been, but a few short months ago, Britain's proudest base along the North African coast.

“We're to be first out,” the Old Man told us. “The fleet will need every sub. Particularly if the Jerries take Alex.” He added, glancing skyward speculatively, “The deck guns will be manned. There may be trouble.”

But there wasn't. We didn't lose a single ship or a single man to enemy action throughout the operation. Funny, too, because we were fish in a barrel for the Stukas. Jammed in the bottleneck too tightly to offer effective resistance, and many of us in foul shape. Like the Grampus, which had put in for G. O. and repairs, and got her sailing orders before the job was half finished.

But maybe it wasn't so strange, after all. The Germans were pretty cocky in those days. And I suppose they had reason to be. But their very cockiness was our salvation. I think they didn't bomb us during our flight simply because they expected to take Alexandria any day, and didn't want to move into a shattered naval base.

Anyhow, we cleared the breakwater without a sign of trouble, and were under way. We weren't told where we were going, but since our course was due nor'east, it was clear to every man aboard that Larnaca was our goal. Cyprus, a mere three hundred sea miles away, should have been a snap day's journey, but no one was starry-eyed enough to think we'd make it that quickly. There was, for one thing, the constant possibility of encountering enemy craft, aerial or seaborne. Moreover, a dropping glass warned of weather ahead. And to further louse up an already gloomy picture, our spit-and-prayer-patched engines started coughing and spluttering even before we cleared Pharos light.

Auld Rory, our cook, didn't like the situation, and said as much when I braced him for a cup of tea in the galley after we were safely out to sea.

“ 'Tis a verra bad business, this,” growled the old Scot, “ 'Tisna richt for a navvy to roon awa', wi'oot even makin' a fight for't. 'Tisna”—he scowled, fumbling for the word he wanted—“ 'tisna deegnified!”

I grinned and told him, “Maybe not, Rory, but it's a lot healthier. As Shakespeare says in ‘Paradise Lost,’ ‘He who fights and pulls his freight, will live to fight some other date.’ ”

“The noble Bard,” gritted Auld Rory savagely, “didna write ‘Paradise Lost.’ 'Twas the great John Milton. Nor is the verse as ye've misquoted it, ignorant Yank that ye are!”

“I've told you a thousand times, Rory,” I chuckled, “that I'm not an American. I'm a British subject, born and diapered in dear old Fogville-on-the-Thames.”

“Your words make ye a liar!” flared Auld Rory. “Ye speak the mither tongue as if it had na feyther.”

“That,” I said, “is because I grew up in Brooklyn.”

“Oh? Ye told me once New York.”

“A suburb of Brooklyn. You must come with me to Flatbush one day, Rory. Quite a place. You ought to hear the Ladies' Day crowds at Ebbets Field yelling at the umpires. ‘Moider dat bum! Give him de woiks—’ ”