Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 153, November 21, 1917

Excerpt

NIGHTMARES.

II.

OF A T.B.D. CAPTAIN, WHO DREAMS THAT HE HAS FOUND HIS LOG BOOK MADE UP BY MR. PH*L*P G*BBS.

Time:—7.30 A.M.—Once more we set out on our never-ending mission, our ceaseless vigil of the seas. The ruddy weather-stained coxswain swung the wheel this way and that—his eyes were of the blue that only the sea can give—in obedience to, or rather in accord with, the curt, mystic, seaman-like orders of the young officer of the watch. "Hard a-port! Midships! Hard a-starboard! Port 20! Steady as she goes!" And ceaselessly the engine-room telegraph tinkled, and the handy little craft, with death and terror written in her workmanlike lines for the seaman, for all her slim insignificance to the landlubber on the towering decks of the great liner, swung smartly through the crowded water-way out to the perils lurking 'neath the seeming smile of the open sea: the guardian angel of our commerce it went, to meet—what Heaven alone could foretell!

Course.—S. 70° E. Towards the rising sun and our brethren in khaki, toiling in the wet mud as we toil on the wet waters!

Deviation.—1° E. Wonderful the accuracy of the little instrument whereon men's lives do hang, wise in the lore of the firmament!

Patent Log.—O. Nothing—as yet! What will it register ere the day be done? Or will its speckless copper lie rusting in the grey chill of the sea's dank depths?

Revs.—I don't know, but the propellers swirl faithfully and unceasingly.

Wind.—W. by E. Bearing a message across the vast Atlantic of hope and present succour from our new great Ally, the mighty Republic of the West. America, ah America! But we of the sea are men of few words, and this is not the place.

Force.—3. A balmy zephyr, yet with the sharp salt tang of the sea that a sailor loves.

Sea.—2. Softly undulating is the swell, scarce perceptible to inexperienced eyes, such as those of the land-lubbers on the towering decks of the great liners; gleaming dead copper and blue in the morning sun, flecked with spectral white in the distance—the easy roll of untrammelled waters!

Weather.—C. Detached clouds. Almost had I written "B," seeing the perfect filmy blue all around the horizon; but a seaman's scrutiny showed me faint fluffy wisps o'erhead, luminous and marged with palest gold; and ever must a sailor be suspicious of the treacherous weather-god.

Thermometer.—42°. Not yet is Winter here, but its threat approaches.

Barometer.—30·01. Will it stay there?

Remarks.—Once more we set out on our ceaseless vigil, our never-ending mission of the sea!

Remarks.—(7.30 P.M.).—Another day has passed, another day's duty has been done. Nothing apparently has happened outside the ordinary routine of the ship. One keen-eyed young officer has succeeded another on the bridge, with tired lines on a face grey beneath the great brown hood of his duffle—a face so youthful, yet with the knowledge of the command of men writ plain thereon. The propellers have swirled faithfully and unceasingly; the good ship in consequence has cleft the passive waves....