#gale ensign

[sitting-on-me-bum]

Sunflower Fields, West Sacramento, California, USA

By Gale Ensign

[therealslimshakespeare]

Friends in the Crucible

MOTA PACIFIC THEATRE || FLIGHT SURGERY AU

1: Welcome to Hell Island

Requested by the sweet @forsythiagalt

AU NOTE: due to a long-standing crush on real life heroine Ensign Jane Kendeigh and her work on Iwo Jima, the current ongoing anniversary of the battle and a hope to not step on the toes of any existing Nurse!xBuck pairings -I’ve gone with what excited my imagination the most and created an entire Pacific AU with our MOTA boys. If this AU ends up being as interesting and stimulating to y’all as it was for me in writing it, I’d be terribly down for exploring more scenarios with everyone in their new and varied roles.

Main paring: Gale Cleven and OC Flight Nurse Ensign Maureen Kendeigh…cameos by “Doc” Egan, John Brady, Ken Lemmons, Harry Crosby and Benny Demarco…and maybe a nod to a certain Marine Captain named “Andy” who I refused to let die, even though he was never on this island. You neither need to have seen HBO’s Pacific or know about the history for this to make sense, in fact it might help my ignorant writing go down better without it 😏

Warnings: WAR?! Graphic descriptions of wounds, battlefields, gore, foul language, period typical language: use of the word “Jap” and a joking insult of “fish eater” for a Catholic. Hints that John Egan is a terror to his nurses, Cleven having to take his pants off for a wound to be examined, brief mentions and emphasis on his never having been touched by a woman intimately, a nurse positioning a man’s member out of the way to his surprise, strictly professional tho. No joke, really. But they’re having a bit of a moment.

Only proof read once. So many thanks to Bee, Christi and Ashley who all enabled me into going this rogue with a simple request and for giving edits and assurances. Hope y’all enjoy!

There were a whole lotta jolts in the descent. Of course there were. Why, there were jolts and bumps even coming down to the runway at Pearl or San Diego, and there had been far more than jolts on the training tarmacs in Kentucky. She had been in enough planes, experienced enough banging about, and had enough wheels up landings that Maureen felt somewhat entitled to her opinion on the necessity of jolts or none.

So far, Major Gale Cleven had piloted this monstrous tin can like a limo, smooth, steady and with full warning for each bank and turn. Maureen had not even had to catch a single falling bottle so far and the rows of empty bunks lining each side of the plane had hardly rattled except in the same low humming frequency of the ever thrumming engine.

But now there were jolts. And of course there were, they were flying straight into a warzone. Cleven had gotten them to Iwo Jima two hours ago, and since that time he’d been circling the island in a wide arc, casually waiting for a pesky air battle between fighters to calm down enough for him to land. Sure, the beaches had been wiped clean and a landing strip had been carved out of volcanic ash and marine corps blood -cleared for their use. But still, there were Jap bunkers, Jap planes, Japs themselves and Jap equipment in that smoldering mountain and so far, no word had come down definitely as to when the island might be considered secure.

It was all very historic, Maureen has been assured -allowing a woman into a combat zone. First time ever, so they kept erroneously insisting. That’s why there was a man armed with a camera and not plasma sitting a few lines down from her on the cold metal bench. Maureen had once had plenty of time to ponder the historicity of her mission and that of her fellow nurses back in Guam, right now she wished she could focus solely on her training and ignore the ominous crack-pop of something hazardous in the air and the resulting wobble of Major Cleven’s steering.

Stupidly she wished the Major’s low voice would come back on through the near radio system and soothe them all back down like frightened livestock. Gale Cleven had a way of managing that even with his face obscured, and while it made Maureen blush to admit she needed any calming, the facts were she was 24 years old, practically untried and desperate to be brave enough to be of use. Rattling on the bench seat between equally nervous girls and a hawk-eyed journalist was no match for the cuticle picking anxiety.

Maureen chose to forcefully look up from said bloody cuticles and was met by Major Egan’s gum smacking grin across from her. How many carriers had he been on when they went down? Kamikaze planes jutting out the side of them, ocean water pouring in, sharks abounding and hundreds of patients under his care, in his charge to tow to shore?

Mild, scattered, poor-man’s flack wasn’t remotely disturbing to their flight surgeon. “He’s great, isn’t he?” Egan yelled to her cheerfully, the jerk of his head suggested his praise was directed towards someone in the cockpit.

Maureen knew well enough that much as Egan respected the co-pilot Demarco, it was no match for the love affair between him and Cleven, an appreciation that had Egan’s special request yanking his friend from Air Force to Navy to Transit. Such a series of bounces in a man’s otherwise distinguished career, all to chauffeur one charmingly entitled flight surgeon, was enough to put anyone into a bad mood -it would explain Major Cleven’s initial coolness on meeting them all at the departure tarmac.

Or maybe he was just businesslike. Maureen couldn’t fault anyone for that. He had been prepped, perhaps not as much as she had, but he didn’t act entitled in any way, and he kept the plane steady. Except for this mounting series of jolts.

“Yes,” she had chosen to holler back to Doctor -Lieutenant Commander? Bucky No Shits? Johnny? Doc “Smirky”?- Egan, knowing he’d want a favorable report on his friend, “it’s been remarkably smooth.”

Maureen was glad truth aligned with diplomacy in this instant. Although if any man could handle the outright truth it was John Egan, no matter what they all said. And “they” said a lot, he had once had two marine squadrons under his care and to them he was a Marine, simultaneously he’d had three navy squadrons to take care of and to them he was a Navy man. He’d even switched uniforms thrice in a day before. And now he was being flown about by his best friend to tend carcasses on a foreign strand, oddly suited to terrible conditions and bad scenarios, offering medical aviation expertise and poorly timed jokes wherever he went.

He’d trained her group of specialized Evacuation Flight Nurses the last three weeks of aquatic conditioning in the states, and he’d culled eighteen out of the group for getting winded after towing full grown men seven laps in the San Diego surf -all while puffing on a cigarette himself, seated with sunglasses on in an motorized dinghy. Maureen had come to hate him that day, and every day after she’d come to want to be like him. Kathleen Martin got her wings pinned first and Maureen right after, “well done, Candy!” Egan had praised while his fist drove in the tack.

“It’s Kendeigh, sir.” Maureen had dared correct for the hundredth time that training week, “Pronounced like: Ken-Day.”

“Cand-ay. Got it!” he repeated with jovial affirmation and that was that.

Major Cleven had given her the respect of calling her ‘Ensign’ as he shook her hand, a quick and firm squeeze and on to her next companion, she’d have judged him as too pristine in everything from mannerisms to features were his war record not ample justification for his bearing. The low cadence of his voice over the coms came in as a slight pitch to the plane and a swoop of decline in altitude became apparent under her—

“All personnel prepare for landing.”

Cleven was nothing like those pilots during training, barking orders laced with frantic warning in their voices. It was a cow pasture back in Kentucky and there they’d had no good reason for alarm. Here where there was real reason, Gale Cleven crooned to them and John Egan smiled opposite her as he took in the effect his chosen pilot had on his nurses.

“Like soothin’ a baby,” Egan sighed as he lounged a little deeper on his bench, long legs deceptively braced for impact, Maureen had long ago learned the man was nothing but smoke and mirrors of his actual intentions, “isn’t he great? In danger of fallin’ asleep with that guy at the wheel.”

To emphasize his point -or more likely to distract “his girls” from the imminent prospect of landing on a battleground, Egan leaned back all the way and tipped his cover over his eyes, pretending to fall asleep. Maureen caught him as he cocked one sharp eye open to see if she was still watching. She gave him a hopeless smile of recognition of his disguised kindness before forcefully suppressing a gasp of shock as the plane hit Amtrak smoothed gravel and ground its way down the beach. Egan hadn't budged by the time the momentum ceased and the plane became bizarrely still after hours of vibrating travel.

“Right. That’s us.” He straightened up, his cover and his posture, rising up in his seat and slapping at the metal ceiling of the plane, “Good job Buck.” he hollered and got no reply. “He’s still crabby about flying a C-47.” he divulged to no one in particular as they all rose and prepared to disembark, drilled for ages in this routine and finally let loose to practice it. Egan’s nonchalance was almost disorienting for such a momentous occasion.

The large cargo door was opened and a irreverently pleasant tropical breeze funneled through the plane, bearing with it the sounds of crashing waves and popping, far off gunnery. There was also a smell that came with it, sulfur and sweet. It was sickening from the first, and Maureen dreadedly wondered if it was from volcanic fumes and rotting vegetation or something more heartbreaking. With her kit on her back she followed her companions out the cargo door, finding Major Cleven blank faced and unphased on the tarmac beside it. Nothing but a smidge of sweat around his hairline to suggest the hours of flight he’d just clocked and the wacky landing he’d managed so well.

“Welcome to hell island, ladies.” he greeted in a droll monotone and Maureen’s gait stiffened without her permission.

There was no true tarmac, as they had been warned, just a strip of cleared back sand churned up by Cleven’s wheels. Lapping waves were on the left side and then a field of sheets to the right. It was the oddest sight. Rows and rows of camo tarp and white sheets blotted pink, hardly a spot of sand to be seen between. They’d been warned it was havoc here, the situation so bad that they’d finally allowed for this exception, allowed the sending in of specialized units to evacuate by air as the boats could hardly ferry enough of the wounded out in time to save them. But this -this beach of corpses was so daunting a task it seemed impossible to choose where to start.

“John,” she heard Major Cleven address Lieutenant Commander Egan as he dropped down beside her, “you’ve only got so many births, do what ya need to do to fill them, but I’ve got my orders. You’re not settin’ up a hospital. When we get the supplies off, get this plane full -we’re takin’ off. Full stop. I’m not gonna have us here like sittin’ ducks for the mortars while you fuss.”

“I hear ya.” Egan assured him in that remarkably unassuring way of his and lit a cigarette. “Alright nurses, gather round.”

Triage was crucial for such a mission, the prioritizing of wounds and necessary services essential for prolonging the lives of those in imminent peril, versus those with the likelihood of surviving on only the essentials found in a corpsman or medic’s arsenal. They’d be back tomorrow with another flight, and the day after that. Cleven was right that they weren’t here to establish a hospital, yet still the idea of how many would perish from being left behind, even by this first flight, was a sickening probability Maureen has been trained to ignore.

“Where are all the corpsmen?” Egan asked one pharmacist's mate who came to greet them, picking his way through the rows of groaning men. The boy couldn’t have been a day over seventeen.

“Up there,” the kid had nodded up to Mount Suribachi and its ominous veil of smoke, “or dead. Lost so many in the first week they started sending us in to substitute. We’ve done what we can. Sure glad to see you guys.”

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Lemons, sir.”

“Hell I can’t call someone a lemon, now can I?” Egan’s grin was infectious and the boy grinned back like he was seeing his first friend in ages.

“Then it’s Kenny. Sir.”

“Yeah alright Kenny, let’s get to it.” Egan had drilled you all so thoroughly you could have performed even without the aid of the grounded pharmacists and their mates, yet still it was odd to see such a mass of wounded and so few to tend them. The desperation and chaos was tangible.

Maureen had barely set off out from under the plane wing when Gale Cleven’s brusque reprimand arrested her steps as forcefully as a tug to her flight suit would have, “That bunch don’t need your help.”

The terse judgment in his tone gave her sharper eyes to notice that the particular section she was headed towards all had sheets pulled over their faces. Her own face blanched at both the misstep and the sensory overload of so much sorting to do. She wasn’t going to feel sorry for herself, not here, not when faced with the easy part of all this, and she wasn’t going to be crippled by criticism while enduring her first trial by fire. “Right, thank you, Major.” she agreed with him as stoically as possible and ground her heel back around on the sand and tromped off towards the direction of sheets that were visibly alive and writhing in misery.

That changed as soon as they saw her girlish form walking amongst them. Sounds of dying anguish changed to cheerful wolf whistles and happy greetings. It made Maureen’s heart swell with pride at the unbreakable spirit in each of them.

She spent the next hour and a half amongst those men.

Gruesome was a word that Maureen swore to herself that she would never use lightly again. She wasn’t one given to hyperbole anyway, and her years apprenticing in the hospital in Manilla and her most recent training for exactly such wounds as these, understandably led her to believe she knew the mettle of such a word.

But no.

Gruesome, she decided as she began her task again and again, applied only to this: the way the tiniest slip of her hand on any part of this poor boy took skin with it, charred and soupy flesh squishing off meat and sinew like the flaky crust on a prime bit of brisket. It was the only comparison fitting. His own flamethrower had bitten him as he tried to take a countless next pillbox. He’d said it like a joke even as his teeth chattered too hard from pain to deliver the punchline.

Maureen wasn’t here to contemplate ironies, or the unfairness of war, she was here to find some intact vein through which to stab her needle and begin giving him back the blood that was slowly leaching into the black sand beneath him. Ensign Smith was holding up the bottle, throwing a shadow over his charred form that helped Maureen discern a bit better, giving the boy a kind word or ten of reassurance about home and pain relief. Maureen bit through her own tongue when she finally slid the needle home, deep and pulpy, she could only pray it would hold the blood they gave back.

“Alright, bandages, Smith.” Maureen decided and did her best not to jump as a mortar thumped on the sand, hundreds of yards away, but still, they were getting ever closer, proving Major Cleven’s grim prognostication to not be unfounded. He was confirmed that the Japanese didn’t give two shits about red crosses, much less cargo planes carrying in supplies and taking away wounded. Maureen tried not to dwell on it as she and Smith began cutting away filthy uniforms and wrapping their patients' flesh in the Vaseline soaked bandages. It was a terrible business for the first few minutes before the interlaced numbing agents in the gauze took affect and made their care something less like torture for the poor men.

Some of them could walk, a missing leg being a mild injury comparatively, they just needed the helpful shoulder of a technician and off they went to amble into Cleven’s plane. There the Major met them despite it being beyond his purview, handing out cigarettes even though he himself abstained and kept an eye on the Navy mechanic refueling his plane from a bullet riddled jeep. When he wasn’t doing that he was scanning the sky, aviators turned up and reflecting a cloudless sky. Maureen’s mouth grew chalky at the thought of what he was looking out for.

Once wrapped and tended, the men were ready to be hoisted on stretchers and taken to the plane. But those men were select ones, ones that Egan had decided upon. He had a particularly odd way of triaging, one that upon initial observation appeared rather callous and aloof to his nurses who had been trained as much in medical practice as in solicitous decorum.

Doc Egan moseyed through the ranks of wounded, keenly aware he was not as popular as his pretty faced nurses, but making up for it with such easy-going banter that chuckles followed him wherever he went, making the men forget that he was deciding who got relief and who did not. Who were to be permitted the cooling sheets of Elysium by nightfall and who were to be left burning on the sand. Puffing a cigarette and making small talk, he clocked each injury and each likelihood of recovery without giving a bit of it away.

Nearing Maureen’s own patient of the moment, she felt him crouch down beside her and take in the hopeless gut wound she was ineffectually trying to stuff with bandages. A sturner superior would tell her not to bother, to move on, save such determination for someone with a longer life expectancy than five minutes. Maureen found it hard to make that call herself when met with the pleading eyes of someone’s dying son.

“C’mon Candy, move over, lemme try.” Egan murmured and his hip knocked hers gently as he crouched over the boy, perfectly aware of the futility. “Hey bud, breathe for me, breathe. You wanna smoke?”

Egan’s now bloody fingers reached up to his own lips and plucked his fresh and third cigarette of the hour and brought it down to the boy’s chapped mouth, shifting until he was fully seated on the sand, arms around the kid’s shoulders, gently taking the refreshment away when he puffed out, then replacing it for another inhale.

