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: THE COMMAND OF THE SEA 9

CONCLUSION 307

IN COLOUR Page

UNIFORMS OF THE BRITISH NAVY: Midshipman, Admiral, Flag-Lieutenant, Secretary 96

UNIFORMS OF THE BRITISH NAVY: A.B. , 1st Class Petty Officer, Stoker 188

IN BLACK-AND-WHITE

H.M.S. "DREADNOUGHT" FIRING A BROADSIDE OF 12-INCH GUNS 10

LEARNING TO FIGHT ZEPPELINS 16

A WAR-GALLEY IN THE DAYS OF KING ALFRED 36

THE "GREAT HARRY", THE FIRST BIG BATTLESHIP OF THE BRITISH NAVY 70

A SEA-FIGHT IN TUDOR TIMES 78

DESTROYING A STRAGGLER FROM THE ARMADA 82

LORD HOWARD ATTACKING A SHIP OF THE SPANISH ARMADA 84

THE "ROYAL GEORGE" ENGAGING THE "SOLEIL ROYAL" IN QUIBERON BAY, 1759 90

THE "VICTORY" IN GALA DRESS 92

"THE GLORIOUS 1ST OF JUNE", 1794 94

THE RELEASE OF CHRISTIAN PRISONERS AT ALGIERS 108

THE FIGHT BETWEEN A MERCHANTMAN AND A TURKISH PIRATE 112

TEACHING THE SPANIARD "THE HONOUR OF THE FLAG" 118

THE BATTLE OF THE NORE, JUNE, 1653, BETWEEN THE ENGLISH AND DUTCH 122

THE "DULLE GRIETE" AT GHENT 130

THE MAIN GUN DECK ON H.M.S. "VICTORY" 140

NAVAL GUNNERY IN THE OLD DAYS 142

H.M.S. "WARRIOR", OUR FIRST SEA-GOING IRONCLAD BATTLESHIP 154

A MONSTER GUN WHICH IS NOW OBSOLETE 162

A FLEET OF SUBMARINES IN PORTSMOUTH HARBOUR 176

ENGLISH BLUEJACKETS AT THE DEFENCE OF ACRE 192

THE NAVAL BRIGADE IN THE BATTLE OF EL-TEB 200

DECK OF A "DREADNOUGHT" CLEARED FOR ACTION 206

THE BRITISH SUBMARINE "E2" 216

THE 13.5-INCH GUN: SOME IDEA OF ITS LENGTH 238

THE SINKING OF THE GERMAN CRUISER "MAINZ" 248

"MISSED!"; THE HELM THE BEST WEAPON AGAINST TORPEDOES 258

THE BRITISH AIR RAID ON CUXHAVEN: DRAWING BY JOHN DE G. BRYAN 302

THE BRITISH AIR RAID ON CUXHAVEN: SEA-PLANE FLOWN BY FLIGHT-COMMANDER R. ROSS 304

BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED.

THE BRITISH NAVY BOOK

The Command of the Seas

"It may truly be said that the Command of the Sea is an Abridgement or a Quintessence of an Universal Monarchy."

SIR FRANCIS BACON.

It is a grey morning out on the North Sea, with but little wind. There is no swell, but considerable movement on the surface of the waters, with here and there an occasional tossing of the white manes of the sea-horses. Swimming majestically through the sea comes one of our monster slate-grey battle-cruisers. She is "stripped to a gantline", and in complete and instant readiness for action. The red cross of St. George flutters bravely at her fore-topmast head, for she is the flagship of the squadron of three or four towering grey ships that are following in her wake. Aft flies the well-known White Ensign, the "meteor flag of England" blazing in the corner. Far away on either bow, but dimly discernible on the wide horizon, are the shadows of other smaller ships, the light cruisers, which are moving ahead and on the flanks of the squadron like cavalry covering the advance of an army. On board is an almost Sabbath-day stillness, save for the wash of the sea, the dull steady whirr of the giant turbines far down below the armour deck, the periodical clang of the ship's bell, marking the flight of time. Now and again comes a whiff of cooking from the galley. As the day advances the light grows stronger; gleams of sunshine send the purple shadows of masts and rigging dancing fitfully over the wide deck, which is practically deserted. There is the marine sentry over the life-buoy aft, look-outs aloft and at various corners of the superstructures, and the figures of the officer of the watch, signalmen and others are seen in movement up in the triangular platform dignified by the name of the "fore-bridge". Who would imagine that there are seven or eight hundred souls on board, seamen, marines, stokers, and many other ratings of whose existence and duties the "man in the street" is profoundly ignorant?

But look inside this massive gun-hood, from which protrude forty feet of two sleek grey monster cannon, each of which is capable of hurling 850 pounds of steel and high explosive a distance of a dozen miles. Grouped round their guns in various attitudes are the bluejackets forming their crews. They are tanned and weather-beaten fellows, but there is a strained and tired look about their eyes. Here in the confined spaces of their turret they have eaten, slept, and whiled away the watches as best they might for many, many hours. They have not had the discomforts of their khaki-clad brethren in their sodden trenches, nor listened to the constant hiss of hostile bullets and the howl and crash of "Jack Johnsons" at unexpected moments. But if they have been immune from these constant and manifest dangers, they have had none of their excitements. They have had the temptation to boredom, and the less exciting but always present peril of the dastardly German system of mine-laying in the open sea. Some are writing letters to chums, to sweethearts, and to wives. Others are killing time with the light literature that has been sent to the ship in bundles by the many friends of the fleet on shore. In one corner is a midshipman writing up his "log", and beside him sits the lieutenant in charge of the turret reading for the fourth time a much-folded letter he has taken from an inner pocket.

