The year stood at the threshold of the spring; a promise of warmth lay in the climbing sun; on land one might have heard the first songs of the birds. At sea, the mists of winter were lifting from the waters, and the sun, for many months shrunk and silver pale, shone hard and golden bright. A fresh, clear wind was blowing from the west, driving ahead of it a multitude of low foam-streaked waves. There was not a sign of life to be seen anywhere on the vast disk of the sea, not a trail, not a smudge of smoke on the horizon's circle, not even a solitary gull or diver. The destroyer, dwarfed by her world, ran up and down the square she had been chosen to guard. She had the air of performing a casual evolution. There was never anything to be found in this particular square. It lay beyond the great highways; even the sight of a coaster was there something of a rarity. Periscopes were never reported from that area, never had been reported, and probably never would be. Caressed by the sun, enveloped in the serenity of the day as in a mantle, the destroyer went back and forth on her patrol.
The emergence of the periscope a quarter of a mile ahead off the starboard bow had in it something so unattended that the incident had a character of abnormality ... much as if a familiar hill should suddenly turn into a volcano. It is greatly to the honour of the ship's discipline, that those aboard were not staled by months of unfruitful vigil, and acted as swiftly as if the destruction of a submarine were matter of daily practice. There it lay, going steadily along about two hundred yards away, ... a simple, most unromantic black rod rising two feet or so above the waves. A white furrow like a kind of comet's tail, streamed behind it, forever widening at the end. Later on, they asked themselves what the submarine could possibly have been doing. Seeking a quiet place to come up to breathe, to effect repairs, to send out a hurried wireless message?
It might have been a rendezvous between the two vessels. One felt that the gods had brought to pass there no careless drama, but a tragedy long meditated and skillfully prepared. The morning sun watched, a casual spectator, the duel between the two engines of violence.
There had been a command, a call of the summoning bell, a release of power carefully stored for just such an event, and the destroyer leaped ahead like a runner from the starting line. The periscope, meanwhile, continued to plough its way straight ahead almost into the teeth of the wind and the flattened, marbly waves. Presently, either because the destroyer had been seen or heard on the submarine telephone, the submarine began to submerge, sucking in a kind of a foaming hollow as she sank. Aboard the destroyer, they wondered if the keel would clear her, and waited for the shock, the rasping grind. But nothing happened. The first depth bomb fell into the heart of the submarine's swirl even as a well placed stone falls in the heart of a pool. Trembling to the roar of her fans, the destroyer fled across the spot, and turned. The wake of her passing had almost obliterated the platter-shaped swirl the submarine had left behind; one had a vision of the great steel cylinder tumbling, bubbling down through green water to dark, harmless as a spool of thread on the surface, but presently to be changed by the wisdom and cunning of men into monstrous and chaotic strength. One, two, three, four, five ... a thundering pound.... The submarine rose behind them, her bow on the crest of the geyser, an immense, tapering rusty mass, wet and shining in the placid glance of the day. From a kind of hole some distance up the side, a stream of oil ran much like blood from a small deep wound.... A gun spoke, and spoke again, a careening whizz, ... ugly hollow crashes of tearing steel ... the sub heeled far over on her starboard side ... those nearest heard, or thought they heard, screaming ... the bow sank, tilting up the great planes and propellers. A monstrous bubble or two broke on the tormented surface just before she disappeared ... and with her going, the calm of the spring morning, which had been frightened away like a singing bird, returned once more to the tragic and mysterious sea.
Kelley, not Von Biberstein or Hans Bratwurst, is his name, Kelley spelled with an "e." The first destroyer officer whom you question will very possibly have never heard of him, the second will have heard the legend, the third will tell you of a radio officer, a friend of his, who received one of Kelley's messages. So day by day the legend grows apace. Kelley is the captain of a German submarine.
The first time that I heard about him he figured as a young Irishman of good family who had attached himself to the German cause in order to settle old scores. "Lots of people know him in the west of Ireland; he goes ashore there any time he cares to." Another version, perhaps the true one, if there be any truth at all in this fantastic business, is that Kelley is no Irishman but a cosmopolitan, jesting German with a Celtic camouflage. No less a person than Captain James Norman Hall testifies that the Germans in the trenches often tried to anger the British troops by pretending they were disloyal Irish. So perhaps Kelley is Von Biberstein after all. A third version has it that Kelley is a Californian of Irish origin. Those who hold to this last view have it that Kelley spares all American ships but sends the Union Jack to the bottom without mercy.
Many and varied are Kelley's activities. He has penchant for sending messages. "I am in latitude x and longitude y; come and get me—Kelley," has come at the dead of night into the ears of many an astounded radio operator. Others declare that these messages were sent by Hans Rose, the skipper of the submarine which attacked the shipping off Nantucket in 1916. All agree that Kelley was the beau ideal of pirates. He sinks a ship and apologizes for his action, he sees the women passengers into the boats with the grace and urbanity of a Chesterfield, he comes alongside a wretched huddle of survivors, supplies them with food, and sends out notice of their position. When they ask his name, he replies "Captain Kelley," and disappears from view beneath the sea. He goes ashore, and proves his visit with theatre tickets and hotel bills. "London hotel bills made out to Kelley, Esquire." He requests the survivors as a slight favour to tell Captain Nameless of the Destroyer XYZ that his propeller shaft needs repairing; that he, Kelley, has been seriously annoyed by having to listen to the imperfect beat via the submarine telephone. There is certainly a flavour of Celt in this chivalry tinged with mockery.
I could never find anybody who had actually seen him, much to my regret, for I should have been glad to describe so famous a person. Months have passed since last I heard of him. Perhaps he is still in the Irish Sea; perhaps he is now at Harwich, perhaps he has gone aloft to join his kinsman "The Flying Dutchman." If so, let us keep his memory green, for he was a pirate sans peur et sans reproche.
Any essay on the British sailor must rise from a foundation of wholesome respect. One cannot look at the master of the world without philosophy. And British Jack is the world's master, for he holds in his hands that mastery of the seas which is the mastery of the land. He is a sailor of the mightiest of all navies, an inheritor of the world's most remarkable naval tradition, a true son of Britannia's ancient trident.
What is he like, British Jack? How does he impress those companions who share the vigil of the seas?
To begin with the Briton is, on the average, an older man than our bluejacket. British Jack has not gone into the Royal Navy "for the fun of it" or "to see the world," as our posters say, but as the serious business of his life. His enlistment is an eight-year affair, and by the time that he has completed it, he rarely thinks of returning to a prosaic life ashore. Thus it comes about that whilst our American sailors are usually somewhere in the eager, irresponsible twenties, British tars are often men of sober middle age. One is sure to see, in any of the "home ports," the fleet's married men out walking on Sunday with their wives and children, forming together a number of honest, steady little groups whose hold on the durable satisfactions of life it is a pleasure to see. The "home ports" idea has well proved its value. It is simple enough in operation. Each ship, according to the plan, bases on some definite port, thus permitting poor Jack (who has enough of roaming at sea) to have a steady home on land. In all the great British bases, therefore, you will find these sailor colonies. I was well acquainted with a retired Navy chaplain who ministered to such a group. These families form a distinct group dependent on the Navy. Marriages are performed by the naval chaplain, the ills of the flesh are looked after by the fleet surgeons, and the rare troubles are brought to the judgment of Jack's favourite officers.
