At last!  I have the precious paper safe in my hand, in my pocket with a button fastened tight to keep it there:  my leave warrant, passport to ten days’ liberty, rest, and ­other things much more desirable than liberty or rest.  It is issued to me late on Sunday night for a start on Monday morning.

The authorities are desperately suspicious.  They trust no man’s honour.  They treat even a padre as if he were a fraudulent cashier, bent on cheating them if he can.  I do not blame them.  In this matter of leave every man is a potential swindler.  A bishop would cheat if he could.  If I had got that leave warrant an hour or two sooner than I did, I should have made a push for the boat which left on Sunday evening.  Thereby I should have deprived the army of my services during the night, a form of swindling not to be tolerated, though what use I am to the army or any one else when I am in bed and asleep it would be very difficult to say.

All that night the wind shrieked, rattling windows to the discomfort of those who were lucky enough to have roofs over their heads, threatening the dwellers in tents with the utter destruction of their shelters.  Very early, before the dawn of the winter morning, the rain began, not to fall ­the rain in a full gale of wind does not fall ­but to sweep furiously across the town.

I heard it, but I did not care.  I turned and snuggled close under my blankets.  In an hour or two it would be time to get up.  My day would begin, the glorious first day of leave.  What does rain matter? or what do gales matter? unless ­a horrid fear assailed me.  Was it possible that in such a gale the steamer would fail to start.  I turned and twisted, tortured by the thought.  Every time the windows rattled and the house shook I sweated hot and cold.

In the end, tormented beyond endurance, I got up and dressed some time between 5 a.m. and 6 a.m.  I did more.  Without the coffee which Madame had promised me I sallied forth and tramped through the deserted streets of the town, fording gutters which were brooks, skirting close by walls which promised what sailors call a “lee.”

The long stretch of the quay was desolate.  Water lay in deep pools between the railway lines among the sleepers.  Water trickled from deserted waggons and fell in small cascades from the roofs of sheds.  The roadway, crossed and recrossed by the railway, had little muddy lakes on it and broad stretches of mud rather thicker than the water of the lakes.

Far down the quay lay a steamer with two raking funnels ­the leave boat, the ship of heart’s desire for many men.  Clouds of smoke, issuing defiantly from her funnels, were immediately swept sideways by the wind and beaten down by the rain.  The smoke ceased to be smoke, became a duller greyness added to the greyness of the air, dissolved into smuts and was carried to earth ­or to the faces and hands of wayfarers ­by the rain.

Already at 7 o’clock there were men going along the quay ­a steady stream of them, tramping, splashing, stumbling towards the steamer.  In the matter of the sailing of leave boats rumour is the sole informant, and rumour had it that this boat would start at 10 a.m.  Leave is a precious thing.  He takes no risks who has secured the coveted pass to Blighty.  It is a small matter to wait three hours on a rain-swept quay.  It would be a disaster beyond imagining to miss the boat.

Officers make for the boat in twos or threes, their trench coats, buttoned tightly, flap round putteed or gaitered legs.  Drenched haversacks hang from their shoulders.

Parties of men, fully burdened with rifles and kit, march down from the rest camp where they have spent the night.  The mud of the trenches is still thick on them.  One here and there wears his steel helmet.  They carry all sorts of strange packages, sacks tied at the mouth, parcels sewed up in sacking, German helmets slung on knapsacks, valueless trophies of battlefields, loot from captured dug-outs, pathetically foolish souvenirs bought in French shops, all to be presented to the wives, mothers, sweethearts who wait at home.

A couple of army sisters, lugging suit-cases, clinging to the flying folds of their grey cloaks, walk, bent forward against the wind and rain.  A blue-coated Canadian nurse, brass stars on her shoulder straps, has given an arm to a V.A.D. girl, a creature already terrified at the prospect of crossing the sea on such a day.  The rain streams down their faces, but perhaps Canadians are accustomed to worse rain in their own country.  Certainly this young woman does not seem to mind it.  She is smiling and walks jauntily.  Like many of our cousins from overseas she is rich in splendid vitality.

A heavy grey motor rushes along, splashing the walkers.  Beside the driver is a pile of luggage.  Inside, secure behind plate glass from any weather, sits a general.  Another motor follows and still others.  British staff officers and military attaches from allied nations, the privileged classes of the war, sweep by while humbler men splash and stumble.

But in front of the gangway of the leave boat, as at the gates of Paradise, there is no distinction of persons.  The mean man and the mighty find the same treatment there.  There comes a moment when the car must be left, when crossed sword and baton on the shoulder straps avail their wearer no more than a single star.

A sailor, relentless as Rhadamanthus, stands on the gangway and bars the way to the shelter of the ship.  No one ­so the order has gone forth ­is to be allowed on board before 9 o’clock.  There is shelter a few yards behind, a shed.  A few seek it.  I prefer to stand, with other early comers, in a cluster round the end of the gangway, determined, though we wait hours, to be among the first on board.

