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TOLD IN GALLANT DEEDS ❧ A CHILD’S HISTORY OF THE WAR

BY

MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES

London

JAMES NISBET & CO., LTD.

22 BERNERS STREET, W.

DEDICATED TO

THE HAPPY WARRIOR

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR

Who is the happy warrior? Who is he

That every man in arms should wish to be?

It is the generous spirit, who, when brought

Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought

Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought;

Whose high endeavours are an inward light

That makes the path before him always bright:

Who, with a natural instinct to discern

What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;

Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,

But makes his moral being his prime care;

Who, doomed to go in company with pain,

And fear and bloodshed, miserable train!

Turns his necessity to glorious gain;

· · · · ·

Whom neither shape nor danger can dismay,

Nor thought of tender happiness betray;

Who, not content that former worth stand fast,

Looks forward, persevering to the last,

From well to better, daily self-surpassed:

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth

For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,

Or he must go to dust without his fame,

And leave a dead unprofitable name,

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws

His breath in confidence of heaven’s applause:

This is the happy warrior; this is he

Whom every man in arms should wish to be.

Wordsworth.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

The great war will leave more than a deep mark on our country; when it is over, there will be a different England, a different Scotland, a different Ireland. Grown-up people will always remember vividly the old, happy, peaceful, confiding England, as she was before her placid contentment was rudely shattered in a night.

But what of the children? There are thousands and thousands of little children who will look back all their lives to this war as their first important recollection, the first impact on their minds of the great world of realities lying outside all childish things. It will not be possible to keep from them the knowledge of many horrors and savage brutalities, and it is therefore the more necessary that there should be shown to them as soon as possible the other and glorious side of the shield. It is the more necessary that for our children, through the long years that lie before them, the memory of the Great War should be touched to noble issues—that it should be, first and foremost, a memory of deeds as gallant as any that have ever been inscribed in Christendom’s long roll of honour.

There can hardly be one British child whose little world of personal affections and interests has not been roughly disturbed by the war. Many have seen their fathers and brothers going off to fight, and to many those dear fathers and brothers will never come back. Even the children who have no kindred in the Navy or Army have friends who have gone out. In every village familiar faces are missed, and some will never be seen again. In every town, great and small, it is the same—this new and disturbing sense of personal loss.

In this book the writer has endeavoured to show by force of contrast that savagery and brutality are not of the essence of war. The Happy Warrior is to be found in all ranks and in all armies, and it is an inspiring thought that, for every brave deed the record of which has leapt to light, there must be ten others of which the stirring story will never be known.

Every intelligent child must have gradually become aware that this great war illustrates the enormously increased havoc that may now be wrought by various scientific engines of destruction. But it is the object of the writer to demonstrate that the personal valour of officers and men remains the ultimately decisive factor. Man can never devise a more marvellous war machine than himself. All through the ages we see that battles are really won, not by improvements in weapons of precision, but by the unquenchable spirit of the individual soldiers and sailors who wield them.

The writer has, wherever possible, linked on each tale of heroism to one like it in the annals of past wars. This serves to bring out what is perhaps the most splendid lesson of the present gigantic struggle, namely that the soldiers and sailors of the present day are indeed the worthy successors of the heroes of the past.

The writer has also drawn on the treasures of the older English poetry with which some modern children are not too well acquainted. It is her experience that children instinctively respond to the best in literature, and also that lines which to their elders may seem hackneyed keep all their old power to thrill and uplift the young imagination.

Moreover, Belgium and France are rich in historic and literary associations, and the writer has ventured to refer to books such as Tristram Shandy, Vanity Fair, and Villette, which children ought to know about now, and to read when they are older.

As to the sources from which the deeds of valour and of chivalry recounted are taken, they range from the brilliant, highly literate accounts written by war correspondents to extracts taken from the wonderfully vivid and picturesque narratives contained in letters written home to mothers and wives by soldiers and sailors just after the actions described.

To all these unknown helpers to whom the best part of her book is due, the writer tenders her grateful thanks.

TOLD IN GALLANT DEEDS

CHAPTER I
BELGIUM

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”

Young Peterkin, he cries.

And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;

“Now tell us all about the war,

And what they fought each other for?”

Like the children in Mr. Southey’s poem, you will want to know first of all why we joined in with France and Russia in the great war against Germany and Austria. Well, the answer in a word is—Belgium.

Supposing you had solemnly promised to protect a little kitten and afterwards a big dog came and attacked the kitten, would you not keep your promise, and do all you could to help the kitten? Of course you would. Belgium was the kitten, and Germany was the big dog. We had faithfully promised to protect the little country of Belgium, and the terrible thing is that Germany had promised too, but she broke her promise.

Germany wanted to get into France.

If you look at the map, you will see that the Germans might have tried to go straight in without touching Belgium. Only then they would have had to break through a very strong line of forts which the French had built to defend their country. The Germans did not feel sure of doing this, and they said to themselves, “The longest way round is the shortest way in.” That meant going through Belgium.

You have probably heard grown-up people, when discussing this great war, mention “a scrap of paper.” You may even have wondered what a scrap of paper could have to do with the war. I will tell you. On the dread day when our mighty country threw down the gauntlet, the German statesman who had worked hard to keep England out of Germany’s quarrel with France and Russia exclaimed, “You are going to war for a scrap of paper!” He spoke truly, but on that scrap of paper or parchment was written the solemn promise of both England and Germany to be like big brothers to Belgium and protect her from being bullied.

At first the Germans were very nice to Belgium. They said, “Only let us come through your country, and when we have conquered France we will give you a splendid reward!” But France also had promised to be a big brother to Belgium, and so Belgium said “No!”

England also said “No!” England said to Germany, “If you touch our little friend Belgium, we will fight you.”

So that is why the British Empire went to war with Germany. If we had chosen the easy way of breaking our promise by simply doing nothing, by standing out and merely looking on at the awful struggle, would we now be proud of being English? I think not.

Germany did more than break her promise to protect Belgium. When she found that the brave little country was gamely going to fight, she sent her great armies, hundreds of thousands of trained soldiers with fleets of aeroplanes and terrible big guns, whose shells, as they are now called, could kill people miles away. She thought she would easily be able to march through Belgium right into France, and she fully expected to capture the city of Paris—all in one month!

