The Senior Service does not gush. There are certain formulae appropriate to every occasion. One of our destroyers, who was knocked out early in the day and lay helpless, was sighted by several of her companions. One of them reported her to the authorities, but, being busy at the time, said he did not think himself justified in hampering himself with a disabled ship in the middle of an action. It was not as if she was sinking either. She was only holed foreward and aft, with a bad hit in the engine-room, and her steering-gear knocked out. In this posture she cheered the passing ships, and set about repairing her hurts with good heart and a smiling countenance. She managed to get under some sort of way at midnight, and next day was taken in tow by a friend. She says officially, “his assistance was invaluable, as I had no oil left and met heavy weather.”
What actually happened was much less formal. Fleet destroyers, as a rule, do not worry about navigation. They take their orders from the flagship, and range out and return, on signal, like sheep-dogs whose fixed point is their shepherd. Consequently, when they break loose on their own they may fetch up rather doubtful of their whereabouts — as this injured one did. After she had been so kindly taken in tow, she inquired of her friend (“Message captain to captain”) — ”Have you any notion where we are?” The friend replied, “I have not, but I will find out.” So the friend waited on the sun with the necessary implements, which luckily had not been smashed, and in due time made: “Our observed position at this hour is thus and thus.” The tow, irreverently, “Is it? Didn’t know you were a navigator.” The friend, with hauteur, “Yes; it’s rather a hobby of mine.” The tow, “Had no idea it was as bad as all that; but I’m afraid I’ll have to trust you this time. Go ahead, and be quick about it.” They reached a port, correctly enough, but to this hour the tow, having studied with the friend at a place called Dartmouth, insists that it was pure Joss.
Concerning Joss
And Joss, which is luck, fortune, destiny, the irony of Fate or Nemesis, is the greatest of all the Battle-gods that move on the waters. As I will show you later, knowledge of gunnery and a delicate instinct for what is in the enemy’s minds may enable a destroyer to thread her way, slowing, speeding, and twisting between the heavy salvoes of opposing fleets. As the dank-smelling waterspouts rise and break, she judges where the next grove of them will sprout. If her judgment is correct, she may enter it in her report as a little feather in her cap. But it is Joss when the stray 12-inch shell, hurled by a giant at some giant ten miles away, falls on her from Heaven and wipes out her and her profound calculations. This was seen to happen to a Hun destroyer in mid-attack. While she was being laboriously dealt with by a 4-inch gun something immense took her, and — she was not.
Joss it is, too, when the cruiser’s 8-inch shot, that should have raked out your innards from the forward boiler to the ward-room stove, deflects miraculously, like a twig dragged through deep water, and, almost returning on its track, skips off unbursten and leaves you reprieved by the breadth of a nail from three deaths in one. Later, a single splinter, no more, may cut your oil-supply pipes as dreadfully and completely as a broken wind-screen in a collision cuts the surprised motorist’s throat. Then you must lie useless, fighting oil-fires while the precious fuel gutters away till you have to ask leave to escape while there are yet a few tons left. One ship who was once bled white by such a piece of Joss, suggested it would be better that oil-pipes should be led along certain lines which she sketched. As if that would make any difference to Joss when he wants to show what he can do!
Our sea-people, who have worked with him for a thousand wettish years, have acquired something of Joss’s large toleration and humour. He causes ships in thick weather, or under strain, to mistake friends for enemies. At such times, if your heart is full of highly organised hate, you strafe frightfully and efficiently till one of you perishes, and the survivor reports wonders which are duly wirelessed all over the world. But if you worship Joss, you reflect, you put two and two together in a casual insular way, and arrive — sometimes both parties arrive — at instinctive conclusions which avoid trouble.
