't anxious ter
fight 'cos we likes it--see? I reckons no bloke really does, an' them
as talks most gen'rally does least w'en it comes ter th' time. Me an'
Tubby 'as seen things you 'aven't,' he added; 'so we two knows wot
we're talkin' abart.'
M'Sweeny gave an assenting nod.
''Ow d'yer mean?' Pincher wanted to know. 'Wot is it ye've seen wot I
ain't?'
'I'll tell yer,' said Billings.--'Tubby, d'yer remember that 'ere gun
explosion we 'ad w'en me an' you wus shipmates up th' Straits?'
'Yus, I do, chum.'
'Explosion! 'Ow did it 'appen?' Pincher demanded. 'Spin us th' yarn.'
'Ain't I spinnin' it as fast as I can?' said Joshua, rather testily.
'Don't be so impatient! Well, we 'ad our six-inch guns in that ship in
casemates like we've got 'ere. Yer knows wot a casemate is, don't yer?'
Pincher did not condescend to reply.
'Well, they wus firin' at th' time, an' somethin' 'appened, an' a
cartridge hexploded afore th' breech o' th' gun was properly closed.'
Joshua paused.
'An' wot 'appened?'
'There was an 'ell of an explosion an' a big flare up, an' four blokes
belongin' ter th' gun wus blowed sky-'igh, an' orl th' others wus badly
messed up. I wus in there soon arter it 'appened. It makes me fair sick
ter think of it.'
'Wot! blood?' Pincher queried breathlessly.
'Blood!' Billings sniffed. 'Buckets of it, an' bits o' poor blokes wot
'ad bin breathin' men a few minutes afore plastered orl over th' sides
an' roof. 'Orrors ain't in it. Arms an' legs blowed orf, an' th' 'ole
place drippin' somethin' crool!--Wasn't it, Tubby?'
'It wus, chum,' M'Sweeny corroborated.
'I reckons that if ye'd seen that, Pincher, ye'd never say as 'ow ye
likes th' idea o' fightin',' Joshua went on. 'If we goes into action
it'll be somethin' like that, only wuss.'
'Don't sound good,' Pincher admitted grudgingly.
'Don't look good neither, w'en bits o' blokes 'as ter be scraped up in
shovels,' said M'Sweeny grimly. 'We ain't frightened o' fightin', me
an' Billings isn't, yer see, but we've see'd things wot you youngsters
'asn't, an' we knows wot it's like.'
Martin made no reply.
So, on the whole, their only feelings, after four months of war, were
those of regret and envy--regret because they themselves had not been
in action, envy for those of their comrades who had. They were sorry
for those of their relations and friends who had been killed in action
ashore and afloat, but, like the inscrutable people they were, accepted
their fate in a calm and philosophical spirit which must have seemed
positively callous to any outsider. To people who do not understand
them, however, our seamen always do appear callous. They seem to treat
death in a very casual and light-hearted fashion, due, perhaps, to the
fact that they themselves have stared Him in the face so often that
they have become inured to His presence. Familiarity with danger does
breed contempt for death.
But yet, in reality, bluejackets are among the kindest-hearted men
alive, and the sight of a howling infant in a street will attract the
hard-earned coppers from their pockets like steel filings to a magnet.
It is said that one child in a certain naval port discovered this
generous trait, and invented a new profession on the strength of it. He
did not beg or whine--did not utter a word, in fact; but, with true
commercial instinct, plastered his face with mud, stationed himself
near the dockyard gates when the libertymen were streaming back to
their ships in the evening, and wept bitterly--merely wept. The
pathetic sight aroused the bluejackets' sympathy and opened their
purse-strings, and at the end of the nightly performance the
youth--aged eight--went home with a cheerful grin and his pockets
bulging with pennies. The game could not go on for long, of course; but
it was a very paying one while it lasted.
But though Christmas was nearly upon them, and they had never had a
'scrap,' as they termed it, the men secretly revelled in the thought
that they, in common with the remainder of the navy and army, also came
under the category of what to the great British public were 'our
gallant defenders.' Their natural modesty forbade them thinking about
themselves as 'gallant,' 'brave,' or 'heroic,' adjectives which were
sometimes hurled at their heads by people at home. They were merely
doing their ordinary peace-time job, with a few extra dangers thrown in
in the shape of submarines and mines; but they did derive no small
satisfaction in realising that folk at home recognised that they were
doing their bit, and liked to know that a sudden and very overwhelming
interest was being taken in their welfare. Overwhelming in more senses
than one.
