Presently I had the honour to meet a Lieutenant-Commander-Admiral
who had retired from the service, but, like others,
had turned out again at the first flash of the guns,
and now commands—he who had great ships
erupting at his least signal—a squadron
of trawlers for the protection of the Dogger Bank
Fleet. At present prices—let alone
the chance of the paying submarine—men
would fish in much warmer places. His flagship
was once a multi-millionaire’s private yacht.
In her mixture of stark, carpetless, curtainless,
carbolised present, with voluptuously curved, broad-decked,
easy-stairwayed past, she might be Queen Guinevere
in the convent at Amesbury. And her Lieutenant-Commander,
most careful to pay all due compliments to Admirals
who were midshipmen when he was a Commander,
leads a congregation of very hard men indeed.
They do precisely what he tells them to, and with
him go through strange experiences, because they love
him and because his language is volcanic and wonderful—what
you might call Popocatapocalyptic. I saw the Old
Navy making ready to lead out the New under a grey
sky and a falling glass—the wisdom and
cunning of the old man backed up by the passion and
power of the younger breed, and the discipline which
had been his soul for half a century binding them
all.
“What’ll he do this time?”
I asked of one who might know.
“He’ll cruise between Two and Three East;
but if you’ll tell me what he won’t
do, it ’ud be more to the point! He’s
mine-hunting, I expect, just now.”
WASTED MATERIAL
Here is a digression suggested by the sight of a man
I had known in other scenes, despatch-riding round
a fleet in a petrol-launch. There are many of
his type, yachtsmen of sorts accustomed to take chances,
who do not hold masters’ certificates and cannot
be given sea-going commands. Like my friend,
they do general utility work—often in their
own boats. This is a waste of good material.
Nobody wants amateur navigators—the traffic
lanes are none too wide as it is. But these gentlemen
ought to be distributed among the Trawler Fleet as
strictly combatant officers. A trawler skipper
may be an excellent seaman, but slow with a submarine
shelling and diving, or in cutting out enemy trawlers.
The young ones who can master Q.F. gun work in a very
short time would—though there might be
friction, a court-martial or two, and probably losses
at first—pay for their keep. Even a
hundred or so of amateurs, more or less controlled
by their squadron commanders, would make a happy beginning,
and I am sure they would all be extremely grateful.
Where the East wind is brewed fresh
and fresh every morning,
And the balmy night-breezes blow straight from
the Pole,
I heard a destroyer sing: “What an
enjoyable life does one
lead on the North Sea Patrol!
Copyrights
Sea Warfare from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
