The flying squadron

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The knock at the door woke Lieutenant Frey with a start. His neglected book slid to the deck with a thud. The air in the wardroom was stiflingly soporific and he had dozed off, only to be woken moments later with a headache and a foul taste in his mouth.

'Yes?' Frey's tone was querulous; he was irritated by the indifference of his messmates, especially that of Mr Metcalfe.

'Beg pardon, sir.' Midshipman Belchambers peered into the candle-lit gloom and fixed his eyes on the copy of The Times behind which Mr Metcalfe, the first lieutenant, was presumed to be. He coughed to gain Mr Metcalfe's attention, but no flicker of life came from the newspaper, despite the two hands clearly holding it up before the senior officer's face.

Frey rubbed his eyes and sought vainly for a drop of wine in his glass to rinse his mouth.

'Sir ...', Belchambers persisted urgently, continuing to address the impassive presence of Mr Metcalfe.

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