Wives, mothers, aunts, female cousins, sweethearts, and lady friends
seemed to be consoling themselves for the absence at sea of their
husbands, sons, nephews, cousins, 'young men,' and acquaintances by an
orgy of knitting. Avalanches of woollen home-knitted mufflers,
balaclava helmets, mittens, gloves, jerseys, and body-belts, besides
shoals of socks, soon came pouring in by every mail, until every
officer and man in the _Belligerent_ had received a full outfit of
everything necessary to keep out the cold. They were duly grateful for
the kind attention, for the mufflers of thick blue wool and the warm
socks were as different from the ordinary articles of commerce as
cheese is from chalk. Some of the things had stamped post-cards
attached on which the fair knitters desired an acknowledgment; and,
judging from what the censors said, the ladies were not disappointed.
Others bore little silver paper horseshoes for good luck, while many of
the socks arrived with cigarettes and chocolates, either loose or in
packets, snugly ensconced inside.
'I thought there wus somethin' wrong wi' this 'ere!' Pincher remarked
one day, removing his right sock, turning it inside-out, and
discovering the coagulated remains of several chocolate creams. 'I
thought it felt a bit knobby-like w'en I puts 'im on, an' now I've bin
an' gorn an' wasted 'em!' It was a dire calamity, for Pincher had a
sweet tooth, and regretted the loss of his chocolates far more than the
energy he would presently have to expend on cleansing the sock of its
stickiness.
People who did not knit sent other things instead. Well-to-do folk
provided gramophones and records, boxes of fruit and game, vacuum
flasks, warm waistcoats, books, jig-saw puzzles, and games, all of
which were very welcome. One public-spirited gentleman, a yacht-owner,
forwarded a consignment of many dozen brand-new 'sevenpennies,' and
was blessed for his gift. Societies and clubs sent more reading matter;
and though it is true that _Chatterbox_ for 1891 and bound copies of
a poultry journal for 1887 do not appeal to modern sailors as they
should, the greater portion of what arrived was eagerly seized upon and
as eagerly read.
The men's friends themselves contributed regular consignments of
newspapers, tobacco, cigarettes, soap, tooth-powder, biscuits,
home-made cakes, sweets of all kinds, fruit, tomatoes done up in flimsy
brown-paper parcels, and many other articles of food and utility too
numerous to be mentioned in detail. These gifts also were most
acceptable, though it was found that bull's-eyes and peppermints
sometimes had an unhappy knack of melting in transit, while as often as
not the fruit and tomatoes were found at the very bottom of the
mail-bags in the form of a nauseating, ready-made salad well
impregnated with brown paper, string, and the rapidly disintegrating
contents of other people's parcels.
What with the extra food and their warm garments, the figures of the
'gallant defenders' rapidly assumed elephantine proportions. Thin
sailors became bulbous; fat sailors became colossal. They had never had
such a time in all their lives.
IV.
Christmas came and went; but, though the ship's company made a point of
keeping up the time-honoured traditions and customs, things were hardly
the same as usual. They did not suffer from lack of seasonable fare,
for volleys of plum-puddings and other comestibles from home had
temporarily superseded the deluge of mufflers, mittens, and cigarettes;
while the canteen did a roaring trade in turkeys, geese, boiled hams,
fruit, holly, and chains of coloured paper for decorations.
On the morning of the 25th itself the squadron happened to be in
harbour, and at daylight the _Belligerent_ and every other ship
appeared with the customary branches of fir and evergreen lashed to
the mastheads and the yardarms.
At eight o'clock came a signal from the vice-admiral wishing all the
officers and men under his command 'A Happy Christmas;' and at
divisions at nine-thirty the officers took the opportunity of saying
the same.
Then came church and the issue of Princess Mary's gifts; and if the
donors to the fund could have seen the way these gilt boxes, with their
cards, pipes, packets of tobacco, and cigarettes, were appreciated by
their recipients they would have felt that their generosity had been
repaid. A gift was always a gift and something to be appreciated, but a
gift from a Royal Princess was to be treasured as an heirloom. As a
consequence, the greater number of the men sent their boxes home by
registered post without smoking the contents. They were far too
valuable to be kept on board when there was a chance of the ship being
torpedoed by a hostile submarine or sunk by a mine.
Shortly before noon the band assembled outside the captain's cabin, and
as eight bells struck, Captain Spencer, preceded by the musicians
playing 'The Roast Beef of Old England' and the 'funny party' with
blackened faces and attired in a variety of strange costumes, and
followed by a procession of all the officers, made the usual tour of
the mess-deck. Some of the messes were embellished with festoons of
paper chains, sprigs and bunches of holly and mistletoe, and home-made
mottoes. Others were hardly decorated at all, but all the tables were
well laden with food. At the foot of each mess stood a man with a plate
of cake, pastry, or pudding, which he offered to all the officers in
turn as they passed by. Every one of them took a small piece, wished
the occupants of the mess 'A Happy Christmas,' nibbled the cake or
whatever it was, and then hastily secreted the remains in his pocket.