In fact, Germany made the worst mistake that can be made in war—the mistake of despising her enemies. She despised the power of the French armies, and she also very much despised the British Army. She had a good deal of respect for the British Navy because it is big, but because the British Army was small she thought it did not matter. Well, she was taught a richly-deserved lesson by Sir John French and his splendid troops, of whose gallant deeds you will read in this book.

Most of all, Germany despised the army of poor little Belgium. And yet the game little kitten, though suffering terribly herself, contrived to inflict some severe scratches on the big German dog. She actually held him up for quite a long time, to his great surprise and rage, and that delay was of the utmost benefit both to France and to England. It enabled them to make their final preparations for serious fighting, and it gave us time to send our Army across the Channel to join up with the French forces.

Notice, also, that it would have been very useful to France to send her armies through Belgium to attack Germany. What prevented her? Just “a scrap of paper,” just her pledge and promise. She could not break her word, because it would not have been playing fair, it would have been taking a mean advantage—the same mean advantage that Germany did not hesitate to take.

But you may ask, “Why did not the French at least send plenty of soldiers to defend Belgium?” The answer is that they did offer to send more than 200,000 men. But Belgium refused. She believed that Germany would keep her written promise. “Can the Kaiser put his name to a lie?” she asked.

Terribly did Belgium suffer for her trust in German honour. But once she saw her trust was betrayed, her little army fought with splendid courage, thousands of Germans were killed in the first battles, and thanks to the splendid defence put up by the forts of a Belgian town called Liège, she delayed the vast, oncoming German hosts till Britain and France were ready to take them on.

II

I am sure all of you are now familiar with the glorious name of Liège, but you may not know so well that of the hero whose name is now linked for ever with that of Liège—I mean General Leman, who conducted the splendid defence.

The flower of the German Army was hurled against the city and the forts and thirty thousand Belgians fought like lions repulsing the enemy. Great deeds of individual valour were done, and a special interest attaches to them as they were the first gallant deeds of this Great War.

Here is the story of a young soldier whose name is inscribed for ever on the Belgian roll of honour.

I must tell you that waterways, almost always very beautiful and picturesque waterways, play a great part in the life of Belgium, and much fierce fighting has gone on, as we shall see, on the banks of rivers, canals, and streams. In order to cut off the enemy, it became all important to the Belgians to cross a canal, but the bridge was up, and the mechanism was on the side held by the Germans.

A young soldier, named Tresignies, facing certain death, dived into the stream, and swam across under the German fire. He leapt up the bank of the stream, got hold of the pulley, and so lowered the bridge; but as it fell in place, he himself fell dead.

The days went on, and still Liège held out amid terrible scenes of bloodshed and heroism. Outside the forts the Belgians were not idle. Fiercely they fought the enemy, and the Germans on their side were full of pluck and of determination to conquer or die.

A fort is always built on the top of a hill or huge mound. Up the slopes of each fort the Germans advanced again and again, under a withering fire, and it was said that eight hundred men were killed within an half mile square. If valour could have taken the forts during those early days of the siege, Liège would have fallen. According to an eye-witness who has seen much of the actual fighting during the war, the enemy never fought so well as at Liège. But the enemy had a foe worthy of its steel.

An exciting and heartening incident of the fighting round Liège was the capture by a brave Belgian boy of a German general.

A day may come when some of you British boys and girls will understand why grown-up people smile when they note that this boy’s name is Jean Jacques Rousseau. For Jean Jacques Rousseau was also the name of one who, if a great thinker and writer, was not, in a physical sense, a brave man; indeed, so vivid was the original Jean Jacques Rousseau’s wonderful imagination, and so poor his courage, that he would probably have fainted with fright had he been vouchsafed a vision of his namesake’s gallant and daring deed!

The brave Jean Jacques Rousseau is only nineteen, yet he had already been a soldier for three years when at Zelk, close to Liège, he succeeded in making this officer of high rank his prisoner. The German general seems to have put up very little fight; tamely he surrendered to his captor a satchel containing not only papers, but six thousand pounds in notes and gold! Jean Jacques handed over the money to the Red Cross, for its noble work of tending the wounded, but he was allowed to keep the satchel, and the General’s silver helmet.

When the Germans found they could not take Liège by what is called a frontal attack—that is by an attack from the front—they brought up their huge siege guns.

Now here I must stop to tell you about these guns. They were the first surprise of the War, for their construction was kept a profound secret by Germany, who with their help believed herself invincible! It is suspected by some people that these new siege guns were to be kept hidden till the enemy wished to strike terror into the defenders of the huge forts which guard Paris. If that be so, then the gallant defence put up by Liège forced the German generals to alter their plan, for as soon as they found they could not take the Belgian stronghold by assault, they dragged up seven huge guns—it takes thirty-five pairs of horses to drag one along—and began battering the Liège forts to pieces!

Soon the Fort of Loncin, where the brave General Leman had his headquarters, was entirely isolated. Each man, however, went on with his work calmly and courageously, and that even when the bombardment was so terrible that many were made—we must hope only temporarily—stone deaf.

One afternoon, just as General Leman and his staff were hastily drinking a cup of tea, a terrific explosion shook the whole fort, and a moment later its concrete walls collapsed in a cloud of flame and dust. Many were killed outright; those who survived had the anguish of seeing the enemy rush in.

In the midst of a scene of frightful horror and confusion the Germans sought with frantic eagerness for General Leman. Soon they found him, but at first they thought he was dead. He was, however, breathing, and so, still unconscious, he was placed on a stretcher and taken out of the ruins of the fort he had defended so gloriously.

There then occurred a fine little incident, and one to the credit of the enemy. At the end of a gallery of which the sides were still standing, were gathered together all that was left of the garrison. Black with powder, their faces streaked with blood, their clothes in ribbons, their hands clasping shattered rifles, the heroic little group, some twenty-five men, still stood to resist. Touched by such splendid courage, the Germans, instead of attacking, flung aside their weapons and ran to the help of the brave Belgian soldiers. Of the five hundred men who formed the garrison of Fort Loncin three hundred and fifty were killed and more than a hundred were seriously wounded.

Meanwhile General Leman had recovered consciousness. He had sworn never to be taken alive, but Fate had proved too strong for him! He was accordingly brought before General von Emmich, the Commander of the German forces. Sadly the Defender of Liège tendered his sword; but the German general handed it back to him, and, bowing courteously, congratulated General Leman very warmly on the splendid way in which he had conducted the defence.