Maureen knew better than to linger. Beside this scene of brotherly last rites was another dying man and a hundred more beside him, so she moved on, seeing only vaguely the way the kid coughed blood as he laughed at Egan’s conversation. The topic seemed to be on the boy’s dog back home. The Sergeant she was tending added in a bit of teasing over the name -who names their dog “puppy”?!

Maureen had barely managed a tourniquet on the sergeant's arm before she could suddenly hear Egan’s gentle chatter turn to low shushing.

The sergeant looked away to the other side.

Maureen noticed the discarded cigarette laying on the sand, it had been smoked to a stub.

The heaving rattle of panicked breath beside them stopped.

Egan shifted onto his knees again and his long, bloody fingers dragged those sightless eyes closed. There was the brittle clink of dog tags being checked.

The sheet was tugged up all the way.

That triage was over.

Maureen politely ignored Doc Egan’s harsh sniff beside her -it was dusty here- but clocked the way he rose to his feet, a rough brushing off of his flight suit and his brusque inquiry regarding her morphine distribution in sector 2.

“All tended-“ she had begun when a shout from the far off plane rang out-

“-JOHN!” That was Cleven’s unmistakable bellow and Egan, despite being in a human sea of potential Johns- responded like he’d been made to hear that one voice alone. “Incoming, west!”

“Shit.” Egan spun westward and sure enough there were fighters with a blazing red sun, rushing straight down at them.

They were such a distance away still, Maureen doubted Cleven’s sight for all of fifteen seconds before horror set in. “They wouldn’t-?” she looked up at Egan whose bitten lip suggested that they would indeed strafe these poor men given the chance.

“Stretchers!” Cleven yelled again, “Get ‘em under the wings!”

There was a callous logic to it. Those men already prepped to be saved might as well be prioritized this much more. Fairness wasn’t something promised in war and Maureen chose to hate Gale Cleven instead of some ephemeral “war” for verbalizing the awfulness of that necessary.

“Do it.” came Egan’s agreeing order and Maureen and Smith took their respective sergeant down near the waterline at a run, fifteen other nurses and the various techs mimicking them. They deposited their men under the relative safety of the flimsy wings and dashed back out for more, leaving two techs behind to hoist the poor fellas into the cargo hold and deposit them in their respective bunks.

“Come onnnnn.” Cleven’s warning yell was drowned by the commencement of allied anti aircraft higher up the beach, trying to pick off the fighters before they reached the landing strip.

Maureen hardly noticed the closing drone of the fighter’s approach, nothing but her heart beat and memorized lines of her training on repeat in her ears. She’d been trained to fight hand to hand if necessary, her folks knew the risks of their daughter volunteering for such service but there was a sour dampening of resolve at the idea of being picked off from the air, not even allowed a bit of struggle to go out with.

All she could do was lift, hoist, run, deposit, do it all again.

They were getting near to full. On one pass through she saw Cleven counting berths and scolding poor Ensign Courter for her rushed method of securing her charge- “five feet drop to the floor on my first bank, oughta be just what that chest wound needs. For God’s sake, I’ll do it!”

He had a cold sort of fury to him Maureen found obnoxiously potent, and she felt a judgment rise in her for his obvious haste in wanting to get out of there. To his credit, when the planes did go by and everyone hit the ground, he was still standing yanking on the straps to secure the top bunk. Bullets punctured the side of the plane and riddled it, tiny specks of light flooding into the dark hold. One man was grazed as he lay in there.

“John!” Cleven warned again after they’d gone by.

“I know, I know damnit.” Egan snapped back from yards away, “There’s just not enough corpsmen -let me finish my damn job.”

“By the time you finish yours I won’t be able to finish mine.” Cleven retorted and the obvious finally occurred to Maureen -perhaps it was not his own safety that preoccupied him but the fragile capability of his riddled plane being able to evacuate once full. That, was indeed, his job. Still, such sentiments expressed as they were from the shelter of the cockpit and from a man who favored a silk blue neck scarf identical to the shade of his eyes, rankled Maureen.

The returning buzz of the Japanese fighters coming back around only cemented her futile rage. Her arms were aching and the sand caught at her boots and her mouth was dry with dust and there were so many, so, so many more left to help. Ensign Smith had been called away to assist with lifting another, and Maureen was knelt beside the man they’d managed onto a stretcher, doing her damndest to find how many bullets were embedded in his left leg and how deep the shrapnel was on his right. There was so much blood and filth it was impossible to tell and Andy, as his name was, couldn’t give her much help besides informing her it hurt like hell and she sure was a sight for sore eyes.

“Egan! At your three o’clock!” There was Cleven again.

Maureen grinned back at Andy and forced it to stay on her face as the buzz of the approaching fighters grew imminent and the dreadful thwump of machine gun fire thudded into the earth yards up the beach. It hit the section of the dead first, a further injury and dishonor. Maureen felt a lump in her throat at the realization she had no one near to help her lift this stretcher and that Andy himself hadn’t a usable leg to spare.

“Go.” her patient told her with a clear look of realization on his face as the leaden spatter of strafing began to elicit responses from those wounded men still alive enough to react.

“No.” The refusal came out of her mouth about as naturally as taking the next breath.

A shadow threw over them for a second and Andy’s facial expression grew surprised, but, stubbornly focused on her patient’s face, Maureen assumed it was the plane passing by at last and chose not to spend her last seconds watching what was going to kill her. “Ensign Kendeigh, lift.” Major Cleven’s voice was so close so suddenly it spooked her flat on her backside until she saw him, squatting down and casting a shadow at the head of the stretcher, poles gripped in both hands, ready to hoist. She scrambled to the foot and took the wood in hand, lifting for the twentieth time that day and running towards the plane.

Time was slow and fast all at once. Cleven’s shadow had come before even the first fighter. But as they ran it zipped by, bullets flinging up sand into their eyes, a near miss. The second one was close behind and as they ran near to the wings, they saw no room was left under them, as crowded as an awning at Coney Island during the height of summer.

Maureen squatted fast and lowered the foot of the stretcher, feeling Cleven mimick her movements behind her. Before she could turn ‘round and enact her training, there their pilot was, body draped over the battered Marine captain, his back as stalwart and protective as the wings of his plane. Maureen threw herself to the ground as well, propping herself over Andy’s battered legs. Together they made a turtle shell of sorts and, damned to be caught cringing when death took her, Maureen kept her eyes open and stared back at Gale Cleven’s gentle face as the -thud-thud-thud- passed them, a micro expression of assurance twitching his mouth and eyes as death passed over.

Who needed to look at the sky when you could find God in those eyes his mother gave him?

For as long as she lived, Maureen would never forget the gust of his spearmint scented breath on her face, the first sensation she registered as soon as the planes were past and they yet remained, alive, locked together above a man they’d both risked dying for.

“Major, you shouldn’t’ve.” Andy’s rough voice spoke Maureen’s own dazed sentiments as they straightened up, Cleven picking up his fallen aviators from the sand, “You gotta fly us outta here, you die an’we’re all sitting ducks.”

“Eh, that’s why we have co-pilots, Skipper.” Cleven grinned before glancing back at the sky, his face morphing into anything but carefree.

“Is that how Lt. DeMarco feels?” Maureen teased wearily.

“I’d never presume to know how Benny Demarco feels.” Cleven replied levelly but the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement, “Ensign Kendeigh, give me a task.” he demanded.

“Sir-“

“I want us outta here in ten.” His tone held no room for argument, “What’s somethin’ even a dumb pilot can manage? Egan!” He yelled as the Lieutenant Commander approached them at a jog, his dark face the picture of rage for the men in his care being further hurt. “Out in ten.”

“Not gonna happen, still got supplies to distribute-“ Egan was visibly inscenced.

“-one more pass on my plane and we’re not gettin’ up. Look at that back wheel” Cleven replied, nodding at the deflating tire. “Hand me your shit, what’re we supplyin?”

“Aren’t you queasy for needles?” Egan balked, finding time for teasing despite himself.

“Hand me the damn syrettes.” Cleven stuck his hand out.

“You're under Candy’s orders.” Egan stipulated, pointing to Maureen and Cleven nodded.

“Yup, and we leave in ten.”

“Okey Buck, go, go, go.”

The nurses that had gone before them had tagged and labeled each, making it easy for Maureen and Major Cleven to squat along the rows and complete what help could be given. Her other companions were doing the same, each staggered at a few yards and assisted by Corpsmen and pharmacists. And despite the tension from the strafing and the dismal prospect of having to leave so many behind, the hum of chatter soon picked up again on the beach.

“Shit, shit, shit, no-I hate needles!” Marty, eighteen years old but with eyes that had seen a little too much, bore his dressing with tired stoicism until Cleven pulled out the morphine syrette.

“Son,” Gale murmured with barely concealed amusement, “your side looks like a bear cub teethed on it, you’ll be fine. And this’ll help.”

“Don’t ‘son me’ you baby faced glamor boy.” Marty spat back, marine corps superiority coursing through his admittedly impressive veins.

Gale was midway through a good natured snicker at Marty’s venom when the heavy shock of lobbed mortars began to thud the beach again. “Jesus.” the Major sounded more annoyed than surprised and had the wherewithal to place a restraining hand on Marty’s chest as the kid began to scramble up in panic, displacing Maureen’s dressing on his ribs.

“Cleven, they’re chewin’ up our strip!” Demarco yelled to them from the cockpit and sure enough, craters were beginning to form at the end of their taxi-able stretch of beach.

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave Major!” Marty suddenly clutched at Cleven and the Major had to wrench his arm free. “Calm down, private, you’re on a stretcher.” he then ducked his head as he moved round to seize the poles, “And if there’s one thing you should know,” he went on in a low murmur just for Marty’s benefit, “it’s that Doc Egan doesn’t waste his stretchers on dead men.”

Carrying Marty’s stretcher to the plane was Maureen’s last jog down the beach. She ran up the cargo ramp and Cleven was after her, handing over the task of racking the private into a bunk to one of the nurses before sternly ordering a path for himself through the crowded belly up to his cockpit. Demarco had the full radio system on, the better to communicate with the nursing personnel as they prepared for take off, and everyone aboard could hear his exasperated greeting as his reckless officer took his seat.

“You really game enough to try to get this Goony off the ground with less than a thousand feet of strip?” Benny’s broadcasted doubt made most nurses pause in their work and Maureen met Andy’s eye from the third bunk halfway along the plane wall.

“I thought he said that’s why they have co-pilots.” Andy joked to her quietly.

“Mm,” she agreed mischievously, “I guess co-pilots are one thing, co-Clevens are another.”

“Should find a way to mass produce.” Andy sighed, “War would be over in five seconds.”

Gale Cleven hadn’t even refuted Demarco’s concern verbally and already the crew shrugged it off, if Major Cleven couldn’t get them off Hell Island then no one could, and that was that.

“John Egan, get your ass onboard, it’s wheels up.” Cleven’s yell out the window blasted through the radio, too, and the girls grinned at each other -Major Egan wasn’t one to get bossed about. But, as if to challenge everything they knew about life and their own superior, mere seconds later, John Egan was hopping up into the belly of Cleven’s plane with his empty sack dangling and sweaty hair in disarray. “We’ll be back Kenny!” he yelled to the young pharmacist’s mate left on the sand as the cargo door was hastily wrenched shut by Brady.

“Honey I’m home.” Egan yelled up to the front and Demarco’s snicker echoed along the walls of the tin belly.

“Everybody stow your gear,” Cleven’s order came through, the pounding vibration of nearby mortars shuddering the plane even more than the engine’s revving, “we’re gettin’ outta here now. S’gonna be bumpy.”

“That’ll be one word for it.” Demarco snarked, “Death by bumps.”

The human cargo in the plane, those not groaning or insensible, let up a unanimous chuckle. It helped to have been to hell and back, a quick death as a plane failed to get air and plowed instead into a sand bank was hardly the worst prospect these men had faced.

“Believe, Benny, believe.” Maureen could hear Cleven’s soft smile in his voice as the wheels began to roll.

Brady, their engineer, navigator and the lone crewman besides the pilots aboard this transport, kindly manhandled Maureen to a seat between his legs on the rattling floor beside Egan’s built-in desk, his hand fisted in the back of her jumpsuit collar like she was a kitten. They kicked their legs out together and braced as they gained speed and the plane began to jostle into the milder craters at an ever more intense pace.

Shell fragments made a series of charming bangs off the side of the wing nearest her and Maureen could hear Brady whispering behind her in repetition “God spare the oxygen, God spare the oxygen, God spare-“

“50-“ Demarco’s countdown was unfortunately broadcasting like some morbid game announcer and Maureen could see Egan’s jaw ticking in stress under the harsh overhead lights.

There was a terrible blast in front, the sound of shattering glass or metal and a jarring shudder went through the plane, “Damnnit.” Cleven hissed but the acceleration remained.

“You hit?”

“No. Read me, Benny-“

“80-“ Demarco obligingly resumed counting.

“C’mon Buck.” breath gusting on Maureen’s neck behind her, as Brady had begun to direct his prayers to the Major now and as if in answer, the stomach swooping feeling of flight took over them seconds later as the cargo plane let out a mighty roar of strained endurance and lifted with a wobble that had more than a few bunks puking their guts out. There’d be over five hours to clean the plane floor and attend to housekeeping if they could just level out and stay up long enough to get out of range.

Down the way from them Egan was still seated, one hand holding aloft a not yet hung plasma bottle and the other gripping a support bar. But his head was starting to nod like a dancer keeping pace with the band’s ever growing tempo. The engines had a beat, if you’d been personal with a plane long enough to pick it up, and Maureen paid attention to Egan’s stippling fingers on the cross bar as they mounted and mounted, little bursts of enemy gunnery causing a comparatively mild wobble to the plane body every few seconds. She figured a veteran like Brady would know when it was safe to let her go; judging by the grip on her collar he was still highly dubious of their lasting success.

“Fighters, -everyone brace.” Cleven’s voice warned about as cooly as if he was pointing out the drip of ice cream slipping down a cone.

“Ice man.” Andy praised from his bunk to the agreement of his companions as the fighter zipped by without so much as a shudder from Cleven’s steering.

Plenty of the passing bullets had punctured the belly and one man got a direct hit. “Candy!” Egan commanded from his place checking the unfortunate man’s pulse, “Go remind Buck that we haven’t got the oxygen to go full bomber, he’s gotta keep low and -Candy! When ya come back, time to start throwin’ on blankets. Brady, get our pumps going. This is as steady as it’ll get.”

“You got it, commander.”

More than a little sure her mission was more provoking than necessary, Maureen still obeyed and followed Brady up the length of the plane and towards his electrical station, then past it to poke her head between the pilot’s seats.

“Well, well, this is a pleasant surprise, getting car sick, kiddo?” Demarco joked, “Hey, I get it, I’d find it hell back there with no windows to look out.”

Their front window was partially shattered and the metal on Cleven’s side was gnarled.

“Those mortars obligingly made a few.” Maureen joked back.

“Anybody hurt?” Cleven asked, and to her surprise, he turned from his panel to look at her with unmasked concern.

A joke was ready made there about everyone quite literally being shot to hell but she sensed he’d not appreciate it and following some uninterpreted impulse of desiring his good opinion, she hardly wished to repay his earnestness with flippancy. “Only one.”

“How bad?”

“He looked -dead.” Maureen admitted. She hadn’t gotten a good look at the man moving past him but she’d seen Egan’s treatment of the body and it wasn’t promising.

Cleven’s jaw worked overtime at the news and something snapped in his mouth, followed by a soft curse from lips too full and soft to always be so stern. Maureen thought he may have broken a tooth with all that tension but he spit out two halves of a blooded toothpick instead. It fell to his pant leg.

“Major Cleven, sir, you’re bleeding.” It had drawn Maureen’s attention to his wet lap.

“That’s what I said.” Demarco agreed.

“It’s somebody else’s.” Cleven shook his head.

