THE GREAT SURRENDER
"Supposing the Huns won't sign," remarked Wakefield, somewhat wistfully.
"They will," said Meredith reassuringly. "We've got them cold—absolutely."
"And the sooner the better," added Jock McIntosh. "It was a close thing to say who would be fed up first—Fritz or us. Fritz did win that, but by a short length."
"You are speaking for yourself, my lad," said Wakefield. "You can see your release in sight, but I'll bet you'll be wishing yourself back again before you're out six months."
It was the morning of the memorable 11th day of November. The three M.L. skippers, just back from patrol, had foregathered in the ward-room of No. 1497 during the period known as "stand easy."
The M.L.'s were lying in a fairly sheltered creek—one of the numerous indentations of Scapa Flow. Beyond a neck of rocky ground could be discerned a forest of tripod masts and lofty funnels, marking the war-time anchorage of the most powerful fleet that the world has yet seen.
"You are a bit far-seeing, my festive," remarked Meredith.
"I am," admitted Wakefield. "After four years of it, are we going to settle down to a humdrum life, rubbing shoulders with those blighters who stayed at home and made pots of money out of the Empire's days of supreme trial? Can you imagine yourself, Meredith, on the beach with all your kit, demobbed and with nothing to do? It'll come to that. The Government were jolly glad to get hold of us, and when the war is over it'll be a case of 'Thank you and get out.' There will be thousands of young fellows, used to command and innured to peril, who will be literally on their beam ends, because they never had the chance of completing their peace-time education."
"There's the sea behind us," suggested Meredith.