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THAT BLINKIN' CAT

(Late of H.M.S. Maidstone.)

 
IN the Diving-room, where the
O.O.D.⁶ his weary vigil keeps,
Battered and scarred with years of strife behind the door she sleeps,
Fighting her battles o'er again as ancient warriors may,
With bristling fur as she dreams anew of many a noble fray.
Savage and Silent,
Swift in the onslaught
As the great eagle
Stoops to the victim;
Guard of the Gangway,
Dreadful – prolific,
Mother of hundreds,
Terrier-Strafer,
Messenger-biter.
Hail to the guard of the Maidstone's Gangway – Skoal!
 
 
Sing of the day the air was full of words like "Alabaster,"
When she ate a piece of the Corporal's hand and bit the Quartermaster;
The day she fought with an Airedale dog and drove him back to shore —
For the sake of her sixty little ones, she fought – and had some more.
Faithful and loyal,
Guard of the Gangway,
Turning the dogs back —
Yelping and howling.
Biting her masters —
Corporals – any one
Fiercely domestic,
Easily queen of —
Pugnacious obstetrics —
Motherly War.
Hail to the terror and pride of the Maidstone– Skoal!!
 
 
Sing of the day she won the fray with a new "Pandora" dog,
And the Quartermaster shone with pride as he entered in the log:
"At 10 P.M. we dowsed our pipes and drew the Nettle's fires,
At 10.15 six births aboard – that blinkin' cat of ours!"
 

1797

 
OUR brothers of the landward side
Are bound by Church and stall,
By Councils Œcumenical,
By Gothic arches tall;
But we who know the cold grey sea,
The salt and flying spray,
We praise the Lord in our fathers' way,
In the simple faith of the sea we pray,
To the God that the winds and waves obey
Who sailed on Galilee.
We pray as the Flag-Lieutenant prayed,
At St Vincent's cabin door
(Twenty sail of the line in view —
South-West by South they bore):
"O Lord of Hosts, I praise Thee now,
And bow before Thy might,
Who has given us fingers and hands to fight,
And twenty ships of the line in sight;
Thou knewest, O Lord, and placed them right —
To leeward, on the bow."
 

AFTER THE WAR

 
THAT far-off day when Peace is signed (and all the papers say —
"A most important by-election starts at Kew to-day;
We urge our readers one and all to loyally support
The Independent Candidate – Count Katzenjammerdordt")
Will change a lot of little things – perhaps we'll get some leave,
And hear a yarn of extra pay, which no one will believe;
The salvage ships will hurry out, two thousand wrecks to find,
The monuments to Kultur that the Huns have left behind.
We'll watch the sweepers put to sea ten million mines to seek,
And – Patrol Flotilla Exercise will start within a week;
Someone Big will say to Someone: "Time for work and time for play,
(Rub his hands together briskly) We'll commence the work to-day;
They have had their fun and fighting, and they must be getting slack,
Stop all leave and start manœuvres – for the good old times are back."
Then destroyers and torpedo-boats and submarines and oilers
Will receive a little notice headed "Maintenance of Boilers,"
"To economise in fuel while the ships are out at sea
Each pound of steam will count as two, and every knot as three."
We'll have the old manœuvre Rules to show us what to do.
"I rose within two thousand yards and have torpedoed you,"
My counter-claim is obvious – to port you must retire,"
"I sank you with a Maxim gun just as you rose to fire."
Ships will carry navigation lights – "Precautionary Measure,"
"An infringement of this solemn rule incurs My Lords' Displeasure."
Yes, the after-war manœuvres will be fearful to behold,
Not been held since nineteen – ("half a minute, surely you've been told"),
Hush, you'll get me into trouble ("it was eighteen months ago —
And the whole Grand Fleet was in it – I was there, I ought to know:
Red Fleet to start from Helgoland and Blue from Udsire Light,
To meet in sixty-twenty North and have a morning fight.
No ship should cross a line between the Jahde and Amrum Bank,
But should a German flag be seen (unless of junior rank),
No captain can do very wrong who indicates by guns —
We won't have our manœuvres spoilt by interfering Huns.
Perhaps the wording isn't right, perhaps it isn't true,
But we've got to have manœuvres when there's nothing else to do.")
And when the Censor fades away and leaves the presses clear
For all the "Truths about the War," by "One who has no fear,"
And all the "Contract Scandals," by "A Clerk behind the Door,"
The book I want to see in print is "Humours of the War,"
Though I fear the other Censor (Morals, Cinemas, and Vice)
Would expurgate the best of them as being hardly nice;
Still, even with the cream suppressed a volume could be filled
With the epigrams of killing and the jokes of being killed,
With a preface by the officer we rescued from the wave,
When a cloud of steam and lyddite smoke lay o'er the "Bluecher's" grave,
Who, as the bowmen fished him out and passed him aft to dry,
Read the name upon their ribbons with a twinkle in his eye,
And said: "A Westo ship, I think – I guess my luck is in,
I'm sick of German substitutes – now for some Plymouth gin."
And a picture of the sailor in a certain submarine,
Which was diving through the waters where the sweepers hadn't been,
And who heard a muffled bumping noise that passed along the side —
A noise that many men have heard an instant ere they died;
And broke the silence following the last appalling thud
With "Good old ruddy Kaiser! there's another bloomin' dud!"
There's a story too of Jutland, or perhaps another show,
When the cruisers and destroyers had a meeting with the foe;
And as the range was closing, and they waited for the word,
From a sailor at an after-gun the following was heard:
"It isn't that that turns me up – 'e's not the only one" —
But then the roar of ranging guns – the action had begun —
And for twenty awful minutes there was undiluted hell,
With flame and steam and cordite smoke and high-explosive shell.
Then as the bugle-call rang out, the savage fire to check,
The loading numbers wiped their brows and looked around the deck:
"As I was saying," came the voice, "before this row began,
I think 'e should 've married 'er – if 'e'd bin 'alf a man."
 

