Morpeth was unconscious, his left arm shattered below the elbow and his skull laid bare by a fragment of shell. Wakefield, already under the influence of morphia, was lying on his back, staring blankly at the tattered White Ensign. Aware that something was wrong with him, he was ignorant of the fact that four pieces of German shells were finding a temporary lodging in his body. For the present, he was serenely happy—not solely on account of the morphia injection, but because he realised that he had "seen it through," and that Q 171 was still flying the flag that symbolises the real Freedom of the Seas.
Next to him was Kenneth Meredith, his bandaged head supported on a coir fender. Seeing the destroyer's sub-lieutenant, he made an effort to rise.
"Now lie still, my lad," said the doctor kindly, but authoritatively. "You can tell us all about it when we get you in the sick bay."
He turned to his companion.
"That youngster's got something on his chest that he wants to get rid of," he remarked. "I can't make out what he wants. P'raps you can. It will relieve his mind." The Sub of the Pylos knelt by Meredith's side.
"Well, what is it?" he asked.
Kenneth moved his lips in a vain endeavour to speak.
"This won't hurt him, I suppose?" inquired the sub-lieutenant, producing a spirit flask.
"Only a small nip," replied the doctor, as he busied himself with another case.
Kenneth drank the proffered brandy. The spirit put fresh life into him. He raised himself and pointed below, but no words came from his lips.