WHAT THE PRESSMEN SAW.
(By our Naval Expert).
I have passed a week rich in experiences. The things I've seen! As one of a party of journalists accorded the privilege of a visit to the Trawler Fleet I am able to-day at last to lift the curtain and tell the public what is going on. It is true that there are some restrictions as to what may be published, but I think you will find that I am free to relate the best bits.
The Trawler Fleet! The Trawler Fleet is a power of great and diverse capabilities. But my visit was paid not so much to estimate its fighting value as to plumb its spiritual depths (which are not so likely to be interfered with by the Censor). The very heart of British sea power, the epitome of modern naval war, is to be found in a little port somewhere on the —— Coast. Here cluster just ordinary little one-funnelled trawlers, grimy little every-day vessels. These are the real thing. They come and go, these trawlers, in and out, back and forth, up and down, round and round; but they are being wrought into the weft and woof of history, every one of them.
I contemplated them. On one I found an old tar cleaning his shore-going boots. We entered into conversation, the ice being broken by a friendly query of his as to whether the adoption of Summer Time had affected the prohibited hours. And I—with intention—asked him if he had been fishing.
"Fishing?" said he; and he looked at me and winked. There was heroism in his wink with a dash of humour, as is the way with men of our race.
On another I found a mere boy. His job, I gathered, was to help the cook and wash up. "The War," he considered, "'adn't made no sort o' difference to 'im. His job went on much the same."
Well, I took off my hat to him—I couldn't resist it. Never have I been more thrilled at the thought of the indomitable spirit of our race. No difference!
I questioned him further, but he evinced all the admirable and impenetrable reticence of the Service in war-time.