WHAT THE PRESSMEN SAW.
(By our Naval Expert).
I have passed a week rich in experiences. The things I've seen! As one of a party of journalists accorded the privilege of a visit to the Trawler Fleet I am able to-day at last to lift the curtain and tell the public what is going on. It is true that there are some restrictions as to what may be published, but I think you will find that I am free to relate the best bits.
The Trawler Fleet! The Trawler Fleet is a power of great and diverse capabilities. But my visit was paid not so much to estimate its fighting value as to plumb its spiritual depths (which are not so likely to be interfered with by the Censor). The very heart of British sea power, the epitome of modern naval war, is to be found in a little port somewhere on the —— Coast. Here cluster just ordinary little one-funnelled trawlers, grimy little every-day vessels. These are the real thing. They come and go, these trawlers, in and out, back and forth, up and down, round and round; but they are being wrought into the weft and woof of history, every one of them.
I contemplated them. On one I found an old tar cleaning his shore-going boots. We entered into conversation, the ice being broken by a friendly query of his as to whether the adoption of Summer Time had affected the prohibited hours. And I—with intention—asked him if he had been fishing.
"Fishing?" said he; and he looked at me and winked. There was heroism in his wink with a dash of humour, as is the way with men of our race.
On another I found a mere boy. His job, I gathered, was to help the cook and wash up. "The War," he considered, "'adn't made no sort o' difference to 'im. His job went on much the same."
Well, I took off my hat to him—I couldn't resist it. Never have I been more thrilled at the thought of the indomitable spirit of our race. No difference!
I questioned him further, but he evinced all the admirable and impenetrable reticence of the Service in war-time.
Deeply moved by these experiences I next accosted a brawny stoker covered with the grime of his calling. "The life seems to suit you all right," I cried, and slapped him on the back. The result was noteworthy. He made absolutely no reply of any sort but spat over the side.
And finally I must tell the story of the trawler and the mine. We all heard it, and most of the best people are telling it. It reveals better than anything perhaps the spiritual depths. It was related by an officer who had taken charge of our party and who actually showed us a photograph of the mine in question in a little museum of relics he had established on the quay, which contained also a part of a chronometer, said to be German, and a loaf of potato bread, captured and brought home under conditions that will make a stirring story after the War. The mine had been towed in by a fisherman who had flung a rope round its horns. "Cool hand, that fisherman," the narrator concluded. (It is only fair to say that in some versions given to the public the expression is set down as "Offhand chap" or "Careless old card," but I believe these to be incorrect.) "He said it must be safe enough for he had towed it for fourteen miles." (There has been some little discrepancy as to the mileage also, one sensational writer in the Yellow Press even putting it as high as nineteen.)
A wonderful week! It is folly to draw great conclusions from a hasty visit. All the same this is my considered message to the British Public—Trust the Trawlers.
Bis.
S.O.S.
"We may indeed say with another meaning, Sos monumentum requiras circumspice."—The Builder.
Hun Candour.
From a description of Czernowitz in the Berliner Tageblatt:—
"Since Saturday evening everyone wanted to go away, Christian, Jew, German."
"An Edmonton barber, who was given temporary exemption, stated that he had tried a female assistant, but she took half-an-hour to shave one man."—Evening Paper.
As the result, we suspect, of too much "chin-wagging."
The following letter was received from a Chinese store-keeper, in response to an order for benzine:—
"Madam,—Very sorry we have no Benzine, but we have Ground Cloves, Nutmegs, Cinnamon and Ginger. Hoping to be excused for the trouble."
Victims of the petrol-census may be glad to know of these substitutes.
"Wanted good Navies. Several months work. 7d.—Apply Ganger, Northampton."
We suspect "Ganger, Northampton," to be a nom de guerre for "Admiral of the Atlantic, Wilhelmshaven," who is notoriously hard up both for ships and money.
"The evidence of the police was to the effect that about 400 people marched in procession through Dame Street and Westmoreland Street, followed by a crowd of 2,000 girls, who led the processionists."
Daily Mirror.
There is precedent for this in higher circles, where leaders have been known to follow the crowd.
