"We invite questions and suggestions from our men," said one of the
officers to the correspondent. "We want them to feel that no one is ever
too old to learn."
The seamen sleep on berths suspended from the steel walls of the
destroyers, berths which, when not in use, can be closed very much after
the manner of a folding bed. When "submarined" crews are rescued the
sailors willingly give up their comfortable berths and do everything
else in their power to make the shipwrecked mariners comfortable. The
men receive their mail from home uncensored. It arrives about every ten
days in bags sealed in the United States. Their own letters, however,
are censored, not only by an officer aboard ship, but by a British
censor. However, there has been little or no complaint by the men on the
ground of being unable to say what they wish to their loved ones.
"The men," wrote an officer recently, "look upon submarine-hunting as a
great game. The only time they are discontented is when a situation
which looks like an approaching fight resolves itself into nothing. The
seas of the war zone are, of course, filled with all sorts of flotsam
and jetsam, and very often that which appears to be a periscope is
nothing of the sort. But when a real one comes--then the men accept it
as a reward."
In view of all that has been said thus far and remains to be said
concerning the submarine, it might be well to digress for a moment and
devote the remainder of this chapter to a consideration of the undersea
fighter, its genesis, what it now is, and what it has accomplished.
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