Our destroyers saw a good deal that night on the face of the waters.  Some of them who were working in “areas of comparative calm” submit charts of their tangled courses, all studded with notes along the zigzag—­something like this:—­

8 P.M.—­Heard explosion to the N.W. (A neat arrow-head points that way.) Half an inch farther along, a short change of course, and the word Hit explains the meaning of—­“Sighted enemy cruiser engaged with destroyers.” Another twist follows. “9.30 P.M.—­Passed wreckage.  Engaged enemy destroyers port beam opposite courses.” A long straight line without incident, then a tangle, and—­Picked up survivors So-and-So.  A stretch over to some ship that they were transferred to, a fresh departure, and another brush with “Single destroyer on parallel course.  Hit. 0.7 A.M.—­Passed bows enemy cruiser sticking up. 0.18.—­Joined flotilla for attack on battleship squadron.” So it runs on—­one little ship in a few short hours passing through more wonders of peril and accident than all the old fleets ever dreamed.

A “CHILD’S” LETTER

In years to come naval experts will collate all those diagrams, and furiously argue over them.  A lot of the destroyer work was inevitably as mixed as bombing down a trench, as the scuffle of a polo match, or as the hot heaving heart of a football scrum.  It is difficult to realise when one considers the size of the sea, that it is that very size and absence of boundary which helps the confusion.  To give an idea, here is a letter (it has been quoted before, I believe, but it is good enough to repeat many times), from a nineteen-year-old child to his friend aged seventeen (and minus one leg), in a hospital: 

“I’m so awfully sorry you weren’t in it.  It was rather terrible, but a wonderful experience, and I wouldn’t have missed it for anything, but, by Jove, it isn’t a thing one wants to make a habit of.

“I must say it is very different from what I expected.  I expected to be excited, but was not a bit.  It’s hard to express what we did feel like, but you know the sort of feeling one has when one goes in to bat at cricket, and rather a lot depends upon your doing well, and you are waiting for the first ball.  Well, it’s very much the same as that.  Do you know what I mean?  A sort of tense feeling, not quite knowing what to expect.  One does not feel the slightest bit frightened, and the idea that there’s a chance of you and your ship being scuppered does not enter one’s head.  There are too many other things to think about.”

Follows the usual “No ship like our ship” talkee, and a note of where she was at the time.