.
With a civility which barely cloaks his air of patronage he demands
way for himself to the ship. His brassard wins him all he asks at
once. On it are the letters "A.M.L.O." He is the Assistant Military
Landing Officer, and for the moment is lord of all, the arbiter of
things more important than life and death. In private life he is
perhaps a banker's clerk or an insurance agent. On the battlefield
his rank entitles him to such consideration only as is due to a
captain. Here he may ignore colonels, may say to a brigadier, "Stop
pushing." He has what all desire, the "Open Sesame" which clears the
way to the ship.

He goes on board, acknowledging with careless grace the salute of one
of the ship's officers. He stands on the shelter deck.

With calm dignity he surveys the swaying crowd beneath him. "There's
no hurry, gentlemen," he says. There is no hurry for him. He has
risen from his bed at a reasonable hour, has washed, shaved, bathed,
breakfasted. He has not stood for hours in drenching rain. The look
of him is too much for the general who is wedged beside me in the
crowd. He speaks:

"What the----? Why the----? When the----? Where the----?" He is a man
of fluent speech, this general. I thought as much when I first looked
at him. Now it seems that his command of language is a great gift,
more valuable than the eloquence of statesmen or the music of poets.
The Canadian sister leads the applause of the crowd. The general
turns to me with a deprecating smile.

"Excuse me, padre, but really----"

The army respects the Church, knows that certain necessary forms of
speech are not suited to clerical ears. But the Church is human and
can sympathise with men's infirmities.

"If I were a general," I said, "I should say a lot more."

The general, encouraged by this absolution, does say more. He
mentions the fact that he is going straight to the War Office when
he reaches London. Once there he will--the threat vaporises into
jets of language so terrific that the air round us grows sensibly
warmer. I notice that the V.A.D. is holding tight to the hand of the
Canadian sister.

The A.M.L.O., peering through the rain from the shelter deck of the
steamer, recognises the rank of his assailant. The mention of the War
Office reaches him. He wilts visibly. The stiffness goes out of him
before the delighted eyes of the crowd. He admits us to the ship.
Another gangway is lowered. In two thin streams the damp men and
draggled wom