CHAPTER XII

HOME

March 30, 1919—April 29, 1919

                OUR quarters on board the Agamemnon could hardly be described as roomy; all partitions below deck had been torn up, and the space filled with tiers of steel framed bunks, five deep. Every bit of available space had been utilized, and there was hardly room to turn around. Gloomily picturing what these quarters would be like on a rough day, we seized our mess-kits and started up on deck. "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow it may be rough."

                Noon of March 31. We have been jammed through the mess-line (of which more later) and are crowded about the deck, watching the feverish activity of part of the crew; starting nervously when some coarse voice bellows unintelligible orders in our very ears, for our departure is imminent and we tremble even now, lest some vile freak of chance stay our progress. The windlasses squawk and creak, the anchor chains rattle harshly, and a dull, persistent throbbing sets the whole ship's frame quivering; the engines! Slowly, imperceptibly at first, but with gathering impetus, we creep from the harbor. Ten minutes more and we have passed the last far-reaching finger of land, la Pointe de St. Mathieu. Adieu, France! May our next visit to your hospitable shores be peaceful, and untinged with O. D.

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