A SIX-HOUR 
 SHIFT 
 
 I 
 
 I LIE still, with eyes closed, for a 
 few moments before rising, 
 listening to the drumming of the 
 rain on the deck overhead, and the 
 gurgle of the scupper-pipes outside 
 in the alleyway. I sort out drowsily 
 the familiar vibrations: the faint, 
 delicate rhythm of the dynamo, the 
 hammer of a pump, the leisurely 
 rumble and hiss of the refrigerator. 
 Suddenly a hideous jar close at hand: 
 the Fourth Engineer is making tea in 
 the galley, and has dropped the 
 poker. I look sideways at my watch. 
 It is now five minutes to two. I 
 decide to get up and dress. 
 
 I reflect on the fact that to-day is 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 the anniversary of our departure 
 from a home port. For a year, with 
 but one or two days of rest, we have 
 been dressing at five minutes to two. 
 For a year the Armee d'Orient has 
 been fed with frozen meat from our 
 insulated holds. I recall a sentence 
 in a recent letter from an officer on 
 the Western front. It seems to put 
 the matter succinctly. "War," he 
 says, "is like trade; only indirectly in- 
 teresting.'* And again, lower down, 
 he remarks, "It isn't the horror of 
 war that makes a man tired, or even 
 the danger and bloodshed; it is the 
 infernal monotony of it." 
 
 So I suppose we have no corner in 
 monotony! I finish dressing (it is 
 now five minutes past two, but no 
 matter), and go into the mess-room 
 for a cup of tea. The Fourth Engi- 
 neer is there, also my colleague whom 
 I am relieving, and the Third Officer 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 in pajamas. This last person is 
 suffering from insomnia, which is 
 not surprising, since he drinks strong 
 tea at 10:30 p. m. He is now drink- 
 ing strong tea at 2 a. m., on the 
 principle of poison counteracting poi- 
 son, I suppose. Anyhow, he does 
 nothing all day, so it doesn*t matter. 
 The Fourth Engineer is a hospit- 
 able soul and makes me toast. He 
 is on duty all night in the main 
 engine-room. He is a lanky, im- 
 mature, good-tempered youth, with 
 nice eyes. He knows I like toast. 
 In return, I am looking the other 
 way when the cook gives him a 
 pocketful of eggs out of the cold- 
 storage rooms. I like him. He 
 laughs easily and bears no malice. 
 Like most East Anglians, he has a 
 subtle refinement of mind that will 
 stand him in good stead through life. 
 Among the dour north countrymen 
 
 5 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 who throng the ship, he is almost 
 feminine. 
 
 While I eat my toast, I listen to 
 their conversation. It does not 
 amount to much. How could it? 
 We have been together a year. We 
 are, occasionally, rather tired of each 
 other. We are each painfully con- 
 scious of the other's faults. Most 
 subjects of which we know anything 
 have been bled white of all interest. 
 There are neither mysteries to attract 
 nor revelations to anticipate. "The 
 End of the War" and "When the 
 Ship will go Home " are taboo. Most 
 of us take refuge in light badinage. 
 Others, like the Third Officer and his 
 colleagues, play bridge for three hours 
 every night. Some study languages 
 and musical instruments; but there 
 are not many of these. Some drink 
 secretly, and are reported later as 
 "sick." Most of us, however, do sim- 
 6 
 
 rm 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 ply nothing. We sit, or stand, or walk 
 or lie, with one dull thought in our 
 minds, one vague image before our eyes 
 — the thought, the image, of Release. 
 It is an unusual state of mind. I 
 had almost written ^"^a curious psy- 
 chological phenomenon," but I am 
 anxious to make the reader under- 
 stand, and plain words are best. It 
 is, I say, an unusual state of mind. 
 From the Commander to the scullion, 
 from the Chief Engineer to the coal- 
 passer, we have all gradually ar- 
 rived at a mood which is all the more 
 passionate because it is inarticulate. 
 With every other outlet dammed, our 
 whole spiritual life is forced along one 
 narrow channel of intense desire. We 
 want to go home. It sounds childish, 
 but that is because the reader does 
 not understand. When he has read 
 through this essay, I hope he will 
 understand. I mean him to. 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 I drink my tea and eat my toast, 
 and having given Thomas a saucer of 
 milk, I go on duty. Thomas is a 
 large black cat, who shares my vigil. 
 Allons done! 
 
 I go aft to the refrigerating-room 
 along a covered alleyway, which none 
 the less leaks; and Thomas, who 
 follows, makes little runs to avoid the 
 drips. It is raining as it can rain 
 only in the Balkans. There is some- 
 thing Scottish about this rain, some- 
 thing dour, persistent, and irritating; 
 and this old obsolete banana boat, 
 converted into a cold-storage, leaks 
 in every seam of her boat-deck, 
 which is all warped by the blazing 
 suns of a Balkan summer. We skip 
 in, Thomas and I, in where there is 
 light and warmth and comfortable 
 noises, and, in our various fashions, 
 carry on. 
 
 It is no part of these reflections to 
 8 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 treat of refrigeration. That, being 
 part of modern war, is uninteresting. 
 My oiler, a faded Irishman with a bad 
 leg, does most of the work. I note 
 the log on the desk, thumb the com- 
 pressor rods, take a few thermometer 
 readings, feel the crank bearings of 
 the engine, and feel bored. Thomas, 
 after watching a couple of cock- 
 roaches who persist in risking their 
 lives along the edge of the evapo- 
 rator-casing, settles down to snooze on 
 the vise-bench. For a time I envy 
 him. I want to sleep again myself. 
 I sit down near the desk, and, 
 sharply alert as to the machine, I 
 permit the rest of me, my soul and 
 body let us say, to take forty winks. 
 I leave the explanation to competent 
 psychologists. It can be done. I 
 need no Psychical Research Society 
 to tell me that my soul and my 
 intellect are differentiate entities. I 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 know it, because I have kept six-hour 
 watches, because I have been on 
 night duty, because — because of 
 many private reasons, of which it is 
 not seemly that I should speak. 
 Suffice it. 
 
 For an hour I sit with folded arms, 
 while the machine pursues its 
 leisurely never-ending race; while the 
 brine-pump lifts first one leg and 
 then the other, gingerly, as though in 
 deep snow; while the electric fans 
 revolve noiselessly in their corners; 
 while the faded Irishman moves un- 
 easily from side to side as he ministers 
 to the needs of the machine. Sub- 
 consciously I am aware of all that 
 goes on. So much for the experience 
 ^.nd. flair born of a dozen years at sea. 
 
 And, to tell the truth, this is the 
 most hopeless time of the day. I 
 once saw a picture, well known, no 
 doubt: A Hopeless Dawn. My ex- 
 
 lO 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 perience is, that all dawns are hope- 
 less, to those who have to witness 
 them. The legend of the early palse- 
 oHthic ancestor who spent a night of 
 terror after seeing the sun sink out of 
 sight, and who leaped for joy at the 
 dawning, is too thin. He is no 
 ancestor of mine. For me the peri- 
 od comprised between the hour of 
 two and four is one of unrelieved 
 vacuity. The minutes, the very 
 seconds, seem to deliberate. When, 
 after what seems a long quarter of an 
 hour, I look again at the clock, that 
 white-faced, impassive umpire has 
 registered exactly three minutes. 
 Well, it is three minutes past three. 
 I get up abruptly, startling the faded 
 Irishman who is standing near me, 
 smoking a dirty pipe and thinking of 
 Heaven knows what, and go outside 
 into the open air. And outside in the 
 open air is Salonika. 
 II 
 
 munmmmmim'StSi 
 
II 
 
 THE rain, in an inconclusive 
 way, has ceased, though the 
 scupper-pipes still gurgle and 
 cluck with the water running from 
 above. I walk along the after deck, 
 climb up the heap of sandbags built 
 round the gun-platform, and take 
 refuge in a sort of canvas sentry-box 
 which the gunners have improvised 
 out of ammunition cases, a spring 
 mattress, and some old tarpaulins. 
 Here I am more than ever solitary at 
 this hour. The gun, looking like a 
 gaunt cab-horse in its gray canvas 
 shroud, droops its muzzle slightly, as 
 though dispirited because we go so 
 rarely to sea. Nothing else can I 
 
 12 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 see of the ship, save the flagpole, a 
 ghostly outpost of humanity, for 
 beyond it the world has dissolved 
 into a sad chaos of water and sky. 
 There is no wind. The waters of the 
 Gulf lie placid and obscure. The 
 sky-line has vanished, and one has 
 the illusion of floating in infinite 
 space, in a sort of aerial Xoah's Ark 
 without any animals. The patches 
 of white in the cloud-canopy are 
 reflected with eerie accuracy in the 
 lifeless and invisible mirror below. 
 One feels a slight vertigo, for all 
 things seem to have been swallowed 
 up, and even Time, that last refuge 
 of saints and sinners, seems to have 
 stopped. 
 
 The rain comes as a relief, as 
 though the works of the universe 
 were getting under way again. My 
 knees being exposed, I decide that I 
 have had enough of nature in solu- 
 
 13 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 tion and climb down from the gun- 
 platform. The moon, which is shin- 
 ing behind the dense clouds, 
 brightens the patches of white, and 
 these are reflected on the wet deck. 
 Picking my way carefully, for all 
 scuttles are screened, I reach the 
 machine-room. Nothing is changed 
 save the hands of the clock: it is 
 now half-past three. The faded 
 Irishman has become a shade more 
 brisk in his movements. From now 
 on he will become more and more 
 active and intelligent in carrying out 
 his duties, until he reaches a climax 
 of senseless energy at four by break- 
 ing into speech with a "Well, good- 
 night, sir,'' and vanishing into his 
 kennel. His place is taken by a 
 somnolent negro. 
 