“You know if you pass out on me-“ Demarco warned, completely ignoring Cleven’s denial.

“-that’s why we’ve got co-pilots.” Cleven finished for him with a maddening smirk that made Benny Demarco throw his hands up.

“Can you check him?” he asked, “I mean -you are a nurse!”

“What? Hell no!” Major Cleven spooked for the first time all day at the suggestion, glancing quickly from his reddened trousers, behind him to Maureen Kendeigh, and back again. “I’m fine.” he declared in a firm tone that dettered her almost as much as the challenge of getting over the instruments and a steering column to pull down his pants and look. “Ensign Kendeigh, was there a purpose to your visit?” He redirected, resolutely ignoring Demarco’s unabated concerns.

“Yes sir,” she replied, meekly as she could, “Doc Egan asked me to remind you that you’re not flying a bomber. To mind the oxygen, sir. And that it’s cold.”

Cleven let out a mirthless little laugh. “We’re full of holes Ensign, of course it’s cold.”

“I know sir.”

“Yeah, ‘course you know,” his eyes lightened for a moment and Maureen almost deluded herself he was being chummy when he murmured next, “you’re smart like that. Tell the Lieutenant Commander I’ll keep her nice and low, so low the Jap navy gunners can blow the floor out without a sweat.”

“Much obliged, Major.” Maureen chirped, pleased to have been trusted with a bit of morbid humor -it was the truest test of being taken seriously a woman could hope for in the service.

“Thank you, Ensign.” And with that she was dismissed.

By the time she got to the belly again her assigned job of doling out blankets had long been accomplished by her fellows. Brady had the place lit up like an operating theater and there was the added drone of medical equipment added to Cleven’s engines. She liked to think of them as his now, Maureen realized, a tiredness seeping in now that the rush was over, now there was just six hours of the same until they touched down again in safety. His engines stayed with them, consistent, steady, dependable yet a little absent, just like the man himself.

“Major Cleven said he’ll keep her low, Doc.” Maureen reported dutifully but whatever humor Egan once held when sending her to the cockpit was now gone, a bloody mess on his hands as he and Ensign Dormer worked over a head wound.

“Good.” Egan gritted out, “I need a monitor on vitals and I need new gloves, c’mon Candy, c’mon!”

The hours passed like this, no way of telling time in the artificially lit tube of metal. Some men needed a cup of water and a kind smile, others required every bit of grit and intelligence to keep even the faintest pulse discernible above the hum. When one of them passed away in the anonymity of the top bunk, Egan didn’t bother to cover his face, the man looked to be sleeping and it suited the morale better if his fellows were not disillusioned on that score.

It was impossible not to think for a split second on the unfairness of it all -live to be finally evacuated and only die before getting safe. To think how someone else less tore up might’ve been given that bunk and survived the trip.

“Can’t dwell on it.” Ida Brady, their headmistress back in Manila, had said -and she had been right. But seeing her brother Lt. Brady cross himself now in recognition of a soul passed did something to Maureen’s own spirit, a grieving sort of fury possessed her which matched Egan’s own as they worked on the next unsalvageable man until he became a likely contender for seeing his wife and kids again.

She had been up for nineteen hours, flying for ten of those, nursing for four. She was bone tired and yet there was always someone to be tended and the thought of leaving one of these poor men without even the slightest of their needs met felt impossible. Maureen didn’t even think to pause or lag in her expertise, neither did the nurses around her and up there at the front somewhere, Cleven’s eyes were sharp and focused as ever, she knew it, and knowing it brought a calm over her that made her sympathize with Egan’s own superstitious preference for the man.

Brady came through with coffee, an abnormal duty he picked up as a result of trusting no one else with the process or the electrical requirements to make it. “Figured our pilots could use it.” he explained before passing out a passel of paper cups to the girls filled with the peppy stuff, belying his practical excuse, before taking two to the cockpit.

He came back out with a funny look on his face- “Benny says he needs a pan.”

“What the hell for?” Egan balked.

“Or a condom.” Brady dutifully amended the petition.

“I repeat -what the hell for?”

“They’ve drank a lotta coffee sir.”

“Any of you fellas got condoms?” Egan asked his patients with a laugh and got a series of predictable replies. “Gale Cleven sure as hell don’t.”

There were light hearted moments like that, many of them in fact, but six hours of flying with wounds as bad as the ones they were tending was no joke, there were bits of laughter and there were times of quiet and there were restless sleepers whose terrors not even morphine could dim.

“Forty minutes out.” Major Cleven had gone quiet over the coms for so long it was like hearing from God again when he came on, gentle and steady.

Those they couldn’t get comfortable were at the height of their groaning as the cold and the endless buzz got to them. Helplessly the nurses offered pillows and water and irrigated the burns with saline and checked needle positioning. Maureen had taken to charting, something too often neglected in high stress environments but something that proved terribly crucial as soon as they landed and handed over their charges to a new set of professionals. On the left side of the plane she held one man’s wrist after another and noted their pulse. On the right side she did the same, one man’s left hand after another, wedding band or sans wedding band, in her notes it was only ever:

“94, 57, 88, 91, 63, 82”

The lights had been dimmed, hopes were some rest could be gotten by those in any shape to manage sleep. It made for a drowsy atmosphere, only the flashlight in her teeth illuminating the veins under her fingers and her co-workers faces, Egan’s face was a shiny mess of freckles in the torch light despite the chill, exhaustion seeping out of him but not a hint shown in his workmanship. It made the dull chorus of groans in the dark all the more ominous and Brady remarked to Smith on one pass that maybe they should have brought a record player.

“Twenty minutes out.” Maureen and every other soul on board was living for those little updates from Cleven.

Men told to hang in there and not die before they could be gotten to surgery suddenly had a goal in mind and the suspense was growing brutal. Stashed and stowed, secured and checked, landing preparations were already done and it was last minute tending before taking seats. Maureen found herself nearly piddling by one young private, trying to soothe him with a washcloth as sepsis fever wracked him when over the intercom came the oddest lulling hum, like a far off jazz intro.

It was too soft initially to be recognized but the surety picked up, something about the tone unmistakably belonging to their pilot, his hums about as characteristic of him as his laconic speech.

“Is that whadda friend we have in Jesus?” Demarco’s voice overtopped the gentle melody.

John Egan was wheezing in a chuckle beside her as Maureen shook her own head in disbelief.

“No,” Gale murmured, humming paused only briefly, “it’s ‘Leaning on the everlasting arms’ -you fish eater.”

“You gotta be jokin’.” Benny was wheezing too but Cleven was back to his gentle humming, words actually forming this time and filling the tired plane with a timbre that could put Bing Crosby out of a job.

“What have I to dread, what have I to fear

Leaning on the everlasting arms?

I have blessed peace with my Lord so near

Leaning on the everlasting arms”

It worked, the sickening drop in elevation was -if not noticed- bravely pushed aside for a hymn sing, Brady leading from the back and Cleven from the front. And for a brief moment, men from Kansas to Florida, Oregan to Rhode Island, strapped in a flying coffin of flickering souls, were seated back in the pews of their childhood, trusting something larger than themselves. Even if that something was Gale Cleven’s steady hands or the justness of a cause worth dying for or God Almighty, it was something big and above the pain of right now.

“Leaning, leaning

Safe and secure from all alarms

Leaning, leaning

Leaning on the everlasting arms”

The Navy station at Gaum had a runway, in fact there were five Cleven could have picked at whim, and there was no feeling so beautifully civilized and sure as the smooth roll of plane tires on asphalt after what they’d just left. “Flaps at quarter!” and they were slowing, the deflated back wheel only causing some slight disturbance, and then they were stopped.

That bizarre stillness settled again as the engines were cut. Egan gave Maureen a smile so soft and telling that her heart about seized in realization -they’d managed it. “Well that’s us.” he repeated for the second time that day, voice gone raspy with cigarettes and fatigue. “Welcome to American soil, boys.”

There were so many lights outside the cargo door, searing white flashes in the nighttime, jeeps and ambulances and all manner of medical personnel at the ready, it was overwhelming in the exact opposite way the beach at Iwo had been. Maureen hopped down onto the tarmac with Ensign Mann, ready and prepared to stay with her charges until the transition could be made. Clipboard in hand and kit on her back, she’d go in with her select five until they’d been admitted and charted meticulously in the various wards.

“How’s it feel to make history, Miss?!” -some of those lights, Maureen realized with a dull throb behind her eyes, were flashbulbs. Journalists were thick as thieves, snapping and hollering, others respectfully keeping a distance, “You're the first woman to step foot in a combat zone-“ Maureen kept her hand on her stretcher even as she watched Cleven limping over to a jeep and piling in after Demarco. Her mouth set in a sour line of suspicion regarding his claims of being unscathed. He’d be in interrogation and she in the wards for the next hour, she’d have to find out later.

A couple of hours later John Egan was sat with Captain Crosby in the administration office, nothing but a small alcove at the front of the ward, his legs spread wide in his chair and good scotch whisky being slurped from a cleverly injected orange while reviewing the charts. Croz was a whizz at this, meticulous and careful to a fault and John adored him for it because men who gave a damn were scarce after this many years of grueling loss and, also, because it allowed himself to wind down sooner than he was technically free to do so.

“Two men lost, that’s -that’s still good odds.” Crosby couldn’t manage an upbeat tone, he felt those two lives as deeply as Egan did, but facts were facts and over all, this experimental mission had proven beyond successful. Now to tell that to the families of the two men now being carted to the morgue instead of surgery and salt baths.

“Yeah, my girls were Trojans out there.” Bucky sucked his teeth, the squint in his eyes beginning to relax with a boozy sort of calmness. “Speakin’ of Trojans! —Candy!”

Maureen approached the little alcove at a tired gait, not above reprimanding Egan for his loud voice with all those occupied beds just feet away. “It’s late, Commander.” she reminded with hinting softness that only made him crane his head back and grin sloppily at her.

“It is, it is.” he agreed, reaching up to pat her arm and she squinted at the smell of whiskey, Crosby’s sudden and transparent busyness with the charts confirmed her suspicions. “You should get some shut eye, Candy! Back at it tomorrow.”

“So should you.” she hinted kindly.

“Mm,” he hummed in negative, “apparently my ‘specialty’ is needed elsewhere before then.”

“And so the booze?” she struck back and Crosby’s pen briefly dragged along his tidy line in shock at her daring.

“Steady hands, Candy darlin.” Egan responded, lifting two sticky palms up and showing, indeed, not a tremor. “I’ve got a surgery in less than an hour -working with Brady’s old sister, of all people, the one who snuck out of Manila after?- anyways, she’s 90 pounds of spit and vinegar. Starved for two years, but she takes three weeks off and a round of anti-parasitics and she’s all ‘let me back at ‘em.’ Hell of a dame. Anyway, surgery with her. I need this.”

“Well,” Maureen Kendeigh knew when to let go of a fight with a man who’d as yet never failed her or anyone else, despite his habits, “I can confirm it does nothing for your eyes bags.”

“Kiss ‘em better?”

“Not in my purview, sir.” she couldn’t help but smile, “Perhaps lieutenant Brady will be obliging?”

“She scares me.” he objected.

“And I don’t?”

“Only in the ways I like, Candy Darlin’.” he insited.

“Ah Major!” Crosby’s strained greeting drew their attention away from this over rehearsed banter and Egan straightened up fast upon sight of his friend.

“Buck!”

“John.” Gale Cleven was in the same uniform he’d been in for hours, flight jacket undone and scarf hanging loose. He must have come straight from interrogation and standing in front of the administrator's desk he was turning his cover over and over in his hands. Maureen was certain that were she to devote two hours a day to brushing her hair she could never bernish it to the golden brilliance that twelve hours of flight-sweat gave his. On a more concerning note, his was pale as death except for those lips. “I came to check in on everybody. Load of journalists out there.” He thumbed back behind him at the public area, “Mostly curious about you, Ensign.”

“Historical.” Egan affirmed and sent Maureen a sly look as she sighed over the fuss being made of her mission.

“I’m one of twenty.” she reminded.

“I hope you were nice about her.” Egan goaded his buddy and to her confusion, Gale flinched as if that were a remarkably successful mode of attack.

“O-of course.” he frowned severely and Maureen had a desperate urge to thumb those lines away. “I told them the truth.” he defended, mildly heated.

“Which is?” Egan was enjoying this and neither Maureen nor Harry Crosby could seem to puzzle out why.

“They did remarkably.” Cleven didn’t budge.

“Better than you thought.” Egan prodded.

“Yeah. Admittedly, far better than I thought. Jeeze, John.”

“But were you nice about her?” Egan insisted.

“What?”

“You said they were particular about Candy.” Egan said, “So what did you say?”

Maureen grew concerned that with such a level of fluster in the Major’s face not a stitch of blood seemed able to raise a blush.

“How ‘bout you read it in the paper.” Gale replied, coolly mean before clearing his throat and straightening up, back in possession of himself. “I came to see how many -how’d we do?”

“Twenty eight.” Egan confirmed.

“Outta thirty?” Cleven asked for confirmation.

“Yes sir.” Crosby answered him.

“Alright.” The Major accepted that, hat still whirling in his hands, a strange contrast to his perfectly contained posture. It drew Maureen’s eye to his hips and that deep red stain running down his pant leg.

“How’s your hip Major?” she asked, seeking to break the silence before Egan did so with some new and regrettable subject.

That did bring a flush and a sheen of sweat broke out on a face Maureen knew would be feverishly hot were she to touch it. He looked peeky, truth be told. “It’s fine, ma’am.”

“Hold up,” Egan stood from his chair and leaned over the desk to glare blearily at Gale’s trousers. “You're hit.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“Scratches don’t keep bleedin’ like that.“

“Well, mine do.”

“Hey, I don’t go tellin’ you how to fly your planes-“

“-you do though.”

“-so you don’t go tellin’ me what’s a scratch and what’s a wound. It’s still drippin’, that makes it a wound.”

Cleven moved his boot to the side impatiently and only succeeded in proving his friend’s point as a line of fresh blood smeared the white tile. “I was gonna just -“

“-What?”

“-Clean it in the shower.” Cleven sighed, defeated but with an edge that suggested he might yet do it .

“Oh, just gonna rinse mortar fragments outta of your thigh, yeah?”

“It’s not that bad. Dunno if it really got hit.” He protested, “Might be scratched.”

“Or you might have a piece of your instrument panel snuggled up to an artery.” John affirmed sarcastically. “We’re goin’ up again tomorrow. I need you fit, I need you good.”

“I am.”

“You’re gonna get checked.” Egan commanded and Gale looked back at the double doors leading to freedom and a pack of journalists and sighed. “You’re on the ground now, flyboy, I call the shots.”

“Ok.” Cleven mumbled, “If you’re so goddamn eager to pants me, do it.”

“I am, I am but I’ve got even better things to do.” Egan rounded the desk and flung an arm around Gale in parting, bringing him in close despite Cleven’s stiff necked antipathy that hid only the deepest seated endearment, “Like putting a left lung back where it should be and trying to get Lt. Brady to smile at me.” Egan expounded, letting go and beginning to actually leave, much to Cleven's sudden concern, “Which is, naturally, on the left -the left lung, that’s where it goes.” Egan went on.

“Wait, aren’t you gonna-?” Cleven called after him.

“Pantsing is more of Ensign Kendeigh’s purview.” John replied cheerfully. “Don’t look so appalled, I'm sure she’s seen smaller.”

“John!” Major Cleven and Maureen both inflected his name like twin, scandalized parrots.

“You deserve each other.” John laughed, “Ensign, do your duty.”

“This is the kinda behavior that has you gettin’ write ups for bein’ a terror to your nurses!” Gale growled after him in remonstrance but it did nothing to slow Egan’s tactical withdrawal.

