On the right of the British line Part 2

It is against all regulations to tip a soldier; but it seemed such a natural thing to do, for his khaki uniform could not hide the habit of years.

He did not salute, but touched his cap. I smiled to myself as I watched him depart. He was a soldier now; but the uniform could not disguise the fact that he was still a dock porter.

We had a splendid crossing, and I shall not readily forget the romantic atmosphere of that night.

The sea was calm, and a full moon cast a silvery, s.h.i.+mmering pathway across the water.

All lights on board the troop-s.h.i.+p were extinguished, and with black smoke belching from the funnels, and the vibrations of the engines trembling through the s.h.i.+p, we made our dash across the Channel.

Who but those whose duty it is to perform the arduous task of protecting our troop-s.h.i.+ps can understand and appreciate what it means to live the life of the sailor on those comfortless-looking destroyers.

Night after night, week after week, throughout the years, tearing frantically up and down, seeking a hidden foe; daring the treacherous mines; safeguarding their trust with apparent disregard for their own safety.

The men who perform such duties are hidden heroes; and the safe transportation of our fighting millions across the seas is a silent tribute of their bravery.

This work goes on, and will go on until the end of the war, and the men who perform this great task do so with the knowledge that only failure can bring their names before the public.

I met many old friends on board, and several new ones. But one man in particular attracted my attention, for his appearance seemed so strangely out of place with the surroundings.

Standing near the companionway, and looking upon the scene with a bored expression, was a young man in the thirties, in a brand-new uniform, with a single star on his shoulder-strap, which proclaimed him to the world as a second lieutenant.

He was rather tubby in appearance, with a round, chubby face, which was screwed up in a frantic effort to retain within its grasp a monocle, through which he viewed his fellow beings in mute astonishment; and what is more, he wore new kid gloves. It was Septimus D'Arcy, dressed in immaculate neatness, radiating the atmosphere of Bond Street; indifferent to everybody, yet with a horrified look of discomfort at finding himself in such unusual surroundings.

I had hardly turned from the strange scene when Collins caught hold of my arm.

"Come over here; I want to introduce you to a friend of mine, who, I believe, is coming out to be attached to us," he said.

We walked along the deck, and, to my embarra.s.sment, a few moments later I found myself shaking the limp paw of Septimus D'Arcy, glove and all.

I am not quite sure that Septimus, on my introduction, did anything more than open his mouth, while I raised and lowered his right forearm. Septimus would have spoken, I am quite sure, as the movement of his mouth indicated that such was his intention; although the expression, or rather lack of expression, on his face, bore no proof that his remarks, if uttered, would be very interesting. In fact, Septimus needed encouragement.

"We are having a very pleasant crossing," I ventured.

"Ye-s," he drawled, "but a demned overcrowded one--what?"

"I suppose so, but troop-s.h.i.+ps are always overcrowded."

"I say, though, where does one sleep?"

I rather suspected that what Septimus really wanted to know was whether there was such a thing to be had as a private cabin, where he could disrobe his tubby figure in seclusion.

"There seems to be two places to sleep," I replied; "either in the boiler-room or on deck."

"On deck! Rather uncomfortable--what?"

"Well not nearly so uncomfortable as it may be later. I am just going down to get my kit and lay it out on deck," I said. "Hadn't you better get yours, too?"

I went down below, leaving Septimus with his mouth still open, and his round nose wrinkled up with an expression of discomfort. But he made no move to accept my invitation.

I unrolled my kit on the deck by the side of a long row of officers who were already comfortably settled for the night. On either side of each officer were his war kit and a life-belt.

I got into my sleeping-bag, and not feeling very sleepy, I lit a cigarette and looked upon my surroundings.

The scene was a very inspiring one, and I could not help dreaming of the future. What had destiny in store for us? Who would return in glory? And who would be called upon to pay the great price--to come back bleeding and disabled, dependent for future existence upon the benevolence of a nation's grat.i.tude?

The s.h.i.+p sped onward, carrying its human freight. Greater and greater grew the distance from loved ones left behind. Nearer and nearer we sped towards the unknown future.

How many of those lying around, silent companions of their thoughts, were thinking the same as I?

What was the future? Horror, anxiety, success, failure, mutilation, death; which was it to be? And what a change this was to the times we had had in the past.

We were all civilian soldiers: lawyers, merchants, bankers, and tradesmen. Fighting was not our profession nor desire.

Whose power was it to transform these lives so ruthlessly from the habits of peace to become instruments of war? Whose was the hand which plucked us from homes and families, to hurl us into the caldron of h.e.l.l? Was it the ambition of a nation, guided by the despotic direction of a tyrant?

We knew it and believed it. We could not remain idle to see our homes and families suffering the destruction and barbarities inflicted on Belgium. The fire of h.e.l.l blazed by the petrol of German fury must not be wafted in the direction of our beloved country.

The call had been answered, and these silent forms of England's sons were speeding through the night in the direction of danger, at the bidding of a nation in peril.

My cigarette was finished, and I was becoming sleepy. I turned over to settle myself comfortably, and turning my eyes in the direction of the companionway, I saw the tubby figure of an officer standing near the rail, immaculately dressed, and in strange contrast to his surroundings.

It was Septimus D'Arcy, immaculate and indifferent. Septimus was at war; but Septimus was still in Bond Street.

CHAPTER V

GOING UP THE LINE

PERFIDIOUS GANG-PLANKS. D'ARCY STRANDED. GUIDES WHO CANNOT GUIDE. A HEATED ARGUMENT

Next morning we were disturbed early, and rolled up our kits ready for disembarkation.

About 7 A.M. we pulled alongside the wharf, and a light-hearted, jostling crowd struggled for the gang-plank.

I have not yet been able to find out why gang-planks are made so narrow, so that only one person at a time dare undertake the pa.s.sage.

Chaos seemed to prevail. The deck suddenly became a struggling ma.s.s of humanity, struggling, tugging, and dragging at valises and kit bags.

Officers were manfully shouldering their "marching order," and struggling with their valises, hoping that their turn would come to find a footing on the gang-plank.

The gang-plank was long and narrow, bending and squeaking under its burden. There were two gang-planks: one to go down and one to come up.

But we were not sailors, and did not know the system; the inevitable result being that those going up met those coming down, until they became an unwieldy medley of men, baggage, protests, and apologies.

Gang-planks at the best of times appear structures of absurdity. They either appear to be placed at an angle so dangerous that the only safe way of getting ash.o.r.e appears to be to sit down and slide. At other times the gang-plank has an unhappy knack of sagging in a precarious manner as you approach the middle, while a couple of sailors hold desperately on to the end to prevent its slipping off the dock.