Independence of character is a great asset in any leader of men, but it is an essential, basic virtue when a man finds himself in command of a ship: without such an attribute he is dominated either by his officers, his own emotions, or the vagaries of chance. In the case of a Q-ship captain, this aloofness was raised to a greater degree of importance by reason of the special nature of the work. Can you think of any situation more solitary and lonely than this? There are, of course, all kinds and conditions of loneliness. There is the loneliness of the airman gliding through celestial heights; there is the loneliness of the man in the crowd; there is the loneliness of the sentry, of the hermit, of the administrator in the desert. But I can conceive of nothing so solitary as the Q-ship captain lying alone on the planking of his bridge, patiently waiting and watching through a slit in the canvas the manoeuvres of an artful U-boat.

Such a figure is morally and physically alone. He is the great brain of the ship; at his word she is transformed from a tramp to a warship. It is he who has to take the fateful, and perhaps fatal, decision; and to none other can he depute this responsibility as long as life lasts. Only a big character, strong and independent, can tackle such a proposition. Alone, too, he is physically. Most of his men have left the ship and are over there in the boats, sometimes visible on the top of the wave, sometimes obliterated in the trough. The rest of his crew are somewhere below the bridge, under the bulwarks, at their guns, crouching out of sight. His officers are at their respective stations, forward, aft, and amidships, connected to him by speaking-tubes, but otherwise apart. He himself, arbiter of his own fate, his men, and his ship, has to fight against a dozen contending impulses, and refuse to be panic-stricken, hasty, or impetuous. This much is expected of him; his crew are relying on him blindly, absolutely. However, by long years of experience and moulding of character he has learnt the power of concentration and of omitting from his imagination the awful possibilities of failure. Before putting to sea, and whilst on patrol, he has envisaged every conceivable circumstance and condition likely to occur. He has mentally allowed for every move of the submarine, for the wounding of his own ship: and he has had the ship’s action stations thus worked out. Accidents will, of course, occur to spoil any routine, though some of these, such as the breakdown of the wireless and the bursting of a gun, or the jamming of a screen, may be foreseen and allowed for.

But after all that could be prepared for has been done, there always remains some awkward possibility which the wit of man can never foresee. Take the incident of the Q-ship Ravenstone, which was commissioned as a Q-ship on June 26, 1917, under the name of Donlevon. A month later she was torpedoed one afternoon in the Atlantic, 40 miles south of the Fastnet. Fortunately there were no casualties, and fortunately, too, the ship did not straight away founder. There was a heavy sea running, and she was soon down by the head; but she was also prevented from using her engines, for the torpedo had struck her in No. 2 hold, and the force of the explosion had lifted and thrown overboard from the fore well-deck a 7-inch hemp hawser. This had fallen into the sea, floated aft, and there fouled the propeller so effectually that the ship could go neither ahead nor astern. It was a most annoying predicament, but who could have foreseen it? The submarine apparently ‘hopped it,’ for she made no further attack, and one of Admiral Bayly’s sloops, H.M.S. Camelia, stood by Donlevon, and from Berehaven arrived the tug Flying Spray, who got her in tow. Another sloop, the Myosotis, had her in tow for thirty-one hours, handling her so well in the heavy sea that, in spite of Donlevon being down by the head and steering like a mad thing, she safely arrived in Queenstown, and was afterwards paid out of the Service. Ten thousand pounds’ worth of damage had been done.

