Free The White Guns (1989) by Douglas Reeman Page A

hold the winning hand. Your own engines cut out every sound.
     
Like the time this boat had been raked by a German fighter on their way back to base. Too many aboard thinking of getting home in one piece. Or getting back at all, and perhaps a lookout peering for a first sight of England instead of watching astern. It had cost the boat two lives.
     
'Got it!' He gestured over the swaying glass screen. 'South-East of us, I'd say.'
     
He swung away, his mind empty of everything but the facts. Like those other times. Observation – Conclusion – Method – Attack! Except that this time there would be no battle. He felt his mouth harden in a tight grin. Or no confrontation, as Meikle would have it.
     
He said sharply, 'Darken ship!' He hesitated, his thumb on the invisible red button. Too jumpy? Over-reacting? To hell with what they think. He jabbed it down hard and heard the alarm bells yammering through the hull.
     
Silver chuckled. 'That'll stir the idle buggers!'
     
Fairfax lifted his face from a voicepipe. 'Chief, sir! Ready to proceed!' He added in a surprised tone, 'Didn't mention the alarm, sir!'
     
Marriott moved to the front of the bridge and heard the thud of feet on ladders.
     
But for Adair's concern for his charges they might not have stopped, and the unknown vessel would have remained a mystery.
     
He snapped, 'Start up!'
     
 
     
Sub-Lieutenant John Lowes sat wedged into a wardroom bench seat, unable even to think of sleep in the awful, swooping motion. He had even heard some of the old hands spewing up in the heads. One smell of that and he was done for.
     
In the navy, the Andrew, another titbit of slang, there was no sympathy for the ones who suffered from seasickness. At best, the old sweats remarked that even Nelson had been seasick but it never stopped him from winning battles! The less charitable enjoyed describing possible 'cures'. Like swallowing a lump of pork fat tied to a piece of string and pulling it straight up again.
     
Lowes watched as Ginger Jackson wandered into the tiny wardroom, his eyes everywhere as he searched for nooks and crannies where he could store his fresh supplies. Cans of corned beef and those awful square-shaped sausages. Drums of powdered egg and soup. Tinned herrings in tomato sauce, the sailors' favourite.
     
Lowes groaned and swallowed violently. He must stop thinking about it. Ginger paused and regarded him cheerfully. He was never seasick. But he liked Lowes. He reminded him a bit of his kid brother. Apart from his posh accent, of course. Ginger came from Kentish Town and had had to fight his brother's battles many times. Trouble was, he looked a bit effeminate. Rather like the subbie. His brother was a sickberth attendant in the battleship Rodney now. He grinned. They'd be fighting for him!
     
'Soon be movin' again, sir.' Ginger leaned against the door and sighed. 'Then back to Kiel, the poor man's Brighton!'
     
Lowes grimaced. 'I want to get ashore and see things.' He flushed. 'You know, get some souvenirs before they all get picked over.'
     
Ginger regarded him thoughtfully. As messman he was the only man in the boat who had stepped into the dockyard, apart from the Skipper, that was. Funny when you thought about it. But Jimmy the One had sent him to find the supply truck which was delivering stores for the naval vessels in the harbour. He had met a jolly little corporal, one of the army cooks there. He had learned quite a lot from him. They would do some business together if he was not mistaken.
     
Ginger groped into his overalls and pulled out a folded handkerchief. He laid it on the table and opened it, but kept his eyes on the young officer. He was taking a chance. But Lowes was like his brother in another way. A bit thick.
     
Lowes peered unblinking at the little glittering collection of medals. At least two Iron Crosses and some others with different coloured ribbons. A watch too, marked in precise seconds, the sort a German gunnery officer might