For a short time Jellicoe served as Gunnery-Lieutenant on the Colossus, and then he was appointed Junior Staff Officer of the Excellent gunnery establishment, under the command of Lord Fisher—then Captain.

This meeting between the two men was fortunate for the Junior Officer. Fisher at once marked down Jellicoe as useful, and so, a few years later, when he was Director of Naval Ordnance at the Admiralty, it came to pass that Jellicoe joined Fisher there as his Assistant.

It was just subsequent to this appointment when Jellicoe was, we believe, serving as first lieutenant on board the Sans Pareil, that the German Emperor during the Naval Review put in an appearance with the powerful vessels of his new and comparatively small Navy. Needless to say, both the Kaiser and his officers, together with their ships, were of the greatest interest to our men.

When the Review was over numerous were the discussions and fierce the arguments which centred around William the Second and his little fleet. Everyone present from Junior to Senior had something to say, some criticism to make.

Everyone except Lieutenant John Jellicoe. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes open, and he expressed no opinion either on the Kaiser, his officers or his ships.

Jellicoe only spent about three years at the Admiralty as Fisher’s assistant, but it was quite enough for the authorities to realize that he was an efficient and clever officer—a man who knew how to organize. Captain Fisher found his services invaluable, and as an “assistant” Jellicoe served him faithfully.

Jellicoe would probably be the first to admit that during the comparatively short time he spent at the Admiralty under Fisher he accumulated a vast amount of knowledge. A friendship sprung up between the two men, born of respect. Both were enthusiasts; both loved the Service keenly. Both were ambitious—not for themselves. Neither sought personal aggrandizement. Their ambitions were noble. It was natural that both, later on, should meet with opposition. It was inevitable that the opposition should be overcome.

A greater contrast than the two men make—the “Little Admiral” and the “Big Admiral”—it would be difficult to find. Physically, Fisher is of the bulldog breed beloved of the public. The moment he enters a room you are conscious of his presence. “Jacky” Fisher exudes vitality; it surrounds him as a perfume surrounds a pretty woman. He carries it about with him. His figure is robust; he stands with feet wide apart and firmly planted. He is very straight up and down; his face is nearly the colour of mahogany; a large mouth, almost brutal until he smiles, when it becomes a veritable cavern of humour, and aggressive eyes that nevertheless shine and almost sparkle beneath big bushy brows; his hair is silver grey; his hands are titanic and generally hang loosely by his side, suggestive, and ready for action.

Physically, the difference between the two men is the difference between a small smooth-haired terrier and one of Major Richardson’s Irish police dogs. Mentally, there is not much difference, and events have proved that both possess the same instincts.

One is the Dreadnought instinct; another, the faith that in action you must “hit quickly, hit hard, and keep on hitting.” A third instinct might be called the instinct of Silence. They have never attempted to emulate Lord Charles Beresford or Sir Edward Carson in discharging fierce literary broadsides.

Jellicoe was gazetted a Commander in 1891; after leaving the Sans Pareil he was appointed to the Victoria, then one of our largest battleships, sister ship (though of later date) to the Camperdown. It was while he was her Commander that the accident happened during manoeuvres off Tripoli, on the Syrian Coast.

This was his second marvellous escape from death; all the more remarkable since Jellicoe was on the sick list, confined to his cabin with a sharp attack of Malta fever. The ship went down twenty minutes after she was struck, and twenty-two officers and three hundred and fifty men were drowned.

This was the most terrible disaster that has happened to the British Fleet in times of peace since the Royal George foundered one night, close to shore, and disappeared beneath the waves with her entire crew, including the brave Kempenfeldt.

The Victoria was the flagship of Vice-Admiral Sir George Tryon, Commander of the Mediterranean Fleet. The ships left Beyrout early in the morning of June the 22nd, 1893; they steamed in line abreast to the Syrian Coast, when the order was given to change their formation into two columns, line ahead, with an interval of six cables. The starboard column was headed by the Victoria under Tryon, and the port column by the Camperdown under Rear-Admiral Markham.

Tryon’s flag-lieutenant was Lord Gillford, and it was he who received the fatal order to signal to the two divisions to turn sixteen points inwards, the leading ships first, the others of course following in succession.

The smallest circle in which either the Victoria or the Camperdown could turn was six hundred yards—about three cables length—and therefore if Tryon’s orders were obeyed a collision would be inevitable between the two ships.