Our American crews are gathered together from all over the vast continent, British crews are often recruited from one section of the country. For instance, a ship manned by a crew from "out o' Devon" is known as a "West Country" ship and its sailors as "Westos." A real Royal Navy man knows in an instant the character of any ship which he happens to visit. The drawled "oa's" and oe's" of the West tell the story. I once heard a "Westo" refer to an officious wharf tender as a "bloody to-ad," a phrase that certainly has character. Then there be ships based on Irish ports. Indeed, there are sure to be Irish sailors on every ship, irresponsible, keen-witted Celts to whom all devilment is entrusted.
The war has not been without influence on the naval personnel. British Jack had, in his own social system, a place of his own. He is not looked down upon, for the British bluejacket has been, is, and forever ought to be the best loved of national figures. Sons of "gentlemen," however, I use the word here in its British sense, did not join the Royal Navy as enlisted men. Such a thing would have been regarded as "queer" (no mild word, in Britain), and the crew certainly would have looked upon any such arrival as an intruder. But just as the war has placed University men side by side in the ranks with troopers like Kipling's Ortheris, so has it placed among the enlisted personnel of the Royal Navy a large number of men from the educated and wealthier class. There hung in the Royal Academy this spring a portrait of a British bluejacket, a pleasant-looking lad some nineteen or twenty years of age with blond hair, a long face and honest eyes of English grey. It was entitled "My Son." Almost invariably the older visitors to the exhibition, when looking at this picture, would fall to talking of the change in the social system which the portrait symbolized.
There are always a number of boys on British ships, for the British hold that to be a good sailor, one should early become familiar with the sea. The status of "boy" is a kind of distinct rating, and these youngsters are addressed by their last names, viz., Boy Bumblechook or Boy Stiggins. They have shown up wonderfully well. One has but to recall little Cornell of Jutland to see of what stuff these lads are made.
The British sailor's uniform is picturesque and characteristic, but certainly less attractive than ours. It is cut not of broadcloth or of serge, but of heavy blue worsted, and a detachable collar of blue linen falls back upon the blouse. Our sailors are forever washing the blouses to keep the white stripes of the collar clean; the Briton has only his collar to care for. And there is a difference between the national builds as marked as the difference twixt the uniforms. Our Jack is rangy, lean and quick-moving, the Briton heavier, shorter, and more deliberate. In hours of leisure, the Briton busies himself with knitting, wood-carving or weaving rag rugs; the American, driven by the mechanical genius of the nation, hurries to the ship's machine shop to pound a half-crown into a ring.
The sons of Columbia and the sons of Britannia get on very well together. At the big club house at the Irish base, there are always little groups of British sailors to be seen, quiet, well-behaved fellows who watch everything with British dignity. Our bluejackets, however, are far more chummy with British soldiers than with Britons of their own calling. Navy blue and khaki are forever going down the street arm in arm. The tar is always keen to hear of the front. Tommy does the talking. After all, there is a difference in the vernacular. Witness this poem which I reprint from the August number of Our Navy. It is by a Navy man, Mr. R. P. Maulsley. The word Limey, here shortened to "Lima," means, used as a noun, a British sailorman; used as an adjective, British. The term had its origin in the ancient British custom of giving lime juice to ward off scurvy.
THE LIMA AND THE YANKS
By R. P. Maulsley
It was nice and cozy in the "Pub,"
And blowing cold outside.
By the fireplace sat two gobbies,
America's joy and pride.
When a Lima from a cruiser
Thought their talk he'd like to hear,
And sat down just behind them,
With a half o' pint of beer.
And o'er a flowing mug of ale,
That held about a quart,
He heard them swapping stories
About their stay in port.
"Say, this is sure some burg,
Tho' it ain't the U.S.A.,
But did you pipe the classy Jane,
That passed us on the quay?
"She gave me some sweet smile, bo,
And winked her pretty eye,"
"Get out, you big hay-maker,
It was for me she meant to sigh."
"G'wan you homely piece of cheese,
You're talkin' thru' your hat,
I'll betsha just ten plasters,
It was me she was smiling at."
"I'll take that up old-timer,
Why, that's some easy dough,
We'll have another round,
And then we'll have to blow.
"And if I lamp that broad, kid,
And she cottons to me quick,
I'll buy her everything in town,
And make that ten look sick."
They arose and left the Lima,
A gasping in some chairs,
And as they left the room,
He heard them on the stairs.
"Like candy from a baby,
I'll take your coin this day,
And have a high old time and—
Say, how did you get that way?"
The Lima emptied his tankard,
And caught the barmaid's eye,
"I 'eard them Yanks a tarkin',
But what the bloomin' ell'd they seye?"
The fleet lay in the Firth of Forth. It was one o'clock in the afternoon, and the little suburban train which leaves and pauses at the Edinburgh Grand Fleet pier had not yet been brought to its platform. The cold sunlight of a northern spring fell upon the vast, empty station, and burnished the lines of rail beyond the entrance arch. Two porters from the adjoining hotel, wearing coats of orange-red with dull brass buttons, stood lackadaisically by a booking office closed for the dinner hour. Presently, after a piercing shriek intensified by the surrounding quiet, the suburban train backed in with a smooth, crawling noise. Various folk began to appear on the platform, a group of young British naval officers, a handful of older sailors, a captain carrying a small leather affair much like a miniature suit-case, a number of civilians, two "Jacks" evidently on furlough, and a young sailor lad with a fine bull terrier bitch on a leash. No one entered to share my compartment. The train left behind the clean, grim town ... rolled on through suburbs and through fields barely awake to the spring ... paused here and there at tidy, little stations ... reached the station above the pier. Somewhat uncertain of my path to the landing, I followed a group of officers. A middle-aged soldier sentry with grey hair and ruddy cheeks held me up for my pass, unfolded and folded it again with extraordinary deliberation, and courteously set me on my way. As yet there was no sign of the sea, nor had it once been visible during the journey. One might have been on the way to play golf at an inland field. The path to the pier descended a great flight of steps and passed a space in which men were playing football.... A turn down a bit of road, and I was looking at the fleet.