 At four the rain is pouring down 
 with all its old violence, and I make 
 my way along to the mess-room for 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 more tea. I bump into a damp 
 silent man, a Greek sailor, on night 
 duty. He is supposed to keep a 
 lookout at the gangway and tend the 
 galley-fires. He does both very well. 
 Some sailors are poor hands at stok- 
 ing. The Russian, who occasionally 
 acts as night-watchman, is no good. 
 They say Russians understand tea. 
 Our Russian understands nothing. 
 
 The Japanese second cook, on 
 being called by the Greek mariner, 
 is furious with the fire. The Greek 
 and Arab firemen do not understand 
 that coal-dust is unsuitable for galley 
 fires. There are, at times, inter- 
 national complications. 
 
 The Fourth Engineer and I once 
 more foregather in the mess-room. I 
 make the tea, and I do it this way. 
 The tea-pot, of white china, is rinsed 
 and scalded with boiling water. I 
 then put in the correct quantity of 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 tea, which is an art acquired only in 
 the school of experience. Then I 
 pour on the correct quantity of fresh- 
 boiling water— another art. The tea 
 is left to steep on the hob for as long 
 as it takes to cut, toast, and butter 
 two slices of bread. The tea is now 
 ready. I pour it. Its colour is 
 superb. Having done all this, I 
 cast a look of triumph on the Fourth 
 Engineer, who informs me that there 
 is no milk; very much as a silly young 
 staff officer might tell his general that 
 the army has no ammunition. I 
 retire to my room and return with a 
 cream-jug full of condensed milk of 
 an age so vague that only boiling 
 water can reduce it to a liquid form. 
 Thereupon we sit down, and having 
 exhausted every conceivable subject 
 of conversation six months ago, we 
 drink and munch in silence. 
 
 The militarists say that war is 
 i6 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 necessary to develop the soul of a 
 nation; without war men would sink 
 into stupidity and sloth. 
 
 Having eaten and drunk in silence, 
 we light cigarettes and go away, he 
 down below to pump the boilers up, 
 I to my machine-room to see how the 
 somnolent negro is going on. He is 
 going on very much as I expected. 
 He wanders like a sleep-walker 
 among the machinery, attending to 
 his duties after his own fashion. I 
 make up the log to four o'clock, 
 examine certain things that may go 
 wrong, but never do, and go out into 
 the alleyway again. 
 
 The hopeless dawn is approaching. 
 A ghastly pallor now faintly out- 
 lines a mountain which I indolently 
 call Ben Lomond. The Gulf of 
 Salonika is almost entirely sur- 
 rounded by land, and the city is 
 built on the slopes of a mountain. 
 
 17 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 Ben Lomond is farther off to the 
 eastward; other mountains form ram- 
 parts to the west and north, while the 
 Vardar River delta insinuates itself 
 among the more rugged features in a 
 most curious way. Southward, be- 
 yond the headland that marks the 
 entrance, the horizon is closed by the 
 sublime peak of Olympos. The Gulf, 
 therefore, is a kind of bowl, against 
 the rim of which the clouds are 
 condensed and held. Under their 
 caps of cotton-woolly clouds the 
 mountains are white with snow. 
 
 We have come out of the void, and 
 dark blobs are now recognizable as 
 ships. Lights glitter along the shore. 
 A motor-lighter passes, her engine 
 exhaust beating the still air like a 
 pulse. The silence is no longer pro- 
 found or tragic. The world of men, 
 the world of living men, is coming 
 back, and I am glad. I have a 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 weakness for the world of living men. 
 A steamer, weighing her anchor with 
 much puffing of steam from her 
 windlass-exhaust, blows her whistle. 
 It is a trumpet-blast, completing the 
 rout of the powers of darkness. 
 
 There is a crash from our galley. 
 Someone, most probably the Japanese 
 second cook, has dropped the poker. 
 The Japanese second cook is a 
 creature of moods, often passionate. 
 He is, so they say, a student of 
 philosophy at Tokyo University. He 
 has come to sea to earn more money 
 to complete his courses — of philos- 
 ophy, I suppose. The chief cook, 
 who is a Chinaman, has presumably 
 completed his studies in philosophy, 
 while the third cook, who is an 
 Italian, has never studied philosophy 
 at all. Anyhow, various noises com- 
 bine to inform me that all three are 
 now in the galley engaged in making 
 
 19 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 bread and preparing breakfast for the 
 crew in a more or less philosophical 
 manner. 
 
 Other sounds assert themselves, 
 too. Weird moans from below an- 
 nounce the Fourth Engineer's success 
 with his boilers. A small dog in the 
 firemen's house aft yelps tediously 
 at an imaginary enemy. He pre- 
 sumes upon his rating as a mascot. 
 A sleepy Greek boy, with weak eyes 
 and legs, appears from the forecastle 
 with a tin tea-pot. He is reported to 
 be a Venizelist. Venizelists, I ob- 
 serve, make poor sailors. The night 
 watchman, who answers to the name 
 of Papa Gregovis, but whose political 
 tendencies are obscure, fades away 
 forward. The oiler in the main 
 engine-room, a one-eyed mulatto, 
 carries his tea-can along. 
 
 So an hour passes. 
 
 Once again the rain has ceased and 
 
 20 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 I go out on the after deck and walk to 
 and fro. I discover the crowded 
 roadstead of Salonika. Black blobs 
 have become transports, misty phan- 
 toms have changed into hospital 
 ships, gray shadows into men-of-war. 
 One hospital ship is preparing to 
 move — does move, as I watch her. 
 She is girdled with a necklace of 
 emerald lights. On her rail is a red 
 cross of electric lights. She is very 
 beautiful, a jewelled wraith moving 
 noiselessly across our bows. Several 
 Greek schooners, with all sails set, 
 float near us on the glassy water, 
 waiting for a wind. Time is no ob- 
 ject with them. One appears close 
 to our quarter, like a ghost of some 
 past age, a fabulous blue galleon with 
 silver sails. She is part of the ridicu- 
 lous unreality of the whole business. 
 
 21 
 
Ill 
 
 I DECIDE suddenly to have a 
 pipe, and go in to get tobacco 
 and matches. However, the 
 mess-room steward is bringing in tea 
 and toast for two, so I postpone the 
 pipe. As I sit down on the stool by 
 the desk, the Fourth Engineer comes 
 in, wiping his hands on a piece of 
 waste. He is gay. It is nearly six. 
 The boilers, sanitary, and fresh- 
 water tanks are all full. Everything 
 is in order. xAt seven he will dive 
 into his room and be no more seen. 
 He sits down beside me and partakes 
 of his seventh cup of tea and piece of 
 toast since nine o'clock last night. 
 He wants to go up for an examina- 
 
 22 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 tion. He has been away fifteen 
 months as Fourth. He will probably 
 be away another fifteen. He is los- 
 ing his chances. And they need 
 young men at home. 
 
 One of the great advantages of 
 war, the militarists tell us, is that 
 young men get their chance. War 
 gives us scope, provokes initiative, 
 stimulates the soul, quickens the 
 brain. 
 
 With my pipe alight, I take up my 
 walk on the after deck. The setting 
 moon is a mere pool of radiance, like 
 an electric lamp swathed in muslin. 
 A rift in the clouds over Ben Lomond 
 shows a pale blue patch of sky with 
 the morning star shining in the 
 middle of it. The lights of the port 
 shine like stars, too, in the rain- 
 washed air. Men move about the 
 ship, launches begin to cross and 
 recross the harbour. A steamer near 
 
 23 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 us suddenly wakes into life. Electric 
 clusters and arc-lights blaze about 
 her decks, derricks swing and winches 
 rattle. Another ship, a collier, hauls 
 up her anchor and very cautiously, 
 very stealthily, approaches a cruiser, 
 as though she were about to pounce 
 upon her without warning. But the 
 cruiser is in full possession of all her 
 faculties apparently, for hundreds of 
 men appear on deck, whistles are 
 blown, fenders are lowered, ropes are 
 thrown out, and at length the two lie 
 in a close embrace, and the cruiser's 
 Morse light winks rapidly several 
 times to inform the world that all is 
 as it should be. 
 
 As I turn from this fascinating 
 spectacle I behold the French lighter 
 approaching. The French lighter is 
 a cumbrous old Turkish sailing ship 
 propelled by a minute French tug 
 lashed to her side. She seems to 
 
 24 
 
 ■■ 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 have her arm round the tug's shoul- m 
 
 ders. Loud hammering announces 
 
 the steam making its way along our 
 
 water-logged deck-pipes. A shrill ^ 
 
 whistle from the French tug elicits a '| 
 
 similar whistle from someone on our 
 
 upper deck. Several soldiers in 
 
 khaki make their appearance about 
 
 the ship. The French tug and *^ 
 
 lighter come alongside and are made 
 
 fast. A swarm of dirty Greeks climb 
 
 up and begin to remove the hatches. 
 