This example of German magnanimity recalls a French incident of the kind which happened rather more than a hundred years ago. Lord Cochrane, commanding his little British brig, the Speedy, was captured by the huge Desaix. Admiral Linois, who lives in history as the best of Napoleon’s naval commanders, refused, when Cochrane had to surrender, to take his sword. “I cannot,” he cried, “take the sword of a man so brave that he has been doing the impossible for twelve hours!” This was an allusion to the fact that though three huge French battleships had all attacked the Speedy together, her commander, by brilliant seamanship, had actually managed to elude capture for a whole day.

General Leman, on being made prisoner, sent a very touching letter to the King of the Belgians:

“Your Majesty will learn with grief that Fort Loncin was blown up yesterday at 5.20 P.M., the greater part of the garrison being buried under the ruins.

“That I did not lose my life in that catastrophe is due to my escort, who drew me from a stronghold whilst I was being suffocated by gas from the exploded powder. I was conveyed to a trench, where I fell. A German captain gave me drink, and I was made prisoner and taken to Liège.

“In honour of our arms I have surrendered neither the fortress nor the forts.

“Deign pardon, Sire. In Germany, where I am proceeding, my thoughts will be, as they always have been, of Belgium and the King. I would willingly have given my life the better to serve them, but death was not granted to me.

“Lieutenant-General Leman.”

It was a happy and a graceful act on the part of the French Government to bestow the Legion of Honour on the town of Liège, which, as was well said in the decree setting forth the honour, “was called upon to bear the first brunt of the German troops, and kept the invading army in check in a struggle which was as unequal as it was heroic.”

Every soldier worthy of the name not only respects, but heartily admires, a gallant, magnanimous foe. Had there been even a few German commanders like General von Emmich, there would not now rest, as there will do till the Day of Judgment, an indelible stain on Germany’s name.

It is awful to have to put on record that after the fall of Liège the enemy, maddened by the unexpected resistance, took a fearful vengeance on poor little Belgium.

As they marched through the lovely, peaceful villages, and charming, storied towns, which all other invaders had spared even in the so-called dark ages, the Germans burnt, blew up, and destroyed far and wide, killing even women and children in their ruthlessness. Yet even so, these unarmed Belgians performed wonderful deeds of valour.

When the enemy approached Heristal, the Belgian Woolwich, where is the National Arms Factory, the town was defended against the German attack by the women, for all the men were already away fighting.

These wives and mothers swore that the enemy should never take the factory. They armed themselves with revolvers and other weapons, and actually repulsed several charges of the Uhlans. When their ammunition was exhausted, they barricaded themselves in various houses and poured boiling water on the Germans. Children and old men shared in the defence, and for two days the Belgian colours still floated over the factory buildings.

There is scarcely a village, and there is no town, in Belgium which has not some glorious page of history to its credit, and some precious survival of the Middle Ages in the shape of a noble old church or town hall. Only the glorious pages of history now remain. But these have been added to, for as a brave Frenchwoman once finely phrased it, “Le plomb ne tue pas l’idée,” which may be freely translated, “Bullets can only kill the body.”

The storied monuments alas! which belonged not only to generous little Belgium, but to the whole world, are gone. Battered, shattered, in many cases razed to the ground, by German lead, which, though powerless to kill the mind, has been able to destroy the sanctified beauty which the genius of artists and of saints had created with such happy labour and prayers.

It is a pathetic and even an awesome thing to have to say of any place—even of a tiny village—“it was, and is no longer.” That, unhappily, is what we now have to say of the venerable and beautiful town of Louvain—the Oxford of Belgium. Spared by innumerable armies, by the fighting men of a thousand years, it fell victim to one stupid barbarian, who, I suppose, still imagines himself to be an officer and a gentleman. His name is given as Manteuffel, and it is a curious irony of fate that the destroyer of one of the oldest homes of learning in Europe should bear a name honoured by all classical scholars.

This German commander, angered by a report, which seems to have been quite false, that some of the inhabitants of the town had fired when they saw their dread enemy approaching, ordered his soldiers to set fire, deliberately and systematically, to the houses and public buildings of a town which, to all lovers of the beautiful and to every scholar in the old and the new world, had become a shrine, a place of joyful pilgrimage.

Till this summer there actually remained at Louvain a fragment of what had once been Cæsar’s Castle, and this survival of Roman days was of special interest to English people, for Edward III and his queen lived in the Castle for a winter. That great Emperor, Charles V, and his sister also, were scholars at Louvain, their teacher there being a priest who afterwards became Pope Adrian VI.

Heroic deeds were performed by some of the citizens of Louvain. Take the case of Dr. Noyons, who happened at the time to be Principal of the Medical Faculty of the University. On the very day the German Army approached the town, he suddenly learned that a hundred wounded were to be brought in. Beds were hurriedly got ready, and Dr. Noyons and his wife, as well as a large staff, were in attendance. This was at mid-day, and the wounded kept arriving all the afternoon.

At seven o’clock the firing of the town began! By eight o’clock the famous library was in flames!

Dr. Noyons’ own house, though it contained a number of wounded and had the Red Cross flag on the door, was now set on fire. But all night long the professor and his wife went on attending on the wounded, and when, the next morning, they were informed they must leave the town, in order that it might be razed to the ground by big guns, this noble-hearted couple at once decided to remain with those of the wounded (many of them Germans) who were too much injured to be moved.

Helped by a few trusted assistants, they carried their unhappy patients into the cellars of the hospital, and then they remained waiting for two days for a bombardment which fortunately never came. At the end of that time, this brave steadfast pair—a hero and heroine of a rare and splendid type—brought the wounded up again to the wards, and calmly continued to look after them.

Quite as awful as the fate of Louvain was that of the pretty town of Termonde. But there also splendid deeds of heroism were performed by quite simple folk.

Four times early in the War was unhappy Termonde bombarded, and twice it was deliberately set ablaze. But there were wounded there all through, and the Burgomaster and his two daughters never left the town. The two girls—the elder seventeen, and her sister a year younger—stayed at their posts as voluntary nurses, brave and fearless, thinking of nothing but their duty to the wounded.

