VIII
Back in Old “O Say”; I Start Answering Questions
Sunday, September 23. At Sea.
A card on the wall of my stateroom says: “Name of Steward—Ring Once. Name of Stewardess—Ring Twice.” If they’ll give us deck space, we can put on a three Ring circus.
The ship was still in bond when we awoke this morning, and the cheerful rumor floated round that she sometimes remained in harbor a week before securing the Admiralty’s permission to sail. But lifeboat drill was ordered right after breakfast, and Ring Once told me this indicated a speedy departure. My boat is No. 9. It’s a male boat except for one Japanese lady, Mrs. Kajiro Come-here-o, whose husband is also of our select crew.
Our drillmaster advised us to wear plenty of heavy clothes till we were out of the danger zone, advice which it is impossible for me to follow. He said five blasts of the whistle would mean we were attacked. I think, however, that if I hear as many as three I’ll start sauntering toward No. 9.
At noon we felt the throb of the engines, and forty minutes later we were out of bond and able to buy cigarettes.
Before luncheon we were assigned to our permanent seats. Naturally, I am at the captain’s table, with a member of the House of Commons, a member of the House of Lords, a plain English gentleman, a retiring attaché of our embassy in London, his journalistic wife, and M. de M. Hanson of Washington and Peoria, his first name being Mal de Mer.
The talk today has been of nothing but submarines. The superstitious call attention to the fact that with us is a lady who was on the Lusitania when they torpedoed it. To offset that, however, we carry the president’s youngest son-in-law, and surely there must be a limit to boche ruthlessness.
Monday, September 24. At Sea.
Our ship’s cargo consists principally of titles, rumors and celebrities. Most of the titles belong to members of the British Commission which is coming over to talk food to Mr. Hoover. But there is also a regular baroness, round whom the young bloods swarm like bees.
The rumors deal with the course of the ship. Some folks say we are going up Iceland way; others that we are headed straight south; a few that we are taking the Kansas City route, and so on. The sun refuses to come out and tell us the truth, but there’s a shore line in sight on our starboard, and Ring Once tells me it’s the east coast of Ireland. That ought to indicate something about our general direction, but I don’t know what. Of the celebrities, most of them are American journalists and other spies.
Tuesday, September 25. At Sea.
Between eight and nine every morning the bath steward, one Peter James, raps on the door and says: “Your bath is ready, sir.” And you have to get up and go and take it for fear of what he’d think of you if you didn’t. But it’s pretty tough on a man who’s just spent a month in France and formed new habits.
I stayed up all night playing bridge. I wanted to be sleepy today because I needed a hair cut and the best way to take ’em is unconsciously. The scheme was effective, and I didn’t hear a word the barber said.
The three others in the bridge game were members of the British Food Commission. Britishers, I notice, are much slower at bridge than we are. They think a long while before they make a play; then they make the wrong play. I do the same thing with only half the expenditure of thought and time.
Wednesday, September 26. At Sea.
Captain Finch appeared at breakfast this morning. It was the first time he had honored us. His presence at table, I’m told, indicates that we are out of the danger zone.
On board we have a doctor, a D.D., who intends to lecture in America on the war. He happened to be at our table in the lounge this afternoon. Someone asked him if he had visited the front.
“Indeed, yes,” he said. “I was there less than a month ago. The British entertained me and showed me everything. Why, one day they were taking me through the front-line trenches and I asked how far we were from the German front line. ‘Hush, Doctor,’ said one of the officers. ‘The Germans can hear you talking now. They’re only twenty yards away.’ ”
I asked him what part of the front he’d been on. He told me. It was exactly the same front I’d seen. But when I was there—and it was also less than a month ago—the depth of No Man’s Land was two hundred yards, and there weren’t any noncombatants batting round within sixty feet of a boche trench. No, nor a British trench either. I said as much right out loud, and I’m afraid I’ve spoiled his trip.
But honest, Doc, somebody was kidding you or else your last name is Cook.
Thursday, September 27. At Sea.
The sea was calm, the day was fair.
E’en Mal de Mer came up for air.
The voyage is getting sort of tiresome to us Americans. For the British it’s not so bad. Their five meals per day break the monotony. They breakfast from nine to ten, lunch from one to two, tea from four to five, dine from seven to eight, and sup from eleven on. But we can’t stand that pace, and have to waste a lot of time reading.
There is a ship library full of fairly good stuff, but by far the most interesting matter is to be found in a paper published on board every day. Its title is The Ocean Times and the Atlantic Daily News. It contains two pages of news, two pages of editorial causerie, one of them in French, and four pages of real hot
