It was on January 15, 1916, that I finally rejoined my ship. She was then in floating dock at ——. That night the dock was flooded, and next morning we warped out and proceeded to our billet in the harbour. About a week later we left ——, and once more the northern mists closed down upon us.

The deadly monotony of the work of the Grand Fleet will probably never be fully realized by any but those whose fate it was to wait day after day, and week after week, for the longed-for encounter with the enemy. Only that ever-present hope carried us through that dreary second winter of war. An occasional interval at sea for manoeuvres was the sole relief, and such was our cussedness that even these were greeted by most of us with moans and groans, for we were reduced to a state of irritability and boredom which only the prospect of "action" or "leave" could mitigate. Perhaps, however, to the non-Service reader, an account of one of these periodical trips may not be too uninteresting.

After a period of swinging at anchor at the northern base, we received the customary signals preparatory to going to sea, and about 6 P.M. on the same day we weighed and proceeded in the wake of the Second Battle Squadron. That particular month I had been detailed for a course of engineering instruction and consequently did not have to take any night watches—a stroke of luck since night watch in mid-winter in the North Sea is not a job to be coveted by even the most enthusiastic. The weather was quite calm and no change seemed imminent, although it is not really possible to tell in these latitudes what conditions may obtain from hour to hour. As a proof whereof, the next morning showed a rapidly falling barometer, accompanied by a rising sea, which increased to such an extent that it was not possible to carry out any exercises with the Fleet in the forenoon. However, we held on our course in hopes that the weather would mend, but by lunch-time the sea was running so high that we were forced to turn for home. The main deck was already six inches deep in water, in which floated the usual medley of debris: the gunroom skylight was leaking like a sieve; and even the engine-rooms and boiler-rooms held their unwelcome quota of sea water, which poured down the ventilating shafts.

At one time the Flagship made a signal for all destroyers to close in on her, and of course a rumour started—as rumours will—that she had been mined or torpedoed. But it was happily a totally false alarm, and her signal was only a precautionary measure to enable the C.-in-C. to keep an eye on the small craft, which were making very heavy weather of it indeed. Even our 20,000-ton Dreadnought was creaking and groaning under the impact of the waves, and fenders and life-buoys had broken loose and were sweeping back and forth across the decks, and crashing against the turrets and superstructures.

Suddenly, in the middle of the afternoon, a destroyer sighted a mine and hoisted Numeral I flag. (It must be understood that when signals such as these are mentioned, the numbers given are fictitious, as for obvious reasons we cannot give the correct hoists.) Now Numeral I pendant denotes a mine in sight, but Numeral I flag denotes "Flag officers have time for the next meal." ... Of course the signalman in his haste had muddled his flags, and had intended hoisting Numeral I pendant, but "Flags" (the Flag Lieutenant), seeing in the incident a momentary chance of lightening the prevailing boredom and gloom, at once asked the Admiral's permission to inquire sarcastically by signal whether the meal referred to was lunch or tea, and the destroyer's signalman, in obvious confusion, hauled down his signal and substituted the correct hoist. The C.-in-C. then detailed the light cruiser —— to go and sink the mine. It being now some distance astern, she turned 16 points to starboard and steamed towards it. We all watched for the explosion, and as time went on wondered why she had not opened fire. She seemed to be circling round it; but the mystery was explained when her searchlights flashed out the message: "Supposed mine is a Reindeer buoy." She was then ordered to resume station.

Trivial enough, I admit! But oh, you readers who imagine the sailor's life in war-time as one continuous round of blood-curdling excitement, try to realize something of its almost unmitigated dullness—a dullness so overwhelming that even such an incident as the above is welcomed as a slight relief.

In the evening the violence of the storm abated, and when I woke the next morning there was scarcely any motion on the ship at all. When I went up on deck I found that there was a thick haze on the water which almost hid the ships on either side of us. By ten o'clock this fog had so increased in density that it completely blotted out our next ahead, and, to his great disgust, the Snotty of the watch was ordered forward to the fo'c'sle head to keep lookout. The fog continued to thicken until the bridge was scarcely visible from the eyes of the ship. (The eyes of the ship means right forward in the bow.) On all sides the sirens kept up a dismal wail of warning. Presently the Snotty of the watch noticed that we were passing along the bubbling wake of another ship which must have been perilously close, and shortly afterwards the stern of a destroyer loomed ahead and scarcely a hundred yards away. Through his megaphone the lookout reported: "Destroyer right ahead." We instantly slowed down and at the same moment the T.B.D., seeing her danger, put her helm hard over and rapidly drew away into the mist to starboard.

The fog did not clear away until the afternoon, but we anchored at our base late that evening, and coaling was soon in progress.

Of all the dangers and inconveniences with which sailors have to contend, fog is perhaps the most trying and exasperating. I remember an occasion when Campbell and I were bidden to dine in H.M.S. ——, and as "Torps" happened also to be dining out, though in another ship, we managed to get a steamboat to convey us to our respective destinations, but "The Bloke" could not give us one to bring us back. We therefore arranged with various other Snotties that a gunroom whaler's crew should come and pick us all up about 9.30. As we were the junior officers they called first at the ship where we had been dining, and came inboard for a few minutes for a drink and a cigarette. We eventually shoved off about 9.40, arriving alongside the ship which was entertaining "Torps" some five minutes later. As he was not quite ready we went inboard for more drinks and smokes. When we finally embarked for our own ship we found that a thick fog had come down. The inference that will here be drawn by the evil-minded, if logical, is incorrect! The fog in question was not in our heads, but very much upon the water! In a very few seconds H.M.S. —— had vanished from our sight and we found ourselves shut in by a dense white wall, with nothing but the fog-bells to guide us. After pulling hard for what seemed like a considerable time we sighted a ship dimly outlined upon our starboard bow, but she proved to be not, as we had fondly expected, our happy home, but the hospitable vessel we had left ten minutes before. So we turned our boat round, carefully took our bearings, and set out anew. After another quarter of an hour or so we sighted H.M.S. ——, but she was not our objective either; and so the game of blind man's buff went on until there really seemed no reason to suppose that we should ever succeed in finding our own ship. Finally, however, by dint of strenuous effort, sheer pertinacity, and a blind clutching to the skirts of happy chance, we made her at last, after more than an hour of heavy pulling.

"Torps," in common gratitude, invited the weary crew into the wardroom and administered refreshment in various forms, after which we repaired to our own quarters and thankfully turned in.