-Middle of the Libyan sea-

The HMS Zulu cut through the coastal waters of the Mediterranean, and for once, it seemed as though the sea had granted her and her crew a rare reprieve. A calm evening, free from the overworked sound of engines or the tumultuous waves that had marked most of her other journeys. 

The long dull creaking and low groans of the ship reverberated in the small cabin as Lieutenant Colonel James Curzon sat at his table, pen in hand. The small port-hole to his left allowed in a whisper of air, cool and salty, a contrast to the oppressive heat that awaited him on deck later, and worse in Tobruk. Before him lay a letter, half-finished, its ink slowly drying in the warmed air. The words formed carefully and deliberately, as though he could shield his wife from the war by choosing them correctly.

-"My dearest Anne,

I write to you as we make our journey westward, closer to the destination where this long and arduous path will truly begin. It's strange, in moments like these, how distant the war feels. The sea stretches out endlessly, the men go about their duties, and for a brief time, the world seems almost peaceful. I can picture your face as I write this, I also imagine it to be raining as I see you. It feels like a lifetime ago since we said our farewells..."-

James paused, glancing at the ink-stained page as the ship's gentle rocking soothed his restless mind and ruined his handwriting. For a moment, he let his eyes drift to the open window, where the horizon met the endless blue of the sea. The soft hum of the engines was a white noise, mechanically droning on and on, pleasantly. But here, in this moment, it seemed worlds away from the chaos that he knew awaited him in Tobruk, the chaos that always accompanies the war.

He tapped the pen against the table as he considered his next words. What could he say that wouldn't alarm her? That wouldn't betray the gnawing uncertainty inside him?

-"The men aboard are in good spirits, as am I. But I won't deny that I have a hard task ahead. Tobruk... well, it may be our stronghold now, but we all know the storm that's coming. The Germans will be relentless, and Rommel is no ordinary enemy, not a day goes by I don't think of France. Still, I trust in our British resolve, and with any luck, this letter will reach you before the real fighting begins. Perhaps, when all this is over, I will bring you here. Not to a battlefield, but to a place where the world is whole again, and we can enjoy the sun together, and share in my new irritation of gulls."-

The scratching of the pen across paper filled the cabin once more, accompanied by the gentle sway of the ship on the calm sheet of sea. James had learnt after a time at sea how to compensate for the ships sway in his writing, something about the flow of ink and the sway of the ship made what ever he wrote feel more poetic. 

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A sudden, deafening roar cut through the air. building and building in volume. A sound James had grown all too familiar with in France. He jerked his head towards the glass just as the shadow of a dive bomber streaked past the waves across the port-side, the whine of its engine like siren tearing through the calm into every corner of his room. In an instant, his hand froze, the pen still pressed against the page as the shockwave of a nearby explosion rattled the walls and his hand. The distant cry of men and the sharp crackle of flames followed soon after as his pen cut across the paper.

James bolted from his chair, steadying himself against the table as the ship rocked from the force of the blast and the following wake. His heart pounded in his chest as he glanced outside still. Through the smoke and haze, he saw it, one of the transport ships. Now engulfed in flames. Its hull splitting open as men scrambled to save themselves. Some trying helplessly to put out fires, others jumping overboard. He couldn't see anymore. The bomber had done its work, leaving destruction in its wake and flying away to the west.

Before the dread could fully settle in, the distinct sound of a Spitfire filled the air, its merlin engine a reassuring hum he knew well amid chaos. James watched as the British fighter dove towards the bomber, guns blazing. A burst of fire erupted from the enemy plane's wing as the fighter sored past, and within seconds, it began spiralling downwards through the sky and into the sea, vanishing beneath the waves, slowly.

Through his window he could see similar events transpire along the coast, ships sinking, fire, explosions of sea and salt. And then, nothing. The sudden stillness that followed felt almost unreal. The Spitfire banked away, triumphant, as the burning wreck of the transport ship continued to smoulder, creeping into the distance as men cheers and another vessel started to circle around to rescue the men.

James stood through the window, his hand still clutching the edge of the table. The letter lay forgotten on the desk, a mess of ink under his carful prose, a reminder of the calm that had existed only moments ago. He breathed deeply, steadying his nerves, his eyes lingering on the horizon awhile. His peace had been broken, And though the immediate threat was over, he knew it would not last. The port was coming into view now, and with it, a future that would test the Empire.

Looking  to the table, James picked up the pen, his hand slightly shaking as he continued writing.

-"You know me too well, Anne. You know I'll do my duty, come what may. But I can't help but think of you, even in moments like these. The storm is coming, that much is certain. But I believe we will weather it, as we always have. I'll write again when I can.

Yours always,

James"-

He set down the pen and signed, looking at his scribbled writing and sealing the letter with a deliberate calm that belied the tension in his chest. Outside the horizon stretched on, but now, it felt narrower to him. Closing in, as though his world was preparing for something and with that, he turned away from the quiet of the cabin, toward the noise of the deck where his world was no longer hidden from the war.