Christmas Day dawned bright and clear—a pleasing contrast to the preceding day. Hardly a ripple disturbed the surface of the sea, while the hills surrounding the harbour were perfectly hidden by light, fleecy mists. The air, too, was mild. From a weather aspect it was as unlike the old-time festive day as one could possibly imagine.

The depleted mess sat down to breakfast in high spirits, but behind the display of gaiety was the thought that to many it would be the last Christmas Day that they would spend under Active Service conditions. Already demobilization was working havoc both with numbers and efficiency. Months of strenuous training looked like being wasted, while there was uncertainty of the future. Quite possibly the "Band of Brothers" would be dispersed to the four quarters of the globe. Many of them, of course, wanted to get back to their homes, but others, particularly the young crash pilots, regarded their possible release to civil life with feelings akin to consternation. Growing up to manhood as responsible officers of a fighting force, they had no enthusiasm for the hum-drum life that awaited them upon demobilization. In several cases their post-school studies had been entirely interrupted, and their chance of qualifying for professional careers hopelessly shattered. The phantom "after-the-war" problem was merging into a real and burning question.

Being Christmas Day, parade did not take place until ten o\'clock, after which the C.O. made a tour of the buildings and inspected the decorated messes. This over, Derek had to take the duty-boat and visit the R.A.F. vessels moored in the harbour.

Almost the first craft visited was a large motorboat lying right in the tide-way. As the duty-boat ran alongside the bowman stepped on board with the intention of making fast with a rope. As he did so the boats\' bows began to drift apart.

"Look out!" shouted Derek. "You\'ll be in the ditch in half a shake!"

The warning came too late. With one foot on the motor-boat and the other on the duty-boat, the luckless bowman tried to save himself by recovering his lost balance. In vain; the gap increased more and more until, with a loud splash, the man plunged into the icy water.

Fortunately he could swim, but the task of getting him on board, encumbered as he was with oilskin jacket and trousers, was not an easy one. It was not until Derek and the engineer came to his assistance that the bowman was hauled into the boat.

There was now no option but to return to the pier and land the shivering man. Provided with a stiff glass of brandy, he was sent back to his room to change, his arrival in saturated clothes being hailed with good-natured banter by his comrades.

As the duty-boat pushed off to resume her interrupted patrol the sergeant-coxswain must needs emulate the bowman\'s example, for on stepping from the pier steps to the boat his foot slipped, and into the water he went.

That meant more brandy and another coxswain. "The next man who tumbles into the ditch will not get any brandy," declared Derek, by way of warning. Doubtless the hint was taken, for there was no further trouble in that direction.

Back to the depot to change for dinner, and Derek\'s duty ended for the rest of the day. Yet there was work for him to do—the task of getting ready to proceed on his eleven days\' leave.

At eight the following morning Derek set out on his long journey, travelling to the railway station in a tender in default of a car, for the three motor-cars attached to the depot had all been placed hors de combat on Christmas Eve. It was an enjoyable, though a crowded railway journey. Packed in with nine other officers, a civilian, and a dog in a first-class compartment, Derek found himself in good company. The spirit of Yule-tide predominated, and even though the crowded train was an hour late, stopping at every station, and frequently between stations, the prospect of getting home smoothed over the inconvenience of travelling.

"Well, Derek," remarked Captain Daventry after dinner, when father and son were alone, "the war\'s over, or practically so. Men are being demobilized right and left. The papers teem with advertisements from released officers requiring employment. What do you propose doing?"

"Hanging on, Pater, in the Micawber-like spirit: hoping that something may turn up."

"And what are the prospects?"

Derek had to confess that up to the present there was nothing definite. No decided information was forthcoming from the Air Ministry, although the air was thick with rumours.

"I\'d go in for flying again if the Medical Board passed me," he added. "Failing that, I\'d like to continue in the Marine Branch. It\'s a weird and fairly exciting existence, and every day I like it more and more."

"Thought so," rejoined his father laconically; "it\'s the adage: \'What\'s bred in the bone,\' &c. With generations of sea-faring ancestors, Derek, you can\'t get away from the fact that you\'ve an innate desire for the sea. Flying was only a sort of stop-gap—necessary, no doubt, but it\'s not the rock-bottom of an Englishman\'s constitution, so to speak. The sea made Britain what it is to-day, and the sea will continue to do so, unless the country allows her maritime supremacy to pass into the hands of others. To return to a personal view—I mentioned the matter before, I believe—you\'ll be able to go to sea till you\'re well over middle age, but it\'s an obvious certainty that you won\'t be flying at that time of life."

"You don\'t seem very sanguine over the future of aviation, Pater."

"I hardly like to express an opinion, Derek; but when comparing a ship with an aeroplane you must remember that the former is in its natural element. Given a seaworthy craft ably managed, a ship is as safe as a house. Even if the engines break down the vessel floats. But take an aircraft. If anything happens to it, it is not in its natural element. It must descend."

"A heavier-than-air machine, you mean."

"Precisely. And take the case of an airship. Its vulnerability to fire is a great drawback, while I doubt its ability to ride out a gale. A ship has a grip upon the water; an airship, if disabled, is simply at the mercy of the winds."

"And that is where we—the marine section—come in," added Derek. "Once the authorities realize that, our future is assured."

The eleven days passed only too quickly, and almost before he realized that his leave would expire that night Derek found himself packing his kit-bag and haversack.

It was eleven o\'clock when he arrived at Fisherton Station, and nearly midnight by the time he reached Sableridge depot. All the rest of the occupants of the officers\' quarters were in bed; there was no supper left out for him, and the ante-room fire had died down. Without it was blowing a gale from the south-east, and raining heavily. The spray was dashing against the windows, while above the howling of the wind could be heard the continuous roar of the surf upon the Dairymaid Sands.

"What a night!" soliloquized Derek, as he proceeded to unpack and prepare to turn in. "Thank goodness I\'m not out. Wonder if our boats will drag their moorings? Well, here\'s to bed. I\'ll sleep like a log till morning."

Alas for that resolution! It seemed as if Daventry had been asleep but a few minutes when he was aroused by the Officer of the Watch.

"You\'ll have to turn out, Daventry, old man," he announced. "There\'s a vessel of some sort ashore on the Dairymaid Bank. The Fisherton life-boat is coming down harbour, and they want us to stand by. I\'ve turned out the Duty Watch and told off No. 21\'s crew. Take her out and keep to windward of the shoal. There\'s a deuce of a sea breaking over it, so look out!"

Already Derek was out of bed and donning his sea-kit. A glance at his wristlet-watch showed that it was 3 a.m. The gale was at its height. Windows were rattling, stones were being hurled up from the beach and thudding against the shuttered windows of the building. Rain and sleet were descending in hissing and blinding sheets.

Literally battling his way to the pier-head Derek found his crew busily engaged in preparing motor-boat No. 21 for the coming contest with the elements. The craft was a stout one, specially built for hard work, and heavily engined. If any vessel on the station were capable of keeping the sea that night it was No. 21.

"Plenty of petrol, engineer?" shouted Derek, as he gained the deck of the plunging boat.

"Tanks full, sir."

"Good enough," rejoined Derek, holding on like grim death as the boat ground and bumped heavily against the piles of the pier. "Any sign of the life-boat, signalman?"

"Not yet in sight, sir."

The youthful Lieutenant gazed seaward. All was a chaotic blur of driving rain and spray. In vain he waited to see the occulting light on the distant Bar Buoy. It was no longer t............