The name of Termonde will now be for ever associated with the wicked and brutal conduct of the German Army. But before this last invasion of Belgium, Termonde was famed as having been the scene of all sorts of romantic incidents. Louis XIV, the stateliest of the great French kings, was very nearly drowned there, for the country round the town, like that of Holland, can be flooded at will. When the Sun King (as Louis XIV was nicknamed) was told that Marlborough was about to besiege Termonde, he observed: “He will have to bring an army of ducks to take it!” But Marlborough had the good luck to be there at a time of terrible drought, and so the brave garrison had to surrender.

Malines, or Mechlin as we ought to call it, was also the scene of one of the fiercest fights, and suffered greatly from the enemy. The beautiful little town was splendidly defended by the brave Belgians, but after two days’ battle they had to retire. Mechlin is famous, not only for its exquisite lace, but also for its peal of bells, and this, grievous to say, was destroyed by a German shell. Robert Browning, in a poem which I expect many of you know by heart, “How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix,” wrote:

“And from Mechlin church steeple we heard the half chime.”

But, tragic as was the fate of Mechlin, its most treasured relic was saved! This, amusing to relate, is a curious doll which bears the odd name of Op-Signoorke. This doll is said to have been modelled from a dwarf who was the official jester of a famous Antwerp club in the sixteenth century. In those days, every king and many a great noble had his dwarf, a kind of human toy who often played a considerable part in the life of his master.

The story goes that at a time when there was a great deal of friendly rivalry between the Flemish towns, Mechlin boasted of a wonderful dwarf jester who could out-talk and outwit any of his rivals. One of the Antwerp Guilds was much annoyed at this, and when the next meeting took place, it suddenly produced a new dwarf jester named Klaasken, who beat the Mechlin dwarf at his own game!

Soon afterwards Klaasken died, and when the next contest was held the good folk of Antwerp produced a wonderful model of him, beautifully carved and splendidly dressed. The Mechlin people, incensed at this insult to their live dwarf, carried him off one dark night, when the doll was left unguarded. Op-Signoorke, as he was then re-christened, remained at Mechlin, and ever since, on the occasion of the annual Kermesse, he is hung out for all to see from a window of the town hall. Now when it was known that the Germans were close to the town, a wise alderman put Op-Signoorke in a bomb-proof shelter, where he will repose till poor Belgium comes into her own again.

Shakespeare’s line in Julius Cæsar, “Let slip the dogs of war,” has a practical meaning in this war. Both the French and the German armies are accompanied to the front by war dogs; les chiens militaires and die Kriegshunde, as they are respectively called, are trained to act as scouts, carry despatches, and they even help, as we shall see later on, to succour the wounded. In Belgium dogs do much of the work performed in other countries by horses, and during some of the more recent fights the smaller pieces of artillery were actually harnessed to dog teams.

And now we must leave brave Belgium for a while, though later in this book you will hear of many gallant deeds and romantic happenings, as well as much that is piteous and terrible, concerning that country which for hundreds of years has been called “The Cockpit of Europe.”

But there is much, even as I write, that goes to show that Belgium’s day of ordeal is drawing to a close, and to her we may say that as long as Britain, France, and Russia endure:

“There’s not a breathing of the common wind

That will forget thee: thou hast great allies:

Thy friends are exultations, agonies,

And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.”

CHAPTER II
THE WHITE ENSIGN

I saw fierce Prussia’s chargers stand,

Her children’s sharp swords out;

Proud Austria’s bright spurs streaming red

When rose the closing shout;

But soon the steeds rushed masterless,

By tower and town and wood;

For lordly France her fiery youth

Poured o’er them like a flood.

Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels,

And let your steeds run free;

Then come to our unconquered decks,

And learn to reign at sea.

Allan Cunningham.

After the War broke out, a wise man declared that every British child ought to say this grace before meat:

“Thank God for my good dinner and for the British Navy.”

Perhaps you will wonder why he put the dinner and the Navy together in this way. It is because British children during the war owed their dinners, and all their other meals also, to the Navy. This may sound strange, but it is perfectly true. The Navy guarded the thousands of merchant ships which bring us food and other things from abroad.

We do not grow nearly enough corn at home to feed everybody, so we have to buy from Canada, America, and other countries. The German Navy would have liked to capture the ships which brought us this corn, but owing to the British Navy it could not do so.

But that is not all that the British Navy did.

I have told you how the Germans invaded Belgium and there were terrible fighting and ravaging, in which not only soldiers but also women and children were killed. Well, the Germans were even more angry with Britain than with Belgium. They would have dearly liked to send over hundreds of thousands of soldiers in big ships to land on the east coast of England, perhaps at Cromer, or Hunstanton, or Felixstowe, or other places where children often go for their summer holidays.

In our next chapter you will hear of how Napoleon waited impatiently at Boulogne in the hope of swooping down on England. There is a tradition in Dorsetshire that he did come secretly just to see what stretch of shore on that lonely coast would be most suitable for a landing of troops. This tradition or old belief is embodied in a wonderful short story by Mr. Thomas Hardy.

What would the German soldiers have done to us if they had landed? I am afraid they would have treated us even worse than they treated Belgium. The whole countryside would have been laid waste with fire and sword, and thousands of innocent people might have been killed.

Be thankful that England was not invaded like that. Be thankful that, while the poor Belgians were being bullied and beaten down, we could all sleep safely in our beds.

You know why that was. We owed our safety entirely to the strong arm of our Navy. All round our shores, day and night, our gallant tars were watching, watching. And the ships full of German soldiers could not think of coming. Our Navy would have blown them to pieces if they had tried.

Still, it was a terribly anxious time for Admiral Sir John Jellicoe and the brave officers and men under him. Many accidents can happen at sea which could not happen on land, and the whole Fleet knew well that the Germans might make a dash for it, and perhaps land a small force of men after all.

The portraits of Sir John Jellicoe show him as a man with a very strong face and a determined mouth and chin, but the expression of his eyes is full of kindness.

He earned his great position by sheer hard work. When he was a naval cadet, he took three firsts, and won a prize of £80 as well at the Royal Naval College. Afterwards, he studied naval guns and the art of firing them.

Admiral Jellicoe is one of the officers of the Royal Navy who have received the Board of Trade medal for gallantry in saving life at sea. He himself, too, has been saved from drowning at sea, for he was in command of the Victoria which was rammed by the Camperdown twenty-one years ago; in fact, he was one of the very few who were saved in that terrible disaster.

