The biting wind didn't relieve John's seasickness in the least. Waves churned in the black North Atlantic Sea pitching the boat about in the dead of night. John hadn't stopped heaving since they'd left Scotland and his buddy, Charlie, hadn't shut up. John knew he was only trying to ease their nerves, but if he could have mustered the strength to speak, he'd have told Charlie to shut it. The roar of the aircraft catapult shook the deck. The Supermarine Walrus, a reconnaissance aircraft, took flight and disappeared into the darkness.

"Careless talk costs lives," said Charlie, "or so the Ministry says." Charlie took a thoughtful sip from his canteen. "Though the Americans have a better saying, 'Loose lips sink ships.'"

If the captain had announced the HMS Berwick was sinking, John would have welcomed his cold watery grave. Anything to stop this wretched nausea. Some poor soul named Oscar had hurled himself in to the ocean on the first night. 

"I hear there's not much out here," continued Charlie. "I hope that plane doesn't wake the locals and alert them of our arrival. Those engines are louder than anyone's loose lips." 

John grunted. He didn't much care anymore. He leaned against the galley wall resting the barrel of his rifle, which he'd been allowed to fire only once in training, and closed his eyes. Charlie looked at his buddy with concern. 

"Here mate, take a sip of water." Charlie offered his canteen up to John's lips, but John pushed it away. "You're going to need an ounce of strength to fight when we land," chided Charlie. John heaved again but nothing came out. 

"Attention Marines!" barked Colonel Sturges. The young men, most of them prostrate on the gangways and mess-decks throughout the ship, struggled to get to their feet. "We are boarding the destroyers Fearless and Fortune which will take us into Reykjavik Harbor. Have your weapons at the ready."

Colonel Sturges looked with distaste at the 2nd Royal Marine Battalion he had been put in charge of. Most of the 746 troops were new recruits, half of them had not yet completed training. God help them if the Icelandic put up a fight.

The sky was light by the time 400 shaky marines had filed onto the Fearless. John leaned heavily against Charlie who continued to babble nonsense into his ear. As they approached the harbor, John could see a crowd gathered on the docks. Amongst them was Mr. Shepard from the British consulate, who felt nervous about the gaping onlookers. 

"Would you mind..." Shepard asked an Icelandic police officer beside him, "asking the crowd to stand back so the soldiers can get off the destroyer?"

"Já," the policeman replied amicably. 

At last John and Charlie stepped onto solid ground and marched in pathetic formation towards town. The road was lined with locals who jeered and snickered at them. John felt his rifle being ripped from his hands by a fisherman with a wild, gray beard. With his thick calloused hands the man stuck a cigarette into the end of the rifle and shoved it roughly back against John's chest. 

"Be careful with it, boy!" said the fisherman. John's ears burned as a roar of laughter rose up from the crowd.