CHIEF WAS MUTTERING angrily to himself when he arrived in the wardroom. He flopped down on the end of the bench and grumbled, ‘Four hundred and twenty revs - what’s he trying to do, shake us to bits?’
Supper was due in at any moment, judging by the smell and the clatter of dishes in the galley. Olsen and Crawshaw were sitting at the table waiting for it, and MacGregor was still on the bridge with Soames.
Crawshaw glanced at the engineer, raising his eyebrows. ‘Why, Chief? Aren’t your engines up to it?’
Chief snorted. ‘Perhaps you didn’t know, but the port stern gland is on the blink. So now we go hell for leather and try to shake the bloody thing right out. Who has to sit on it while we’re being depth-charged, for God’s sake?’ Nobody answered, so he asked another question in the same an
