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the twitching fingers and stood holding it, watching Dunbar until the Lieutenant’s breathing was regular, snoring. Then he stepped out of the wardroom and found Gow waiting. “Get the steward and see to Mr Dunbar.”
    “Aye, aye, sir.
Brodie
!” The big man shouted for the steward then sidled around Smith, opened his mouth to speak but saw the young Commander’s set face and thought better of it.
    Smith was remembering that
Sparrow
’s rendezvous with the bombarding force was at dawn. Dawn at the Cliffe d’Islande Bank, ten miles or so to the nor’-nor’-east of Dunkerque and at the southerly end of the mine-net barrage that ran down ten miles or so out from the Belgian coast, intended to stop the passage of U-boats from Oostende and Zeebrugge. The dawn rendezvous meant that Dunbar would have a few hours to sleep it off and be fit to take his ship to sea.
    Sanders clattered down the ladder, held out a flimsy to Smith and said breathlessly, “Signal from the Commodore, sir.”
    Smith snatched it, read it and looked up as Gow appeared with Brodie. The white-coated steward was a small man, sandy-haired and dwarfed by the coxswain. Smith read aloud, “
Grimsby Lass
reports RE8 down in the sea off the Nieuport Bank.
Judy
is searching.” He looked at Sanders and asked, “
Grimsby Lass? Judy
?”
    Sanders said, “They’re both drifters, sir. Some have wireless and I think
Grimsby Lass
is one of them.”
    Smith nodded. And the RE8, the Harry Tate, was a twoseater reconnaissance aircraft the work-horse of the Royal Flying Corps in France, but this one probably came from the Royal Naval Air Service field at St. Pol outside Dunkerque. He said, “
Sparrow
is ordered to search.” He saw Sanders’s stricken face as the young Sub realised what this mean that
Sparrow
had sailing orders and her captain was dead drunk. Smith said, “Thank you, Sub.” And to Gow, “We’re going to sea, cox’n.”
    “Aye, aye, sir.” Gow said heavily and followed Sanders clattering up the ladder, Smith turned on Brodie and said quietly, “I want him sober in one hour. And keep your mouth shut.”
    “Ye’ve no need to fear about that, sir.” answered Brodie. And: “Thank ye, sir.”
    Thank ye? What for? But Smith was climbing the ladder. He stood on the deck as the pipes shrilled and
Sparrow
came alive with the sound of running feet, shouted orders and here and there a curse. He found he gripped the crumpled flimsy in one hand and in the other was Dunbar’s glass. He hurled it to smash against the quay.
    Sanders stared at him, then said nervously, “Your boat is alongside, sir.”
    Smith turned from the quay, stepped around the after six pounder and looked over the side into the monitor’s pinnace. “Mister Garrick!”
    “Sir?” Garrick’s head was level with the deck and Smith’s feet.
    Smith said, “Go on to
Marshall Marmont. Sparrow
has orders to sail immediately, and I’m going along. There’s a Harry Tate down in the sea. We’ll rejoin in the morning at the rendezvous. Any questions?”
    Garrick had a number but Smith was referring to the forthcoming operation and none of Garrick’s questions related to that. He wondered what was going on, because Sanders’s face was enough to tell him there
was
something going on. He knew enough of Smith by now to recognise that icy calm as a mask Smith put on at moments of stress. But after a moment’s thought he only said, “No questions, sir.” Then: “Shall I send Buckley back in the pinnace, sir?” He added lamely, “In case
Sparrow
is short-handed.”
    Leading Seaman Buckley, who along with Garrick had served in the Pacific with Smith, would be an asset in any ship. But that was not why Garrick wanted him aboard
Sparrow
. Smith might need a familiar face on board, known and dependable. A man to look out for Smith if he did something reckless.
    Smith guessed this but though his lips twitched as he hid the smile, he answered gravely, “Do that. But he must be quick.