Landing craft out of control pounded against us. Our anchors dragged, and we lost one. We, too, were drifting, and before we could tackle the situation the ship was flung heavily on a sandy bottom and pounded by a terrifying surf. In another second we would have been rolled over, a plaything of the storm, but just in time we managed to get our engines going and headed for deeper water. The appalling sight of the beach in the dreary grey of the morning told its own tale of craft that had piled together and been ground to matchwood.
I sprang out of bed to find out what on earth it was but it had passed out of sight by the time I had reached the window. I said: ‘A plane out of control, I should think’, but Jean, sitting up in bed and leaning on one arm, said after awhile: ‘Georgie, you don’t think it’s something new, do you?’ Since then we have heard two or three of the damned things, in the distance.