The crowd grows denser as time goes on.  The Canadian sister, alert and competent, secures a seat on the rail of a disused gangway and plants two neat feet on the rail opposite.  An Australian captain, gallant amid extreme adversity, offers the spare waterproof he carries to the shivering V.A.D.  I find myself wedged tight against a general.  He is elderly, grizzled, and looks fierce; but he accepts a light for his cigarette from the bowl of my pipe.  It was his only chance of getting a light then and there.  Now and then some one asks a neighbour whether it is likely that the boat will start on such a day.

A depressed major on the outskirts of the crowd says that he has it on the best authority that the port is closed and that there will be no sailings for a week.  The news travels from mouth to mouth, but no one stirs.  There is a horrid possibility that it may be true; but ­well, most men know the reputation of that “best authority.”  He is the kind of liar of whose fate St. John speaks vigorously in the last chapter but one of his Apocalypse.

The ship rises slowly higher and higher, for the tide is flowing.  The gangway grows steeper.  From time to time two sailors shift it slightly, retying the ropes which fasten it to the ship’s rail.  The men on the quay watch the manoeuvre hopefully.

At 9 o’clock an officer appears on the outside fringe of the crowd.  With a civility which barely cloaks his air of patronage he demands way for himself to the ship.  His brassard wins him all he asks at once.  On it are the letters “A.M.L.O.”  He is the Assistant Military Landing Officer, and for the moment is lord of all, the arbiter of things more important than life and death.  In private life he is perhaps a banker’s clerk or an insurance agent.  On the battlefield his rank entitles him to such consideration only as is due to a captain.  Here he may ignore colonels, may say to a brigadier, “Stop pushing.”  He has what all desire, the “Open Sesame” which clears the way to the ship.

He goes on board, acknowledging with careless grace the salute of one of the ship’s officers.  He stands on the shelter deck.

With calm dignity he surveys the swaying crowd beneath him.  “There’s no hurry, gentlemen,” he says.  There is no hurry for him.  He has risen from his bed at a reasonable hour, has washed, shaved, bathed, breakfasted.  He has not stood for hours in drenching rain.  The look of him is too much for the general who is wedged beside me in the crowd.  He speaks: 

“What the ?  Why the ?  When the ?  Where the ?” He is a man of fluent speech, this general.  I thought as much when I first looked at him.  Now it seems that his command of language is a great gift, more valuable than the eloquence of statesmen or the music of poets.  The Canadian sister leads the applause of the crowd.  The general turns to me with a deprecating smile.

“Excuse me, padre, but really ­”

The army respects the Church, knows that certain necessary forms of speech are not suited to clerical ears.  But the Church is human and can sympathise with men’s infirmities.

“If I were a general,” I said, “I should say a lot more.”

The general, encouraged by this absolution, does say more.  He mentions the fact that he is going straight to the War Office when he reaches London.  Once there he will ­the threat vaporises into jets of language so terrific that the air round us grows sensibly warmer.  I notice that the V.A.D. is holding tight to the hand of the Canadian sister.

The A.M.L.O., peering through the rain from the shelter deck of the steamer, recognises the rank of his assailant.  The mention of the War Office reaches him.  He wilts visibly.  The stiffness goes out of him before the delighted eyes of the crowd.  He admits us to the ship.  Another gangway is lowered.  In two thin streams the damp men and draggled women struggle on board.  Certain officers, the more helpless subalterns among us, are detailed for duty on the voyage.  They parade on the upper deck.  To them at least the A.M.L.O. can still speak with authority.  He explains to the bewildered youths what their duties are.  Each passenger, so it appears, must wear a life-belt.  It is the business of the subalterns to see that every one ties round his chest one of those bandoliers of cork.

On the leave boat the spirit of democracy is triumphant.  Sergeants jostle commissioned officers.  Subalterns seize deck chairs desired by colonels of terrific dignity.  Privates with muddy trousers crowd the sofas of the first-class saloon.  Discipline we may suppose survives.  If peril threatened, men would fall into their proper places and words of command would be obeyed.  But the outward forms of discipline are for a time in abeyance.  The spirit of goodfellowship prevails.  The common joy ­an intensified form of the feeling of the schoolboy on the first day of the Christmas holidays ­makes one family of all ranks and ages.

No doubt also the sea insists on the recognition of new standards of worth.  The humblest private who is not seasick is visibly and unmistakably a better man than a field-marshal with his head over the bulwarks.  Curious and ill-assorted groups are formed.  Men who at other times would not speak to each other are drawn and even squeezed together by the pressure of circumstance.

Between two of the deckhouses on the lower deck of this steamer is a narrow passage.  Porters have packed valises and other luggage into it.  It is sheltered from the rain and will be secure from showers of flying spray.  Careless and inexperienced travellers, searching along the crowded decks for somewhere to sit down, pass this place by unnoticed.  Others, accustomed in old days to luxurious travelling, scorn it and seek for comfort which they never find.

I come on this nook by accident; and at once perceive its value as a place of shelter and refuge.  I sit down on the deck with my haversack beside me.  I wedge myself securely, my feet against one side of the passage, my back against the other.  I tuck my waterproof round me and feel that I may defy fate to do its worst.

