GODFATHER!

I am sure you are stunned by the above form of address. However, it’s

not so far wrong. There’s going to be a little conscript--or a little

mamma--for the class of 1937 who will look like me, I hope, and you

are ex-officio godfather. Now, no objections! I heard about it only

the other day on our arrival in Bergen. The letter had been chasing

around after me for two months, but we have rolled about so during that

time--and then, too, the censor held up the letters in Greece--that

it’s a brand-new future papa who sends you this announcement. If you

don’t congratulate me, you are no friend of mine!

That will do for family history. But you know such a thing doesn’t

happen every day in a man’s life. Don’t think I’m bragging because

there’s going to be a little post-card for which I made the design. No,

old man, I’m not trying to come it over you. Just do the same when you

can--and if you can--and we’ll call it square. And if you have the luck

to be the first to see my little beggar, male or female, embrace the

mother and the baby for me. You know that I mean it with all my heart.

It’s so long since I wrote you last, that I can’t remember where I

posted the letter. I believe you were in dry-dock at Bizerta and I was

waiting at Argostoli. If I repeat myself, pass over that part and begin

where I left off.

Here is where we have been: Argostoli, Messina, Ajaccio (but that was

extra as you shall see), Lisbon, Bilbao, Brest, Liverpool, Bergen, and

the Norwegian ports where the _Pamir_ is collecting wood. And we’ve

wasted no time either at sea or in port, as you will find. This time

our work has been useful, and except for the German blockade which

catches us in Norway, everything is going well. But I will do as

Villiers does when he argues--take one thing at a time!

At Argostoli there were three other merchant-ships which were clearing

at the same time as the _Pamir_, or very nearly, and we were told

to travel together to join a big cruiser west of Cerigo in order to

make up a convoy with other boats which the cruiser had collected

at Salonica, Salamis, and elsewhere. There was one destroyer, the

_Revolver_, to escort the lot of us. As you might guess, the convoy

was composed of hookers, of which some made eight knots and others

fourteen, and as we all met towards night, the next morning some were

lost over the horizon ahead and others behind. We managed as best we

could and followed the secret route. Near morning of the second day,

the cruiser hoisted a lot of signals to tell us to head south because

a submarine had been at work on the secret route during the night.

So we all stampeded for the south, the fastest ahead, the lumberers

behind, and the _Pamir_ well in the middle. It was worth paying for to

see that obstacle race! The cruiser had orders to call at Messina or

somewhere along that coast, but neglected to tell us, so she collected

us somehow or other and conducted us into the Straits of Messina where

we found ourselves all in a bunch about noon. And if there had been a

submarine looking on, she couldn’t have missed us any more than she

could have missed an elephant in a window. There the cruiser and the

destroyer signalled good-bye and ordered us to follow the secret route

as far as Marseilles from where each should proceed to his destination

along the secret routes. But as there was no police, the fast boats

put on speed, the others dragged, and on arriving before Bonifacio,

the _Pamir_ had no one in sight but a big steamer which disappeared

off the horizon ahead that night. We kept on all night and the next

morning what did Fourgues see? The same big steamer disabled, having

received a torpedo in the rudder and screw, and asking to be towed. As

she had a gun, Fourgues thought she must have peppered the submarine,

which had probably hooked it to wait for the others who were coming

along the same course. The submarine had perhaps missed us by an hour

or an hour and a half at most, but we saw nothing of her while we were

over-hauling the steamer _Sainte Eulalie_, nor while we were towing her

into Ajaccio. It wasn’t easy to pass the tow-rope, for there was still

a touch of mistral about and the _Sainte Eulalie_ had broached to. One

of our men had his hand smashed by the first hawser, which broke. The

second held, and the _Pamir_ towed the cripple to Ajaccio at five knots

speed. There we unloaded our wounded man. The convoy being dispersed,

there was no need to go to Marseilles, so Fourgues lit out straight for

Lisbon, where he had been told to call at Argostoli, but he permitted

himself the luxury of sailing outside the secret route. When I say

outside, I mean about fifty miles off, except at Gibraltar, where, of

course, everybody has to pass. But if the Navy can’t guard Gibraltar,

there’s nothing to do but pull up the ladder and order the funeral

wreath.

Fourgues said that voyages at sea were beginning to offer a little too

much variety for him to follow secret routes, and as long as he was

not absolutely forced to do so, he would look a little farther and

avoid submarines. So he struck the Spanish coast a little south of the

Balearic Isles and we hugged it as far as Lisbon.

He said that, perhaps, it made him lose a day, but that there is less

danger near the coast, for if you are torpedoed, you may have time

to beach the ship and save it later, or, at any rate, the crew and

lifeboats are almost sure to be saved, having only to row a bit to

reach land. Fourgues added that this ought to be the general rule.

