He handed Branscombe a copy of an Admiralty confidential circular giving details of the disaster. A month later the casualty list would be communicated to the Press together with a bald statement that "one of H.M. destroyers was torpedoed and sunk in the North Sea on the night of so and so". It would have to be left to one's imagination, and perhaps the simple narrative of a survivor, to picture the end of a gallant vessel, for "the Navy doesn't advertise", especially in war-time.
"Good Heavens!" ejaculated Branscombe; "I knew Seton awfully well. Old school chum of mine. His people lived close to my home. An' I came up in the train with him to Rosyth just before we commissioned; he envied me my stunt because of the extra excitement and risks," he added reminiscently. "Poor old Seton!"
The news hit Branscombe badly. In the senior service men get to know each other more than in the army. The camaraderie of the sea is a real thing. Friendships made afloat are generally of a lasting order, especially during a two years' commission, by the end of which time there is hardly a secret between "chummy" officers.
And into the midst of the big band of brothers stalked Death—far too frequently during the Great War. Men went singly, in dozens, and in hundreds, nobly doing their duty to King and Country. Some died in the knowledge that their passing was witnessed by their comrades; others went unheard and unseen, with none able to tell with any degree of accuracy of the manner of their going.
"Rough luck," murmured Farnborough sympathetically. "Did I ever come across him?"
"Not to my knowledge," replied the Sub, "and to my belief you never will."
"Strange things happen at sea," rejoined the Lieutenant. "There's nothing to prove that Seton's been done in. However, to change the subject, you might cast your eye on this. You'll have to commit the thing to memory."
The "thing" was a close-lined, typewritten document endorsed "Strictly Confidential". Branscombe gave a low whistle as he read the title. It was "Orders for Coastal Motor-Launches for the impending operations off Ostend and Zeebrugge".
For some considerable time past a series of rehearsals for the contemplated bottling up of the two Belgian ports had been taking place. One of the first steps was to pick and choose the men; the second was to train them. Volunteers for a certain mysterious and hazardous business were called for. Hundreds were required, thousands offered themselves. Bluejackets and stokers from the Grand Fleet, men from that Corps d'Elite, the Royal Marines, were accepted to form landing parties; destroyers from the Dover Patrol were merged into the scheme, together with several M.-L.'s; co-operation by the Royal Air Force was secured, pilots and observers from the old Royal Naval Air Service offering themselves in shoals.
The next step was the training. The operations were to be of a vast and complex nature, every division, sub-division, and individual working in harmony and unison with the rest. Should one link in the chain of preparation be faulty and not detected, should one division fail to do its allotted part, the whole enterprise might be in jeopardy.