We Saw The Sea by John Winton

them. They wore T shirts, Bermuda shorts and dark glasses. The leader of the party was addressed by all present as Wilbur and The Bodger understood from his conversation that Wilbur was the Commanding Officer of the destroyer U.S.S. Hiram J. Salt and that he had a poor opinion of the Royal Navy’s ability to maintain a fleet train at sea and in particular to transfer such elementary fluids as oil fuel from ship to ship. Jimmy
    Forster-Jones had barely succeeded in removing The Bodger in time.
    “He must have seen something nasty in Piccadilly Circus when he was two,” The Bodger said loudly.
    When The Bodger read the signal detaching Carousel from the main exercise to refuel Hiram J. Salt he howled gleefully.
    “Yonder’s Wilbur!”
    The Bodger went away to consult with the D.L.O. and the radio artificer in charge of the ship’s broadcast.
    As First Lieutenant, The Bodger was in charge of refuelling at sea and he prepared very carefully for the event. He had long conversations with the Bos’un; the rest of the wardroom could hear snatches, the Bos’un saying “Two trough method” and “jackstay method” and The Bodger saying, “Of course, if we had self-rendering winches. . .
    The day could not have been better chosen for The Bodger. The exercise had started in rough weather and a heavy sea was still running on the third day when Hiram J. Salt began her approach from Carousel ’s port quarter.
    The Bodger had his team ready on the boat deck: the Bos’un with a whistle and an anxious expression, the Chief G.I. holding the line-throwing gun and wearing a red luminous waistcoat like a medieval knight’s breastplate, the Chief Bos’un’s Mate with lungs ready inflated to bellow orders, the crane-driver hoping someone would remember to tell him what was happening and not leave him (as last time) to guess for himself, a party of sailors ready with the lines, a telephone rating, flags and boards. Mr Pilgrim stood nearby with his Chief Stoker and a huddle of depressed-looking stokers. Mr Pilgrim was looking wistfully at the crane-head as though he were longing for the old days at Scapa when they coaled Irresistible in six hours, ten minutes.
    The Bodger glanced for the last time over his arrangements, at the hose slung in its two cradles, the men on the topping lifts, and the lines rove through blocks on the boatdeck. The Bodger ran over the sequence in his mind: gun-line, messenger, distance line with coloured markers and the telephone cable, hose line, and then the hose itself.
    All was ready and dependent upon Hiram J. Salt and upon Wilbur.
    Hiram J. Salt approached confidently, perhaps, in the opinion of Carousel ’s ship’s company who crowded the upper deck to watch, too confidently. On the bridge, the Captain muttered anxiously.
    “He’s one of these Grand Prix drivers obviously. Midshipman, ring up the engine-room and tell them I want absolutely steady revs from now on.”
    “Aye aye, sir,” said Andrew Bowles, who was midshipman of the watch.
    The Commander stood on the bofors gun deck below the bridge and looked down on the boat deck.
    “This,” he told himself, “should be a guinea a minute from now on.”
    Hiram J. Salt ’s bow bit deeply into the sea and threw a solid curtain of spray over her superstructure. She was near enough for the watchers in Carousel to distinguish the figures on her bridge and the cluster of men at the fuelling point amidships. A negro cook was sitting on a stool by the after screen wearing that expression of supercilious disdain which small ship sailors reserve for coming alongside larger ships. The negro cook exasperated The Bodger.
    “A murrain on his black hide,” The Bodger said.
    When Hiram J. Salt was level with Carousel ’s quarterdeck her bows unexpectedly swung towards Carousel . The destroyer wavered uncertainly and at last turned away and began to open out from Carousel .
    “ Now what’s he up to?” said the Captain irritably.
    “He’s turning away,