Great Britain -- History; Great Britain -- History, Naval
But none are hit. The leading "gas-bag" is heading straight for us. She
has probably spotted our damaged condition, and reckons us an easy prey.
But our gunners are getting closer to her every shot, and presently she
turns slowly to starboard, dropping a futile bomb as she goes. She now
presents a fine broadside target as big as a Dreadnought, another shot
gets home somewhere, and she makes off in the direction she came with
her nose down, tail in air, and a pronounced list to port. Her consort
turns too, and scuttles off at top speed. She hopes to "live to fight
another day" over some peaceful English village where there are no
nasty, disagreeable quick-firing guns, shrapnel-shell, and other unkind
greetings from those she would destroy.
* * * * *
The day is drawing to a close. We are heading homewards in tow of a
consort. Low down under the tawny sunset that dim purple line is the
coast of "Old England"--the motherland we are engaged in defending from
the assault of the most unscrupulous enemy she has ever encountered. The
wind has fallen, the waves are hardly more than ripples, and evening is
closing down with a soothing hush over land and sea. We have cleared up
after the smashing and racket of the battle as far as possible, but we
can hardly crawl along, and are bound to go into dockyard hands for some
weeks at any rate.
"Are we downhearted?" "No!" For we have given much better than the best
efforts of the Huns could give. Two of their ships are at the bottom,
with most of their crews; though, thanks to the exertions and humanity
of our gallant seamen, a considerable number of them have been saved
from a watery grave. To this bag may be added three if not four
submarines and a badly damaged Zeppelin, so we are not ill-satisfied
with the day's work. We have just passed several "tall ships" on their
way out to relieve us on patrol, and as we begin to get under the land
there is a whirring up aloft in the gathering dusk, and a dozen
sea-planes, like a flight of wild-ducks, come swooping seaward and make
towards the Channel.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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