The galley was much the way he had expected it to be. Broken dishes on the deck and food and ashes littering the table and benches. Smitty sat silently amid the wreckage. He did not speak as Evans passed him.
The salon was in better shape: there had been fewer movable articles here. Still, chairs were scattered around in unlikely places and books were heaped on the deck.
Major Barkison sat limply on one of the benches. There were blue bruises on his face. He was flexing his hand carefully as though it hurt him.
Chaplain O’Mahoney sat very stiffly behind the table. His dark hair was in his eyes and sweat trickled down his face. He managed to smile as Evans entered.
Hodges, looking no worse for the storm, was peering out one of the portholes.
“Everyone all right?” Evans asked.
“I believe so,” said the Chaplain. “We three aren’t very damaged.”
“Is it going to sink?” asked the Major, looking up.
“This ship? No, we’re not going to sink. Not today anyway.”
“What happened?” asked Hodges. “What did we hit?”