A Prayer for the Ship by Douglas Reeman

pain. In two strides, Royce reached him, and eased the weakly protesting body back against the screen.
    â€œIt’s all right, Skipper, just take it easy; we’ll have you fixed up in no time. Now just you lie quiet.”
    Harston seemed to hear, but he couldn’t be sure, and he glanced wildly round for assistance. For the first time he saw the large sea boots of the signalman protruding from beneath the chart table. One of them twitched faintly, and then, with a sudden heave, Collins rose from the wreckage like a huge dog, apparently unhurt, but shaking his head, and repeating slowly, “Gawd, what ’appened?”
    Royce yelled madly: “Quick, Collins, relieve the Cox’n, and steer.” He twisted round to the compass which was, by a miracle, intact. “Steer north-west, and send him up with the first aid gear.” He stared at the signalman anxiously. “Can you do that?”
    â€œYessir, I’m okay, just a bang on the ’ead. Gawd!” And he limped down the ladder.
    Harston’s eyes opened, and he seemed to be trying to focus on Royce’s worried face. A gloved hand patted feebly at his shoulder, and a small voice croaked, “Leave me, Number One, I’ve had it. Get the boat out of here.”
    His chest shook to a violent fit of coughing, and Royce held him close, hugging him until it stopped.
    The pale face twisted into a smile, and Royce bent his head to hear.
    â€œYou’re all right, Clive, the best I’ve ever—” He coughed again.
    Royce felt a sudden fierce grip on his arm as Harston tried to pull himself forward.
    â€œLook after my boat, and the lads for me, will you?” Royce nodded. “Don’t say it; I’ll get you back,” he choked. “Tell Artie he can have my breakfast, and tell him that . . .” He quietly lowered his face on to Royce’s shoulder, and he felt his body give a long shudder and go limp.
    For several seconds he sat holding him, until the Coxswain appeared with two seamen. Then he turned his head away, so that they should not see his tears, and rasped, “The Captain has just died. See to the others.”
    Gently he freed himself from the embrace, and stood stiffly at the rail, then he called down the engine room voice-pipe, “Everything all right down there, Moore?”
    The tinny voice rattled back, “Aye, aye, sir, no damage. There were two holes forward below the waterline in the mess-decks, but I’ve had ’em plugged. I can still give you maximum revs, if you’re wanting to get out of it, sir.”
    Royce could well imagine Moore squatting down in the smoke and din of the engines, surrounded by tanks of high-octane spirit, and wondering what on earth was happening above his head, but taught by his nine years in the Navy to ask no questions.
    â€œVery good, stand by for full speed after the Cox’n has made his report.”
    Ten minutes later, Raikes reported the findings of his hurried tour. “Five dead, including the Captain.” He paused and lowered his eyes. “Three wounded, one seriously—that’s Banks, port Oerlikon,” he added.
    Royce then remembered the huddled gunner firing wildly into the smoke screen. Alone, wounded, and frightened, he had fired until his magazine was empty.
    â€œAs to damage,” continued Raikes, suddenly brisk. “Two shot holes below the line, now plugged. ’Bout two hundred holes in the port side, and half that on this side. Pom-poms jammed, machine-guns smashed, and motor dory in bits. Most of the gear below is buggered-up too.”
    â€œIn other words, she’ll float but not fight. Right, keep the Oerlikons closed up, and try to get the wounded comfortable. Oh, and a good cup of rum all round.”
    He turned to the voice-pipe. “Steer west-north-west, full ahead!”
    He was aware that the Coxswain was still standing there.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œI just wanted you to know,