In the early summer of 1917, at a time when the United States Navy had just begun to help us with their destroyers and the enemy was hoping very shortly to bring us ‘to our knees,’ we had thirteen different Q-ships based on Queenstown. There was the converted sloop Aubrietia, commanded by Admiral Marx, M.V.O., D.S.O., who, in spite of his years, had come back to the Service and accepted a commission as captain R.N.R. For a time he was in command of H.M. armed yacht Beryl, owned by Lord Inverclyde. From this command he transferred to the more exciting work of decoying submarines, and it is amusing when one thinks of an admiral pretending to be the skipper of a little tramp. Of this thirteen there was Captain Grenfell’s Penshurst, about which the reader has already been informed. Captain Gordon Campbell was in Pargust, and Commander Leopold A. Bernays, C.M.G., was in Vala. The latter was one of the most unusual personalities in a unique service. Before the war he had left the Navy and gone to Canada, where he had some pretty tough adventures. On the outbreak of war he joined up, and crossed to England as a soldier, but managed to get transferred quite early to a mine-sweeping trawler, where he did magnificent work month after month; first in sweeping up the mine-field laid off Scarborough at the time of the German raid, December, 1914, and afterwards in clearing up the difficult Tory Island minefield, which had been laid by Berlin in October, 1914, but was not rendered safe for many months afterwards. When in the summer of 1915 a British minesweeping force was required for Northern Russia, Bernays was sent out with his trawlers. Here, with his usual thoroughness and enthusiasm, he set to work, and again performed most valuable service, and buoyed a safe channel for the ships carrying munitions from England to voyage in safety.

But Bernays was no respecter of persons, especially of those who were not keen on their job. With Russian dilatoriness and inefficiency, and in particular with the Russian admiral, he soon found himself exasperated beyond measure. His own trawlers were working in the most strenuous fashion, whereas the Russians seemed only to be thwarting instead of helping, and at any rate were not putting their full weight into the contest. I do not know whether the yarn about Bernays in exasperation pulling the beard of the overbearing Russian admiral is true, but there was a big row, and Bernays came back to England, though for his good work he received the coveted British order C.M.G. After further minesweeping off the Scotch coast, where once more he distinguished himself, he came to Queenstown to serve in his Q-ship. Here he went about his job in his usual fearless manner, and on one occasion had played a submarine as he used to play a fish. He had slowed down, and the U-boat was coming nicely within range, when just as everything was ready for the bait to be swallowed, up came a United States destroyer at high speed to ‘rescue’ this ‘tramp.’ The submarine was frightened away, and Vala lost her fish. Then one day Bernays took Vala on another cruise. What happened exactly we do not know, but evidently a submarine got her, and sank her without a trace, for neither ship nor crew was ever heard of again.

Bernays was just the man for Q-ship work. He was one whom you would describe as a ‘rough customer,’ who might have stepped out of a Wild West cinema. A hard swearer in an acquired American accent, in port also a hard drinker; but on going to sea he kept everything locked up, and not even his officers were allowed to touch a drop till they got back to harbour. The first time I met him was at 3 o’clock one bitterly cold winter’s morning in Grimsby. It was blowing a gale of wind and it was snowing. Some of his minesweepers had broken adrift and come down on to the top of my craft, and were doing her no good. There was nothing for it but to rouse Bernays. His way of handling men, and these rough North Sea fishermen, was a revelation. It was a mixture of hard Navy, Prussianism, and Canadian ‘get-to-hell-out-of-this-darned-hole.’ There was no coaxing in his voice; every syllable was a challenge to a fight. On the forebridge of his trawler he used to keep a bucket containing lumps of coal, and in giving an order would at times accentuate his forcible and coloured words by heaving a lump at any of his slow-thinking crew.

Having said all this, you may wonder there was never a mutiny; but such a state of affairs was the last thing that could ever happen in any of Bernays’ ships. From a weak man the crew would not have stood this treatment a day, but they understood him, they respected him, they loved him, and in his command of the English tongue they realized that he was like unto themselves, but more adept. Follow him? They followed him everywhere—through the North Sea, through Russian and Irish minefields, and relied on him implicitly. And this regard was mutual, for in spite of his rugged manner Bernays had a heart, and he thought the world of his crew. I remember how pleased he was the day he was ordered to go to the dangerous Tory Island minefield. ‘But I’m not going without my old crew; they’re the very best in the world.’ Bernays, as an American officer once remarked, ‘certainly was some tough proposition,’ but he knew no cowardice; he did his brave duty, and he rests in a sailor’s grave.

