Nicholls shoved the depleted bottle back into the cupboard, and jerked a resentful thumb in the direction of the massive battleship clearly visible through the porthole, swinging round her anchor three or four cable-lengths away.

"Why always us, sir? It's always us. Why don't they send that useless floating barracks out once in a while? Swinging round that bloody great anchor, month in, month out------"

"Just the point," Brooks interrupted solemnly. "According to the Kapok Kid, the tremendous weight of empty condensed milk cans and herring-in-tomato sauce tins accumulated on the ocean bed over the past twelve months completely defeats all attempts to weigh anchor."

Nicholls didn't seem to hear him.

"Week in, week out, months and months on end, they send the Ulysses out. They change the carriers, they rest the screen destroyers, but never the Ulysses. There's no let-up. Never, not once. But the Duke of Cumberland, all it's fit for is sending hulking great brutes of marines on board here to massacre sick men, crippled men, men who've done more in a week than------"

"Easy, boy, easy," the Commander chided. "You can't call three dead men and the bunch of wounded heroes lying outside there a massacre. The marines were only doing their job. As for the Cumberland, well, you've got to face it. We're the only ship in the Home Fleet equipped for carrier command."

Nicholls drained his glass and regarded his superior officer moodily.

"There are times, sir, when I positively love the Germans."

"You and Johnson should get together sometime," Brooks advised. "Old Starr would have you both clapped in irons for spreading alarm and... Hallo, hallo!" He straightened up in his chair and leaned forward. "Observe the old Duke there, Johnny! Yards of washing going up from the flag-deck and matelots running, actually running-up to the fo'c'sle head. Unmistakable signs of activity. By Gad, this is uncommon surprising! What d'ye make of it, boy?"