There were several dozen messes to be visited, and a few ounces of
stodgy cake from each of them would provide more than enough for a
schoolboy.
Opposite one of the chief petty officers' messes the procession came to
a halt close to a blackboard on which was chalked in large letters:
'The Ship's Company of H.M.S. _Belligerent_ wish Captain Spencer
and the officers a very happy Christmas and a bright and joyful New
Year. They deeply regret that up to the present Captain Spencer has not
had the opportunity of taking them into action, but are anxiously
awaiting the time when he will.'
The captain smiled, took the proffered chalk, and made his reply.
'The same to you,' he wrote. 'Captain Spencer will be only too pleased
to take the ship into action whenever the enemy give him the chance.
When the time comes he and the officers know that they may rely on the
"Belligerents" to give a good account of themselves. Let 'em all come!'
Loud and prolonged cheering before the procession moved on.
It took fully half-an-hour to do the whole round of the messes; but at
last the officers disappeared to their own lunch, and left the men to
go on with their meal. They acquitted themselves nobly.
Soon after lunch, when Tickle had retired to his cabin and was
composing himself for his usual afternoon slumber, there came a knock
at his door. 'Well, what is it?' he inquired lazily.
'It's me, sir,' said Petty Officer Casey, insinuating his head through
the curtain. 'The foc's'lemen sends their compliments, sir, an' would
yer be so kind as to visit 'em in their messes for a few minutes?'
Tickle yawned, hoisted himself out of his bunk, and stepped outside.
Here he was promptly seized by four stalwart A.B.'s, hoisted
shoulder-high, and, with a man in front playing triumphantly upon a
mouth-organ, was carried off. Down ladders and up ladders they went,
through cheering crowds on the mess-deck, until they finally allowed
him to slide gracefully to earth among the men of his own forecastle
division.
They proceeded to drink his health in navy rum, a compliment which he
was bound to return; but even then the ordeal was not over.
'They'd like yer to say a few words, sir,' Petty Officer Casey prompted
him hoarsely.
Tickle cleared his throat nervously. 'I'm not much of a hand at making
a speech,' he began; 'but I'm very glad to come here and wish you all a
happy Christmas again. From what I can see'--he looked round the
tables--'you all seem to have been enjoying yourselves. My only
regret--our only regret, I should say--is that we haven't had a chance
of meeting the enemy yet; but that's a pleasure we all look forward
to'----
Here he was interrupted by loud cheers and bangings on the tables.
'It's quite unnecessary for me to tell you that I know the _Belligerent_
will do jolly well when the time comes, and that the men of the
forecastle division will do better than any one else'----
Loud cries of ''Ear, 'ear!' and more shouting.
'I've clean forgotten what I was going to say,' he went on, laughing.
'Oh yes. I'm sure the forecastlemen will do better than any one else
when it comes to a scrap; but don't get down-hearted if we have to wait
for some time before we get it. Other ships have had a run for their
money, and we haven't; but we're all doing our bit for the country, and
it's up to us to do our duty wherever the Admiralty choose to send us.
At the same time, I hope the war will not be over before we have our
look in. Well,' he concluded, 'I don't think there is anything else I
can say, except to wish you all the best of luck.' He lifted the
fanny[30] to his lips and sipped its contents.
[30] 'Fanny,' the receptacle from which a bluejacket drinks
his rum.
'An' th' same to you, sir!' came a roar. 'Three cheers for Lootenant
Tickle!'
'One more, boys!' somebody yelled excitedly. 'Hip, hip, hip, HURRAH!'
Tickle, feeling very awkward and red in the face, bowed his
acknowledgments. 'Thank you very much indeed,' he said quietly. He
could not express his feelings in mere words.
The _Belligerent_ was a happy ship, and the officers were popular
with their men, and many of them, including the commander, the
engineer-commander, all the officers of divisions, captain of marines,
and most of the midshipmen and warrant-officers, were ruthlessly
dragged from their afternoon slumber and carried forward to the
mess-decks to make speeches. Christmas, the time of good-fellowship and
goodwill, only came once a year, but it was one of the rare occasions
when the men were able to show their officers what they really thought
of them.
So, taking it all round, they managed to enjoy themselves, for
bluejackets always succeed in being cheerful under any circumstances;
but nobody could help having a feeling at the back of his mind that
this particular Christmas was not quite the same as others, as indeed
it was not. They were thinking of their homes and of what was happening
there, and many of them, officers as well as men, had not set foot on
shore for weeks--months, in some cases.
Boxing Day found the squadron at sea.