We have on board an ear that never sleeps; it is the wireless
telegraph. The apparatus is buried in the depths of the hold; a padded
cabin isolates the operators from the noise of the machinery and the
cross-currents of discord. From watch to watch the telegraphers pass
over the receiver to each other, and the finest murmurs never escape
their vigilance.
The air vibrates in an uninterrupted concert. Coming from stations
near or far, from ships wandering on the Atlantic or close at hand,
calls, conversations seek out their way; the ether transmits them
instantaneously. The powerful antennae of the Eiffel Tower, of Ireland,
of Germany, of Italy, or of Constantinople dominate with their noisy
throats the feeble whispers. With their full force, to any distance,
they launch the official news of the great ordeal. If some one talks
too loudly, 500 or 1,000 kilometers away, (300 to 600 miles,) they
raise their tones, throw more strength into their voices, until the
interrupters become silent.
A tacit agreement alternates their messages. The German does not
obstruct the Frenchman, the Turk waits until Malta has finished.
Madrid, talking to Berlin, rests while London speaks. For these great
stations, controlled by their Governments, send out only announcements
of the first importance, such as the whole world should know, and they
wish neither to confuse nor to be confused. Reports from the front,
happenings at sea, diplomatic or financial transactions, plans or
insults, circulate in all languages, and you can be certain that the
newspapers will not publish them. If by chance the reader of newspapers
finds them in his daily sheet, it will be a week or a fortnight later,
in a garbled, unrecognizable form.
Sailors hear every bell and every sound; while the rest of the world
must be content with the meagre, delayed communications authorized
by the censorship, the sailor already knows. His griefs and joys
precede the griefs and joys of the anxiously waiting millions. Ireland
announces a simple movement of Russian strategy, but Norddeich--the
German post--clamors to all the echoes of a German victory, an advance,
the capture of thousands of prisoners. Norddeich laconically explains
some event at sea, but Eiffel sets his biggest sparks cracking,
announcing to Moscow, to Newfoundland, to the Sudan and the Red Sea
the disaster at sea that has befallen some Teutonic force. In how many
days, with how many changes, will the public read these bits of news?
At every hour of the day and night we receive them brutal and imperious.
No illusions are permitted to us. Our enemies do not lie too grossly in
these proclamations destined for their Ambassadors, their Consuls, the
innumerable agents who uphold the prestige of Germany throughout the
world; it is vital for Germany that these men should receive authentic
information, which they will make the most of in their bargainings.
There is nothing in common between the rhapsodies of her newspapers or
of the Wolff Agency and her wireless announcements. At the most, in the
case of defeats, she sends out statements made carefully vague. But
this very vagueness makes us prick up our ears, and within a few hours
London or Paris confirms the English or French victory.
Outside the Chancelleries and Governments, there are no day-to-day
records of the war except on warships. We discuss squarely over flags
placed exactly where they ought to be; our forecasts, our hopes are
rarely deceived. And if the obligation of secrecy did not impose
silence upon us we could tell our friends many a bit of news.
But underneath the great tenors of wireless telegraphy whisper the
myriads of baritones, basses, members of the chorus. Thus in the
tropical forest the roaring of lions by no means hinders the dialogues
of insects and rodents; this network of lower voices gives the jungle
its deep life. The slender tones of talking ships fill the atmosphere
of the sea with a mysterious animation. A big liner, come from tropical
seas, announces her passage of such and such a frequented cape. A
torpedo-boat patrolling toward Gibraltar tells Port Said about the
ships which it has sighted. This torpedo-boat has not got strong enough
lungs to shout to the other end of the Mediterranean; it calls Bizerta
or Toulon, who answers, takes its message, and relays it forward, like
a rebounding ball, to the antennae of Malta, to the masts of a French
cruiser in the Ionian Sea, to the wires of a Russian ship in the Ægean,
and finally it reaches Port Said. A mailboat announces its position, a
squadron asks for orders, a naval attaché or an ambassador sends out
information gained by spies; the Resident General of Morocco is sending
wheat to Montenegro; the main guards give warning that a submarine
is in sight; colliers ask to be told exactly where they are to meet
certain cruisers; the whole Mediterranean taps the antennae of the
Commander in Chief as a swarm of subalterns tap at the door of military
headquarters.
No disorder, no discord in these gusts of whisperings. Like the
musicians in a well-drilled orchestra, all these talkers speak at the
minute, at the second previously fixed for their turn; chronometer
in hand, the telegraph operators watch for the instant allotted
to them, and immediately send forth trills of short, brief notes;
whether they have finished or not at the end of their period, they
stop and wait, for immediately a distant voice begins its part, and
would protest violently if any one prevented its speaking. The whole
extent of the Mediterranean is divided into sectors, the time is cut
up into fragments, and no one is allowed to break the silence if the
pre-established table bids him keep still.
Besides, the guilty parties are quickly found out. Just as the fingers
of a blind man acquire surprising sensitiveness, so the operators' ears
distinguish the timbre, the tone, the musical value of the chatters
whom they have never seen. For the initiated the electric radiations
have a personality like human speech. Two posts, two ships have
distinct voices, pronunciations. This one talks with a sputter, the
other speaks with solemn slowness; the voice of one suggests a match
scratched on sandpaper, another buzzes like a fly, another sings small,
like the flight of mosquitoes. It is a concert almost magical. In his
padded cabin the operator hears and distinguishes the whirr of the
cricket, the squeak of the violin, the rasped wing-cover of the beetle,
the hiss of frying, which the fantastic electricity is sending forth,
hundreds of leagues away. It flickers, ceases, begins again; you would
say a goblin symphony in some wide wilderness, and yet the least of
these vibrations is a message of war, of life and of death.
And indeed they are careful not to talk without saying anything. They
all use only secret languages. This perpetual chatter contains no word,
no phrase which any one can understand unless he possesses the key on
which rests the safety of ships. Cipher, cipher, cipher, nothing.