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The Pilot, The Sailor and The Arctic Snow
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Arctic Sea, 22nd March 1942

The first person Billy noticed on his third morning was Jack.

Jack was the loader of a Bofors gun near the ship’s bow, one the best— they said

that he could replace a magazine in under two seconds. However, everyone knew

that was he was known for something else.

The crew of the Trinidad was fresh— as one of the newest cruisers of the Fiji-class,

convoy escort was the very first true assignment that the crew would undertake. The

men sprinting about the deck with magazines hoisted under their arm, the men that

would curse at the gun hoists, the men on the bridge that monitored the

hydrophones in desperate anticipation— they had never before been beyond their

homes, let alone braved the Arctic Sea.

Not Jack.

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His eyes told others that he had been places and seen things. Things that made him

older than his twenty-four years.

The word was that he had come to and back from Arkhangelsk, PQ and QP.

Twice.

He never said anything about those journeys. There were rumours that he had

nearly died, the destroyer he was serving on split in half by the indiscriminate

torpedo of a U-Boat, cracked as if it was merely an egg; men jumping from a listing

deck like spilt yolk.

He was just Jack, the best Bofors loader on the Trinidad.

When the news of the German bombers first came over the radio, there had been a

strange, muted sort of panic painted on the bridge officers’ faces. First the crew

operating the ship’s rangefinders were clutched by a nervous silence, saying nothing

but collectively glancing skyward. Afterwards the anti-air crews had come above

decks, the news spreading amidst a warship that suddenly seemed infinitely small.

An agonisingly shrill alarm sounded. What seemed like the entire crew ran above

deck, the ship’s main guns screeching as they scraped off accumulated ice with

each degree of rotation.

In the midst of the chaos, Jack calmly slammed the rim of a forty-millimetre shell into

the gun breech.