At last
I am on the bridge. There she is! What a sight!
I feel that I shall never forget what she looked like, though, if all
goes well, I shall see many another fine ship go to her grave.
But she was my first; I felt the same sensation when, as a boy, I shot
my first roe-deer in the Black Forest, one instant a living thing
beautiful to perfection, the next my rifle spoke and a bleeding carcase
lay beneath the fine trees. So with this ship. I am a sailor, and to
every sailor every ship that floats has, as it were, a soul, a
personality, an entity; to carry the analogy further, a merchant craft
is like some fat beast of utility, an ox, a cow, or a sheep, whilst a
warship is a lion if she is a battleship, a leopard if she is a light
cruiser, etc.; in all cases worthy game.
But War has little use for sentimentality! and in my usual wandering
manner I see that I have meandered from the point and quite forgotten
what she did look like.
What I saw was this:
I saw that the steamer had been hit forward on the starboard side. The
upper portion of the stem piece was almost down to the water level, her
foremost hold was obviously filling rapidly. Her stern was high out of
water, the red ensign of England flapping impotently on the ensign
staff. Her propeller, which was still slowly revolving, thrashed the
water, and this heightened the impression that I was watching the
struggles of a dying animal. The propeller was revolving in spasmodic
jerks, due, I imagine, to the fast failing steam only forcing the
cranks over their dead centres with an effort.
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