CHAPTER II

THE WHITE ENSIGN

I saw fierce Prussia’s chargers stand, Her children’s sharp swords out; Proud Austria’s bright spurs streaming red When rose the closing shout; But soon the steeds rushed masterless, By tower and town and wood; For lordly France her fiery youth Poured o’er them like a flood. Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels, And let your steeds run free; Then come to our unconquered decks, And learn to reign at sea. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

After the War broke out, a wise man declared that every British child ought to say this grace before meat:

“Thank God for my good dinner and for the British Navy.”

Perhaps you will wonder why he put the dinner and the Navy together in this way. It is because British children during the war owed their dinners, and all their other meals also, to the Navy. This may sound strange, but it is perfectly true. The Navy guarded the thousands of merchant ships which bring us food and other things from abroad.

We do not grow nearly enough corn at home to feed everybody, so we have to buy from Canada, America, and other countries. The German Navy would have liked to capture the ships which brought us this corn, but owing to the British Navy it could not do so.

But that is not all that the British Navy did.

I have told you how the Germans invaded Belgium and there were terrible fighting and ravaging, in which not only soldiers but also women and children were killed. Well, the Germans were even more angry with Britain than with Belgium. They would have dearly liked to send over hundreds of thousands of soldiers in big ships to land on the east coast of England, perhaps at Cromer, or Hunstanton, or Felixstowe, or other places where children often go for their summer holidays.

In our next chapter you will hear of how Napoleon waited impatiently at Boulogne in the hope of swooping down on England. There is a tradition in Dorsetshire that he did come secretly just to see what stretch of shore on that lonely coast would be most suitable for a landing of troops. This tradition or old belief is embodied in a wonderful short story by Mr. Thomas Hardy.

What would the German soldiers have done to us if they had landed? I am afraid they would have treated us even worse than they treated Belgium. The whole countryside would have been laid waste with fire and sword, and thousands of innocent people might have been killed.

Be thankful that England was not invaded like that. Be thankful that, while the poor Belgians were being bullied and beaten down, we could all sleep safely in our beds.

You know why that was. We owed our safety entirely to the strong arm of our Navy. All round our shores, day and night, our gallant tars were watching, watching. And the ships full of German soldiers could not think of coming. Our Navy would have blown them to pieces if they had tried.

Still, it was a terribly anxious time for Admiral Sir John Jellicoe and the brave officers and men under him. Many accidents can happen at sea which could not happen on land, and the whole Fleet knew well that the Germans might make a dash for it, and perhaps land a small force of men after all.

The portraits of Sir John Jellicoe show him as a man with a very strong face and a determined mouth and chin, but the expression of his eyes is full of kindness.

He earned his great position by sheer hard work. When he was a naval cadet, he took three firsts, and won a prize of £80 as well at the Royal Naval College. Afterwards, he studied naval guns and the art of firing them.

Admiral Jellicoe is one of the officers of the Royal Navy who have received the Board of Trade medal for gallantry in saving life at sea. He himself, too, has been saved from drowning at sea, for he was in command of the Victoria which was rammed by the Camperdown twenty-one years ago; in fact, he was one of the very few who were saved in that terrible disaster.

Quite early in the war, a bluejacket of H.M.S. Zealandia, the fine battleship which was given to the Mother Country by the great Dominion of New Zealand, wrote a poem called “The Walls of Jellicoe.”

He sent it to his aunt, and she, aunt-like, was so pleased with it that she sent it to a paper! There I read it, and I thought it so good and so true that I cut it out. Here are the verses I like best. But I like them all.

“On the flagship’s bridge a man Takes a long and quiet scan Of a certain bit of coastline lying east, Vaterland.

And it’s him who has to think How to get your food and drink And likewise how to save you from ‘The Beast.’

· · · · ·

There’s no one by to say ‘Can I lend a hand, J. J.?’ There’s no one near to treat him Like a friend.

He’s the loneliest man at sea, And thank God it isn’t me; But you are safe while he is Keeping up his end.

He’s Admiralissimo, Which is Johnny Jellicoe, And I hope you’ll breathe his name in all your prayers, And don’t forget.

For he’s you and me and all, And if his old walls fall, Earth would close for alterations and repairs, Burn the map!”

