H.M.S. –

IN THE MORNING

Back from the battle, torn and rent,Listing bridge and stanchions bentBy the angry sea.By Thy guiding mercy sent,Fruitful was the road we went —Back from battle we.If Thou hadst not been, O Lord, behind our feeble arm,If Thy hand had not been there to slam the lyddite home,When against us men arose and sought to work us harm,We had gone to death, O Lord, in spouting rings of foam.Heaving sea and cloudy skySaw the battle flashing by,As Thy foemen ran.By Thy grace, that made them fly,We have seen two hundred dieSince the fight began.If our cause had not been Thine, for Thy eternal Right,If the foe in place of us had fought for Thee, O Lord!If Thou hadst not guided us and drawn us there to fight,We never should have closed with them – Thy seas are dark and broad.Through the iron rain they fled,Bearing home the tale of dead,Flying from Thy sword.After-hatch to fo'c'sle head,We have turned their decks to red,By Thy help, O Lord!It was not by our feeble sword that they were overthrown,But Thy right hand that dashed them down, the servants of the proud;It was not arm of ours that saved, but Thine, O Lord, alone,When down the line the guns began, and sang Thy praise aloud.Sixty miles of running fight,Finished at the dawning light,Off the Zuider Zee.Thou that helped throughout the nightWeary hand and aching sight,Praise, O Lord, to Thee.

AN AFFAIR OF OUTPOSTS

The wardroom of the Depôt ship was just emptying as the late-breakfast party lit their pipes and cigarettes and headed for the smoking-room next door, when a signalman brought the news in. The Commander, standing by the radiator, took the pad from the man's hand and read it aloud. He raised his voice for the first few words, then continued in his usual staccato tones as the silence of his audience showed that they were straining their ears in fear of missing a word: —

"Lyddite, Prism, Axite, and Pebble in action last night with six enemy destroyers —Pebble sunk – fifty-seven survivors aboard Lyddite– enemy lost two sunk, possibly three —Lyddite with prisoners and Prism with Axite in tow arriving forenoon to-day."

There was a moment's pause as the Commander handed the signal back, and then half a dozen officers spoke at once. The Fleet-Surgeon was not one of them. He gathered up his two juniors with a significant glance, as one sees a hostess signal to her Division as the dessert-talk flags, and the three vanished through the door to get to work on their grim preparations. The Engineer officers conferred for a minute in low tones and then followed them out. The signal had given clearer data for the workers in flesh and bone to act on than it had for those who work in metals, and there was nothing for the latter to do but to get their men ready and to guess at probabilities. The remainder of the Mess broke into a buzz of conversation: "Axite, she must be pretty well hashed up; it must have been gun-fire, a torpedo would have sunk her… Rot! why should it? What about the Salcombe or the Ventnor? They got home… Yes, but not from so far out, and there's a sea running outside too… Well, the Noorder Diep isn't a hundred miles, and that must be where…"

The Commander beckoned the First Lieutenant to him, as that officer was rising from his chair at the writing-table. "You'd better warn the Gunner, Borden, that the divers may be needed; and tell my messenger as you go out that I want to see the Boatswain and Carpenter too – thank you." He turned to the ship's side and looked out through the scuttle at the dancing, sunlit waters of the harbour. He had supervised the work of preparation for assisting and patching lame ducks more than once before, and he knew that his subordinates needed little assistance from him. What was troubling his mind was the question of the casualties. The Pebble was gone, so there was no need for spare hands to be provided for her, while her survivors were actually a gain. They would not be fit for work for a bit, though, a good few of them probably wounded, and the remainder perhaps needing treatment after immersion in a December sea. Then the three others – it sounded like a hard-fought action, and hard fights meant losses. That was the worst of these destroyer actions, the casualties were mostly good men, and it took so long to train good ratings. If only one saved the officers and men it wouldn't really matter how many destroyers were lost, he reflected, as he walked out of the mess towards his cabin and the little group of Warrant and Petty officers who awaited him by the doorway.

