Arctic Sea, 28th March 1942

  The waves idled about the surface, the sky a fierce but resolute, chilly blue. Dappling

  the sea, fragments of ice littered the ocean into a mosaic stretching hundreds of

  miles. Reminiscing on the attack of the past day, Billy reminded himself that at least

  the fog had passed— a difference that was as noticeable as night and day back in

  England. Here, it was not until the Captain said so that Billy had realised that they

  had passed Iceland without even catching sight of it once, the foggy mist having

  shrouded the island in a curtain of grey obscurity.

  The Trinidad was limping.

  Everyone knew, but nobody wanted spoke of it. The engine creaked, intermittent

  wails forming a shaky crescendo within its usual vicious hum. The ship’s white foam

  trail was significantly shorter than what Billy had remembered it from the last day. A

  thick, black smoke, usually healthily belching from its funnels, had become thin,

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  papery whisps. Rumours on the ship’s bridge had been that the cruiser had suffered

  a torpedo hit, the bridge command being uninformed in the thick of the battle.

  Everyone knew now, however— it was as if the ship itself had become sickly.

  It was obvious to everyone that the ship was visibly weakened and would need

  repairs. Nevertheless, they were nearing their destination of the port of Murmansk,

  and despite the damage that the ship had suffered, everyone was in good spirits as

  a feeling of safety blanketed the ship.

  “Fools.” Jack was perched on the railing as he drawled on hazily, taking intermittent

  puffs of a rolled cigarette. “All of them.”

  “What?”

  Jack turned slowly. “That was nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Billy knew what he was talking about— the losses that they had suffered in the

  German air attack yesterday was fresh on everyone’s minds.

  “It was something.” Billy looked at him, hands never leaving his binoculars. “I’d like to

  think that. We’ve gone to hell to get to where we are now.”

  Jack chuckled, turning. No mirth lay behind his eyes. “So, you’ve braved through

  hell,” he grinned. “Now, how do you think you’re going to get out?”

  Jack lackadaisically tossed his cigarette across the ship’s side, humming as he

  headed toward the forecastle.