A Prayer for the Ship by Douglas Reeman Read Free Book Online

should have a rest from active service for a bit.
    â€œEnemy coast ahead!” sang out the bridge lookouts together, and as they peered across the dark, oily water, they could make out only vaguely the black finger of land which was the start of the low-lying mudflats which abounded in these waters.
    For another half-hour the boats felt their way forward, but no convoy steamed out to greet them, no targets loomed before the gaping torpedo tubes, and the tension on the decks could be felt. Here a man rubbed his eyes savagely, and stared again into the sombre blackness, and there another cursed his mate softly as their bodies touched on the gently rolling gun-platform.
    Royce was not the least affected, and he felt a childish rage consuming him, causing him to rebuke the signalman for lowering his glasses for a few seconds.
    â€œThose damned airmen have made a mistake,” he muttered. “There’s no convoy, and if there was, they slipped out this morning, blast them!”
    â€œThat’ll do, Number One!” The voice was mild, almost disinterested.
    Royce swore again under his breath, and peered over towards the Leader’s blurred shape on the port beam, and then he saw a shaded signal lamp blinking astern: he must be worried too, to use a lamp so close to the enemy coast.
    â€œLeader’s signalled supportin’ gunboats to sweep to the south-east, and to report if there’s anything at that end of the coast,” reported Collins. His voice sounded doubtful.
    Still Harston seemed unsurprised and apparently preoccupied with his own thoughts. Royce could faintly make out his outline in the front of the bridge, leaning across the screen on his folded arms, an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth, which suddenly gleamed white in the gloom as he smiled.
    â€œNumber One,” he spoke softly so that the lookouts and signalman should not hear. “Don’t let this sort of thing get you down; this war’s like a great, stupid puzzle. If we work like hell, and have lots of actions, the boats crack up, and we need boats, more and more of them. If we don’t get a shot at anything, and have month in and month out of peaceful but damned monotonous patrols, then it’s the crews who go round the bend. You just can’t please anybody.”
    He paused and studied his First Lieutenant’s gloved hand as it pounded the rail, softly yet viciously, in a steady rhythm.
    â€œIt’s not that I’m a crack-brained, death-or-glory character, or that I don’t realize that ninety-nine per cent of finding and knocking seven bells out of Jerry is just plain luck,” explained Royce, the words tumbling out of him. “It’s just this constant waiting, and not knowing.” His voice trailed away, and he shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
    Harston moved swiftly across the bridge, with his quick, cat-like step, and gripped his sleeve urgently, pulling him close to his pale face. When he spoke again, his tone was strange, quite unlike anything Royce had heard from him before, almost fanatical.
    â€œNever, never feel that you’re wasting your time. Everything we do helps to tie them down, even when we’re not killing them! That’s why I rode you hard when you were sent to me. War is a hard business. Now you’ve made the grade, our grade, otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you this.” Here he paused and waved his arm towards the hidden coast, and when he continued, he spoke slowly as if spelling out the words: “But I hate those bastards more than any other crawling creature on this earth. I’ve seen what they can do, have done, and’ll keep on doing until we—”
    He broke away with a jerk, as a dull boom and blue flash lit the slowly cruising clouds. Immediately the R-T speaker crackled into life: “Leader calling: the M.G.B.s have struck oil, maximum speed!”
    The night split open as the engines roared into life, and Royce