When this cruel war is over, and the mad rounds of parades, banquets and reunions begin, I shall immediately set to work to organize the most exclusive of clubs. A mocking and envious friend suggests that our uniform consist of a white sailor hat, a soldier's tunic, British, French, or American according to the flags under which we served, and a pair of sailor trousers with an extra wide flare. For the club is to be composed of those fortunate souls who like myself have seen "the show" on land and on sea. To my mind, however, instead of mixing the uniforms, it would be better to dress in khaki when we feel military; in blue when our temperament is nautical. Think of belonging to a club whose members can dissect a trench mortar with ease and at the same time say: "Three points off the port bow" without turning a hair. I should admit marines only after a special consideration of each case. Not that I don't admire the marines. I do. I yield to no one in my admiration of our gallant "devil dogs." But the applicant for admission to our club must have first served as a bona fide soldier and then as a bona fide sailor or vice versa. Not that I am a sailor or ever was a sailor in Uncle Sam's Navy. All that I can claim to have been is a correspondent attached to the Navy "over there." But four months' service, most of it spent at sea on the destroyers, subs, and battleships entitles me, I think, to membership, consequently, being president, I have admitted myself. "Well, you've seen the war both on land and on sea; which service do you prefer ... the army or the Navy?" This question is hurled at me everywhere I go. I answer it with deliberation, enjoying the while to the full the consciousness of being an extraordinary person, a sort of literary Æneas, _multum jactatus et terris et alto_. And I answer briefly: "The Navy." I hasten to add, however, that you will find my answer coloured by a passion for the beauty and the mystery of the sea with which some good spirit endowed me in my cradle. I was born in one of the most historic of New England seacoast towns where brine was anciently said to flow through the veins of the inhabitants. On midsummer days the fierce heat distils from the cracked, caked mud of tidal meadows the clean, salty smell of the unsullied sea; dark ships, trailing far behind them long, dissolving plumes of smoke, weave in and out between the tawny, whale-backed islands of the bay, and tame little sea birds almost the colour of the shingle run along at the edge of the in-coming tide. So I admit a bias for the service of the sea.