A few others drift into the refuge, or are pressed in by the crowd outside.  The Canadian sister, a competent young woman, has found her way here and settled down her helpless V.A.D. on a valise ­a lumpy, uncomfortable seat.  A private from a Scottish regiment is here, two Belgians and a Russian staff officer struggle in a narrow space to adjust their life-belts.  A brigadier, a keen-eyed, eager-faced young man, one of those to whom the war has given opportunity and advancement, joins the group.  He speaks in French to the Belgians and the Russian.  He helps to make the V.A.D. less utterly uncomfortable.  He offers me his flask and then a cigar.

There is one subject of conversation.  Will the boat start?  The Russian is hopeful.  Is not England mistress of the seas?  The V.A.D. is despondent.  Once before in a long-ago time of leave the boat did not start.  The passengers, and she among them, were disembarked.  The Scottish private has heard from a friend of his in “the Signals” that German submarines are abroad in the Channel.  The brigadier is openly contemptuous of all information from men in “the Signals.”  The Canadian sister is cheerful.  If she were captain of the ship, she says, she would start, and, what is more, fetch up at the other side.

The captain, it appears, shares her spirit.  The ship does start.  The harbour is cleared and at once the tossing begins.  The party between the deckhouses sways and reels.  It becomes clear very soon that it will be impossible to stand.  But sitting down is difficult.  I have to change my attitude.  It is not possible for any one else to sit down if I keep my legs stretched out, and the others must sit down or else fall.  The brigadier warns the Russian to be careful how he bestows himself.

“Don’t put your feet on my haversack,” he says.  “There’s a bottle of hair-wash in it.”

The Russian shifts his feet.

“There’ll be a worse spill if you trample on mine,” I murmur.  “There’s a bottle of Benedictine in it.”

“Padre!” said the brigadier.  “I’m ashamed of you. I had the decency to call it hair-wash.”

The Canadian sister laughs loud and joyously.

It is noticed that the Scottish private is becoming white.  Soon his face is worse than white.  It is greyish green.  The Canadian sister tucks her skirts under her.  The prospect is horrible.  There is no room for the final catastrophe of seasickness.  The brigadier is a man of prompt decision.

“Out you go,” he says to the man.  “Off with you and put your head over the side.”

I feel that I must bestir myself for the good of the little party, though I do not want to move.  I seize the helpless Scot by the arm and push him out.  The next to succumb is the Russian staff officer.  His face is pallid and his lips blue.  The V.A.D. is past caring what happens.  The two Belgians are indifferent.  The Canadian sister, the brigadier, and I take silent counsel.  Our eyes meet.

“I can’t talk French,” I say.

“I can,” said the Brigadier.

He does.  He explains politely to the Russian the indecency of being seasick in that crowded space.  He points out that there is one course only open to the sufferer ­to go away and bear the worst elsewhere.  Honour calls for the sacrifice.  The Russian opens his eyes feebly and looks at the deck beyond the narrow limits of his refuge.  It is swept at the moment by a shower of spray.  He shudders and closes his eyes again.  The brigadier persuades, exhorts, commands.  The Russian shakes his head and intimates that he neither speaks nor understands French.  He is a brave and gallant gentleman.  Shells cannot terrify him, nor the fiercest stuttering of the field guns make him hesitate in advance, but in a certain stage of seasickness the ears of very heroes are deaf to duty’s call.

A little later I take the cigar from my mouth and crush the glowing end on the deck.  I am not seasick, but there are times when tobacco loses its attractiveness.  The brigadier becomes strangely silent.  His head shrinks down into the broad upturned collar of his coat.  Only the Canadian sister remains cheerfully buoyant, her complexion as fresh, her cheeks as pink as when the rain washed them on the quay.

The throbbing of the engines ceases.  For a brief time the ship wallows in the rolling seas.  Then she begins to move backwards towards the breakwater of the harbour.  The brigadier struggles to his feet and peers out.

“England at last,” he says.  “Thank goodness.”

Women, officers, and men fling off the life-belts they have worn and crowd to the gangways.  With shameless eagerness they push their way ashore.  The voyage is over.

Along the pier long trains are drawn up waiting for us.  We crowd into them; lucky men, or foreseeing men with seats engaged beforehand, fill the Pullman cars of the train which starts first.  It runs through the sweet familiar English country incredibly swiftly and smoothly.  Luncheon is served to us.  On this train, at least, there still are restaurant cars.  We eat familiar food and wonder that we ever in the old days grumbled at railway fare.  We lie back, satisfied, and smoke.

But there is in us an excitement which even tobacco will not soothe.  The train goes swiftly, but not half swiftly enough.  We pass town and hamlet.  Advertisement hoardings, grotesque flat images of cows, outrageous commendations of whisky or pills, appear in the fields.  We are getting near London.  Pipes are laid by.  We fidget and fret.  The houses we pass are closer together, get closer still, merge into a sea of grey-slated roofs.  The air is thick, smoke-laden.  The train slows down, stops, starts again, draws up finally by the long platform.

Then !  To every man his own dreams of heaven hereafter.  To every man his own way of spending his leave.