It was barely an hour later, and the bustle of preparation aboard the Depôt ship was still in progress when they came in sight. The outer forts had reported them as approaching the entrance, and the next news was good also, for it was simply the deduction on the part of the watching ships' companies, when they saw the big black-and-yellow salvage tugs that had been out since dawn come chugging up harbour alone, that the victors had disdained assistance. Then the Lyddite showed her high bow and unmistakable funnels as she swung round the entrance shoals and steadied up harbour at a leisurely ten knots. At that distance she looked dirty and sea-worn, but intact. Close astern of her came Prism and Axite, and as they showed, the watchers involuntarily caught their breaths.

The Prism looked queer and foreign somehow, with no foremast, a bare skeleton of a bridge, and a shapeless heap where the forward funnel had stood. The Axite looked just what she was – a mere battered hull, with very little standing above the level of her deck, her stern nearly awash, and her bow bent and torn as if some giant hand had gripped and twisted it. As the pair of cripples neared the dock entrance, two smaller tugs which had followed astern came hurrying up to close on the Axite's sides, while the towing hawser that had been watched with such anxiety through three cold and stormy watches splashed in the churned-up water under the Prism's counter. The Prism increased speed slightly, and up against the blustering wind came the faint sound of cheering from the cruisers down the harbour as she passed them. She eased down into station astern of the Lyddite, and the Yeoman of Signals on the Depôt ship's bridge shifted his telescope from the shaking canvas of the wind-dodger to the steadier support of a stanchion.

"What's she like – can you make 'er out?" A Leading Telegraphist had walked out from the wireless office, and, in obvious hopes of getting hold of the telescope, was standing at his elbow.

"Pretty sight, I don't think," replied the Yeoman grimly. "Dirty work for the hospital there, and I reckon it's 'Port Watch look for messmates' – all along under the bridge she's been catching it, and I can't see – Yes, O.K. – He's up there on the bridge —Who? The skipper, of course. Mister Calton, Commander – begging his pardon. Me and him were in the old Cantaloup two years. Gawd! but ain't they been in a dust-up! What do you say? Lyddite?"

He turned to look as the big destroyer passed, half-raised his glass, and then lowered it. There was enough for his naked eye to see to discourage him from a closer view. Her decks were crowded with men, lying, standing, or sitting down. The white bandages showed up clearly against the general background of dull grime, and the bandages were many. A torpedo-tube pointing up like an A.A. gun, and a dozen or so of splinter holes in funnel and casing, showed that some, at least, of the wounded were her own. About the casing, between the wounded, lay dozens of dull brass cartridge-cases, and aft – a curious touch of triviality – two seamen and a steward were emptying boxes of smashed glass and crockery overside. A few men waved and shouted in reply as the Depôt ship roared a welcome across to her, but the greater number were silent. The two scarred and blood-spotted craft swung gently in to the jetty, where the lines of ambulances and stretchers awaited them, and as the first heaving-lines flew, the Yeoman turned to the Telegraphist with a look almost of pride on his dark saturnine face —

"Well, I'm – ," he said admiringly, "if that ain't swank! Did you see 'em? Why, stiffen the Dutch – they've got new Sunday Ensigns hoisted to come up harbour with, and" – he swung round and levelled his glass at the Axite, now almost hidden in the smoke and steam of the group of tugs around her at the lock gates – "I'm damned if she ain't got a new one up too. Here, have a look at it, man. It's on a boathook staff sticking up in the muzzle of the high-angle gun – "

1917

The "liaison officer" felt distinctly nervous as his steamboat approached the gangway. He had no qualms as to his capabilities of carrying out the work he was detailed for – that of acting as signals-and-operations-interpreter aboard the Flotilla leader of a recently allied destroyer division – but the fact that he had been told that he must be prepared to be tactful weighed heavily on his mind. His ideas on the subject of Americans were somewhat hidebound, but at the same time very vague. Would they spring the statement on him that they had "come over to win the War for you," or would they refer at once to their War of Independence? Did the Yankees hate all Britishers, or – His boat bumped alongside the neat teak ladder, and he noted with a seaman's appreciation the perfectly-formed coachwhipping and Turks' Heads on the rails. A moment later he was standing on a very clean steel deck, gravely returning the salute of what appeared to be a muster of all the officers in the ship.