“Bulshit, everybody on this ward loves me!” John dared to claim even as he was berated on his way out by more than a few wounded marines for being a little too jovial at two in the morning.

Cleven didn’t wait for the doors to fully close on Egan or for Maureen to collect her professional demeanor and clipboard before he was leaning over Captain Crosby at his desk, large hands splayed on the fresh paperwork, assuming the pose of a supplicant before a lawyer. “Harry, Captain, do me a favor this once and take a look fo-“

“-Major Cleven sir,” Harry Crosby interjected levelly and with the utmost respect, “I’m an administrator.”

Maureen composed herself, the sight of this stoic man losing a grip on himself due to the prospect of lost modesty was surprising, it was also motivating to find her own professionalism and put him at ease. “Major, if you’d follow me?” she nodded her head towards the ward and started clopping down the dim aisle toward one of the last empty beds. He didn’t need to lay down for it but she needed her instrument tray, an isolated light and, if his shyness was so severe, drawing the sectioned curtains would hardly be amiss.

When she arrived and turned round to instruct him, he was obediently there to obey. Something about that dogged respect for authority he possessed and his compliance with her own profession filled her with an odd protectiveness and she motioned him into the space gently, tugging the curtain closed behind him. He was taller than she realized, made more apparent as he took the initiative and tugged off the bulky weight of his flight jacket, methodically laying it out in a half fold on the bed, nothing but a lean line of him left in olive green.

Lanky, her mother would call him, a long drink of water. He looked all of twenty four, suddenly, soft and in need of a meal. “Your leg, yes?” she reaffirmed, jotting it down in the chart. She had found that men found it easier to talk of injuries when she wasn’t making eye contact.

“Yes.” His voice was low as the grave and hushed too, “And -I think maybe my hip.”

Maureen’s eyes flicked to the place in question, recalling how she had suspected his lap in general on the plane. “Right.” she made the customary jot down of the detail and then an arguably unnecessary note beside it, the longer to give him a chance to cool himself. “Your pants Major, if you would.” she filled in the date and the time, cursory information so as not to be idle while he undid his belt, the clank of the flat uniform clasp deafening in the space where he seemed to hold his breath.

She was used to discerning the moment when it was safe to look up. Often there was a brief period after the sound of pants hitting the floor where one might have the misfortune of catching a man adjusting himself to a preferred side. She was prepared to give him that moment in peace but his voice called her to attention.

“Is this?-“ he didn’t finish his sentence and she looked up to see his vague gesture as he stood in briefs and boots, jacket hung open, too.

“Yes I think we can manage with those on.” she smiled reassuringly, discerning his query. His skivvies were blood stained on the right and clinging to him but the wounds appeared to be above and below their coverage, “I’ve always got scissors if need be.”

“Scissors.” He repeated with a nod, teeth savagely dug into his lip.

“Jacket off, this could get messy.” She ordered and something about her decisiveness seemed to soothe him like she knew it would, he shrugged it off gracefully and laid it beside the sheepskin, and yanked at his tie to relive his bobbing throat. “Please, sit Major.”

He sat down on the bed, a little stiffly, and she reached above her to turn on the large overhead lamp, shining it down on them both and in the harsh glow of it she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen something so beautiful as Gale Cleven’s blushing face fixed upturned towards her own.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, looks like.” she attempted to make conversation and got a mere nod instead, once she stepped nearer, his eyes devoutly focused themselves somewhere to the right of them, on the floor.

She rinsed the area first, wiping away the crusted blood until his smooth, lightly haired skin came into view, little jagged tears visible in it with small fragments embedded. It wasn’t bad at all, but deep enough to keep it bleeding.

The touch of cool water made him jolt in surprise. What it didn’t do was make him shrink. She saw his hands curl, white knuckled around the mattress pad beside him as she gently dug out the metal, and she had a suspicion it wasn’t from the pain.

As unabashedly as her profession had taught her, Maureen tugged up his boxer leg until she was satisfied she’d uncovered the last little shard and did what was necessary, reaching atop the wet fabric and moving his heavy member up and away. He about bucked off the table at that mere touch of positioning and Maureen backed away out of pure animal instinct to avoid getting reflexively kneed.

“I'm sorry!“ he rushed out, his chest suddenly tight like an elephant were sat on it and his blood thudded in his ears, “Ensign, I apologize, I don’t know why-“

“It’s fine.” she insisted, stunned and pitying at the realization she probably was the first woman to touch him this way. To touch him at all. “I’m sorry this requires it.” she admitted.

“Please don’t -“ he took a large breath and began again, actually managing to meet her eyes out of sheer willpower, “-I’m the one who’s sorry. You’re doing your job, i don’t know why I get- it’s unprofessional of me, I'm sorry.” he repeated firmly and straightened his spine as if he could discipline a most human reaction away.

“It’s not at all uncommon.” She whispered, feeling compelled to be unprofessional herself if only to make him stop berating himself, “We nurses deal with this all the time, quite normal after combat, particularly.” Maureen paused for a moment and weighed the joke on the tip of her tongue as she dabbed iodine on a cotton ball and prepared to go back into the dreaded zone of his thigh crease, “It’s to be expected, the manual says; your blood is quite literally UP.”

Stood there in suspense between his legs with the iodine swab waiting mid air, Maureen waited until she saw a flicker of amusement twinkle his sad expression and a snicker escape that sober mouth. “Tell me about it.” he rasped, exasperated at his own body. “Every damn time.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” she teased, bringing the swab down and ignoring the sizable jolt his whole body and appendage gave at this dab to his thigh or the way his belly caved in with his deep intake of breath, “I’m telling you it’s normal.”

“Damn, you are sweet.” He declared suddenly with gut wrenching emphaticism that finally broke Mauren’s own precarious composure. “Not just to me,” he hastened to add in response to her melting expression so close to him, “to everybody out there. You were incredible today.” He paused and Maureen swallowed hard and tried with great difficulty to find the capability to thank him for the compliment. Before she could, he added with youthful honesty, “But you are -sweet to me.”

“Right back at you. Major.” she insisted, daring to stay that close and look back into those eyes she thought would be her last sight on earth for a second there on the beach earlier. His shuddering breath suggested he was recalling it, too.

“It’s nice to have friends in the crucible with ya.” he explained and Maureen felt her heart glow.

“Your poor hands.” she whispered, dropping her swab to gather his shaky hands in hers, the large palms engulfed her own even as she tried to cradle them. Never a hint of this anxiety while flying them, yet here he was shivering with it afterwards. “Probably blood loss.” she gave him an out, some men weren’t ready for talk of flight exhaustion or strained nerves.

“Then why’s it wasting all I’ve got to spare on…that?” He actually managed to joke back and Maureen actually allowed herself to laugh -god help her, she laughed at a man’s joke about an ill timed erection.

“John would say something about hope springing eternal, right about now.” she wheezed even as he groaned, his hands still placidly jittering in her grip, “I enjoyed your singing, by the way.”

“Mm, yeah, well,” he cleared his throat, “you didn’t see the hole in the wing or the busted flaps all the way home. That landing didn’t promise to be as pretty as it was.”

“But it was pretty.”

“Yeah. Not too bad.”

“A gorgeous landing.” she insisted and his eyes started to water under the harsh light. Impulsively, and in an act of unprofessionalism she would have never recognized before today, Maureen Kendeigh drew his hands close to her chest and pressed a kiss to his lined forehead. The way he sagged against her in a shuddering lunge suggested her impulse was a good one. “Doc Egan insists whiskey is good for this.” she whispered into hair that smelled so strongly of his musk and the wool of his cap she about buckled from it.

“Mm, but is it g—good for him?” he responded rhetorically, a gust of moist breath against the open throat of her flight jacket, his usual irony still remained with only a hiccup of nerves interrupting his speech. Maureen wasn’t sure anymore, what saved a life, well, it had saved a life, so why demonize it? She was here to force things to keep living in environments so hostile wildflowers gave up. Some men needed their booze and some men needed to be held in the hospital ward at two in the morning until their shakes calmed. As if he could read her mind, she felt Gale turn his head to the side a little for breath, face still pressed to her chest as he uttered quietly, “This is working. For me.”

“Good.” Nose buried in his hair she took a few measured breaths herself, feeling that odd calm still radiating off him, even as his body was shot to hell and giving off the overtaxed jitters. “You bring people calm, you know that, Major? It’s why Egan picked you for this, deep down, you make a plane load of dying men hang in there. That’s a gift. But when you’ve got a cup you keep pouring out of, it’s bound to go empty. Gotta refill yourself, sometimes, yes?”

“I thought this was blood loss.” Gale replied softly and it took Maureen a beat to recognize the sad mischief in his blue eyes.

“Alright. I’ll speak for myself.”She conceded with a huff.

“You must be exhausted.” he noted, suddenly as sober as they come.

“A little tired.” she admitted, questioning the way she instinctively tightened her hold on the back of his neck as he stiffened to pull away. Entirely unprofessional, she wasn’t a medicine spoon or a needle, he had every right to pull away.

“So what would fill your cup back up?” he asked in that low voice that sent a million varied undertones crashing through her, whether he intended it or not.

Too tired to be much more than plainly honest, or as honest as a woman should be with a half undressed patient cradled to her chest, Maureen admitted the half of it, which in many ways was the whole, “This is working for me.”she repeated his own words to him and watched them take effect.

Like a sudden reanimation had occurred, Gale Cleven untangled their hands with emphatic surety and then, in an act of kindness Maureen never expected, brought them to her shoulders and tugged her down for a solid embrace. “A hug and a nap then.” He prescribed, his solid shoulder beneath her cheek and his legs parted for her to step between. Only the bandages kept him from bleeding further on her.

“Not a nap,” she smiled, an inexplicable warmth and calmness flooding through her in his hold, his back was broad and lean under her hands, “we should go to sleep.”

“No such thing as going to sleep in the military, Ensign.” Gale murmured, “Sleep -that’s what happens when your mama tucks you in and you’ve got a whole night to waste. Naps. That’s what we take.”

“Alright, a nap, and a hug.”

“Alright.”

“You know,” Maureen dared with a little smile as some part of her slotted back in place and gave her the boldness to be a little too much, “there’s this thing people came up with ages ago where you hug and take naps at the same time.”

Pink cheeked but with a jaw clench that had defeated warzones, Gale Cleven pulled his head away and gave her a heavy look of admonishment, “Marriage.” he stated unamused.

Well, she had meant sex, and she wanted it, always had after danger -but Cleven had a point too.

“Uh, yes, that’s the most common-“

“-If I were to marry you, Maureen Kendeigh,” his voice took on a teasing lilt that was somehow more devastating than all his commanding earnestness, “there’d be no nap taking.”

“Oh.” A single utterance was about all she could articulate in the face of that smirk and gentle refusal. Both flattering and painful all at once. “Well, that’s not for us then.”

“No.” he pondered, full lips twitching downwards in disappointment, “At least, sounds like a decidedly post-war endeavor. No naps.” he clarified.

“Oh -yes.” she caught on, well used to the code of superstition all around her that didn’t allow men to spell out any sort of lasting, long term hope. “A postwar endeavor.” she agreed, never having heard marriage so smartly categorized.

“Uhuh,” his hands trailed up from her ribs to squeeze the sore muscles of her deltoid, “for now -naps. Back up tomorrow.”

“Alright.” she agreed, stepping a small distance back and looking him over, this time his presence didn’t shrink, in fact if anything he expended in the small room and it made her chest ache, “You're alright?” she made sure one last time.

He held his palms flat up and Maureen could attest they were indeed steady, terribly large, too, and his watch on his wrist was careening towards three o’clock. “Looks like it.” he rasped. “But you’re in charge here. Can I go, Ensign?”

Regretfully Maureen nodded, “You’re dismissed, Major.”

When he stood up from the bed he was by necessity in her space, looking down at her rather fearlessly as he yanked up the waist of his trousers and gathered the belt closed around his lean waist. Maureen felt her cheeks burn but couldn’t look away, if she were to glance away from those eyes she might see something even more tempting before he’d secured the fabric.

“Got any more duties after this?” he asked, breaking the moment as he bent to arrange his trouser hems over his boots.

“No.”

“Then I’ll walk you to your billet.”

“For naps.” she clarified cheekily.

“For naps.” he agreed with mirthful vehemence, finger pointed at her with almost paternal caution to not push his patience.

“Do you want your shell fragments?” she rattled them in their dish, the pieces she'd pried from the shallow muscle of his hip.

Cleven paused with his hand on the dividing curtain, shaking his head in amusement, “Give ‘em to Egan,” he suggested with a wicked little smirk, “knowing him he’ll make a talisman out of them or something equally useful.”

Hope y’all enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s life blood, lemme head your thots or screams! Xoxo

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added for my MOTA fics)

@stylespresleyhearted

@ab4eva

@earth-to-lottie

@suraemoon

@blurredcolour

@steph-speaks

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[go-to-the-mirror]

A moment of silence for the victims of yaoi and yuri.

[Video description: A video overlaid with sad violin music of greyscale images of Doctor Who companions who have interacted with the Doctor and the Master. In order is Victim of Yaoi: Adric; Victim of Yuri: Nardole; Victim of Yaoi: Nyssa of Traken; Victim of Yaoi: Perpugilliam "Peri" Brown; Victim of Yaoi: Melanie "Mel" Bush; Child of Divorce: Josephin "Jo" Grant; Victim of Yaoi: Captain Jack Harkness; Victims of Yaoi: Francine, Letita "Tish", and Clive Jones; Victim of Yaoi: Martha Jones (M.D.); Victim of Yuri: P.C. Yasmin "Yaz" Khan; Victim of Yaoi: Tegan Jovanka; Victim of Yaoi: Dorothy "Ace" Gale McShane; Victim of Yaoi: Wilfred "Wilf" Mott; Victim of Yuri: Graham O'Brien; Victim of Yuri: Petronella Osgood; Victim of Yuri: Clara Oswin Oswald; Victim of Yuri: Bill Potts; Victim of Yuri: Ryan Sinclair; Victim of Yaoi: Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart; Victim of Yuri: Kate Lethbridge-Stewart; Victim of Yaoi: Junior Ensign Commander Vislor Turlough. /End]

[fwoopersongs]

Thoughts on 【长喑 】Part 1/3

This is a response to the lovely @fateandloveentwined’s translation of the Xiao Jingyan fansong 长喑: LONG DARKNESS — CHÁNG ÀN 长喑 TRANSLATION

Fate, thank goodness you so sensibly divided this song into four eight parts (no idea why I thought it was four lolol). It helps to not have it too spread out, because there is always this temptation to ramble about every single detail, isn’t there? xD This way it’s easier to focus on the bigger picture.

// I’m splitting this in three to spread out my writing energy evenly. But also it’s okay right? We’re probably the only ones Like This about this song anyway HAHAAH.

About the title, I wonder if 长喑 can be read as a loud ringing war cry, or else the voice of a singing sword. 喑 is fairly frequently used for sobs, but I have also seen it as the scream of war horses (possibly one of Li Bai’s? I can’t find it again though and am too lazy for a more thorough search haha). Which ties in well with the themes and imagery of war, sorrow for the wronged, fighting back with everything you have, and firmly carrying on in spite of loss.

长剑出鞘冷锋芒 十三载意难忘 缓歌曼舞九重宫 朔风黄沙麾旗扬 手足血脉埋青冢 挚友良弓唯锈藏 岂能折腰屈膝没忠良

Xiao Jingyan being represented as the sheathed sword, that comes out undulled and deadly!!!!! It's such a vibe that I can hear the ringing. Through the past 13 years, that emotion and those feelings haven't been forgotten.

Love that you mention the context of that line from 长恨歌 being carefree and blissful early days! These melodies and dances in '九重宫' elevates the setting to such metaphorical heights. Just putting 九重 in there gives it a majestic, magnificent feeling. The highest peak, the noble palace, their idyllic days of youth, gone in bitterly cold winds blowing on battlefields.