This sailor poet expresses in his homely way the exact truth. Admiral Jellicoe had indeed a good many things to think about; and while he was keeping his ceaseless watch in the North Sea he had the grief of hearing that his old father, a seaman like himself, had died in the Isle of Wight. He could not be at his father’s death-bed; he could not follow his father’s coffin to the burial. His place was at the post of duty and of danger.

I have said that in the first months of the war the German Fleet would not come out from under the shelter of the German fortress guns. But you must not think that its commander, Admiral von Ingemohl, a very gallant seaman, was content to do nothing. He counted on taking some of our ships by surprise, and so making matters more equal before having a regular big battle. But as we shall see, he found that Admiral Jellicoe could play at that game too.

II

The Germans may be said to have drawn first blood at sea.

Very early in the war, in fact on the very day that most people knew our country was at war, on August 5, 1914, H.M.S. Amphion, while searching for the mine-layer Königin Luise, was blown up, whether by a mine or a torpedo will probably never be known.

Here I must explain that a mine at sea is a large rounded metal box full of stuff that blows up when a ship bumps against it. These mines are laid a little under the surface of the water. As for a torpedo, it is a long thing shaped like a fish, with a motor in its tail. It is also loaded with stuff to blow up, and it can be fired at an enemy’s ship from a submarine or from a torpedo boat. The motor in its tail makes it travel very fast under water, and if it hits a ship it is almost certain to destroy her.

When the Amphion bumped on a mine, or was hit by a torpedo, a sheet of flame enveloped the bridge and rendered her commander, Captain Fox, insensible. Soon he recovered consciousness and he ran instantly to the engine-room to stop the engines. But the good ship’s back was broken, and she was already settling down by the bows. At once efforts were made to place the wounded in safety, but by the time some destroyers came up the Amphion had to be abandoned.

The crew lined up in perfect discipline, everything was done without any confusion, and twenty minutes after the blow was first struck, all the men and most of the officers had left the ship. It was well they did so, for three minutes afterwards came another explosion, blowing up the whole forepart.

Discipline is one of the finest words in our language, and it is one we share with our French Allies, for although the word is pronounced a little differently in French, it is written exactly the same.

What is discipline? Discipline is composed of two human qualities which, if they appear to have very little to do with one another, are yet often allied. These qualities are obedience and courage.

The finest example of discipline in the history of the British Navy is the story of the sinking of the Birkenhead. She was a troopship and she struck on a rock. Instantly, the boats were lowered and filled with the women and children. Then, the soldiers and marines were formed up on deck, and they faced their death in perfect order as if on parade while the ship slowly sank.

The then King of Prussia, Frederick IV, was so impressed by the behaviour of the doomed crew on the Birkenhead that he caused this story of “iron discipline and perfect duty” to be read aloud at the head of every regiment in his kingdom.

Mr. Rudyard Kipling has referred to the cool courage of the marines, or “Jollies” as they are called, in a famous poem:

“To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with the firing all about, Is none so bad when you’ve cover to ’and, and leave and liking to shout, But to stand stock still to the Birken’ead drill is a dam tough bullet to chew; An’ they done it, the Jollies, ’er Majesty’s Jollies, soldier and sailor, too!”

But to return to the Amphion. The story I like best is one that was told in a bluejacket’s letter to his parents:

“We were all stunned on the upper deck, surrounded with flame and smoke. Then we saw our captain come. His arms were burnt, and his hair; he spoke very nice. ‘Cheer up, men, and be brave; we shall all get saved.’ Of course that cheered up everyone. No excitement at all. The biggest part of us stripped off to swim for it, but no one left that ship until the captain gave the order to go, and, thank God, we were all saved that was alive.”

You notice that gallant Captain Fox struck first a noble note, “Be brave!” he cried; and then, as an afterthought, “We shall all get saved.”

A day or two later it was shown that the British Navy knows how to honour a brave foe. Four members of the crew of the Amphion and four of the German mine-layer’s crew died in hospital at Harwich. Each son of the sea, Briton and German, was provided with the same kind of coffin, and the same service was performed for each of the eight separately. The funerals were most reverently conducted, each coffin being hoisted on the shoulders of seamen. The dead Britons had a Union Jack for pall, the Germans the ensign of their Fatherland. They were all lowered into one grave. Volleys were fired, and the Last Post sounded.

To show you the kind of risk our sailors run without a thought of self, hearken to the amazing adventures of Stationmaster Stapleton, of Hykeham, who is a Naval Reserve man. He received his call, joined his ship, the Amphion, found himself in action, was sunk, and was rescued—all within forty-eight hours of leaving his little wayside station!

