Port of Murmansk, 30th March 1942

The two days since the last attack passed by in a wretchedly slow pace.

Frighteningly fierce snowstorms had bracketed the convoy since the day before,

making visibility nearly non-existent. Despite the conditions, the crew was able to

sleep easy for the first time in days, as the weather made attacks from the air a near

impossible outcome. Additionally, as even Jack had pointed out, U-Boats didn’t

attack convoys so close to the Russian coast, being too far from their Norwegian

bases. Billy was at last reassured— a feeling only confirmed when they finally

reached Murmansk a day later. He mulled over the thought of his father’s reaction if

he had been one of the men on the Raceland, and decided not to think about it.

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Despite the ferocious air attack days previous, their losses had been quite low. With

only three cargo ships sunk, it was a victory, despite the hundred or more sailors and

merchantmen that had perished on the journey. As fuel was siphoned off tankers

and boxes of ammunition were unloaded by cranes, the Trinidad was being checked

in port for the damage she had sustained during the battle. Only when berthed in a

drydock did the gaping hole left by a torpedo reveal itself— a massive wound under

the aft deck section, missing the propeller shaft by mere meters. Temporary patch—

ups were all that could be effected until the ship could return to Scapa Flow.

The expanse of the sea spread outside of the port, as uninvitingly resolute as ever.

The snowstorm had slightly abated since the day previous, and Billy knew that the

journey was only half over. Though the cargo ships could afford a brief period of

respite in port, the convoy escorts could not share the same luxuries. Their mission

has been accomplished— the supplies that had braved the delivery across the sea

would now dictate the outcome of the war on land. The Trinidad would have to brave

the Arctic gauntlet once more, setting out into the frigid sea.

For home.