Small, quick-moving torpedo boats played a vital role in protecting the Allied convoys in the English Channel and the North Sea during World War II, and Sub-Lieutenant Clive Royce is newly assigned to MTB 1991, joining a crew already seasoned by death and fear. Now it is up to him to take the place of their dead first lieutenant and earn the respect of his captain and crewmates. "Vivid naval action at its most authentic." -- Sunday Times of London "Vivid naval action at its most authentic." Sunday Times of London " "Vivid naval action at its most authentic." "Sunday Times of London"" "Vivid naval action at its most authentic." --"Sunday Times of London" Douglas Edward Reeman, who also writes under the name Alexander Kent, joined the British Navy at 16, serving on destroyers and small craft during World War II, eventually rising to the rank of lieutenant. He has taught navigation to yachtsmen and has served as a script adviser for television and films. As Alexander Kent, Reeman is the author of the best-selling Richard Bolitho Novels. His books have been translated into nearly two dozen languages. A Prayer for the Ship By Douglas Reeman McBooks Press, Inc. Copyright © 1958 Douglas Reeman All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-59013-097-1 CHAPTER 1 The whole of the naval anchorage seemed subdued and cowed by the relentless, sleety rain which drove across the estuary, whipping the grey waves into a turbulent, white-capped frenzy. As the wind moaned through the mean little streets around the port, and swept the soaking jetties, the various ships-of-war strained and tugged at their cables and wires, while huddled figures in glistening oilskins sought cover and protection behind the gun-shields or flapping canvas dodgers. Across and beyond the boom-gate, a few barrage balloons plunged and staggered like drunken whales, as their cursing crews somewhere in the muddy fields fought with the creaking moorings. The sea itself looked even greyer than usual, and it was difficult to discern the break with the racing clouds which was the horizon, where a lone trawler fought into the teeth of the gale, one minute hidden by the steep, jagged waves, and the next instant showing her streaming keel, more concerned with staying afloat than listening for a prowling U-boat. The tall, rust-streaked sides of the Coastal Forces Depot Ship Royston shuddered as the gale punched her, but she remained the steadiest vessel in the harbour, her cables fore and aft stretched bar-taut, and her deck-planking patterned with little humps of blown salt. Her charges, Motor Torpedo Boats and Motor Gunboats, were strung in uncomfortable trios around her, banging and lurching together, rope fend-ers and old motor tyres doing their best to ease the jolting motion. Up on the main deck, the Quartermaster peered out towards the railway wharf, and cursed unsympathetically at the ship's motor-boat which had just left the shelter of the wall, and was bounding over the stream towards him. He saw the Coxswain lift his hand in a half-hearted sign and then withdraw into the tiny wheelhouse. The Quartermaster turned to the other figure sharing his vigil, the Officer-of-the-Day, who was endeavouring to read a signal, already soggy with rain, in the shelter of his oilskin. "Motor-boat returning, sir," he yelled. "One officer aboard." Lieutenant Pike waved the tattered signal in acknowledgement. "Turn out the Duty Watch, I am going to bring the boat aboard, no more trips today." As the Quartermaster pulled out his silver call and switched on the Tannoy microphone, Pike watched with narrowed eyes as the motor-boat swung up to the main gangway and hooked on with its usual precision. His glance shifted to the nearest Motor Torpedo Boat, the only one showing a sign of life, as a handful of the Depot Ship's maintenance party scurried round repairing and replacing the scars of a running battle two nights before, when the young First Lieutenant had been killed, as so many had been from this flotilla. As usual the replacement was arriving in the motor-boat. Pike returned the salute of the slim officer who stepped over the gangway, his too-new greatcoat gleaming with rain. "Sub-Lieutenant Clive Royce, come aboard to join," he shouted. They shook hands, and Pike ushered him to the first doorway, while two disgruntled members of the Duty Watch collected the baggage of the latest arrival. "Go below to the wardroom," said Pike. "The Commander is in there at the moment and he'll want to see you right away." Royce nodded, and stepped into the passageway. Immediately, the sounds of the storm were muffled, and a feeling of security surrounded him. He stripped off his greatcoat and cap, straightened his uniform, and had a quick glance in the mirror outside the old-fashioned door marked "Wardroom." He had a pleasant face, with eager, grey eyes, and a firm but generous mouth. His hair, now flattened by cap and rain, was dark almost to the point of being black. Taking