It lay in the great firth, in a monstrous estuary enclosed between barren banks rising to no great height. Bare, scattered woodlands were to be seen, a clump of cottages, a castellated house in a solitary spot, a great wharf with a trumpery traveller's bookstall in a wooden shed at its entrance, a huddle of grey roofs at the water's edge on the distant side. Over a spur of land the smoke of a giant dockyard rose in a hazy reek to the obscured and silvery sun. The water in which the squadrons lay was for the moment as calm as a woodland pool; in colour, green-grey.... An incredible number of ships of war lying lengthwise in orderly lines, bows turned to the unseen river of the rising tide, ... row after row, squadron after squadron, fleet after fleet, ships of war, dark, terrible and huge, no more to be counted than the leaves of trees. As far as the eye could reach up and down the firth, ships. One beheld there the mastery of the sea made visible, the mastery of all the highways and the secret paths of the waters of earth. Because of this fleet ships were able to bring grain from distant fields, great hopes were kept aflame, and the life blood of evil ambitions poured upon the ground. A grey haze lay at the mouth of the roads and somewhere in the heart of it was target practice being held, for violent blots of light again and again burst open the dim and veiling fog. Small gulls passed on motionless wings, whistling. Now and then a vessel would run up a tangle of flags. The signal light of a flagship suddenly uttered a message with intermittent flashes of an unnatural violet white glare.
Over earth and sea brooded the peace of empire.
The morning found me a guest aboard the flagship of the American battleship squadron attached to the Grand Fleet. Going on deck, I found the sun struggling through thin, motionless mists. A layer of webby drops lay on wall and rail, on turret and gun. Presently a little cool wind, blowing from the land, fled over the calm water in mottled, scaly spots, bringing with it a piping beat of rhythmic music. Half a mile beyond the flagship, the crew of a British warship were running in a column round and round her decks to the music of the ship's band. An endless file of white clad figures bent forward, a faint regular tattoo of running feet. Round and about several of the giants were signalling in blinker. Beyond us stood a titanic bridge, whose network was here and there smouched with clinging vapour, and beneath this giant, a tanker laden with oil for the fleet passed solemnly, followed by wheeling gulls. Presently two American sailors, lads of that alert, eager type that is so intensely and honestly American, popped out of a doorway and began to polish bright work.
America was there.
Surely it was one of the finest thoughts of the war to send this squadron of ours. Putting aside for the instant any thought of the squadron as a unit of naval strength, Americans and Britons will do well to consider it rather as a splendid symbol of a union dedicated to the most honourable of purposes, to the defence of that ideal of fraternity and international good faith now menaced. They say that when the American squadron came steaming into the fleet's more northern base one bitter winter day, cheer after cheer broke from the British vessels as they passed, till even the forlorn, snow-covered land rang with the shouting.
It has recently been announced that our battleship squadron is under the command of Admiral Hugh Rodman, which announcement the Germans must have taken to heart, for Admiral Rodman is a man of action if ever one there was. Tall, strongly built, vigorous and alert, he dominates whatever group he happens to find himself in by sheer force of personality. It would fare ill with a German who brought his fleet under the sweep of those keen eyes. Admiral Rodman is a Kentuckian, and a union of blue grass and blue sea is pretty hard to beat, especially when accompanied by a shrewd sense of humour.
I talked with Admiral Rodman about the squadron and its work.
"Always remember," said he, "that this squadron is not over here, as somebody put it, 'helping the British.' Nor are we 'coöperating' with the British fleet. Such ideas are erroneous, and would mislead your readers. Think of this great fleet which you see here as a unit of force, controlled by one ideal, one spirit and one mind, and of the American squadron as an integral part of that fleet. Take, as an instance of what I mean, the change in our signalling system. We came over here using the American system of signals. Well, we could not have two sets of signals going, so in order to get right into things, we learned the British signals, and it's the British system we are using to-day.... There are American ships here and British ships but only one fleet.
Everywhere I went, I found both British and American officers keen to emphasize this unity. Said a Briton—-"Why we no longer think of the Americans of 'the Americans'; we think of squadron X of the fleet. It's just wonderful the way your chaps have got down to business and fallen in with the technique and the traditions. We expected to see you spend some time getting into the life of the fleet and all that, you know; the sort of thing that a boy in a public school goes through before he gets the spirit and the ways of the place, but your people came along in the morning and had picked up everything by the afternoon." And I found the Americans proud of the fleet's essential oneness, proud to share in its great tradition, and to be a part of its history. America is taking no obscure place. Her hosts have given her the place of honour in the battle line.
An American battleship fleet leaving the harbor
An American battleship fleet leaving the harbor
Battle—that was the thought of everybody aboard the fleet. If only the German "High Canal" fleet would really come out and fight it to a finish, or as an American lieutenant put it, "start something." The Germans, however, knew only too well that the famous betoasted Der Tag would turn swiftly into a Dies Iræe and preferred to surrender. So for lack of an antagonist, the fleet had to be content to keep steam up all the time and to know that everything was prepared for a day of battle. But the fleet did far more than wait. No statement of the Germans was more empty of truth than the silly cry that the British fleet lies "skulking in harbour for fear of submarines." The fleet was busy all the time. Again and again, a visible defiance, it swept by the mine sealed mouths of the German bases. For five years now, the fleet has been on a war footing prepared for instant action, a tremendous task this. "If they only had come out, the beggars."
A day with the fleet in port passed casually and calmly enough. There was none of that melodrama which invests the war of the destroyer and the submarine, and human problems seemed to lack importance, for in the fleet man is somewhat shadowed by the immense force he has created. On board there were various drills, perhaps a general quarters practice drill that sends everybody scurrying to his station. Hour after hour, the visitor sees the continuous and multitudinous activity needed to keep a dreadnaught in shape as a fortress, an engine, and a ship. Then, when the evening has come, such officers as are off duty may sit down to a game of bridge or go to their rooms to read or study quietly. There are great days when kings and queens come aboard and are royally entertained. Twice a week the entertainment committee of the fleet sent round a steel box full of "movies." However, everybody enjoys them, and laughs. But it is good to escape on deck again, and see the squadron and the fleet beneath the haloed moon.
The shores about are quite in darkness, though now and then a glow appears over the hidden dockyard as if some one there had opened a furnace door. A little breeze is blowing a thin, flat sheet of cloud across the moon; one can hear water slapping against the sides. The sailors on watch walk up and down the decks, shouldering their guns. In the light one might believe the basketry of the woven masts to be spun of delicate silver bars. Behind us ride the other vessels of the squadron, a row of dark, triangular shapes. The great columnar guns, sealed with a brazen plug, seem mute and dead. The curtain of a hatchway parts, and a little group of officers come on deck to watch a squadron go to sea. One by one the vessels, battleships and attendant destroyers glide past us into the dark, and so swift and silent their motion is that they seem to be less self-propelled than drawn forward by some mysterious force dwelling far beyond in the moonlit sea. A slight hiss of cleaving water, the length of a hurrying grey fortress beneath the moon, and the last of the squadron vanishes down the roads. For a little time one may see the diminishing glares of blinker lights. Squadrons of various kinds are forever leaving a fleet base to go on mysterious errands, squadrons are ever returning home from the mystery and silence of the sea.
A friend comes to tell me that we have been put on "short notice," and may leave at any instant.