Quite early in the war, a bluejacket of H.M.S. Zealandia, the fine battleship which was given to the Mother Country by the great Dominion of New Zealand, wrote a poem called “The Walls of Jellicoe.”

He sent it to his aunt, and she, aunt-like, was so pleased with it that she sent it to a paper! There I read it, and I thought it so good and so true that I cut it out. Here are the verses I like best. But I like them all.

“On the flagship’s bridge a man

Takes a long and quiet scan

Of a certain bit of coastline lying east,

Vaterland.

And it’s him who has to think

How to get your food and drink

And likewise how to save you from

‘The Beast.’

· · · · ·

There’s no one by to say

‘Can I lend a hand, J. J.?’

There’s no one near to treat him

Like a friend.

He’s the loneliest man at sea,

And thank God it isn’t me;

But you are safe while he is

Keeping up his end.

He’s Admiralissimo,

Which is Johnny Jellicoe,

And I hope you’ll breathe his name in all your prayers,

And don’t forget.

For he’s you and me and all,

And if his old walls fall,

Earth would close for alterations and repairs,

Burn the map!”

This sailor poet expresses in his homely way the exact truth. Admiral Jellicoe had indeed a good many things to think about; and while he was keeping his ceaseless watch in the North Sea he had the grief of hearing that his old father, a seaman like himself, had died in the Isle of Wight. He could not be at his father’s death-bed; he could not follow his father’s coffin to the burial. His place was at the post of duty and of danger.

I have said that in the first months of the war the German Fleet would not come out from under the shelter of the German fortress guns. But you must not think that its commander, Admiral von Ingemohl, a very gallant seaman, was content to do nothing. He counted on taking some of our ships by surprise, and so making matters more equal before having a regular big battle. But as we shall see, he found that Admiral Jellicoe could play at that game too.

II

The Germans may be said to have drawn first blood at sea.

Very early in the war, in fact on the very day that most people knew our country was at war, on August 5, 1914, H.M.S. Amphion, while searching for the mine-layer Königin Luise, was blown up, whether by a mine or a torpedo will probably never be known.

Here I must explain that a mine at sea is a large rounded metal box full of stuff that blows up when a ship bumps against it. These mines are laid a little under the surface of the water. As for a torpedo, it is a long thing shaped like a fish, with a motor in its tail. It is also loaded with stuff to blow up, and it can be fired at an enemy’s ship from a submarine or from a torpedo boat. The motor in its tail makes it travel very fast under water, and if it hits a ship it is almost certain to destroy her.

When the Amphion bumped on a mine, or was hit by a torpedo, a sheet of flame enveloped the bridge and rendered her commander, Captain Fox, insensible. Soon he recovered consciousness and he ran instantly to the engine-room to stop the engines. But the good ship’s back was broken, and she was already settling down by the bows. At once efforts were made to place the wounded in safety, but by the time some destroyers came up the Amphion had to be abandoned.

The crew lined up in perfect discipline, everything was done without any confusion, and twenty minutes after the blow was first struck, all the men and most of the officers had left the ship. It was well they did so, for three minutes afterwards came another explosion, blowing up the whole forepart.

Discipline is one of the finest words in our language, and it is one we share with our French Allies, for although the word is pronounced a little differently in French, it is written exactly the same.

What is discipline? Discipline is composed of two human qualities which, if they appear to have very little to do with one another, are yet often allied. These qualities are obedience and courage.

The finest example of discipline in the history of the British Navy is the story of the sinking of the Birkenhead. She was a troopship and she struck on a rock. Instantly, the boats were lowered and filled with the women and children. Then, the soldiers and marines were formed up on deck, and they faced their death in perfect order as if on parade while the ship slowly sank.

The then King of Prussia, Frederick IV, was so impressed by the behaviour of the doomed crew on the Birkenhead that he caused this story of “iron discipline and perfect duty” to be read aloud at the head of every regiment in his kingdom.

Mr. Rudyard Kipling has referred to the cool courage of the marines, or “Jollies” as they are called, in a famous poem:

“To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with the firing all about,

Is none so bad when you’ve cover to ’and, and leave and liking to shout,

But to stand stock still to the Birken’ead drill is a dam tough bullet to chew;

An’ they done it, the Jollies, ’er Majesty’s Jollies, soldier and sailor, too!”

But to return to the Amphion. The story I like best is one that was told in a bluejacket’s letter to his parents:

“We were all stunned on the upper deck, surrounded with flame and smoke. Then we saw our captain come. His arms were burnt, and his hair; he spoke very nice. ‘Cheer up, men, and be brave; we shall all get saved.’ Of course that cheered up everyone. No excitement at all. The biggest part of us stripped off to swim for it, but no one left that ship until the captain gave the order to go, and, thank God, we were all saved that was alive.”

You notice that gallant Captain Fox struck first a noble note, “Be brave!” he cried; and then, as an afterthought, “We shall all get saved.”

A day or two later it was shown that the British Navy knows how to honour a brave foe. Four members of the crew of the Amphion and four of the German mine-layer’s crew died in hospital at Harwich. Each son of the sea, Briton and German, was provided with the same kind of coffin, and the same service was performed for each of the eight separately. The funerals were most reverently conducted, each coffin being hoisted on the shoulders of seamen. The dead Britons had a Union Jack for pall, the Germans the ensign of their Fatherland. They were all lowered into one grave. Volleys were fired, and the Last Post sounded.

To show you the kind of risk our sailors run without a thought of self, hearken to the amazing adventures of Stationmaster Stapleton, of Hykeham, who is a Naval Reserve man. He received his call, joined his ship, the Amphion, found himself in action, was sunk, and was rescued—all within forty-eight hours of leaving his little wayside station!

III

It was on August 28 that Sir John Jellicoe first tried his hand at the surprise game of the Germans. It was a brilliant success.

Out of the morning mist our ships crept and caught a German cruiser squadron lying in supposed safety under the guns of Heligoland. We sank the German protected cruiser Mainz and another cruiser of the same class, while a third cruiser “disappeared” in the mist, heavily on fire, and in a sinking condition. We also badly damaged some smaller craft, while our own ships got off very lightly. But we had to mourn the loss of sixty-nine men killed and wounded, including Lieut.-Commander Nigel Barttelot and Lieut. Eric Westmacott among the killed.

All the ships which took part in this action had the words “Heligoland, August 28, 1914,” painted in gold letters in a conspicuous place aboard them. But special honour was paid to the light cruiser Arethusa.

