In such wise Major Hardy half apologised to two boys for being present, and limped to the service.

Half a hundred others crowded the smoking room.  This last Mass being what Monty called his “prize effort,” he insisted on having two servers, and selected Doe and myself, whom he chose to regard as his “prize products.”  On either side of the altar we took our places, not now clad in white flannels, but uniformed and booted for going ashore.  Monty, as he approached the altar, gave one quick, involuntary glance at his packed congregation, ready dressed for war, and slightly sparkled and flushed with pleasure.

After the Creed had been said, Monty turned to deliver a little farewell address.  Very simply he told his hearers that, when in a few hours’ time the boats came to take them to the Peninsula Beaches, they were to know that they were doing the right thing.  There was a tense stillness, as he said with suggestive slowness:  “I am only the lips of your Church.  She has been with you on this ship, and striven not to fail you.  And now to God’s mercy and protection she commits you.  The Lord bless you and keep you.  The Lord give you His peace this day and evermore.”

If Monty desired to fill the room with an unworldly atmosphere, and to raise the cloud “Shechinah” around his little altar, he knew by the solemn hush, as he turned to continue the Mass, that he had succeeded.  And at the end of it all he added a farewell hymn, which the congregation rose from their knees to sing.  Sung to the tune of “Home, sweet Home,” like an echo from the purer parts of the previous night, its words were designed by Monty to linger for many a day in the minds of his soldier-servers.

“Dismiss me not Thy service, Lord,
But train me for Thy will: 
For even I in fields so broad
Some duties may fulfil: 
And I would ask for no reward
Except to serve Thee still.”

So they sang:  and they went out on to the sunlit deck trailing clouds of glory.

Sec.6

It really did seem the end of the voyage, and the beginning of something utterly new—­and something so dangerous withal that our pulse-rate quickened with suspense—­when the Military Landing Officer came aboard, laden with papers, and, sitting at a table in the lounge, gave into the hands of boys, who yesterday were playing quoits-tennis, written orders to proceed at once to such places as W. Beach on Helles or the new front at Suvla.

“Here we take our tickets for the tumbrils,” murmured Jimmy Doon, as we stood awaiting our turn.  “Third single for La Guillotine.”

And yet it was with a jar of disappointment that we heard the M.L.O. say to Doe, after consulting his papers: 

“Stop at Mudros.  Report to Rest Camp, Mudros East.”

“Why, sir, am I not going to—­” began Doe.

“Next, please.  What name?” interrupted the M.L.O.  There was war forty miles away, and no time to argue with a young subaltern.  “What name, you?”