At Lisbon we coaled, and the _Pamir_ took the stuff the Portuguese Navy

gave us for the Expeditionary Corps Portugal is forming in France. We

were well received in Lisbon--not as in other Allied countries, where

people are jolly lukewarm. The Portuguese are all out. They aren’t rich

and their army is not huge, but all they ask for is to have a smack at

the Germans and bash them in, which ought to be the ideal of all the

Allies, instead of going in for shady diplomacy like some.

We filled only our aft hold at Lisbon with Portuguese war-material,

going on to Bilbao to stuff the forward hold with steel. We fairly

rushed it in. The Spanish--I mean the Spanish ship-owners--have begun

to hang fire a bit about shipping us ore; for they say the Boches

are going to send all ships to the bottom, and Spain doesn’t want to

lose her fleet. So they ask enormous prices, and that means endless

bargaining, while the ore piles up on the docks. That’s why the _Pamir_

loaded so fast.

I’m writing this as quickly as I can because I want to get to what

we’re at now and the Norwegian rumours, and the mail-boat leaves the

day after to-morrow. We lit out for Brest where the _Pamir_ left the

Portuguese stuff and the Spanish metal. During the passage we sailed

near a wreck, or rather fifty bits of wreck--wood, logs, buoys,

etc.--scattered over half-a-mile of the sea. Fourgues made us search

all the afternoon to see if we could find a raft or the lifeboats of

the torpedoed ship. But it must have been as it was with the _Suffren_,

which left nothing but her absence as proof of shipwreck. We were

unsuccessful. When you come upon a tragedy like that and tell yourself

that your turn may come, perhaps in a quarter of an hour--well, you are

not so chirpy about the success of our Naval strategy as they are in

Paris.

When they had emptied out our stuff at Brest, the _Pamir_ waited a day

at the outside and was sent to Norway to look for wood in the shape

of planks and joists. I guess there aren’t any boats to spare now,

although the papers say that there are a hundred thousand arrivals and

departures each week and that the submarine war has proved a fiasco for

the Boches. At the beginning of the war they never minded letting the

_Pamir_ slack it in port for eight or ten days. But now we’re on the

go all the time. All the other fellows we have seen are hard at it,

too. It will go on as long as it can and then, at some given moment,

the whole show will stop. And then they’ll begin to cut down the food

and coal of the country a bit, and then a bit more, and a bit more

still, while we shall continue to be sent to the bottom. If this would

open their eyes at home to the importance of the Merchant Service and

the need of giving it protection, that would be something! But you’ll

see they’ll make the people swallow some fresh lie! France is not a

maritime country and will always let herself be humbugged about the

sea. But I am anticipating and talking as though the Boche blockade

had already been declared at that time, whereas it has only come about

since we reached Norway.

So then, we left Brest. We were ordered to sail by way of the Irish

Channel, an old acquaintance of ours since the war. In the English

Channel, about ten o’clock in the morning, straight ahead of the

_Pamir_ I saw a mine which must have become detached from the bottom

and which was drifting like a dam’ log. If this had happened at night,

old man, I should not be writing to you nor would any of the rest on

board, because it was enough to blow up four _Pamirs_ put together. I

put the helm over. We looked at the mine and admired it and that was

all. No gun to send it to the bottom! No wireless with which to inform

the authorities at Liverpool of the existence of said mine! But as

we had to take aboard some “spares” at Birkenhead we anchored in the

Mersey.

Unfortunately, Fourgues telegraphed the owner that he was in Liverpool,

and the owner, who never loses a chance to feather his nest, answered

that he must wait forty-eight hours in order to take freight that was

urgently needed in Norway. This feverishly awaited freight, old man,

was wagon-loads and mountains of sugar, preserves, and jams. It seems

that in Norway they aren’t afraid to buy things that are worth their

weight in gold in France. If you want my opinion, I will say that thin

Norwegians won’t get any stouter on that cargo. Farther south there are

gaping mouths and it’s for them we shall have worked! You can fool some

people _all_ the time! The Allies’ blockade is like a net with broken

meshes, here just as in Greece and other places. But that’s another

story.

During the crossing from Liverpool to Bergen--which I recommend if you

like gymnastics, for we never for one moment ceased rolling like the

very deuce--Villiers amused himself making calculations according to

the ship’s log to see how many miles the _Pamir_ has travelled and how

much merchandise she has transported during the thirty months of war.

