It was afternoon on 7^th May and the ship was steaming along with unassailable confidence. After a steady and uneventful voyage, anxiety aboard had more or less evaporated. They were only ten miles from Queenstown, their first port of call. Like many of the passengers, Irene had come out on deck when land was first sighted. The barber had joined her.

‘Not long to go now,’ she observed. ‘Since that fog lifted, the Irish coast is clearly visible.’

‘Don’t talk to me about the Irish,’ said Gill, sharply. ‘They’re even worse than the Yanks. I’ve had three Micks in my chair and not a penny in tips from any of them. That Irish composer whistled his latest song at me as if he was doing me a favour. The only favour I want,’ he added with a sniff, ‘is silver coins in the palm of my hand.’

‘Can’t you think about anything but money?’

He grinned slyly. ‘I think about you sometimes, Irene.’

‘That’s enough of that,’ she said, firmly.

‘A man can still hope.’

He ran a covetous eye over her shapely figure.

‘You know my decision, Ernie, and it’s final.’

She was about to explain why when she was interrupted by a shout from the young lookout on the bow. Having seen the telltale shape hurtling towards them through the water, he bellowed into his megaphone.

‘Torpedoes coming on the starboard side!’

Before anyone could react to the news, the ship was struck with such violence that it was rocked from stem to stern. The explosion was deafening. Panic set in immediately. Passengers screamed, shouted and ran in all directions. Electricity had been knocked out, leaving cabins and public rooms in comparative darkness.