Another of these thirteen was the converted sloop Begonia, commanded by Lieut.-Commander Basil S. Noake, R.N., an officer of altogether different temperament. Keen and able, yet courteous and gentle of manner, tall, thin, and suffering somewhat from deafness, this gallant officer, too, paid the great penalty. For Begonia was destined to have no ordinary career. Built as a minesweeping sloop, she carried out escort and patrol work until one day she was holed, but managed to get into Queenstown. Here she was repaired and transformed into a decoy, with a counter added instead of her cruiser stern, and with the addition of derricks and so on she was a very clever deception. During one cruise she was evidently a victim to the enemy, for she disappeared, too.

The remaining ships of this thirteen were the Acton (Lieut.-Commander C. N. Rolfe, R.N.), Zylpha (Lieut.-Commander John K. McLeod, R.N.), Cullist (Lieut.-Commander S. H. Simpson, D.S.O., R.N.), Tamarisk (Lieut.-Commander John W. Williams, D.S.O., R.N.R.), Viola (Lieut.-Commander F. A. Frank, D.S.O., R.N.R.), Salvia (Lieut.-Commander W. Olphert, D.S.O., D.S.C., R.N.R.), Laggan (Lieutenant C. J. Alexander, R.N.R.), and Heather (Lieutenant Harold Auten, R.N.R.). In this list there is scarcely a name that did not receive before the end of the war at least one D.S.O., while two of them received the Victoria Cross.

Acton had an indecisive duel with a submarine on August 20, 1917. It was a fine day with a calm sea when the enemy was sighted, and on being attacked Acton abandoned ship. In order to make this doubly real, fire-boxes were started in the well-deck, and steam leakage turned on, which made the ship look as if she were on fire. The enemy inspected the ship closely, so closely in fact that he actually collided with Acton, shaking the latter fore and aft. But after he had come to the surface and Acton opened fire, hitting, loud shouts came from the conning-tower, and he submerged, thus escaping. Acton went on with her work until the end of hostilities.

Zylpha and Cullist both had tragic ends to their careers. Zylpha was a 2,917-ton steamer, built at Sunderland in 1894, and had been commissioned as a Q-ship as far back as October, 1915. Early in June, 1917, she steamed along the south Irish coast and then out into the Atlantic, as if bound for New York. On June 11, at 9.45 a.m., when about 200 miles from the Irish coast, she was torpedoed by a submarine that was never seen again, and totally disabled. Her engines had stopped for the last time, and the sea had poured in, though her closely-packed cargo of wood was at present keeping her afloat. Having ‘bleated’ with her wireless, one of the United States destroyers, based on Queenstown, proceeded to her assistance. This was the Warrington, and she stood by the ship for a whole twenty-four hours—from 2 p.m. of the eleventh until 2.30 p.m. of the twelfth. By the time Warrington had arrived Zylpha’s engine-room and boiler-rooms were already awash, Nos. 2 and 3 holds flooded, the wireless out of action, and one man killed. The Warrington kept patrolling round her, requested a tug by wireless, and went on zigzagging through the long hours. By the evening Zylpha was in a bad way, and the Atlantic swell was seriously shaking the bulkheads, but she was still afloat next morning. By this time the Warrington, who had been some time on patrol, was running short of oil, so, at 2.30 p.m., regretfully had to return to harbour for fuel.

This was a sad blow to the Zylpha people, but whilst waiting for the arrival of the U.S. destroyer Drayton and two Queenstown tugs which were being sent to her, Zylpha actually made sail with what little canvas she had, and made good at 1½ knots. At noon of the fourteenth she was picked up by H.M. sloop Daffodil, and was then taken in tow. Next day, at 1 p.m., tugs reached her, but she could not last out the night, and, after having been towed for most of 200 miles, she gradually sank when quite near to the west coast, finally disappearing at 11.20 p.m. near the Great Skelligs. So ended Zylpha.

