The British Navy Book. Field Cyril

The "Dulle Griete" at Ghent 130 The Main Gun Deck on H.M.S. "Victory" 140 Naval Gunnery in the Old Days 142 13.5-inch Guns on H.M.S. "Conqueror" 144 H.M.S. "Warrior", our First Sea-going Ironclad Battleship 154 A Monster Gun which is now Obsolete 162 A Fleet of Submarines in Portsmouth Harbour 176 English Bluejackets at the Defence of Acre 192 The Naval Brigade in the Battle of El-Teb 200 Our Seamen Gunners with a Maxim 202 Deck of a "Dreadnought" Cleared for Action 206 The British Submarine "E2" 216 The 13.5-inch Gun: Some Idea of its Length 238 6-inch Gun Drill: The Breech Open 240 The Sinking of the German Cruiser "Mainz" 248 "Missed!"; the Helm the Best Weapon against Torpedoes 258 The British Air Raid on Cuxhaven: Drawing by John de G. Bryan 302 The British Air Raid on Cuxhaven: Sea-plane flown by Flight-Commander R. Ross 304

      Publishers' Note

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      Just as this book was about to go to press an Admiralty Order was issued forbidding the publication of any text or illustrations likely to prove of service to the enemy. Proofs of The British Navy Book were submitted to the Admiralty, with the result that the book has been approved. Acting in accordance with instructions from the Lords Commissioners, we have substituted other illustrations for those more recent ships previously chosen to represent the Great War by sea.

      BLACKIE & SON, Limited.

THE BRITISH NAVY BOOK

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PROLOGUE

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      The Command of the Seas

      (A.D. 1915)

      "It may truly be said that the Command of the Sea is an Abridgement or a Quintessence of an Universal Monarchy."

      Sir Francis Bacon.

It is a grey morning out on the North Sea, with but little wind. There is no swell, but considerable movement on the surface of the waters, with here and there an occasional tossing of the white manes of the sea-horses. Swimming majestically through the sea comes one of our monster slate-grey battle-cruisers. She is "stripped to a gantline", and in complete and instant readiness for action. The red cross of St. George flutters bravely at her fore-topmast head, for she is the flagship of the squadron of three or four towering grey ships that are following in her wake. Aft flies the well-known White Ensign, the "meteor flag of England" blazing in the corner. Far away on either bow, but dimly discernible on the wide horizon, are the shadows of other smaller ships, the light cruisers, which are moving ahead and on the flanks of the squadron like cavalry covering the advance of an army. On board is an almost Sabbath-day stillness, save for the wash of the sea, the dull steady whirr of the giant turbines far down below the armour deck, the periodical clang of the ship's bell, marking the flight of time. Now and again comes a whiff of cooking from the galley. As the day advances the light grows stronger; gleams of sunshine send the purple shadows of masts and rigging dancing fitfully over the wide deck, which is practically deserted. There is the marine sentry over the life-buoy aft, look-outs aloft and at various corners of the superstructures, and the figures of the officer of the watch, signalmen and others are seen in movement up in the triangular platform dignified by the name of the "fore-bridge". Who would imagine that there are seven or eight hundred souls on board, seamen, marines, stokers, and many other ratings of whose existence and duties the "man in the street" is profoundly ignorant?

      Photo. Cribb, Southsea

       H.M.S. DREADNOUGHT FIRING A BROADSIDE OF 12-INCH GUNS

      But look inside this massive gun-hood, from which protrude forty feet of two sleek grey monster cannon, each of which is capable of hurling 850 pounds of steel and high explosive a distance of a dozen miles. Grouped round their guns in various attitudes are the bluejackets forming their crews. They are tanned and weather-beaten fellows, but there is a strained and tired look about their eyes. Here in the confined spaces of their turret they have eaten, slept, and whiled away the watches as best they might for many, many hours. They have not had the discomforts of their khaki-clad brethren in their sodden trenches, nor listened to the constant hiss of hostile bullets and the howl and crash of "Jack Johnsons" at unexpected moments. But if they have been immune from these constant and manifest dangers, they have had none of their excitements. They have had the temptation to boredom, and the less exciting but always present peril of the dastardly German system of mine-laying in the open sea. Some are writing letters to chums, to sweethearts, and to wives. Others are killing time with the light literature that has been sent to the ship in bundles by the many friends of the fleet on shore. In one corner is a midshipman writing up his "log", and beside him sits the lieutenant in charge of the turret reading for the fourth time a much-folded letter he has taken from an inner pocket.

      Look into the next turret and you will see a similar scene, the only difference being that in this case the guns' crews and their officer are marines, wearing red-striped trousers and "Brodrick" caps—the latter not unlike those of the seamen, but with the corps badge in brass on a semicircular scarlet patch in front, instead of a ribband with the ship's name. In the casemates housing the smaller guns in the superstructures and on the deck below are similar though smaller groups. All are waiting—waiting.

      We