Joe Levin tasted seawater on his lips and, oddly, it made him smile. The B&I steampacket bucked and rolled as it headed into a squall and the seagulls swooped excitedly, trying to keep pace.
The Irish Sea was gunmetal grey, as welcoming as a day out at the seaside in winter. But Joe smiled. He sat on the deck and pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and concentrated, a pencil wedged between his teeth, a postcard on his knee. The postcard showed a view of Liverpool’s Royal Liver Building on one side. He had bought it just before he had boarded the steamer and he studied it now. It had been strange to be back in Liverpool, however briefly. The week he had spent in the naval hospital after being torpedoed now seemed like another world, seemed like it had happened to another person.
He sucked on the end of the pencil, thinking. After a time, he began to write to his wife and child.