III

It was on August 28 that Sir John Jellicoe first tried his hand at the surprise game of the Germans. It was a brilliant success.

Out of the morning mist our ships crept and caught a German cruiser squadron lying in supposed safety under the guns of Heligoland. We sank the German protected cruiser Mainz and another cruiser of the same class, while a third cruiser “disappeared” in the mist, heavily on fire, and in a sinking condition. We also badly damaged some smaller craft, while our own ships got off very lightly. But we had to mourn the loss of sixty-nine men killed and wounded, including Lieut.-Commander Nigel Barttelot and Lieut. Eric Westmacott among the killed.

All the ships which took part in this action had the words “Heligoland, August 28, 1914,” painted in gold letters in a conspicuous place aboard them. But special honour was paid to the light cruiser Arethusa.

This gallant little ship showed herself worthy of her name, which is one of the most glorious in the Navy.

In recognition of the notable part she played in the fight, the Admiralty ordered the famous old song of “The Saucy Arethusa” to be engraved upon a brass plate and set up in a prominent place on board the ship. The first verse runs:

“Come all ye sailors bold, Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould, While English glory I unfold, Huzza for the Arethusa! Her men are staunch To their favourite launch, And when the foe shall meet our fire, Sooner than strike we’ll all expire On board of the Arethusa.”

The Arethusa, which flew the broad pennant of Commodore Tyrwhitt (this is the special flag always flown by commodores), was chosen for the honour of leading the attack.

At the head of a line of destroyers, which are small but very fast vessels, she sallied forth, intending to cut off the German ships and drive them into the open sea, there to fight them at leisure. But two German cruisers attacked her first at a distance of nearly two miles. This seems a long way, but naval guns can shoot much further than that. The Germans did her some damage, but she drove them off, and one of them she seriously injured.

Later on in the morning she fought two other German ships, and helped to sink the Mainz. In these actions she suffered so much that many of her guns were made useless and her speed was lessened to ten knots, which of course is very slow.

About one o’clock the gallant Arethusa was discovered in her crippled condition by two German cruisers, and they would certainly have sunk her if British ships had not come to the rescue. These ships turned the tables with a vengeance, for they chased and sank the Germans in their turn.

The Arethusa had done splendidly, all the more splendidly you will agree when you hear that she had only been commissioned a few days before. “Commissioned” means got ready for service, with crew, guns, stores, and everything necessary for going to sea. Thus, her officers and crew were new to one another and the ship was new to them, and yet they could not have fought better.

The whole Empire felt a thrill of pride in the exploit of the Arethusa. In far-off Johannesburg 2081 miners clubbed together, paying a penny each to send a telegram congratulating Commodore Tyrwhitt and his whole ship’s company on their victory.

Fighting at sea is, I think, in some ways more dreadful than fighting on land. There is the same terrible distance from the enemy, and the shells make the same fearful screaming noise in the air. But if your ship is struck a mortal blow, you seem to have less chance than you would have in land fighting, especially if your ship blows up before sinking.

But that is a landsman’s feeling. You may be sure that our gallant tars do not trouble their heads whether the danger is more or less. Indeed, this Heligoland action showed most vividly that the modern Navy is worthy of all her glorious traditions.

I must tell you about Lieut.-Commander Barttelot and his gallant little destroyer, the Liberty. She and the other destroyers did not hesitate to engage much bigger and stronger German ships, and naturally they got knocked about a bit.

After the funnel of the Liberty had been shot away, this brave officer stood on the bridge and gave his orders as quietly as if he were at a sham fight. A shell shot off one of his legs, but he seized the rails of the bridge, steadied himself, and continued giving his commands. Shortly after another shell struck the Liberty and killed him.

Not less thrilling is the story of Lieut.-Commander Frank Rose, of the destroyer Laurel, who was seriously wounded in the left leg. His men urged him to go below, but he simply shifted the weight on to the other leg and continued to issue his orders. Soon his one sound leg was struck by a shell, and down he came on the bridge, but he still declined to go below. His signalman tore off his trousers to prevent the wound from being poisoned, and to this act of thoughtful devotion Lieut.-Commander Rose probably owed his life. As at last he lay swooning on the bridge, one of his petty officers fastened a lifebelt round him.

