“The captain’s in my harbour cabin—what’s left of it. Pretty sulky customer. The rest are forward under guard. They’re more communicative than the last lot and jolly glad to get out of submarines for the rest of the war.”
A gust of laughter floated aft from the forecastle and the sound of men’s voices singing. A door opened somewhere, and the words of the song came plain through the night:
“When you come to the end of a perfect day!”
The Commander smiled as a father smiles on the threshold of his children’s nursery. “That’s the wounded, sir. First lieutenant’s got the rest forward, working cables.” A figure came towards them out of the darkness with bandages glimmering white about his head. He was humming the refrain of the forecastle song, and broke off abruptly as he recognised the two figures by the casing.
“The hospital boat is coming alongside now,” said the stranger. “I’d like to speak to the wounded before they leave the ship.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The other led the way forward, and as they stepped into the dimly-lighted forecastle the singing wavered and died away to a sudden silence. The narrow space was partly blocked by hammocks slung from the beams overhead, and illumined by a few swinging lanterns and candles guttering on the broken mess tables. Evidences of the ordeal the ship had undergone were apparent on all sides in blackened paint-work and ragged shell-holes in the deck and ship’s side. Men sat about smoking and nursing bandaged limbs, or lay motionless with their eyes full of suffering turned towards the new-comers; a few rose unsteadily to their feet, and the stranger motioned them with a gesture to sit down again.
“If England knew,” he said, in his clear, deliberate tones, “England could tell you men what she thinks of you. Unfortunately, I am the only person at present that knows”—he paused and surveyed them in the uncertain light, which, nevertheless, served to illumine the consciousness of victory in each drawn face. “And I’m—proud of you.” They cheered the spare, upright figure as he stood amid the wreckage and pools of water as only men can cheer who have fought a good fight to a clean finish; as the last gust died away feet shuffled on the iron plating behind the speaker, and the stretcher-bearers entered. From farther aft along the upper deck came a hoarse word of command, and the clatter of steel as the unseen prisoners’ escort fixed bayonets. The visitor turned to the Commander and walked slowly aft.
“Now,” he said, “I’ll have your report.”
. . . . .
Half an hour later the visitor departed. At the gangway he paused. “I’ll send my barge back for you,” he said. “You’ll want to get ashore. I sent to tell your wife you were coming in.” He smiled his dour smile. “When did you get your last sleep?”