An Affair in the North Sea
Witness this tale. It does not concern the Jutland fight, but another little affair which took place a while ago in the North Sea. It was understood that a certain type of cruiser of ours would not be taking part in a certain show. Therefore, if anyone saw cruisers very like them he might blaze at them with a clear conscience, for they would be Hun-boats. And one of our destroyers — thick weather as usual — spied the silhouettes of cruisers exactly like our own stealing across the haze. Said the Commander to his Sub., with an inflection neither period, exclamation, nor interrogation-mark can render — ”That — is — them.”
Said the Sub. in precisely the same tone — ”That is them, sir.” “As my Sub.,” said the Commander, “your observation is strictly in accord with the traditions of the Service. Now, as man to man, what are they?” “We-el,” said the Sub., “since you put it that way, I’m d — — d if I’d fire.” And they didn’t, and they were quite right. The destroyer had been off on another job, and Joss had jammed the latest wireless orders to her at the last moment. But Joss had also put it into the hearts of the boys to save themselves and others.
I hold no brief for the Hun, but honestly I think he has not lied as much about the Jutland fight as people believe, and that when he protests he sank a ship, he did very completely sink a ship. I am the more confirmed in this belief by a still small voice among the Jutland reports, musing aloud over an account of an unaccountable outlying brawl witnessed by one of our destroyers. The voice suggests that what the destroyer saw was one German ship being sunk by another. Amen!
Our destroyers saw a good deal that night on the face of the waters. Some of them who were working in “areas of comparative calm” submit charts of their tangled courses, all studded with notes along the zigzag — something like this: —
8 P.M. — Heard explosion to the N.W. (A neat arrow-head points that way.) Half an inch farther along, a short change of course, and the word Hit explains the meaning of — ”Sighted enemy cruiser engaged with destroyers.” Another twist follows. “9.30 P.M. — Passed wreckage. Engaged enemy destroyers port beam opposite courses.” A long straight line without incident, then a tangle, and — Picked up survivors So-and-So. A stretch over to some ship that they were transferred to, a fresh departure, and another brush with “Single destroyer on parallel course. Hit. 0.7 A.M. — Passed bows enemy cruiser sticking up. 0.18. — Joined flotilla for attack on battleship squadron.” So it runs on — one little ship in a few short hours passing through more wonders of peril and accident than all the old fleets ever dreamed.
A “Child’s” Letter
In years to come naval experts will collate all those diagrams, and furiously argue over them. A lot of the destroyer work was inevitably as mixed as bombing down a trench, as the scuffle of a polo match, or as the hot heaving heart of a football scrum. It is difficult to realise when one considers the size of the sea, that it is that very size and absence of boundary which helps the confusion. To give an idea, here is a letter (it has been quoted before, I believe, but it is good enough to repeat many times), from a nineteen-year-old child to his friend aged seventeen (and minus one leg), in a hospital:
“I’m so awfully sorry you weren’t in it. It was rather terrible, but a wonderful experience, and I wouldn’t have missed it for anything, but, by Jove, it isn’t a thing one wants to make a habit of.
“I must say it is very different from what I expected. I expected to be excited, but was not a bit. It’s hard to express what we did feel like, but you know the sort of feeling one has when one goes in to bat at cricket, and rather a lot depends upon your doing well, and you are waiting for the first ball. Well, it’s very much the same as that. Do you know what I mean? A sort of tense feeling, not quite knowing what to expect. One does not feel the slightest bit frightened, and the idea that there’s a chance of you and your ship being scuppered does not
enter one’s head. There are too many other things to think about.”
Follows the usual “No ship like our ship” talkee, and a note of where she was at the time.
“Then they ordered us to attack, so we bustled off full bore. Being navigator, also having control of all the guns, I was on the bridge all the time, and remained for twelve hours without leaving it at all. When we got fairly close I sighted a good-looking Hun destroyer, which I thought I’d like to strafe. You know, it’s awful fun to know that you can blaze off at a real ship, and do as much damage as you like. Well, I’d just got their range on the guns, and we’d just fired one round, when some more of our destroyers coming from the opposite direction got between us and the enemy and completely blanketed us, so we had to stop, which was rather rot. Shortly afterwards they recalled us, so we bustled back again. How any destroyer got out of it is perfectly wonderful.
