Time passed, and the winds and waters of the North Sea dealt all too rudely with the fair freshness of her exterior; she grew worn and weather-stained, and it was apparent even to the casual eye of a landsman that she had left her girlhood behind her out on the Nor’-East Rough.  Some of the younger trawlers would jeeringly refer to her behind her back as “Auntie,” and affected to regard her as an antediluvian old dowager, which of course was mainly due to jealousy.  But she still pegged away at her work, bringing in from the Dogger week by week her cargoes of fish, regardless alike of the ravages of time and the jibes of her upstart rivals.  As long as her owners were satisfied she was happy, for she cherished first and last a sense of duty, as all good ships do.

And then suddenly came the War, infesting the seas with unaccustomed and nerve-racking dangers.  I must apologise for mentioning this, as everybody knows that we ought now to forget about the War as quickly as possible and get on with more important matters, but at the time it had a certain effect upon us all, not excluding the King George.  Scorning the menaces that lurked about her path she carried on the pursuit of the cod and haddock in her old undemonstrative fashion, for she was a British ship from stem to stern and conscious of the tradition behind her.

Then one day they hauled her up in dock, gave her a six-pounder astern, fitted her with wireless and sent her out to take care of her unarmed sisters on the fishing-grounds.  She flew the White Ensign.

These were the proudest days of her life:  she was helping to keep the seas.  It is true the big ships of the Fleet might laugh at her in a good-natured way and pass uncomplimentary remarks about her personal appearance, but they had to acknowledge her seamanship and her pluck.  She could buffet her way through weather that no destroyer dare face, and mines had no terrors for her, for even if she were to bump a tin-fish it only meant one old trawler the less, and the Navy could afford it.

It was during these days, too, that she became known, though not by name, to readers of Punch, for her adventures and those of her crew were often chronicled in his tales of the “Auxiliary Patrol.”  And when she had seen the War through she said Good-bye to his pages and made ready to return again to the ways of peace.  She was quite satisfied; she never thought of giving up her job, though she was now a very old ship, and it would have been no shame to her.  She just took a fresh coat of paint and steamed away to the Dogger Bank once more.

* * * * *

The other day a small paragraph appeared in some of the newspapers that were not too busy discussing the possibilities of another railway strike:  “The Grimsby trawler King George,” it said, “is reported long over-due from the fishing-grounds, and the owners say that there is no hope of her return.”  No one would notice this, because the first round of the English Cup was to be played that week, and besides it was not as though it were a battleship or a big liner that had gone down.  It was just the old King George.