“The largest contract in all England,” said the contractor. “And here is the man who checks up my work,” he added, nodding to the lean, Scotch naval civil engineer who was with us. It was clear from his look that only material of the best quality and work that was true would be acceptable to this canny mentor of efficiency.
“And the workers? Have you had any strikes here?”
“No. We have employed double the usual number of men from the start of the war,” he said. “I’m afraid that the Welsh coal troubles have been accepted as characteristic. Our men have been reasonable and patriotic. They’ve shown the right spirit. If they hadn’t, how could we have accomplished that?”
We were looking down into the depths of a dry dock blasted out of the rock, which had been begun and completed within the year. And we had heard nothing of all this through those twelve months! No writer, no photographer, chronicled this silent labour! Double lines of guards surrounded the place day and night. Only tried patriots might enter this world of a busy army in smudged workmen’s clothes, bending to their tasks with that ordered discipline of industrialism which wears no uniforms, marches without beat of drums, and toils that the ships shall want nothing to ensure victory.
XXVII
ON A DESTROYER
Losing one’s heart to the British navy—“Specialised in torpedo work”—Watching for submarines—Passing a flotilla—The eyes of the navy—Cold on the bridge—A jumpy sea—Look out for the spray—A symphony in mechanism—Around a bend and: the sea power of England!
Now we were on our way to the great thing—to our look behind the curtain at the hidden hosts of sea-power. Of some eight hundred tons’ burden our steed, doing eighteen knots, which was a dog-trot for one of her speed.
“A destroyer is like an automobile,” said the commander. “If you rush her all the time she wears out. We give her the limit only when necessary.”