The imagery in 朔风黄沙麾旗扬 | north wind / yellow sands / ensigns billowing, are such common representations for war. (An example from one of Li Shimin's more famous poems recounting the horror and tragedy of war, goes 寒沙连骑迹 朔吹断边声 | across cold sands, the cavalry’s trail; the north gale cuts off sound at the frontier, and afterwards, beginning to describe the victory 扬麾氛雾静 纪石功名立 | billowing standard, hazy fog, they quiet; steles bearing their merits and honors, are erected).

Just. That contrast is SO good!

THIS ‘brothers-in-arms and brothers in blood’ FOR 手足血脉 !!!!!!!!!!

Also, veryyyyy nice rhythm and rhyme in your translation on the third line. The ring of ‘long covered in grass’ versus ‘left only to rust’ is so lovely...

I wonder if the use of 青冢 - the verdant tomb - is deliberate - given previous imagery of the harsh northern winds and the sands. How eye catching, their burial mound rising above. Another imagery-metaphor handshake maybe?

And I couldn’t help but be drawn to the contrast 冷锋芒 cold-razor sharpness of the sword, and 唯锈藏 the rust on the bow, put away to gather dust. (Time to step up and reveal your talent and virtue Xiao Jingyan, for your friend and brother who was murdered, because he outlived his use and became an imagined threat… Yes, I went there with the puns. :P)

Were you thinking of 埋没 as in bury for 没忠良? I kind of read it as both having the loyal, true and good killed, but also forcing those left to bend their knee and submit, suppressing themselves. Can’t think of any way to express both layers, but burying them is definitely more in keeping with the theme of these two verses.

挑灯不眠千军帐 逐千里护家邦 玉壶冰心铁骨铮 扬眉冷看覆风浪 当时少年且横枪 凝尽碧血守四方 守国土河山定国安邦

The first line makes me so soft. So so so soft. In it, I see the fiery passion of Xin Qiji’s 破阵子:

醉里挑灯看剑 梦回吹角连营 Drunkenly, lifted a lamp to gaze upon the sword - dreamed back of when horns were blown throughout the army’s sprawling camp, 八百里分麾下炙 五十弦翻塞外声 meat and wine sent out to the men, singing strings and music played loud, here at the frontier: 沙场秋点兵 The battlefield in Autumn, a mustering of the troops.

I see a quiet, unyielding spirit and infinite care in Lu You’s 病起书怀:

病骨支离纱帽宽 孤臣万里客江干 Ailing bones so gaunt, the gauze hat grows loose; a lone official travels far, a guest by this river. 位卑未敢忘忧国 事定犹��待阖棺 In lowly post, daring not to forget concern for the country; even matters decided must be waited out to their ends. 天地神灵扶庙社 京华父老望和銮 Heaven and Earth, Gods and Deities, help our devout state; all the People hope for the war chariots’ ring. 出师一表通今古 夜半挑灯更细看 Northern Expeditions, the Memorial applies in times ancient, present; the night half-past, I lift a lamp, reading closely.

And you know, maybe the use of 家邦 is to maintain that ending -ang sound with 浪 | làng and 方 | fāng, but it just feels so much homier than 家国 somehow. Do you get that feeling?

挑灯不眠千军帐 逐千里护家邦 feels like someone who is so sincere. Leaders who care, people who care. We can see it in their actions.

In the next line, again with the contrasts - but this time so inspiring???? 玉壶冰心铁骨铮 An unchanging, pure heart cold and clear and untainted as ice. It sounds so sincere but somehow fragile. But no fear! He also has a spine of steel - 铮 like the sound of weapons ready to clash in battle.

OMG 扬眉冷看覆风浪 ‘head high, brows lifted, he coolly looks to the tempestuous, overturning storms’ THIS IS SO JINGYAN I LOVE IT. Just these two lines. It hurts that he is so disappointed. That it sometimes must feel like the corruption is everywhere, and the good must submit and hide or else be eventually ousted. It must taste like ashes… There is a fic I really like that asked in the narration, is there value in 风骨 / conviction? And Xiao Jingyan’s answer is: there is. And that’s just so very him.

I’ll indulge myself for the next bit and just say, I feel like the hint of 赤血长殷 Loyal Blood Runs Forever, the Mei Changsu character song (FAV!!!!) is stronger in this part. Things like: 

且横枪 vs 横长枪 换却离愁 ‘still danced their spears’ vs ‘parting woe traded for leveled spears’

凝尽碧血守四方 vs 倾余生风骨同守 ‘blood of the honourable, thoroughly consecrated, defends the four corners of their homeland’ vs ‘pouring the remainder of our lives and strength into protecting together’

守国土河山定国安邦 vs 守我山河家国依旧 ‘guarding rivers and hills to secure peace of the kingdom’s earth’ vs ‘guarding my kingdom, my home, as before’

They really are very similar people in some ways.

[scripta-elegans]

Old Ironsides

by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

   Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see

   That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

   And burst the cannon’s roar;—

The meteor of the ocean air

   Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood

   Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood

   And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor’s tread,

   Or know the conquered knee;—

The harpies of the shore shall pluck

   The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shattered hulk

   Should sink beneath the wave;

Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

   And there should be her grave;

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

   Set every thread-bare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,—

   The lightning and the gale!

The photo shows my Grandfather, Emil, when he was the young foreman of a steamfitters shop that built and repaired steam locomotives for the Milwaukee Road railroad. "Old Ironsides" was the nickname of the great ship USS Constitution, famous for its role in the War of 1812 and for its indestructibility. Grandpa loved this poem and recited it at every opportunity when requested, even when he was elderly and near death with very advanced Alzheimer's disease.

[versey21]

16th September

Old Ironsides by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr

On this day in 1830, Holmes composed his paen to the USS Constitution, a frigate of the US Navy built in 1797. She saw highly successful action against the Royal Navy in the War of 1812, capturing five British vessels, and served as a US training ship during the American Civil War. She remains in Boston to this day, the oldest commissioned ship afloat in the world.

Source: America’s Navy website

Old Ironsides

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon’s roar; -

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,

Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood

And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor’s tread,

Or know the conquered knee; -

The harpies of the shore shall pluck

The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shattered hulk

Should sink beneath the wave;

Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

And there should be her grave;

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every thread-bare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,

The lightning and the gale!

Despite Holmes’ urging that the Constitution be allowed to sink beneath the waves, she remained in active Navy service until 1880, after which she became a museum ship. Still owned by the USN, her stated continued mission is to educate her visitors on the role of navies in war. She still awaits her retirement…

[lennart11412]

Old Ironsides

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES SR. Ay,

 tear her tattered ensign down!   Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see   That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout,   And burst the cannon’s roar;— The meteor of the ocean air   Shall sweep the clouds no more! Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood   Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o’er the flood   And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor’s tread,   Or know the conquered knee;— The harpies of the shore shall pluck   The eagle of the sea! O, better that her shattered hulk   Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep,   And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag,   Set every thread-bare sail, And give her to the god of storms,—   The lightning and the gale!

[v-thinks-on]

Contact (Between Two Minds)

Part 4 of A Crazy Little Thing Called Love

First | Previous | Next

The captain helped Spock to his feet and for an instant Spock’s hand brushed the captain’s bare skin. In that instant he was inundated with emotion; a stormy gale of concern rushed through the tiniest point of contact, underlain with disorganized thoughts and incomprehensible feelings. Spock was frozen, his eyes wide with the sheer force of the captain’s mind. He shored up his mental shields as quickly as he could, but by then the contact was gone.

Spock found himself suddenly upright and stumbled to regain his footing.

“Spock, are you alright?” the captain asked urgently.

Spock nodded.

The captain smiled at him as though he saw something remarkable in his first officer. His eyes still betrayed concern, but the mission continued as though nothing had happened.

Spock expected the captain to learn from his mistake. The captain undoubtedly knew Vulcans were a telepathic race, and for all of their secrecy, there were rumors that they could detect a person’s thoughts from any physical contact. The truth was more nuanced, but the last thing Spock expected was for the captain to increase the rate of physical contact between them.

Spock often found the captain standing much closer than was strictly necessary to hear about Spock’s latest readings or to ask him for his opinion on a difficult situation. The captain frequently put a friendly hand on Spock’s shoulder for emphasis or to provide comfort, or for no apparent reason at all. Spock could almost feel the captain’s thoughts wafting through his skin, even though there was a layer of cloth between them.

Spock stepped into the captain’s quarters and the door slid shut behind him. Captain James Kirk stood before him, as young and strong as ever. His bare torso left no doubt as to his full recovery from the radiation poisoning.

“Dr. McCoy has declared me fit for duty,” Spock announced without preamble.

The captain smiled, and his eyes seemed to light up with a very human intensity. “It’s good to have you back, Mr. Spock.” He stepped toward his first officer, so there were only a few feet between them.

“And you, Captain,” Spock replied, his expression softened. “I also wish to apologize for subjecting you to a competency hearing. I had no choice-”

Captain Kirk rose a hand to stop him and Spock fell silent.

He put his hand on Spock’s shoulder and squeezed it for emphasis. “You have nothing to apologize for, Spock. I was the one who was out of line. I know you wouldn’t do anything like that without a good reason. I just didn’t like the idea of you taking orders from Commodore Stocker.” He gave Spock a wry smile.

“I assure you, Jim, there is no one else I would rather serve under,” Spock replied, his voice low with an undercurrent of emotion.

“I should hope not,” Jim said with a grin. “Though I suppose you’ll be wanting a command of your own one of these days.”

“Hardly, sir.” Spock almost sounded insulted at the suggestion.

Jim smiled like he had gotten the response he had expected. “Good, because I would hate to lose the best first officer in the fleet.” He gave Spock’s shoulder another squeeze for good measure.

Spock quirked an eyebrow at him as though he suspected flattery, but did not protest. Instead, his lips turned upward in a suggestion of a smile.

Jim’s smile widened and his eyes seemed to shine with a mischievous spark, like he was going to do something brilliant and reckless that was just crazy enough to succeed, but Spock could not begin to fathom what - Jim’s greatest ideas were usually beyond the realm of Vulcan logic.

Jim kept a careful eye on Spock’s face as his hand slowly left Spock’s shoulder, ghosted down his arm, and just barely brushed the back of Spock’s hand. Spock’s shields were up, but he could feel the burst of emotion threatening to overwhelm them. Jim’s intense, meaningful expression seemed to invite him in, to suggest that he should succumb to the intriguing waves of human emotion that rushed out of his captain’s cool skin. Spock could only wonder why, but somehow suspected he already knew.

“Fascinating,” he remarked, because that was the only response he could give.

“There are worse things to be than fascinating,” Jim teased, the contact already broken as quickly as it had been made.

Spock nodded in assent. “You are most fascinating,” he said with the barest trace of a smile.

While transporting up from the surface of a planet, the captain had vanished without a trace. The only answers were negative: no magnetic storms, no ionic interference, no breakdown in equipment.

Dr. McCoy demanded answers and Spock replied, “We shall continue sensor scans, Doctor. At the moment, that is all we can do, except hope for a rational explanation.”

“Hope? I always thought that was a human failing, Mr. Spock,” the doctor taunted.

“True, Doctor. Constant exposure does result in a certain degree of contamination.”

Captain James Kirk materialized in the Enterprise transporter, followed by Lieutenant Uhura and Ensign Chekov. A whole welcoming committee faded into view, Commander Spock at the head. All Jim could do was grin at the sight of his first officer, watching him so intently. Spock’s eyes narrowed in concern as they flitted over Jim’s chest, no doubt taking in the welts and scars from his time on Triskelion.

Dr. Leonard McCoy rushed to the fore before Spock could speak. “Jim! You’re alright!”

“It’s mighty good to see you,” Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott put in.

Bones continued, “I was worried you wouldn’t make it out alive with that crazy plan of yours, but you did it! I guess Spock was right about where you were after all,” he admitted.

Jim nodded and gave Bones a smile. “The other prisoners should be alright too,” he said.

“Let’s get you to sickbay and you can tell me all about it,” Bones declared. He glanced over Jim’s shoulder at Chekov and Uhura, who stepped down from the transporter pad after the captain. “Nurse,” he ordered, “I want to run all scans, make sure there’s no internal damage, and we’ll need to get out the dermal regenerator. These are some nasty welts, Jim.”

Jim held up a hand to stop him. “First, I want a word with my first officer.” He smiled at Spock over Bones’s shoulder.

“Captain,” Spock began to protest.

“I don’t see why you can’t talk to him after,” Bones insisted.

Jim motioned for silence, cutting them both off. “Spock” - he gestured for Spock to follow him out of the transporter room.

Spock obliged, leaving Bones grumbling in their wake.

“Dr. McCoy is correct,” Spock remarked as they strode down the corridor, “It would be most prudent for you to submit to treatment and medical evaluation to ensure that you were not seriously damaged.”

“I’m alright,” Jim dismissed his concern. “This is more important.”

“What is it, Captain?” Spock asked as they stepped into the captain’s quarters.

The door slid shut behind them.

“It’s Jim, we’re not on duty right now,” the captain said. He reached over his shoulder to pull at the harness he had been given on Triskelion. “I don’t suppose you could help me out of this thing.”

“Sir- Jim?” Spock raised a questioning eyebrow at the captain.

Jim stopped struggling with the harness and leaned an arm against the wall so he was angled toward Spock. He paused just to look at his first officer. Spock’s warm brown eyes were darkened with concern, his eyebrows arched in uncertainty at Jim’s intent, all of the tightly controlled emotion fighting to escape.

“How did you do it?” Jim asked at last. He gave his first officer a smile of pure wonder. “How did you find me all the way out here? I was starting to worry I’d never see the Enterprise again.”

“Any transporter, no matter how sophisticated, leaves some form of energy residue. We merely located the anomalous trail and it led us to this system,” Spock replied as efficiently as ever, but the creases on his face told another, more harrowing story.

Jim put a hand on Spock’s shoulder. “That’s another time you’ve saved my life,” Jim said with a grin.

“It is my duty,” Spock said simply, but Jim could almost feel the emotion behind his words.

Jim did not miss how Spock’s eyes wandered over his torso, lingering on the angry red welts, as though he wanted to do something, but could not bring himself to. His hands were locked firmly behind his back.

Jim leaned back a little to give Spock a bit more space, a mischievous smile teasing at his lips.

Spock quirked an uncertain eyebrow at him.

“What was that gesture your parents did?” Jim remarked a little too casually. “Like this” - he held out his right hand, his first two fingers extended toward Spock.

Spock’s eyes widened in open surprise. “Jim,” he nearly whispered, “That is…” he trailed off.

Jim grinned at him. “Only if you want. Regulation clearly states that I can’t give you any orders here.”

Slowly, his hand just barely shaking, Spock extended two fingers and brought them nearly to meet Jim’s so that they were just centimeters apart. He hesitated, and then, very gently, he lowered the tips of his fingers so they brushed against Jim’s. Spock’s skin was warm and the contact sent a jolt down Jim’s spine. Spock’s eyes widened and his cheeks flushed green.

Jim couldn’t have looked away even if he wanted to. His heart hammered in his chest and he could only imagine how Spock’s was racing - it usually beat several times faster than a human’s already. He wondered how clearly Spock could sense his thoughts and feelings and wished he could feel some of Spock’s in return. He wanted to reach out for a kiss or a mind meld - he didn’t know which.

Very slowly, Spock pulled his hand away, though their faces remained mere inches apart. Jim could feel Spock’s breath tickling his cheeks. It took all of Jim’s willpower not to kiss him, but his wide smile would have made it hard to kiss anyone anyway.

“Jim,” Spock began, his voice low.

“Yes, Mr. Spock?” Jim asked.

