Rendezvous — South Atlantic

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The camouflaged Humber staff car ground to a halt, its front bumper within feet of the jetty’s edge, and stood vibrating noisily as if eager to be off again.

The small Wren driver, muffled to the ears against the intense cold, made to switch off the windscreen wipers, saying, ‘Well, here you are, sir. There’ll be a boat across at any minute.’

She turned slightly as the car’s only passenger said, ‘Don’t switch them off. Not yet.’

Oblivious to her curious stare, Commander Andrew Lindsay leaned forward to peer through the rain-slashed glass, his face outwardly devoid of expression.

Grey. Everything was grey. The misty outline of the islands, the sky, and the varied shapes of the ships as they tugged at their cables in the wind and rain. The waters of the great natural anchorage of Scapa Flow were the deeper colour of lead, the only life being that of swirling tide-race and the turbulent undertow.

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