A Prayer for the Ship Read Online Free PDF

the dim shapes of the other boats took on a hard realism. Up and down the weaving line, red-rimmed eyes peered out for friends, and weary, muffled figures waved and sighed with relief. As far as Royce could see, Emberson’s boat was the only one with visible damage. A line of holes above the waterline, and one larger gash in the deck just aft of the port torpedo tube, not too bad, in fact.
    â€œOuter Spit buoy on the starboard bow,” reported the lookout, and Royce peered at his watch, 0445.
    He leaned to the Captain’s speaking tube. “Captain, sir,” he called. “In position, Outer Spit ahead.”
    Harston joined him, and silently, side by side, they stood and watched the landmarks taking shape in the growing light. First the dull hills at the back of the port, then, more sharply defined, the long, low harbour walls, the boom-gate, now open to receive them, and a couple of outward-bound trawlers, jauntily thrusting their blunt bows into the choppy sea, their spindly funnels belching smoke, their tattered ensigns fluttering defiantly as any cruiser. The hands fell in for entering harbour, silently this time, only dimly aware of their surroundings, and only thinking of sleep, the sailor’s cure for everything.
    Through the harbour mouth, and up the stream, past the heavy cruiser Leviathan. On the cold morning air they heard the shrill notes of a bugle sounding Reveille, “Wakey, wakey, lash up and stow,” and as they threaded their way between the moored vessels, unnoticed, except by the vigilant signal tower, the anchorage roused itself for another day.
    First to the petrol jetty to take on fuel, then, while the other boats made for the Depot Ship, they pulled over to the railway wharf, where Royce saw a khaki ambulance waiting to take young Mead on his last trip. They watched it drive away, then slipped once more, and in the harsh, bright morning sunlight they tied up alongside the Royston ’s catwalk. Seven o’clock exactly.
    The Depot Ship’s maintenance men, wide awake and freshly shaved, hurried aboard and went to work. Royce dismissed the hands and sleepily watched them scramble up the steep side and disappear. Then, together, the two officers went over the main gangway, where Harston handed his brief, scribbled report to a messenger, and they were confronted by Artie Emberson, his reddened face creased into a smile. He slapped two hands on Harston’s shoulders, and pulled him towards him.
    â€œSo you’re still here, you old devil, and I thought I’d be able to have your breakfast this morning!” But his obvious relief shone in his eyes.
    Breakfast was a hurried, silent meal, as the grubby officers mechanically warmed their chilled insides with the carefully prepared food, and then, with a tired smile here, and a pat on the shoulder there, they dragged themselves to the sane, quiet privacy of the little cabins. As Royce closed his door behind him, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and was shocked at the grey, lined, and suddenly aged face which stared back at him. He didn’t remember undressing, or dabbing his sore skin with the steaming water. He just managed to heave his body between the gentle sheets and switch off the light, and the next instant he was safe from the sea, from patrols, and from himself.

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    I N THE MONTHS that followed, the war at sea, as far as Royce was concerned, pursued a regular, wearying pattern. Night after night they patrolled their scattered areas of the North Sea, covering the vital convoys which crept up and down the East Coast, and sometimes there was the variation of the hit-and-run dash across to the mud flats of the Dutch coast in search of the enemy’s supply ships. Like the men who manned them, the little ships knew every stress and strain as the momentum of war quickened, and the carefully laid rules were overlooked or savagely broken. Often in foul weather, and always at faster speeds than