Look into the next turret and you will see a similar scene, the only difference being that in this case the guns' crews and their officer are marines, wearing red-striped trousers and "Brodrick" caps--the latter not unlike those of the seamen, but with the corps badge in brass on a semicircular scarlet patch in front, instead of a ribband with the ship's name. In the casemates housing the smaller guns in the superstructures and on the deck below are similar though smaller groups. All are waiting--waiting.

We wend our way below. The clerks and writers are working in their offices, the cooks are busy at their galleys. Men must eat and accounts must be kept though the ship should be blown out of existence in the next ten minutes. We enter a narrow lift and are shot down to the lower regions, where the sweating stokers handle rake and shovel, the artificers and engine-room staff ply oil-can and spanner, and the engineer officers study gauges and dials of all sorts and kinds. There is more life down here than up above. Work is going on that needs constant watching and attention. On our return journey to "the upper air" we glance in at the wireless room. As we do so comes the loud crackle of the electric spark. The operator is acknowledging a signal. A message has come in from a scouting cruiser. "The enemy are out. Five big cruisers, heading north-west." Another Scarborough Raid perhaps.

The ship wakes up, she is alive. The engine-room gongs clang down in her depths. A few signal flags flutter aloft. The admiral is signalling to his squadron to alter course to head off the enemy, and to increase speed by so many revolutions. The big ship gathers way. Her consorts follow in the curve of her foaming wake, and with every big gun trained forward the lithe grey leviathans tear over the watery plain in search of their quarry.

An hour passes. Nothing is seen but the scouting cruisers and a minute speck in the remote spaces of the sky, which someone thinks is a sea-plane, but which may well be a grey gull in the middle distance. Presently, however, a growing darkness along the north-eastern horizon becomes recognizable as smoke--the smoke of many furnaces. Against its growing blackness one of our distant light cruisers shows for a moment as a white ship. Black smoke is pouring from her funnels also, and amidst it all is a sudden violet-white flash.

After an age comes the dull "thud" of her cannon. Now she turns away to port. There are more vivid flashes and the "thudding" of her guns grows continuous. Soon answering flashes sparkle from amidst the smoke-pall on the horizon, and first one then another nebulous outline of a warship disintegrates itseler hors de son pays. Stheir sides also, and the noise of the firing swells into a steady roll of sound rising and falling on the wind. We again increase speed. Black smoke billows from our funnels, the bow wave rises higher, and now and again a cloud of spray swishes over our decks. Then "Cra--ash!" The fore-turret has spoken. The ship trembles from stem to stern. We are striking in to the assistance of our scouting cruiser. Through the glasses appears what looks like an iceberg towering over the enemy's nearest cruiser. We've missed her.

But the spotting officer is busy in the control-platform aloft, passing down corrections for transmission to the various gun-stations, and when a second explosion roars from the starboard turret, the enemy's cruiser, after disappearing for some seconds in a black and inky cloud of smoke, bursts into flames. Her consort and our scouting vessel draw farther and farther away to the northward, fighting fiercely. We continue driving through the tumbling waters, till, with a slight freshening of the wind, the black smoke we are approaching thins off into nothingness, and we see far down on the horizon four or five separate columns of smoke. With a good glass we can distinguish masts and funnels as if lightly sketched in pencil. They have sighted us at the same time, and seem to melt together into one indistinct mass. They are altering course, turning their backs to us and heading for the east.

The engine-room gongs clang again, more revolutions are demanded and are forthcoming, and our four big battle-cruisers rush in pursuit with renewed energy. A distant humming sound increases quickly to a loud hissing and roaring--a noise which may be compared to that of a monster engine letting off steam--and an enormous projectile, passing well over our heads, plunges into the sea on the starboard beam of our following ship, the splash rising as high as the mastheads. Others follow fast. The rearmost ship loses her mainmast, and now the enemy's gunners reduce their elevation and slap their big shells into the sea just ahead of us.

Our own guns are not idle. One after another gives tongue with a volume of noise and a concussion that no words can describe. The pen is powerless to bring before the imagination such a cataclysm of sound. On a sudden, amidst the crashing of the guns and the continuous dull booming of the enemy's in the distance, there is a different and a rending explosion somewhere forward. We have at last been hit. Down on the forecastle all is smoke, blackness, torn iron plates and girders. From the midst of the chaos comes the shriek of a man calling on his Maker, and piteous groanings. Soon the dull red of fire blushes through the smoke, and a rush of bluejackets and marines with fire-hoses spouting white streams of water engages this dread enemy and succeeds in subduing it.

Stretcher-men appear on the scene and remove the wounded, but there is more than one serge-clad figure that lies heedless of fire or water, friend or foe. These are they who have fought their last fight and have laid down their lives and all that they had for their country.

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