“It is good to have you back, Captain,” Spock said at last. Despite his even expression, Jim could see every indication of a subtle smile.

Jim grinned back at him. “It’s good to be back and to see you again. Now,” he remarked, stretching a hand over his shoulder again, “I don’t suppose you could help me out of this harness.”

Spock gave a sharp nod and circled around behind him. Spock seemed to hesitate there for a moment, before Jim felt warm fingers against his lower back, working their way under the bottom rung of the harness on either side. The cloth strap dug into Jim’s stomach as Spock slowly eased it up his torso, his fingers trailing along Jim’s side. Jim closed his eyes to savor the contact.

[sitting-on-me-bum]

Shiprock, New Mexico, USA

By Gale Ensign

[therealslimshakespeare]

any buck + maureen thots? obsessed with themmm

Thots?! Oh boy do I ever, pretty anon.

I’m ecstatic to be asked about them. What if I told you I’ve got a 6k word fic already started about them having a bit of a prescribed R & R on one of the pacific islands and Gale needs a horse tranquilizer for the way he about jumps out of his skin at the slightest prospect of being alone with her in paradise. Crucible Au version of them.

Excerpt below: 🌚

“Sea bathing was in doctor Egan’s regimen.” she informed remorselessly before extending a merciful hand to help him up. He was slippery and shiny as an eel coming up and the grip of his hand was as strong as she expected. And still she found it intoxicating, the duality of him as he stood there pouting and bitchy over being cooled off. “Stay right there baby, I’ll get you a towel.” she patted his chest, right where he’d smacked hers, and went inside.

“I’m not your baby.” She heard him holler to her through the door-less porch. “I’m not your baby.” he reiterated vehemently but lower again when she came out with the towel.

“Yes you are.” she argued, “For this week you’re my baby, whether that’s a literal infant or not is your choice -and don’t start arguing, you’ve got to stop it, no one’s making you do a damn thing.” she insisted, hand raised and his mouth closed satisfyingly as a result, “You’ll be my baby. I know you already had a baby, no? Our baby? Shared her with ten other men, that’s generous of you-“

“-Ensign!-“

“-so I’m not gonna be your baby. You’ll be mine and you can find me something else to be for the week.” she watched closely as recognition of her logic began to dawn and settle on him, “I could be anyone. I could be Benny Demarco, for instance. If that’s who you wanna lay next to.”

Gale didn’t speak for a long while, eyes off to the side watching the surf lap at the steps and she was still standing there, holding his unused towel. “Who do you want me to be?” he asked finally and his grave perception just about winded her in its raw honesty.

“You.” she replied honestly, “Whichever version of you made it here with me.”

[nils-larsen]

Historically, the youngest marine captains

According to Nils Larsen, Leon Grabowsky, the youngest ship commander in history, is recognized by the U.S. Navy in its record book. Grabowsky, who was born to Polish immigrants in Paris, France, enrolled at an early age and completed his education at the Naval Academy in Annapolis in 1941. He took part in some of the most important engagements of the war while serving as an ensign on the battleship Arizona. However, his youth did not stop him from taking over the helm of a destroyer.

A family may find the life of a deep sea captain hard. The first female ship captain in the navy, Annabelle Fraser, was the world's youngest ship captain in 1881. A captain of a big multinational ship may find life challenging for his family as well. During a force eight gale, his father's crabbing boat, the Cesca, had to be abandoned. Alexander Moodie, the fiancée of a Maersk officer, finally attained the rank of captain despite the challenges.

John of Gaunt, an Englishman who was just 15 years old at the time and later became a co-owner of the privateer Neptune, was the second-youngest ship commander in history. Newport acquired a portion of the unfortunate ship Neptune, which had taken a Spanish colony, in the middle of the 1590s. His efforts earned him the title of ship's captain in the annals of history.

Nils Larsen described that, two other women are working as bridge officers on the Ferry in addition to McLaughlin. Jim Harkin is a former navy officer, and Sharen Belote joined the Ferry as a sailor. Both received bridge captain promotions following six years of CMLF service. Captain Urban is the fourth woman. No woman has ever had a permanent job in the marine section of the Ferry, despite the fact that several women have been appointed as captains.

Francis William Moore, a different young ship captain in history, was born on January 9, 1853, in Stepney, Scotland. He started his apprenticeship when he was just 24 years old, and two months later received a Master's Certificate. He was the Master of a ship in Willis' fleet when he turned 50. Then, when the Cutty Sark and Coldstream were both docked in New York at the same time, he went on to command two other steam-powered ships.

James Cook discovered techniques that let him sail the oceans more expertly throughout his expeditions. He made use of navigation, astronomy, sophisticated mathematics, and mapping. Cook made an effort to abduct the chief after a conflict with local Hawaiians in the Hawaiian Islands in order to retrieve a stolen cutter from his ship. Cook gained navigational skills throughout Australia's west coast as a result. He became the youngest ship captain in history as a result of his travels.

While J'Varin Riker, Kirk's successor during the TNG era, attained the rank of first officer at age 29, Kirk became the youngest captain in Starfleet history at age 27. However, in the middle of the 24th century, this is not very noteworthy. In a similar spirit, Picard was elevated to the rank while on duty, while the first officer of a Starship at the Academy was also a Captain before his 30th birthday. In a similar vein, Janeway, although not having commanded her first ship until she was 23 when Voyager was commissioned, was a captain by the year 2333.

In addition to Nils Larsen, Wallace's first trip to China was successful, but his second trip was complicated by an English Channel storm. On the third trip, he carried a coal load from Sydney to Shanghai. He got there on October 30, 1878, in Shanghai. Sydney Smith, his first friend, was a bully. John Francis, a third mate who was underqualified and uncooperative, was one crew member. Wallace was in this circumstance and stepped over the stern taffrail, drowning.

In 1803, Commodore Preble assigned Bainbridge command of the brand-new Philadelphia, a squadron of ships outfitted to take on Barbary corsairs. Bainbridge and the Philadelphia went ahead of the rest of the fleet on their inaugural expedition. HMS Java, the first of these ships, was a ship sailing towards the East Indies. It was transporting Bombay's recently elected lieutenant-governor.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Poem # 8650

For thee mortal matchless desire;  she midmost as acres of courself  only the sniff at a winter  of his poets home; Not only thought  Head. what ensign of France. my strike a 

frame. Were rising wood the earth  into myself a gale;  and despite, deere, the pious foot,  after to love;—or a languish, 

we plant herself green, but coming is  dim: but stir thou should be, by for  adore in the witless code, two  of fare; and rare! On the  spoyle is my you art, that blow. By  our lips and to gracefull 

bright that the putting 

or change to the heart.

[jpat82]

The Rescue

Here we go, @kitkatkl want another Bones one shot, and well this turned into more of a Star Trek one shot. lol She asked for 18, 37, & 27. Hope it's up to your liking, it was a bad plan that kind of got away from me. .

​ 18.) can I ask a dumb question? - better then anyone I know.

  37.)  your one insult away from starting a war

27.) I could start fires with the way I feel about you.

     "Captain, we just can't leaving her on that god fore saken planet!" Bones stated, his tone serious as he regarded Kirk with wide eyed shock.

        "Bones, we aren't but we do need to think this through. We just can't beam down there we don't even know what that guy has planned." He stated sharply, knowing how his medical doctor felt about you.

      "I have to agree with the Captain, with out knowing the terrain or what kind of life forms are down on the surface it would be unwise to transport down there." Spock added, as he walked over joining behind Kirk.

      "You both out of your minds, y/n jumped in front of you to save you from being taken by that loon!" Bones exclaimed, taking long strides to Kirk. "If he harms her.."

    Bones swallowed the thought, glaring at both men before turning to go back to the med bay. He didn't want to admit to himself, or to you, how his life had changed since you were assigned to the enterprise. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to find a calm spot as his mind raced.

       The look on your face as the dark hair lithe of man grabbed you before disappearing. The shock, fear, and pain, when he had boarded the ship suddenly, you had darted in the way as he reached out for Kirk. His long fingers wrapping around your elbow before he vanished. Dear god what he could of given to punch him.

***

       "My dear, I must ask, why did you jump in front of your commanding officer?" He asked, looking at you through the bars of the cage you had been locked in.

       "My name is y/n l/n, ensign of the U.S.S. Enterprise." You told him, repeating what you had been trained to do in case an event like this should ever happen. You stared straight a head, ignoring the him. You could feel his cold blue eyes glaring at you as he walked around the cage, his hands clasped behind his back.

      "Go head, pet!" He sneered, grabbing a wicked looking devise from the table in the room. "We will see how cooperative you are, very soon."

****

     "Bones, you need to stay here." Kirk told him as he and Spock both walked up the transporter that Bones was already waiting on.

       "I'd have to disagree with on that one. You're going into a hostile environment, where pain and dismemberment are a real possibility, you could use medical treatment where any delay could mean your certain death." Bones spoke harshly to him, Kirk clench his jaw knowing where this was going. "And as your senior medical doctor it is in my best interest and the interest of this ship to accompany you on this mission."

      "Bones." He was exasperated.

          "Captain, the doctor does have a point." Spock told him, Kirk shot him a glare from under his brow. The three men faced forward, Kirk nodded to Scotty.

        "Beam us down." He told the man.

        "Aye, aye Captain."

        It was cold and dark on this alien planet, large sharp boulders protruded from the ground, snow and ice clung to them. Bones whirled around taking in the foreign sight, as roar from an unknown beast was heard in the distance.

        "Can I ask a dumb question?" Kirk remarked as he scrunched his face up to the blast of Arctic air.

         "Better then anyone I know." Bones mumbled under his breath as the three men make the trek towards what looked like an entrance to a cave.

         "I don't remember the terrain looking like this when we surveyed the planet." Kirk almost yelled above a gale force wind.

        "Captain, it seems as if something must of messed with our systems." Spock stated as they entered.

        "Ya think?" Kirk replied, his voice echoed off the frozen walls.

       "So who do you think this guy is?" Bones asked they continued down the hall way.

       "Does it matter? He all but attacked Star fleet." Kirk snapped, the hall split in two.

       "Our readings said the Ensign is down the left side of this fork." Spock spoke out, the three men looked at each other.

       "I'll get y/n, you two find the blue eyed bastard that grabbed her." Bones stated, already starting down the left side of fork. It didn't take him long, the hall just continued in a straight line before leading to a massive cavern style room.

       You stood in the center with your back to him, your uniform was ripped and torn. Bones heart flipped a beat as he spotted the cuts along your arm.

      "Y/n?" He called out softly, but you just stood there, and slowly looked over your shoulder at him. "We need to hurry, Kirk and Spock went to look the guy that nabbed you. We aren't sure where he is."

Suddenly you spun on your heel, throwing a kick at his head, catching the man off guard. He jumped back, surprise on his face, you struck out at him again. You were a force to be reckoned with as you threw a torrent on punches and kicks at him. He dodged each of your throws, until he saw the opening he grabbed you by your waist and slammed you the ground hard.

  Your head bounced off the ice on impact, slowly you brain filled with your own thoughts. Wildly you looked around, realizing you weren't in the cage anymore and Bones was on you.

      "What? What happened?" You asked, a throbbing in the back of your head.

     "You were kidnapped on the bridge." He replied looking down at you.

      "No, I remember that. I remember being in a cage and frosty the snow man asking me question but why are you on me?" You asked, looking up at him.

     "Uh, I.. you attacked me?" He replied, standing to his feet, he reached out to your hand helping you to your feet.

     "I attacked you?" You grinned, as your head continued to pound. "Wish I could of seen that, Mr. Southern Gentleman, getting attacked by a girl. Let me guess you avoided trying to hit me."

        "Well, I was raised not to hit a lady." He beamed at you recovering from his being tongue tied.

      "Thank goodness that I'm no lady." You chuckled as the two of started down the hall.

     "You sure about that? Cause from where I'm looking." You held up your hand as you reached the fork, looking around the other side. You could hear voices, the voice of the man that had taken you from bridge and the Of the Captain and Spock.

     "Come on, they're going to need our help." You say, grabbing his hand. "Do you have your phaser?"

    "Do I have my phaser? Of course I do." He chuckled, reaching back to double check. Both of your crept down the hall till you reached the other large chamber.

     "You think you are so wise coming to my edge of space? Daring to enter my realm?" His voice boomed, you glanced around the corner, both Spock and Kirk were frozen in place, phasers tossed to the side as the ice man paced in front of them.

      "Your realm? You call this popsicle planet a realm?" Kirk stated, his voice raising a notch. "Trust me, we don't want your winter wonderland."

   "Captain," you say coolly, holding your palm out to Bones as you rounded the corner, walking into the room. Kirk and Spock glanced in your direction as you walked in. "You're one insult away from starting a war. If I were you I would listen to what the man has say."

You played into the fact that your had been brain washed, keeping your eyes on Kirk as you crossed over to the phasers that had been discarded. You stopped as your feet touched one.

  "You see, even one of your own has sided with me." He told them, looking back at his captured men, you looked over at Bones who was hunched behind the wall and gave him a brief nod.

  He sprang out from around the corner, shooting at the frozen wonder as you kicked up the phaser catching it midair. You hurried over the Captain firing repeated into the ice till he was free.

    "Scotty, beam is up!" He yelled into the com unit. Yellow light surrounded the four of you as a beast burst into the room.

  Later you found yourself wandering the halls of the Enterprise, remembering the look of the enormous thing that had nearly caught you all. It's smooth skin and long fangs, you shook the thought from your head as you turned the corner. Bumping into the doctor.

    "Dr. McCoy." You gasped, slightly startled.

      "Y/n, I was just coming to see you." He said, looking down at you.

       "You.. were?" You asked, wondering why he would come find you.

      "Yes, to see how you were doing."

      "Oh." You said defeatedly.

     "I'm fine I guess."

"And to tell you.." he trailed off, you looked up at him meeting his gaze. "I could start fires with the way I feel about you."

@kitkatkl

[uss-edsall]

Aye tear her tattered ensign down Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar;— The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee;— The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea! Oh, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale!

Old Ironsides, a poem written by American writer Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., September 16, 1830, in honour of USS Constitution. At the time there were tentative plans to scrap the ship, one of the original Six Frigates. Startled and enraged by the news after reading an article about the possibility, Holmes wrote this poem in response. His poem not only got published but was distributed throughout the northern states, which swayed public opinion - which earlier hadn’t cared - towards wanting to preserve the ship. Today, USS Constitution is the oldest commissioned ship in the United States Navy. 221 years old and still going strong, ‘Old Ironsides’ continues to sail on.

[werewolves-are-real]

please please share an excerpt of the mutiny on the reliant sequel. if not, something with tharkay? thank you!

I think this is as much as I have in, like, one coherent text. I have lots of snippets and sections that wouldn’t make much sense out of context. (And I have a timeline, which is Exhausting). Unfortunately this bit ends slightly before they meet Tharkay

“…Inconsequence whereof, and in good faith, we seal this pact with alibation offered according to the hallowed ritual of the sea.”

Laurencelifts his glass in a toast as Captain Peura tosses a sizable portionof champagne over the railing. Her women cheer and pound their feetagainst the deck of the nameless ship. Temeraire pushes his snoutfurther over the side of the railing so that everyone wobblesdangerously.

“Laurence,she spoke of so many gods, but you said there is only one god. IsCaptain Peura a heathen?” he asks with great interest.

“No,dear. Well,” Laurence amends, glancing at the woman’s scarred faceas she guzzles from a flask. “…Possibly. But, it is an old ship’stradition. A ship must be unnamed in such a way before taking a newname.”

“Andshe did not want the French name?”

“Ibelieve she simply grew fond of the name of her old vessel,” whichno one will utter until the requisite 24 hours after that unnamingceremony has passed, “that now sails under Captain Jonna,”one of Peura’s previous officers.