 You cannot honestly say the day 
 has broken. It is much more as 
 though the blank opacity of the night 
 had worn thin. That blue rent in 
 the dirty tarpaulin of the sky over 
 Ben Lomond has closed up, and a fine 
 misty drizzle begins to fall. 
 
 I retire to the door of the machine- 
 room, where I encounter my friend 
 the French sergeant-major. He is a 
 handsome Marseillais, by profession 
 
 25 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 a dealer in antique furniture and objets 
 d 'art. For two years he has been 
 supervising the transportation of beef 
 and mutton from ship to shore. He 
 is of the opinion that war develops 
 our higher faculties to the utmost, 
 and that without war civilized man 
 would degenerate into a gross pre- 
 occupation with material needs. 
 However, just now he is good-hum- 
 ouredly frantic because there is no 
 steam. I inquire what it is that it 
 is. He waves his arms. I say, 
 "P^j de vapeurV Ah! he nods and 
 waves his arms again. I wave mine. 
 In a species of utilitarian French 
 which I find that French men — and 
 women — understand, I inform him 
 that the vapeur is on its way, but that 
 it is being retarded by the condensa- 
 tion in the pipes, due to the odious 
 weather. He agrees, and waves his 
 arms. I nod vigorously and wave 
 16 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 mine. We are brothers. We shake | 
 
 hands. He hands me a copy of 
 LOpinion or Llndependant^ diminu- 
 tive news-sheets dear to the heart of 
 the Armee d*Orient. I deluge him || 
 
 with thanks and he returns to the 
 hatch to load the Greeks with op- 
 probrious epithets. 
 
 While perusing the little French 
 paper, I am accosted by the philoso- 
 phical second cook, the dark-eyed 
 gentleman from Tokyo, and the very 
 human third cook, a dark-eyed 
 gentleman from Naples, who wish to . 
 
 enter the cold storage. I give them 
 the keys and they vanish into a 
 cupboard-like cavity where they blow 
 on their fingers and proceed to quarrel 
 over legs of beef, corpses of sheep, or 
 other less desirable provender. 
 
 The French paper tells me a great 
 deal that I wish to know. I rejoice 
 particularly in the very cavalier 
 27 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 attitude it takes up with regard to 
 neutrals. It trounces Constantine 
 very much as the French sergeant- 
 major trounces the Greek cargo-men. 
 I pass half an hour very pleasantly 
 with L 'Opinion or L 'Independant. 
 I find it is seven o'clock. The 
 decks are being washed. Firemen 
 and engine-room men, a variegated 
 crowd of British, Greek, Arab, and 
 negro, pass along and go below. 
 Carpets are being shaken, scuttle- 
 brasses polished, floors scrubbed. 
 The city of Salonika becomes dimly 
 visible, a gray smudge picked out 
 with white columns and red domes. 
 A battleship is going out to practise, 
 and presently you hear the heavy 
 bang-bang of her big guns reverberat- 
 ing against the bluffs of the Kara- 
 burnou. Stone quarries behind the 
 town take up the tale, and for an 
 hour or so you will hear the explo- 
 28 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 sions sullenly booming in the still, | 
 
 damp air. 
 
 The hours drag on. It is a quarter 
 to eight. My somnolent negro sud- [ 
 
 denly becomes wide awake and \ 
 
 hurries along the deck to call his 
 rehef. I make a general and par- 
 ticular examination of everything in 
 my care, and, rubbing my chin, 
 decide to shave. There is a tendency 
 to grow slack and slovenly in cir- 
 cumstances like these. One says, 
 "\Yho cares?" and ''What does it 
 matter?" A slow poison of indolence i 
 
 is in the air. I must shave. As a 
 rule I am negligent, but this morning 
 I make a hasty decision that this 
 must end. I will, I announce to my- 
 self, shave, breakfast, and go ashore. 
 As a rule I turn in as soon as I have 
 eaten. I will go ashore. 
 
 I tell my mate I am going and seek 
 information concerning a convey- 
 29 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 ance. I inquire of the Second Officer 
 which lighter is going away first. He 
 does not know. He never does know. 
 He is the most complete agnostic I 
 have ever met. I ask one of the 
 soldiers, whose king and country 
 have taken him away from his job on 
 a farm and set him to tally meat. 
 He says he thinks the extra British 
 lighter will finish first. I then dis- 
 cover the extra British contingent 
 loading twenty tons of canned goods 
 — sardines, salmon, and cling peaches; 
 why cling peaches, I cannot say. Sol 
 dropdown the rope ladder to the light- 
 er*s deck and discover the two naval 
 stokers getting the engines ready 
 for starting. They are Bolinder en- 
 gines. 
 
 If the reader does not know what a 
 Bolinder engine is, he is a happy man. 
 A Bolinder engine is the devil. I once 
 worked on a ship whose launch had a 
 
 30 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 Bolinder engine, and it nearly killed 
 
 me. 
 
 By the time the bulbs are hot 
 enough to start, the senior artificer 
 catches sight of me and we fraternize. 
 He is a pale blond middle-aged man 
 with the expression of mingled 
 humility and efficiency common to 
 lower-deck ratings in the Navy. This 
 lighter, he tells me, was under fire at 
 Gallipoli. He shows me a patch on 
 either side of the engine-room plat- 
 ing: the entry and exit of a twelve- 
 pounder shell. It must have passed 
 within a few inches of his neck. With 
 this exception he has led a humdrum 
 parcels-delivery sort of life. Sud- 
 denly, as his assistant opens a valve, 
 the engine starts with a roar and then 
 settles down to the fluttery beat and 
 cough of an oil engine with the clutch 
 out. 
 
 We discuss the merits and demerits 
 
 31 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 of Bolinder engines. I hazard the 
 remark that personally I prefer 
 steam. The man's face lights up for 
 a moment as he answers: "Ah, me, 
 too!" You know where you are with 
 steam. Steam is the friend of man. 
 Steam engines are very human. 
 Their very weaknesses are under- 
 standable. Steam engines do not 
 flash back and blow your face in. 
 They do not short-circuit and rive 
 your heart with imponderable electric 
 force. They have arms and legs and 
 warm hearts and veins full of warm 
 vapour. We all say that. Give us 
 steam every time. You know where 
 you are with steam. 
 
 So much for the trip ashore — one 
 meets a stranger with the knowledge 
 of the craft. x'\s we climb up out of 
 the tiny engine-room, I observe that 
 we are now inside the stone jetty of 
 the Greek harbour. Several large 
 
 32 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 transports are discharging men, 
 mules, horses, guns, locomotives, and 
 so on. We slip gently alongside, and 
 with a cheery word and a shake of the 
 hand I quit my friend with his cargo 
 of cling peaches and the rest, and 
 jump ashore. It occurs to me in 
 passing that the letters from the front 
 never mention cling peaches and 
 fresh mutton. No, the burden of 
 their song is always "bully beef* and 
 "skilly," whatever that may be. They 
 also speak disparagingly of "tinned 
 stuff.*' 
 
 I cannot get those cling peaches 
 and sardines out of mv head. 
 
 33 
 
IV 
 
 ^ND here I am ashore in 
 /-% Salonika! I feel absurdly 
 shy amid so much busy life. 
 It is almost as busy as a provincial 
 town in England on market days. I 
 feel something like an escaped pris- 
 oner. They say that convicts, when 
 they are liberated, wander aimlessly 
 about, not knowing what to do with 
 their liberty. I feel just like that. I 
 wander about among huge piles of 
 hardware, stared at critically by 
 sentries of all nations. I make for 
 the Custom House Gate, and I 
 become suddenly aware that the 
 sun is shining through a jagged 
 rent in the white clouds over Ben 
 
 34 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 Lomond, and that I am very warm 
 indeed. 
 
 There is something tragic about 
 Salonika. I have visited many 
 goodly states and cities, and I doubt 
 if there be one other on the globe to 
 compare with Salonika in her in- 
 genious combination of splendour and 
 squalor. She is a dirty queen, sitting 
 in filthy rags, with gems about her 
 noisome girdle, and a diadem upon 
 her scrofulous brow. She babbles in 
 all the tongues of Europe and speaks 
 none of them aright. She has no 
 native language, no native air. She 
 is all things to all men, Jew and Gen- 
 tile, Moslem and Frank. She is 
 everything and nothing. The winds 
 of heaven blow among the ruined 
 turrets of her citadel, while the 
 mosquitoes from the Vardar swamps 
 sing ten million strong in the purlieus 
 of the port. She is very proud. She 
 
 35 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 has nothing left to give but death, 
 yet the nations fling themselves upon 
 her and quarrel for the honour of her 
 embrace. 
 
 I was thinking all this as I picked 
 my way in the mud along the road to 
 the Place de la Liberte, because I had 
 thought of it often before. It is all 
 true. Quitting the Custom House, 
 which is a building of French design, 
 I pass the Olympos Palace Hotel, an 
 edifice of Berlin architecture, all 
 curls and whirls and involute swirls. 
 At this point is the Place de la 
 Liberte, facing the landing place 
 known as Venizelos Steps. The 
 square is not worthy of the name, 
 being a mere wide strip of Venizelos 
 Street, and consisting exclusively of 
 cafes. The steps are flanked by two 
 kiosks which contain bunks for the 
 night watch. This is the heart of the 
 city. Past this point there rushes a 
 
 3^ 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 never-ending tide of tram-cars, pe- 
 destrians of all nations, ambulance 
 wagons, motor lorries, cavalry and 
 artillery, donkey carts and mule 
 teams, staff motor-cars and dispatch- 
 riders on motorcycles — good men, 
 bad men, beggar men, thieves. 
 