On the morning of the day that the fleet went out, there was to be felt aboard that tensity which follows on a "short notice" warning. Officers rushed into the wardroom for a hasty cup of coffee and hurried back to their beloved engines; the bluejackets, too, knew that something was in the air. A visitor to the flagship will not have to study long the faces of his hosts to see that they are an exceptional lot of men. Whilst among the destroyers there is a good deal of the grey-eyed ram-you, damn-you type; on a battleship there is a union of the elements of thought and action which is very fine to see. Nor is the artist element lacking in many a countenance. I remember a chief engineer whose ability as an engineer was a word in the fleet; it was easy to see, when he took you through his marvellous engine room, that he enjoyed his labour as much for the wonder of the delicacy, the power and the precision of his giant engines as he did for their mere mechanical side of pressures and horsepower. Nor shall I ever see a more perfect example of coördination and competence than a turret drill at which I was invited to assist. From the distinguished young executive to the lowest rated officer in "the steerage," every man brought to his task not only an expert's understanding of it, but a love of his work, which, I think it is Kipling that says it, is the most wonderful thing in all the world. The vessel was very much what Navy folk call a "happy ship." I must say the prospect of going out with the fleet and with such a wonderful crowd did not make me keenly miserable. "If they only would come out, ah, if...!"
"So we are still on an hour's notice," I said to one of my hosts in the hope of getting some information.
"Yes, back again. At two o'clock this morning the time was extended, but after seven we were put back on short time once more."
"I suppose the time is always shifting and changing?"
"Yes, indeed. You know we are always on an hour's notice. Pretty short, isn't it? You see we don't want the Germans to get away with anything if we can help it. Got to be ready to sail right down and smash them. Nobody knows just why the time changes come. Somebody knows something of course. Perhaps one of the British submarines on outpost duty off the German coast has seen something, and sent it along by wireless.
I asked about the German watch on the British bases.
"Subs. Everybody's doing it. I suppose that two or three are hanging off this coast all the time trying to get a squint at the fleet. It's what we call keeping a 'periscope watch' ... run by the naval intelligence. Little good anything they pick up about us does the Germans! Safety first is their daring game. What they are itching to do is to pick off one of our patrol squadrons that's gone on a little prospecting toot all by itself. They'd try, I think, if they weren't mighty well aware that not a single ship of the crowd that did the stunt would ever get back to the old home canal."
Presently a sailor messenger arrived, stood to attention, saluted snappily, and presented a paper. The officer read and signed.
"You're in luck," said he. "We are going out ... due to leave in three hours. Whole fleet together, evidently. Something's on for sure.... Hope they're out." And off he hurried to his quarters. I saw "the exec." going from place to place taking a look at everything. Pretty soon the chaplain of the flagship, an officer to whose friendly welcome and thoughtful courtesy I am in real debt, came looking for me.
"Come along," he cried, "you are missing the show. They're beginning to go out already. You ought to be on deck," and seizing me by the arm, he rushed me energetically up a companionway to the world without. There I learned that the departure of the Grand Fleet was no simultaneous movement such as the start of an automobile convoy, but a kind of tremendous process occupying several hours. The scout vessels, were to go first, then the various classes of cruisers and the destroyer flotillas with whom they acted in concert, last of all the squadrons of battleships. Our own sailing time was three hours distant and the outward movement had already begun.
Even a super-dreadnought is wet at times
Even a super-dreadnought is wet at times
The day was a pleasant one, the sun was shining clear and a fresh salty breeze was blowing down the estuary. The officers, however, shook their heads, talked of "low visibility," and pointed out that an invisible mist hung over the water, whose cumulative effect was not at all to their liking. First there went out a new variety of submarine, steam submarines of extraordinary size and speed; there followed a swift procession of destroyers and lighter cruisers, many signalling with blinker and flag. The outgoing of the destroyers was a sight not to be forgotten, for more than anything else did it impress upon me the titanic character of the fleet. Destroyers passed one every fifty seconds for a space of many hours. You would hear a hiss, and a lean, low rapier of a vessel would pass within a hundred yards of the flagship and hurry on, rolling, into the waiting haze of the open sea, and as you watched this first vessel leave your bow astern, you would hear another watery hiss prophetic of the following boat. On our own vessel all boats had long before been hoisted to their places; there were mysterious crashing noises, bugle calls, a deal of orderly action. Time passed; a long time full of movement and stir. The greater vessels began to go out, titans of heroic name, The Iron Duke, Queen Elizabeth, Lion. A broad swirling road of water lay behind them as one by one they melted into that ever mysterious obscurity ahead. Then with a jar, and a torrent of crashing iron thunder dreadful as a disintegration of the universe itself, our own immense anchor chains rose from the water below, and the American flagship got under way. We looked with a meditative eye on the bare shores of the firth wondering what adventures we were to have before we saw them again. Behind us the mist gathered, ahead, it melted away. And thus we stood out to the open sea. Night came, starlit and cold. Just at sun-down one of the British ships destroyed a floating mine with gun fire. I sought information from an officer friend.
"What about the mine problem?"
"Never bothers us a bit, though the Germans have planted mines everywhere. This North Sea is as full of them as a pudding is of plums."
"Why is it then that the fleet doesn't lose ships when out on these expeditions?"
"Because the British mine sweepers have done so bully a job."
"But once you get beyond the swept channels at the harbour mouths, what then?"
"The mine-sweepers attend to the whole North Sea."
"You mean to say that the Admiralty actually clears an ocean of mines?"
"To all intents and purposes, yes. Haven't you read of naval skirmishes in the North Sea? They are always having them. Many of those skirmishes take place between patrol boats of ours and enemy patrols. Of course it's a task, but the British have done it. One of the most wonderful achievements of the war."
"Suppose the Germans try to reach the British coast?"
"They do their best to find the British path. As a result, the Germans are always either bumping into their own mines or into ours. I feel pretty sure that their loss from mines has been quite heavy."
"Where, then, are the German cruising grounds? Doesn't their fleet get out once in a while?"
"Not to the outer sea. Once in a while they parade up the Danish coast, never going more than two or three hours from their base. Our steady game, of course, is to nab them when they are out, and cut off their retreat. If the weather had held good at Jutland, this would have been done. But the Germans now hardly ever venture out. Destroyers of theirs, based on the Belgian coast, try to mix things up in the Channel once or twice a year, but the fleet seems to stick pretty closely to dear old Kiel."
"Any more information in regard to this present trip?"
"Not a thing. It's always mysterious like this. Yet in twenty minutes we may be right in the thick of the world's greatest naval battle."
