The test of perfect motion—Is the fleet bottled by submarines?—The message arrives—The sea-march of dull-toned unadorned power—Destroyers in the van—The majestic procession of battleships—The secret in sheer hard work—The sea-lion on the hunt—The “old” Dreadnought—The exotic Turk—An hour and still passing—Irresistible power—Visualizing the whole globe, safe behind that fleet—Back in London—The Zeppelin’s pitiable target—Meaning of British dominion—A German comparison.
There is another test besides that of gun drills and target practice which reflects the efficiency of individual ships, and the larger the number of ships the more important it is. For the business of a fleet is to go to sea. At anchor it is in garrison rather than on campaign, an assembly of floating forts. Navies one has seen which seemed excellent when in harbour, but when they started to get under way the result was hardly reassuring. Some erring sister fouled her anchor chain; another had engine room trouble; another lagged for some other reason; there was fidgeting on the bridges. Then one asked, What if a summons to battle had come?
Our own officers were authority enough for me that the British had no superiors in any of the tests. But strange reports dodged in and out of the alleys of pessimism in the company of German insistence that the Tiger and other ships which one saw afloat had been sunk. Was the fleet really held prisoner by fear of submarines? If it could go and come freely when it chose, the harbour was the place for it while it waited. If not, then, indeed, the submarine had revolutionised naval warfare. Admiral Jellicoe might lose some of his battleships before he could ever go into action against von Tirpitz.
“Oh, to hear the hoarse rattle of the anchor chains!” I kept thinking while I was with the fleet. “Oh, to see all those monsters on the move!”
A vain wish it seemed, but it came true. A message from the Admiralty arrived while we were on the flagship. Admiral Jellicoe called his flag secretary, spoke a word to him, which was passed in a twinkling from flagship to squadron and division and ship. He made it as simple as ordering his barge alongside, this sending of the Grand Fleet to sea.
From the bridge of a destroyer beyond the harbour entrance we saw it go. I shall not attempt to describe the spectacle, which convinced me that language is the vehicle for making small things seem great and great things seem small. If you wish words invite splendid and magnificent and overwhelming and all the reliable old friends to come forth in glad apparel from the dictionary. Personally, I was inarticulate at sight of that sea march of dull-toned, unadorned power.
First came the outriders of majesty, the destroyers; then the graceful light cruisers. How many destroyers has the British navy? I am only certain that it has not as many as it seems to have, which would mean thousands. Trying to count them is like trying to count the bees in the garden. You cannot keep your eye on the individual bees. You are bound to count some twice, so busy are their manœuvres.
“Don’t you worry, great ladies!” one imagined the destroyers were saying to the battleships. “We will clear the road. We will keep watch against snipers and assassins.”
“And if any knocks are coming, we will take them for you, great ladies!” said the cruisers. “If one of us went down, the loss would not be great. Keep your big guns safe to beat other battleships into scrap.”
For you may be sure that Fritz was on the watch in the open. He always is, like the highwayman hiding behind a hedge and envying people who have comfortable beds. Probably from a distance he had a peek through his periscope at the Grand Fleet before the approach of the policeman destroyers made him duck beneath the water; and probably he tried to count the number of ships and identify their classes in order to take the information home to Kiel. Besides, he always has his fingers crossed. He hopes that some day he may get a shot at something more warlike than a merchant steamer or an auxiliary; only that prospect becomes poorer as life for him grows harder. Except a miracle happened, the steaming fleet, with its cordons of destroyers, is as safe from him as from any other kind of fish.