Chapter XX: Sons of the Trident

Any essay on the British sailor must rise from a foundation of wholesome respect. One cannot look at the master of the world without philosophy. And British Jack is the world's master, for he holds in his hands that mastery of the seas which is the mastery of the land. He is a sailor of the mightiest of all navies, an inheritor of the world's most remarkable naval tradition, a true son of Britannia's ancient trident.

What is he like, British Jack? How does he impress those companions who share the vigil of the seas?

To begin with the Briton is, on the average, an older man than our bluejacket. British Jack has not gone into the Royal Navy "for the fun of it" or "to see the world," as our posters say, but as the serious business of his life. His enlistment is an eight-year affair, and by the time that he has completed it, he rarely thinks of returning to a prosaic life ashore. Thus it comes about that whilst our American sailors are usually somewhere in the eager, irresponsible twenties, British tars are often men of sober middle age. One is sure to see, in any of the "home ports," the fleet's married men out walking on Sunday with their wives and children, forming together a number of honest, steady little groups whose hold on the durable satisfactions of life it is a pleasure to see. The "home ports" idea has well proved its value. It is simple enough in operation. Each ship, according to the plan, bases on some definite port, thus permitting poor Jack (who has enough of roaming at sea) to have a steady home on land. In all the great British bases, therefore, you will find these sailor colonies. I was well acquainted with a retired Navy chaplain who ministered to such a group. These families form a distinct group dependent on the Navy. Marriages are performed by the naval chaplain, the ills of the flesh are looked after by the fleet surgeons, and the rare troubles are brought to the judgment of Jack's favourite officers.

Our American crews are gathered together from all over the vast continent, British crews are often recruited from one section of the country. For instance, a ship manned by a crew from "out o' Devon" is known as a "West Country" ship and its sailors as "Westos." A real Royal Navy man knows in an instant the character of any ship which he happens to visit. The drawled "oa's" and oe's" of the West tell the story. I once heard a "Westo" refer to an officious wharf tender as a "bloody to-ad," a phrase that certainly has character. Then there be ships based on Irish ports. Indeed, there are sure to be Irish sailors on every ship, irresponsible, keen-witted Celts to whom all devilment is entrusted.

The war has not been without influence on the naval personnel. British Jack had, in his own social system, a place of his own. He is not looked down upon, for the British bluejacket has been, is, and forever ought to be the best loved of national figures. Sons of "gentlemen," however, I use the word here in its British sense, did not join the Royal Navy as enlisted men. Such a thing would have been regarded as "queer" (no mild word, in Britain), and the crew certainly would have looked upon any such arrival as an intruder. But just as the war has placed University men side by side in the ranks with troopers like Kipling's Ortheris, so has it placed among the enlisted personnel of the Royal Navy a large number of men from the educated and wealthier class. There hung in the Royal Academy this spring a portrait of a British bluejacket, a pleasant-looking lad some nineteen or twenty years of age with blond hair, a long face and honest eyes of English grey. It was entitled "My Son." Almost invariably the older visitors to the exhibition, when looking at this picture, would fall to talking of the change in the social system which the portrait symbolized.

There are always a number of boys on British ships, for the British hold that to be a good sailor, one should early become familiar with the sea. The status of "boy" is a kind of distinct rating, and these youngsters are addressed by their last names, viz., Boy Bumblechook or Boy Stiggins. They have shown up wonderfully well. One has but to recall little Cornell of Jutland to see of what stuff these lads are made.

The British sailor's uniform is picturesque and characteristic, but certainly less attractive than ours. It is cut not of broadcloth or of serge, but of heavy blue worsted, and a detachable collar of blue linen falls back upon the blouse. Our sailors are forever washing the blouses to keep the white stripes of the collar clean; the Briton has only his collar to care for. And there is a difference between the national builds as marked as the difference twixt the uniforms. Our Jack is rangy, lean and quick-moving, the Briton heavier, shorter, and more deliberate. In hours of leisure, the Briton busies himself with knitting, wood-carving or weaving rag rugs; the American, driven by the mechanical genius of the nation, hurries to the ship's machine shop to pound a half-crown into a ring.

The sons of Columbia and the sons of Britannia get on very well together. At the big club house at the Irish base, there are always little groups of British sailors to be seen, quiet, well-behaved fellows who watch everything with British dignity. Our bluejackets, however, are far more chummy with British soldiers than with Britons of their own calling. Navy blue and khaki are forever going down the street arm in arm. The tar is always keen to hear of the front. Tommy does the talking. After all, there is a difference in the vernacular. Witness this poem which I reprint from the August number of _Our Navy_. It is by a Navy man, Mr. R. P. Maulsley. The word Limey, here shortened to "Lima," means, used as a noun, a British sailorman; used as an adjective, British. The term had its origin in the ancient British custom of giving lime juice to ward off scurvy.

THE LIMA AND THE YANKS

By R. P. Maulsley

It was nice and cozy in the "Pub,"
And blowing cold outside.
By the fireplace sat two gobbies,
America's joy and pride.

When a Lima from a cruiser
Thought their talk he'd like to hear,
And sat down just behind them,
With a half o' pint of beer.

And o'er a flowing mug of ale,
That held about a quart,
He heard them swapping stories
About their stay in port.

"Say, this is sure some burg,
Tho' it ain't the U.S.A.,
But did you pipe the classy Jane,
That passed us on the quay?

"She gave me some sweet smile, bo,
And winked her pretty eye,"
"Get out, you big hay-maker,
It was for me she meant to sigh."

"G'wan you homely piece of cheese,
You're talkin' thru' your hat,
I'll betsha just ten plasters,
It was me she was smiling at."

"I'll take that up old-timer,
Why, that's some easy dough,
We'll have another round,
And then we'll have to blow.

"And if I lamp that broad, kid,
And she cottons to me quick,
I'll buy her everything in town,
And make that ten look sick."

They arose and left the Lima,
A gasping in some chairs,
And as they left the room,
He heard them on the stairs.

"Like candy from a baby,
I'll take your coin this day,
And have a high old time and--
Say, how did you get that way?"

The Lima emptied his tankard,
And caught the barmaid's eye,
"I 'eard them Yanks a tarkin',
But what the bloomin' ell'd they seye?"