“Literally there were hundreds of progs (shells falling) all round us, from a 15-inch to a 4-inch, and you know what a big splash a 15-inch bursting in the water does make. We got washed through by the spray. Just as we were getting back, a whole salvo of big shells fell just in front of us and short of our big ships. The skipper and I did rapid calculations as to how long it would take them to reload, fire again, time of flight, etc., as we had to go right through the spot. We came to the conclusion that, as they were short a bit, they would probably go up a bit, and (they?) didn’t, but luckily they altered deflection, and the next fell right astern of us. Anyhow, we managed to come out of that row without the ship or a man on board being touched.
What the Big Ships Stand
“It’s extraordinary the amount of knocking about the big ships can stand. One saw them hit, and they seemed to be one mass of flame and smoke, and you think they’re gone, but when the smoke clears away they are apparently none the worse and still firing away. But to see a ship blow up is a terrible and wonderful sight; an enormous volume of flame and smoke almost 200 feet high and great pieces of metal, etc., blown sky-high, and then when the smoke clears not a sign of the ship. We saw one other extraordinary sight. Of course, you know the North Sea is very shallow. We came across a Hun cruiser absolutely on end, his stern on the bottom and his bow sticking up about 30 feet in the water; and a little farther on a destroyer in precisely the same position.
“I couldn’t be certain, but I rather think I saw your old ship crashing along and blazing away, but I expect you have heard from some of your pals. But the night was far and away the worse time of all. It was pitch dark, and, of course, absolutely no lights, and the firing seems so much more at night, as you could see the flashes lighting up the sky, and it seemed to make much more noise, and you could see ships on fire and blowing up. Of course we showed absolutely no lights. One expected to be surprised any moment, and eventually we were. We suddenly found ourselves within 1000 yards of two or three big Hun cruisers. They switched on their searchlights and started firing like nothing on earth. Then they put their searchlights on us, but for some extraordinary reason did not fire on us. As, of course, we were going full speed we lost them in a moment, but I must say, that I, and I think everybody else, thought that that was the end, but one does not feel afraid or panicky. I think I felt rather cooler then than at any other time. I asked lots of people afterwards what they felt like, and they all said the same thing. It all happens in a few seconds; one hasn’t time to think; but never in all my life have I been so thankful to see daylight again — and I don’t think I ever want to see another night like that — it’s such an awful strain. One does not notice it at the time, but it’s the reaction afterwards.
“I never noticed I was tired till I got back to harbour, and then we all turned in and absolutely slept like logs. We were seventy-two hours with little or no sleep. The skipper was perfectly wonderful. He never left the bridge for a minute for twenty-four hours, and was on the bridge or in the chart-house the whole time we were out (the chart-house is an airy dog-kennel that opens off the bridge) and I’ve never seen anybody so cool and unruffled. He stood there smoking his pipe as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening.
“One quite forgot all about time. I was relieved at 4 A.M., and on looking at my watch found I had been up there nearly twelve hours, and then discovered I was rather hungry. The skipper and I had some cheese and biscuits, ham sandwiches, and water on the bridge, and then I went down and brewed some cocoa and ship’s biscuit.”
Not in the thick of the fight, Not in the press of the odds, Do the heroes come to their height Or we know the demi-gods.
That stands over till peace. We can only perceive Men returned from the seas, Very grateful for leave.
They grant us sudden days Snatched from their business of war. We are too close to appraise What manner of men they are.
And whether their names go down With age-kept victories, Or whether they battle and drown Unreckoned is hid from our eyes.
They are too near to be great, But our children shall understand When and how our fate Was changed, and by whose hand.
