So reading a book about large ships in sub-zero temperatures, two thousand miles from the nearest land and three thousand fathoms from the sea bed, written over 60 years ago- for all sorts of reasons, wasn't pushing itself massively in front of my nose to be read. He consulted a batch of reports from his staff, “Gunnery,” he wrote, as a subheading, and underlined it. “The single four-inch gun which is the sole major armament of this class of ship will only be adequate if constant attention is given to gun drill and to ammunition supply. H.M.S. Compass Rose did well in her various gun-trials, and the nightshoot was successful, both as regards the handling of the ship and the actual firing. Anti-aircraft shooting, conducted with a towed streamer-target, was less successful: it is recommended that more provision be made for anti-aircraft gun-control, possibly by loud-speaker operated from the bridge. Ericson was frowning at the two signals. “We sail this afternoon, and we’ll have to go without him. There’s no chance of getting a relief by then, either.” He looked up. “You’ll have to take over as Number One, and organize the watches on that basis.”

Secret signal, sir,” said Wells, in not quite his normal inexpressive voice. “The signal boat just brought it aboard.” The First Lieutenant used an expression which is novel to me,” he began. “I wish you’d explain what it means.” Published in 1951, this book is a classic fiction of maritime warfare in the Battle of the Atlantic during WWII, focused on a corvette ship assigned to protect convoys from German U-Boats. At the story opens, the newly built HMS Compass Rose is just being readied for launch and the crew is in training. The only experienced crew member is Lieutenant-Commander George Ericson, who had previously served in the Merchant Navy. His officers are new to the Royal Navy, as so many were at the start of the war, having previously held civilian jobs. It is told linearly, covering 1939 to 1945, with one chapter dedicated to each year, and is based on the author’s own (and, at that time, recent) experiences. It is difficult to translate any full-length novel to the screen. There are too many `moments in time' to get them all in. So the adaptation of a novel by a screenwriter becomes a process of selection. Eric Ambler did his usual excellent job in writing this script, and if he left out some of the better bits, he also got the best bits in. Charles Frend directs it well within the style of the early 1950's. The special effects are above average for the time and not unacceptable by today's standards, although they are not spectacular. The film editing is clean and crisp with little to complain about. The musical score is not intrusive, but not up to the rest of the effort. It would be ten years before the art of Movie Music caught up to the rest, and here the score is no worse any other film of 1953. It is however the acting that gives this movie the push to get it far above the rest. Today's economic participants are perpetually at sea and failure may very well be a sort of virtual death. Our livelihood, which is often synonymous with life itself, can be stolen by seemingly inhuman forces, which are easily hated. Our home ports are but a fleeting reprieve, sometimes despised for the temporary shelter that they represent. And we are constantly cast adrift, at sea, at war, again and again.

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The Cruel Sea is a 1951 novel by Nicholas Monsarrat. It follows the lives of a group of Royal Navy sailors fighting the Battle of the Atlantic during the Second World War. It contains seven chapters, each describing a year during the war.

Stand by to get those survivors inboard. We won’t lower a boat — they’ll have to swim or row towards us. God knows they can see us easily enough. Use a megaphone to hurry them up.” Saltash Castle was portrayed by Castle-class corvette HMS Portchester Castle, pennant F362, as in the film. Although she had been paid off in 1947, she was held in reserve until broken up in 1958, and so could be made available for use in the film. Can’t be soon enough for me, sir. Proper uproar, this is. A lot of the lads wish they’d joined the Army instead.” The novel, based on the author's experience of serving in corvettes and frigates in the North Atlantic in the Second World War, gives a matter-of-fact but moving portrayal of ordinary men learning to fight and survive in a violent, exhausting battle against the elements and a ruthless enemy.

Seldom, if ever, is it objectified, granularized and trivialized (and I use this term very, very circumspectly) in the way that it is here - and therein lies the glory of this book. The pervading spirit of the book is ennui - punctuated indiscriminately with rare picquances of drama. It had gone on too long, it had failed too horribly, it had cost too much. They had been at action stations for virtually eight days on end, missing hours of sleep, making do with scratch meals of cocoa and corned-beef sandwiches, living all the time under recurrent anxieties that often reached a desperate tension. There had hardly been a moment of the voyage when they could forget the danger that lay in wait for them and the days of strain that stretched ahead, and relax and find peace. They had been hungry and dirty and tired, from one sunrise to the next: they had lived in a ship crammed and disorganized by nearly three times her normal complement. Through it all, they had had to preserve an alertness and a keyed-up efficiency, hard enough to maintain even in normal circumstances.