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CHANGE OF HEART Once, during the Second World War, I depth charged a whale. Those of us who served in the fast (but not fast enough) well armed (but not well armed enough) independently sailing merchant ships were apt to suffer from itchy trigger fingers, were liable to shoot first and to ask questions afterwards. This was such an occasion. We were homeward bound, running north and east from Bermuda to Liverpool. It was a typical Western Ocean morning — not too cold, for we were in the Gulf Stream and the following half gale was south-westerly. There was a penetrating, unpleasant drizzle that threatened to turn to fog at any moment. We had no radar, neither were we equipped with asdic. The possession of either instrument would have made us much happier, especially since we knew that a convoy not very far ahead of us had been badly mauled by a wolf pack. But we were not lacking in armament. We mounted a six-inch gun, a twelve pounder, eight Oerlikons, half a dozen light machine guns and our full quota of assorted rocket weapons. In addition we carried, sitting smugly in their racks right aft, three depth charges. It was my forenoon watch |
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