I.
All through the peaceful night of 30th May 1916 British squadrons were at sea steaming steadily eastward. Fighting-ships of almost every class were represented; great battleships and battle-cruisers, armoured cruisers of an older type, new and very fast light cruisers, the ubiquitous destroyers in their dozens, all converging silently towards the area on the other side of the North Sea which was presently to become the scene of the mightiest and most terrible battle in British naval history.
The Commander-in-Chief and the Admirals in command of squadrons may possibly have known that something unusual was in the air; but it is doubtful if any subordinate officers or men had the least inkling of what the next day would bring forth. They knew that a battle was always possible, and were ready and anxious for it. Off and on for nearly twenty-two months they had scoured the gray wastes of the North Sea, and had explored its grayer fogs, always hoping that the next dawn would bless their tired eyes with a view of the far-flung battle-line of the enemy stretched out across the horizon before them. But morning after morning the sun had risen to display the same bare and monotonous vista of sea and sky.
Sometimes the ocean was calm and peaceful, the sun shone undimmed, and the blue sky towards the horizon was piled high with mass upon mass of mountainous white cumulus. Sometimes they had fogs, when they could see barely a hundred yards; sometimes the prevailing North Sea mists, in which the visibility alternated between two and five miles. At other times the wind howled, and the leaden sea was whipped into fury by gales; while the sky became overcast with dark clouds and streaked with the white, frayed-out streamers of mares' tails. They had come to know the vagaries of their cruising ground by heart; but whatever its aspect the sea was ever innocent of the one thing they all wished to see—the German High Sea Fleet.
Their wistful longing was just as acute as that of the men in the storm-battered ships of Columbus when straining their eyes towards the western horizon for the first dim blue traces of the new continent; and now, through sheer disappointment, not a few of them had come to believe that the chance they all prayed and longed for would never come.
Daylight on 31st May found the Mariner and many other destroyers still steaming eastward in company with the battle-cruiser fleet under the command of Vice-Admiral Sir David Beatty in the Lion. Certain light-cruiser squadrons, acting as scouts, were stationed some distance ahead of the heavier vessels. The morning—which had broken beautifully fine, with a calm sea—passed without incident, and it was not until shortly after half-past two in the afternoon that the advanced squadrons reported the enemy in force to the eastward.
It is impossible to give any idea of the thrill of excitement which passed through the officers and men of the ships when the facts became known. The bugles blared, and they hurried to their action stations. 'Enemy in force!' Did it mean that they were in touch with the High Sea Fleet? Had their chance come at last, the chance for which they had all been hoping ever since that fateful 4th August 1914?
Men looked anxiously at their neighbours to see how they took the momentous news; but nowhere did a face show signs of fear. On the contrary, their expression and demeanour testified to their implicit and unshaken confidence in themselves and their leaders. They laughed, jests passed from man to man and from group to group, and they went about their business with an intense keenness born of a new hope.
The big battle-cruisers swung rapidly into fighting formation and increased speed, their wash churning the calm sea into great waves. They presented a magnificent spectacle as they steamed into action with the smoke curling from their funnel-tops, white ensigns flying at each masthead, and the huge guns in their turrets pointing their lean muzzles skywards.
At two-thirty-five P.M. a considerable amount of smoke was sighted to the eastward, and a little less than an hour later the gigantic shapes of five hostile battle-cruisers were looming up over the horizon.
'All guns, load!' came the first order from the control positions. 'Salvos by director! Guns—ready!'
Inside a turret a burly A.B., clad in flannel shirt and trousers, spat solemnly on his hands, stretched out a hairy tattooed arm, and moved a small, brightly polished steel lever. Instantly a clattering hydraulic chain rammer uncoiled itself like a snake, and an enormous shell weighing three-quarters of a ton was pushed bodily out of the loading-tray to vanish into the open breech of the gun with a smack and a thud. The rammer was withdrawn, another man manipulated a handle, and two cream-coloured, sausage-shaped bundles with red ends rolled into the space just vacated by the projectile. They were the cordite charges, swathed in innocent-looking silk coverings, the red extremities being the muslin bags containing the powder-igniters. The silk, somehow, seemed strangely out of place in the gun-turret of a battle-cruiser. It reminded one irresistibly of the counter of a drapery establishment; but for many a long year artillery experts have known that a silk-covered cartridge leaves little or no burning residue in the breech of the gun when the weapon is fired. Hence its use.
Again the hairy, tattooed gentleman moved his lever, and the rammer, darting forward, propelled two quarter charges into the yawning breech of the gun. The operation was repeated, while a man fiddled for a moment with the lock, and then the great steel breech-block swung to with a clang.
'Right gun, loaded!' some one bawled, as something slipped into place with a click.
'Right gun, ready!' from another man.
The gunlayer watched a dial, and the gun's crew stood tense and expectant, while the huge breeches of the weapons moved ponderously up and down, with a wheezing and a groaning of the water through the hydraulic machinery. The turret twitched slowly to the right, stopped, and then moved again. Ammunition-cages containing more shell and cartridges ready for the next round came clattering up from the loading-chambers.
The officer in charge, a lieutenant with absurdly pink cheeks and curly hair, was stationed at his periscope, one end of which protruded through a hole in the armoured roof of the turret, and gave him a view of the surrounding sea.
'Can yer see anythink, sir?' some one asked in a hoarse whisper, his curiosity getting the better of him as the officer bent down to wipe the eyepiece of his instrument with a gaudy bandana handkerchief.
'Yes,' he answered cheerily, 'five battle-cruisers, some light cruisers, and a good many destroyers! Stand by. It'll be starting in a minute.' He replaced the handkerchief in his pocket, and applied his eyes to the periscope again.
The loading number of the right gun, he with the hairy arms, was busy with a piece of chalk, and the other members of the gun's crew who had nothing particular to do watched him with some amusement. 'To Hunny, with love from Bill Mason, A.B.,' he traced out laboriously on the sleek, yellow-painted side of the huge lyddite projectile. He stepped back to survey his handiwork with a little chuckle of glee. 'That'll tickle 'em!' he remarked, winking solemnly.
The men tittered.
The lieutenant at the periscope suddenly held his breath as a muffled, whistling shriek and the roar of an explosion from outside brought the men's heads up in eager, listening attention.
'Garn!' said Mason with a grin; 'that ain't gone nowhere near us. 'Ave another go, ole son!'
'Stand by, men!' cautioned the officer, who was the only person who could see what went on in the outside world.
Mason licked his hands and rubbed them unconcernedly on the seat of his trousers.
Whe-e-e-w! whe-e-e-e-w! B-o-o-m! from the outside again, followed by the sound of another detonation and a slight jar, which showed that the ship had been struck somewhere.
The gun's crew looked at each other. The turret moved slowly to the right, and went on moving. The breeches of the guns began to see-saw gently up and down in rhythm with the movement of the ship. Then a bell rang, and with a roar and a thud the right gun suddenly went off and recoiled backwards along its slide. It ran out again with a wheezing, sucking sound, and the massive breech-block flew open with a metallic crash.
'Left gun, ready!' came a shout.
The turret became filled with the warm, acrid smoke of burnt cordite. There came the swishing sound of the washing-out apparatus, and the clatter of the chain rammer.
The bell rang again. B-o-o-m! roared the left gun. The great battle had begun.