HMS Battleaxe was already out there, three miles ahead, a subtly different shade on her hull, and the White Ensign fluttering at her mast. A signal light started blinking at them. WHAT THE DEVIL IS A REUBEN JAMES, Battleaxe Wanted to know. “How do you want to answer that, sir?” a signalman asked. Morris laughed, the ominous spell broken. “Signal, ‘At least we don’t name warships for our mother-in-law. ’ ” “All right!” The petty officer loved it.
