By the time he accomplished this and was satisfied that the mass of men in the hold of the LST were under at least a semblance of control, darkness had fallen and they were actually pulling away from Dover.

Stephens approached him on the upper deck by the railing. He had descended from Olympus to deal with mere mortals, Morgan thought.

“Good job organizing the men, Captain. I know I was short with you, but we were running out of time and I needed things under control. The English Channel is not one hundred percent safe from the krauts. I’ve made a number of trips like this and I haven’t lost a man yet and I don’t want to start now.”

“Understood, sir.” Perhaps the little man wasn’t such a jerk after all.

“You know what LST stands for, Captain?”

“No sir.”

“Large Slow Target,” Stephens said with a hint of a smile. “It actually stood for Landing Ship Tank, its original purpose, and it’s evolved into a very useful all purpose vessel, but it does make a hell of an inviting target.”

He explained that the thirty-eight-hundred-ton LST had a top speed of a mere twelve knots, and Morgan doubted she was doing anywhere near that. Other ships, including more LST’s were making the trip and were visible as shadows in the night.

“Usually we carry supplies to the beaches. This is my third trip with unorganized replacement troops, Captain, and the first two were miserable experiences. The soldiers are going into war and they bitterly resent the fact that my sailors will head back to England and safety, hot meals, and maybe even girlfriends once they’ve dropped them off. This resulted in fights and vandalism. Two of my sailors were stabbed during the last trip and I am now trying to head that off by having you enforce discipline. A number of soldiers got into fights when they decided they’d been cheated at cards, and a larger number got drunk on booze they managed to smuggle in, and a lot of them got sick all over the place. Are you getting the picture?”