Lieutenant-Commander George Eastwood Ericson, R.N.R., sat in a stone cold, draughty, corrugated-iron hut beside the fitting-out dock of Fleming's Shipyard on the River Clyde. Ericson was a big man, broad and tough: a man to depend on, a man to remember: about forty-two or -three, fair hair going grey, blue eyes as level as a foot rule, with wrinkles at the corners - the product of humour and of twenty years' staring at a thousand horizons. At the moment the wrinkles were complicated by a frown. It was not a worried frown - if Ericson was susceptible to worry he did not show it to the world; it was simply a frown of concentration, a tribute to a problem.
- From The Cruel Sea by Nicholas Monsarrat
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