The next morning I rose at dawn to see the fleet emerge from the dark of night. A North Sea morning was at hand, cold, windy and clear. Now seas have their characters even as various areas of land, and there is as much difference between the North Sea and the Irish Sea as there is between a rocky New England pasture and a stretch of prairie. The shallow North Sea is in colour an honest salty, ocean green, and its surface is ever in motion; a sea without respite or rest. It has a franker, more masculine character than the beleaguered sea to the west with its mottlings of shadow and shoal and weaving, white-crested tide rips. A great armament, scouts, destroyers, and light cruisers had already passed over the edge of the world, and only a very thin haze revealed their presence. Miles ahead of us in a great lateral line, a number of great warships, vast triangular bulks, ploughed along side by side, then came the American squadron in a perpendicular line, each vessel escorted by destroyers. Behind us, immense, stately, formidable and dark, the second American ship followed down the broad river of our wake which flowed like liquid marble from the beat of the propellers. And behind the American squadron lay other ships, and over the horizon the bows of more ships still were pointing to the mine-strewn German coast. The Grand Fleet line, eighty miles long, rode the sea, a symbol of power, an august and visible defiance. Standing beneath the forward turret, beside the muzzles of the titan guns, I felt that I had at last beheld the mightiest element of the war.
Tightly wrapped in a navy great coat, the young officer whose guest I had been at turret drill walked up and down the deck watching the southeastern horizon. What eagerness lay in his eyes! If we only might then have heard a heavy detonation from over the edge of the dawn-illumined sky! ... All day long we cried our challenge over the sealed waters ahead.
Were "they" out? To this day, I do not know. The ways of the fleet are mysterious. Certainly, none came forth to accept our gage of battle. A time passed, and we were in port again. We saw the vessels we had left behind, the supply ships, tugs, oil tenders, colliers ... all the servants of the fleet.
Down in the wardroom, the tension relaxed. The anchor chain rattled out; once more the universe seemed to part asunder. The mail had arrived, joyous event. Somebody put a roll of music into a rather passé player piano, and let loose an avalanche of horribly orderly chords.
And all the time the Olympians were preparing, not the battle of the ages, but the Great Surrender!
We know him as chaplain, the gobs use the good old term "Sky Pilot," and the British call him "Padre." His task, no light one, is to look after the spiritual and moral welfare of some thousand sailor souls. He is general counsellor, friend in need, mender of broken hearts, counsel for the defence, censor, and show manager. Now he comes to the defence of seaman, first class, Billy Jones, whose frail bark of life has come to grief on the treacherous reef of the installment plan, and for whose misdemeanours a clamouring merchant is on deck threatening to "attach the ship." Now he is assuring the clergyman of the church on the hill that 2nd class petty officer Edgar K. Lee (who is going to marry pretty little Norah Desmond) is not, as far as he knows, committing bigamy. They tell of a chaplain of the destroyer force who, pestered beyond bearing by these demands that the American bridegroom be declared officially and stainlessly single, floored his tormentor by replying: "I've told you that as far as we know the man's unmarried. We can't give you any assurance more official. He may be bigamous, trigamous, quadrugamous, or," here he paused for effect, "pentagamous, but I advise you to risk it." The land sky pilot is said to have collapsed.
Aboard the flagship of the Grand Fleet, the chaplain of the vessel was my guide, counsellor, and friend. In the words of one of the sailors, "Our chaplain is a real feller." And indeed it would have been hard to find a better man for the task than this padre of ours with his young man's idealism, friendliness, and energy. In addition to his welfare work, he had his duties as a de-coder, and his spare time he spent tutoring several of the enlisted personnel who were about to take examinations for higher ratings. It is a great mistake, by the way, to imagine that a violent gulf lies between the commissioned officer and the enlisted man. One finds the higher officer only too glad to help the sailor advance, and many times have they said to me, "Don't write about us, write about the sailors; get to know them; get their story." On this particular ship many of the younger officers were, like the chaplain, giving up their spare time to help the ambitious men along. Correspondence school courses are great favourites in the Navy, and have undoubtedly helped many a sailor on to a responsible rating.
Our flagship chaplain used to make several rounds of the ship every day, "tours of welfare inspection," he used to call them humorously. Everywhere would he go, from wardroom to torpedo station, not neglecting an occasional visit to the boiler room. Friendly grins used to salute him on his passage; as the sailor said he was a "real feller." I often accompanied him on his rounds. When the tour was over, we would go to the chaplain's room for a quiet smoke and a good talk. The chaplain's room was always clean and quiet, and on the bookshelf, instead of weighty books on thermodynamics and navigation, were the pleasant kind of books one found in friendly houses over home.
"Do you know," said the chaplain to me one day, "you have landed here at an interesting time. There's very little shore leave being given because it can't be given, and as a result the life of the ship is thrown back upon itself for all its amusements and social activities. What do you think of the morale here?"
"I think it's very high," I answered. "The men seem very contented and keen. I've talked with a great many of them. How do you keep the morale up?"
"Well, this ship has always been famous as a 'happy ship'" (here I ventured to say that any other condition would be impossible under the captain we had) "and when men get into the habit of working together good-naturedly, that habit is liable to stick. And I find the men sustained by the thought of active service. You may think it calm here, having just arrived from a destroyer base, but think of what it is over on the American coast."
"Calm?" said I. "Don't put that down to me. The very idea of being with the Grand Fleet is thrilling. It's the experience of a lifetime. And let me tell you right from personal experience that no sight of the land war can match the impressiveness and grandeur of the first view of the fleet."
"I feel just as you do. The whole thing is a constant wonder. And some day the Germans may come out. Moreover, summer is now at hand, and we shall have a chance to use the deck more for sports. This long, raw, rainy winter doesn't permit much outdoor exercise. As soon as it gets warm, however, we shall have boxing matches on the deck between various members of the crew and the champions of the different ships. We have some good wrestlers, too. At present we are reduced to vaudeville competitions between our various vessels, and movies. I'm doing my best to get better movies. So we shan't fare badly after all."
"When do you hold Sunday services?"
"I have a service in the morning and another in the evening. Yes, I muster a pretty big congregation. But I'm afraid I've got to be going now, got to ram a little algebra into the head of one of the boys. See you at dinner." And our sky pilot was gone. May good luck go with him, and good friends be ever at hand to return him the friendliness he grants.
They tell a story of a favourite chaplain who retired from the Navy to take charge of a parish on land.
"Good-bye, sir," said one of the old salts to him, as he was leaving the ship. "Good-bye, sir. We'll all look to see you come back with a bishop's rating."
I haven't the slightest idea where the wireless room is or how to find it. All that I remember is that some kind soul took me by the hand, led me through various passages and down several ladders, and landed me in a small compartment which I felt sure must have been hollowed out of the keel. The wireless room of a great ship is, by the way, a kind of holy of holies, and my visit to it more than an ordinary privilege.
There are as many messages in the air these times as there were wasps in the orchard in boyhood days after one had thrown a large, carefully-selected stone into the big nest. Messages in all keys and tunes, messages in all the known languages, messages in the most baffling of codes. Now the operator picks up a merchantman asking for advice in English, this against all rules and regulations; a request once answered by a profane somebody with "Use the code, you damned fool." At intervals the Eiffel Tower signals the time; listening to it, one seems to hear the clear, monotonous tick-tock of a giant pendulum. Now it is a British land station talking to a British squadron on watch in the North Sea, now the destroyers are at it, now one hears the great station at Wilhelmshaven sending out instructions to the submarine fleet in ambush off these isles.