Cullist was commanded by an officer who had served a long time off this coast in a sloop. Her real name was the Westphalia, but she was also known as the Jurassic, Hayling, and Prim. She was of 1,030 gross tons, and in the spring of 1917 was lying at Calais, when she was requisitioned and sent to Pembroke Naval Dockyard to be fitted out. She was commissioned on May 12 by Lieut.-Commander Simpson, and Admiral Bayly then sent her to cruise along certain trade routes. She was capable of steaming about 10 knots, and was armed with a 4-inch and two 12-pounder guns, as well as a couple of torpedo-tubes, and all these had been well concealed. A few weeks later, on July 13, Cullist was between the Irish and French coasts, and it was just after 1 p.m. when a submarine appeared on the horizon.

About two minutes later the enemy from very long range opened fire, but as his shots were falling about 3,000 yards short, he increased speed towards the Cullist. By 1.30 a large merchant ship was seen coming up from the south, so Cullist hoisted the signal ‘You are standing into danger,’ whereupon the big steamer altered course away. Cullist then zigzagged, keeping always between sun and enemy, and by dropping eight smoke-boxes at various intervals succeeded in enticing the submarine down to a range of 5,000 yards, a distance which was maintained for the rest of the action. From 1.45 the enemy continually straddled Cullist so that the decks were wet with the splashes, and shell splinters were rattling on masts and deck. By 2.7 the enemy had fired sixty-eight rounds, but had not hit once. Cullist now decided to engage, and her third round was seen to hit just below the submarine’s gun, the remainder hitting regularly along the deck and on the conning-tower, causing bright red flames which rose higher than the conning-tower. Three minutes after Cullist had opened fire the enemy sank by the bows in flames, and then the ship steamed to the spot and dropped a depth charge. Three of Cullist’s crew saw a corpse dressed in blue dungarees, floating face upwards, but the submarine was never seen again. By 3.30 H.M.S. Christopher arrived on the scene and both ships searched for the enemy. He was evidently seriously damaged, but he had made his escape. Lieut.-Commander Simpson, for this engagement, was awarded a D.S.O; Lieutenant G. Spencer, R.N.R., a D.S.C.; Sub-Lieutenant G. H. D. Doubleday, R.N.R., also a D.S.C.; while two other officers were ‘mentioned.’

Cullist’s next adventure was on August 20 in the English Channel, when she was shelled for most of two and a half hours at long range, during which the submarine expended over eighty rounds with only one hit. This, however, had penetrated the waterline of the stokehold, injuring both firemen who happened to be on watch, and causing a large rush of water into the stokehold. By plugging the hole and shoring it up this defect was for the present made good. At 7.25 p.m., inasmuch as the light was fading and the enemy declined to come nearer than 4,000 yards, Cullist started shelling and seemed to make two direct hits on the base of the conning-tower. This was enough for the German, who then dived very rapidly and made off. Cullist was practically uninjured, for the only other hits on her had been that the port depth charge had been struck with shell splinters and the patent log-line had been shot away.

