It was a warm summer's evening as Charles Lightoller walked into his home in Cockfoster's. A long day and it would be nice to have a pink gin and settle in for a quiet evening with his wife, Sylvia. He smiled at the smell of flowers in the air. This was a vast improvement on the scent of eau de chickens which seemed to hang heavy in the air at times. Well, a man couldn't expect much else if he raised chickens, Lightoller now supposed.

As he closed the kitchen door behind him, he heard the sound of the telephone from the hall, and his wife's voice answering. His dear wife, to whom he had now been married thirty-six years. He smiled at her broad Australian accent which, while it had lessened over the years, was still recognisable to his ears. A capital lass, his Sylvia. He would forever thank the urge which had prompted him to pick her up and carry her round the ship. That was how they had met: Syl had been all of eighteen, just coming home from a husband-hunting trip on board the Suevic, which was where they'd met. She'd been limping about and he, ever a pushover for a lady in distress, had first asked if she'd hurt herself. She'd told him no, that she had been born with it. He'd fallen from her from the first sight, and before he'd known it, they'd married in December of that year, Syl a vision in a ruffled dress, a large flowered hat atop her curls. Now, here they were nearly four decades later, with four wonderful children and still deeply in love as the day he'd slipped that gold band on Syl's finger.

Now, Lightoller winced a bit and blinked back tears. Their youngest son, Brian, had been killed during an aerial battle the very first night on which war with the Gerries had been declared. Brian, the baby of the family, not even twenty-one yet, dying for his country right at the very start. Worst of all Syl and he had not yet been able to visit his grave because it was in German-held territory. It had been worse on Syl than on him, but then it was always worse on a child's mother, he now supposed. Yes, infinitely worse, as she carried the child for nine months and largely raised them. In Syl's case, most of the credit for raising fine children had to be given to her since he'd been away at sea so much of the time, especially in the case of Trevor and Roger, their two eldest children.

"Bertie," Syl's voice interrupted his reverie, "It's a chap from the Admiralty. Wants to talk to you about Sundowner."

"Sundowner?" Lightoller wondered aloud, "Right then, I'll speak with him."

"Hello? Lightoller here."

"As you may know, we are getting together a fleet of both naval and private pleasure craft to go over to Dunkirk and get everyone out before the Germans close off all possibility of rescue. I understand you have a yacht. Ah, Sundowner."

"Yes," Lightoller paused, wondering just what the chap was on about.

"We want to man her with a naval crew and take her over and back. There would be no danger to yourself."

"I'm sorry but I am not going to permit you to put a naval crew aboard my yacht." He glanced over to see Syl standing there, wiping her hands on her apron, smiling at his proprietary pride in his boat.

"But—" the man from the Admiralty stammered.

"Hear me now. No one is going to take that boat anywhere unless it is my son and myself! Now, if you want to let me do so, I will be willing to go along with this rescue effort. If not, then you will have to find yourselves another yacht to borrow!"

Lightoller felt his face go hot with anger. Let those—those twits at the Admiralty get their hooks into his dear little lady, his beloved Sundowner? He wouldn't trust them to take her to the end of her slip, let alone over to Dunkirk and back at the height of battle! As he'd told an officer who'd ordered him into a lifeboat from the deck of the sinking Titanic twenty-eight years earlier, "Not damned likely!"

"But—but, Commander—" oh, yes, he really had the chap flustered now!

"That is my final word on it. Either my son and I take her over and back, or there is no deal!"