The Cold

In the early stages of the war, we had very little clothing. We had duffle coats and outside them we wore oilskins, two pairs of socks on our hands and towels around our necks.

I think it is this cold that we remember most: either the damp misery of the bulkheads running with condensation, the chill miasma penetrating every nook and cranny of the ship or the bitter Arctic cold that froze the same condensation solid and turned exhaled breath to rime and spray to ice.

Tobacco and hot sweet cocoa. “Kye”, sustained the body while a rather grim humour sustained the spirit.

“Who the hell are you?” asked a destroyer skipper, when coming on the bridge one black night and bumping into someone.

“I’m the port lookout sir, and there’s nothing to report”.

The captain, being of a poetic turn of mind, recognised the first line and went on:

“I’m the port lookout and there’s nothing to report, unless I spoke the truth sir and told you what I thought. It’s an awful night sir and my nose is running cruel; and its my confirmed belief sir that you’re a bloody fool”.

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