 Along the front Greek schooners 
 are discharging charcoal, paraffin, 
 stone, fish, vegetables, and peanuts. 
 Around the steps crowd many 
 launches — British, French, Italian, 
 Greek, and Serbian; row-boats, sail- 
 boats, ships' cutters awaiting vege- 
 tables, and ship's dinghies awaiting 
 their commanders. Old ladies in 
 native costume, caricatures of Queen 
 Victoria as a widow, move to and fro, 
 gossiping. Shoe-shine boys almost 
 trip up the unwary stranger in their 
 endeavours to clean his boots by main 
 force. And then, half a dozen strong, 
 come the news-girls with their loads 
 
 37 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 of twenty-two different newspapers 
 in six different languages. 
 
 They are not very clean little girls, 
 but I regard them with tolerance as 
 they press up to sell me a Balkan 
 News. They never by any chance 
 mistake one's nationality. I sup- 
 pose the English character is notice- 
 able in Salonika. Moreover, the 
 Englishman is a fool about money. I 
 know, because I am a fool about 
 money; yet I am not such a fool as 
 some. The French, Italian, Russian 
 officer, counts his change with 
 meticulous care and gives a very very 
 small tip. The Britisher, officer or 
 man, grasps the coins, looks at them 
 without really knowing whether he is 
 being cheated or not, bestows munifi- 
 cent largesse, and strides out, leaving 
 the Greek waiter full of contempt for 
 the burly fool who parts from his 
 money so easily. 
 
 38 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 This is by the way. We are 
 learning so many things in this war, 
 that quite possibly the Englishman 
 abroad may learn to keep his money 
 in his pocket. Personally, I have 
 not much to spend, and each 
 drachma must produce its utmost 
 value. But I can gratify my native 
 craving to be thought a philan- 
 thropist when I buy a paper. I give 
 all those dirty little girls a penny 
 each. 
 
 Do not misunderstand me. I do 
 not say they are ugly little girls. 
 Their noses do not run in the em- 
 barrassing way common among the 
 street-children of a northern clime. 
 They are all different. One is dark, 
 with long thick brows over black eyes, 
 her hair in a thick plait. Another is 
 blonde and has a red nose. Another 
 is quite tall and will probably become 
 a dancer, she has such neat little legs 
 
 39 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 and feet. Her stockings, by the way, 
 are not a pair. Another has a pair 
 but no garters, and she looks very 
 untidy. Yet another has garters but 
 no stockings, and her legs are very 
 dirty. A very tiny little person has 
 only one forlorn copy of a Greek 
 paper, and she is thrust away by her 
 more muscular rivals. I give her a 
 penny, too. I am popular. 
 
 When all are recompensed they 
 sidle away, looking back wistfully for 
 a moment. I dare say they are 
 wondering if I am a millionaire in 
 disguise. Then the whirling vortex 
 of Venizelos Steps sucks them in 
 again; they spy another sailor coming 
 ashore, and they collect and fling 
 themselves upon him, a compact, 
 yelling Macedonian phalanx of 
 youthful amazons. 
 
 Turning eastward, one sees the 
 city front curving very gently as far 
 40 
 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 as the White Tower, nearly a mile 
 away. Beyond that superb land- 
 mark the new suburban town spreads 
 out indefinitely amid shabby foliage. 
 The view up Venizelos Street is 
 closed by a covered-in bazaar. The 
 yellow buildings of the front are a 
 confusing medley of cafes, cigarette 
 shops, hotel entrances, paper shops, 
 hardware shops, barbers' shops, 
 cinema theatres, Turkish baths, a 
 fish-market, farriers' shops, caj'es- 
 chantantSy charcoal stores, more 
 cigarette shops, more cafes; a few 
 immense private houses with inter- 
 esting courtyards and discontented- 
 looking sentries in battered boxes, 
 one or two small houses with tre- 
 mendous walnut doors and black 
 iron hinges, bolts, and window-bars; 
 and finally, just as the heat and acrid 
 smells from motors and horses begin 
 to parch the throat, and the devilish 
 
 i? 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 cobbles to tire the unaccustomed 
 feet, there is a cafe in a covered 
 garden, with the White Tower stand- 
 ing alone in a grass plot at the water- 
 side. 
 
 42 
 
 -^^ 
 
V 
 
 SALONIKA makes her own 
 beer, but it is not of uniform 
 quality. Sometimes the litre 
 will be very palatable. Often the 
 best thing to do is to leave it. Dutch 
 beer is drunk, and is very good. I am 
 afraid saccharine takes the place of 
 malt in the local product. At the 
 worst, one can get passable coffee and 
 good brandy. Seated among the 
 uniforms at the little tables, you may 
 regard Salonika in a characteristic 
 mood. 
 
 The sun shines strongly now 
 through immense piled-up masses of 
 white clouds, and there is sufficient 
 wind to sail a boat across the Gulf. 
 
 43 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 The Greek standard waves gently 
 from the top of the White Tower. 
 The White Tower, let it be said, is a 
 perfectly round cylinder of white- 
 washed stone, surmounted by a 
 smaller turret and a flag-staff. There 
 is one small door over which is an 
 inscription in Turkish, very beautiful 
 to look at, utterly incomprehensible 
 unless you know Turkish. One or 
 two small windows and a small ledge 
 half way up are the only breaks in the 
 vast, smooth surface. The Turks 
 used it for some purpose, I suppose, 
 or they would not have built it. The 
 legend has it that it was called at one 
 time The Bloody Tower, but that 
 may have been only a manner of 
 speaking. I have been shipmate 
 with a Turk only once or twice in my 
 life, and so far as I know them they 
 are competent, orderly, well-bred 
 people. I very much regret that 
 
 44 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 fate has made us enemies in this 
 war. 
 
 As I was saying, the blue-and- 
 white Greek standard floats from the 
 battlements of the White Tower. 
 All around you float officers of the 
 Greek army in blue-and-silver full 
 uniforms. They look slightly 
 
 theatrical, because all the other 
 armies are in service clothes. The 
 ends of their silver-plated scabbards 
 are muddy. So are their spurs. 
 Many of them are handsome in a 
 fashion-plate way: dead-white skin, 
 dead-black moustaches, long legs, 
 thin noses, dark eyes, empty fore- 
 heads. One in particular attracts 
 one's attention. He is wearing blue- 
 and-white cocks' feathers in his hat, 
 white kid gloves on his hands, and 
 immense Hessian boots with silver 
 spurs on his feet. His sword is 
 across his knees and he is explaining 
 
 45 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 something with great energy to his 
 companions. 
 
 A French air-man, who has skinned 
 his nose (possibly in a sudden 
 descent) and who wears the Military 
 Cross, sits behind a glass of ver- 
 mouth. Several Russian lieutenants, 
 in their beautiful green tunics and 
 soft leather boots, are conversing 
 with a French major. An Italian 
 captain is reading a book. An Eng- 
 lish captain is talking to a lady. 
 Some Serbian officers appear to be 
 talking to themselves. Not one of 
 them seems to have anything to do. 
 Perhaps they think the same of me. 
 Let us take the car back. The tall 
 and handsome Greek officers cram 
 into one poor little Ford runabout 
 and rattle off up the road. Let us 
 take the car. A Salonika tram-car 
 is interesting, believe me. 
 
 They nearly always haul a second- 
 
 46 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 class trailer behind them. We go 
 second class. It is a very small car, 
 and it is very full. The fare is a 
 penny. A Greek penny is a nickel 
 coin with a hole in the centre, so that 
 it looks like an aluminium washer. 
 The occupants of the car are of all 
 ages. Boys and girls and priests are 
 in the majority. The children are 
 going to school, as may be seen by 
 the books in their hands. The priests 
 are going — wherever priests go in the 
 morning. If they were going to the 
 barber's it would do them no harm. 
 I admit that their flowing black 
 gowns and extraordinary top hats are 
 picturesque; but why should the pic- 
 turesque persist in being insanitary? 
 I like the children better. They 
 are clean and wholesome. Most of 
 them, I observe, have ticket-books, 
 from which the conductor removes a 
 coupon. This arrangement, I sus- 
 
 47 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 pect, is favoured by the parents, be- 
 cause the children might save the fare 
 and go to the pictures instead. The 
 car passes the doors of several cinema 
 theatres, and the youngsters babble 
 excitedly as they discuss the vivid 
 posters that are stuck up outside. 
 One lad of twelve is deep in a 
 penny dreadful. I look over his 
 shoulder and wish I could decipher 
 the story. He wears a low-necked 
 suit with sailor collar and French tie, 
 blue corduroy shorts, patent-leather 
 button boots, and silk socks. His 
 brown legs are bare. The whole 
 look of him is Byronic, save that 
 instead of a slouch hat he wears a 
 peaked naval cap on one side of a 
 dark head. Byronic, too, are the 
 illustrations to his dreadful. A girl is 
 tied to a railway line and two des- 
 peradoes struggle with daggers. I 
 peep farther over his shoulder. He 
 48 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 is so absorbed in the story that he 
 notices nothing. I muse upon his 
 future. What will he be, when he j 
 
 grows up? Is his father a Venizelist? j 
 
 Of what race is he? How does this 1; 
 
 Grecian sprig, who reads penny 
 dreadfuls in an electric tram-car, 
 regard us Britishers who have come 
 over the sea, like the Romans and . i 
 
 Normans and Franks of old, to leave 
 our bones on the Balkan ranges ? Out 
 in the Gulf ride his country's war- 
 ships with a foreign flag on their 
 gaffs. Does he care? I doubt it. He 
 turns over the page without looking 
 up. 
 
