Hollow laughter will sound from the bridge, where the Captain
will find the wheel come away in his hand, and the gramophone will revolve
eternally on a jazz rune because no one will be alive to stop it. When all
these things occur we of the Navy will know that our day is past and done.
Why our Mr. Spooner is such a remarkable fellow is because he can sit deep
in an easy-chair and recite these things without turning a single hair on
his top lip. Of course he realises that the work of the Navy must go
on--until the crash descends. But it is rather unsettling for us. It seems
to give us all a sort of impermanent feeling. Quite naturally we all ask
what is the use of keeping up the log and painting the ship? Why isn't all
the spare energy in the ship bent to polishing up our boat-drill? or why
aren't the people who can afford it encouraged to buy unsinkable
waistcoats? The Admiralty must know all about it if they are still on
speaking terms with the Air Ministry. It's a beastly feeling.
Yesterday a formation of powerful aeroplanes, which Spooner called the
"Clutching Hand," came out from the land and flew round us, and simply
prodded us with their propellers as we lay defenceless on the water.
The bogey is undoubtedly spreading.
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