Of the many ships around one was pointed out to us, the Queen Elizabeth (the first one), she had never seen passenger service having been completed during the war, now in the distance we could see her, painted in battleship grey, serving as a troopship. One night or early morning when we were nicely tucked up in our hammocks we were awakened by the rumble of the engines again and we sensed motion; action at last, HMT Antenor was under way, going down the Clyde. With the coming of the dawn we could see other ships in the convoy, merchant ships and our naval escort. We passed Arran and entered the North Channel and that was as far as our schoolday geography took us. Speculation was rife as to our eventual destination but there was no shortage of opinion amongst our amateur navigators who tried to calculate speed, distance and direction as we moved into the open waters. As time went by the seas became more and more disturbed and the good ship Antenor pitched and rolled with them; it would later transpire that we were entering the tail end of one of the worst North Atlantic storms of the season. Life-lines were fitted to facilitate a safe passage on deck. Down below we listened and watched with mounting concern as she creaked and strained, as she pitched the screw would come out of the water and the engines would race; all this was a new experience to us land-lubbers. At the end of each roll she seemed to pause for a second or two -- would she recover? She always did and then she took about 15 seconds to reach the other extreme and pause again. Up on deck clutching at life-lines or anything else secure one could wonder at the strength of the ship as she rode on the crest of a wave and then plunged to the depths of a trough; crew members rated them as 40-foot waves and we didn't disagree with them.