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rearmost convoy. All morning they had laboured with the maintenance staff to get everything in first-rate order, and extra care had been taken as the long, evil-looking torpedoes had been greased and slid into the tubes on either side of the boat, and now, as the low coastline was swallowed up in the dusk astern of them, they all knew that this was to be another supreme test of their skill in the handicraft of war.
    â€œDefence stations now,” said Harston, “and make sure everyone gets a good whack of food during the next two hours. And we’ll get some corned beef sandwiches laid on for the return journey too. I think they’ll have earned it by then.”
    Harston went below for his customary cat-nap, and half of the crew followed his example, in order that they could be fed in two watches. No longer did Royce tremble at the loneliness of the bridge; in fact, he enjoyed the feeling of complete power that he had over the lithe, trembling hull beneath his feet. As Harston had told him that first day, he now knew the difference between a trawler and this three-and-a-half-thousand horsepowered killer.
    On and on they went, and as the sky darkened they met a solitary destroyer on patrol, creeping along like a great grey shadow, in the hopes of surprising a raider, or assisting some convoy straggler.
    The new signalman, Collins, a stolid north-countryman, turned his head. “Signal sir, from destroyer: Should you be out alone so late? Any reply, sir?”
    â€œMake: If we had been E-boats, we’d have been picking you out of the drink by now! ” snapped Royce.
    There was a chuckle, as the lamp clattered away in the corner of the bridge.
    â€œNo answer, sir.”
    An hour later they were reinforced by a strong flotilla of Motor Gunboats from Harwich, the “pocket battleships” of Coastal Forces. Their purpose was to cover the withdrawal after the attack had been pressed home. Signals flashed, and the boats jockeyed to and fro, until the M.T.B.s had formed into two parallel lines ahead, with the M.G.B.s three miles astern, then silence enveloped the flotilla, and no more signals were made or required, as each captain knew what was expected; it was all just a matter of time. The mighty engines purred obediently as they were throttled down to a minimum speed, and the tiny ships crept stealthily forward, searching, probing. Royce swung his night-glasses in a wide arc, and decided it was time to call the Captain, and seconds later Harston climbed up beside him, fresh and apparently unworried. He took in the situation at a glance. His boat led the starboard column, and Paskins in the Leader led the port column at a distance of about a thousand yards.
    â€œAction Stations,” he said quietly, and Royce pressed the button that had called sailors from their rest, and to their deaths, the world over.
    Even before the bells stopped ringing, the last man heaved himself into his allotted space, which, for the next few hours at least, would probably decide the fate of the whole boat. The slim barrels of the Oerlikons, and the menacing muzzles of the pom-poms swung back and forth through their maximum arcs, as the crews tested them, and reported automatically to the bridge. The steel hatches clanged shut over the engine room, imprisoning the mechanics in what was at best a shaking, roaring helter-skelter of noise and fumes, and at worst a blazing hell from which there could be little chance of escape.
    â€œIf we can pull this off all right tonight, Number One, I think we can get that refit you want so badly, plus a bit of leave, of course.”
    â€œThat’d be really something, sir,” replied Royce feelingly, for he knew that the boat’s maintenance was becoming a little bit out of hand. A good slipway in the dockyard was what she required now.
    At the prospect of leave, they lowered their glasses and grinned at each other like schoolboys. Royce had long ago decided that Harston