 But of a sudden there is a blare of 
 martial music. The car has stopped. 
 We are in the midst of a procession. 
 Let us get out. We reach the side- P 
 
 walk with a run and find the pro- 
 cession is wheeling round the corner, 
 just beyond, into the Place, and up 
 
 49 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 Venizelos Street. It is the new 
 Greek Nationalist Army — new uni- 
 forms, new rifles, new mountain 
 batteries, new officers — all very new. 
 They march in fifties, and cries of 
 "Venizelos!" "Viva'/* and other less 
 articulate noises mingle with much 
 clapping of hands and clinking of 
 scabbards. Our glorious friend with 
 the cocks* feathers and white kid 
 gloves is in all his glory now, directing 
 the procession. He salutes continu- 
 ally. After the soldiers come motor- 
 cars with generals and admirals. 
 Some of the generals are, in the 
 words of the penny novelette, a 
 blaze of decorations. No mortal 
 man could live long enough or have 
 valour enough to earn all the medals 
 these gentlemen wear in tiers on 
 their padded bosoms. However, 
 everybody claps, so I clap, too. 
 They are all going to the front to- 
 
 50 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 morrow, they say, so let us bury 
 criticism. So they pass. I stand 
 near a large-sized sergeant-major of 
 the R. F. A. and I observe a peculiar 
 expression of astonishment on his 
 bronzed face as he salutes. If I 
 read it aright he is thinking, "Well, 
 Fm blowed! What a circus!" 
 
 After the uniforms come the 
 civilian members of the new Greek 
 Government. There is a good deal 
 of the theatrical star about their 
 appearance, due, I suppose, to the 
 silk hats and opera cloaks and lav- 
 ender gloves they affect. They wear 
 their hair rather longer than our 
 pohticians, too. My sergeant-major 
 salutes, but I catch his eye. He 
 throws up his chin and grins, as 
 though to say, ''I'm doin* this by 
 orders, so don't blame me." 
 
 Presently the motor-cars change to 
 pair-horse carriages. Some are 
 
 51 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 clapped, some are hissed by the 
 crowd on sidewalk and balcony. 
 The pair-horse carriages change to 
 one-horse and the sergeant-major 
 ceases to salute. Several political 
 gentlemen in one-horse vehicles lift 
 their silk hats. As no one claps they 
 put them on again, and sit back with 
 expressions of rigid ill temper on 
 their faces. 
 
 One does not believe in this sort of 
 thing for a moment. It is all too 
 unreal. The superficial reason for 
 this doubt in a spectator's mind is 
 that the public never knows what is 
 actually going on. One of the great 
 advantages of war, they tell us, is 
 that it clears the air. We learn who 
 are our real enemies and who are our 
 real friends. War is that something, 
 not ourselves, that makes for righte- 
 ousness. War abolishes sham and 
 pretense. 
 
 52 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 But there is another reason. You 
 cannot impose liberty upon a people 
 any more than you can make them 
 good by legislation. Rousseau, whose 
 prescience in this matter is almost un- 
 canny, asserts this. " Every people," 
 he says, "to which its situation gives 
 no choice save that between com- 
 merce and war, is weak in itself: it 
 depends on its neighbours, and on 
 circumstances; its existence can never 
 be more than short and uncertain." 
 And he quotes with approval this 
 maxim: "Liberty may be gained, but 
 it can never be recovered." 
 
 Well, they are gone, and General 
 Sarrail, who has been standing on 
 Venizelos Steps with Colonel Christo- 
 doulos, shakes hands with that gentle- 
 man and hurries back to his office. I 
 remark as he passes that he carries no 
 sword and wears no decorations what- 
 ever. 
 
 i" 
 
 53 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 It is now eleven o'clock and I de- 
 cide on a walk up Venizelos Street 
 before going aboard. 
 
 Venizelos Street is the Bond Street 
 and Fifth Avenue of Salonika. All 
 the great stores of the city are here. 
 I don't suppose an American or a 
 Londoner would call them great 
 stores. They are no counterparts of 
 Wanamaker's or Harrods', of Green- 
 hut Cooper's or Whiteley's. But they 
 are great in comparison with the 
 aboriginal hole in the wall which the 
 oriental calls a shop. Here in Venize- 
 los Street, you can buy everything 
 you want and many hundreds of 
 things you don't. There is a good 
 bookshop, if you read French. Dutch 
 and American goods predominate at 
 present. There is a bank with 
 formidable sentries marching to and 
 fro, possibly to intimidate with- 
 drawals. There is a tailor who 
 
 54 
 
^r 
 
 A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 will undertake every conceivable uni- 
 form, and make them all utterly 
 wrong. 
 
 We pass all these and come to 
 smaller establishments — the inevit- 
 able postcard and cigarette shops, 
 shops with figs hung in festoons and 
 vegetable marrows blocking the tiny 
 entrance. At length we cross Jean 
 Tsimiski Street, which is the Fleet 
 Street of Salonika. Here are forged 
 the thunderbolts of the press. Here, 
 high up in a yellow barrack, is con- 
 ceived and executed the daily issue 
 of the Balkan News^ the only paper 
 of its kind. If you are a poet, go 
 upstairs and see the editor. So long 
 as you do not mention Mount Olym- 
 pos or the Red Light District, he 
 will be glad to publish your works 
 in daily instalments. 
 
 I am no poet, so Jean Tsimiski 
 Street is passed and we enter the 
 
 SS 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 covered bazaar. Here we are in the 
 Orient. Here are no fixed prices, but 
 a battle royal over every deal. Here 
 the merchant stands outside and 
 uses all the eloquence of which he is 
 capable to lure you into his tiny fast- 
 ness. If he happens to be inside and 
 he sees your eye flicker ever so 
 slightly toward his wares, he is out in 
 a flash and implores you to inspect 
 his stock. Sooner or later you will 
 fall. You see some gimcrack or 
 other which takes your fancy. You 
 are dragged within. You ask the 
 price. Having appraised your posi- 
 tion in life, he names a figure, about 
 two hundred per cent, above what he 
 expects. You laugh in his face and 
 walk out. He pursues you, abating 
 a hundred per cent. You walk on, 
 and he offers it on your own terms. 
 You return and agree to take it. 
 Then, instead of concluding the deal, 
 
 56 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 this exasperating person will prob- 
 ably show you something else and 
 offer to throw it in for another ten 
 francs ! 
 
 i\nd it is all rubbish. Turkish 
 slippers and fezzes made in Austria, 
 daggers made in Germany, Japanese 
 silks and fans, black amber orna- 
 ments advertised as from Erzerum, 
 but probably from Germany, ancient 
 coins and vases, ikons, and charms — 
 all the junk of the foolish traveller, is 
 here. I observe smart British nurses 
 buying souvenirs for friends in Bal- 
 ham and Birmingham, smart sub- 
 alterns purchasing cigarette-cases 
 and walking-stick handles, daggers, 
 and silly old Turkish pistols. But 
 after all, they are young, and quite 
 probably they do not know the East. 
 I recall my first trip to the Orient 
 in a tramp steamer, when I, too, 
 bought: 
 
 57 
 
 i 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 Walkin' sticks o' carved bamboo, an' blow- 
 fish stuffed an' dried; 
 
 Fillin' my bunk wi' rubbishry the Chief put 
 over-side. 
 
 After all, this is the time of their 
 lives, these foolish young people with 
 their curios and their wrist-watches 
 and the stars on their shoulders and 
 in their eyes. 
 
 So, walking through the bazaar, 
 one sees another phase of the only 
 thing worth looking at — humanity. 
 One sees the Httle Turkish boy being 
 fitted with a suit in an outfitter's, or 
 the little Turkish maiden buying a 
 comb. One meets the Jewishy tout, 
 who speaks all languages — "Oh, yes. 
 Engleesh, all right, Johnny*'; the 
 fatuous humbug! One sees French 
 soldiers buying buttons and needles 
 and thread; the canny creatures! 
 One sees solemn bearded Israelites, 
 in flowing gabardines, stalking to and 
 
 58 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 fro, conversing, strangely enough, in 
 Spanish. One sees these things or 
 one does not, according to one's 
 temperament and training. Per- 
 sonally, I would like to see more of 
 them. I feel there is something in 
 this Babel for me, if I could but stay 
 and catch the subtle cosmopoHtan 
 spirit of it. But that may not be. 
 It is time to return. I go on at two! 
 
 59 
 
VI 
 
 To DEPICT a monotony is a 
 difficult and precarious art, 
 and needs for its justification 
 a grand ulterior aim. Such an aim 
 would be out of place in these simple 
 papers. I merely wish to make the 
 reader see, as well as I can, how the 
 glory of war throws a certain sombre 
 shadow over the lives of some ob- 
 scure seafarers — a shadow in which 
 little save the unregarded vir- 
 tues of patience and vigilance can 
 grow. 
 