But on the eleventh of the following February a much more serious attack was made, and this illustrates the statement that suddenly without the slightest warning a Q-ship might find herself in the twinkling of an eye changed from an efficient man-of-war into a mere wreck. Cullist at the time was steaming on a southerly course down the Irish Sea, Kingstown Harbour being to the westward. The officer of the watch and the look-out men were at their posts, and Lieut.-Commander Simpson was walking up and down the deck. Suddenly, from nowhere, the track of a torpedo was seen approaching, and this struck the ship between the engine-room and No. 3 hold. Lieut.-Commander Simpson was hurled into the air and came down on to the edge of the deck with a very painful arm. Realizing the condition of the Cullist, he ordered his men to abandon ship, but such was the zeal of the crew in remaining at action stations until the last moment that many of them were drowned: for in less than two minutes Cullist had gone to the bottom. This part of the Irish Sea then consisted of a number of Englishmen swimming about or keeping alive on a small Carley float. The submarine when half a mile astern of where Cullist sank, came to the surface and rapidly approached. Then she stopped, picked up two men, inquired for the captain, examined survivors through glasses, and having abused them by words and gestures, made off to the southward. After swimming about for some time, Lieut.-Commander Simpson was then pulled on to the Carley float, which is a special kind of raft, very shallow, painted Navy grey, and usually supplied with a paddle such as you find in a Canadian canoe. It was a bleak February afternoon, and here were a few men able to keep from death by joining hands on this crowded raft. As the hours went on, the usual trying thirst assailed them and the fatal temptation to drink the sea-water, but the captain wisely and sternly prevented this. How long they would be left crowded in this ridiculous raft, cold and miserable, no one knew: it was obvious that human strength could not last out indefinitely.

But just as it was getting dusk, about 6 p.m., a trawler was seen. Relief at last! Someone who held the Canadian paddle kept it high to make it more easy for the trawler to recognize them. It was a patrol trawler, for the gun was visible; in a few moments they would be rescued. But just then these sopping-wet survivors were horrified to see the trawler manning her gun and laying it on to the raft. What hideous mistake was this? ‘Sing at the top of your voices.’ So they sang ‘Tipperary’ with all the strength they had left. Then a slight pause was followed by the trawler dismissing the gun’s crew and coming towards them as quickly as her engines would go round. The survivors were picked up and taken into Kingstown, where they landed about 10 p.m., and none too soon for some of them. By the time they were in hospital they were almost done. But what was the trawler’s explanation? She had sighted something in the half-light which resembled a submarine, and on examining it again it still more resembled such a craft. There was the conning-tower painted grey, and there was the periscope too. It was only when the unmistakable sound of British voices chanting ‘Tipperary’ reached their ears that they looked again and found that the ‘periscope’ was the Canadian paddle, and the ‘conning-tower’ was the men linked together imposed on the grey Carley float.

But it had been a near thing!

Even more varied was the career of the Privet (alias Island Queen, Q 19, Swisher, and Alcala). This was a small steamer of 803 tons, which had begun her service in December, 1916, her captain being Lieut.-Commander C. G. Matheson, R.N.R. On the following twelfth of March she was on passage from Land’s End to Alderney, and was steaming at 9 knots, when just before three in the afternoon a torpedo was seen to pass under the ship at the engine-room. Privet was presently shelled by the submarine, who rose to the surface on the starboard side aft, the first nine rounds hitting Privet five times. One of these rounds burst among the ‘abandon ship’ party, causing many casualties and destroying the falls of both boats. Privet’s hull had been badly holed, and she was compelled to send out a wireless S.O.S. signal, stating that her engines were disabled, but two minutes later she opened fire with her port battery—she was armed with four 12-pounders—and during the first seven rounds the enemy received punishment, being hit abreast the fore part of the conning-tower, and twice well abaft the conning-tower. The German now tried to escape by submerging, but evidently he found his hull leaking so badly that he was seen trying to reach the surface again by using his engines and hydroplanes. Thus Privet managed to get in a couple more hits and then the U-boat disappeared stern first at an angle of forty-five degrees. Privet in this manner had definitely sunk U 85, belonging to the biggest U-class submarines, 230 feet long, armed with two guns and twelve torpedoes. The whole incident, from the moment the torpedo was fired to the destruction of the attacker, had covered forty minutes; but now, ten minutes later, Privet’s engine-room was reported to be filling up with water owing to one of the enemy’s shells getting home. Twenty minutes later the chief engineer reported that the water was now over the plates and rising. Efforts were made to plug the hole with hammocks and timber, but this was found impossible, and this small ship, in spite of her victory, was in great peril. After another few minutes the men and wounded were ordered into the lifeboat and skiff, for the engine-room was full of water and the after bulkhead might give way suddenly any minute. Half an hour later this actually happened, but by this time the two British destroyers Christopher and Orestes had arrived on the scene.