How strange it is to come here at midnight and hear the Germans talking! Germany has been so successfully cut off from contact with the civilization she assaulted that these communications have the air of being messages from Mars. There are times when the radio operator picks up frantic cries sent by one U-boat to another; I have before me as I write a record of such a call. It began at 2.14 A.M., shortly after a certain submarine was depth-bombed by an American destroyer. First to be received was OLN's clear, insistent call for RXK and ZZN, probably the two nearest members of the U-boat fleet. Were they cries for help? Probably. Again and again the spark uttered its despairing message. For some time there was no answer. The other two boats may have been submerged; quite possibly sunk. Then at 2.40 from far, far away came ADL calling OLN. At 2.45 OLN answered very faintly. A minute or two later, ADL tried and tried again to get either RXK and ZZN. But there was no answer. Was she trying to send them to the help of the stricken vessel? At 2.57 ADL tries for the hard pressed OLN, but no answer comes to her across the darkness of the sea.
Night and day, a force of operators sit here taking down the messages, sending important ones directly to the chief officers, and letting unimportant ones accumulate in batches of four and five. The messages are written or typewritten on a form in shape and make-up not unlike that of an ordinary telegram blank. All day and all night long, the messengers hurry through the corridors of the great ship with bundles of these naval signals. And since everything intended for the Navy comes in code, decoders too must be at hand at all hours to unravel the messages. It is no easy task, for the codes are changed for safety's sake every little while. On board the great ship I visited, the chaplain did a big share of this work. I can see him now bent over his table in the wireless room, spelling out sentences far more complicated than the Latin and Greek of his university days.
There is one wireless service which will not be remembered with affection by our sailors over there, the Government Wireless Press Service. I was in the Grand Fleet when that dashing business of the first Zeebrugge raid occurred. The "Press News" on the following morning mentioned it, and warned us impressively to keep our knowledge to ourselves. As a result we spoke of it at breakfast time with bated breath. I myself, a modest person, was stricken with a sudden access of importance at possessing a Grand Fleet secret.
Then at ten o'clock the morning papers came down from a certain great city with a full, detailed account of the raid!
The thing that we have most against it, however, is its conduct during the great offensive of the spring of 1918. The air was resounding with the wireless pæans of the on-rushing Germans; and everybody was worried, and anxious to know the fortunes of our troops. One rushed to breakfast early to have first chance at the press news. Friends gathered behind one's shoulder, and tried to read before sitting down. What's the news? What's the news? This (or something very like it) was the news:
"Dr. Ostropantski, president of the Græco-Lettish Diet, denounced yesterday at a meeting of the Novoe Vremya the German assault on the liberties of Beluchistan."
There was one vast, concerted groan from the sons of the Grand Fleet. Some wondered what the anxious folk far out at sea on the destroyers were saying. Finally the wit of the table shook his head gravely.
"Boys," said he, "where would we be if the civilians refused to tell?"
This paper does not deal with the marines fighting in France, but with the marines such as one finds them on the greater ships. The gallant "devil dogs" now adding fresh laurels to the corps have army correspondents to tell of them, for though they are trained by the Navy and are the Navy's men, the Army has them now under its command. It is rather of the genuine marine, the true "soldier of the sea" that I would speak. Having been myself something of a soldier and a sailor, the marines were good enough to receive me in a friendly fashion when I was a guest on one of the battleships now on foreign service.
Even as the traditional nickname for the sailor is "gob," so is "leatherneck" the seaman's traditional word for the marine. I am guileless enough not to know just how marines take this term, but if there is any doubt, I advise readers to be easy with it, for marines will fight at the drop of a hat. All those aboard declared, by the way, that the antipathy between the sailor and the marine in which the public believes, does not exist, nor do the marines according to the popular notion "police the ship." The marine has his place; the sailor has his, and they do not mix, not because they dislike each other, but simply because the marine and the sailor are the products of two widely different systems of training. Moreover, the marine is bound to his own people by an esprit de corps without equal in the world. It was very fine to see each man's anxiety that the corps should not merely have a good name, but the best of names.
We swopped yarns. In return for my gory tales of shelled cities, gas attacks, and air raids, they gave me gorgeous ... gorgeous tales of the little wars they have fought in the Caribbean. I realized for the first time just what it meant to Uncle Sam to be Central America's policeman. Now, as they spun their yarns, I could see the low, white buildings of a Consulate against the luminous West Indian sky, the boats on the beach, the marines on patrol; now the sugar plantation menaced by some political robber-rebel, the little tents under the trees, the business-like machine gun. A harassed American planter is often the deux ex machina of these tales.
We used to talk in a little office aboard the battleships down by the marines' quarters, which lie aft. I believe it was the sergeant's sanctum sanctorum. There were marine posters on the wall, a neat little stack of the marines' magazines handy by, a few books, and some filing cabinets. Just outside were the marine lockers, each one in the most perfect order, and a gun breech used for loading drills. The sergeant, himself, was a fine, keen fellow who had been in the corps for some time. His men declared themselves, for the most part, city born and bred.
"What happened then?"
"Just as soon as they got the message, a detail was sent into the hills for the defence of the plantation. It was a big sugar plantation. The American manager was seeing red he was so peeved, the harvesting season had come and the help, scared by the insurgents, were beating it off into the hills. What's more, the insurgents had told the manager that if he didn't pony up with five thousand dollars by a certain date, they'd burn the place. Actually had the nerve..."
"In fiction," said I, "a lean, dark, villainous fellow mounted on a magnificent horse which he has looted from some fine stable dashes up to the plantation door, delivers his threat in an icy tone and gallops back into the bush. Or else a message wrapped round a stone crashes through the window onto the family breakfast table. Which was it?"
I think the marine telling the story wanted very much to utter: "How do you get that way?" however, he merely grinned and answered:
"Neither. A big, fat greaser in a dirty, Palm Beach suit came ambling up one morning as if somebody had asked him to chow. This was his game. A holdup? Oh, no! Only his men were getting a bit restless under the neck, about five thousand dollars restless, and if they didn't get it, there's no telling what they wouldn't do. He thought he could restrain them till Tuesday night, of course it would be a pretty stiff job to hold them in, but if something crisp and green hadn't shown up by Tuesday P.M., those devils might actually burn the plantation. Did you ever hear such a line of bull? And that's the honest truth of it, too; none of this stone in the mashed potatoes guff."
"And then," I broke in, "the faithful servant gallops through the valley to the shore; a stray bullet knocks off his hat, but he gets there, and delivers his message to the warship in the bay. A bugle blows, the marines rally, launches take them to the beach; they rush over the hills, and get to the plantation just as Devil's-hoof Gomez or Pink-eyed Pedro has set fire to a corner of the bungalow. Rifles crack, bugles sound a charge, the marines rush the Gomez gang who take to their heels. Brave hearts put out the fire. Isn't there always an exquisitely beautiful señorita to be rescued? There always is in the movies. Now, please don't destroy any more of my illusions."
