The water was calm with just a deep swell like heavy breathing to change the hues of its dark blue water. In spite of her clean lines, the ship was pushing up a great moustache of foam at her bows, with the wake streaming away from her powerful screws like something attached to her hull. For the Argyll Clansman was a fairly new refrigeration ship, and her holds were packed from keel to deck beams with frozen carcasses, which with luck would be broken into rations for the people in Britain. The first mate stood on the starboard bridge wing, puffing at his pipe, his nose twitching to the aromas of frying bacon which drifted from the galley funnel. It was still very early, but the boatswain was moving around the hold covers with a party of seamen, getting some of the work done in time to beat the scalding heat of the day. God, he thought grimly, we’ll feel the difference in England. It was winter there, and a bad one too, from all accounts. The quartermaster said softly, ‘Old Man’s comin’ up, sir.’ The mate turned as the master stepped on to the freshly scrubbed gratings, his binoculars slung around his neck.
