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them, and behind him two other officers of the flotilla struggled manfully with a large parcel.
    â€œMy dear old soaks!” he boomed. “I’ve had the most ghastly night; these two dreadful characters have been leading me astray.” He silenced their protests with a wave of a huge fist. “You know I wanted the ‘Save for Victory’ banner from the post office to go round my bridge? Well, these silly baskets got me so flustered, I got the wrong one. It’s all about a Dog Show! I ask you, a Dog Show! I haven’t got a dog!” He pulled a bottle from one jacket pocket, and a glass from the other, while the others howled with laughter at this latest crazy episode.
    â€œYou lunatic!” roared Harston. “No wonder we’re always at sea, this town isn’t safe from you!”
    With the arrival of the irrepressible Watson and his accomplices, the quiet party was shattered, and Royce’s sides ached, as he found himself caught up in an act that would have made a small fortune on any variety stage.
    The lights had just been dimmed to herald “Last Orders”— shouted announcements would have been useless—when the curtains parted, and above the milling bodies, a blue steel helmet, with the word “Police” painted on the front, could be seen making its way to the bar.
    Benjy’s jaw dropped, and a look of complete horror crossed his face.
    â€œChrist! I’ve been rumbled at last, and caught with the loot too!”
    He wheeled rapidly to his grinning companions. “Don’t stand there like a shower of silly oafs, get rid of that banner, and let’s get out of here!”
    As one man they downed their drinks, the parcel skidded beneath the legs of two startled airmen, and in a compact, if unsteady, body they forced their way to the doors. Even as they reached the curtains the policeman yelled out above the din, “An air-raid warning has just been sounded, so be careful you don’t show any lights when you leave.”
    Benjy was hustled protesting up the street.
    â€œBut what about my banner?” he implored. “All that trouble for nothing. I’ll do that silly copper if I ever see him again.”
    Harston chuckled. “Time for bed, little man, it definitely was not your day for carrying the banner.”
    Still laughing, they arrived at the barbed-wire enclosure of the harbour area, and automatically straightened themselves as they produced their identity cards to the weary sentries. Benjy was still muttering and bewailing his loss when they reached the windswept pier, and only when they split up and went to their cabins on the Depot Ship did he start to smile.
    â€œYou just wait, I’ll get you something really worthwhile next time,” he promised.
    Royce was past caring. He was happy, and the Navy was just too wonderful for words.
    The flotilla swept gaily through the boom-gate, weaving and dipping in the easy swell, as they picked up their stations on the Leader. A keen breeze swept over the tiny bridge of M.T.B. 1991, as Royce listened to the hands in the various parts of the boat reporting that they were “Closed up to exercise action,” the normal practice when leaving harbour, to ensure that all sections were working correctly. As the last reported, “Port Oerlikon closed up, sir,” Royce informed the Captain that all was well.
    Harston hardly seemed to notice. He was visibly excited, and in fact, new life seemed to have crept into the whole crew, as this was not just another patrol, not another aimless battle with the weather. The sweep by the destroyers on the previous night had broken up three enemy convoys off the Dutch coast, and the R.A.F. had reported that they were making an effort to reform and press on up the coast, doubtless loaded with vital supplies for the armies in Denmark and Norway, and for the German Baltic fleet. The flotilla’s job was to intercept and destroy the