The officers’ club had seen better days, he thought, and even the large paintings of sea battles long past could not disguise the shabbiness, the tiredness of war. In one room he had seen great cracks down the wall, evidence of one of the air raids which Plymouth had endured. An elderly servant in a white jacket was at his table again. “’Nother gin, sir?” He looked at the empty glass. He could not remember how many he had consumed since his visit to the Zouave, and Captain “Lucky” Bradshaw. “Why not?” Bradshaw was a bit of a legend in destroyers. During the evacuation of Crete he had made several attempts to get alongside bomb-blasted jetties, lifting off exhausted soldiers with every gun firing at the unhindered German aircraft. On another occasion his ship had been straddled by a stick of bombs which had put the steering out of action. The ship had been badly holed and many would have abandoned her.
