Chapter VIII

"Not now. Not now. Not yet."

THE last of the Battle Squadrons filed majestically to its appointed anchorage. A snake-like flotilla of Destroyers slid in under the lee of the land and joined the parent ship; wisps of smoke east and west heralded the arrival of far-flung scouts. The great annual War-game was at an end, and the Fleet had met, with rime-encrusted funnels and rust-streaked sides, to talk it over and snatch a breathing space ere returning to their wide sea-beats and patrols. Evening drew on, and the semaphores were busy waving invitations to dinner from ship to ship. Opportunities of meeting friends are none too frequent, and when they occur, are often of the briefest. So no time was lost, and a sort of"General Post"ensued among Wardrooms and Gunrooms.

In the Flagship's Wardroom dinner was over, and a haze of tobacco smoke spread among the shaded lights and glinting plate. Conversation that began with technical discussion had become personal and reminiscent."Do you remember that time . . ."commenced one. His immediate listeners nodded delightedly, and sat with narrowed eyes and retrospective smiles as the narrator continued, twirling the stem of his wine-glass. Well did they recall the story, but it had to be told again for the joy of the telling, while they supplemented with a forgotten name or incident, harking back to the golden yesterday, when the world went very well indeed. The talk swung north to the Bering Sea and south to Table Bay, forging swift links with the past as it went. It would have seemed to a stranger as if the members of a club had met to discuss a common experience. And yet these men were here haphazard from a dozen ships - their club the Seven Seas, and their common experience, life, as it is to be met in the seaports of the world. As chairs were pushed from the table and the evening wore on, fresh greetings sounded on all sides:"Hullo. Old Tubby, as I live! Good Lord! How long is it since ---seven---- nine - my dear soul! It's ten weary years . . ."and so on. They were all young men, too: almost boys, some of them, with eager, excited faces, lean with hard work - worthy sons of the same grey, hard Mother.

Through the skylight came the opening bars of the"Lancers,"and there was a general move on deck. The Gunroom was there already, and, two sets being formed, the dance began. Much it left in point of elegance, it is to be feared, but it was fine strenuous exercise. The last figure was reached, and on completion of the Grand Chain, the two sets linked arms, dashed whooping across the deck, and met in an inextricable heap of arms, legs, crumpled shirt-fronts and mess-jackets.

"Oh, my aunt!"gasped an ex-International, crawling from beneath a mound of assailants, and vainly striving to adjust collar and tie."My last boiled shirt and it's got to last another week!"

Presently every one repaired to the Wardroom, where corks were popping from sodawater bottles, and an amateur humourist of renown sat down to the piano as the laughing crowd gathered round. A couple of bridge-tables were made up, and the players settled down with that complacent indifference to outside distraction peculiar to men who live habitually in crowded surroundings. Seated astride the chairs at one end of the mess, two teams of Would-be polo-players were soon locked in conflict, table-spoons and an orange being accessories to the game.

The singer of comic songs had finished his repertoire, and the Mess turned in search of fresh distraction."Come on, old Mouldy, what about putting up your little turn?"called out one, addressing a grave-faced officer who sat smoking on the settee."Yes,"chorussed half a dozen voices,"go on, do !"The officer addressed as"Mouldy"sat down at the piano, fingered the keys contemplatively for a moment, and then in a deep baritone voice began...

"God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle line,"

and so on to the end of the first verse. The polo-players ceased their horseplay, and leaned panting over the backs of their wooden steeds to listen. The second verse drew to a close�.

"An humble and a contrite cart,"

and then the group round the singer joined in the refrain����

"Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, Lest we forget !"

At the fourth verse the Mess clustered round the piano. The bridge-players had laid their hands down, and at the skylight overhead appeared faces and the glint of uniforms. The Gunroom started the last verse, and the rest joined - men's voices, bass and tenor, lifting the stately words in a great volume of harmony up through the skylight into the night

The last solemn chord died away, and a sudden silence fell upon the Mess: it was some moments before the conversation once more became general. By twos and threes the guests departed. Groups clustered at the gangways; the night was full of farewells and the hooting of picket-boats' syrens. Gradually the Mess emptied, and in the flat where the midshipmen slept silence reigned among the chests and hammocks. The Admiral's guests had also departed, but on the silent quarter-deck two tall figures walked up and down, pipes in mouth.

"I wonder why they sang that thing,"said one musingly. His companion paused and stared across the water at. the lights of the town. From there his gaze travelled round to the silent Fleet, line after line of twinkling anchor-lights and huge hulls looming through the darkness."Somehow, it seemed extraordinarily appropriate, with things as they are ashore just now."

"You mean all these strikes and rioting, class-hatred - this futile discussion about armaments - brawling in Parliament.... 'Lesser breeds without the law' gradually assuming control. . .?"

The other nodded and turned again to the sea; as he moved, a row of miniature decorations on his jacket made a tiny clink."Yes. And meanwhile we go on just the same, talking as little as they will let us just working on our appointed task: holding to our tradition of ' Ready, Aye Ready! ' !

"Our tradition - yes."His companion gave a little grim laugh."D'you know the story of the last Legion left on the Wall ?"he jerked his head towards where the Pole Star hung in the starry heavens."How Rome, sliding into Chaos, withdrew her Legions till only one was left to garrison the Wall. And it was forgotten. Rumours must have reached the fellows in that Legion of what was going on at Home: of blind folly in high places - corruption: defeat. The draggle-tailed Roman Eagle must have been a jest in the marketplaces of the world.

He paused, puffing thoughtfully."You can imagine them,"he continued,"falling back, tower by tower, on the centre: attacked in front and behind and on both flanks by an enemy they despised as barbarians, but who, by sheer force of numbers, must annihilate them in the end - unless Rome rallied. I suppose they could have retreated - or compromised, haggled for their skins. No one would have thought less of them for it in those days. But they had been brought up in all the brave traditions of their Empire . . . . When you think of it, there wasn't much left to fight for, except their proud traditions. And yet they fought to the last . . . while the Roman Empire went fiddling into ruin."

Far away down the line a mast-head lamp flickered a message out of the darkness. The Fleet was resting like a tired giant; but the pin-point of light, and another that answered it on the instant a mile away, showed that its sleep was light."But the end is not yet,"concluded the speaker.

"No,"replied his companion. He made a little gesture with his pipe-stem, embracing the silent battle-array stretching away into the night."Not yet."

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