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

slightly.
    â€œMorning, sir, pusser’s tea for one!” he chirped brightly, and then stood back to await results. Like the rest of Royston ’s ship’s company, he knew quite well about the last battle of the M.T.B. flotilla, and of the losses sustained. He knew, too, that this young officer had refused help and rest after his ordeal, until he had made sure that his crew were safe in their hammocks. And even then, he had forced himself to write letters to the relatives of the dead, and telephone the hospital to inquire of the wounded. As he had handed in his report to the Operations Officer, he had been told that fourteen days’ leave would be granted to all the boats’ crews, as from the following morning. This morning.
    Royce blinked, and heaved himself on to one elbow. Dazzled by the bright sunlight, he squinted at the steward.
    â€œThanks. What’s the time?” His voice sounded thick.
    Swiftly the steward moved into the attack. “Now don’t you worry about a thing, sir,” he said quickly. “It’s eight o’clock now, and it’s a lovely morning to be starting your leave. I’ve pressed your best uniform, and Stripey Muddock has done four shirts real smashing for you. Oh, and I’ve looked up the trains to London just as you asked. Breakfast is Spam, but Cookie has doctored some powdered eggs, special. I’ll bring it in to you.”
    Royce didn’t remember asking about trains, and suspected he was being pampered, but the door closed before he could muster a comment, so he rolled off the bunk, and sipped the sweet tea.
    Later, as he munched his breakfast, he thought about leave, and wondered if his parents would see any difference in him, or whether his mother would persist in treating him like a schoolboy. The thought of the Surrey woods, now green and fresh, the feel of springy turf under his feet, and the excited barks of old Bruce as he lumbered about in the bushes, sent a queer thrill through him, and a warm excitement made him determined to close his mind tightly on the previous 48 hours.
    As he dressed slowly and carefully, his ear picked out the usual shipboard noises which he had come to know so well. The measured tread of the Quartermaster above his head, the clanking of a winch, the appealing mew of the gulls, and the twitter of the pipes throughout the ship, as the hands were invited to muster on the fo’c’sle to perform a task.
    In bustled the little steward, and surveyed his charge carefully, then nodded. “Very smart, if I may say so, sir, and just in time for the nine-ten to London. Gets in at about eleven thirty, and there are plenty of trains out from Waterloo for your manor.”
    Royce thanked him, and picked up his case and respirator.
    â€œTell the Quartermaster to hold the post-boat. I’ve just got to call in to the wardroom.”
    The handshakes were firm, and the good wishes genuine, as he parted from his friends, all of whom were looking forward to their leave, as a starving man sees his first meal. Emberson followed him on deck, and together they looked down into the duty boat, hooked on at the main gangway, the Coxswain obviously impatient to be off.
    â€œWell, so long, Clive,” he said quietly. “Have a good leave and forget everything else. I’m following you in about an hour.”
    Royce watched the lonely figure at the guard-rails until the motor-boat turned the railway jetty, and the Royston was hidden from view.
    He made a smart figure in his best doeskin jacket, the gold wavy stripe gleaming on the sleeve, as he strode briskly up the ramp to the station. A naval patrolman hurried from the R.T.O.’s office, and saluted.
    â€œBeg pardon, sir. Sub-Lieutenant Royce is it?”
    When the officer nodded, he continued: “Dockyard gate ’ave just ’phoned through to say there’s a Wren trying to get through to see you. I don’t know no more, the line’s gone