By this time there only remained three rounds of ammunition, and it appeared as if the little Laurel could not live much longer in the fire to which she was then exposed. But she did.

The gallantry of all our seamen was indeed something to be proud of, and it was shown by fighters and non-fighters alike.

For example, the surgeon of the Arethusa, who was, as I have explained, new to the ship like the others, was a marvel of coolness. Before she was struck he busied himself in handing out ammunition to the gunners, and when the casualties began he stuck to his work of healing under fire. He hadn’t time to dress properly, so there he was, wearing red leather slippers, uniform trousers, and the coat of his pyjamas!

One officer of the Arethusa had his leg grazed by a shell which fell five or six feet behind him. He was hurled along the deck, and appeared to be much relieved when he discovered that both his legs had not been shot away. But they were badly bruised. There were no crutches on board, so one of the crew gave him a pair of broomsticks, by the aid of which he stuck to his post and hobbled round giving his orders.

This action, the Battle of the Bight as it was called, inspired many poets. To my mind by far the finest it called forth was by Mr. William Watson. In it he addresses the mighty dead of the sea service, and his last verse runs:

“Sleep on, O Drake, sleep well! Thou hast thy heart’s desire. Grenville, whom nought could quell, Thou dost hand on thy fire. And thou that had’st no peer, Nelson! thou need’st not fear: Thy sons and heirs are here, Nor shall they shame their sire.”

The sea has always bred heroes. At the Battle of Trafalgar one of the French captains had both his legs shot off. He had himself placed in a barrel of bran, and went on directing his men in the hour of defeat to the end.

At the Battle of the Nile a little midshipman, only fourteen years old, named John Hindmarsh, gave the order which saved the Bellerophon. Seeing that the fire in L’Orient would spread to the Bellerophon, he got some men down and cut her cable and then had the sprit-sail set. The captain was below, having a wound dressed, and the first lieutenant was also below on duty. Hindmarsh was publicly thanked by Nelson himself.

Then it was wooden ships and sails; now it is ships of steel and complicated machinery. But the spirit of Navy men remains every whit as cool and gallant.

This first naval action off Heligoland also showed the splendid chivalry of our seamen.

When the German ships were seen to be sinking, the British commanders ordered the destroyers to cease fire. All boats were lowered to pick up survivors; but while this was being done, German destroyers and cruisers actually opened a heavy fire on the boats. Our destroyers were thus forced to retire, and one of them, the Defender, generously left her boat to the German prisoners, nearly all of whom were wounded.

Yet more. The commanding officer of Submarine E4, after covering the retreat of one of the destroyers, returned to the boats and removed the British officers and men. He might also have taken a German officer and six unwounded men prisoners, but as there were eighteen Germans very badly wounded, he humanely left the officer and unwounded men to care for them and navigate the boats which contained them. He did something else. He provided the boats with water, biscuits, and a compass, and he generously gave the officer the position and course to Heligoland. As for the officer and men of the Defender, they stripped themselves of everything but their trousers and tore up their clothes to serve as bandages for the wounded Germans.

Some days afterwards a high German official actually asserted that British seamen had fired on the Germans swimming in the water. It is from the reply which our Admiralty made to this cowardly charge that the above facts are taken. As a matter of fact, I am sorry to tell you that some of the German officers fired at their own men in the water with revolvers.

A letter written by a sailor who took part in the Heligoland action told a pretty story of his ship’s pet:

“Our dear little black lucky kitten sat under our foremost gun during the whole of the battle, and wasn’t frightened at all, only when we first started firing. But afterwards she sat and licked herself. We all kissed her afterwards!”

Sailors are known to be extremely fond of animals. The Naval Volunteers at the Crystal Palace soon acquired two pets—a kitten and a whippet. The latter always had a red, white, and blue ribbon tied to each of his legs and to his tail.

Soldiers, too, are very fond of pets. The story goes that on one occasion a sergeant appeared on his troopship with a little woolly dog. The quartermaster on duty refused to allow the animal on board. The sergeant thought awhile, and then went on shore. An hour later he came back with a cage. In it was a very queer-looking creature, which, though it had four feet, was covered with hen’s feathers. “Can’t pass that there dog on board,” said the quartermaster. “Dog?” said the sergeant. “This ain’t no dog. It’s a Maltese four-footed Bird of Paradise, and there’s no rules against taking birds on board!”

The laugh was with him, and his pet was allowed on board ship.

