scattered groups of queer, rakish craft, each with four slanting pipes
and a tiny flag floating from her halyards; a flag--as the binoculars
revealed--of crimson bars and stars on a field of blue. These were our
American destroyers. And in the midst of them, swinging to the tide,
were the big "mother ships" we have sent over to nurse them when, after
many days and nights of hazardous work at sea, they have brought their
flock of transports and merchantmen safely to port. This "mothering" by
repair-ships which are merely huge machine-shops afloat--this trick of
keeping destroyers tuned up and constantly ready for service has inspired
much favourable comment from our allies in the British service. It is an
instance of our national adaptability, learned from an experience on long
coasts where navy-yards are not too handy. Few landsmen understand how
delicate an instrument the destroyer is.

A service so hazardous, demanding as it does such qualities as the
ability to make instantaneous decisions and powers of mental and physical
endurance, a service so irresistibly attractive to the young and
adventurous, produces a type of officer quite unmistakable. The day I
arrived in London from France, seeking a characteristically English meal,
I went to Simpson's in the Strand, where I found myself seated by the
side of two very junior officers of the British navy. It appeared that
they were celebrating what was left of a precious leave. At a
neighbouring table they spied two of our officers, almost equally
youthful. "Let's have 'em over," suggested one of the Britishers; and
they were "had" over; he raised his glass. "Here's how--as you say in
America!" he exclaimed. "You destroyer chaps are certainly top hole."
And then he added, with a blush, "I say, I hope you don't think I'm
cheeking you!"

I saw them afloat, I saw them coming ashore in that Irish port,