Free A Prayer for the Ship by Douglas Reeman Page A

a fellow who’s thinking of his career all the time. Dash it all, Fixer, you must be mistaken.”
    Deith, the quietest of the flotilla’s commanders, pondered thoughtfully, and signalled the steward to fill Fixer’s glass. As he wrote out a chit for another round of gins, he smiled. “Well, thank you so much for cheering us all up, you old pirate. He may not be as bad as all that—why, he might even get to like us.”
    Martin laughed outright. “I heard him talking to the Operations Officer, by accident of course, and he said, quote: ‘Coastal Forces are an important arm to the Service.’ Wait,” he warned, as a cheer was raised. “He then said, quote: ‘It’s too important to be run by a lot of irresponsible yachtsmen and week-end sailors.’ Unquote! What! no more cheers?”
    â€œHm, and I see that there’s a conference in the forenoon at two bells tomorrow. I imagine that’s so we can get acquainted,” said Emberson, rubbing his chin. “Steward! Same again, and we’ll drink to a short war!”
    A blue, choking haze of tobacco smoke swirled and eddied around the operations room, as the flotilla officers made themselves comfortable for the conference, and as Royce glanced about him he saw everywhere the visible signs that the fortnight’s leave had performed wonders, and a new life had been pumped into the fresh, eager faces. He felt a quick pang inside when he remembered that no longer would he sit with his ear cocked for Harston’s quick and witty observations, and the careful and patient explanations of these conferences, and he wondered sadly what his new C.O. would be like. It was strange that he had not yet met the replacement, as he had already seen several new faces who had taken the places of the wounded and the dead. Except for his own boat, the flotilla was again up to full strength, with two new Vosper boats in the place of those which had become tombs for their crews. Even Jock Murray’s 3007 was back, complete with a new bow, and as the slow-speaking Scot had said, “It was the neatest bit of plastic surgery you could wish for!”
    A hush fell, as two figures strode on to the raised platform.
    â€œAll right, gentlemen,” said Commander Wright cheerfully, “carry on smoking, and I’ll bring you up to date.”
    But all attention was rivetted on the other officer who sat down briskly behind his superior. Lieutenant-Commander Aubrey Kirby was all that you would expect a regular naval man to look. His uniform neat, a gleaming white shirt, its starched cuffs protruding sharply from beneath the sleeves bearing the two-and-a-half gold symbols of authority. He was so true to pattern that it was difficult to determine the man himself. He was rather short and stocky, with a pink, round face. His hair, which was cut short to regulation length, was brushed straight back, but it had no definite colour, and even his features were very ordinary. But the eyes, they were a different matter—Like two pieces of pale blue glass—and as he sat erect and self-contained, with his small hands folded in his lap, he looked for all the world like a smug Siamese cat, or so Royce thought.
    He was not alone in this somewhat discouraging opinion. Benjy leaned over his shoulder, his warm breath smelling faintly of gin.
    â€œDon’t you feel sorry for the feller? The Pekinese in the pigsty!”
    He shut up quickly, as the cold eyes flickered in his direction for the briefest instant.
    Commander Wright rambled on, apparently unaware that anything was amiss, and Royce realized that the speech of introduction was coming to a close.
    â€œAnd now, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your new S.N.O., who will tell you about the next operational patrol.”
    With that, he withdrew, a trifle too hastily.
    Kirby rose slowly, and walked to the middle of the platform—exactly the middle—and stood with his hands