In the forepart of her conning tower Lieutenant Commander Steven Marshall watched the wires being dragged to the bollards along the pier, felt the steel plates beneath his boots vibrating uneasily, as if, like himself, his command was unable to accept that they had arrived safely. In the early morning, while they had idled outside the harbour until the tide was right to enter Haslar Creek by the submarine base, he had studied the land as it had grown out of the gloom, searching his thoughts for some sensation of achievement. Now, as he glanced briefly at the curious faces along the wall and below on the pier he could sense little but anti-climax. Even his men looked different. It did not seem possible. For fourteen months they had lived together in their own confined private world within this hull. From one end of the Mediterranean to the other, with each day bringing some fresh challenge or threat to their very existence. There had been a few new faces during that time. To replace the dead and wounded.
