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many creases out of his uniform as possible, dabbed the stains from his tie, and set his cap on straight, but his shoes needed polishing and his chin felt like a stubble field.
    Now that he was finally here, Fingal knew he must make a good first impression when he reported for his new posting. It might be quite a while before a humble lieutenant got another chance to speak with the commanding admiral, and Fingal wanted to ask what he’d have to do, if anything, to get the navy’s permission to marry.
    He was stopped by a Metropolitan policeman who’d said, “Identification, if you please, sir.”
    Once the officer was satisfied, Fingal had followed the tramlines running from the front gate between two rows of deciduous trees, their leaves turning to autumnal brown. He now paused before an archway that pierced the central building, a four-storey affair with three oversized windows spanning the middle two floors. A further set of three small windows were crowned by a massive, triangular pediment of pale stone bearing a coat of arms and ornately carved heraldic figures.
    A five-foot wall of sandbags surrounded the entire structure, presumably so that if caught in the open during an air raid, staff could at least try to shelter from splinters and blast.
    He set his suitcase down and fumbled in his inside pocket, withdrew an envelope containing his orders and a sealed confidential report. He reread his orders instructing him to report to the Surgeon Rear Admiral T. Creaser, M.D., KHP (Honorary Physician to the King), RN.
    Fingal hefted his case in his left hand, clutched his orders and report in his right, and strode under the arch and into the tunnel. A uniformed sick berth attendant coming the other way came to attention and saluted. Damnation. The compliment must be returned. Fingal stopped, set his case down, and did so.
    â€œCan I help you, sir?”
    â€œPlease. I’m looking for the office of the medical officer in charge.”
    â€œCome with me, sir.” The man picked up Fingal’s case and marched along the tunnel, through a doorway on the left, along a short corridor, and halted in front of a closed door. “In there, sir, and the admiral is in.” He returned Fingal’s case.
    â€œThank you,” he said. “Carry on.” And as the man saluted and left, Fingal knocked on the door.
    A voice from inside said, “Come in.”
    Encumbered by his case and the orders, Fingal managed, at the expense of crumpling the envelope and papers inside, to open the door. He stepped over the threshold into a small, simple room. The floor was of polished wooden planks, the walls painted white. A central fireplace was surmounted by a massive coat of arms flanked by wooden plaques embellished with rows of names in gold lettering. He guessed they were the previous commanding officers.
    A middle-aged man, on his cuffs a broad gold stripe surmounted by a narrow one with a curl, sat behind a kneehole desk positioned sideways to a window. He frowned as he scrutinised Fingal, then shook his head. The expression on the man’s face was one of sadness, resignation.
    Fingal could practically hear the admiral thinking to himself, Oh well, there is a war on, and whoever this is he’s Royal Navy Reserve, not regular navy. We must make allowances.
    Fingal came to attention—the navy does not salute indoors—and leant forward to proffer his orders. “Surgeon Lieutenant O’Reilly reporting for—” He got no further. A small rug under his feet slid on the polished wooden floor and Fingal pitched forward, ramming the envelope at the admiral as a fencer might deliver a lethal epée thrust to the heart.
    Admiral Creaser rapidly moved his head and upper body to one side to avoid the blow.
    By the time Fingal had grabbed the desk, arrested his forward movement, and managed to be standing at some semblance of attention, the admiral was once more sitting upright, not a hair