And the man who takes his place straight-way forgets that he ever looked down on great rollers from a sixty-foot bridge under the whole breadth of heaven, but crawls and climbs and dives through conning-towers with those same waves wet in his neck, and when the cruisers pass him, tearing the deep open in half a gale, thanks God he is not as they are, and goes to bed beneath their distracted keels.
Expert Opinions
“But submarine work is cold-blooded business.”
(This was at a little session in a green-curtained “wardroom” cum owner’s cabin.)
“Then there’s no truth in the yarn that you can feel when the torpedo’s going to get home?” I asked.
“Not a word. You sometimes see it get home, or miss, as the case may be. Of course, it’s never your fault if it misses. It’s all your second-in-command.”
“That’s true, too,” said the second. “I catch it all round. That’s what I am here for.”
“And what about the third man?” There was one aboard at the time.
“He generally comes from a smaller boat, to pick up real work — if he can suppress his intellect and doesn’t talk ‘last commission.’”
The third hand promptly denied the possession of any intellect, and was quite dumb about his last boat.
“And the men?”
“They train on, too. They train each other. Yes, one gets to know ‘em about as well as they get to know us. Up topside, a man can take you in — take himself in — for months; for half a commission, p’rhaps. Down below he can’t. It’s all in cold blood — not like at the front, where they have something exciting all the time.”
“Then bumping mines isn’t exciting?”
“Not one little bit. You can’t bump back at ‘em. Even with a Zepp — — ”
“Oh, now and then,” one interrupted, and they laughed as they explained.
“Yes, that was rather funny. One of our boats came up slap underneath a low Zepp. ‘Looked for the sky, you know, and couldn’t see anything except this fat, shining belly almost on top of ‘em. Luckily, it wasn’t the Zepp’s stingin’ end. So our boat went to windward and kept just awash. There was a bit of a sea, and the Zepp had to work against the wind. (They don’t like that.) Our boat sent a man to the gun. He was pretty well drowned, of course, but he hung on, choking and spitting, and held his breath, and got in shots where he could. This Zepp was strafing bombs about for all she was worth, and — who was it? — Macartney, I think, potting at her between dives; and naturally all hands wanted to look at the performance, so about half the North Sea flopped down below and — oh, they had a Charlie Chaplin time of it! Well, somehow, Macartney managed to rip the Zepp a bit, and she went to leeward with a list on her. We saw her a fortnight later with a patch on her port side. Oh, if Fritz only fought clean, this wouldn’t be half a bad show. But Fritz can’t fight clean.”
“And we can’t do what he does — even if we were allowed to,” one said.
“No, we can’t. ‘Tisn’t done. We have to fish Fritz out of the water, dry him, and give him cocktails, and send him to Donnington Hall.”
“And what does Fritz do?” I asked.
“He sputters and clicks and bows. He has all the correct motions, you know; but, of course, when he’s your prisoner you can’t tell him what he really is.”
“And do you suppose Fritz understands any of it?” I went on.
“No. Or he wouldn’t have lusitaniaed. This war was his first chance of making his name, and he chucked it all away for the sake of showin’ off as a foul Gottstrafer.”
And they talked of that hour of the night when submarines come to the top like mermaids to get and give information; of boats whose business it is to fire as much and to splash about as aggressively as possible; and of other boats who avoid any sort of display — dumb boats watching and relieving watch, with their periscope just showing like a crocodile’s eye, at the back of islands and the mouths of channels where something may some day move out in procession to its doom.
Be well assured that on our side Our challenged oceans fight, Though headlong wind and heaping tide Make us their sport to-night. Through force of weather, not of war, In jeopardy we steer. Then, welcome Fate’s discourtesy Whereby it shall appear How in all time of our distress As in our triumph too, The game is more than the player of the game, And the ship is more than the crew!
Be well assured, though wave and wind Have mightier blows in store, That we who keep the watch assigned Must stand to it the more; And as our streaming bows dismiss Each billow’s baulked career, Sing, welcome Fate’s discourtesy Whereby it is made clear How in all time of our distress As in our triumph too, The game is more than the player of the game, And the ship is more than the crew!
Be well assured, though in our power Is nothing left to give But time and place to meet the hour And leave to strive to live, Till these dissolve our Order holds, Our Service binds us here. Then, welcome Fate’s discourtesy Whereby it is made clear How in all time of our distress And our deliverance too, The game is more than the player of the game, And the ship is more than the crew!
PATROLS
I
On the edge of the North Sea sits an Admiral in charge of a stretch of coast without lights or marks, along which the traffic moves much as usual. In front of him there is nothing but the east wind, the enemy, and some few our ships. Behind him there are towns, with M.P.’s attached, who a little while ago didn’t see the reason for certain lighting orders. When a Zeppelin or two came, they saw. Left and right of him are enormous docks, with vast crowded sheds, miles of stone-faced quay-edges, loaded with all manner of supplies and crowded with mixed shipping.