A tall commander took a pace forward. "Malcolm," he said, "I'm Captain – glad to meet you." The Englishman saluted, and they shook hands. "My name's Jackson," he replied, and turned as the American, taking his arm, ran through a rapid introduction to the other officers. Each of these repeated the formula, accompanied by the quick bow and handshake. Jackson followed suit as best he could, and began to feel that on such formal occasions he had the makings of a real attaché or diplomatist in him.

A few minutes, and he found himself sitting in a long-chair in a wardroom which might have been a counterpart of his own, and accepting a long cigar from the box handed him. "Did you have a good trip over?" he ventured.

"We sure did, and saw nix – not even a U-boat. Had a bit of a gale first day out, but it blew off quick. But say, there wasn't a German ship for three thousand miles. Don't you ever see some about?"

"Well, you see – er – no. They only show out now and then, and it's only for a few hours when they do. Of course, there are plenty of Fritzes, but they keep under most of the time – you don't see them much."

"Well, we thought it real slow, didn't we, Commander? We were just ripe for some gunplay, but we never got a chance to pull."

Jackson looked across at the Commander and smiled. "We felt that way for a long time, sir. But now we just go on hoping and keeping ready. We've had so many false alarms, you see."

The Commander laughed. "That's one on you, Benson," he said. "We won't get so excited next time we see the Northern Lights."

There was a general shout of laughter, and Jackson turned cold. This, he thought, was a little early for him to start putting his foot in it. The officer called Benson, however, did not appear to be about to throw over the alliance just yet. He walked to the sideboard, and returned with a couple of lumps of sugar in his hand. "Lootenant," he said gravely, "in the absence of stimulants in the U.S. Navy, I can only give you what we've got. We've no liquor aboard, but we've sure got sugar."

"Yes," said the Commander. "We're all on the water-waggon here, whether we like the ride or not."

Jackson sat up in his chair and shed his official pose. He could, at any rate, talk without reserve on Service subjects. "Well, sir," he said, "I'm not a teetotaller, but it doesn't worry me to go teetotal if I've got to. I don't worry about it if I'm in training for anything; and the fact is – well, if there was a referendum, or something of that sort, in the Navy as to whether we were to be compulsory teetotallers or not, I believe the majority would vote for 'no drinks.' I would, anyway, and I'm what you'd call an average drinker."

"They didn't ask us to vote any, but if they had – in war-time – I guess we'd have voted the same way. If you can't get it you don't want it, and we've kind of got used to water now. And so your name's Jackson? Any relation?"

Jackson's brain worked at high pressure. This was a poser. Sir Henry Jackson? Stonewall? How many noted Jacksons were there? He played for safety and replied with a negative.

"Ah, well! there's perhaps some connection you don't know of," said the Commander encouragingly. "Which part of England are your folk from? Birmingham. Well, of course, it's a big family… My father knew him well, and was with him through the Valley Campaign."

Jackson sighed with relief. "You're from Virginia then, sir?"

"No, sir – I'm from Maryland. My father joined the Army of Virginia two days before Bull Run."

"Are you all Southerners here, then?"

"We're sure not," came a chorus of voices. "Nix on Secesh … John Brown's Body…" Jackson developed nerves again. He felt as if he had asked a Nationalist meeting to join him in drinking confusion to the Pope. The company did not seem disposed to let him off, however.

"Which do you think ought to have won, Lootenant? You were neutral – let's hear it."

Jackson looked apologetically at the Commander.

"Well, sir, I think the North had to win; and" (he hurried on) "it's just as well she did, because if she hadn't there wouldn't be any U.S.A. now – only a lot of small states."

"That's so; but there need not have been any war at all."

"There needn't, sir; but it made the U.S.A. all the same. The big event of the Franco-Prussian War wasn't the surrender at Sedan; it was the crowning of the German Emperor at Versailles. And in the Civil War – well, it made one nation of the Americans in the same way as the other did of the Germans."