 But even in such conditions there 
 
 are gleams in the dark. Even to 
 
 phlegmatic Britishers the astonishing 
 
 phantasmagoria of Balkan life pre- 
 
 60 
 
 i^sf.as-'ir^^s^j^MJs^iwesni 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 sents occasional phases of comedy 
 and interest. As for example: 
 
 Before going aboard I decide to 
 have another drink. At first I think 
 of going into Floca's. Floca's is the 
 Ritz-Carlton of Salonika; but it is 
 not Salonika. It is merely a small 
 replica of Walker's at Alexandria, the 
 Eastern Exchange at Port Said, the 
 Verdi at Genoa, or Florian's at 
 Venice. The British officer has pop- 
 ularized Floca's, and so has made 
 Floca, if such a person exist, rich. 
 The uniforms of five nations mingle 
 at the marble-topped tables. It is 
 the only place where you can get tea 
 in a city which never drinks tea. 
 Here the nurses and the subalterns 
 can eat chocolate eclairs and Sally 
 Lunns under the very noses of 
 brigadiers. Floca's reeks of wealth 
 and Occidental refinement. I stand 
 in the Place de la Liberte and con- 
 6i 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 template the glittering throng within 
 the great doors. And I turn away. 
 I decide against Floca^s. I know a 
 less reputable place where it will be 
 quiet, and where the beer is a penny 
 a litre cheaper. Allons done. 
 
 It is round the corner, on the sea 
 front, between the market and an 
 unfortunate alley where mendicants 
 eat fish with their fingers and quarrel 
 over stray lepta. It is what is known 
 as a cafe-chantant^ a, large lofty barn 
 of a room, with a plush balcony for 
 customers, a small stage, and a 
 piano. This sort of establishment 
 does its profitable business at night, 
 when I am in bed. Nevertheless, I 
 imagine that it can never be more 
 amusing than when I see it, its harsh 
 decrepitude revealed in the clear 
 dancing sunlight reflected from the 
 sea, and the gloom of its corners 
 alive with bizarre forms. 
 62 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 I order my beer from a Greek 
 gentleman who reluctantly leaves a 
 political conversation to attend to 
 me. Although I am almost the only 
 customer, there are quite a dozen 
 people engaged round the piano and 
 in front of a camera. For this is 
 rehearsal- time for the artists who 
 grace the stage in the evening. A 
 weary pianist in Greek khaki strums 
 the air of a song, and a rouged and 
 jewelled lady leans over him, singing 
 and beating time with her hands and 
 feet. Another young lady sits near 
 me, her feet on the table in front of 
 her, showing much stocking, hum- 
 ming a song, and pretending to study 
 the sheet of music she holds before 
 her. Her hat is on one side. So, 
 for that matter, is her nose. Sud- 
 denly she rises and begins to walk 
 aimlessly among the tables, still 
 humming her song. I don't think it 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 is a very good song, to judge by the 
 hum. Suddenly she emits a squall, 
 which is answered by another squall 
 behind the curtains of the little stage, 
 and a bony female, in green silk and 
 spangles, thrusts her frizzled head 
 and stringy neck through the open- 
 ing. They talk, and when each has 
 eHcited from the other a wild gust of 
 laughter, the spangled one vanishes, 
 only to appear immediately at the 
 side. 
 
 My attention is now attracted to a 
 dark corner where strangely garbed 
 forms are writhing in an apparently 
 interminable embrace. The photog- 
 rapher, an itinerant of the streets, 
 fusses methodically with his pre- 
 historic camera. Several Jewesses, 
 their eyes flashing on either side of 
 large powdered noses, sit round, 
 drinking vermouth and gin, and 
 watching the dim performance with 
 64 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 tolerant smiles. At length, by mov- 
 ing several tables nearer, I can make 
 out a couple of acrobats engaged in 
 tying themselves into a sort of hu- 
 man clove-hitch. They seem to me 
 to be attempting the impossible. 
 Perhaps they are. Perhaps they are 
 idealists, like the brothers in the 
 Goncourts' novel, ''Les Freres Zem- 
 ganno.*' I am, in this matter, par 
 excellence a detached spectator. One 
 is short and thick, the other slim and 
 athletic. I see the face of the latter 
 peering up from between the legs of 
 his colleague — a thin, distorted face, 
 with strained, unseeing, yet strangely 
 watchful-looking eyes, the cheeks 
 smeared with rivulets of perspiration, 
 the brow damp and pallid. Suddenly 
 they collapse and fall apart. Another 
 failure. They hold their wrists, re- 
 garding each other with expressions 
 of pain and malevolence. The pho- 
 
 65 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 tographer continues to potter about, 
 ignoring their futile antics until he is 
 given the word. 
 
 They elect to take a breathing 
 spell, and the spangled lady assumes 
 her position on the carpet, keeping 
 up all the while a torrent of conversa- 
 tion with the student of song, who is 
 now seated on a table near by. An- 
 other figure emerges from the wings 
 of the stage, a dreadful travesty of a 
 hero, a hero with bandy legs, yellow 
 whiskers, and a false nose of heroic 
 dimensions. He is dressed in yellow 
 and red. He and the spangled lady 
 strike a love-attitude, he registering 
 dignity, she hopeless passion. The 
 photographer bestirs himself, dives 
 under his black cloth, and waves a 
 mesmerizing hand back and forth, to 
 lend emphasis to his own muffled 
 commands. With an abrupt gesture 
 he snatches the cap from the lens, 
 66 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 beats time in the air slowly — one, 
 two, three — claps it on again, and 
 the group smile foolishly at each 
 other. 
 
 It is amusing, yet I see a good deal 
 of pathos in these poor strolling 
 players. They are doing their best. 
 No doubt, in the evening, when the 
 tables are thronged, and the music 
 strives with the babel of voices and 
 the clink of glass, they have their 
 reward. 
 
 I confess, however, to a sporting 
 interest in the acrobats who are un- 
 able to attain the position in which 
 they desire to be photographed. I 
 order a fresh beer. Several shoe- 
 blacks, paper-boys, peanut-vendors, 
 and itinerant chocolate-merchants 
 have come in, and regard me with 
 chastened expectancy. I am persona 
 non grata to these infernal pests of 
 the Levant. By instinct, when I turn 
 
 67 
 
 TPT" 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 to look at them, they recognize my 
 antipathy. Each in his turn exam- 
 ines my expression with shrewd skill, 
 and fades away into the dazzling 
 clangour of the street. At length our 
 protagonists, emerging from a thicket 
 of stacked chairs where they have 
 been secluded during the last scene, 
 take their stand once more upon the 
 dingy carpet and look around with 
 a moritiiri-te-salutamus expression. 
 They grasp hands. The tall one pulls 
 sharply. The short one makes a 
 miraculous ascent into the air. For 
 an instant his curved body and bent 
 limbs are poised in unstable equilib- 
 rium, and one might imagine him but 
 that moment descended from above. 
 For me he is foreshortened. I see 
 him as one sees the angel who is hurl- 
 ing the thunderbolt in Tintoretto's 
 never-to-be-forgotten masterpiece. 
 The piano is hushed. Now he is 
 68 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 that they have 
 to see human 
 
 poised on the other's hands, on one 
 hand. Enfiyjl In tense silence the 
 photographer removes his lens-cap; 
 there is a quiver of the outflung hand 
 and the tall athlete flutters his eye- 
 lids as he looks up with awful anxiety 
 — poufl It is finished, and we all 
 breathe again as the short athlete 
 comes down with a jump. I feel 
 very glad indeed 
 succeeded. I like 
 beings succeed. 
 
 Over at the piano, however, I can 
 detect nothing that resembles 
 success. The peripatetic student of 
 song and the musical reservist are not 
 having a very happy time. She has 
 not even a vaudeville voice. From 
 the manner in which the accompanist 
 slaps the music and snarls over his 
 shoulder at her, I gather that she has 
 not yet mastered the notes. Every 
 minute or so she turns her back on 
 69 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 him and feigns a passionate with- 
 drawal. He, poor wight, with a 
 Balkan winter in the trenches in 
 front of him, pays not the slightest 
 attention to her tantrums. Then, 
 after a perfectly furious altercation, 
 they find a basis of agreement. She 
 is to go on the stage and sing the song 
 without words. Bon I She skips up, 
 showing a great deal of stocking as 
 she adjusts her garters and pulls down 
 her cheap little jacket. But it ap- 
 pears that she cannot sing the song, 
 even without words. She begins: 
 
 La-la, la-la la-la-h-lah! 
 La-la 
 
 and stops, looking at me, of all 
 people, with profound suspicion, as 
 though I had stolen the rest of her lahs. 
 A Jewess interjects a sentence, and 
 both the accompanist and the young 
 lady, to my astonishment, shriek with 
 70 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 laughter. I laugh, too. It is in- 
 fectious if bewildering. I realize how 
 hopeless it would be for me to try to 
 comprehend their intricate psychol- 
 ogy. I am a mere spectator from an 
 alien planet, watching for a brief in- 
 stant the antics of inexplicable sha- 
 dows on a screen. I drink my beer 
 and drift out into the noise and 
 dazzle. I must go aboard. 
 
