Next day, at home in Mandeville Cottage, near Pinewood Studios, I confronted the blank page. Not a pretty sight when you know that your mind is equally as blank. To describe my problem was easy enough. How was I to film this battle of the Atlantic without any hope of getting the facilities to stage it? There must be a way, but for the life of me I hadn't found it. Would I ever was the question which daily became more agonising. Days went by and still the page remained blank. Despondency soon leads to panic.

This simply wouldn't do—wouldn't do at all … Perhaps a breath of fresh air? Ah yes. A quick potter round the garden. Not at all pleasant, far too nippy … Make up the fire; getting very low on fags, bound to need another packet. A brisk walk down to dear old Dealey at the Pinewood service station; great fun old Dealey, always good for a laugh. On with the duffle coat and a quick march there and back. Might get a flash, never know your luck … Back again. No luck: no flash. Sit down; have another go. Get the pen to work; magic connection, pen–paper–brain; one thought leading to another. Write. Write anything; any old codswallop, just get started. ‘Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard to fetch the poor dog a bone. Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.’ ‘There is an oily calm. The horizon is glowing as the sun sinks. In immediate foreground a periscope breaks through the surface. We are close enough to see that it begins, slowly, to swivel. The U-Boat commander is scanning the horizon, and though his eyes are glued to the lenses, we sense him react. He sees a smudge of smoke on the fading horizon line. He gives orders to lower the periscope and sets a new course for that smoke.’ Not too bad an opening image, perhaps, but then what? An inevitable attack on the convoy; torpedoes, explosions, and we're into a naval battle that even Cecil B. de Mille would think twice about staging. No good; quite beyond our resources. Have another go.