Somehow the war had seemed more important!
The deck is a struggling mass of complacent Americans. The Japanese are so small as to be overlooked. I am the only Britisher.
The Yankees survey our greyhound cruisers through their lorgnettes with disrespectful enthusiasm and guess they’re “just sweet.” They are enjoying the war with a delightful air of detachment. I envy them. Even the thought of mines does not disturb their equanimity. American subjects exploded by a mine. Impossible!
We arrive at Folkestone. Passports must be shown. Well-dressed Americans crowd the companion-ways into the saloon. Men and women, dressing-cases, floating veils. In between lurk the Japanese like faithful little dogs. Meekly I wait last.
A stentorian voice roars out from the saloon.
“British subjects first.” My paltry triumph comes. I step briskly forward and lay my passport before the purser’s critical eyes.
A moment later I fall ashore, almost into the arms of a stalwart British bobby. Dear sweet soul. I could have kissed him.
London again. A hot bath, a good meal, a deep, sound sleep to the hum of Piccadilly traffic, and I am ready to help. War is barbarous, horrible, but there is a sturdy realism about it which is lacking in our slug-slim, civilised life.
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH