At six o’clock the M.L.O. comes on board again, and after arranging for our departure, casually mentions that he had heard that “W” Beach was heavily shelled last night. He almost licked his lips as he spoke. He had never even heard a gun fired himself. An R.N.D. officer tells me that he has a great desire to chuck the M.L.O. overboard. This officer is quite an interesting person; went to France in the early part of the war in the R.F.C., had a spill which laid him up for six months, and now is in charge of a Machine Gun Section in the R.N.D.
We get on board a small steamer, Whitby Abbey, and sail over to the Aragon, the L. of C. Headquarters boat. A very nice boat, the Aragon, fitted out with every luxury.
At eight we push off, loaded to the boat’s limit with troops, mailbags, watercarts, sand-bags, and ammunition.
We pass through the host of transports and warships that now crowd the harbour of Mudros. As we pass each warship the sailors come running to the sides and cheer and cheer. Shouts of “Are we downhearted?” etc., freely pass between us, and this inspiring demonstration is repeated enthusiastically as we pass each great ship of war. It is very nice of them. I think they feel it a bit, being bottled up at Mudros. But it is all right; we shall win, even if the war lasts ten years. Stick at your training, you British Boy Scouts!
We leave the hills of Lemnos, as we did on that memorable evening of April 24th, three months ago, just as it is getting dusk, the sun quickly setting in the sea. A full moon rises, and on a calm sea we steam north.
They provide some food for us on board, bully beef and bread, and later we lie about and try to sleep.
A very nice R.N.R. officer on board stands me a drink.
Curiously enough, I came away from the Peninsula on this boat on July 3rd, and the same man stood me a drink, though he had forgotten. I suppose he regularly stands a drink to all officers coming and going.
At twelve midnight he is called up on deck, and I go too and find that land is showing dimly in front. Dark, depressing, mysterious land of adventure, heroism, and death, and a chill feeling runs through me. It is the reaction after having a good time in Alexandria, playing soldiers with the little Italian boys and my little cropped-haired Russian Cossack and their pretty French governess. Oh, that little French governess!
The officers and men crowd to the upper deck and bows, and strain their eyes to the black outline in front. The starlights are sailing up and down in the dark background, from the Ægean to the Straits. A distant shriek is heard, followed immediately by another, and two quick flashes burst over the beach in front, followed by two sharp reports, “c-r-r-u-m-p,” and the young R.N.A.S. officers, who have been training for months, at last are within short measurement of the real game of modern warfare.