This gallant little ship showed herself worthy of her name, which is one of the most glorious in the Navy.

In recognition of the notable part she played in the fight, the Admiralty ordered the famous old song of “The Saucy Arethusa” to be engraved upon a brass plate and set up in a prominent place on board the ship. The first verse runs:

“Come all ye sailors bold,

Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould,

While English glory I unfold,

Huzza for the Arethusa!

Her men are staunch

To their favourite launch,

And when the foe shall meet our fire,

Sooner than strike we’ll all expire

On board of the Arethusa.”

The Arethusa, which flew the broad pennant of Commodore Tyrwhitt (this is the special flag always flown by commodores), was chosen for the honour of leading the attack.

At the head of a line of destroyers, which are small but very fast vessels, she sallied forth, intending to cut off the German ships and drive them into the open sea, there to fight them at leisure. But two German cruisers attacked her first at a distance of nearly two miles. This seems a long way, but naval guns can shoot much further than that. The Germans did her some damage, but she drove them off, and one of them she seriously injured.

Later on in the morning she fought two other German ships, and helped to sink the Mainz. In these actions she suffered so much that many of her guns were made useless and her speed was lessened to ten knots, which of course is very slow.

About one o’clock the gallant Arethusa was discovered in her crippled condition by two German cruisers, and they would certainly have sunk her if British ships had not come to the rescue. These ships turned the tables with a vengeance, for they chased and sank the Germans in their turn.

The Arethusa had done splendidly, all the more splendidly you will agree when you hear that she had only been commissioned a few days before. “Commissioned” means got ready for service, with crew, guns, stores, and everything necessary for going to sea. Thus, her officers and crew were new to one another and the ship was new to them, and yet they could not have fought better.

The whole Empire felt a thrill of pride in the exploit of the Arethusa. In far-off Johannesburg 2081 miners clubbed together, paying a penny each to send a telegram congratulating Commodore Tyrwhitt and his whole ship’s company on their victory.

Fighting at sea is, I think, in some ways more dreadful than fighting on land. There is the same terrible distance from the enemy, and the shells make the same fearful screaming noise in the air. But if your ship is struck a mortal blow, you seem to have less chance than you would have in land fighting, especially if your ship blows up before sinking.

But that is a landsman’s feeling. You may be sure that our gallant tars do not trouble their heads whether the danger is more or less. Indeed, this Heligoland action showed most vividly that the modern Navy is worthy of all her glorious traditions.

I must tell you about Lieut.-Commander Barttelot and his gallant little destroyer, the Liberty. She and the other destroyers did not hesitate to engage much bigger and stronger German ships, and naturally they got knocked about a bit.

After the funnel of the Liberty had been shot away, this brave officer stood on the bridge and gave his orders as quietly as if he were at a sham fight. A shell shot off one of his legs, but he seized the rails of the bridge, steadied himself, and continued giving his commands. Shortly after another shell struck the Liberty and killed him.

Not less thrilling is the story of Lieut.-Commander Frank Rose, of the destroyer Laurel, who was seriously wounded in the left leg. His men urged him to go below, but he simply shifted the weight on to the other leg and continued to issue his orders. Soon his one sound leg was struck by a shell, and down he came on the bridge, but he still declined to go below. His signalman tore off his trousers to prevent the wound from being poisoned, and to this act of thoughtful devotion Lieut.-Commander Rose probably owed his life. As at last he lay swooning on the bridge, one of his petty officers fastened a lifebelt round him.

By this time there only remained three rounds of ammunition, and it appeared as if the little Laurel could not live much longer in the fire to which she was then exposed. But she did.

The gallantry of all our seamen was indeed something to be proud of, and it was shown by fighters and non-fighters alike.

For example, the surgeon of the Arethusa, who was, as I have explained, new to the ship like the others, was a marvel of coolness. Before she was struck he busied himself in handing out ammunition to the gunners, and when the casualties began he stuck to his work of healing under fire. He hadn’t time to dress properly, so there he was, wearing red leather slippers, uniform trousers, and the coat of his pyjamas!

One officer of the Arethusa had his leg grazed by a shell which fell five or six feet behind him. He was hurled along the deck, and appeared to be much relieved when he discovered that both his legs had not been shot away. But they were badly bruised. There were no crutches on board, so one of the crew gave him a pair of broomsticks, by the aid of which he stuck to his post and hobbled round giving his orders.

This action, the Battle of the Bight as it was called, inspired many poets. To my mind by far the finest it called forth was by Mr. William Watson. In it he addresses the mighty dead of the sea service, and his last verse runs:

“Sleep on, O Drake, sleep well!

Thou hast thy heart’s desire.

Grenville, whom nought could quell,

Thou dost hand on thy fire.

And thou that had’st no peer,

Nelson! thou need’st not fear:

Thy sons and heirs are here,

Nor shall they shame their sire.”

The sea has always bred heroes. At the Battle of Trafalgar one of the French captains had both his legs shot off. He had himself placed in a barrel of bran, and went on directing his men in the hour of defeat to the end.

At the Battle of the Nile a little midshipman, only fourteen years old, named John Hindmarsh, gave the order which saved the Bellerophon. Seeing that the fire in L’Orient would spread to the Bellerophon, he got some men down and cut her cable and then had the sprit-sail set. The captain was below, having a wound dressed, and the first lieutenant was also below on duty. Hindmarsh was publicly thanked by Nelson himself.

Then it was wooden ships and sails; now it is ships of steel and complicated machinery. But the spirit of Navy men remains every whit as cool and gallant.

This first naval action off Heligoland also showed the splendid chivalry of our seamen.

When the German ships were seen to be sinking, the British commanders ordered the destroyers to cease fire. All boats were lowered to pick up survivors; but while this was being done, German destroyers and cruisers actually opened a heavy fire on the boats. Our destroyers were thus forced to retire, and one of them, the Defender, generously left her boat to the German prisoners, nearly all of whom were wounded.

Yet more. The commanding officer of Submarine E4, after covering the retreat of one of the destroyers, returned to the boats and removed the British officers and men. He might also have taken a German officer and six unwounded men prisoners, but as there were eighteen Germans very badly wounded, he humanely left the officer and unwounded men to care for them and navigate the boats which contained them. He did something else. He provided the boats with water, biscuits, and a compass, and he generously gave the officer the position and course to Heligoland. As for the officer and men of the Defender, they stripped themselves of everything but their trousers and tore up their clothes to serve as bandages for the wounded Germans.

