The moon swam into a windy sky from behind the blue-black hills encircling them. The vast anchored fleet that had dropped into obscurity at nightfall became distinct against the shimmer of the water. The wind was full of the voices of ships talking among themselves, and fragrant with salt heather smells from hundreds of spray-drenched islands. You could detect the deep grumbling tones of the battleships in the air, as the Romans might have heard the talk that floated into the night from the gladiators’ barracks. It mingled with the gossip of the light cruisers, whose conversation was largely technical, as they lay floating at their moorings with steam raised: nervous, high-spirited, mettlesome things, spoiling for a fight. Their talk concerned each other’s boiler tubes, turning circles, thrust bearings, and gyro compasses: rather dull to the layman, but interesting to the destroyers in the flotilla anchorage, who were their cousins. One of the T.B.D. flotillas was unmooring, and through a waterway between the islands their lights winked and flickered as they swore and fumed at each other, manœuvring in the narrow waters. The flotilla leader slipped out into the broader expanse of the bay and slowed down. “Now then,” she called, “who are we hanging on to the slack for? Z.19--you again?” “No,” said 19 in tones of tense exasperation, “not this time.... But if 73 tries to cut in under my stern again as she did just now, she’ll get a kick in the ribs one of these days----” her syren hooted angrily. “_Gang-way!_ That damned drifter!” Destroyers are as short-tempered as athletes before a “Sports.” They are always at short notice, and always trained to a hair, which, as every schoolboy knows, is a very touchy state. “Don’t forget,” said the leader, “until sunrise the challenge and reply is ‘St. George!’ and ‘England!’” She rang down for half speed, and one by one the long, slim forms slipped out after her and picked up station in the darkness with the ease and sureness that belied all their abuse of each other. The patient mine-sweepers rocked in the swell as the line went by. They were modest, hard-working little ships who did their jobs without talking about theories and the complications of their interiors. Sufficient unto each day was the labour and calamity thereof, without burdening the night with conjecture about the morrow. “Hope you old plumbers did your job all right this afternoon!” shouted a destroyer as they passed. “My word, we’re a trusting lot of innocents!” The sloops nodded and dipped, rather pleased in their humble way at being taken notice of. “You’re all right!” they chorused back. The destroyers were slipping into their stride and their tempers were sweetening like a long-distance runner as he gets his second wind. “Who’s all right?” hailed the last boat in the line.