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that surprise was likely to last for many minutes after the initial shock; that the lofty shore which they perceived had been something they were expecting, whereas a sleepy Italian lookout on land had no expectation at all, when he rubbed his eyes and peered through the dawn, of seeing a British flotilla on the horizon, nor had his officers put themselves in the position of the astonished Italians watching the flotilla steam through the minefield, knowing every turn and twist of the channel. In other words, his staff had yet to develop a sympathetic outlook.
    Crowe’s thought began to stray. Today it was the turn for a letter to Susan. A dear girl was Susan; it was a pity he would have to confine himself in his letter to inanities and not be able to give the interesting details of today’s work. Susan was of the type that would have appreciated and understood them.
    What Crowe did not realize was that it was the same telepathic sympathy, the same instinctive estimate of the other’s feelings, which made him a success with women and a success in war at the same time.
     

Depth Charge!
     
    Captain George Crowe, CB, DSO, RN, stood on the bridge of HMS Apache experiencing his first New York heat wave and looking at the skyline of New York from the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The skyline was amazing, just as amazing as the fact that here he stood on the bridge of a British destroyer which was about to be repaired by the United States Government. Commander Hammett came across and stood beside him.
    ‘It’s every bit as good as the pictures, isn’t it, Hammett?’ said Crowe.
    ‘It’s the first scenery I’ve ever seen that was,’ said Hammett.
    Side by side they surveyed the landscape. Across the East River was downtown New York, while all round them the United States was preparing a navy for war. The din of automatic riveters echoed in their ears, and only a short way off a colossal crane was swinging a huge naval gun into the ship that was to bear it. The Apache - had made her first contact with American soil; the British ropes were hitched round American bollards and close astern of her towered the bows of the USS Coulterville , a cruiser. Eight thousand tons she was, brand-new, with her fresh paint in striking contrast to the battered and dingy little British destroyer whose white ensign almost brushed her cutwater. On the destroyer’s deck little groups of British seamen stared curiously at this fresh country and this fresh navy.
    ‘Well, we’re here,’ said Crowe. It was a banal sort of thing to say, but there had been times when he had thought he would never be able to say it; when the poor battered Apache had struggled with Atlantic storms and had fought against raiding cruisers.
    It had been a long, long journey, and one in which incessant vigilance had been demanded. Even when they had come beyond the radius of action of the Condors, anti-aircraft lookouts had had to be maintained, lest some surface raider with a catapult plane should be on the high seas; all through the thousands of miles there had been the continual antisubmarine watch.
    ‘Well, our troubles are over for a time, at any rate,’ said Hammett.
    ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Crowe. He remembered the very serious talks which he had given to officers and ratings of the Apache on the necessity for their good behaviour in America. They were ambassadors of good relations, and they were expected to behave as such.
    At the gangway stood a very elegant gentleman. He was wearing a beautifully pressed white suit and a Panama hat; he carried a pair of yellow gloves, and he bore himself, in the studied lack of hurry of his movements, like a typical Englishman in a hot country. It was this deliberation of movement, combined with the perfection of the cut of his clothes, which gave him the advantage of appearing lean instead of merely lanky, and his straight back and erect carriage belied the whiteness of his moustache and hair. Crowe looked down at this morsel of