ns, form a constant
reminder (if that be needed) of lurking under-water peril. In marked
contrast to less exciting days, when we could afford to disregard
whatever might go on behind us, we place look-outs to face all ways. The
enemy may gamble on our occupation with the view ahead, but, with a new
war wariness, we have grown eyes to search the sea astern.

In the clearing weather we become sensitive to the strict and proper
reading of our sailing orders. There must be no more faults in the
voice-tube to let us down from confidence in our right to a sudden
sense of guilt. We adjust our station in the line by sextant angles of
the leader, measuring his height to fractions, and set an ear to the
note of our engine-beats to ensure a steady gait.

Clearing our motes, we turn a purged and critical eye on our fellows,
now all clear of the mist, and steaming in sight. To far astern, where
the land lies and the sun plays on wet roof and flashing window-pane, a
long line of ships snakes out in procession, their smoke blowing and
curling merrily alee to join the cumulus of the foundering fog-banks.
There are gaps and kinks in our formation that would, perhaps, call for
angry signals in a line of battle, but the laggards are closing up in
hasty order to right the wayward tricks of sound and distance in the
fog. If not quite ruled and ordered to figures of our text, at least we
conform to the spirit, and are all at sea together, steering out on our
ventures.

Our distance run, _British Standard_ puts her helm over and turns out.
Forewarned, all eyes have been focused on the line of her masts, and her
sheer gives signal for a general cut and shuffle. We change partners.
Curtsying to full rudder pressure, we join the dance, and swing to her
measure, adjusting speed to mark time while other important leaders of
columns draw up abeam. The flat bright sea is cut and curved by
thrashing wakes as the convoy turns south. Ahead and abeam, round and
about, the destroyers wheel and turn, fan in graceful formation and
swerve quickly on their patrolling courses.

We are less expert in the figures of our cotillion. It cannot be
pretended that we slip into our convoy stations with anything
approaching their speed and precision. We are too varied in our types,
in turning periods, in the range of our dead-weight, to manoeuvre
alike. Most of us have but a slender margin of speed to draw on, and,
'all bound the same way,' the spurt to an assigned