After some days we reached a narrow sea—­the Red Sea, men call it, although God knows why—­a place full of heat and sand-storms, shut in on either hand by barren hills.  There was no green thing any-where.  There we passed islands where men ran down to the beach to shout and wave helmets—­unshaven Englishmen, who trim the lights.  It must have been their first intimation of any war.  How else can they have known of it?  We roared back to them, all of the men on all of the ships together, until the Red Sea was the home of thunder, and our ships’ whistles screamed them official greeting through the din.  I spent many hours wondering what those men’s thoughts might be.

Never was such a sight, sahib!  Behind our ships was darkness, for the wind was from the north and the funnels belched forth smoke that trailed and spread.  I watched it with fascination until one day Gooja Singh came and watched beside me near the stern.  His rank was the same as mine, although I was more than a year his senior.  There was never too much love between us.  Step by step I earned promotion first, and he was jealous.  But on the face of thing’s we were friends.  Said he to me after a long time of gazing at the smoke, “I think there is a curtain drawn.  We shall never return by that road!”

I laughed at him.  “Look ahead!” said I.  “Let us leave our rear to the sweepers and the crows!”

Nevertheless, what he had said remained in my mind, as the way of dark sayings is.  Yet why should the word of a fool have the weight of truth?  There are things none can explain.  He proved right in the end, but gained nothing.  Behold me; and where is Gooja Singh?  I made no prophecy, and he did.  Can the sahib explain?

Day after day we kept overtaking other ships, most of them hurrying the same way as ourselves.  Not all were British, but the crews all cheered us, and we answered, the air above our heads alive with waving arms and our trumpets going as if we rode to the king of England’s wedding.  If their hearts burned as ours did, the crews of those ships were given something worth remembering.

We passed one British ship quite close, whose captain was an elderly man with a gray beard.  He so waved his helmet that it slipped from his grasp and went spinning into the sea.  When we lost him in our smoke his crew of Chinese were lowering a boat to recover the helmet.  We heard the ships behind us roaring to him.  Strange that I should wonder to this day whether those Chinese recovered the helmet!  It looked like a good new one.  I have wondered about it on the eve of action, and in the trenches, and in the snow on outpost duty.  I wonder about it now.  Can the sahib tell me why an old man’s helmet should be a memory, when so much that was matter of life and death has gone from mind?  I see that old man and his helmet now, yet I forget the feel of Flanders mud.