In February 1915 we beat out our weary patrol near the Scillies. Our
ship met such heavy weather that only the bravest souls could keep a
cheery countenance. Running into a growing storm, and unable to turn
from the racing head seas, we beat out our unwilling way into the
Atlantic.
Three days later we limped back to base with injured men, hatches stove
in, winch pipes and boats torn away. Our forward gun was smashed and
leaned over at a drunken angle.
Early in the morning the crew were taking a well-earned rest, and the
decks were deserted but for the usual stoker, taking a breath of air
after his stand-by watch. A dockyard official, seeing our damage, came
on board, and, after viewing the wrecked gun at close quarters, turned
to the stoker with the remark: "Do you mean to say that the sea smashed
a heavy gun like that, my man?"
The stoker, spitting with uncanny accuracy at a piece of
floating wood overside, looked at the official: "Nah," he said,
"it wasn't the blinking sea; the ryne done it!"--_A. Marsden
(Engineer-Lieutenant-Commander, R.N.), Norbrook Cottage, Leith Park
Road, Gravesend._
New Skin--Brand New!
Two mines--explosion--many killed--hundreds drowned. We were sinking
fast. I scrambled quickly out of my hammock and up the hatchway. On
deck, leaning against the bulkhead, was a shipmate, burned from head
to foot. More amazing than fiction was his philosophy and coolness as
he hailed me with, "'Cher, Darby! Got a fag? I ain't had a 'bine since
Pa died." I was practically "in the nude," and could not oblige him.
Three years later I was taking part at a sports meeting at Dunkirk when
I was approached by--to me--a total stranger. "What 'cher, Darby--ain't
dead yet then. What! Don't you remember H.M.S. _Russell_? Of course
I've altered a bit now--new skin--just like a two-year-old--brand new."
Brand new externally, but the philosophy was unaltered.--_"Darby," 405
Valence Avenue, Chadwell Heath, Essex._