"The message comes all right, all right, but I doubt very much if that faithful servant comes in a hurry. Down there, if a man goes by in a hurry, everybody in the village will be out to look at him.... The major gets the message, works out his plan of campaign, and away we go. Arrived at the plantation, we pitch camp, establish pickets, and generally get things ready to give the restless greasers a hot time. Sometimes the greasers try their luck at sniping; other times, they go away quietly and don't give you a bit of trouble. There aren't any beautiful señoritas, ... no broken hearts. Yes, it's tough luck."
Thus were my illusions dispelled by a group of Uncle Sam's marines. They forgot to tell me that many members of their little company had been wounded, and seriously wounded in these West Indian shindies. The list of wounds and honours in the records was an impressive roll.
The visitor aboard a warship will see marines acting as orderlies and corporals of the guard and manning the secondary batteries. I attended many of their drills, and never shall forget the snap and "pep," of the evolutions. Nor shall I forget the courtesies and friendly help of the gallant officer under whose command these soldiers of the sea have the good luck to be stationed.
N.B. (Very secret), to Huns only. The marines man the gun in the "Exec's" office and the corresponding one in the line officers' reading room. If you want to get home to the old home canal, ... keep away from their range.
After I had been to visit several of the bases, I returned to London, and called at the Navy headquarters. A young officer of the admiral's staff who was always ready and willing to help the writers assigned to the Navy in every possible way, came down to talk with me. "Had I been to Base X? To Base Y? Had I been to see the American submarines? The Naval Aviation?" I grasped at the last phrase.
"Tell me about it," I said. "I had no idea that the sea flyers were over here. Last fall the streets of Boston were so thick with boys of that service that you could hardly move round. And now they are on this side. Where can I find them?"
The officer drew me to a large scale map of the British Isles and the French coast which hung on the wall, plentifully jabbed with little flags. His finger fairly flew from one dot to another.
"Well," said he, "we have a station here, another station here, another station there, ... there's a station on this point of land; right about here we're putting up buildings for a depot but there is nobody at hand yet, here's a big station...." I believe that he could have continued for five minutes.
"You seem to have a big affair well in hand," I suggested, rather surprised.
"No," he corrected, "just beginning. The department scheme for the naval aviation service is one of the big things of the war. It's so big, so comprehensive that people over there haven't woken up to it yet. Aren't you going to Base L next week? Why don't you go down the coast a few miles and see the outfit at Z? Only don't forget that we've 'just begun to fight.' Come upstairs and let me give you a letter." A few days later I ran down to see the aviators in their eyrie.
The naval station lay in a sheltered cove hidden away in a green and ragged coast. Landing at a somewhat tumble-down old pier, I saw ahead of me a gentle slope descending to a broad beach of shingle. Mid-way along this beach, ending under the water, was to be seen a wide concrete runway which I judged to be but newly finished, for empty barrels of cement and gravel separators stood nearby. At the top of the slope, in a great field behind mossy trees, lay the corrugated iron dormitories of a vast, deserted camp once the repose quarters of a famous fighting regiment. There was something of the atmosphere of an abandoned picnic ground to the place. Sailor sentries stood at the entrance of the quiet roads leading to the empty barracks, and directed me to those in authority.
The naval aviation is a new service. For a long time the uniform of the cadets was so unfamiliar that even in their own America the boys used to be taken for foreign officers. It was a case of "I say he's an Italian. No, dear, I'm sure he's a Belgian." A not unnatural mistake, for the uniform has a certain foreign jauntiness. In colour, it is almost an olive green, and consists of a short, high-collared tunic cut snugly to the figure, shaped breeches of the riding pattern, and putties to match. Add the ensign's solitary stripe and star on shoulder and sleeve and you have it.
I found a group of the flyers in one of the tin barracks that did duty as a kind of recreation centre. The spokesman of the party was a serious lad from Boston.
"Fire away," they yelled good-naturedly to my announcement that I was going to bomb with questions.
"First of all, about how many of you are there helping to make it home-like for Fritz in this amiable spot?"
"About fifty of us."
"Been here long?"
"No, just came. You see the station is not really finished yet, but they are hurrying it along to beat the cars. Did you spot that concrete runway as you came up? A daisy, isn't it? Slope just right, and no skimping on the width. Well, that's only one of the runways we're going to have. Over on the other side, the plans call for three or four more."
"And what do these sailors do?" I had noticed a large number of sailors about.
"They look after our machines and the balloons. You see this is a regular aviation section just the same as the army has, and the sailors are trained mechanics, repair men, clerks and so forth. They're rather taking it easy now because the planes have been somewhat slow in reaching us. You know as well as I do the rumpus that's been made in the States over the air program. Things are breezing up mighty fast now, however, and every supply ship that puts into the harbour brings some of our equipment. The Navy's ready, the camps are being organized, the men are trained; it's up to the manufacturers to hustle along our machines. Please try to make them realize that when you write."
"But, say," put in another, "don't, for the love of Pete, run away with the idea that we haven't any equipment. We've got some planes and some balloons. But we want more, more, more. Anything to keep the Germans on the go."
"What do you use?" I asked. "Mostly balloons," put in a third speaker, a quiet young Westerner who had thus far not joined in the conversation. "Most of us are balloon observers, though Jos here," he indicated the Bostonian, "is a sea-plane artist. He runs one of the planes."
"Come," said I, "tell the thrilling story."
"There isn't any story," groaned Jos, "that's just the trouble. I've been fooling round these coasts and out by the harbour mouth in the hope of spotting a sub till I feel as if I'd used up all the gasoline in the British Isles. Those destroyers have spilled the beans. Fritz doesn't dare to come round. Ever try fishing in a place from which the fish have been thoroughly scared away? It's like that. Mine laying submarines used to be round the mouth of the harbour all the time, now Fritz is never seen or heard from.... The destroyers have spilled the beans. The balloon hounds are the whole show here. Tell him about it, Mac. You've taken more trips than any of the others." The disgruntled sea planer knocked a bull-dog pipe on his shoe, and was still.
"I can't tell much," drawled Mac, a wiry, black little Southerner with a wonderful accent. "They fill the balloon up here, take it out to a destroyer or some patrol boat and tie it on, jes like a can to purp's tail. Then you go out in the Irish Sea and watch for subs. If you observe anything that looks like a Hun, you simply telephone it down to the destroyer's deck, and she rushes ahead and investigates. Sometimes the observer in the balloon sees something which can't be seen from the level of the destroyer's bridge, and in that case the balloonist practically steers the vessel, ... so many points to port, so many to starboard, and so on till you land them in the suspected area."
"What's it like up above there in a balloon? From the deck of a battleship or a destroyer, it seems to be a calm matter."