 I skip across the road, dodging a 
 trolley-car, an ambulance wagon, a 
 donkey with silver-plated harness 
 and a raw red chasm on his rump, a 
 mad boy on a pink bicycle, and a 
 cart drawn by two enormous oxen, 
 their heads bowed beneath a mas- 
 sive yoke. I gain the sea wall and 
 follow it until I reach the kiosks that 
 flank the dirty marble steps of the 
 Venizelos landing. A boy in a boat 
 immediately waves his arms and 
 beckons to me as if I w^ere the one 
 
 71 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 person in Salonika who could rescue 
 him from life-long indigence. A lus- 
 troSy the cynical name given to the 
 home-grown shoe-shine boy, flings 
 himself at my feet and endeavours 
 gently to lift one of them to his box. 
 I resist this infamous proposal. I 
 ignore the demented youth in the 
 boat. I walkout on the marble jetty 
 and look calmly about for our own 
 dinghy. It occasionally happens 
 that I am in time to join the captain 
 as he returns. I do not think that 
 he likes the idea very much, but he 
 makes no audible protest when an 
 engineer sits beside him. However, 
 there is no sign of either skipper or 
 dinghy, so I turn again to the youth in 
 the boat. He rows hastily to the 
 steps, and motions me to get in and 
 recline on his scarlet cushions. But 
 I am not to be cozened. I demand a 
 tariflF. According to the guide-book 
 72 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 he may charge me one drachma 
 (about twenty cents) for a trip, with- 
 out luggage, to the outer harbour. I 
 am prepared to give two, since it is 
 war-time and bread is dear. We 
 begin to haggle. It is a phase of 
 human folly very distasteful to an 
 EngHshman, this stupid enthrone- 
 ment of cunning and knavish bluff in 
 the forefront of all levantine trans- 
 actions. The xA.nglo-Saxon is torn 
 with the conflict of disparate desires. 
 He wishes to show his unutterable 
 scorn for the whole performance by 
 flinging a triple fare in the huck- 
 ster's face, and he has also a profound 
 moral conviction that he ought "on 
 principle" to pay the exact legal de- 
 mand. I have done both. There 
 is a certain amount of pleasure in 
 each. I weigh their merits as I 
 stand on Venizelos Steps and haggle 
 with the boatman. Thus: 
 
 73 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 Boatman, — Boat! Boat! You 
 want boat? All right. 
 
 Fare. — ^How much to beef-ship? 
 
 Boatman. — ^T'ree shillin', yes. You 
 want boat! 
 
 Fare, — Yes, I want a boat, but 
 only for hire to go to the beef-ship. 
 How much ? 
 
 Boatman, — T'ree shillin'. 
 
 Fare, — ^Too much. 
 
 [He turns away and fills his pipe 
 with great care^ and^ sitting on the 
 marble parapet^ contemplates the har- 
 bour. This is very disconcerting to the 
 Boatman, He ties up and steps 
 ashore^ to follow the matter up. He 
 approaches the Fare^ who smokes 
 stolidly,] 
 
 Boatman, — You want boat? 
 
 Fare. — Ah! How much to the 
 beef-ship? 
 
 Boatman, — How mooch? T*ree 
 shillin'. 
 
 74 
 
 .■:-«l- l".»*r»*<a"ii»«».-*-s 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 Fare, — No. Two francs. 
 
 Boatman, — Come on. T'ree francs, 
 eh? Yaas. 
 
 Fare [stolidly], — I will give you two 
 francs. 
 
 Boatman, — Yaas. All raight. 
 
 'Alf-a-crown, eh? 
 
 Fare, — ^Half-a-crown is three 
 francs. I will give you two. 
 
 Boatman, — Two shillin*? 
 
 Fare [patiently], — No. You see, 
 it's this way: if you take me to the 
 beef-ship, I will give you two francs. 
 Do you get that right? Two! One 
 and one. Two. 
 
 Boatman. — All raight. Come on. 
 [He goes down the steps,] 
 
 Fare, — You understand then: two 
 francs. No more. 
 
 Boatman [blankly], — No more? 
 
 Fare [blandly], — No more. What 
 did you think ? 
 
 Boatman, — T'ree shillin'. 
 
 75 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 Fare [getting into the boat and taking 
 the tiller lines], — I shouldn't be sur- 
 prised if some Englishman killed you 
 for saying "three shillings/' my friend. 
 
 If he were not so dirty he would be 
 a nice-looking lad of the 1917 class. 
 He is dressed in the usual composite 
 rags of the Greek proletariat, part 
 khaki, part European, part Turkish. 
 He does not look as if he belonged to 
 a conquering race. Neither, I sup- 
 pose, do I; but the cases are not 
 similar. My young boatman does 
 not regard Janina as I regard the 
 capture of Quebec, for example. 
 Goodness only knows what he does 
 regard, or how. He may be one of 
 the conquered race. I ask him with 
 large gestures to illustrate my mean- 
 ing, if he is going to enlist, soldier 
 — fight — gun — bang! — beat Bulgar 
 — eh? He is puzzled, and perseveres 
 
 76 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 with his oars. I reflect that he may 
 be an anti-Venizelist. Presently, as 
 we clear the inside shipping, he asks, 
 as every Greek boatman asks: 
 "When your ship go away, eh?'' 
 And I tell him a deliberate, cold- 
 blooded lie! We do not inform 
 Greek boatmen when our ships are 
 going away. 
 
 About this time my attention is 
 held by the appearance of the sky. 
 It is a sky I have learned to regard 
 with a certain amount of interest. 
 As my young boatman steps his 
 mast and hoists his sail, I observe, 
 high above the rolHng banks and 
 islets of cumulous vapour in the 
 bowl of the Gulf, a film of trans- 
 parent dapple-gray clouds assemb- 
 ling. The whole of the upper air 
 is mottled with their confusing tex- 
 ture. A delightful sky in peace- 
 times, a sky veiling the sun and 
 
 77 
 
 i 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 making high noon agreeable. A sky 
 to watch through the open window in 
 springtime. A sky to paint, with a 
 foreground of yellow crocuses and 
 green grass and brown girls. A sky 
 to look up at, from where one lies on 
 the heather, and dream a boy's 
 strange and delicate dreams. 
 
 One of the advantages of war is the 
 deeper and more intense interpreta- 
 tion one learns to give to the common 
 phenomena. This gay, romantic sky 
 used to be nothing more than gay and 
 romantic. Now I watch it with an 
 experienced apprehension. And as 
 I pass a man-of-war, I observe that 
 the anti-aircraft crew are at drill. 
 There is something curiously affec- 
 tionate in the aspect of an anti- 
 aircraft crew at work. The gunner 
 is seated and his assistants are all 
 grouped about him, heads together, 
 as though whispering to each other 
 
 78 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 the most delightful secrets. Per- 
 haps they are. 
 
 We come leisurely alongside. 
 Standing on the grating at the foot of 
 the accommodation ladder, I pay my 
 young friend his two francs with a 
 bonus of twopence. For a single 
 moment he stands, from life-long 
 habit, in an attitude eloquent of 
 despair. I go up the ladder, smihng 
 blandly at his outflung hands and 
 upraised indignant eyes. Then he 
 recovers himself, makes a gesture 
 consigning the whole race of English- 
 men to perdition, pockets the money, 
 and rows away. Once more I am on 
 board, and it is nearly two o'clock. 
 
 79 
 
VII 
 
 IT SHOULD never be forgotten, 
 in a review of the seafaring life, 
 that these casual and irrelevant 
 encounters with the offscourings of 
 hybrid races, though priceless to the 
 philosopher and the artist, are of no 
 human value to the sailor at all. 
 The jaded landsman imagines that 
 we seamen "see the world'* and view 
 "mankind from China to Peru/' He 
 romantically conceives us extracting 
 the fine essences from the crude 
 masses of humanity with whom we 
 are thrown in contact in the seething 
 ports of the Orient. He figures us ec- 
 statically savouring the "unchanging 
 East" and beholding "strange lands 
 80 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 from under the arched white sails of 
 ships/* It must be confessed that 
 popular fiction confirms these il- 
 lusions. We who work in ships are 
 supposed to be prototypes of Mr. 
 Kipling's "Tramp Royal'' — a flatter- 
 ing but untrue assumption. 
 
 But while an intelligent person can 
 see readily that, to the unimagina- 
 tive seafarer, this continual pro- 
 cession of detached images will have 
 no positive significance, very few 
 observers realize how such an en- 
 vironment tends also to indurate the 
 soul. Yet so it is. In our rough, 
 homely way, we are fatigued with 
 distinctions, and reduce the Un- 
 known to common denominators. 
 We call Hindoos " coolies," Chinamen 
 "Chinks," Americans "Yanks," Span- 
 iards"Dagoes,"Italians"Spaghettis," 
 and we let it go at that. We are 
 majestically incurious about them 
 8i 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 all. There is no British type so 
 narrow, so dogmatic, so ignorant, so 
 impervious to criticism, so parochial 
 in its outlook, as the seafaring man or 
 officer. You would imagine, from 
 our ideas, that we had remained all 
 our days in our home towns. Indeed 
 most of us have. Our real life beats 
 in the little houses in Penarth, 
 Swansea, Seaforth, White Inch, or 
 South Shields. We have very little 
 passion for the bizarre. We become 
 callous to the impact of the stray 
 alien, and feed our narrow hearts 
 with wistful visions of an idealized 
 suburban existence. 
 
