-1918 it was the ever-present hope of
action that kept the spirits of many a sailorman from sinking below the
Plimsoll line of health.

Sometimes the happenings were grave and at other times gay, but always
they were welcomed eagerly, as providing excitement or change, with
something to talk about in the unknown number of dreary weeks ahead.

An episode of this kind occurred one snowy January night in 1917 on the
quayside of a northern seaport. The commanding officer of one of the
patrol boats in the harbour was going ashore to stay for the night with
some friends. Knowing that his ship was due to proceed to sea early the
following morning, he took the precaution to place a small alarm clock
in the big pocket of his bridge-coat. Groping his way in the darkness
and blinding snow across the gangway leading from the ship to the quay,
he succeeded in reaching the dock wall. Almost instantly he was
challenged by a military sentry on duty and was about to reply when a
loud buzzing noise came from his pocket. He had not thought of
ascertaining at what time the alarm clock had been set for and the
consequences were distinctly unpleasant.

The sentry, hearing the curious buzzing sound coming from the darkness
directly he had given the challenge, and thinking it came from some form
of bomb, lunged smartly with his bayonet at the spot from which the
sound emanated.

Fortunately the officer was near the edge of the dock wall and did not
receive the full effect of the thrust. The bayonet tore his coat and
pushed him violently over the edge into the icy water of the harbour.
His lusty shouts caused searchlights to be turned on and he was rescued
promptly, but the episode, small and unimportant as it was, caused
considerable merriment--except to the principal actor--for many days
afterwards.

All this may sound much like heresy to those who think that naval war
means constant fighting, with all the pomp and circumstance of old-time
battles. There are, it is true, never-to-be-forgotten moments when the
blood surges and pulses beat rapidly, when the months of weary waiting
are atoned for in as many minutes of swift action. Such were Jutland,
Zeebrugge, Heligoland, the Falklands and many an unrecorded fight on
England's sea frontier in the years just past. Such times pass rapidly,
however; they are the milestones of war, leaving the weary leagues
between, in which there is so much that is sordid and even ghastly, as
will be seen fr