CROSSING THE CHANNEL
THE DOCK PORTER. A WHIFF OF BOND STREET
Arriving at the dock we reported to the embarkation officer, and were
given a pass to leave the dock, but bearing the strict injunction that
we must embark at 6 P.M.
When you cross to France for the first time you are so nervous about
missing the boat and running the risk of a court-martial, or some
other such dreadful suggestion, that you hardly dare to leave the dock
gates, and you are certainly waiting at the gang-plank a full fifteen
minutes before the appointed time.
But those who are no longer novices to the mysterious calculation of
those who regulate our army traffic, would, on receiving such
instruction, immediately repair to the best hotel, there to regale
themselves in a glorified afternoon tea, and afterwards seat
themselves in the front row at the local Empire; subsequently rolling
up at the ship's side shortly after 9 o'clock, to find that the
troop-ship is not due to sail for another hour at least.
Having enjoyed all the pleasure of such disregard to orders, and
arriving in due course at the ship's side, I searched around for my
baggage and for means of getting it on board. I had not far to look,
for there were a number of soldiers standing about, whose evident duty
it was to do the necessary fatigue work.
I call them soldiers because they were dressed in khaki; but the
King's uniform could not disguise the fact that they were the old-time
dock porters. There is something about the earnest, anxious look of
the dock porter, as he tenders you his services, which even the
martial cut of a military uniform cannot hide. His adopted profession
in peace, inscribed so deeply in his face and bearing, cannot be
hidden so easily by the curtain of war.
A lance corporal approached me, and, assuring me that nothing would go
astray that was left in his charge, slung my kit over his shoulder
with professional skill and followed me up the gang-plank, placing my
belongings carefully down in what may once have been the cabin of the
ship. He crossed his legs, leaned heavily with one arm on my baggage,
and tipping his cap on the back of his head to enable me to see the
exact amount of perspiration upon his forehead, and breathing heavily,
so that I might form an exact estimate of the fatigue he had
undergone, he waited in hopeful expectancy.
I gave him a tip.
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, shimmering pathway
across the water.
All lights on board the troop-ship were extinguished, and with black
smoke belching from the funnels, and the vibrations of the engines
trembling through the ship, we made our dash across the Channel.
Who but those whose duty it is to perform the arduous task of
protecting our troop-ships 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 embarrassment, 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-ships 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 gratitude?
The ship 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
hell? 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 hell 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.