Belonging to the class of the first of battle-cruisers is the Inflexible, which received a few taps in the Falklands and a blow that was nearly the death of her in the Dardanelles.  Tribute enough for its courage—­ the tribute of a chivalrous enemy—­von Spee’s squadron receives from the officers and men of the Inflexible, who saw them go down into the sea tinged with sunset red with their colours still flying.  Then in the sunset red the British saved as many of those afloat as they could.

Those dripping German officers who had seen one of their battered turrets carried away bodily into the sea by a British twelve-inch shell, who had endured a fury of concussions and destruction, with steel missiles cracking steel structures into fragments, came on board the Inflexible looking for signs of some blows delivered in return for the crushing blows that had beaten their ships into the sea and saw none until they were invited into the wardroom, which was in chaos—­and then they smiled.

At least, they had sent one shell home.  The sight was sweet to them, so sweet that, in respect to the feeling of the vanquished, the victors held silence with a knightly consideration.  But where had the shell entered?  There was no sign of any hole.  Then they learned that the fire of the guns of the starboard turret midships over the wardroom, which was on the port side, had deposited a great many things on the floor which did not belong there; and their expression changed.  Even this comfort was taken from them.

“We had the range of you!” the British explained.  The chaplain of the Inflexible was bound to have an anecdote.  I don’t know why, except that a chaplain’s is not a fighting part and he may look on.  His place was down behind the armour with the doctor, waiting for wounded.  He stood in his particular steel cave listening to the tremendous blasts of her guns which shook the Inflexible’s frame, and still no wounded arrived.  Then he ran up a ladder to the deck and had a look around and saw the little points of the German ships with the shells sweeping toward them and the smoke of explosions which burst on board them.  It was not the British who needed his prayers that day, but the Germans.  Personally, I think the Germans are more in need of prayers at all times because of the damnable way they act.

Perhaps the spirit of the Inflexible’s story was best given by a midshipman with the down still on his cheek.  Considering how young the British take their officer-beginners to sea, the admirals are not young, at least, in point of sea service.  He got more out of the action than his elders; his impressions of the long cruises and the actions had the vividness of boyhood.  Down in one of the caves, doing his part as the shells were sent up to feed the thundering guns above, the whispered news of the progress of battle was passed on at intervals till, finally, the guns were silent.  Then he hurried on deck in the elation of victory, succeeded by the desire to save those whom they had fought.  It had all been so simple; so like drill.  You had only to go on shooting—­that was all.