IV

On September 22 the Germans scored a success against us with a submarine attack. This resulted in the loss of three cruisers, the Aboukir, Hogue, and Cressy. These were all old ships, and as a matter of fact were afloat for the last time, as the Admiralty had decided to sell them for breaking up. What could not be replaced was the loss of some twelve hundred officers and men. Only about eight hundred and fifty were saved out of over two thousand.

I expect that most of you have seen a picture of a submarine, but I do not suppose that any of you know very much about this extraordinary deep-sea fighting ship, which has been well said to wear the cloak of darkness. The submarine can attack unseen with the deadly weapon of the torpedo, and she can retreat undiscovered. But she is rather slow and she is what is called blind in attack; she has to come up to the surface before she can see exactly where her enemy is. It is said that if she could get along more quickly than she does she could do a great deal more mischief. Still, when commanded and manned by cool, brave men, and when she has luck on her side, she can do quite mischief enough.

The disaster would probably not have happened if the three cruisers had had with them their usual escort of destroyers—those speedy little craft which are the terror of submarines. Unfortunately, the weather was very bad, and the destroyers were delayed. This was the opportunity for which the German submarine, commanded by Lieut.-Commander Weddingen, had long been waiting.

The cruisers were on patrol duty somewhere off the Hook of Holland. They did not see the tiny periscope of the submarine, as it emerged amid the ruffled waters. The German had nine torpedoes to fire, and she had plenty of time to choose her first victim. This was the Aboukir. Lieut.-Commander Weddingen himself thought his torpedo hit the cruiser under one of her magazines, which by exploding helped to destroy the ship. However that may be, the Aboukir soon broke up and sank, and of course her sister ships stopped and lowered boats to rescue as many as possible of the crew.

Alas! the moment the Hogue stopped she became an easy mark. The German submarine gave her two torpedoes in quick succession, and in about five minutes the Hogue had gone to the bottom and the sea was covered with men, some swimming for dear life, others clinging to tables, stools, chairs, planks, etc., which had been thrown off the ship. Not immediately, but soon afterwards, the Cressy was torpedoed and sank.

The brotherhood of the sea is very strong, and British seamen are always generous in their appreciation of an enemy’s bravery. They admired the daring of the German submarine, but they could not help being sorry for the fact that it meanly advanced under cover of a German trawler which had hoisted the Dutch flag. Further, one regrets to have to add that the trawler made no attempt to save our drowning seamen, in this forming a very great contrast to the British tars who always do their very best to rescue their drowning enemies.

But there came up two trawlers, which were really Dutch, the Flora and the Titan, and their captains and crews worked like heroes to save the lives of our men. They took many hundreds to Holland, where the British seamen were most kindly treated, being fed and clothed and sent back to England after resting. Some of our poor fellows died of the cold and exposure in the sea, and these the kindly Dutchmen buried with all honour and reverence.

The mishap was a sad blow to the nation, all the more because it was seen that the Hogue and the Cressy really met their doom owing to their efforts to save the crew of the Aboukir. But everybody drew comfort from the splendid gallantry shown by all our seamen, from the captains downwards. Yet many as were the stories of brave deeds which came to light, we may be sure that at least as many more will never be known, the eye-witnesses having all perished. I will give you a few examples of deeds which did come to light.

Do you remember the cool, brave surgeon on the Arethusa? There was one equally brave and resourceful on the Cressy. Together with four men, he was clinging to some wreckage, and he instructed his comrades to rub each other’s legs with their naked feet alternately, and so keep their blood circulating. They hung on for two or three hours, and finally all were rescued, no doubt owing to the surgeon’s clever idea.

One survivor wrote after his awful ordeal:

“The best thing I saw was the coolness of a little cadet. Not more than fourteen he looked. He drifted near me, he and a seaman clinging with their hands and elbows on the same bit of wood. I never saw anything so calm as that lad! He was talking to the seaman with him. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘we’ve got to carry on like this, and if we die we shall die game.’ And with that he begins to talk about everyday things on the sunken ship. ‘What’s the new chief engineer like?’ he says, and chats about little incidents in the mess. Only fourteen, a little light-haired boy. I hope he was saved.”

What a splendid, lion-hearted boy! Was he saved? you will ask. I cannot be sure, but I think he was.

