THERE’S a beauty in the bellow of the blast; there’s a grandeur in the growling of the gale.” So runs a part of the historic operetta “Mikado,” and to nothing does this quotation more strictly apply than to the modem man-o’-war. A 32,000-ton superdreadnought may be but a mass of guns and steel to many a layman, but to the Navy man who knows her and lives on her, she is a distinct personality; and few pictures in the Louvre, few pieces of sculpture from ancient Greece, will, in his mind, surpass her in beauty. Warships have definite characters, to the initiated, and it is the purpose of the writer to suggest impressions he has received from the outward appearances of typical modern ships of war.
First, to our own Navy. During the first years of the twentieth century, American naval design was characterized by extreme and almost naïve simplicity—in keeping perhaps, with our impression of what a navy should be—a line of defense built solely to our own needs, open to the public, and there for the world to see. No ships more clearly envisioned this spirit than did the Texas and the New York as they came into service in their original dress back in 1912—less powerful, perhaps, than today, but more pleasing to the eye. Here are dreadnaughts perfectly proportioned, beautiful in their simplicity, noble in the contour of their lines. No tricks or subtleties of design are in evidence—no broken decks, no turrets on the side or in echelon, no staggered stacks or masts.
The big dreadnoughts in our fleet today are of a different type—more expressive of post-war America. The sisters of the Colorado and California classes, as electric as radio receiving sets, exemplify to an extreme American specialization. Their stacks so mysteriously small, their derricks so much in evidence, their compact basket masts, their pointed clipper bows—and especially the complication of conning towers and bridges that house the brains of these ships—all carry out the idea of electric efficiency. Better get tangled in the highest of high-tension wires than come in contact with the U.S.S. Colorado.
Recent British capital ships have reflected two distinctly English traits—bold sportsmanship and the proverbial bulldog tenacity. The first is apparent in the battle cruisers that fought at Jutland and in the emergency war-program battle cruisers that followed them—excepting the Hood. These are ships which look far from formidable, not being heavily gunned for their size and possessing so little freeboard. But they have a brave, “cap-on-the-side-of-the-head” look about them, as if they were ready to rush into battle at all times, though the enemy be twice their size.
The Royal Sovereigns and Queen Elizabeths are the expressions of the other extreme—bulldog tenacity—solid, invulnerable in appearance—looking far more compact than our Colorados, though the lengths are approximately the same—looking far more heavily armored, though indeed they are less so. The stiff prows, the inbuilt appearance of the secondary batteries, the turrets backed up to the solid superstructure amidships, and, in the Queen Elisabeths, the trunking of the fore funnel—all conspire to give this impression. Resolution, one of the Royal Sovereigns is named—and rightly so.
What of the Rodney and Nelson? Surely these two great ships, so widely regarded as the world’s most powerful, must reflect their enormous strength in their outward aspect. To the writer they do not, excepting as floating forts, gigantic monitors. The insignificant stack, the smooth row of ports on the side give little evidence of the deep main armored belt and the bomb-proof protected decks; and the general awkward appearance gives still less indication of the 45,000-horsepower plus and the twenty-three knots.
In passing, perhaps no vessels in the British Navy possess more distinct or more pleasing personalities than the small “C,” "D,” and “E” cruisers. Sleek, graceful, spirited, with their 6-inch superimposed turrets fore and aft, and their stacks and masts at a rakish slant, these vessels are the personification of pluckish contempt.
Japanese men-o’-war have in the past exhibited less pronounced individualities than vessels of other great powers, due in great part to their being inspired by British design. In late years the order has changed. The mighty Mutsu, longest of all dreadnoughts, is unquestionably Japanese, with her curved fore stack, snub bow, and colossal heptapodal foremast with its maze of tops and bridges. But as orientally different as a rickshaw itself are the cruisers Kako and Furutaka, with fiendishly slanting decks, truncated funnels almost leaning back on themselves, trawler bows curved forward, conning towers not unlike lighthouses, and single 8-inch gun turrets on the center line so numerous that they resemble flights of steps. And equally Far Eastern are the new Kinugasas and the remarkable little Yubari.
French naval construction, which came to a standstill during the World War, is again on the increase, and the new vessels from the boards of France’s naval architects reflect the spirit of this rapidly recuperating nation. There is a dash to the Duquesne and the Duguay-Trouin classes indescribably French, and the new destroyers and destroyer leaders, with their slanting sterns, clipper bows, and rakish stacks, are the personification of speed, as contrasted with strength.
Finally no discussion of warship personality would be complete without mention of the German Imperial Navy of 1917. Few men-o’-war of modern times have been as romantic in appearance—as “distinctively different.” A lighter grey paint, a generally lower freeboard, and tall, thin masts did much to produce this impression. Smaller than contemporary vessels in other navies, the German dreadnoughts, but more especially the high-seas battle cruisers, gave the impression that they were the work of super-designers—experts who knew what they were doing—and how to do it. The German destroyers, with their deep forecastles, carried out this impression, an impression which reached its climax, however, in the German submarine. Compared to the German U-boat of 1916, American “S” boats and British “L” boats look frail and unconvincing indeed. With its big rounded deck, its snugly rigged wireless equipment, and its twin guns next to the low conning tower trained fore and aft, the German U-boat looked able, seagoing, and efficient—in every sense of the term. And the new 6,000-ton cruisers of the German Republic, with their unique foremasts, absence of mainmasts, broken decks, and novel bridge and conning tower placement, reflect the impression of precision and efficiency so typical of pre-war German naval construction.