A fortnight later found us in Warnemünde, awaiting embarkation. We were quartered in the luxurious Naval Flying Corps Barracks, and living on the fat of the land, but chafing and impatient for the old “Blighty” ship. The natives of Warnemünde were obsequiously polite to the Engländer now. I was returning one evening to the Flugplatz when I was overtaken by a kindly-looking old lady.
“Guten Abend, Junger,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “They say you’re leaving tomorrow. I suppose you’re glad you are going home?”
I told her I was.
“My boys will never come again,” she went on sadly, and she told me about her three sons which she had sacrificed for the Fatherland.
“Now the nightmare is over,” she sighed, “and Deutschland liegt unter!”[24]
Finally, as she grasped my hand before turning down another street:
“Tell them to be merciful on us,” she said. “Goodbye, and bon voyage!”
True enough the next day we marched down overloaded with kit and souvenirs to board the ship and bade a final “Auf Wiedersehen” to the Land of Captivity. Happy and excited we greeted the ship as a Goddess of Liberty come to take us to a better land. Laughing and singing were the order and with the unfailing humor of Tommy Atkins as we mounted the gangplank arose the familiar strains of:
“... For this is the end of a Perfect Day.”
The End