Sailed at 9 p.m. last night, and we are now seventeen miles off Beachy Head. The Straits of Dover were frightful; the glare of the acetylene flares on the barrage showed for miles. Seen from a distance it gave me the impression of the gates of hell, through which we had to pass.
I dived, ten miles away, and went through with the tide at a depth of forty metres.
Two hours and three quarters of suspense, and at dawn we came up, having passed safely through the great deathtrap. At the moment there is nothing in sight, except a little smoke on the horizon. I am going to dive again till dusk.
2 a.m.
We are thrashing down the Channel with a south–westerly wind right ahead. My instructions are to work for two days between the Lizard and Kinsale Head, and then proceed far out in the Atlantic, where the convoys are supposed to meet the destroyers.
That Fair Island Channel experience was enough for a lifetime. Death, quick, short and sudden, this I am ready for. But torture, slow, long and drawn–out, is not in the bargain which in this year of grace every civilized man and half the savages of the world seem to have had to make with the god Mars.
As I sit in this steel, cigar–shaped mass of machinery, the question rings incessantly in my ears: "To what object is all this war directed, when analysed from the point of view of the individual?"
It does not satisfy any longing of mine. I have not got a lust for battle: no one who fights has a lust for battle. Editors of newspapers and people on General Staffs, possibly also Cabinet Ministers, have lusts for battles, as long as they arrange the battle and talk about it afterwards—curse them!
The only thing I want is to be with Zoe. I want to live and spend long years with her, enjoying life—this life of which I have spent half already, and now perhaps it will be taken from me by some other man: some Englishman who doesn't really want to take my life, reckoned as an individual.
Around me in the darkness are the patrol boats, manned by the Englishmen who are seeking my life. Seeking it, not to gratify their private emotions, but because we are all in the whirlpool of War and cannot escape.
Like an avalanche, it seems to gather strength and speed as it rolls on, this War of Nations. The world must be mad! I cannot see how it can ever stop. England will never be defeated at sea. We shall conquer on land—then what?
An inconclusive peace.
Even if we smash this island Empire and gain the dominion of the world, how will it advantage me? I can see no way in which I can gain.
It would be said, if any one should read this: Gott! what a selfish point of view—he thinks only of his personal gain, not of his country.
But, confound it all, I reply, answer me this:
Do I exist for my country, or does my country exist for me?
For example, does man live for the sake of the Church, or was the Church created for man?
Does not my country exist for my benefit?
Surely it is so.
Then again, I am risking my all, my life; I live in danger, apprehension and great discomfort; I do all these things, and yet if as a reasonable man I ponder what advantage I am to gain from all these sacrifices I am adjudged selfish.
It is all madness; I cannot fathom the meaning of these things.
* * * * *
In position on the Bristol line of approach, the weather is bad.