LOW VISIBILITY

 
We sailed from the sand-isles,
In Sea Hawk and Dragon,
Over the White Water,
War-ready all of us.
Soon came the sea-mist,
Soft was the wind then,
Lay there the long-ships,
Lifting and falling.
Then cried the Captain:
"Cold is the sea-fog,
Weary is waiting-time,
Wet are the byrnies;
Burnish the breastplates,
Broadswords and axes!
Hand we the horns round,
Hail to the Dragon!"
 
 
OUR gentle pirate ancestors from off the Frisian Isles
Kept station where we now patrol so many weary miles:
There were no International Laws of Hall or Halleck then,
They only knew the simple rule of "Death to beaten men."
And what they judged a lawful prize was any sail they saw
From Scarboro' to the sandy isles along the Saxon shore.
We differ from our ancestors' conception of a prize,
And we cruise about like Agag 'neath Sir Samuel Evans' eyes;
But on one eternal subject we would certainly agree:
It's seldom you can see a mile across the Northern sea,
For as the misty clouds came down and settled wet and cold,
The sodden halliards creaked and strained as to the swell they rolled.
Each yellow-bearded pirate knew beyond the veil of white
The prize of all the prizes must be passing out of sight;
And drearily they waited while metheglin in a skin
Was passed along the benches, and the oars came sliding in;
Then scramasax and battleaxe were polished up anew,
And they waited for the fog to lift, the same as me and you;
Though we're waiting on the bottom at the twenty fathom line,
We are burnishing torpedoes to a Sunday morning shine.
The sailor pauses as he quaffs his tot of Navy rum,
And listens to a noise that drowns the circulator's hum:
"D'y 'ear those blank propellers, Bill —the blinking female dog—
That's Tirpitz in the 'Indenburg gone past us in the fog!"
 

HANG ON

 
TWO o' the morn, and a rising sea, I'd like to ease to slow,
But we're off on a stunt and pressed for time, so I reckon it's Eastward Ho!
So pick up your skirts and hustle along, old woman, you've got to go —
Look-out, you fool. Hang on!
 
 
Up she comes on a big grey sea and winks at the misty moon,
Then down the hill like a falling lift, we're due for a beauty soon;
And here it comes – she'll be much too late – yes, damn it, she's out of tune —
Look-out, you fool. Hang on!
 
 
You can feel her shake from stem to stern with the crash of her plunging bow,
And quiver anew to the thrusting screw, and the booming engines' row;
Then rah-rah-rah on a rising note – my oath, they're racing now —
Look-out, you fool. Hang on!
 
 
The streaky water rushes by as the crest of the sea goes past,
And you see her hull from the hydroplanes to the heel of her wireless mast
Stand out and hang as she leaps the trough to dive at the next one – Blast – !
Look-out, you fool. Hang on!
 
 
In the hollow between she stops for breath, then starts her climb anew —
"I can see your guns and wireless mast, old girl, but I can't see you,
And you'd better be quick and lift again – she won't, she's diving through" —
Look-out, you fool. Hang on!
 
 
The Lord be thanked, it's my relief – Cheer up, old sport, it's clean;
No, just enough to wash your face – you could hardly call it green;
A jolly good sea-boat this one is, at least, for a submarine —
Look-out, you fool. Hang on!