After a turn in the trenches the soldiers can at least stretch their legs in billets.  A certain number of a ship’s company now and then get a tramp on shore; not real leave, but a personally conducted outing not far from the boats which will hurry them back to their stations on signal.  However, all that one needs to keep well is fresh air and exercise.  The blowers carry fresh air to every part of the ship; the breezes which sweep the deck from the North Sea are fresh enough in summer and a little too fresh in winter.  There is exercise in the regular drills, supplemented by setting-up exercises.  The food is good and no man drinks or eats what he ought not to, as he may on shore.  So there is the fact and the reason for the fact:  the health of the men, as well as their conduct, had never been so good.

“Perhaps we are not quite so clean as we were before the war,” said an officer.  “We wash decks only twice a week instead of every day.  This means that quarters are not so moist, and the men have more freedom of movement.  We want them to have as much freedom as possible.”

Waiting, waiting, in such confinement for thirteen months; waiting for battle!  Think of the strain of it!  The British temperament is well fitted to undergo such a test, and particularly well fitted are these sturdy seamen of mature years.  An enemy may imagine them wearing down their efficiency on the leash.  They want a fight; naturally, they want nothing quite so much.  But they have the seaman’s philosophy.  Old von Tirpitz may come out and he may not.  It is for him to do the worrying.  They sit tight.  The men’s ardour is not imposed upon.  Care is taken that they should not be worked stale; for the marksman who puts a dozen shots through the bull’s-eye had better not keep on firing, lest he begin rimming it and get into bad habits.

Where an army officer has a change when he leaves the trench for his billet, there is none for the naval officer, who, unlike the army officer, is Spartan-bred to confinement.  The army pays its daily toll of casualties; it lies cramped in dug-outs, not knowing what minute extinction may come.  The Grand Fleet has its usual comforts; it is safe from submarines in a quiet harbour.  Many naval officers spoke of this contrast with deep feeling, as if fate were playing favourites, though I have never heard an army officer mention it.

The army can give each day fresh proof of its courage in face of the enemy.  Courage!  It takes on a new meaning with the Grand Fleet.  The individual element of gallantry merges into gallantry of the whole.  You have the very communism of courage.  The thought is to keep a cool head and do your part as a cog in the vast machine.  Courage is as much taken for granted as the breath of life.  Thus, Cradock’s men fought till they went down.  It was according to the programme laid out for each turret and each gun in a turret.

Smith, of the army, leads a bomb-throwing party from traverse to traverse; Smith, of the navy, turns one lever at the right second.  Army gunners are improving their practice day by day against the enemy; all the improving by navy gunners must be done before the battle.  No sieges in trenches; no attacks and counter-attacks:  a decision within a few hours—­perhaps within an hour.