He found that we have been round the world three and a half times and

carried between eighty and a hundred million tons of stuff! We might

have exceeded the latter figure if we had not made so many voyages in

ballast. But, anyway, such as it is, Fourgues said that the _Pamir_

had done her bit. When you think that the biggest cargo boats can

double and treble that record and that France needs it all, you can

say that the Merchant Service has deserved well of her. Dear old chap,

you know that I am not saying this to brag and make out that we are

wonderful fellows! All that is very well for Mummy’s darlings who have

their photographs taken to put in the papers or for the old buffers

who spread themselves in the pubs in Paris. You know the sort who do

as little as they can and make the most of it. But we who trudge up

and down the earth and carry on without anyone knowing anything about

it and who get more kicks than half-pence, without counting torpedoes

and mines--and not more than eight days’ leave in port--I wonder what

the Allies would have done if we hadn’t been there, right on the job

and with our mouths shut? After this if the French people do not come

to understand what the Merchant Service represents, all I can say is,

their brains need a surgical operation, and there’s nothing for it but

to let all our ships rip, and take to agriculture instead. Look at it

any way you like: France needs the whole world to help her if she is to

win the war, and as there are no railroads to Australia or Argentine or

the United States, or to any of the countries which furnish us with raw

material, she’d be in the soup without the Merchant Service. But a fat

lot she cares about us. There’s no fear of anyone in Paris bothering,

and we shall keep on just the same while those gentlemen go right on

hypnotising themselves, some with words and the others with bank-notes

enough to burst their pockets.

At Bergen we emptied out the grub destined for the Boches, and I have

the honour to inform you that our men smashed just as many cases

as possible, firing them out on to the wharf. The owner will lose

nothing by it, though, for you may be perfectly sure that he took

all precautions; but at least there’s that much less for the Boches

to cram into their bellies. And while the _Pamir_ was in Bergen,

news came of the submarine war which the Boches are going to carry

on mercilessly--blockade, forbidden zones, no warnings, and all the

rest of it. Of course, nobody on the _Pamir_ was a bit surprised by

this business which makes all the Allied big bugs and the papers yell

so. We and all the fellows who blow around at sea, and hear the talk

everywhere, have felt the storm coming for ever so long. Only, as we

aren’t officials, of course, we must have been mistaken! Well, the bomb

has burst! Who is going to suffer? First, the ships that go sailing by;

and then France, who will have to draw in her belt. What will they be

in for at home in the way of high prices for coal, flour, butter, and

the rest?

We who are used to transporting all that sort of thing, know what

such a catastrophe means. But the dear public that buys at the corner

grocery, and believes those things come there of themselves like the

rain and the air they breathe, will be somewhat annoyed. Of course,

they won’t be told how it came about, and they won’t know they are

paying double or treble the former prices because ships go down at

sea. As usual, they will have a lot of rotten reasons dished up for

them, because it’s forbidden to give the real reason for anything. All

the same, the Censor can’t prohibit the cutting-off of the gas, the

electricity, the railroads, the restaurants, and everything that makes

life comfy. For you may be sure the Boches aren’t going to do things

by halves. Here, where we’re near them, people have information, and

we have picked up a good deal at Bergen and Christiansund, where I

am writing while our planks and joists are being loaded. It’s a good

thing that the _Pamir_ is here to take the wood, for all the Norwegian

boats have orders to lie low wherever they may be without stirring, on

account of the blockade, and I beg you to believe there are millions

of tons of building timber held up. Whatever will they do? It was

short already! The worst is that the Dutch, the Spanish, and the other

neutrals are also going to suspend their traffic because they aren’t

keen either about losing their ships. Well, the _Pamir_ will have from

three thousand to thirty-two hundred tons of wood which will serve to

build the barracks of the _poilus_, railways, and pit-props for at

least one Army Corps. This is at least as useful as shells and coal and

we are pleased with our cargo.

To return to the information we have gathered here, it seems that

things are boiling in Russia. A lot of people think that at Petrograd

and other places up there they’re about fed up with Hun influence. The

Germans are putting spokes in their wheels even at Court and in the

Imperial family itself. Some say that it can end only by a separate

peace or a Revolution. In fact, matters look pretty dark in the opinion

of those who have been there.

In Germany they talk of nothing but the submarines, and the public

expect wonders. The Norwegians say that the Germans have been turning

out several submarines a week for the last few months and that there

are many mine-sowers among them. So, as you can believe the Boches

will keep their word, navigation is going to be the devil and we shall

be blown up without knowing why or how. The _Pamir_ is nicely fixed

for the first voyage after the blockade. She has to sail the entire

length of the forbidden zone and our sort of patrol will be little

protection. That has not changed at all in thirty months of war! But

Fourgues says the Allies are rich enough to pretend that they can stand

for it. Let a thousand or five thousand tons a month be sunk and still

they will state in the papers that it’s all humbug, he says. But in

the end the public will pay. Whether we get copped or not is of no

importance at all. All that we shall have for our funeral oration will

be silence everywhere. But this is nonsense. I am going to the movies

to-night with Villiers, who is standing me a treat in honour of my

paternity. We shall dine ashore. In three days we shall get under way

for an Atlantic port which is not yet fixed. What luck if it were La

Rochelle or Saint-Nazaire! I could go and embrace the little mother.

Well, who lives, learns! Sailors were not meant to be with their

families, and as the proverb says, “Sailor’s bride, sorrow’s bride!” I

am sending you my photograph which I had taken at Bergen and which I am

also sending to my wife so that she can look at me while she is waiting

for the baby. You will see that I am well and that the war agrees with

me. You know that I mean what I have written on the photo. Good luck,

old friend, and here’s till we meet again.

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