Both Lord Gillford and the Admiral’s Staff-Commander must have realized this: every seaman on board the Fleet, when eventually the signal fluttered in the wind, knew what would happen.

The position must have been a terrible one for those on the bridge of the Camperdown, as well as the Victoria; for, not theirs to question but to obey.

But Staff-Commander Hawkins-Smith dared remind Tryon that they could not possibly turn in less than eight cables length.

Admiral Tryon agreed, but what was the Staff-Commander’s surprise a minute or two later to see the original signal “six cables length” go up. He spoke to Lord Gillford and advised him to again call Admiral Tryon’s attention to the impossibility of the manoeuvre being successfully carried out.

This Gillford did: “You said it was to be more than six cables’ length, Sir.”

“Did I? Well, leave it at six cables,” Tryon replied, and turning round he entered into conversation with Captain Bourke.

One cannot help wondering what would have happened if Jellicoe had been present, instead of confined below with fever. Presumably, he could have done no more than Gillford and Hawkins-Smith; the Victoria would have been lost just the same.

When the signal was read on the Camperdown Admiral Markham was puzzled and therefore he refrained from replying, thereby indicating that he did not understand his instructions.

The fleet steamed ahead in two columns line.

Tryon grew impatient and signalled to the Camperdown—“What are you waiting for?”

Markham had now no option but to obey. Perhaps he hoped that Admiral Tryon had some scheme for manoeuvring his own ship.

The signal was obeyed. The leading ships of the two columns turned sixteen points inwards.

The men of the Fleet watched; amazed and horrified.

A minute passed. There was still time to change the signal. Two minutes passed, three. To those waiting and watching the minutes must have seemed an eternity.

Before the fourth minute had expired the Camperdown rammed the Victoria on her starboard bow. When the great ships parted there was a big gash visible in the Victoria through which the sea poured. At once the boat began to list. But there was no panic. Jellicoe’s servant hurried below and warned the Commander that the Victoria was sinking. Jellicoe got up and went on deck. The order had already been given to pipe all hands. There was no rush or hurry. In the engine rooms the stokers remained at their posts, the artificer and engineers. It was the same in the boiler rooms.

Above, on deck, the men lined up, calm and quiet. But the Victoria was heeling over; sinking fast. Jellicoe, clad in pyjamas, had clambered on to the bridge, and accompanied by two junior officers, attempted to signal to the Camperdown.

It was too late. The Victoria lurched, turned on her side and poured her living freight into the Mediterranean. Those on the upper deck jumped or were flung into the waters. There were many still below, and as the ironclad sank they could be seen clambering through the port holes and sliding down the ship’s side. The majority were caught like rats in a trap.

Several of those who escaped from her were struck by the propellers, still racing madly. Others were sucked below when she finally sank and disappeared.

As she sank the Victoria turned right over and went down bottom upwards. Hardly had she disappeared from sight when there came a terrific explosion and a mighty mass of water was thrown high into the air.

Many of the men who had risen to the surface and were swimming about, were swept away and drowned in this waterspout.

Jellicoe, who had been flung from the bridge when the boat commenced to turn turtle, escaped the explosion—probably caused by the bursting of the boilers.

He was a sick man with a temperature over 100°. He swam as long as he could, but weakened by fever he was in danger of collapsing, when Midshipman West came to his rescue and supported him.

Very probably, but for young West, Jellicoe would have gone under. The nation owes him a debt to-day. Eventually they were both picked up by one of the boats sent from the Fleet.

The Camperdown herself was in a bad way; her bows were crumpled up, and for a little while it looked as though she would sink too, and follow her sister-ship to the bottom of the Mediterranean. But thanks to the celerity with which the water-tight doors were closed and the collision-mats got out, she was saved; the crew were kept working right through the night to keep her afloat.

There were numerous instances of courage and devotion besides that quoted of Jellicoe, who, before going on deck, went below to warn and hurry up any men he might find there. One of the boatswains continued semaphoring until he was washed off his feet. Admiral Tryon refused to try and save himself though implored to do so by his coxswain. The last words he is reported to have said were addressed to a midshipman:

“Don’t stop here, youngster; get to a boat.”

He might have got to that boat himself, but he went down with his ship.

At the court martial Captain Bourke was exonerated from all blame, and the finding of the Court was that the collision had been caused by Admiral Tryon’s order.