Killick, torn from the arms of his delight after little more than a week, was busy reslinging the cot, which a leak overhead had soaked through and through. ‘Those bleeding caulkers at the Yard,’ he muttered, ‘don’t know their fucking business . . . I’d caulk ’em . . . oh, I’d caulk ’em, and with a red-hot caulking iron in their . . .’