WhateverPeura’s reasons, few pirates – now privateers, he reminds himself –turn down an excuse for a celebration.

“I suppose itwould be a bit confusing,even if her ship has changed. I suppose this one is better?”

“Avery nice second-rate, even if it is French.”

Temeraireconsiders this. “She has the best ship by far, Laurence; but youdo not have anything that fightswell. Only the Wenglong, whichhas only a few guns, and you call Pan Zhong ‘captain’ on there.”

“Yes,”Laurence says. “But I have you, my dear.”

Forthe moment, at least, this seems to appease the Celestial.

“Hullo,” Peura’s new FirstLieutenant, Liina, appears by their sides. “Temeraire, Sir, we havea vat of the champagne if you want to try it.”

Temeraire brightens as Laurence looksbetween them with dread. “Oh, what a thoughtful idea!” he cries.

The crew cheers again.

_______________________________

“I daresay the course is as good asany,” Laurence says. “I beg pardon, dear; one moment.”

He leaves to speak to the signalensign, who moments later directs the Petit Moineau to fallfurther back from the Smiling Man. Withhis increased experience Abiodun has been granted full andindependent captaincy of the ex-slave ship, but he retains a closefriendship with Captain Vicario, who temporarily heads one of the twoFrench vessels they took while leaving the Channel. By the agreementunder the Letter of Marque a certain number of profits are due to thestate of Britain – this ship is likely to be part of that offering- but it may be some time before they return properly to home port.

Vicario’sship is a third-rate and good enough; the second-rate was granted toPeura who moved over nearly her entire crew. Since the renamingceremony it has taken on her old ship’s name of the LaskaJoutsen, whereas the Xebec underCaptain Jonna is now called the Peacemaker.

Forsome reason many of the crews found this name funny. Even theChinamen laughed when Temeraire translated the name for them.

Easy capture oftwo French supply ships has left them well in purse for their voyage,those ships being surrendered to a passing English frigate. It issomewhat startling how dependable numbers – and a dragon – canmake matters so easy on the sea, but Laurence knows better than to bearrogant; he has seen dragons backing up ships before, and a group ofeight ships is not so large that they cannot yet be closed in,especially when half their vessels do not rate.

Temeraire callsLaurence over and seems to be inspecting the skies. “I do not knowwhat to think of our course,” the dragon says dubiously. “Shouldwe be sailing yet away from England, Laurence? Have you not said thatall the fighting is in the Channel?”

“Not all of itby any means. Bonaparte is determined to leave his mark on all ofEurope.”

“Well, all thefighting we should care about.”

“It seemsstrange that England has given us a letter of Marque only to tell usthey do not want us near the war,” Laurence concedes, irate at thememory. But perhaps this is best; the aviators, certainly, must stillbe disgruntled that Temeraire has slipped from their grasp. “Thatstill leaves us to decide a course.”

“Have you giventhought to Abiodun’s suggestion of sailing to Cape Horn?” Temeraireasks.

Laurence has; hedismissed the idea nearly as soon as it was suggested. “I amafraid, dear, that it would be approaching May when we came to thosewaters, and that is a dangerous time to be sailing against thewesterlies. We should not tempt a storm.”

Temeraire knowsthe dangers of gales, of course. It was a massive storm that killedRiley, upended the politics of the Reliant and first sparkedthe turn against them. “Very well,” he concedes. “What aboutthe middle of Africa?”

“It would posefewer difficulties, but would also hold little potential – and Iconfess I should indeed like to have some action against the French.”Here Laurence proposes his idea; “I had thought to send Vicario,Abiodun, Jonna, and Araullo down on just such a path. There is littleneed to keep so many ships together, and they may trade with Madeiraalong the way.”

“Oh; but we arebeginning to look so grand,” Temeraire says wistfully, twisting hishead around to regard the sails bobbing at a distance. With amusementLaurence understands that Temeraire is starting to regard the shipsas his own treasures, hoarding creature that he is.

“We willschedule a rendezvous in a few months by the Channel,” he says.This leaves them four ships including the Wenglong.

“But where willwe go, Laurence?”

“I had thoughtto pass through Gibraltar and try the Mediterranean – it is mainlymerchantmen there, but they are not without their own warships todefend the coasts, and there are tensions with the East. France andItaly both have many ships on the water – Italy is ruled now byNapoleon’s siblings.”

“Oh, so we mayget more French ships?” Temeraire looks at their latest prizesspeculatively. “All my crews have dressed much better now that wehave money, Laurence; yes, that will do quite well.” Temeraireruffles his wings officiously, and Laurence has to smile, because itseems the matter is decided.

The ships separatenear the southern end of Portugal. The Wenglong curves east inthe direction of Gibraltar with the Amitié,Laska Joutsen, andNoite Vermelho spreadaround them in formation.

Theycapture a supply ship with almost appalling ease west of Gibraltar;the poor captain and his crew of six lower their colors before theAmitié,the fastest ship, caneven get within firing range. Captain Peura claims the tricoloredflag and says some of her ladies will be able to make dresses fromit; she has a strange look in her eye and Laurence does not ask ifshe is joking.

Asthey approach Gibraltar the LaskaJoutsen seems to lagsignificantly behind even the burdensome Wenglong,which can only bedeliberate, unless Peura is having one of her younger (and,apparently, very inept) officers try a hand at navigation. FinallyLaurence shakes his head and approaches Temeraire by the railing.Temeraire is circling the ships cheerfully in the water, as he does,and perks up when Laurence approaches. “My dear, perhaps we mightvisit Captain Peura – I believe she may appreciate the company.”

Thewomen on the deck nearly fall into the water calling out toTemeraire; officers reign them in only half-heartedly. The disciplineon the decks is entirely dissimilar to that of the Navy, but asefficiency still seems to be suitable Laurence cannot find anyparticular fault in this; he is, after all, no longer inthe Navy.

CaptainPeura stomps out to investigate the ruckus. “Here, now, are youtrying to excite the hands,” she asks without real heat. She doesnot seem surprised to see them and only comes to lean over the rails,scowling at anyone who tries to eavesdrop too blatantly.

“Isthere a problem with the sails, Captain?” Laurence asks.

Peuraglares at him. “No.”

Laurencewaits; nothing else is forthcoming. “It is only,” he says, “Thatyou have been falling somewhat behind - “

“Youcan askquestions outright, you know; I daresay the effort would not killyou.” Peura slaps the rail. “It’s Gibraltar – I’ve told you Ican’t go there, nor my crew. They’ll put me in irons.”

“Theywill not,” Laurence says immediately. “The Letter of Marque gavepardons to all captains in our company.”

“Ha,”Peura says. “The English want you far more than I, and some placestend to interpret such commissions more freely than others.”

“Ifthey try to take you, I promise I shall squash them,” saysTemeraire earnestly.

Peuralooks at him. “Well, now that’sa bit nicer,” sheapproves.

“Temeraire,”Laurence begins, “It is not appropriate to threaten men in HisMajesty’s navy.”

“Ishall not threaten simply anyone,but I shall certainlythreaten those who mean to harm us,” says Temeraire plainly. “Ifthese navy men are sensible, I do not see that there will be anyproblem at all, Laurence. I will just make matters clear to them whenwe go ashore.”

Laurencerubs his neck despairingly.

“…Perhapsthis won’t be so bad at that,” Peura speculates.

______________________________

Theysail to Gibraltar with very little fuss, all told; the arrival cannotbe described the same way.

Gibraltaris manned by two different factions. The port itself is overlooked bythe navy, headed by Admiral Chow; Admiral Portland, of the aviators,has been newly promoted to his position.

Bothgroups react very rapidly to the presence of Laurence’s group, whichin this case is less than flattering.

“Youwill get your supplies and leave,” Chow says. “Pirates are notwelcome here.”

Laurencestares hard at Chow, ignoring the sweat springing into place on hisforehead. The man’s tiny office is sweltering; he has not beenoffered a chair. “As privateers we are here under the warrant ofHis Majesty - “

“Ihave friends who are privateers – they are not deserters, and theydid not compel their men to mutiny!” Even Lieutenant M——-, thelone aviator hovering impatiently behind Chow and waiting for achance to speak, appears vaguely uncomfortable at this bluntness. “Itis a matter of law and lawlessness that separates the pirate from theprivateer – you, Sir, are no servant of the king.”

“Doyou contradict his Majesty’s orders?” Laurence asks.

Atthis Chow reddens. “Do I contradict – ! Now see here…”

Lieutenant M—– clears his throat. “These matters – naval matters – areperhaps not the point of the discussion,” he says. “Mr. Laurence,the Aerial Corps are far more concerned about the dragon that travelswith you, Temeraire. It was not our decision to grant a commissionand send you away, and some things were left unsaid.” He does notsay that the aviators would never have let him leave England with aprime heavy-weight. “You understand we would like to ask you somequestions.”

“Ifyou must, you will have that chance; I will be buying supplies withmy purser and quartermaster tonight, but Temeraire is eager to seethe coverts and meet other dragons.” Laurence looks at the theLieutenant firmly. “Before we return to the sea, of course.”

M——looks like he’s bit into something sour. “Of course,” he echoes.

_____________________________

Laurencesees little evidence of Peura or the crew of the LaskaJoutsen while heundergoes arrangements with the quartermaster ashore, though hethinks he glimpses one or two familiar faces under less-familiardresses and strangely lopsided suits. He does, however, see CaptainFerreira peeking around a shop and whispering to the stall owner.Laurence frowns, excuses himself from his conversation, andapproaches.

Ferreirais speaking in animated French. “Aye, aye, we know what we’re beingabout,” he says. “Tetouan, now, tell those curs to meet us inTetouan or - “ Ferreira stops when he sees Laurence.

“Captain,”Laurence says mildly. “Has there been a change to our itinerary?”

Ferreirashifts; the stall-keeper glances between them and rapidly withdraws.“Well,” Ferreira hedges. “It had just occurred to me, Sir, thatTetouan might make a good port of call, a grandport - “ He gesturesexpansively. The brilliant red sleeves of his coat flap in the wind.

“Ihardly see why, when we are welcome at Gibraltar - “ though that isperhaps something of a strong word. “Do you have… oldacquaintances there?”

Anyoneelse might well flush at the implication; Tetouan is well-known forwelcoming pirates.

ButFerreira of course contradicts all expectations. He nods rapidly.“Ones who will bring us good profits, Captain!”

Laurencesighs slightly. But Tetouan is right in their path, and it does notdo to distrust one’s senior officers – such as they are. Herationalizes that there is little one or two pirate ships could hopeto incur on them, and if any ships made such an effort, well, that iswhat privateers are for.“Very well, then. Wewill set out tomorrow.”

“WithTemeraire?” Ferreira presses.

Laurenceeyes the man narrowly. “…With Temeraire,” he agrees at last.

Fewof the final purchases require his personal attention; Laurence isable to separate from the quartermaster within a few hours and leavesto find Temeraire after receiving word that he is already at thelocal covert. He hopes reception has proven more favorable here thanit did in England.

Hespots Temeraire at a distance when he approaches the covert, like atiny bird on the horizon; the Celestial is surrounded by otherdragons. There are smaller ones, such as Reapers and Bright Coppersand even a veritable flock of grey-coppers and couriers, and also alarge Chequered Nettle slightly larger than Temeraire. They seem tobe talking earnestly, which is heartening to see. Laurence is waylaidbefore he can approach them, however.

“Ibeg your pardon.” It is a child – only a child, and after amoment Laurence realizes the runner seems to be a girl, nonetheless.“I beg your pardon, Sir.” She pauses, clearly confused about theform of address, and then plunges on: “ - The Admiral wishes to seeyou.”

Whichis how Laurence finds himself standing in Admiral Portland’s officeentirely uncertain of his reception. He probably cutssomething of a farcical figure. Captain Peura assures him that mostprivateers dress after the navy, if they can, eschewing only ranks,cords, and 'occasional frivolous bits of frappery’. His coat couldnot quite belong to a navy-captain, but it seems close enough to mockone, and the deep blue seems almost blasphemous standing beforesomeone who is – still – an officer in His Majesty’s service.

“I have had wordabout you,” is how Portland begins. “From England and otherrumors; the Portuguese have had a few things to say of your crew.”

Laurence has noresponse to this, so after a moment he says, “If you have anyinquiries to make, Sir, I shall answer them as best as I may.”

“I do notsuppose you have any intention of changing your mind and joining theservice?”

“That was myoriginal intention, Sir, and I regret that it has been provenimpossible.”

Perhaps his choiceof wording was unwise. “Impossible,” Portland echoes. “ - Iwill not ask what you imply about us, Captain; I daresay I will notlike it.”

Laurence wiselykeeps silent.

Admiral Portlandwatches him narrowly. “I will have no trouble from you,” he says.

“I am of courseat the service of His Majesty,” Laurence says earnestly.

But Portland justsnorts. He leans back in his chair. “Service: well, keep yourdragon away from the coverts and I will be satisfied,” he says,which is a curious request. “He has been causing a fuss, giving thedragons notions of piracy and prizes, and it is not good fordiscipline. Now, get out of my office.”

_____________________________

“Oh, they wereall very excellent and quite polite; but life in the covert seemsquite dull,” is Temeraire’s opinion. “I quite prefer being apirate, Laurence.”

“We are notpirates, my dear. We are privateers.”

“Everyone sayswe are pirates.”

“For many yearspeople said the earth was flat; that does not mean it was true.”

To his relief,Temeraire seems to consider this a sound argument. “That is quitetrue. Laurence, do you wish that things had been different? That wehad gone to England to become proper aviators after all?”

Laurence is quiet.He recalls the little Winchester from the ports – Carver’s talk ofbreeding grounds, and the way Captain Little would not quitelook him in the eye when he asked questions. “…No, my dear,” hesays lowly. “It is perhaps unworthy of me; but sometimes I feelthat we have narrowly avoided a great tragedy by escaping theservice, dearly though England does need us.”

“We shall helpthem anyway,” Temeraire assures. And Laurence sighs, because thiswould be much more reassuring if Temeraire actually cared aboutEngland at all.

They findthemselves in Tetouan at noon that day. Temeraire stays by the port,bobbing among the sea-crafts like some strange mobile ship while afew of the smaller yachts and boats mysteriously vanish. Sailors onthe larger vessels settle for lining the decks to watch himnervously.

Laurence goesinland with Ferreira, who for his part seems to know the place well.The man meets him alone, approaching Temeraire and glancing aroundwarily.

Laurenceunderstands at once.

“The NoiteVermelho is not in port?”

“Oh, Araya isscouting the coast. I don’t trust any of these dogs,” which ishardly reassuring.

“Araya - yourfirst mate?” Laurence recalls.

“Myquartermaster,” Ferreira corrects. Laurence frowns before recallingthat the 'quartermaster’ is the second-in-command on piratingvessels. He shakes his head; the hierarchy of the ships can beconfusing, and Peura and Ferreira, especially, still manage theirships like pirates would.

Ferreira leads himdirectly to a small, somewhat dirty pub not far from the water. Thesalt-stained shirts and hard skin that fills the room makes theclientele readily identifiable – sailors, or more likely piratesbased on their wary gazes and abundance of scars, colorful scarvesand earrings – pirates seem to be even more fond of the last thannormal seamen, for whatever reason.

Ferreira glancesonce over the main room and then gestures to a side-door; Laurenceprecedes him through and finds three men inside a smaller room, allof them sitting around a table.

“Llegatarde,” says the oldest man;his gray beard is worn ragged, and he peers between the two with onlyone good guy. “¿Asi que? Cuéntanospor qué esto es digno de nuestro tiempo, Ferreira.”

Laurenceunderstands 'tarde’ – late – and their seems to be somethingabout a question and 'time’ involved, but he gathers little else. Heglances at Ferreira.