"Well, Lootenant, if wars are just to make nations into one, what was the good of our wars with you?"

Jackson was getting over his self-consciousness, and it was dawning on him that the American Navy has a method of "drawing" very similar to that in use in his own.

"They were a lot of use," he protested. "We sent German troops against you, and you killed lots of them."

There was a general laugh.

"Say, Jackson," came a voice, "this little old country of yours isn't doing much with the Germans now except kill them. Say, she's great! You're doing all the work, and you've kept on telling us you're doing nix. Your papers just talk small, as if your Army was only a Yale-Princetown football crowd, and you were the coon and not the Big Stick of the bunch that's in it."

"Well, you see, we don't like talking about ourselves except to just buck our own people up."

Jackson's tone as he said this was, I regret to say, just what yours or mine would have been. It could only be described as "smug."

"You sure don't. We like to say what we're doing when we come from New York."

Jackson prepared for an effort of tact. "I hear," he said, "you've got quite a lot of troops across already."

They told him – and his eyes opened.

"What!" he said. "And how many – ?" He digested the answers for a moment, and decided that his store of tact could be pigeon-holed again for a while. "But what about – your papers haven't – I don't call that talking much. We still think you're just beginning."

"So we are, – we've hardly started. But our papers were given the wise word, and they don't talk war secrets."

Jackson readjusted his ideas slightly, and his attitude deflated itself. The transportation of the First Expeditionary Force had been talked of as a big thing, but this – and he had until then heard no whisper of it.

"And the country?" he asked. "What about all your pro-Germans and aliens?"

"They don't," came the answer. "What do you think of Wilson now?" Jackson edged away to cover again. "He's a very fine statesman, and a much bigger man than we thought him once."

"Same here; and he knows his America. He waited and he waited, and all the time the country was just getting more raw about the Germans, and then when he was good and ready he came in; and I guess now he's got the country solid."

Jackson pondered this for a moment, studying the clean-cut young faces – all of the universal "Naval" stamp – around him.

"I don't know," he said slowly, "that it wouldn't have been better for us if we'd been able to stop out a few months ourselves at first. It would have made us more solid too. But we simply had to come in at once."

"You had; and if you hadn't, we'd have talked at you some."

Jackson laughed. "What! 'Too proud to fight,' and all that sort of thing? Yes, we'd have deserved it too. I say, what a shame Admiral Mahan died right at the beginning! There's nobody to take his place and write this war up."

"Yes, he'd have been over here first tap of the gong. And he'd have seen it all for himself, and given you Britishers and us lectures on the war of 1812 – and every other war too."

"Yes, it's a great pity. He taught us what sea-power was, and till then we hardly knew we had it at all."

"Well, he taught you enough to get us busy mailing you paper about the blockade last year."

Jackson grinned. "You couldn't say much. You made all the precedents yourselves when you blockaded the South in '61. We only had to refer you to your own letters to get out of the argument."

The First Lieutenant beckoned for the cigar box again. "You knew too much diplomatic work for us in those days. We were new to that card game. But I'd sooner hear our talk now than the sort of gentle breathing of your folks when it comes to diplomacy."

"Never mind," said Jackson. "We're getting better. We'll have an autocracy, like you, before the war's over, instead of the democracy we've got now."

The circle settled down and waited. This was evidently not an unarmed foe, in the ancient Anglo-Saxon game.

"Amurrica's the only real democracy in the universe," said an incautious voice. Two heads turned towards the speaker, and several pairs of eyes spoke volumes.

"I beg your pardon," said Jackson. "America's a great country, but as you told me just now, she's solid. That means she's so keen on getting on with the work that she's chosen a boss and told him to go ahead and give his orders, and so long as he does his best to get on with the work, the people aren't going to quarrel with him. Now we are not really solid, just because we're too much of a democracy."

"Say, you wouldn't think that if you'd been over and seen our last elections; but there's sense in it, all the same. But Lloyd George – isn't he the same sort of Big Stick over here?"

