I must tell you about Lieut.-Commander Barttelot and his gallant little destroyer, the Liberty. She and the other destroyers did not hesitate to engage much bigger and stronger German ships, and naturally they got knocked about a bit. After the funnel of the Liberty had been shot away, this brave officer stood on the bridge and gave his orders as quietly as if he were at a sham fight. A shell shot off one of his legs, but he seized the rails of the bridge, steadied himself, and continued giving his commands. Shortly after another shell struck the Liberty and killed him. Not less thrilling is the story of Lieut.-Commander Frank Rose, of the destroyer Laurel, who was seriously wounded in the left leg. His men urged him to go below, but he simply shifted the weight on to the other leg and continued to issue his orders. Soon his one sound leg was struck by a shell, and down he came on the bridge, but he still declined to go below. His signalman tore off his trousers to prevent the wound from being poisoned, and to this act of thoughtful devotion Lieut.-Commander Rose probably owed his life. As at last he lay swooning on the bridge, one of his petty officers fastened a lifebelt round him. By this time there only remained three rounds of ammunition, and it appeared as if the little Laurel could not live much longer in the fire to which she was then exposed. But she did. The gallantry of all our seamen was indeed something to be proud of, and it was shown by fighters and non-fighters alike. For example, the surgeon of the Arethusa, who was, as I have explained, new to the ship like the others, was a marvel of coolness. Before she was struck he busied himself in handing out ammunition to the gunners, and when the casualties began he stuck to his work of healing under fire. He hadn’t time to dress properly, so there he was, wearing red leather slippers, uniform trousers, and the coat of his pyjamas! One officer of the Arethusa had his leg grazed by a shell which fell five or six feet behind him. He was hurled along the deck, and appeared to be much relieved when he discovered that both his legs had not been shot away. But they were badly bruised. There were no crutches on board, so one of the crew gave him a pair of broomsticks, by the aid of which he stuck to his post and hobbled round giving his orders. This action, the Battle of the Bight as it was called, inspired many poets. To my mind by far the finest it called forth was by Mr. William Watson. In it he addresses the mighty dead of the sea service, and his last verse runs: “Sleep on, O Drake, sleep well! Thou hast thy heart’s desire. Grenville, whom nought could quell, Thou dost hand on thy fire. And thou that had’st no peer, Nelson! thou need’st not fear: Thy sons and heirs are here, Nor shall they shame their sire.”