"Party, fall in! Sergeant, march the men aft report to the Second Mate for boat drill. Until you are dismissed you will take your orders from him."
Sergeant Carr saluted, and then devoted his attention to the squad fallen in on the upper deck. They were a set of stalwarts, but without exception were up-country farmers and sheep-shearers before they left New Zealand for the still distant Front. Until they joined the S.S. Awarua at Wellington, very few of them had ever seen a ship's boat.
Transport 99 was forging ahead at a modest 10 or 11 knots. The 21-knot cruiser, although steaming under natural draught, was cutting rings round her charge, as if reproaching her for her tardiness. The wind was abeam and fairly fresh, making the old Awarua roll heavily.
Aft on the port side of the poop stood the Second Mate, a short, bull-necked, burly man, whose attitude, suggested a bored interest in the work in hand. He had the old salt's pitying contempt for "flat-footed landlubbers". Very many times since the outbreak of war had he been called upon to instruct troops in boat drill, and never had he seen any practical result of his labours. The monotony of imparting boat knowledge into the heads of men who possessed not the slightest inclination towards things nautical irritated him. Forgetting that his instruction classes were composed of men who were not seamen, he was apt to give orders without explaining the precise nature of the various terms he employed, and failure on the part of his audience to follow his deep-sea phrases reduced him to a state of profanity.
The boat selected for the drill was a "double-ender" life-boat hanging in the old-fashioned style of davits. The davits were swung inboard, the boat resting on "chocks" or hinged pieces of wood shaped to fit the lower strakes of the boat.
"Now then," began the Second Officer. "In the event of this craft being torpedoed, you men will form the crew of this boat. At a prolonged blast on the syren all hands will come to attention and await orders. At the bugle-call you will throw off coats and boots, put on life-belts--suppose you know by this time how to put 'em on?--and fall in by numbers, facing outboard. We'll take the life-belts for granted."
The men received this part of the instruction without emotion. They had heard it many times before.
"You are bow, and you are stroke," continued the Second Mate, addressing two of the men.
"Stroke the bow-wow, Tommy," whispered a wag in an audible aside. "Now we are getting on. We'll finish up with a bloomin' menagerie."
"Silence, there!" snapped the instructor. "Bow and stroke will jump into the boat, see that the plug is inserted, and hook the falls--four hands to man each of the falls. You," addressing the would-be humorist, "will attend to the gripes----"