Quickly Derek tumbled out of bed and began to dress. Experience had taught him that to be warmly clad in a boat is as necessary as when flying. Over his khaki breeches he wore a pair of thick flannel trousers. On his feet he had a pair of socks, a pair of woollen stockings, and a voluminous pair of india-rubber sea-boots. Walking even a short distance in loosely-fitting boots inevitably resulted in the total destruction of the heels of the socks, but on the other hand it would be a fairly simple matter to kick off the boots in the event of Derek finding himself "in the ditch". Sea-boots that fit tightly, and cannot be taken off quickly in an emergency, are nothing short of death-traps.
He discarded his tunic, wearing in its place two thick sweaters. The next items were his oilskin trousers and coat, while the only outward and visible sign that he held His Majesty's Commission in the R.A.F. was his cap, with the distinctive badge of the crown, eagle, and wings.
By the time he had completed dressing breakfast was served. He ate his meal in solitary state in the electrically-lighted mess-room. There was no question of the excellence of the food at Sableridge, even in war-time. Hot Scotch porridge, with treacle, eggs and bacon, toast, real butter, marmalade and jam—a square meal to fortify the young officer's inner man for the coming ordeal of a sea-voyage. Feeling rather like an arctic explorer, for across his shoulders he now carried a well-filled haversack and a pair of binoculars, Derek descended the steps of the officers' mess and walked down to the pier.
The batman was right. It was a cold morning. Every bush was festooned with hoar-frost that glistened in the moonlight. The planks of the pier were slippery with ice, while there was a biting coldness in the air that gave a zest to life, even at six o'clock on a November morning.
The crews of the two boats were already at the pier-head, black oilskinned figures, looking like ghostly familiars in the grey light. Both craft had their engines running, the fumes from the exhausts rising strongly in the cold air. From the stern of each boat flew the White Ensign, while as a distinguishing pennant each displayed the "International F" from the short iron mast abaft the fore-deck.
Then came a grim reminder that there were war risks even on a coastal voyage. Before embarking every man had to give his name to the signalman on the pier-head, in order that their next-of-kin should be promptly informed if the boats met with disaster and the crews failed to return.
"All ready?"
"All ready, sir!"
"Cast off!"
With a slight jerk, as the clutch was slipped in, the 35-footer gathered way, her White Ensign temporarily enveloped in the bluish haze of the exhaust. A slight touch on the wheel steadied her on her helm, and soon the white signal-house on Sableridge Pier was a misty wraith in the darkness.