CURLY:- No time now for misgivings. Too much to do: fuelling and gassing-up, Avoiding each other's eyes. And, by common consent, A few good, stiff ones at lunch time: Men in the pub, officers at the hotel... Study our course: South across France Then East along the Med., First stop Egypt, And the mooring mast in the desert By the Bitter Lakes... A formal banquet on board For the Egyptian High Commissioner, Then East to Baghdad And the Persian Gulf, Say, two more days to Karachi.
But, in that raw October, Midlands gloom, It all seemed decidedly unreal... And as I read the spiky lines On the weather maps, Theoretical winds in a paper sky, I saw bad weather. But not bad enough to cancel the match, And an uncertain outlook. Couldn't be worse...
Dusk came early, with the crowds, Churning up the field to mud. Sky Hunt supervises final loading; Due to retire last week, He's stayed on To see us through the big one. Up go stores and spares and oil... And twenty varieties of British Cheese! All mashed up together! Some civil servant's idea Of a patriotic, yet democratic treat... Says it all, really...
Darkness, And the searchlights come fizzing on. The ship comes alive. Starting to sway in the freshening wind; She's being played by the mast Like a giant trout. The official passengers arrive, And now the Minister himself, Showing a face full of teeth To the press photographers...
He comes complete with two cabin trunks, Four suitcases, a real live valet, A ceremonial sword. Two cases of champagne And another roll of bloody carpet! Too bad he had to leave The piano at home...
All on board now, Here in the belly of the beast: Lucky, flushed and loud. Impatient to be off, Colmore, silent, Vanished now inside himself, Irwin, looking like he's seen a ghost; And I dare say I wasn't Looking too good either. 18.30 hours. All hands to flying stations. The men have made a banner that says 'India or Bust'.