Privet was in a pitiable condition, and, after throwing overboard confidential books and rendering the depth charges safe, she was finally abandoned, though she did not at once sink. In fact, an hour and a half later she was still afloat; so Lieut.-Commander Matheson, his officers, a seaman, and a working party from Orestes went back on board her, and within an hour Orestes had begun to tow her under great difficulties. However, everything went fairly well until they were approaching Plymouth Sound, when Privet’s last bulkheads collapsed, and she started now to settle down quickly. This was rather hard luck, having regard to what she had gone through, but there was no mistake about it, she was sinking fast. Those in charge of her are to be congratulated, for they were able just in time to get her into shoal water, and she sank in only 4½ fathoms opposite the Picklecomb Fort, and that closed chapter one in her not uninteresting career.

From this position she was very soon raised, taken into Devonport, and recommissioned at the end of April. Thus, having sunk a submarine and herself being sunk, she returned to the same kind of work, and actually succeeded in sinking another submarine on the night of November 8-9, 1918, this being the last to be destroyed before Armistice. The incident occurred in the Mediterranean and the submarine was U 34. Truly a remarkable career for such a small steamer, but a great tribute to all those brains and hands who in the first instance fitted her out, fought in her, got her into Plymouth Sound, salved her, fitted her out again, took her to sea, and undauntedly vanquished the enemy once more! In the whole realm of naval history there are not many ships that can claim such a record against an enemy.

Another trying incident was that which occurred to the 1,295-ton steamer Mavis (alias Q 26 and Nyroca), armed with a 4-inch and two 12-pounders. This vessel had been fitted out at Devonport, her Merchant Service cranes being landed and replaced by dummy derricks. The hatches to her holds were plated over, access to the same being provided by manholes. In order to give her the maximum chance should she ever be torpedoed, she was ballasted with closely packed firewood; and only those who have seen torpedoed ships carrying a cargo of timber can realize for what a long time such an apparently sinking ship will keep afloat, though necessarily deep in the water. I remember, during the war, the case of a steamer torpedoed off Brow Head (south-west Ireland) after she had just arrived from across the Atlantic. She was deserted by her crew, the sea was over the floors of her upper-deck cabins, and she was obviously a brute to steer in such an unseaworthy condition, but with great difficulty and some patience we managed to tow her into port, where, owing to her sinking condition, she drew so much water that she touched the ground every low tide. But she was salved and eventually patched up. It was her timber cargo which had kept her afloat just long enough, and inasmuch as ship and freight were worth no less than £250,000, this was more than worth while. So it was with Mavis.

On the last day of May, 1917, under command of Commander Adrian Keyes, R.N., this Q-ship had left Devonport to cruise in the Atlantic. At 6.45 a.m. on June 2 she sighted a ship’s lifeboat coming along under sail and found it contained three men who were in a very exhausted condition. These were the survivors from the Greek S.S. N. Hadziaka, which had been torpedoed and sunk a little further to the westward. This torpedoing had occurred in a heavy sea, and in lowering away the boats, one of them had been smashed and the other swamped. The captain and twenty-two men had clung to the wreckage when the German submarine broke surface, approached, but made no attempt at rescue, and then went away. For forty-eight hours these wretched men kept more or less alive in the water and then gradually dropped off one by one until only three remained. These then managed to patch one boat, upright her, bale her out, and make sail. They had been sailing for ten hours during the night when they had the good luck to be picked up by Mavis, having been fifty-eight hours without food or water.

