"Good old Padre!" they shouted, and then silence fell upon the crowd. Someone struck a match, and held it so that the feeble glimmer shone upon his face. It was the C.O.
"File out in an orderly manner, lads," he ordered. "Fall in on the upper deck. I'll follow you out. We are not going over the top this time; when we do I'll take good care to lead you."
On the upper deck a bugle rang out shrilly. The seamen, assisted by some troops, who, detailed for duty, had not attended the sing-song, were "standing by" ready to lower away the boats.
Rapidly yet without confusion the mess deck was cleared. The first signs of panic nipped in the bud, the men were now as cool as cucumbers.
"How far is it to the nearest land?" enquired one as he ascended the ladder.
"Less'n half a mile underneath your feet," was the grim answer.
True to his word, the Colonel was the last to leave the mess deck. As he emerged into the open air he remarked to the Chaplain: "My word, Padre, heaven forgive you for that lie, but you saved the situation."
Like most of his comrades, Malcolm Carr was under the impression that he would soon have to swim for it, unless he was one of the lucky ones to get told off to the boats. If anyone had suggested that he was afraid, he would have stoutly repudiated the statement; but he was conscious of a peculiar sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. To a man not a sailor by profession the knowledge that only a comparatively thin steel plate, and fractured at that, is between him and death by drowning is apt to be decidedly disconcerting. He had voluntarily contracted to risk his life by fighting the Boche, but to be "downed" without the chance of seeing a shot fired in earnest was hardly playing the game.
"Hallo, Malcolm!"
Carr turned his head and peered into the face of his right-hand man. It was Dick Selwyn.