Some days afterwards a high German official actually asserted that British seamen had fired on the Germans swimming in the water. It is from the reply which our Admiralty made to this cowardly charge that the above facts are taken. As a matter of fact, I am sorry to tell you that some of the German officers fired at their own men in the water with revolvers.

A letter written by a sailor who took part in the Heligoland action told a pretty story of his ship’s pet:

“Our dear little black lucky kitten sat under our foremost gun during the whole of the battle, and wasn’t frightened at all, only when we first started firing. But afterwards she sat and licked herself. We all kissed her afterwards!”

Sailors are known to be extremely fond of animals. The Naval Volunteers at the Crystal Palace soon acquired two pets—a kitten and a whippet. The latter always had a red, white, and blue ribbon tied to each of his legs and to his tail.

Soldiers, too, are very fond of pets. The story goes that on one occasion a sergeant appeared on his troopship with a little woolly dog. The quartermaster on duty refused to allow the animal on board. The sergeant thought awhile, and then went on shore. An hour later he came back with a cage. In it was a very queer-looking creature, which, though it had four feet, was covered with hen’s feathers. “Can’t pass that there dog on board,” said the quartermaster. “Dog?” said the sergeant. “This ain’t no dog. It’s a Maltese four-footed Bird of Paradise, and there’s no rules against taking birds on board!”

The laugh was with him, and his pet was allowed on board ship.

IV

On September 22 the Germans scored a success against us with a submarine attack. This resulted in the loss of three cruisers, the Aboukir, Hogue, and Cressy. These were all old ships, and as a matter of fact were afloat for the last time, as the Admiralty had decided to sell them for breaking up. What could not be replaced was the loss of some twelve hundred officers and men. Only about eight hundred and fifty were saved out of over two thousand.

I expect that most of you have seen a picture of a submarine, but I do not suppose that any of you know very much about this extraordinary deep-sea fighting ship, which has been well said to wear the cloak of darkness. The submarine can attack unseen with the deadly weapon of the torpedo, and she can retreat undiscovered. But she is rather slow and she is what is called blind in attack; she has to come up to the surface before she can see exactly where her enemy is. It is said that if she could get along more quickly than she does she could do a great deal more mischief. Still, when commanded and manned by cool, brave men, and when she has luck on her side, she can do quite mischief enough.

The disaster would probably not have happened if the three cruisers had had with them their usual escort of destroyers—those speedy little craft which are the terror of submarines. Unfortunately, the weather was very bad, and the destroyers were delayed. This was the opportunity for which the German submarine, commanded by Lieut.-Commander Weddingen, had long been waiting.

The cruisers were on patrol duty somewhere off the Hook of Holland. They did not see the tiny periscope of the submarine, as it emerged amid the ruffled waters. The German had nine torpedoes to fire, and she had plenty of time to choose her first victim. This was the Aboukir. Lieut.-Commander Weddingen himself thought his torpedo hit the cruiser under one of her magazines, which by exploding helped to destroy the ship. However that may be, the Aboukir soon broke up and sank, and of course her sister ships stopped and lowered boats to rescue as many as possible of the crew.

Alas! the moment the Hogue stopped she became an easy mark. The German submarine gave her two torpedoes in quick succession, and in about five minutes the Hogue had gone to the bottom and the sea was covered with men, some swimming for dear life, others clinging to tables, stools, chairs, planks, etc., which had been thrown off the ship. Not immediately, but soon afterwards, the Cressy was torpedoed and sank.

The brotherhood of the sea is very strong, and British seamen are always generous in their appreciation of an enemy’s bravery. They admired the daring of the German submarine, but they could not help being sorry for the fact that it meanly advanced under cover of a German trawler which had hoisted the Dutch flag. Further, one regrets to have to add that the trawler made no attempt to save our drowning seamen, in this forming a very great contrast to the British tars who always do their very best to rescue their drowning enemies.

But there came up two trawlers, which were really Dutch, the Flora and the Titan, and their captains and crews worked like heroes to save the lives of our men. They took many hundreds to Holland, where the British seamen were most kindly treated, being fed and clothed and sent back to England after resting. Some of our poor fellows died of the cold and exposure in the sea, and these the kindly Dutchmen buried with all honour and reverence.

The mishap was a sad blow to the nation, all the more because it was seen that the Hogue and the Cressy really met their doom owing to their efforts to save the crew of the Aboukir. But everybody drew comfort from the splendid gallantry shown by all our seamen, from the captains downwards. Yet many as were the stories of brave deeds which came to light, we may be sure that at least as many more will never be known, the eye-witnesses having all perished. I will give you a few examples of deeds which did come to light.

Do you remember the cool, brave surgeon on the Arethusa? There was one equally brave and resourceful on the Cressy. Together with four men, he was clinging to some wreckage, and he instructed his comrades to rub each other’s legs with their naked feet alternately, and so keep their blood circulating. They hung on for two or three hours, and finally all were rescued, no doubt owing to the surgeon’s clever idea.

One survivor wrote after his awful ordeal:

“The best thing I saw was the coolness of a little cadet. Not more than fourteen he looked. He drifted near me, he and a seaman clinging with their hands and elbows on the same bit of wood. I never saw anything so calm as that lad! He was talking to the seaman with him. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘we’ve got to carry on like this, and if we die we shall die game.’ And with that he begins to talk about everyday things on the sunken ship. ‘What’s the new chief engineer like?’ he says, and chats about little incidents in the mess. Only fourteen, a little light-haired boy. I hope he was saved.”

What a splendid, lion-hearted boy! Was he saved? you will ask. I cannot be sure, but I think he was.

Midshipman Cazalet of the Cressy, aged sixteen, saved no fewer than eighty-eight lives, including one of his own officers. When Mr. Cazalet saw that the Aboukir had been hit, he went out in the Cressy’s whaler and picked up twenty-five men. He took them to the picket boat of the Hogue, and went back for more. Altogether he picked up two more boatloads, and it was not till he could see no more survivors that he himself took refuge on board the Dutch trawler Titan.

