THE LITTLE SHIPS

I have been particularly impressed with two misconceptions which
have existed, and to some extent still exist, not only in Germany
but in neutral countries. The first is that England lacks
virility, is degenerate, has had her day of greatness; the second,
that in the present war she is continuing what is alleged to have
been her policy in the past, namely, pulling the strings and
reaping the benefit while other nations do the fighting. Through
personal investigation I find these contentions so thoroughly
refuted that to develop the point would be to commence another book
instead of finishing this one.

As I write I can look from my desk in the Alexandra Hotel,
Bridlington, on to the North Sea where it washes the "Frightfulness
Coast," for Bridlington lies between Hull and Scarborough.

I see trawlers fishing and mine-sweeping whenever I raise my eyes
from my writing. Their crews know that they work in the shadow of
death in what they describe in the dock-side taverns as the
greatest sport in the world. Praise of the big ships often causes
us to forget the little ships. I admire the one and reverence the
other. For if the men on the humbler craft could be intimidated,
the doctrine of Frightfulness would be justified by victory.

Intimidation is a favourite weapon of the people across the Rhine.
I was among them when their airmen dropped bombs on Paris early in
the war. "It is really humane," they said, "for it will frighten
the civilian population into imploring the military to yield to us