“Now,” said the R.N.V.R. to the R.N.R., “you talked a lot about your semaphore. Just make them a signal to send us a dozen engine-room ratings and an engineer officer, and we’ll raise steam and proceed to the Downs. Thank them for coming to see us, by the way. They’re getting peevish.” The R.N.R., in terms of diplomatic suasion, signalled accordingly, and towards dusk a drenched boatload of the Royal Navy, Engine-room Department, arrived on board. Refreshed with Madeira from the captain’s saloon, they proceeded to the engine-room, filled the boilers, lit the furnaces, and had steam raised by daylight. The steamer then slipped her cables, which had become too foul to weigh, substituted an Admiralty-pattern kedge for the lost anchors, and proceeded modestly under her own steam and the destroyer’s escort to the Downs. A month later the R.N.V.R. met the R.N.R. ashore. “’Member that derelict we salved together,” said the R.N.V.R. “I’ve been up to London to see about salvage and all that.” The R.N.R. brightened considerably. “She’s worth £120,000, light,” he said. “She is,” was the reply, in detached tones such as the Chancellor of the Exchequer might employ to outline his Budget; “but she was on Government charter. As she was salved by”--he took a long breath--“Naval officers, there ain’t any salvage.” CHAPTER VII THE DAY--AND THE MORNING AFTER Looking back on a kaleidoscope of great events, one is apt to be struck by the wealth of insignificant detail with which memory burdens itself. Of all the thunderous panorama in which a Fleet Action presents itself to the imagination, very little is recorded in the mind of a participant at the time. Later on a man may fit the details together into an orderly comprehensive tableau for the benefit of relations and others, supplying from hearsay and imagination all that he missed as an insignificant actor in the great drama. Groping among the memories of the Battle of Jutland and the part played therein by the fleet flagship, it is not unnatural, therefore, that a private of marines should come most readily to mind. He it was who in enjoyment of his office of servant jerked aside the curtain of a cabin door about 3.15 p.m. on May 31st, 1916, and announced in laconic tones that the fleet was going to “Action Stations” in half an hour’s time. The Onlooker had kept the morning watch, and was engaged on his bunk in what is colloquially known as a “stretch off the land.” “Eh?” he said. “’Arf an hour,” repeated the messenger of Mars. There was in his tone that note of impassive stoicism usually reserved for the announcement that the Onlooker’s gold links had gone, in the cuffs of a shirt, to the wash--or similarly soul-shaking tidings. The latter descended from his bunk in search of the sinews of war. “Where the devil’s my gas-mask?” he queried, after a breathless search.