uth still open, and his
round nose wrinkled up with an expression of discomfort. But he made
no move to accept my invitation.

I unrolled my kit on the deck by the side of a long row of officers
who were already comfortably settled for the night. On either side of
each officer were his war kit and a life-belt.

I got into my sleeping-bag, and not feeling very sleepy, I lit a
cigarette and looked upon my surroundings.

The scene was a very inspiring one, and I could not help dreaming of
the future. What had destiny in store for us? Who would return in
glory? And who would be called upon to pay the great price--to come
back bleeding and disabled, dependent for future existence upon the
benevolence of a nation's gratitude?

The ship sped onward, carrying its human freight. Greater and greater
grew the distance from loved ones left behind. Nearer and nearer we
sped towards the unknown future.

How many of those lying around, silent companions of their thoughts,
were thinking the same as I?

What was the future? Horror, anxiety, success, failure, mutilation,
death; which was it to be? And what a change this was to the times we
had had in the past.

We were all civilian soldiers: lawyers, merchants, bankers, and
tradesmen. Fighting was not our profession nor desire.

Whose power was it to transform these lives so ruthlessly from the
habits of peace to become instruments of war? Whose was the hand which
plucked us from homes and families, to hurl us into the caldron of
hell? Was it the ambition of a nation, guided by the despotic
direction of a tyrant?

We knew it and believed it. We could not remain idle to see our homes
and families suffering the destruction and barbarities inflicted on
Belgium. The fire of hell blazed by the petrol of German fury must not
be wafted in the direction of our beloved country.

The call had been answered, and these silent forms of England's sons
were speeding through the night in the direction of danger, at the
bidding of a nation in peril.

My cigarette was finished, and I was becoming sleepy. I turned over to
settle myself comfortably, and turning my eyes in the direction of the
companionway, I saw the tubby figure of an officer standing near the
rail, immaculately dressed, and in strange contrast to his
surroundings.

It was Septimus D'Arcy, immaculate and indifferent. Septimus was at
war; but Septimus was still in Bond Street.

CHAPTER V

GOING UP THE LINE

PERFID