A Prayer for the Ship Read Online Free PDF Page B

their engines were expected to tolerate, they pushed into the night, their wooden hulls twisting and bucking, while the cold North Sea winds moaned through every crack and crevice, making the watch below groan, and clutch their damp blankets closer to their chilled bodies. On watch, these men fought against sleep, and off watch, rest was denied them by the cold nights, and the uneven motion of the mess-decks, which took every opportunity to bombard them with crockery, wet clothing, and the ever-penetrating sea water, which slopped about them, and made their lives a misery. Even the prayed-for refits became scarcer and shorter, as the cry went out for more ships, and more men. In the middle of these confused circumstances, Royce grew up, and became a useful and efficient member of their little world which was cut off from the rest of the fleet, and, in fact, from any other way of life. He now knew the life history of every member of the crew, their likes and dislikes, and their weaknesses. Their hopes and fears he shared.
    It was not, as he repeatedly told himself, quite as they had said it would be when he left the training establishment at Hove. Apart from that breath-taking encounter on his first patrol, he had not caught even a smell of the enemy. His war so far had mainly been against the weather, plus a steadily mounting struggle with the boat’s technical and domestic affairs, of which the latter was becoming rather out of hand. It was, as far as he could see, a case of a good crew overworked and pushed to breaking-point, with little prospect of improvement. His opposite numbers in the flotilla assured him that all would be well in action, but as that seemed a cruel justice to him, he painstakingly carried out his duties ashore and afloat, in a great effort to avoid a queue of defaulters at the Captain’s table, or the miserable collection of leave-breakers and deserters, which some First Lieutenants were having to contend with. The result, although not startling, was gratifying, and was not unnoticed by Harston, who left more and more tasks to his assistant, in the safe knowledge that they would be carefully and intelligently carried out, without the fear of an aftermath of furious signals from base, or disgruntled comments from the Coxswain. The other result was that Royce’s social life was now at a standstill. With the exception of brief visits to a giant Nissen hut in the harbour limits, lavishly called the Officers’ Club, he had confined his activities to the Depot Ship. With these thoughts in mind, he sat in his cabin half-heartedly concocting a letter to his parents. He found it difficult to write in a matter-of-fact way that would please his mother, and yet find suitable information about the war, of which he knew little, for the sake of his invalid father, who was, in his own way, a keen strategist. In addition, he knew that any one of these letters might well be his last. Both the other East Coast groups had been encountering heavy opposition of late, and it seemed likely that their turn would come again soon.
    He finished the letter with a flourish, and a sigh, and reached for his pipe. At that moment, the door slid open, and Harston and Artie Emberson were framed in the light.
    â€œWell, well, well,” drawled the latter, “so this is where your little slave hangs out!” He surveyed the spartan cabin, which resembled all the others in the ship to an exact degree.
    â€œHmm, most tastefully furnished too. As you have stated, John, this is a very adaptable lad.”
    Harston grinned. “Sorry to upset your solitude, Number One, but you’ll doubtless be horrified to know that S.O.O. has granted the flotilla a night in harbour. Apparently they want the whole area cleared of small fry so that our larger friends can get in some sea time!”
    Emberson interrupted. “And as the junior partner, we thought you might be interested in having your education extended by a run