Travelling on board a troopship is not exactly the acme of comfort for a woman at the best of times, and for anyone in bad health it is distinctly unpleasant, for the decks are so crowded with warriors that instinctively one makes one's way towards the ladies' saloon, only to find, alas! that it serves as the general sleeping compartment for officers. No sooner is the first throb of the engine felt than the water-tight doors are closed, and one is continually running into insurmountable walls.
If, after many efforts, one does attain the ladies' saloon by means of a cicerone to guide one across the masses of inert forms sprawled over the decks, and down various dark passages and narrow iron ladders, it is only to discover that the once cosy saloon has become an excessively close compartment, from which, rather than be drowned like a rat in a trap if a torpedo comes along, it were better to flee to the inclemency of the upper decks.
As we boarded the boat at 10 A.M., however, on this bright February morning, everything promised well. Already the lower decks were crammed with life-belted Tommies. Life belts are the order of the day now, and in many cases there is life-saving practice as well, as a safeguard against any emergency.
All eyes were turned "Blightywards" in anticipation of home, and to check their impatience the men began to sing. The volume of the song swelled to such an extent that it threatened to bring the upper decks down, for the voices were those of men who had earned their leave.
"We must be waiting for some Staff knut," said a subaltern in the crowd, gazing sadly at the guarded gangway, off which no one might pass once their papers had been scrutinised, towards the buffet so temptingly near.
Fragments of conversation were borne in from all sides; some of them savoured of pantomime, others of the pathetic humour of harlequin.
A very temporary "gentleman" second lieutenant leant against the rail twirling an imperceptible moustache. Although he addressed his remarks to a sergeant of the Artists' Rifles on his way home to take up a commission, they were obviously intended for the edification and squashification of the whole audience.
"Will you—er—stick to the Service—er—après la guerre?" he inquired, flicking his muddy boots with his swagger cane. One expected to see him place a monocle in his eye and cap his remarks with a "What—what?" in simulation of the theatrical swell. The sergeant's reply was inaudible, but he was obviously a sahib.
"I—er—expect to—if—er—the Service is still possible. Now one has to hobnob with one's—er—tailor...."