Midshipman Cazalet of the Cressy, aged sixteen, saved no fewer than eighty-eight lives, including one of his own officers. When Mr. Cazalet saw that the Aboukir had been hit, he went out in the Cressy’s whaler and picked up twenty-five men. He took them to the picket boat of the Hogue, and went back for more. Altogether he picked up two more boatloads, and it was not till he could see no more survivors that he himself took refuge on board the Dutch trawler Titan.

A little drummer-boy of the Marines, Cecil Kneller, who was only fifteen, had a great adventure, for he kept himself afloat in the water for about four hours with the aid of an empty rum cask. And when he got back to his father, who is a railway porter living at Chatham, it was noticed that he was just as rosy-cheeked as when he went away! So he did not suffer much from his long bath.

I am sorry to tell you that Captain Johnson, of the Cressy, was not among the saved. This very gallant gentleman was last seen on the bridge of his ship, carefully tying leaden weights round a parcel, which he dropped into the sea.

Can you guess what was in that parcel? It was the secret signal-book of the ship, and it was most important that it should not fall into the hands of the enemy. If the enemy had got hold of it, then they would have been able to read the signals with which our ships talk to one another, and that might easily have led to a terrible disaster.

Captain Johnson was determined that that should not happen, and when he had cast the parcel into the sea, he went down with his ship contented, for he had done his duty.

V

Much excitement was caused by the exploits of the German cruiser Emden, which took and sank over twenty British merchantmen, and disposed of several warships. Her commander, Captain von Müller, behaved chivalrously to the crews of his prizes, treating them well while in his power, and sending them to the nearest port. This contrast with the behaviour of the Germans on land made everybody realise the brotherhood of the sea.

For the first time in any big war, the fastest ocean liners on both sides were armed with naval guns and turned into warships. I am going to tell you about a most exciting duel between two of these armed liners, which happened on September 14. Some of you may have crossed the Atlantic to America in the White Star liner Carmania, and if so you will read with all the more interest the story of her victory over the German ship Cap Trafalgar.

You will easily understand that when the Carmania was taken over by the British Navy and became H.M.S. Carmania, a good many changes were made. The comfortable quarters for passengers, the splendid state-rooms and luxurious berths, were ripped out, because fire is a great danger in a warship and anything that will burn is usually thrown overboard when she goes into action. Even as it was, a shell from the enemy did set the Carmania on fire, as we shall see.

Fights between single ships are, I think, in some ways more exciting than big battles. At any rate, it is easier to understand them. When it is a case of only two ships, we can imagine ourselves on board one of them and looking on at the struggle.

Have you ever heard how the gallant Captain Broke, of H.M.S. Shannon, engaged and defeated the American warship Chesapeake? That was when we were at war with America, just a hundred years ago. The duel took place outside New York Harbour, in sight of land, and crowds came out to see the sight. Their feelings must have been very mixed, for the Chesapeake struck her flag after a short and very violent fight. But as the Americans are a brave and generous people, they must have applauded the clever seamanship of gallant Captain Broke.

You may remember, too, the plucky fight of the little Revenge against enormous odds, and Tennyson’s noble ballad in which the story is told.

I cannot tell you why the Germans named their ship Cap Trafalgar, after the scene of Nelson’s last and greatest victory, especially as there is a splendid ship named Trafalgar in the British Navy. But it does not much matter, as the Cap Trafalgar now lies at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

The crew of the Carmania were just sitting down to their mid-day dinner when the look-out men sounded the alarm. Instantly everyone tumbled up and went to his place, and all eyes were turned on a big ship lying about five miles off, as big as the Carmania herself, and looking like a liner. In fact, the Germans, with their usual cunning, had painted her two funnels to look like a Union-Castle liner. The Cap Trafalgar was pretending to be a British ship!

The trick did her no good, however; the captain of the Carmania was not running any risks. “Give her a shot,” he cried, “but don’t hit her.” The gun-layer gave her a neat shot just across her bows, and at that instant the stranger opened fire. The Carmania replied with all her port guns, and the fight immediately became furious.

The German was beaten for two reasons. First, because he fired too high, only smashing the Carmania’s masts and rigging, whereas we put in most of our shots right on the German’s water-line. Secondly, because the Carmania was much better handled, her captain turning her so that the enemy could only fire at her endways and not sideways.

