There are moments in one's life which stand out with sharp definition amid the crowded and more or less blurred memories of the past. Among these I shall ever reckon the breakfast hour, on the morning of April 1st, in the wardroom of the Oklahoma, flagship of the United States North Atlantic fleet, which was at anchor, on that particular day, off Vera Cruz.
The Mexican situation had reached one of its ever-recurring crises, with the result that the army had moved down to the Mexican border and the fleet to this Mexican port.
The conversation in the wardroom mess had been drifting along in a desultory way, when an orderly entered with a request for the presence of the executive officer in the Admiral's cabin. In a few minutes Commander Burnley returned, holding in his hand a wireless message. There
