Like so many my father refused to talk about his war except for his loathing of Scapa Flow. On the day of the outbreak of WWII and his 21st birthday he joined his ship, SS Dunluce Castle, there. Bleak, wet, windswept with the most rudimentary facilities ashore, huts roped down against the wind sometimes black with dust from the coaling of older ships nearby. Today an easterly gale turns the wave tops white and rain and spray grey out the surrounding islands. I, who till now have only known a more gentle times there, understand at last how he felt. This wild, cold and noisy wind could have brought us closer had time allowed.