tuart navy, and used for over two and
a half centuries as the university of the Senior Service, the Royal
Naval College, Greenwich, is a building with an historic past. It has
housed, fed and taught many of England's most illustrious sailors.

It was to cabin and lecture hall in this fine old building that officers
of the new navy went to complete their knowledge of navigation and
kindred subjects when their preliminary sea training came to a close.

There is but little romance in a highly specialised course of study
designed to enable the recipients to find their way with safety, both in
sunshine and storm, over the vast water surface of the world. To
describe here the subjects taught would only be wearisome and
uninteresting. Sufficient to say that the course was a most
comprehensive one and admirably arranged by masters of the mariner's
art. If any fault can be found it is certainly not one of paucity of
information, and the proof of its efficacy can be found in the fact
that, so far as the author knows, there was not a single ship,
afterwards commanded by officers who underwent this training, lost
through insufficient knowledge of the art of navigation.

The days spent in the Naval College were fully occupied by attendance at
lectures and the evenings in private study and the preparation of
elaborate notes and sketches for the final passing-out examination.
There was one moment of each day which was rendered historic by old
custom. It came at the conclusion of dinner in the big white hall, when
the officer whose turn it happened to be rose to his feet and gave the
toast of the navy--"Gentlemen, the King!"

It was in the grounds of this college that many officers saw their first
zeppelin raid. On one occasion it occurred late in the fourth week of
the course. Nearly all were in their respective studies, surrounded by a
mass of papers, charts, drawing instruments and books, making the last
determined attack on various knotty problems previous to the final
examination.

Ten P.M. had just been registered by the electric clocks in the famous
observatory overlooking the college, when the sound of running feet came
down the long corridors. A stentorian voice shouted: "All lights out!"

In a moment the whole building, with its labyrinth of corridors, was
plunged into Ethiopian darkness. Doors were opened and a jostling crowd
of men groped their way down passages and stone staircases into the
grounds. Here the Admiral