"What a rotten night!" With this well-expressed remark Sub-lieutenant Webb gained the head of the bridge-ladder of H.M. armed merchant-cruiser Portchester Castle. Contrasted with the brightness of his comfortable cabin the blackness of the night seemed impenetrable. The horned moon, already well down in the western sky, was almost hidden by a rapidly drifting patch of mottled clouds of sufficient density to obscure its pale rays. Slapping viciously against the ship's starboard side were the surging rollers of the Bay of Biscay. With a succession of heavy thuds the waves broke against the vessel's hull, recoiling in masses of phosphorescent foam and at the same time sending clouds of spindrift flying across the lofty bridge. The Portchester Castle was forty-eight hours out from England, bound for patrol duties in the Eastern Mediterranean. It was by no means her first trip to that inland sea. In pre-war days, under a different name, she had been making regular pleasure trips under the auspices of a touring agency. It had been said that her skipper could find his way practically blindfold into any of the better-known Mediterranean ports, so long had he been on this particular service.