The officer's wardroom on board HMS Ocean was unusually quiet at breakfast.
A dozen people stood watching a flickering television screen, straining to catch each fractured sentence. I'd just climbed up the ladders from my bunk, two decks down, below the waterline.
 The ship is "a 13-storey rabbit warren" |
"Two Royal Navy helicopters have crashed in the Gulf," said the television announcer. "Seven crew members are missing."
A young pilot sitting on a sofa, snapped angrily at the TV. He was furious that they had apparently broadcast the news before all the relatives had been informed.
What is more, the report had used archive pictures of his own squadron's helicopters. The wrong squadron.
"Now my family are going to see this on television and think it was me," he said. "Or any of us here. And the phones are down, for security reasons, so we can't even call them."
The two helicopters that had collided just before dawn came from a squadron based on Ark Royal - not here on HMS Ocean.
We sat and ate in silence.
"It's just one of those things," said another pilot, briskly finishing his toast. "It could have happened anywhere, anytime."
Ship's labyrinth
And with that abrupt epitaph, he walked off, into the 13-storey rabbit warren of corridors, hatches, ladders, galleys, pipes and hangars which make up our cramped little air-tight world down here.
A world of shifts, and acronyms, and quiet, business-like efficiency.
We're all dressed in identical white overalls these days. Anti-flash suits - in case the ship strikes a mine or takes a missile hit.
We carry our respirators at all times and a plastic mug - the ship's crockery is safely stowed. I had some coffee, then went down one deck to see the chaplain.
Reverend Peter Scott was sitting on his bunk.
He's an athletic 43-year-old, who's been doing the job for 12 years - mostly serving with the Royal Marines.
Spiritual guidance
Navy chaplains don't have a rank, as such. They assume the rank of the person to whom they're talking.
"It's an old clich�," he said, "about people not being interested in religion until there's a war. But there's probably some truth to it.
"Since we set sail in January, we've handed out 2,000 crosses and almost 500 bibles. Camouflaged ones."
"That said," he went on, "about 90% of what I do is not at all religious."
Peter spends much of his time simply roaming the ship, chatting, and listening in confidence to people's problems.
The bored, frightened 18-year-olds on their first trip abroad. Their first war.
The man who just got a "Dear John" letter in the post from home (the phrase used for a letter announcing the end of a relationship).
"Sometimes," Peter said, "those letters get pinned on the notice board. It's happened a couple of times on this trip. It may seem strange, but it's a way of sharing problems. Binding us all together."
 Since we set sail in January, we've handed out 2,000 crosses and almost 500 bibles - camouflaged ones  |
The ship has e-mail now, and text messaging, and everyone gets 20 minutes to call home for free every week.
"Sometimes it makes it worse," he admitted, "being in such close contact. It can make people feel helpless when things go wrong back home. But by and large it's great."
Peter was 30 years old when he passed the Royal Marines Commando course 30 gruelling weeks.
The trouble now is that people are entering the priesthood later and later in life.
By the time they're ordained, and have decide to join the forces, most are simply too old and unfit to complete the course.
The chaplain set off on his rounds, and I decided to head up to the flight deck.
Round the clock
There are no windows on HMS Ocean - apart from those on the bridge, and three other tiny portholes.
It's all too easy to pass an entire day or days down below without seeing the sky.
I walked up the ramp just as a Chinook helicopter was coming in to pick up a Landrover and ammunition for 40 Commando ashore in Iraq.
On the door, someone had written "Next stop Paris".
For days now, the helicopters have been working more or less round the clock, ferrying supplies to the front.
It's an impressive, nerve-wracking sight to watch five Sea Kings come in and land on deck, in the dark, their whirling rotors just 10 feet apart.
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