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sir? A bit less formal.’
    â€˜Thank you, Number One.’ He looked at the nearest polished scuttle, the sudden bars of heavy rain against the thick glass: Scapa showing its other face.
    He added, ‘Probably the last time for a while.’
    Kerr watched him, suddenly alert. Rumours were rife throughout the ship. Leave was over: the ship was as ready for sea as she would ever be, so where to? The pale grey paint suggested a warm climate, as did the new fans. Ceylon was the favourite amongst the messdeck bookmakers. Some said it was the Med, where, after losing so many destroyers in the Greek disaster and enemy attacks showing no sign of lessening, even a small replacement would be welcome.
    But not the bloody Atlantic again. Not yet. Slow, overloaded convoys which reduced the speed of all to only a few knots made the escorts’ work even more uncomfortable.
Serpent
had been built for speed, one of the Grand Fleet’s greyhounds, not to be flung about through forty-five degrees with the sea flooding over the open bridge like a mill-race. On one such convoy the seas had been so rough that the captain and the officer-of-the-watch had been unable to leave the bridge, while the other officers had been marooned aft until the weather had abated.
    It was good to be getting away from the brutal power of the Western Ocean, if only to be spared the losses and the new strategy of Hitler’s U-boat command. With the fall of Scandinavia, the Low Countries and France, the enemy now held a coastline that stretched from Norway’s North Cape to the Bay of Biscay: nearly five thousand miles, each one of which afforded a threat to those desperately needed convoys and their tightly-stretched defenders.
    As George Pike, the burly coxswain, had remarked, ‘Let some other bugger take the strain! Palm trees an’ dancin’ girls’ll do me!’
    Some hopes, Kerr thought.
    The tannoy squeaked and then muttered through the ship like someone speaking underwater.
    â€˜D’you hear there! Hands to dinner!’
    Kerr saw the captain smile, thinking probably of the unspoken part of the pipe.
Officers to lunch!
    Kerr left the captain’s quarters and made his way to the wardroom. His companions sat by the fire on the club fender, or in the well-worn chairs.
    Kerr relaxed slightly. Perhaps they all needed a change, a new horizon. He signalled to the messman. ‘Pink gin, please!’ He thought of the man he had just left, alone in his cabin. Maybe Brooke needed it too.
    Kerr took the glass and signed a mess-chit, then glanced through the streaming scuttle.
    Anything would be better than Scapa.
    It was dark very early on this particular Sunday, and although the rain had eased the Flow was choppy with serried ranks of white horses, and the ship’s upperworks shone like glass.
    In the wardroom Petty Officer Kingsmill watched gloomily while his assistants put finishing touches to the array of glasses, and the selection of small snacks which they had produced for the occasion. Some officers were coming over from another destroyer to help make it more of a party for the new captain. Kingsmill was proud of his various skills, but never showed it. As always, his frowning features suggested he was paying for all the food and drink personally.
    Kerr glanced at the bulkhead clock and wondered what Brooke would make of his small wardroom when he saw them
en masse
instead of on duty.
    A face appeared in the doorway. ‘Beg pardon, sir!
Leicester
’s boat is coming alongside!’
    Kerr said, ‘Off you trot, Sub, and greet our guests. You
are
the duty boy, I believe?’
    â€˜Why is it always me?’ Barrington-Purvis put down his glass and strode out of the wardroom.
    Kerr said to the two warrant officers, ‘I’ll wait until our guests get settled, then I’ll call the captain . . .’ He broke off as he saw a youth with a telegraphist’s badge on his sleeve peering into the