"You read our political papers and see," said Jackson. "Do you take much interest in politics in your Navy?"

"Do we hell – does yours?"

"Not a bit, except to curse at them. Navies are outside politics."

"Except the German's, and their army and navy and politics are all the same thing; and they'll all come down together, too."

"Yes, but it's going to take some tough scrapping to do it. Let's hope no one starts fighting over the corpse when she's beaten."

"Well, I guess you won't, and we won't. We've both got all the land we can do with, and if there are any colonies to hand out after, we won't mind who gets 'em so long as the Kaiser doesn't. What we ought to do is to join England in a policing act for the world, and just keep them all from fighting."

"That'd be no good. The rest of them would combine against us. It would only mean a different Balance of Power."

"Oh! Now you're talking European. We stand out of the old-world Balance."

"You can't now. You've got hitched up in it, and you'll find you're tangled when you want to get back."

"We sure won't. We'll pull out when this round-up's over – you watch us."

The Commander glanced at his watch and rose. "Dinner's at 'half-six,'" he said. "You'd better let me show you the way to your room."

Jackson rose and followed him aft to the spare cabin. "Here you are," said the American. "Hope you'll be comfortable. The boys will do their best to make your stay here real home-like, and I hope you'll stay just as long as you can."

"I sure will, sir," came the answer, in a voice that was fast losing its English drawl; and Jackson, alone with his thoughts, stared at the door-curtain, and wondered why on earth it should have been considered necessary to tell him that a supply of tact would be useful to him in his new job.

IN FORTY WEST

We are coming from the ranch, from the city and the mine,And the word has gone before us to the towns upon the Rhine;As the rising of the tideOn the Old-World side,We are coming to the battle, to the Line.From the valleys of Virginia, from the Rockies in the North,We are coming by battalions, for the word was carried forth:"We have put the pen awayAnd the sword is out to-day,For the Lord has loosed the Vintages of Wrath."We are singing in the ships as they carry us to fight,As our fathers sang before us by the camp-fires' light;In the wharf-light glareThey can hear us Over There,When the ships come steaming through the night.Right across the deep Atlantic where the Lusitania passed,With the battle-flag of Yankee-land a-floating at the mast,We are coming all the while,Over twenty hundred mile,And we're staying to the finish, to the last.We are many – we are one – and we're in it overhead,We are coming as an Army that has seen its women dead,And the old Rebel YellWill be loud above the shellWhen we cross the top together, seeing red.

A RING AXIOM

When the pitiless gong rings out again, and they whip your chair away,When you feel you'd like to take the floor, whatever the crowd should say,When the hammering gloves come back again, and the world goes round your head,When you know your arms are only wax, your hands of useless lead,When you feel you'd give your heart and soul for a chance to clinch and rest,And through your brain the whisper comes,"Give in, you've done your best,"Why, stiffen your knees and brace your back – and take my word as true —If the man in front has got you weak, he's just as tired as you.He can't attack through a gruelling fight and finish as he began;He's done more work than you to-day – you're just as fine a man.So call your last reserve of pluck – he's careless with his chin —You'll put it across him every time – Go in – Go in —Go in!

CHANCES

I

The boxing-stage was raised a clear three and a half feet above the deck, and the mat showed glaringly white in the northern sunshine. The corner-posts were padded and wound with many layers of red and blue bunting. A glance round showed a great amphitheatre of faces, rising tier on tier up to the crouching figures of men on the main-derrick, funnel-casings, and masts. The spectators numbered, perhaps, close on three thousand, and there was hardly a man among them who had not qualified as a critic by personal experience at the game. The last two competitors had just left the ring in a storm of hand-clapping, and the white-sweatered seconds ceased their professional chatter and their basin-splashing employment to jump up and place the chairs back against the corner-posts as the next two officers entered.

