Part 4 (1/2)
The easiest way of finding a mine-field is to steam into it, on the edge of night for choice, with a steep sea running, for that brings the bows down like a chopper on the detonator-horns. Some boats have enjoyed this experience and still live. There was one destroyer (and there may have been others since) who came through twenty-four hours of highly-compressed life. She had an idea that there was a mine-field somewhere about, and left her companions behind while she explored. The weather was dead calm, and she walked delicately. She saw one Scandinavian steamer blow up a couple of miles away, rescued the skipper and some hands; saw another neutral, which she could not reach till all was over, skied in another direction; and, between her life-saving efforts and her natural curiosity, got herself as thoroughly mixed up with the field as a camel among tent-ropes. A destroyer's bows are very fine, and her sides are very straight. This causes her to cleave the wave with the minimum of disturbance, and this boat had no desire to cleave anything else. None the less, from time to time, she heard a mine grate, or tinkle, or jar (I could not arrive at the precise note it strikes, but they say it is unpleasant) on her plates. Sometimes she would be free of them for a long while, and began to hope she was clear. At other times they were numerous, but when at last she seemed to have worried out of the danger zone lieutenant and sub together left the bridge for a cup of tea. (”In those days we took mines very seriously, you know.”) As they were in act to drink, they heard the hateful sound again just outside the wardroom. Both put their cups down with extreme care, little fingers extended (”We felt as if they might blow up, too”), and tip-toed on deck, where they met the foc'sle also on tip-toe. They pulled themselves together, and asked severely what the foc'sle thought it was doing. ”Beg pardon, sir, but there's another of those blighters tap-tapping alongside, our end.” They all waited and listened to their common coffin being nailed by Death himself. But the things b.u.mped away. At this point they thought it only decent to invite the rescued skipper, warm and blanketed in one of their bunks, to step up and do any further peris.h.i.+ng in the open.
”No, thank you,” said he. ”Last time I was blown up in my bunk, too.
That was all right. So I think, now, too, I stay in my bunk here. It is cold upstairs.”
Somehow or other they got out of the mess after all. ”Yes, we used to take mines awfully seriously in those days. One comfort is, Fritz'll take them seriously when he comes out. Fritz don't like mines.”
”Who does?” I wanted to know.
”If you'd been here a little while ago, you'd seen a Commander comin'
in with a big 'un slung under his counter. He brought the beastly thing in to a.n.a.lyse. The rest of his squadron followed at two-knot intervals, and everything in harbour that had steam up scattered.”
THE ADMIRABLE COMMANDER
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 s.h.i.+ps 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 flags.h.i.+p 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 mids.h.i.+pmen 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 gla.s.s--the wisdom and cunning of the old man backed up by the pa.s.sion 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. n.o.body 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 sh.e.l.ling 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!
”To blow things to bits is our business (and Fritz's), Which means there are mine-fields wherever you stroll.
Unless you've particular wish to die quick, you'll avoid steering close to the North Sea Patrol.
”We warn from disaster the mercantile master Who takes in high dudgeon our life-saving role, For every one's grousing at docking and dowsing The marks and the lights on the North Sea Patrol.”
[Twelve verses omitted.]
So swept but surviving, half drowned but still driving, I watched her head out through the swell off the shoal, And I heard her propellers roar: ”Write to poor fellers Who run such a h.e.l.l as the North Sea Patrol!”
PATROLS
II
The great basins were crammed with craft of kinds never known before on any Navy List. Some were as they were born, others had been converted, and a mult.i.tude have been designed for special cases. The Navy prepares against all contingencies by land, sea, and air. It was a relief to meet a batch of comprehensible destroyers and to drop again into the little mouse-trap ward-rooms, which are as large-hearted as all Our oceans. The men one used to know as destroyer-lieutenants (”born stealing”) are serious Commanders and Captains to-day, but their sons, Lieutenants in command and Lieutenant-Commanders, do follow them. The sea in peace is a hard life; war only sketches an extra line or two round the young mouths.
The routine of s.h.i.+ps always ready for action is so part of the blood now that no one notices anything except the absence of formality and of the ”crimes” of peace. What Warrant Officers used to say at length is cut down to a grunt. What the sailor-man did not know and expected to have told him, does not exist. He has done it all too often at sea and ash.o.r.e.
I watched a little party working under a leading hand at a job which, eighteen months ago, would have required a Gunner in charge. It was comic to see his orders trying to overtake the execution of them.
Ratings coming aboard carried themselves with a (to me) new swing--not sw.a.n.k, but consciousness of adequacy. The high, dark foc'sles which, thank goodness, are only washed twice a week, received them and their bags, and they turned-to on the instant as a man picks up his life at home. Like the submarine crew, they come to be a breed apart--double-jointed, extra-toed, with brazen bowels and no sort of nerves.
It is the same in the engine-room, when the s.h.i.+ps come in for their regular looking-over. Those who love them, which you would never guess from the language, know exactly what they need, and get it without fuss. Everything that steams has her individual peculiarity, and the great thing is, at overhaul, to keep to it and not develop a new one.