 Going on at two is quite a different 
 thing from the ghastly affair of the 
 small hours. Each period of the day 
 has its own subtle quality, which no 
 arbitrary rearrangement of our own 
 hours of work and rest can destroy. 
 And two o'clock in the afternoon is a 
 82 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 time of disillusion, a time when a 
 man has neither great faith nor pro- 
 found convictions. The morning is 
 gone, the evening too far away. 
 Even tea-time seems at an immense 
 and tragic distance. It is the slack- 
 water period of the day. And it is 
 the period when a man may perhaps 
 experience, in the space of a flash, a 
 peculiar sensation of being an im- 
 postor! It is, I suppose, in such 
 moments that generals, commanders, 
 chief engineers, and the like jump 
 overboard. It is a sensation extraor- 
 dinarily vivid and brief. No ex- 
 ternal evidence is of any avail to 
 neutralize its dire and dreadful om- 
 niscience. No personal written 
 record, no esteem of lifelong friends, 
 no permanent and visible accomplish- 
 ment can shield the sensitive human 
 soul, thus suddenly stripped bare by 
 some devilish cantrip of its own 
 
 83 
 
 i 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 mechanism. One feels a hollow 
 sham. 
 
 And the ship, at this hour, is 
 strangely deserted. Those who have 
 work are gone to it, those who are 
 off duty are resting after a hot lunch. 
 The day's ration of meat is gone; the 
 soldiers are on an upper deck, out of 
 sight. Thomas, stretched to an in- 
 credible length on the deck steam- 
 guard, snoozes in gross comfort. 
 Ibrahim-el-Din, an Arab coal-passer, 
 is smoking a meditative cigarette by 
 the after-rail. The faded Irishman 
 is perambulating in his stiff way 
 round the machine, and I take charge 
 for another six hours. A Greek 
 sailor, no doubt a Venizelist, is 
 painting a bulkhead in an amateur 
 fashion. As I look through one of 
 the after-window scuttles I observe 
 our agnostic Second Officer drift past. 
 He is probably going to resume his 
 84 
 
 • T :nK.-»^ — «iJ>-^ 1 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 erotic novel, a species of fiction for 
 which he has a strange passion. 
 
 For an hour or so I look out of my 
 machine-room window upon an un- 
 tidy after-deck, and reflect upon the 
 vicissitudes of War. Visible through 
 the crystalline atmosphere, Salonika, 
 floored with a jade-green sea and 
 domed with dappled azure, resembles 
 the painted curtain of some titanic 
 theatre. It is in fact one of those 
 monstrous "theatres of war'* which 
 are now giving a continuous per- 
 formance to the whole world. But 
 for us on transports that painted 
 curtain is never lifted. We see noth- 
 ing of the performance. We are 
 mere stage carpenters, or caterers, or 
 perhaps only stray freight wagons 
 which bring some homely necessary 
 material to the grand display. 
 
 Such are my thoughts, more or 
 less, when I catch sight suddenly of 
 
 85 
 
 i 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 my friend Tubby, the fat marine, 
 standing on the gun-platform and 
 excitedly waving his arms toward the 
 Vardar Marshes. I run out on deck. 
 Tubby comes hurrying along, shout- 
 ing in the hoarse voice that goes with 
 immense girth and a short neck: 
 "See'im,sir? ATawb! ATawb!" 
 And so it is a Taube. After a 
 momentary search of the upper 
 reaches of the air, I spot him, a far- 
 distant dot. And as we gather in a 
 tense little knot on the after-deck, 
 straining our eyes, clawing tenta- 
 tively for a peep through the binoc- 
 ulars, the enemy monoplane sails 
 serenely toward us, and the guns 
 begin to go. From the men-of-war 
 near by, from invisible batteries con- 
 cealed ashore, the sharp cracks echo, 
 and we watch the oncoming dot ten 
 thousand feet above the sea. Tubby 
 says ten thousand feet, and although 
 86 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 I don't believe he knows anything 
 about it, he has been in the Navy 
 and possesses the prestige of the 
 Senior Service. He certainly knows 
 more about it than we do. 
 
 And observe how greedily we make 
 the most of this httle bit of war which 
 has come to us. Now he is right over 
 us, sailing across a broad shield of 
 speckless blue, and we see the small 
 white plumes of shrapnel suddenly 
 appear, above, below, and around 
 him. He sails on. He must be 
 doing seventy miles an hour. Some- 
 body doubts this. We ignore him, 
 and push the speed up to eighty 
 miles. Say eighty miles an hour. 
 Golly! That was a close one. A 
 white plume appears right in front of 
 him. He sails on. Evidently he 
 has no bombs. Tubby says : " Tawbs 
 don't carry no bombs." What a 
 mine of information he is ! Again a 
 
 87 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 hit, a palpable hit. But he sails on. 
 There is something sublime about 
 this. Of course he is a German and 
 therefore damnable. But — but — 
 well, he is damnably adventurous. I 
 wonder what he is doing. Has he a 
 sweetheart, a German Madchen? I 
 am supposed to believe she would not 
 have the wit to love him for this dare- 
 devil eagle-swoop over Salonika. I 
 don't think, however, that patri- 
 otism compels me to hate that air- 
 man up there. Crack-crack! go the 
 guns. He sails on. He is, so far, 
 supreme. A dim sporting instinct, 
 which used to have free rein at school, 
 shoots through my mind and I dis- 
 cover in myself no passionate desire 
 to see him hit. He himself seems to 
 have no anxieties whatever. I recall 
 a line from Shelley: 
 
 He rides upon the platform of the wind, 
 And laughs to hear the fireballs roar behind. 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 Now he is over Ben Lomond and 
 is turning toward Monastir, whence 
 we suppose he has come. Other 
 batteries behind the town welcome 
 him and the Navy resigns itself, for 
 once, to frustration. Crack after 
 crack, plume after plume. Now he is 
 behind a cloud, and our attention is 
 taken up for a moment by the sight 
 of our own machines manoeuvring 
 for position in the offing. And the 
 next time we see him he is coming 
 down. Tubby says so. Personally, 
 I imagined him to be going up; 
 but I never contradict a navy man. 
 Somebody else says he is hit. Our 
 lieutenant, on the upper deck with 
 the commander, looking through his 
 prismatic glasses, says it looks like it. 
 I glance at our group, all eyes raised 
 to the sky, mouths open, emblems of 
 receptive vacuity. 
 
 Reluctantly we abandon our pre- 
 89 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 cious ^'Tawb'' to the inland ranges 
 and return to the mundane life once 
 more. Tubby walks to and fro, a 
 short man of enormous size, dis- 
 coursing of "Tawbs/' I call him my 
 mythological m.onster, for he has 
 served in the " 'Ercles^' the '' 'Ecuba^' 
 the ^'You roper j'' the Endymion and 
 the ^^Amfi-trite.'' When we go to sea. 
 Tubby stands or sits by his gun and 
 keeps a lookout for submarines. He 
 is one of Hardy's Wessex yokels. 
 When the war came, he was malting 
 at Malmesbury, and doing a small 
 delivery-wagon business for a local 
 hardware store. He looks it. He 
 could pose for John Bull, a beef- 
 eating, ale-drinking, Saxon John 
 Bull. Now he is also an expert on 
 'Tawbs." What tales he will tell by 
 the malt-house fires in the winters to 
 come! Tales, perhaps, of "Tawbs!'' 
 And so, in idle talk and modest 
 90 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 vigilance, the day wears on, until the 
 sun is setting in turbulent reds and 
 purples beyond the Vardar, and the 
 peak of Olympos, showing for a brief 
 moment above the billows of vapour, 
 is flushed an exquisite pale rose colour. 
 Lights begin to twinkle on the shore. 
 Those on day work begin to appear 
 after their wash, loafing about until 
 dinner, smoking cigarettes, arguing 
 after the foolish, dogmatic way of 
 sailors, getting heated over nothing, 
 condemning a nation in a thoughtless 
 phrase. Some are writing home, for 
 a mail goes soon. Some come into 
 the machine-room for a drink of 
 water, or for a chat. 
 
 The Fourth Engineer, who had 
 viewed the aeroplane dressed in blue 
 serge trousers and an unbuttoned 
 pajama jacket, now appears in his 
 uniform, still a little drowsy after his 
 day's sleep, but smiling in his pleas- 
 
 91 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 ant boyish way. Our conversation is 
 not intellectual. We really have not 
 much to say. It would not bear 
 writing down. Nor would a comic 
 paper take our jokes. Nevertheless, 
 we talk and laugh and pass the time. 
 For myself, I talk to everybody: I 
 talk to the nigger firemen and the 
 Chinese cook, to the dog and the cat, 
 to the canary in my room and the 
 parrot who blasphemes so bitterly 
 on the fore-deck. 
 
 So I keep in practice. For some 
 day we shall have Peace, and we shall 
 go home, over the well-remembered 
 road to Malta and Gib, and over the 
 mountainous western-ocean swell 
 that is for ever charging across the 
 Bay. Some day this will happen, 
 and we shall speak the Tuskar once 
 again, tie up in the old dock, and 
 step ashore. rVnd we shall take our 
 way, some of us, through the quiet 
 92 
 
A SIX-HOUR SHIFT 
 
 countryside, where friends await us, 
 friends who will bid us tarry awhile 
 and tell them our tales of foreign 
 parts, as mariners have done and 
 always will do, while ships come 
 home from sea. 
 
 THE END 
 
 93 
 
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