The harbour which is the fleet’s home is landlocked by low hills. There is an eclipse of the sun by the smoke from the ships getting under way; streaming, soaring columns of smoke on the move rise above the skyline from the funnels of the battleships before they appear in sight around a bend. Indefinite masses as yet they are, under their night-black plumes. Each ship seems too immense to respond to any will except its own. There is something automatic in the regularity with which, one after another, they take the bend, as if a stop watch had been held on twenty thousand tons of steel for a second’s variation. As they approach they become more distinct and, showing less smoke, there seems less effort. Their motive-power seems inherent, perpetual.
There is some sea running outside the entrance, enough to make a destroyer roll. But the battleships disdain any notice of its existence. It is no more to them than a ripple of dust to a motor truck. They plough through it.
Though you were within twenty yards of them you would feel quite safe. An express train was in no more danger of jumping the track. Mast in line with mast, they held the course with a majestic steadiness. Now the leading ship makes a turn of a few points. At the same spot, as if it were marked by the grooves of tires in a road, the others make it. Any variation of speed between them would have been instantly noticeable, as one forged ahead or lagged; but the distance between bows and sterns did not change. A line of one length would do for each interval so far as one could discern. It was difficult to think that they were not attached to some taut moving cable under water. How could such apparently unwieldy monsters, in such a slippery element as the sea, be made to obey their masters with such fine precision?
The answer again is sheer hard work! Drills as arduous in the engine room as at the guns; machinery kept in tune; traditions in manœuvring in all weathers, which are kept up with tireless practice.
Though all seemed perfection to the lay eye, let it be repeated that this was not so to the eyes of admirals. It never can be. Perfection is the thing striven for. Officers dwell on faults; all are critics. Thus you have the healthiest kind of spirit, which means that there will be no cessation in the striving.
“Look at that!” exclaimed an officer on the destroyer. “They better try another painting on her and see if they can’t do better.”
Ever changing that northern light. For an instant the sun’s rays, strained by a patch of peculiar cloud, playing on a Dreadnought’s side made her colour appear molten, exaggerating her size till she seemed as colossal to the eye as to the thought.
“But look, now!” said another officer. She was out of the patch and seemed miles farther away to the vision, a dim shape in the sea-haze.
“You can’t have it right for every atmospheric mood of the North Sea, I suppose!” muttered the critic. Still, it hurt his professional pride that a battleship should show up as such a glaring target even for a moment.
The power of the fleet was more patent in movement than at rest; for the sea-lion was out of his lair on the hunt. Fluttering with flags at a review at Spithead the battleships seemed out of their element; giants trying for a fairy’s part. Display is not for them. It ill becomes them, as a pink ribbon on a bulldog. Irresistibly ploughing their way they presented a picture of resolute utility—guns and turrets and speed. No spot of bright colour was visible on board. The crew was at the guns, I took it. Turn the turrets, give the range, lay the sights on the enemy’s ships, and the battle was on.