dren of the world to come
to the grandsires of the world that was. War will smash, pulverise,
sweep into the dustbins of eternity the whole fabric of the old world:
therefore, the firstborn in intellect must die. Is _that_ the reading of
the riddle?

Almighty God, Watchman of the Milky Way, Shepherd of the Golden Stars,
have mercy upon us, smallest of the heavenly Shiners. Our star burns dim
as a corpse light: the huge black chasm of space closes in: if only by
blood ...? Thy Will be done. _En avant_--at all costs--_en avant_!

CHAPTER V

THE LANDING

_24th April, 1915. H.M.S. "Queen Elizabeth." Tenedos._ Boarded the Queen
Lizzie at 1.30 p.m. Anchored off Tenedos just before 4 p.m. Lay outside
the roadstead; close by us is the British Fleet with an Armada of
transports,--all at anchor. As we were closing up to them we spotted a
floating mine which must have been passed touch-and-go during the night
by all those warships and troopships. A good omen surely that not one of
them fell foul of the death that lurks in that ugly, horned devil--not
dead itself, but very much alive, for it answered a shot from one of our
three pounders with the dull roar and spitting of fire and smoke bred
for our benefit by the kindly German Kultur.

I hope I may sleep to-night. I think so. If not, my wakefulness will
wish the clock's hand forward.

_25th April, 1915. H.M.S. "Queen Elizabeth."_ Our _Queen_ chose the cold
grey hour of 4 a.m. to make her war toilette. By 4.15 she had sunk the
lady and put on the man of war. Gone were the gay companions; closed the
tight compartments and stowed away under armour were all her furbelows
and frills. In plain English, our mighty battleship was cleared for
action, and--my mind--that also has now been cleared of its everyday
lumber: and I am ready.

If this is a queer start for me, so it is also for de Robeck. In sea
warfare, the Fleet lies in the grip of its Admiral like a platoon in the
hands of a Subaltern. The Admiral sees; speaks the executive word and
the whole Fleet moves; not, as with us, each Commander carrying out the
order in his own way, but each Captain steaming, firing, retiring to the
letter of the signal. In the Navy the man at the gun, the man at the
helm, the man sending up shells in the hoist has no discretion unless
indeed the gear goes wrong, and he has to use his wits to put it right
again. With us the infantry scout, a boy in his teens perhaps, may have
to decide w