There is only one fly in the ointment, and that is that this premature
return to North Sea waters might conceivably mean a visit to Zeebrugge,
though this class are not likely to be sent there.
Though it is many weeks since I left Zoe, I have not been able to
forget her. I continually wonder what she is doing, and often when I am
not on my guard she wanders into my thoughts.
Whilst I am up here, it does not matter much, except that it causes me
unhappiness, but if I found myself at Bruges it would be very hard.
However, I don't suppose I shall ever see her again.
* * * * *
Sighted Muckle Flugga this morning, and shaped course for Fair Island.
* * * * *
Oh! what a hell I have passed through. I can hardly realize that I am
alive, but I am, though whether I shall be to-morrow morning is
doubtful--it all depends on the weather, and who would willingly stake
their life on North Sea weather at this time of the year?
Curses on the man who sent us to the Fair Island Channel. Where the
devil is our Intelligence Service? If we make Flanders I have a story
to tell that will open their eyes, blind bats that they are,
luxuriating in the comfort of their fat staff jobs ashore.
The Fair Island Channel is an English death-trap; it stinks with death.
By cursed luck we arrived there just as the English were trying one of
their new devices, and it is the devil. Exactly what the system is, I
don't quite know, and I hope never again to have to investigate it.
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