Joss it is, too, when the cruiser’s 8-inch shot, that should have raked out your innards from the forward boiler to the ward-room stove, deflects miraculously, like a twig dragged through deep water, and, almost returning on its track, skips off unbursten and leaves you reprieved by the breadth of a nail from three deaths in one.  Later, a single splinter, no more, may cut your oil-supply pipes as dreadfully and completely as a broken wind-screen in a collision cuts the surprised motorist’s throat.  Then you must lie useless, fighting oil-fires while the precious fuel gutters away till you have to ask leave to escape while there are yet a few tons left.  One ship who was once bled white by such a piece of Joss, suggested it would be better that oil-pipes should be led along certain lines which she sketched.  As if that would make any difference to Joss when he wants to show what he can do!

Our sea-people, who have worked with him for a thousand wettish years, have acquired something of Joss’s large toleration and humour.  He causes ships in thick weather, or under strain, to mistake friends for enemies.  At such times, if your heart is full of highly organised hate, you strafe frightfully and efficiently till one of you perishes, and the survivor reports wonders which are duly wirelessed all over the world.  But if you worship Joss, you reflect, you put two and two together in a casual insular way, and arrive—­sometimes both parties arrive—­at instinctive conclusions which avoid trouble.

AN AFFAIR IN THE NORTH SEA

Witness this tale.  It does not concern the Jutland fight, but another little affair which took place a while ago in the North Sea.  It was understood that a certain type of cruiser of ours would not be taking part in a certain show.  Therefore, if anyone saw cruisers very like them he might blaze at them with a clear conscience, for they would be Hun-boats.  And one of our destroyers—­thick weather as usual—­spied the silhouettes of cruisers exactly like our own stealing across the haze.  Said the Commander to his Sub., with an inflection neither period, exclamation, nor interrogation-mark can render—­“That—­is—­them.”

Said the Sub. in precisely the same tone—­“That is them, sir.”  “As my Sub.,” said the Commander, “your observation is strictly in accord with the traditions of the Service.  Now, as man to man, what are they?” “We-el,” said the Sub., “since you put it that way, I’m d——­d if I’d fire.”  And they didn’t, and they were quite right.  The destroyer had been off on another job, and Joss had jammed the latest wireless orders to her at the last moment.  But Joss had also put it into the hearts of the boys to save themselves and others.

I hold no brief for the Hun, but honestly I think he has not lied as much about the Jutland fight as people believe, and that when he protests he sank a ship, he did very completely sink a ship.  I am the more confirmed in this belief by a still small voice among the Jutland reports, musing aloud over an account of an unaccountable outlying brawl witnessed by one of our destroyers.  The voice suggests that what the destroyer saw was one German ship being sunk by another.  Amen!