Embarkation of Marines
The Iris and Daffodil joined us almost immediately. The Marines embarked a few days later. They had been sent to a southern port on the understanding that they were off to France; the officers alone knew the truth. They duly boarded the waiting transport with stores, ammunition, and baggage, the latter labelled to a French port. They must have wondered where they would sleep that night. The transport duly left harbour and headed for the French coast, but presently altered course in a most unusual manner. Word was passed round that the course was peculiar; all crowded on deck in their endeavour to solve the problem. It was a misty day with the rain coming down in torrents; the land was soon obscured. The officers chuckled at the general bewilderment, but held their peace. At last the transport eased down and finally stopped engines. Out of the mist loomed the Iris and Daffodil, into which vessels the Marines were transferred.
A second voyage was then commenced, but it was not of long duration. Other ships presently hove in sight, and strange craft they appeared. Cruisers without masts and another looking like a home for lost coal-tips. These were the blockships and Vindictive. Then appeared a recognisable vessel—the Hindustan. Some of the Marines went to the latter, the remainder to Vindictive. I can well remember the astonished look on their faces as these men boarded my ship. Even the heavy downpour of rain seemed to be unnoticed. One man remarked as he came on board, "Well, it's darned good to be aboard a blessed something, but I'm blowed if I know what she is."
That day and the next were spent in settling down. On the evening of the second day the men were told the secret. In Vindictive they all mustered on the quarter-deck and after bridge. Sunset had long since been heralded by the time-Honoured bugle call. The evening twilight was fading rapidly. There was a stillness in the air which seemed to be reflected from the tense attitude of the assembled men. One could have heard the proverbial pin drop. It was my duty to take them into our confidence. After the nature of the enterprise had been outlined a few sentences were sufficient to illustrate the task allotted to the Vindictive. It seemed advisable to point out that many other operations of a hectic nature, besides those of the blockships and storming vessels, were to be attempted. I emphasised this by mentioning that if, during our visit to Zeebrugge Mole, they heard a thunderous explosion they could say to themselves, "That's one of them." These words came back to me afterwards, as I shall relate in due course.
As soon as the business in hand had been promulgated it was considered advisable to exert a very rigid censorship on outgoing mails. Correspondence was permitted, but strictly on the understanding that the letters would be retained at one of the mail offices until the operation had been completed. This regulation was modified later owing to the waiting period being unexpectedly prolonged. Field post-cards were then issued and could be posted in the ordinary manner. There were the usual sentences, such as "I am quite well," "I am not quite well," "I have received your letter," "I have not received your letter," etc., in the style of the French exercise books of one's youth. Such post-cards were familiar enough amongst the military, but were a novelty to most of us; they caused a good deal of amusement, especially when the sender omitted to delete the sentences which misrepresented his feelings towards the intended recipient.
All shore leave was stopped; even cases of serious illness or accident would have to go to Hindustan, and remain there, instead of to a shore hospital.
Concerning Secrecy
Secrecy was absolutely essential, but not always easy to ensure. At our anchorage it was comparatively simple, but elsewhere we had to depend more upon trust in our fellow men than rigid regulation. The secret was well kept, and fortunately so. Surprise is mainly dependent upon secrecy. For if information of an impending attack becomes known there can be no hope of taking the enemy unawares.
I wonder how many people realise the necessity for keeping rumours to themselves during war. Rumours must be either true or untrue. If untrue they are not worth passing on. If true, then untold harm may result from repetition. Suppose for a moment that the impending operation at Zeebrugge had become a topic of general conversation. In due course the information would have reached our enemies and the expedition would almost certainly have met with complete disaster. The lives of many picked officers and men would have been lost, and the whole affair would have gone down to history as a fiasco. Under such circumstances each person who had repeated the rumour on its way to the enemy would have been morally guilty of manslaughter—surely that is not an exaggerated deduction.
Alas, human nature is often weak. There is some modicum of satisfaction in showing superior knowledge to one's neighbour.