Or, if the alarm is given on your own ship, you grab mechanically for
life-jacket, binoculars, pistol, and wool coat, and jump to your
station, not knowing whether it is really a periscope or a stick
floating along out of water.
JUNE 20.
Well, we got mail when we came into port this time, your letter of May
28 being the last one. I don't mind the frequent pot-shots the U-boats
take at us, but doggone their hides if they sink any of our mail! We
won't forgive them that.
[Sidenote: No joy-of-battle to be found.]
My health is excellent, better than my temper, in fact. I am beginning
to think that we are not getting our money's worth in this war. I want
to have my blood stirred and do something heroic--_a la_
moving-pictures. Instead of which it much resembles a campaign against
cholera-germs or anything else which is deadly but difficult to get any
joy-of-battle out of.
Do tell me everything you are doing, for it is up to you to make
conversation, since there is so little of affairs at this end that I can
talk about. It is a shame, for you always claimed that I never spoke
unless you said something first; and now I am doing the same thing under
cover of the letter.
JULY 2.
[Sidenote: Life so gray that shock of danger is beneficial.]
The other day, half-way out on the Atlantic, we sighted a periscope, and
some one at the gun sent a shell skimming over the _C----_, who was in
the way, and then the periscope turned out to be a ventilator sticking
up over some wreckage.
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