MAIL DAY.

By the N.M.O.

Five a.m. on a November morning! I wake with a start - a heavy tread on the path outside - the long, slow stride of a man used to tramping over miles of heather - it is the Duty Officer's messenger to say that the despatch boat has wirelessed, and she is due in about an hour.

I rise and dress hurriedly, swallow a cup of milk and a mouthful of bread, struggle into oilskins and long rubber boots, arm myself with a torch, and sally forth. It is pitch dark, blowing half a gale and sleeting besides, there is not a light anywhere. I arrive on the quay, which is illuminated by half a dozen lanterns - ("moonboxes" the sailors called them) - placed at the principal, but only the principal, danger spots, and in spite of my torch-light, narrowly miss a serious collision with a bollard. There is no one about except the sentry who challenged me at the entrance, and I can't make out which of the drifters lying alongside is the duty boat. However, I hurry along to my office, and find that the despatch boat has not yet been reported by the look-out station, so she is evidently rather late.

 My staff consists of a chief stoker, who looks after the office work, takes in telegrams and parcels, sells stamps, etc., and sorts the mail; a seaman who assists him, and a boy scout. They have got my fire burning and the gas lighted, so I can wait in some comfort. Also the working party is at hand, and the drifter ready waiting, so we shall get off promptly when the vessel arrives. At 6.35 a voice announces "Despatch boat entering harbour, Miss, working party all aboard," and I hurry out and scramble into the drifter - no easy matter when the tide is very low. We push off at once, and come alongside the mail boat as soon as she has swung to her anchor, the working party scramble aboard, and I follow suit. (N.B. - A rope ladder is a trifle awkward to negotiate at first, and skirts are a handicap, but frequent use mitigates its terrors, even on a dark and stormy night or morning, as the case may be, and, fortunately, it isn't often very rough inside the harbour.)

 The mail bags are all ready on deck,, and the working party soon transfer them to the drifter, where "the Chief "checks them as they come aboard. The confidential matter, which is always in the charge of an officer, I receive personally. I check the bags containing registered packages, and sign receipts for the whole before we push off again with our cargo. From the time we left the quay till we land there again in precisely 25 minutes. It is a big mail to-day, and we have also brought ashore a lot of ratings and their gear, so we haven't done badly.

The mails are hurried into the office, and the sorting begins at once, while, accompanied by my scout, I deliver the confidentials, and then proceed to open the bags of registers, and check and enter up the contents. Everything is clear by 8.30, letters for the S.N.O. and shore establishments duly delivered, and the ships' mails in the pigeon holes, waiting till called for, and I am free to return to my rooms for breakfast, a short rest, and a hasty glance at my own correspondence - then the business of the outgoing mail begins.

With the censorship in force we have to close the box at 2.30 for all letters not already passed by an officer. Letters and telegrams come in one continuous stream. The chaplain, who is the official censor, is kept busy, and the mail officer is not idle. The telephone goes constantly, there seems no end to the possible (and impossible) queries regarding the mail, and everything pertaining thereto. Registered packets pour in, for which receipts have to be given, and forwarding lists made out.

 Postal orders are required, and any correspondence which the mail has to-night must be attended to. From I to 2 the office closes for dinner, and the early hours of the afternoon are more peaceful. About 4 o'clock I send to the Church Army Hut for a cup of tea and a bun, but have barely finished these delicacies when the rush begins again. This time it is registered packets and correspondence from the various offices.

At 6 o'clock the last clearance is made; I summon the scout, and he accompanies me to fetch the bags of confidential matter. The mail is then closed and put on board the drifter, and at 6.30 we push off in the inky darkness to tackle the business of getting it all on board the despatch boat. My heart is in my mouth until this is safely accomplished.

What if a man or a bag fell into "the ditch" during the process? - such a thing has been known to happen - however, all goes well. Everything is handed over, the officer in charge gives me his receipts, I heave a sigh of relief, the ropes are cast off, and we wend our way shorewards. But my troubles are not over.

The quay is now packed with drifters, trawlers and whalers, and there is not a corner for us anywhere. We run alongside the water boat, and there begins a scramble for me - out of the drifter, on to the water boat, across her deck (which presents unexpected obstacles in the darkness), and so up to the edge of the quay. There we call a halt. The tide is low, the quay is high, neither ladders nor gangways are available for mail officers in War-time.

However, the boat's nose is hauled in close, the easiest spot is chosen for me, and strong hands are extended to help. I make a wild leap, and am landed safely on terra firma once more - my difficulties are at an end!

Nothing now remains to be done but to file my papers, take a glance round the office to see that all is in order, and I am free to hurry home.

When my day's work is done, I may at last enjoy the results of my labours. My letters await me, and I myself can realise to the full the exile's delight in that day of days - MAIL DAY!

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