We were on board H.M.S. _Sharpshooter_, doing patrol off the Belgian
coast. The signalman on watch, who happened to be a Cockney, suddenly
yelled out: "Aeroplane on the starboard bow, sir."
The "old man," being fairly tired after a night of rain, said: "All
right, it's only a friendly going back home."
About two minutes later the plane dropped three bombs, the last of
which was much too close to be comfortable.
After our friend the signalman had wiped the splash off his face he
turned round to the First Lieutenant and casually remarked: "Strike!
It's a thundering good job he wasn't hostile or he might have hit
us."--_R. Walmsley, D.S.M., 47 Watcombe Road, South Norwood, S.E.25._
"Your Barf, Sir!"
We were a mixed crowd on board the old _Archangel_ returning "off
leave" from Southampton to Havre on the night of January 6, 1917. The
sea was calm, and a moon made conditions ideal for Jerry's "skimmers."
When we were well under way I chummed up with a typical son of the Mile
End Road, one of the Middlesex men, and we talked for some time whilst
watching the long, white zig-zag wake.
Then he suggested looking for a "kip." After nosing around several dark
corners, a strip of carpet along the alley between the first-class
cabins appealed to us, and quietly unslinging kit and putting our packs
for a pillow, we made ourselves as comfortable as possible. During the
process my pal jerked his thumb towards the closed doors and whispered
"Orficers."
How long we had been asleep I don't know, but we were rudely awakened
by a dull booming thud and a sound of splintering wood, and at the same
time we were jolted heavily against the cabins. We hurriedly scrambled
to our feet, looked at each other (no need to ask what had happened!),
then grabbed our kit and made for the deck.
As my companion passed the last cabin he banged on the door with his
fist and called out: "Oi, yer barf'll be ready in a minute, sir!"--_A.
E. Ulyett, 41 Smith Terrace, King's Road, Chelsea, S.W.3._
"Mind My Coat"
Middle watch, H.M.S. _Bulldog_ on patrol off the Dardanelles: a dirty
and a black night. A shout of "Man overboard!" from the fore-gun
crew.... We located an A.B. in the water, and with a long boat-hook
caught his coat and pulled him towards the boat. As he drew nearer he
cried: "Don't pull so bloomin' hard; you'll tear my blinkin' coat!"
Then we knew it was our "Ginger," from Poplar. Now "Ginger" has the
life-saving medal. A few weeks after his ducking the ship struck a
mine and the after-part went west: "Ginger" was discovered in the
water, having gone in after a wounded sub-lieutenant who had been blown
overboard.--_Henry J. Wood, D.S.M., 19 Gracechurch Street, E.C.3._
"Wot's the Game--Musical Chairs?"
It was a bitterly cold day in December, somewhere in the North Sea.
A section of mine-sweepers were engaged clearing an area well sown
by Jerry's submarines. Suddenly the expected happened, and in a few
minutes one of the sweepers was settling down fast by the stern.
Those who did not "go west" in the explosion were with difficulty
picked up; among them was a Cockney stoker rating. He arrived on board,
wet, cold, and pretty well "pumped," and the bo'sun's peg of rum had
almost disappeared between his chattering teeth when there was another
explosion, and once again he was in a sinking ship.
His reply to the order "abandon ship," which he had heard for
the second time within half an hour, was: "Wot blinkin' game's
this--musical chairs?"--_H. Waterworth, 32 Grasmere Road, Muswell Hill,
N.10 (late Engineer-Lieutenant, R.N.R. (retired))._