D-Notice by Bill Walker (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said.

Turning so she wouldn’t see his own tears, he walked through the gate toward the gangway. It was only when he heard the Morgan’s engine revving up that he allowed himself a look in time to see the tiny car disappear around the corner.

“I love you, Lillian,” he said, not caring if anyone heard him or not. Then he turned and made his way onto the ship.

Chapter Nineteen

Sailing was delayed twelve hours due to a mechanical fault in one of the diesels, and during that first night on board, the bombers came over, dropping their high-explosive and incendiaries on the docks again. The ship, an old troop carrier commissioned in the last war, slipped out without a scratch, passing down the Thames silhouetted against a background of a London in flames.

There was one near miss, hitting the leading tugboat, which went down in less than two minutes. Most of the ship’s compliment missed the excitement, however, as they were far too busy retching their guts out, due to a bad batch of fish served up by the less than sanitary ship’s galley. Some, like Brady, who seemed to have cast-iron intestines, had an uncomfortable night of mild cramps, while the rest lay in unrelenting agony.

The trip out of the Thames Estuary and into the North Sea went without incident. The only aircraft spotted were the occasional Catalina on submarine patrol. It was when they reached the Channel, hugging the English coast, that the drone of approaching bombers could be heard overhead. And the sight was awesome.

About a hundred Heinkel 111’s and Dornier 17’s blackened the sky like a plague of locusts, their fighter escort weaving vapor trails that crisscrossed the sky as they dodged the flight of Hurricanes the RAF had scrambled from Manston. The coastal Ack-Ack opened up with an ear-splitting “whack-whack” and the troop ship joined in with its aft gun. One Heinkel went down, orange flame and black oily smoke spewing out from one wing. It passed overhead disappearing over land to crash somewhere in a Kent field.

As suddenly as it started, it was over, the bombers moving on to London as a part of the second wave. The remainder of the voyage was uneventful.

On the fifth morning, his legs feeling like rubber bands, Thorley staggered onto the deck, his hands grasping for the rails as the ship gently rolled. The sun, a blazing red ball, hung above the North African desert, casting reddish glints off the water. It was already beastly hot, and his clothes stuck to his skin. The air smelt of dead fish and diesel fuel. In spite of the odor, his stomach growled, and he realized he was ravenous. The ship’s doctor had told him to drink water or tea, and nothing else. It had kept him from being dehydrated, but he’d lost ten pounds in the bargain and now his body was crying out for compensation.

He went below and headed for the galley, a part of him growing wary as he neared it. But the smells coming from there—brewing tea, frying bacon and eggs—made him forget his unease. He entered the galley, picked up a sectioned tray and filled it to the brim with everything in sight. Brady found him ten minutes later gorging on his fifth kipper.

“Back to the land of the living, I see,” Brady said, his grin widening.

Thorley washed down his mouthful of food with tea and responded. “For a while I wished I were dead. What about you? You look entirely too cheerful this morning.”

Brady sat across from him, his manner becoming conspiratorial. “I’ve been on a winning streak, old sod, like you’ve never seen. I’ve just about cleaned out all the high-rollers on this tub.” He laughed and swatted the table with his hand. “I’m tellin’ you, Mikey, you’ve never seen a sorrier bunch of poker players in all your days.”

“No doubt, but some of them might be wanting to make you sorrier still. I’d watch your back.”

“Not to worry, lad. This old sod’s been kicked around a time or two enough to know who might be a sore loser. The trick is not to be too smug about it. Otherwise they begin to get ideas, you see.”

“So, what are you going to do with all of these ill-gotten gains, my friend?” Thorley asked, not really wanting to know, but having nothing else to say. He felt worlds better after having eaten, but his head still throbbed and the close humid air inside the ship made his skin itch.

“I’ve been talking to some of the crew, and they said the best places to see the sights, as it were, were the Gezira Club and the Dug Out. One lad mentioned the Kit Kat, sayin’ it was off-limits. Now, that’s the place for me.”

Thorley shook his head, a tiny smile forming on his lips. “Somehow, I’m not surprised. What about a place to sleep? We don’t report to Abbassia until the twenty-first. That’s two days after we disembark.”

“From what I’ve been told it’s Shepheard’s Hotel, hands down. Of course, it costs a few quid, so I hear.”

“We don’t need to waste our money on luxuries.”

“And why not? Do you think you’ll be needin’ it out in the middle of nowhere? Besides, it be my money that’s to be wasted. And I say we stay at Shepheard’s.”

Thorley was in no mood to argue and let it go. He spent the rest of the voyage resting, conserving his strength for what he knew would be a strenuous course in desert survival. He also wrote a letter to Lillian. Or tried to. He’d wasted three sheets of his