Last week, after the sinking of the 5,051-ton British freighter Clement in the South Atlantic, merchant mariners under the Union Jack had a fearful old familiar phrase on their tongues. Red-faced first mates on the British India boats chunkin' to Rangoon, the paler men who dodge growlers on the foggy way to Greenland, big men on the cold Cape haul—all were nervous on the watch and reminiscent at mess because of a capricious, romantic, dangerous ghost that was out kissing British ships again: the German raider.
In that other war, reminisced these veterans,...
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