Having rescued them, Mavis continued on her western course, but after dark turned east, setting a course to pass 10 miles south of the Lizard. During the following day she passed through considerable wreckage. At 9.45 p.m. she was 20 miles south of the Wolf Rock when a torpedo was seen to break surface 40 yards from the ship on the starboard beam. It struck Mavis abreast of the engine-room and penetrated the side, so that the ship stopped at once, and both engine-room and boiler-room were flooded. It was impossible to send out a wireless call, as the emergency apparatus had been wrecked too, but three rockets were fired and eventually the destroyer Christopher came up, followed later by the trawler Whitefriars and several tugs. Then began the difficult and slow process of towing, and they got her just inside Plymouth Sound, but by this time she was in such a crank condition that it was feared she might capsize, so they managed to beach her in Cawsand Bay on the west side of the Sound. It was her ballast of firewood that had saved her from total loss, and for this both British and Greeks must have felt more than thankful.

Another incident, which well illustrates the risks run by these Q-ships, is now to be related. Among those officers who had retired from the Service and come back after the outbreak of war was Commander W. O’G. Cochrane, R.N., who for part of the war was captain of one of the sloops off the south of Ireland. In the spring of 1917 I well remember the very excellent sport we had in company, but in separate ships, exploring and destroying the mine-fields laid by the enemy submarines right along the whole south coast from Cape Clear to the Old Head of Kinsale. At the beginning of the following November, Commander Cochrane left Devonport in command of the Q-ship Candytuft, together with a convoy of merchant ships bound for Gibraltar. Candytuft was disguised to represent a tramp steamer, and on the eighth, when in the vicinity of Cape St. Vincent, had an encounter with a submarine, in which the usual tactics were employed. One of the enemy’s shells struck the Q-ship’s bridge, exploding under the bunk in Captain Cochrane’s cabin, wrecking the wireless and steering-gear. Candytuft was able to fire three shots, but the enemy disappeared, made off, and was never seen by the Q-ship again.

After having been repaired at Gibraltar, Candytuft left in company with the merchant ship Tremayne for Malta. This was on November 16. Two days later they were off Cap Sigli, when a torpedo crossed Tremayne’s bows, but struck Candytuft on the starboard quarter, entirely blowing off the ship’s stern and killing all the officers excepting Captain Cochrane and Lieutenant Phillips, R.N.R., who was on the bridge, but very badly wounding Lieutenant Errington, R.N.R.

With sound judgment and true unselfishness Captain Cochrane now ordered Tremayne to make for Bougie as fast as she could, and in the meantime the Q-ship hoisted her foresail to assist the ship to drift inshore. Most of the ship’s company were sent away in boats, only sufficient being kept aboard to man the two 4-inch guns, and everyone kept out of sight. Within half an hour a periscope was seen by Captain Cochrane, concealed behind the bridge screens. A periscope is a poor target, but it was fired at, though ineffectually. On came the torpedo, striking Candytuft just foreward of the bridge, completely wrecking the fore part of the ship. This explosion wounded several men in a boat, covered the bridge with coal barrows and other miscellaneous wreckage, blew a leading-seaman overboard—happily he was picked up unhurt—blew Captain Cochrane up also, but some of the falling wreckage struck him on the head, knocked him back inboard, and left him staggering off the bridge.

Presently the ship gave a sudden jerk, and rid herself of her bow, which now floated away and sank. Candytuft drifted towards the African shore, and after the captain and one of his crew had gallantly closed the watertight door at the foreward end of the mess-deck, up to their middles in water and working in almost complete darkness, with tables and other articles washing about, it became time for these last two to leave the ship. They were taken off by a French armed trawler and landed at Bougie. Candytuft, minus bow and stern, drifted ashore on to a sandy beach, and eventually the two 4-inch guns were salved. Lieutenant Errington had died before reaching land, and the wounded had to be left in hospital. But afterwards some of Candytuft’s crew went to sea in another Q-ship, and so the whole gallant story went on. Ships may be torpedoed, but, like the soldiers, sailors never die. They keep on ‘keeping on’ all the time, as a young seaman once was heard to remark.