Rat Island: J.E. MacDonnell

The mine field surrounded them now. Ugly spiked weeds growing in a green sea garden. Death was a wave;s slap away. Fear was on the Jackal's bridge, as palpable as the electric tension which had men holding their breaths each time she lifted, gripping hold with hands and braced feet, though it would have done no good at all if half a ton of amatol had burst beneath them. The ship crawled on. Ahead lay Rat Island, the object of their mission. At that moment, to those still figures on the bridge, it might have been a thousand miles away. For each second was an eternity beyond which might lie, not an island, but oblivion…