Our children shall measure their worth. We are content to be blind, For we know that we walk on a new-born earth With the saviours of mankind.
IV
THE MINDS OF MEN
HOW IT IS DONE
What mystery is there like the mystery of the other man’s job — or what world so cut off as that which he enters when he goes to it? The eminent surgeon is altogether such an one as ourselves, even till his hand falls on the knob of the theatre door. After that, in the silence, among the ether fumes, no man except his acolytes, and they won’t tell, has ever seen his face. So with the unconsidered curate. Yet, before the war, he had more experience of the business and detail of death than any of the people who contemned him. His face also, as he stands his bedside-watches — that countenance with which he shall justify himself to his Maker — none have ever looked upon. Even the ditcher is a priest of mysteries at the high moment when he lays out in his mind his levels and the fall of the water that he alone can draw off clearly. But catch any of these men five minutes after they have left their altars, and you will find the doors are shut.
Chance sent me almost immediately after the Jutland fight a Lieutenant of one of the destroyers engaged. Among other matters, I asked him if there was any particular noise.
“Well, I haven’t been in the trenches, of course,” he replied, “but I don’t think there could have been much more noise than there was.”
This bears out a report of a destroyer who could not be certain whether an enemy battleship had blown up or not, saying that, in that particular corner, it would have been impossible to identify anything less than the explosion of a whole magazine.
“It wasn’t exactly noise,” he reflected. “Noise is what you take in from outside. This was inside you. It seemed to lift you right out of everything.”
“And how did the light affect one?” I asked, trying to work out a theory that noise and light produced beyond known endurance form an unknown anaesthetic and stimulant, comparable to, but infinitely more potent than, the soothing effect of the smoke-pall of ancient battles.
“The lights were rather curious,” was the answer. “I don’t know that one noticed searchlights particularly, unless they meant business; but when a lot of big guns loosed off together, the whole sea was lit up and you could see our destroyers running about like cockroaches on a tin soup-plate.”
“Then is black the best colour for our destroyers? Some commanders seem to think we ought to use grey.”
“Blessed if I know,” said young Dante. “Everything shows black in that light. Then it all goes out again with a bang. Trying for the eyes if you are spotting.”
Ship Dogs
“And how did the dogs take it?” I pursued. There are several destroyers more or less owned by pet dogs, who start life as the chance-found property of a stoker, and end in supreme command of the bridge.
“Most of ‘em didn’t like it a bit. They went below one time, and wanted to be l
oved. They knew it wasn’t ordinary practice.”
“What did Arabella do?” I had heard a good deal of Arabella.
“Oh, Arabella’s quite different. Her job has always been to look after her master’s pyjamas — folded up at the head of the bunk, you know. She found out pretty soon the bridge was no place for a lady, so she hopped downstairs and got in. You know how she makes three little jumps to it — first, on to the chair; then on the flap-table, and then up on the pillow. When the show was over, there she was as usual.”
“Was she glad to see her master?”
“Ra-ather. Arabella was the bold, gay lady-dog then!”
Now Arabella is between nine and eleven and a half inches long.
“Does the Hun run to pets at all?”
“I shouldn’t say so. He’s an unsympathetic felon — the Hun. But he might cherish a dachshund or so. We never picked up any ships’ pets off him, and I’m sure we should if there had been.”
That I believed as implicitly as the tale of a destroyer attack some months ago, the object of which was to flush Zeppelins. It succeeded, for the flotilla was attacked by several. Right in the middle of the flurry, a destroyer asked permission to stop and lower dinghy to pick up ship’s dog which had fallen overboard. Permission was granted, and the dog was duly rescued. “Lord knows what the Hun made of it,” said my informant. “He was rumbling round, dropping bombs; and the dinghy was digging out for all she was worth, and the Dog-Fiend was swimming for Dunkirk. It must have looked rather mad from above. But they saved the Dog-Fiend, and then everybody swore he was a German spy in disguise.”
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 868