The Cap Trafalgar took fire in the forward part, but still she gallantly went on fighting. When at last she decided to try and escape, she found it was too late. Already she was sinking, and the men of the Carmania, which had by this time practically ceased firing, saw a very curious thing. They saw the enemy turn over on her side, so that they could look right down her funnels, which were level with the water. Even then the German ship did not haul down her flag. There was an explosion and her bows went under; then another explosion and the great vessel sank. All the honours of war to this brave foe!

The Cap Trafalgar made 304 holes in the Carmania, but only two of them were serious shots in the side of the ship. This was not very good shooting when you think that the Carmania is 675 feet long—longer than many a London street—and stands 60 feet out of the water, as tall as a tall house.

The most serious damage done to the Carmania was by a shell, which set her on fire under her fore-bridge, and made steering difficult. The fire spread so much that it prevented the Carmania’s men from going to the rescue of the Germans in the water. But before she sank five boats put off from the Cap Trafalgar, and I am glad to say they were all rescued by a coal-ship—two hundred and seventy-nine officers and men.

So much for this exciting little fight. The two ships were almost exactly equal in size and strength, and the British vessel won on her merits by better seamanship and better gunnery. No wonder the Navy was pleased.

VI

Now I must tell you about Lieut.-Commander Max K. Horton, of Submarine E9, and how he earned the nickname of “The Double-toothed Pirate.”

You know how terribly dangerous the submarine service is. These ships are long and narrow, shaped rather like a cigar, and they can travel a long way under the water. But they are very fragile, and their gallant crews are always ready for instant death.

The day before the Carmania sank the Cap Trafalgar, September 13, Lieut.-Commander Horton took a little trip out to the Frisian Islands in E9. He found the German light cruiser Hela and sank her with a torpedo, and got away without being seen.

The loss of the Hela herself did not matter much to the Germans, as she was nearly ten years old and not of much fighting value. But what did matter was the upset to the nerves of the Germans. This is a most valuable thing in war—to make your enemy feel “jumpy.”

It is said that E9 came back to Harwich flying a little yellow flag bearing a skull and crossbones, which, as you probably know, is the badge of the Kaiser’s favourite regiment of Brandenburg Hussars.

The next exploit of E9 was even more daring, even more certain to make the Germans “jumpy.”

Again the little ship went off to the Frisian Islands, and there she torpedoed and sank a German destroyer. If you look at the map, you will see how close these islands are to the German naval stations of Wilhelmshaven and Emden. What should we have felt if a German submarine had come up and sunk a British ship quite close to Portsmouth and Plymouth? However, the War may bring us worse surprises than that, and if it does we must bear them bravely.

E9 had an exciting time. While she was watching for her prey, she saw a big German cruiser and she had to dive. When she came up again, the cruiser had gone, but there was a destroyer instead, and this she marked down. At one time she was actually too near the destroyer to fire a torpedo because it would have been dangerous to herself. At last she got about six hundred yards off and then she fired two torpedoes, one after the other. The first missed, but the second hit the destroyer fairly in the middle and blew her to pieces. Another German destroyer which was near hastily ran away.

Lieut.-Commander Horton and his gallant men returned to Harwich flying the little yellow flag, and underneath it a little white flag, also bearing the grim device of a skull and crossbones. It was then that he was given the jesting nickname of “The Double-toothed Pirate,” for as you know the skull and crossbones has always been the emblem of pirates.

I do not myself like this nickname, for Lieut.-Commander Horton is by no means a pirate. On the contrary, he always fights fair. He is as clever as he is brave, and he has always been a great believer in submarines, which he has been studying for years. When he was serving in H.M.S. Duke of Edinburgh he won a gold medal for saving life. That was when the Delhi went ashore with the Princess Royal and the late Duke of Fife and their children on board.

An amusing story is told which shows the coolness of submarine officers. One of these gallant fellows, finding that the enemy could see him on the surface by daylight, sank his boat to the bottom and waited for night. Someone asked him what he did all that time. “I did very well,” he said, “we played auction bridge, and I won 4s. 11½d.” But games like this at the bottom of the sea are the great exception.

Never forget our seamen and what they are doing for us in storm, in cold, and in fog. If you have the good fortune to be related to a boy or man in the Navy, write to him regularly and tell him all the home news. He will love to hear it, and, busy as he may be, will probably find time to answer you. But if you don’t hear for a long time, remember that the delightful verses—with only one word altered—which were written by the Earl of Dorset at sea in 1665 are as true now as they were two hundred and fifty years ago:

“To all you children now at land We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write: The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you.

For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea.”