It was hard to keep a sense of direction, the helm going this way and that, zigzagging and yet holding a mean course and bearing with the frothing wake of the next ahead. The tracer criss-crossed from every angle, the sharp rattle of cannon and machine-gun fire closing from all sides, as if 366 was the sole target. Crouched around and below the bridge, Allison could occasionally see other figures, unmoving, clinging to their weapons, or waiting to reload them if they ‘ran dry’. No wisecracks this time, the only voice that of the skipper, and indistinct rejoinders from the coxswain. Allison swayed over once more, his shoulder against the dripping bridge, feeling the mounting power and thrust of the engines. In deadly earnest. He found it hard to accept that he was still unafraid. He was part of it, no longer an awkward responsibility. He looked over at Foley, one arm thrust out to steady himself. He must have stood like that a thousand times, he thought. For Allison it seemed this part of his life had already been decided, as if he had had no hand in it.
What do You think about Twelve Seconds To Live (2002)?
