I am just drowsily thinking about getting up, when a gun from H.M.S. _Majestic_ fires. This is followed immediately by the report of an explosion, and Carver says, “Good Lord, she is torpedoed!” We rush out, and see the green smooth wake of a torpedo in a straight line horizontal with our “bivvy,” starting from a point immediately in front of us. H.M.S. _Majestic_ is about eight hundred yards to our left, immediately in front of “W” Beach, and I see her, massive and strong, bristling with guns, and crowded with men in white, slowly tilting over with a list to her port side. Men are doubling on deck to their places in perfect order, with no shouting or panic. Then, evidently, the order “Every man for himself!” is given, for I see a figure leap into the water, making a big splash; then another and another—it is like jumping off the side of a house—until the sea around is dotted by bobbing heads of men swimming. Slowly she tilts over, and men clamber on to the side above the torpedo nets, which are out. As many as possible get away from the nets, for they make a trap. By this time, after only four minutes, she is surrounded by destroyers, trawlers, pinnaces, and small boats, and with perfectly wonderful and amazing efficiency they systematically pick up the struggling figures in the water. One after the other men continue to leap, while the big ship lists; yet there are some, amongst whom are several officers, who stand on the side calmly waiting, and some still on the platform above the torpedo-nets. My glasses are glued on these men. I see them plainly in every detail, and almost the expression on their faces, as they stand on this platform with their hands behind them, holding on to the side of the ship. I see an officer in the centre looking anxiously to the right and the left, shouting directions. A man at the end manages to clamber to his left and slides painfully over pipe-stays and the usual fittings on the side of a battleship, falling with an awkward thud in the water, and another and another follow him. Then, after six minutes she begins to list quicker and quicker, and the remaining men on the torpedo-net platform still hang on. The nets curl up into themselves. These men are now horizontal to the ship, for she is now well on her side. The nets fling themselves into the air with a horrid curl, and disappear from view with these brave officers and men underneath. Can they dive and get free? The emerald green of the keel-plates appears, and in two minutes she turns turtle, her bows remaining highest and her stern beneath water. As she turns, men run, slip, and slide into the water, and at the finish, eight minutes after, her bows are showing and about fifty feet of the bottom of the ship above water at an angle.