In this exalted world one met Staff-Captains, Staff-Commanders, Staff-Lieutenants, and Secretaries, with Paymasters so senior that they almost ranked with Admirals. There were Warrant Officers, too, who long ago gave up splashing about decks barefoot, and now check and issue stores to the ravenous, untruthful fleets. Said one of these, guarding a collection of desirable things, to a cross between a sick-bay attendant and a junior writer (but he was really an expert burglar), “No! An’ you can tell Mr. So-and-so, with my compliments, that the storekeeper’s gone away — right away — with the key of these stores in his pocket. Understand me? In his trousers pocket.”
He snorted at my next question.
“Do I know any destroyer-lootenants?” said he. “This coast’s rank with ‘em! Destroyer-lootenants are born stealing. It’s a mercy they’s too busy to practise forgery, or I’d be in gaol. Engineer-Commanders? Engineer-Lootenants? They’re worse!... Look here! If my own mother was to come to me beggin’ brass screws for her own coffin, I’d — I’d think twice before I’d oblige the old lady. War’s war, I grant you that; but what I’ve got to contend with is crime.”
I referred to him a case of conscience in which every one concerned acted exactly as he should, and it nearly ended in murder. During a lengthy action, the working of a gun was hampered by some empty cartridge-cases which the lieutenant in charge made signs (no man could hear his neighbour speak just then) should be hove overboard. Upon which the gunner rushed forward and made other signs that they were “on charge,” and must be tallied and accounted for. He, too, was trained in a strict school. Upon which the lieutenant, but that he was busy, would have slain the gunner for refusing orders in action. Afterwards he wanted him shot by court-martial. But every one was voiceless by then, and could only mouth and croak at each other, till somebody laughed, and the pedantic gunner was spared.
“Well, that’s what you might fairly call a naval crux,” said my friend among the stores. “The Lootenant was right. ‘Mustn’t refuse orders in action. The Gunner was right. Empty cases are on charge. No one ought to chuck ‘em away that way, but.... Damn it, they were all of ‘em right! It ought to ha’ been a marine. Then they could have killed him and preserved discipline at the same time.”
A Little Theory
The problem of this coast resolves itself into keeping touch
with the enemy’s movements; in preparing matters to trap and hinder him when he moves, and in so entertaining him that he shall not have time to draw clear before a blow descends on him from another quarter. There are then three lines of defence: the outer, the inner, and the home waters. The traffic and fishing are always with us.
The blackboard idea of it is always to have stronger forces more immediately available everywhere than those the enemy can send. x German submarines draw a English destroyers. Then x calls x + y to deal with a, who, in turn, calls up b, a scout, and possibly a², with a fair chance that, if x + y + z (a Zeppelin) carry on, they will run into a² + b² + c cruisers. At this point, the equation generally stops; if it continued, it would end mathematically in the whole of the German Fleet coming out. Then another factor which we may call the Grand Fleet would come from another place. To change the comparisons: the Grand Fleet is the “strong left” ready to give the knock-out blow on the point of the chin when the head is thrown up. The other fleets and other arrangements threaten the enemy’s solar plexus and stomach. Somewhere in relation to the Grand Fleet lies the “blockading” cordon which examines neutral traffic. It could be drawn as tight as a Turkish bowstring, but for reasons which we may arrive at after the war, it does not seem to have been so drawn up to date.
The enemy lies behind his mines, and ours, raids our coasts when he sees a chance, and kills seagoing civilians at sight or guess, with intent to terrify. Most sailor-men are mixed up with a woman or two; a fair percentage of them have seen men drown. They can realise what it is when women go down choking in horrible tangles and heavings of draperies. To say that the enemy has cut himself from the fellowship of all who use the seas is rather understating the case. As a man observed thoughtfully: “You can’t look at any water now without seeing ‘Lusitania’ sprawlin’ all across it. And just think of those words, ‘North-German Lloyd,’ ‘Hamburg-Amerika’ and such things, in the time to come. They simply mustn’t be.”
He was an elderly trawler, respectable as they make them, who, after many years of fishing, had discovered his real vocation. “I never thought I’d like killin’ men,” he reflected. “Never seemed to be any o’ my dooty. But it is — and I do!”
A great deal of the East Coast work concerns mine-fields — ours and the enemy’s — both of which shift as occasion requires. We search for and root out the enemy’s mines; they do the like by us. It is a perpetual game of finding, springing, and laying traps on the least as well as the most likely runaways that ships use — such sea snaring and wiring as the world never dreamt of. We are hampered in this, because our Navy respects neutrals; and spends a great deal of its time in making their path safe for them. The enemy does not. He blows them up, because that cows and impresses them, and so adds to his prestige.
Death and the Destroyer
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 bumped 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 perishing 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 analyse. 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 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 ex
tremely 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 rôle, 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 Hell as the North Sea Patrol!”
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 862