I saw a Fleet of ironclads a-shelling of a town, Which let us ’ave it lively from a fort, Till a little British ‘lay-me-true’ ran in and did ’em brown, While most of us lay off and watched the sport. Eh! it couldn’t ’ave been just one ship as did it? I’m speaking now of forty year ago; We’d iron on our uppers and steam and patent scuppers, Though nowadays you might a’called it slow. I ’ear there’s been an action, for the Germans come at last, With submarines and aereyplanes an’ all; But when our Battle Squadron come they run so ruddy fast We ’adn’t time to open up the ball. And yet I can’t make out the way they do it, I’m speaking now o’ thirteen months ago, They come out for to beat us, but when the beggars meet us, They scuttle back before they’ve struck a blow. But, Grandpa, don’t forget, you’ aven’t _seen_ the British Fleet, Nor been aboard a Dreadnought in your life, And a modern Battle Squadron is a nasty thing to meet, And a Cruiser ’as a fore-foot like a knife. So, can’t you even guess the way we did it? It only ’appened ‘bout a year ago, The Battle Cruisers caught ’em, and the Dread-ohs nearly taught ’em When darkness fell and spoilt our little show. THE REAL THING The patrol had not been a very interesting one so far, and nothing out of the way had happened. Moreover, it was the first that ‘123’ had made since her return to duty, and at the end of a day at sea the crew were already slipping back to the familiar routine. They had just finished lunch and had been diving since four in the morning, and nothing had occurred to break the monotony of the usual underwater stillness. There was no indication of what was going to happen, and the men off watch were stretched out in the battery compartments putting away a little over and above their ordinary allowance of sleep, while the control room was tenanted solely by the second coxswain at the planes, and the helmsman, who was biting his nails and staring into the gyro repeater. Faint gurgles came now and again from the vents, and occasionally the steering chain rattled, but otherwise there was scarcely any noise. Behind the green curtains Raymond and Seagrave were reading magazines, and Boyd was asleep in the little box-shaped upper bunk. The indicator of the Forbes’ log gave a click and announced another mile completed, and the master compass hummed its continuous tune to itself as it buzzed happily round. It was Seagrave who saw them first. He had brought the boat up to eighteen feet and taken the customary wary look round the horizon, and the coxswain was surprised that he got no order to ‘take her down again.’ Seagrave came in quietly from the control room and tapped his skipper on the shoulder. ‘Will you have a look through the periscope, sir?’ he asked. Raymond looked up sharply.