“Well, that may be,” said the one-armed hero, rather crushed by Doe’s weighty lecture.  “But you’re going to Mudros first in your transport, and you’ll probably die of dysentery there.”

“Good Lord,” said I.

We selected the ward where we would have our beds when we came down wounded, and the particular pretty sister who should nurse us; and went out into the dazzling sun.  Having climbed to a high level that overlooked the harbour, we leaned against a stone parapet, and examined the French warships that slept, with one eye open, up a narrow blue waterway.  For Malta in 1915 was a French naval base.

“Sad to see them there, sir,” said a convalescent Tommy, pointing to the grey cruisers flying the tricolour.  “They’ve been bottled up there, since the submarines appeared off Helles and sank the Majestic and t’other boats.  There’s only destroyers loafing around Cape Helles now, sir.”

“Great Scott, is that so?” asked Monty.  “But I suppose we’re going to win?”

“O lord, yes,” said the Tommy.

We got back to the Rangoon just before sundown.  And, when the sun began to soften and to bathe the white buildings of Valetta in ruddy hues, our siren boomed out its farewell, and two English girls in a small boat waved an incessant good-bye.  Crowds gathered to brandish handkerchiefs, as our transport crept away, with the boys singing:  “Roaming in the gloaming on the banks of the Dardanelles,” and yelling:  “Are we downhearted?  NO!  Are we going to win?  YES!”

“Well, that’s the last of Malta,” murmured Jimmy Doon.  “Another landmark in our lives gone.”

Sec.2

Two days’ run brought us outside Alexandria.  And the confoundedly learned Doe, pointing out to me the pink and yellow town upon the African sands, among its palms and its shipping, said:  “Behold the city of Alexander the Great, of Julius Caesar and Cleopatra; the home of the Greek scriptures; and the see of the great saints, Clement, Athanasius, and Cyril.”

So I did what he wanted.  I called him a Classical Encyclopaedia, at which he looked uncomfortable and pleased.

It was Alexandria right enough.  We had reached at last the base of the Dardanelles fight, and entered the outskirts of that ancient imperial world, which the old Colonel had told us was the theatre of the campaign.

Travelling very slowly, we steamed into the huge harbour.  And soon we were moored against one of its forty quays, and being addressed in an infernal jangle of tongues by hundreds of begging Arabs who came rushing through the guns, limbers and field kitchens arrayed on the quay.

More anxious than ever for news of the fight, we applied for shore leave, and, after lunch, went down the gangway, and trod the soil of Africa for the first time.