"Don't be too sure of that. I know it looks calm, calm as a regular up-in-the-air old feather baid. And it isn't bad if you have a decent wind with which the course and speed of the ship are in some sort of an agreement. But if the ship's course lies in one direction and the wind is blowing from another, the balloon blows all over the place. When the wind blows from behind, you float on ahead and try to pull the ship after you; if the wind is from ahead, you are dragged along at the end of a chain like a mean dawg. There is always sure to be a party if the ship zigzags. Now you are pulling towards the bow, now you are floating serenely to port, now you are tugging behind, now you are nowhere in particular and apparently standing on yo' haid."
We went to walk in the grounds. I was shown where the balloon shed was to be, the generators, and a dozen other houses. Evidently the station was going to be "some outfit." Already a big gang of civilian labourers, electrified by American energy, were hard at work laying the foundations of a large structure.
"Yes," said one of the boys, "this is going to be a great place. When it's completed we shall have regular sea-plane patrols of this entire coast, and a balloon squadron ready to coöperate with either the British or the American destroyer fleets. Our boys along the French coast have already made it hot for some Huns, and believe me, if there are any subs left, you just bet we want a chance at 'em?"
Such is the spirit that has driven the Germans from the seas.
The convalescent English Tommy in his sky-blue flannel suit, white shirt, and orange four-in-hand, the heavier, tropic-bred Australian with his hat brim knocked jauntily up to one side, the dark, grey-eyed Scotch highlander very braw and bony in his plaited kilt, these be picturesque figures on the streets of London, but the most picturesque of all is our own American tar. Our "gobs" are always so spruce and clean, and so young, young with their own youth and the youth of the nation. Jack ashore is to be found at the Abbey at almost any hour of the day, he wanders into the National Gallery, and stands before Nelson at St. Paul's; he causes fair hearts to break asunder at Hampton Court. Wherever you go in London, the wonderful wide trousers, and the good old pancake hat, this last worn cockily over one eye, are always to be seen in what nautical writers of the Victorian school call "the offing."
Our boys come in liberty parties of thirty and forty from the various bases, usually under the wing of a chief petty officer very conscious of his responsibility for these wild sailor souls. Accommodations are taken either at a good London hotel with which the authorities have some arrangement, or the personnel is distributed among various huts and hospitable dwellings. The great rallying centre is sure to be the Eagle Hut off the Strand.
This famous hut, which every soldier or sailor who visits London will long remember, is situated, by a happy coincidence, in modern London's most New Yorkish area. It stands, a huddle of low, inconspicuous buildings, in just such a raw open space between three streets as on this side prefigures the building of a new skyscraper; the great, modern mass of Australia House lifts its imposing Beaux Arts façade a little distance above it, whilst the front of a fashionable hotel rises against the sky just beyond. The ragged island, the sense of open space, the fine high buildings, ... "say, wouldn't you think you were back in America again?" Yet only a few hundred feet down the Strand, old St. Clement Danes lies like a ship of stone anchored in the thoroughfare, and Samuel Johnson, LL.D., stands bareheaded in the sun wondering what has happened to the world. The hut within is simply an agglomeration of big, clean, rectangular spaces, reading rooms, living rooms, dormitories, and baths always full of husky, pink figures, steam and the smell of soap. Physically, Eagle hut is merely the larger counterpart of some thousand others. The wonder of the place is its atmosphere. The narrow threshold might be three thousand miles in width, for cross it, and you will find yourself in America. All the dear, distinctive national things for which your soul and body have hungered and thirsted are gathered here. There is actually an American shoe shining stand, an American barber chair, and, Heaven be praised, "good American grub." It is a sight to see the long counter thronged with the eager, hungry bluejackets, to hear the buzz of lively conversation carried on in the pervading aroma of fried eggs, favourite dish or sandwich of apparently every doughboy and tar. One's admiration grows for the Y. workers who keep at the weary grind of washing floors, picking up stray cigarette buts, and washing innumerable eggy plates. I realized to the full what a poor old college professor who "helped" in a hut on the French front meant when he had said to me, "life is just one damned egg after another." Of course sometimes the "hen fruit"—one hears all kinds of facetious aliases at the Hut—gives way to soi disant buckwheat cakes, a dainty, lately honoured by royal attention. Should you stroll about the buildings, you will see sailors and soldiers reading in good, comfortable chairs; some playing various games, others sitting in quiet corners writing letters home. There is inevitably a crowd round the information bureau. Alas, for the poor human encyclopedia, he lives a bewildering life. On the morning that I called he had been asked to supply the address of a goat farm by a quartermaster charged with the buying of a mascot, and he was just recovering from this when a sailor from the Grand Fleet demanded a complete and careful résumé of the British marriage regulations! Everybody seems cheerful and contented; the officials are attentive and kind; the guests good-natured and well-behaved.
Such is the combination of club, restaurant, and hotel to which our Jack resorts. And there he lives content in his islet of America, while London roars about him. During the week, he wanders, as he says himself, "all over the place."
The good time ends with the Saturday ball game. Everybody goes. Posters announce it through London in large black type on yellow paper. "U.S. Army vs. U.S. Navy." The field is most American looking; the "bleachers" might be those in any great American town. The great game, the game to remember, was played in the presence of the king. The day was a good one, though now and then obscured with clouds; a strangely mixed audience was at hand, wounded Tommies, American soldiers speaking in all the tongues of all the forty-eight states, a number of American civilians from the embassy and the London colony, groups of dignified staff officers from the army and the navy headquarters, and even a decorous group of Britons dressed in the formal garments which are de rigueur in England at any high-class sporting event. Then in came the king walking ahead of his retinue, ... a man of medium height with a most kind and chivalrous face. Our admiral walked beside him. The band played, eager eyes looked down, the king, looking up, smiled, and won the good-will of every friendly young heart. A few minutes later, the noise broke forth again, "Oh you Army!" "Oh you Navy," a hullaballoo that culminated in a roar, "Play Ball!"
The Navy men, wearing uniforms of blue with red stripes, walked out first, closely followed by the army in uniforms of grey-green. The admiral, towering straight and tall above his entourage, threw the ball. A pandemonium of yells broke forth. "Now's the time, give it to 'em, boys, soak it to 'em, soak it to 'em, steady Army, give him a can, run Smithie!" In a corner by themselves, a group of bluejackets made a fearful noise with some kind of whirligig rattles. Songs rose in spots from the audience, collided with other songs, and melted away in indistinguishable tunes. British Tommies looked on phlegmatically, enjoying it all just the same. There were stray, mocking cat calls. It was a real effort to bring one's self back to London, old London of decorous cricket, tea, and white flannels.
And of course, the Navy won. Over the heads of the vanishing crowd floated,
Give 'em the axe, the axe, the axe,
Where? Where? Where?
Right in the neck, the neck, the neck,
There! There! There!
Who gets the axe?
ARMY
Who says so!
NAVY
It ends with a roar.
Then there is a celebration, and the next morning, his holiday over, Jack is rounded up, and put into a railway carriage. The roofs of London die away, and Jack, dozing over his magazines, sees in a dream the great grey shapes of the battleships that wait for him in the endless northern rain.