Lieutenant Cairnley of H.M. T.B.D. – pulled the loose sleeves of his monkey-jacket across his chest and stretched out his legs as he sat down in the Blue corner. He looked across at his opponent, who was standing talking in a low voice to a second. Yes, he was evidently only just inside the middle-weight limit, and he, Cairnley, must be giving away all of half a stone. Still, that was half a stone less to carry about the ring, and he felt really fit and well-trained. An officer was standing in the ring, with a paper in one hand, and the other raised to call for silence.

"First round of the Officers' Middle-weights. In the Red corner, Lieutenant Santon of the – , in the Blue corner, Lieutenant Cairnley of the – ." He slipped under the ropes and jumped down from the stage as the voice of the timekeeper followed his own – "Seconds out!" Cairnley felt the coat plucked from his shoulders, and he stood up as his chair was drawn away. "Clang!" went the heavy gong, and he walked forward with his right hand out and his eyes on his opponent's chest, in the midst of a great silence. As their gloves touched, Cairnley jumped quickly to one side and began his invariable habit of working round to his opponent's left hand. He was not allowed much time for "routine work." He had an impression of a looming figure getting larger, a whirl of feinting, and he was being rushed back across the ring in a storm of punches. His habit of keeping his chin down, shoulders up, and elbows in, saved him. He felt a thrill of respect for Santon's punch as his head rocked from heavy hook-blows on either side, and then he was inside his opponent's elbows, working his head forward, and lowering his right for a body punch before they struck the ropes. As he felt their springing contact at his back, he stiffened up and pushed his man away. The recoil of the hemp assisted him, and Santon gave ground a yard. Cairnley jumped at him, and, taking an even chance, sent a straight right over, which landed cleanly on the mouth. His left followed at once, but only touched lightly. Santon gave ground again, and the lighter man slid after him, sending a long left home to the nose. Cairnley thrilled as it landed. This man was strong, he felt, but not quick enough in defence. He half-feinted with his right, and sent his left out again. As the punch extended he slightly lifted his chin, and the ring whirled round him as he took a tremendous cross-counter that came in over his elbow. He came forward quickly to get to close quarters, but his opponent had no intention of letting him. There was a whirl of gloves and a sound of heavy, grunting hitting, and Cairnley found himself on his hands and knees, with a very groggy feeling in his head, looking across at Santon's white knees by the ropes at the far side of the ring. He stretched his neck, took a long breath, and rose shakily. He did not feel as shaky as he looked, for he had been in the ring before, and knew that a knock-down blow sometimes entraps the optimistic giver of it into sudden defeat, but in this case he was engaged with a boxer who took no chances. Santon approached quickly and began rapid feinting just outside hitting distance. Cairnley gave ground slightly and waited for the rush. This chap had a wicked right, he reflected, and he did not want to get caught napping again. Then Santon was on him slamming in lefts and rights, and working furiously to get him into a corner. Cairnley stooped and struggled to get in close. A muscular change in the body a foot from his eyes gave him warning of an approaching upper-cut, and he brought his right glove in front of his face in time to stop it. He felt Santon's left on the back of his head, and instantly shifted feet and escaped round his opponent's left side. As he shifted he jerked a hard, short left punch into the mark, and then repeated the blow. Santon broke away, and received a perfectly-timed straight left on the nose as the gong rang. There was a storm of applause as the men went to their corners, for Cairnley's recovery had been well guarded, and his quick hitting at the end of the round showed that he had not lost much speed. He lay back in his chair while his seconds fussed around him, and thought hard. That right cross-counter of Santon's was certainly a beauty, so much so that it must be his favourite punch. Could he be absolutely certain of its being produced if he gave it the same chance? Well, he had to win this on a knock-out, or not at all. He could not pick up all the points he had lost in the first round with only two to go, so it was a case of chancing it on his brains alone. Yes, he would just check his idea once, and if that proved that Santon would use the same punch for the same lead, he would go all out on the next. Clang! He rose and walked straight forward to meet his man. At six-feet range he jumped in and drove his left for the mark. It did not land true, but it enabled him to close and start a succession of furious body punches. The two hammering, gasping white figures reeled about the ring for half a minute, heads down and arms working like pistons.