A little drummer-boy of the Marines, Cecil Kneller, who was only fifteen, had a great adventure, for he kept himself afloat in the water for about four hours with the aid of an empty rum cask. And when he got back to his father, who is a railway porter living at Chatham, it was noticed that he was just as rosy-cheeked as when he went away! So he did not suffer much from his long bath.

I am sorry to tell you that Captain Johnson, of the Cressy, was not among the saved. This very gallant gentleman was last seen on the bridge of his ship, carefully tying leaden weights round a parcel, which he dropped into the sea.

Can you guess what was in that parcel? It was the secret signal-book of the ship, and it was most important that it should not fall into the hands of the enemy. If the enemy had got hold of it, then they would have been able to read the signals with which our ships talk to one another, and that might easily have led to a terrible disaster.

Captain Johnson was determined that that should not happen, and when he had cast the parcel into the sea, he went down with his ship contented, for he had done his duty.

V

Much excitement was caused by the exploits of the German cruiser Emden, which took and sank over twenty British merchantmen, and disposed of several warships. Her commander, Captain von Müller, behaved chivalrously to the crews of his prizes, treating them well while in his power, and sending them to the nearest port. This contrast with the behaviour of the Germans on land made everybody realise the brotherhood of the sea.

For the first time in any big war, the fastest ocean liners on both sides were armed with naval guns and turned into warships. I am going to tell you about a most exciting duel between two of these armed liners, which happened on September 14. Some of you may have crossed the Atlantic to America in the White Star liner Carmania, and if so you will read with all the more interest the story of her victory over the German ship Cap Trafalgar.

You will easily understand that when the Carmania was taken over by the British Navy and became H.M.S. Carmania, a good many changes were made. The comfortable quarters for passengers, the splendid state-rooms and luxurious berths, were ripped out, because fire is a great danger in a warship and anything that will burn is usually thrown overboard when she goes into action. Even as it was, a shell from the enemy did set the Carmania on fire, as we shall see.

Fights between single ships are, I think, in some ways more exciting than big battles. At any rate, it is easier to understand them. When it is a case of only two ships, we can imagine ourselves on board one of them and looking on at the struggle.

Have you ever heard how the gallant Captain Broke, of H.M.S. Shannon, engaged and defeated the American warship Chesapeake? That was when we were at war with America, just a hundred years ago. The duel took place outside New York Harbour, in sight of land, and crowds came out to see the sight. Their feelings must have been very mixed, for the Chesapeake struck her flag after a short and very violent fight. But as the Americans are a brave and generous people, they must have applauded the clever seamanship of gallant Captain Broke.

You may remember, too, the plucky fight of the little Revenge against enormous odds, and Tennyson’s noble ballad in which the story is told.

I cannot tell you why the Germans named their ship Cap Trafalgar, after the scene of Nelson’s last and greatest victory, especially as there is a splendid ship named Trafalgar in the British Navy. But it does not much matter, as the Cap Trafalgar now lies at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

The crew of the Carmania were just sitting down to their mid-day dinner when the look-out men sounded the alarm. Instantly everyone tumbled up and went to his place, and all eyes were turned on a big ship lying about five miles off, as big as the Carmania herself, and looking like a liner. In fact, the Germans, with their usual cunning, had painted her two funnels to look like a Union-Castle liner. The Cap Trafalgar was pretending to be a British ship!

The trick did her no good, however; the captain of the Carmania was not running any risks. “Give her a shot,” he cried, “but don’t hit her.” The gun-layer gave her a neat shot just across her bows, and at that instant the stranger opened fire. The Carmania replied with all her port guns, and the fight immediately became furious.

The German was beaten for two reasons. First, because he fired too high, only smashing the Carmania’s masts and rigging, whereas we put in most of our shots right on the German’s water-line. Secondly, because the Carmania was much better handled, her captain turning her so that the enemy could only fire at her endways and not sideways.

The Cap Trafalgar took fire in the forward part, but still she gallantly went on fighting. When at last she decided to try and escape, she found it was too late. Already she was sinking, and the men of the Carmania, which had by this time practically ceased firing, saw a very curious thing. They saw the enemy turn over on her side, so that they could look right down her funnels, which were level with the water. Even then the German ship did not haul down her flag. There was an explosion and her bows went under; then another explosion and the great vessel sank. All the honours of war to this brave foe!

The Cap Trafalgar made 304 holes in the Carmania, but only two of them were serious shots in the side of the ship. This was not very good shooting when you think that the Carmania is 675 feet long—longer than many a London street—and stands 60 feet out of the water, as tall as a tall house.

The most serious damage done to the Carmania was by a shell, which set her on fire under her fore-bridge, and made steering difficult. The fire spread so much that it prevented the Carmania’s men from going to the rescue of the Germans in the water. But before she sank five boats put off from the Cap Trafalgar, and I am glad to say they were all rescued by a coal-ship—two hundred and seventy-nine officers and men.

So much for this exciting little fight. The two ships were almost exactly equal in size and strength, and the British vessel won on her merits by better seamanship and better gunnery. No wonder the Navy was pleased.

VI

Now I must tell you about Lieut.-Commander Max K. Horton, of Submarine E9, and how he earned the nickname of “The Double-toothed Pirate.”

You know how terribly dangerous the submarine service is. These ships are long and narrow, shaped rather like a cigar, and they can travel a long way under the water. But they are very fragile, and their gallant crews are always ready for instant death.

The day before the Carmania sank the Cap Trafalgar, September 13, Lieut.-Commander Horton took a little trip out to the Frisian Islands in E9. He found the German light cruiser Hela and sank her with a torpedo, and got away without being seen.

The loss of the Hela herself did not matter much to the Germans, as she was nearly ten years old and not of much fighting value. But what did matter was the upset to the nerves of the Germans. This is a most valuable thing in war—to make your enemy feel “jumpy.”

It is said that E9 came back to Harwich flying a little yellow flag bearing a skull and crossbones, which, as you probably know, is the badge of the Kaiser’s favourite regiment of Brandenburg Hussars.

The next exploit of E9 was even more daring, even more certain to make the Germans “jumpy.”

Again the little ship went off to the Frisian Islands, and there she torpedoed and sank a German destroyer. If you look at the map, you will see how close these islands are to the German naval stations of Wilhelmshaven and Emden. What should we have felt if a German submarine had come up and sunk a British ship quite close to Portsmouth and Plymouth? However, the War may bring us worse surprises than that, and if it does we must bear them bravely.