The Senior Service does not gush.  There are certain formulae appropriate to every occasion.  One of our destroyers, who was knocked out early in the day and lay helpless, was sighted by several of her companions.  One of them reported her to the authorities, but, being busy at the time, said he did not think himself justified in hampering himself with a disabled ship in the middle of an action.  It was not as if she was sinking either.  She was only holed foreward and aft, with a bad hit in the engine-room, and her steering-gear knocked out.  In this posture she cheered the passing ships, and set about repairing her hurts with good heart and a smiling countenance.  She managed to get under some sort of way at midnight, and next day was taken in tow by a friend.  She says officially, “his assistance was invaluable, as I had no oil left and met heavy weather.”

What actually happened was much less formal.  Fleet destroyers, as a rule, do not worry about navigation.  They take their orders from the flagship, and range out and return, on signal, like sheep-dogs whose fixed point is their shepherd.  Consequently, when they break loose on their own they may fetch up rather doubtful of their whereabouts—­as this injured one did.  After she had been so kindly taken in tow, she inquired of her friend ("Message captain to captain")—­“Have you any notion where we are?” The friend replied, “I have not, but I will find out.”  So the friend waited on the sun with the necessary implements, which luckily had not been smashed, and in due time made:  “Our observed position at this hour is thus and thus.”  The tow, irreverently, “Is it?  Didn’t know you were a navigator.”  The friend, with hauteur, “Yes; it’s rather a hobby of mine.”  The tow, “Had no idea it was as bad as all that; but I’m afraid I’ll have to trust you this time.  Go ahead, and be quick about it.”  They reached a port, correctly enough, but to this hour the tow, having studied with the friend at a place called Dartmouth, insists that it was pure Joss.

CONCERNING JOSS

And Joss, which is luck, fortune, destiny, the irony of Fate or Nemesis, is the greatest of all the Battle-gods that move on the waters.  As I will show you later, knowledge of gunnery and a delicate instinct for what is in the enemy’s minds may enable a destroyer to thread her way, slowing, speeding, and twisting between the heavy salvoes of opposing fleets.  As the dank-smelling waterspouts rise and break, she judges where the next grove of them will sprout.  If her judgment is correct, she may enter it in her report as a little feather in her cap.  But it is Joss when the stray 12-inch shell, hurled by a giant at some giant ten miles away, falls on her from Heaven and wipes out her and her profound calculations.  This was seen to happen to a Hun destroyer in mid-attack.  While she was being laboriously dealt with by a 4-inch gun something immense took her, and—­she was not.