On one of the Dreadnoughts I saw a gun’s crew drilling with a dummy six-inch, weight one hundred pounds.
“Isn’t that boy pretty young to handle that big shell?” an admiral asked a junior officer.
“He doesn’t think so,” the officer replied. “We haven’t any one who could handle it better. It would break his heart if we changed his position.”
Not one of fifty German prisoners whom I had seen filing by over in France was as sturdy as this youngster. In the ranks of an infantry company of any army he would have been above the average of physique; but among the rest of the gun’s crew he did appear slight. Need more be said about the physical standard of the crews of the fighting ships of the Grand Fleet?
One had an eye to more than guns and machinery and to more than the character of the officers. He wanted to become better acquainted with the personnel of the men behind the guns. They formed patches of blue on the decks, as one looked around the fleet, against the background of the dull, painted bulwarks of steel—the human element whose skill gave the ships life—deep-chested, vigorous men in their prime, who had the air of men grounded in their work by long experience. One noted when an order was given out that it was obeyed quickly by one who knew what he had to do because he had done it thousands of times.
There are all kinds of bluejackets, as there are all kinds of other men. Before the war some took more than was good for them when on shore; some took nothing stronger than tea; some enjoyed the sailor’s privilege of growling; some had to be kept up to the mark sharply; an occasional one might get rebellious against the merciless repetition of drills.
The war imparted eagerness to all, the officers said. Infractions of discipline ceased. Days pass without any one of the crew of a Dreadnought having to be called up in default, I am told. And their health? At first thought, one would say that life in the steel caves of a Dreadnought would mean pasty complexions and flabby muscles. For a year the crews had been the prisoners of that readiness which must not lose a minute in putting to sea if von Tirpitz should ever try the desperate gamble of battle.
After a turn in the trenches the soldiers can at least stretch their legs in billets. A certain number of a ship’s company now and then get a tramp on shore; not real leave, but a personally conducted outing not far from the boats which will hurry them back to their stations on signal. However, all that one needs to keep well is fresh air and exercise. The blowers carry fresh air to every part of the ship; the breezes which sweep the deck from the North Sea are fresh enough in summer and a little too fresh in winter. There is exercise in the regular drills, supplemented by setting-up exercises. The food is good and no man drinks or eats what he ought not to, as he may on shore. So there is the fact and the reason for the fact: the health of the men, as well as their conduct, had never been so good.
“Perhaps we are not quite so clean as we were before the war,” said an officer. “We wash decks only twice a week instead of every day. This means that quarters are not so moist and the men have more freedom of movement. We want them to have as much freedom as possible.”
Waiting, waiting, in such confinement for thirteen months; waiting for battle! Think of the strain of it! The British temperament is well fitted to undergo such a test, and particularly well fitted are these sturdy seamen of mature years. An enemy may imagine them wearing down their efficiency on the leash. They want a fight; naturally, they want nothing quite so much. But they have the seaman’s philosophy. Old von Tirpitz may come out and he may not. It is for him to do the worrying. They sit tight. The men’s ardour is not imposed upon. Care is taken that they should not be worked stale; for the marksman who puts a dozen shots through the bull’s-eye had better not keep on firing, lest he begin rimming it and get into bad habits.