Free A Prayer for the Ship by Douglas Reeman

said too cheerfully, her face averted, “What about the last of the sherry. I’ll go and get it for you lazy old things.” And she hurried out to the kitchen.
    The two men faced each other, then his father patted his knee. “You mustn’t mind Mother, you know how she worries,” was all he said.
    But the next day on that same platform, he thought of those words, as they stood in silence until the train was actually running into the station, then the good-byes were hurried, the hugs so brief, and as he was borne rapidly away from the sun-drenched little station, the picture of the two seemingly frail figures, and the rough worried-looking dog, were imprinted firmly on his mind.
    After many wearisome hours of travel, consisting mainly, he thought, of changing trains every few minutes, and trying not to leave his respirator on the rack, he observed the now familiar landmarks of the low-lying Essex coast, and soon the deserted marsh flats, and the rich, fresh fields began to give way to scattered houses and cottages, and eventually the train ground to a stop in the bustling harbour station.
    As he strode to the barrier, he picked out several faces from the flotilla, who either saluted or smiled, according to their rank or disposition. Petty Officer Moore, spruce and dapper in immaculate uniform and gold badges, so unlike his usual greasy overalls and woollen cap, was apparently loaded down with mysterious parcels from doting relatives— he came from a vast family—and seeing Royce, he nodded awkwardly, and fell in step beside him.
    â€œAfternoon, sir,” he greeted affably, “I ’ope you ’ad a good leave?”
    Without waiting for an answer, he plunged into the full story of his own achievements, which appeared to consist of mainly visiting as many pubs as possible, with his family, all of whom were employed at the docks, and as he put it, “the bleedin’ cash was flying about like peas on a pusser’s blanket!”
    As they strolled along the railway jetty, they saw the boats lying once more alongside the Depot Ship. In two weeks the dockyard had done marvels. Planking patched and replaced, all the hulls repainted a very dark grey, which improved their rakish lines, and even now, their decks swarmed with overalled figures as the maintenance staff completed the work of restoring and putting final touches to their craft.
    In the Royston ’s wardroom, the bar was just opening as Royce hurried in, and soon he was firmly embedded in a tight circle of old friends, and eagerly they exchanged gossip, and pumped the other officers for the latest news of operations.
    A small, wizened R.N.R. Lieutenant, bearing the purple stripe of an Engineer, and known to all affectionately as “Fixer” Martin, because of his magical powers with the M.T.B.s’ engines, looked sadly at his empty glass, and shook his head.
    â€œI’m afraid you poor boys have a shock in store.” He sighed deeply, and continued: “Have any of you fly-by-nights heard of a Lieutenant-Commander Aubrey Kirby, Royal Navy?”
    He made “Royal Navy” sound like an illuminated address.
    â€œGood Lord, yes,” answered Benjy Watson, who looked rather haggard after a violent leave spent chiefly in the West End of London. “He’s the Captain of the old destroyer Wycliffe, a bit of a bastard to all accounts. Why?”
    Martin smiled crookedly. “ Was the Captain of Wycliffe. ” He paused. “You will be delighted to learn that this straight-laced, regimental, self-opinionated lump of peacetime navy is now Senior Officer of the flotilla!”
    He was not disappointed by the gasps of amazement.
    â€œAnd as our plump friend here says, he is one big bastard!”
    â€œBut look here, old man,” drawled Emberson, “we’ve always had an R.N.V.R. chappie, that was the whole point. I mean, with all due respect to our regular brothers, we don’t want