“Ach,”Ferreira says. “See, my Spanish is not so good as it should be; weshould have brought Sala.”

“I daresay hewould not like to be here,” Laurence says honestly, and Ferreiraonly laughs, because Laurence is quite correct.

Ferreira manages afew sentences,though, and the men glance at Laurence himself speculatively.

Aftersome discussion one of the men says, “Asíque es cierto?”

Ferreira seems tounderstand. In response to the man’s question he gestures for aparchment and ink and scratches out a crude black dragon. Under ithe dots four tiny ships in a line

The men visiblyreact and mutter to each other. Laurence is disconcerted. Have otherpeople heard of Temeraire already?

Ferreira jabs atthe ships with his quill and then at the dubious depiction ofTemeraire. He says something and the men look skeptical.

“Theymust be willing to work with the dragon, too,” Ferreira informsLaurence, which is reasonable – except that Ferreira has not yetsaid for what purpose they are talking with these men. Are thepirates to accompany them somewhere, then?

Finallythe old captain nods grudgingly. “Sí, sí, si las ganancias siguen no es ningún problema.”

Ferreirabeams. “Arreglos… más tarde. Contrato. ¿Sí?” They shake.

“Nowto what did you just agree,” asks Laurence, realizing warily thatperhaps he should have put some better limits on Fereira beforehand.

“Theyshall be joining us, Sir!” The pirate cries. “Three good newships – why, Captain Jimenez here even has a stolen fourth-rate.And they know of some good ports and routes up by Turkey; we’ll notbe wanting for power once we set out, I tell you.”

“Wealready were not wanting,” Laurence says, a little dismayed.But when the foreign pirates eye him he only nods stiffly, alreadybeholden to his subordinate’s promise. It is, he supposes, nothing toreally argue; there may be advantages to such an arrangement. Butmore ships present unknown elements, too, and he will need to watchthese men closely.

________________________________

Temerairepeers up above the water as Laurence approaches the Tetouan docks.“Oh, Laurence, there are so many splendid ships here… Are youfinished?”

“Yes.I suppose that if Ferreira has transport we may headback to the ship.”

“Of course…And with not prizes?” Temeraire asks wistfully. He eyes a nearbyship nearly half his size. The crew is already eyeing him nervously.

“No, my dear,but we may have new acquisitions; I will tell you as we fly.”

As he approaches,Laurence regrets that there is no better place for Temeraire amongthe fleet. He is still growing, though surely he must stop soon, andeven on the massive Wenglong he must lay curled in the middleof the ship where the cheerful crewmen clamber over him to attend totheir tasks. Laurence hopes to find a better arrangement at somepoint, but short of claiming a cumbersome dragon-transport he canconceive of few options. Even now, looking around at the ships aroundTetouan, every vessel falls short of even the Wenglong’s width;Gibraltar was quite the same.

As expected,Temeraire approves of the prospect of new men. Their origins concernhim not at all, “Because Peura and our other friends were oncepirates, Laurence, and anyway they seem much better than everyone atGibraltar and all those people who were so terrible on the Reliant,”which to be fair is hard to argue.

The flight back tothe berthed Wenglong is short enough. Temeraire takes his easewalking along the dry land, taking advantage of the rare opportunitywhere he can – though, he complains, land still moves far toooften. Laurence reflects ruefully that he has made a proper sea-beastof the Celestial.

Nunes approachesLaurence while he’s walking with Temeraire. “Captain Ferreira isasking to see you before we leave port, Sir.”

'Again’ he doesnot say; “Captain Ferreira has done quite enough,” Laurencesighs, but he goes anyway.

Laurence findsFerreira near where the new pirating ships are berthed. “Captain!Our new friends have a gift for you, ah, here we are - “ He wavesfor a few men who, grinning, run over with a rolled-up sailcloth.When the men spread it out Laurence can see it is a flag. Hestartles.

“Is that - “

“A dragon! Yourvery own signature – every fleet ought to have one.”

“Every fleet,”Laurence echoes, and then, automatically, “That is very kind, Mr.Ferreira. Please pass on my thanks.”

“We will have itinstalled on your ship straight away,” Ferreira says, and the menare loping off with the cloth before Laurence can protest.

He does not knowthat he could find the words, anyway; the black dragon, andthe four ships, are burned into his mind like a brand.

_____________________________

“Temeraire,”Laurence contemplates. “I believe matters are getting a little outof hand.”

Onlythe peek of Captain Sala’s Tranquilidadisvisible off their bow, but Laurence knows that theman’s four Spanish ships sailsomewhere behind. How the crafty captain recruited them, Laurence cannot say. These tidy ships are not quite up to navalstandards – they sport a dozen carronades each and no propercannons, but Laurence knows that the smaller shots can be deadlyenough. Three sails of unrepentant black cloth are spread out leewardof Ferreira’s ship. “Nohay necesidad de ser sutil cuando estamos jurídica,”one of the captains had said before leaving port, though Laurence isunsure what purpose the black sails are meant to sendwhen one is not pirating.

Altogether theynumber 13 ships – and Laurence forcibly discounts the larger tallythat might be accrued if one considers Captain Abiodun and hiscommand, sailing for Africa. The thought of all these ships dizzieshim. “Whatever do you mean,” Temeraire asks in response to hismusing.

The dragon dipshis head briefly under the water, mindful of Laurence’s position onhis back; they are swimming round the closest ships, as Temeraireoften does, and the crews stop to wave as they go by. “We areamassing an almost absurd force, Temeraire – whyever should we needso many ships at our disposal?”

“Were we nottold to gather forces for England, that we might help them in thewar? And it seems to me that it is a better thing to present agreater force than a lesser, which might risk being defeated.”

“Greater forcesstill demand greater pay, greater supply - “

“Than we willfind a way to supply and pay them,” says Temeraire logically. “Isuppose we must find some excellent prizes; but that should not bedifficult. Just look at how many of us there are!”

That, Laurencedoes not say, is precisely the problem.

He does not holdany qualms, exactly, about commanding a large number of ships. As ayoung officer it is natural to hold certain ambitions, and a positionas a commodore or admiral should follow in any long-standing career. Inten years he might have expected a promotion and command of a fleet;he does not know what to think of the same under these circumstances.The idea sits ill on his shoulders.

Still, he is incommand – like it or not. A week of easy sailing goes past withoutmore than dismal fishing-boats on the horizon. The journey findstheir group approaching Malta, or rather trying to skirt thecontentious island. It is east of here, in the Mediterranean, thatthe watch catches sight of an Italian sail.

And another. Andanother.

One of theofficers busily signals with the other ships, then reports to PanZhong. “Five,” the captain tells Laurence in Mandarin, which isenough.

He gathers, aftera look through a spy-glass, that it’s likely a merchant convoy –armed, almost certainly, and dangerous, but not able to outgun them.“Oh, is it another battle?” Temeraire asks. His tail lasheseagerly. He’s still crouched low to the deck, trying to hide amongthe Wenglong like a hulking shadow, and crewmembers duck underhis oblivious appendages. “We have not battled in weeks.”

“Yes, dear, Ibelieve it is – or will be, if they do not surrender. First Ishould like us to get the ships closer. Even you, Temeraire, cannottake five ships without injury, so we must have them corralledbetween us first.”

Temeraire seems abit disappointed, but he doesn’t protest. With a quick signalFerreira circles west andout of sight; if Laurence cannot see him, the merchants cannoteither. The Tranquilidad continues forward, closing thedistance, but she is only accompanied now by one of her own merchantships.

Seeing only theWenglong – and perhaps in a minute or two, Laurence judges,the Tranquilidad – the little merchant convoy continues cautiously,adjusting their course to skirt the Chinese vessel several miles away. Laurence allowsthis until the first of the merchant ships has nearly crossed themdirectly northward; then Pan Zhong orders the ship into a sharp tack,and they turn about to pursue the merchant vessels as sailors rush toput on every spare inch of sail in the ship’s hold.

The ruse is over,and the merchants start to pick up their own speed borne ofdesperation; Laurence sees men crawling over the sails in thedistance, but not as fast as they should be moving. Most likely, hethinks, the ships are alarmed but a little confused. The Wenglongshould not be able to pose a serious threat to five ships; whytry at all?

Indeed, it seemsone of the merchants – a small —– iswilling to challenge the junk. It turns about without trying to flee.Pan Zhong gives a familiar order; Laurence reflects ruefully that hemay not know any Chinese greetings, but he certainly recognizes theword for 'guns’. “Come, Temeraire,” he says. The Celestial perksup. “I believe it is time.”

He seats himselfastride the Celestial’s neck and wraps his hands around two of thesmall leather bands looping down from the cord around Temeraire’sthroat. One of the younger officers runs up. “Pan Zhong says thatthe Tranquilidad is having a problem with her sail,”Temeraire reports when the Chinese captain pauses them. “She mightbe a little slow.”

“Thank you,”Laurence tells the captain. “Temeraire - “

Temeraire pushesoff the deck with barely a wobble. In the distance the merchant shipimmediately begins to shift and turn; clearly they’re rethinkingtheir chances at the sight of him.

But then, afteranother moment, the other four ships swivel about. Signal-flags flashand Laurence glimpses cannon-ports opening. “Stay above them,” hedirects. “They are aiming for you; go for the one on the end,there, I believe they have the fewest guns - “

Temeraire huffs,evidently offended, but heads for the smaller ship anyway. He ducksaway just as a crack of cannons splits the air; the two cannon-ballssail by, nowhere near to harming him, and then Temeraire wingsfuriously to a higher position as the rest of the broadside rolls outin quick succession.

The endmost shipstarts to tack into the wind in an attempt to show Temeraire itsother side, but the Celestial tilts his wings and dives. With onebrutal lunge Temeraire tangles his feet in the merchantman’s sails,lifts up, and wings away. For a precarious moments they don’t seem tomove. Then the whole ship lurches, rises briefly above the waterline,and with a horrible series of cracks and groans the mast splintersapart. Sailors cry out as the white sailcloth falls to the deck inheavy pieces.

This maiming seemsto make the remaining four ships hesitate. Two bob in place to noeffect, but one fires a warning shot that sinks a useless mile awayfrom Temeraire while another turns toward the Wenglong. Atthat instant the Transquilidad comes over the horizon andTemeraire feints at that ship menacing the Chinese junk. This time heisn’t so fortunate; a stray shot, unbelievably accurate, spirals intothe sky and clips his wing.

Temeraire’s roarhas a queer sound. Laurence chokes and nearly slips, head rattlingwith the force it, and blindly starts to turn toward the dragon’sinjury before he remembers his position and clutches more tightly atthe fragile leather straps keeping him tethered to Temeraire. Heswings dizzily when they zigzag down toward the Wenglong,Temeraire obviously bewildered by his injury and newly wary ofthe ships.

Caution is welland good, but fear helps no one in battle. “Do not let them win,”Laurence says; his voice sounds strange and tinny. “They will pressforward if you appear nervous.”

“Oh, I am not acoward,” Temeraire protests. But he wavers for a moment before,huffing, he swings forward and dives toward the nearby ship.

He takes the mastsfrom this one with great discrimination, ignoring the musket-shottickling his legs to rake repeatedly at the strong triple beams. Hespirals straight into the sky before anyone can turn a cannon morevertical; ships are simply not devised for aerial warfare.

But even maimed,this one seems determined to do damage. Temeraire turns toward thethree remaining vessels, satisfied with his work, when Laurence looksover his shoulder and exclaims, “Temeraire! The Wenglong!”

Barely inrange, the drifting Chinese vessel takes sudden fire. Temeraireresponds by faking another dive toward the closest vessel.

The NoiteVermelho, already visible to them, trails behind and will appearto the other ships shortly. It doesn’t much matter, though. TheTranquilidad’s four accompanying merchant ships have gunsenough to be threatening; the Italian vessels raise their flags oneafter another when they find themselves so clearly outnumbered.

Which is how thefleet gains four more ships –  thoughone is too damaged forpractical use or repair, short of having it somehow towed along. Thatship’s crew are evacuated onto the other vessels, where they watchwith grim eyes as Temeraire batters the ship beneath the waves.

Laurence,resigned, puts the remaining four under Peura’s command when shearrives. The grand Laska Joutsen seems to properly subduethem, though Laurence expects a number of the sailors will need to beput to shore when they make port.

More importantly -

“The hull?”Laurence clarifies. His Mandarin is still too poor for directconversation, and the Chinese woman is starting to look a littleexasperated. He glances at Temeraire for help.

“It has holes,”says the Celestial helpfully. “ - Which is quite bad, I think?”

They flag down thecaptain, after that. But Pan Zhong seems entirely unconcerned.

“He says only asmall part of the ship will sink,” Temeraire translatesdubiously. “No, let me try again - “ They speak further. “ -That is, only part of the ship will take water; I suppose it issectioned very well, under the deck, so damage to one area does notruin the whole ship. That is an excellent notion, Laurence, why dothe other ships not work like that?”

“I will have toinspect their design more thoroughly later, dear.” If what PanZhong says is true than it’s certainly impressive. “They arecertain?”

“ - Mostlycertain.”

Laurence frowns.The weight of a dragon will certainly not help repairs. “Let usmove inland, then – Temeraire, swim alongside the Laska Joutsenfor now, if you please. We will have to find a port of repair.”

But Pan Zhongargues viciously – not that Laurence can understand much of it –and finally Temeraire says, “He says it would be shameful,Laurence, to abandon a Celestial for such a little thing. He doesn’twant to leave the fleet.”

“That is noreason to risk his ship.”

“Well, perhapswe might keep sailing, and go inland if there is a problem? We canstay by the shore.”

It will benecessary to remain near the shore if the Wenglong cannotsupport Temeraire; he can hardly land on any of the other ships. “- As you like,” Laurence says at last. “I will consult withCaptain Sala about likely ports on our way to the bay.”

The convoy makesslower progress after that, though no one seems to be in low spirits.17 ships, Laurence thinks, almost in disbelief. He’s not quite surehow this keeps happening. Britain should be pleased, at least. Thethought cheers him.

Temeraire, who hasearned a well-deserved sleep, suddenly shifts and jerks his headupright after a few hours of sailing within just a few miles of theshore. “Do you hear that?” he demands of Laurence.

Laurence has beenlistening to the increasingly confusing calls of Mandarin beingthrown around the deck; he sighs. “If I did, I did not understand,”he mutters.

“There is adragon,” Temeraire insists. “On the shore! No – two – three –I think one of them is certainly hurt, Laurence.”

“Then it is goodhe is with friends,” Laurence suggests. He knows where this isgoing.

“But you saidthere should be few cities around here,” Temeraire argues. “Whatif they are having trouble flying? We must help – you were sayingonly the other day how very necessary it is to be considerate ofothers.”

That particularconversation had been an attempt to limit Temeraire’s piraticalhabits. “Yes,” Laurence agrees, resigned. “I suppose I did sayso; very well. Pray tell Captain Zhongthat we will be leaving, after all.”

[newingtonnow]

The Peace Movement in Litchfield

By Julie Frey Leone for Connecticut Explored

By the middle of the 19th century, Litchfield had evolved from a bustling commercial center into a pastoral hilltop town. With the closest railroad station seven miles away, industrial efforts had moved to Torrington, Winsted, and Waterbury along the Naugatuck River. The majority of the 3,200 residents ran small agricultural and dairy farms or operated shops along West Street. Old photographs from the time show clapboard buildings along wide dusty roads. The names on many of the shop signs trace back to the founding families of Litchfield.

The Civil War Disrupts the Town’s Tranquility

The peace of this historic community was shattered with the tumultuous start of the Civil War. Residents’ sentiments varied about the war. Some advocated for peace and were quickly labeled “secessioners” or “copperheads,” terms used to label Northerners with pro-Southern sympathies. Their arguments for a peaceful solution to the conflict were anathema to the majority, who quickly denounced any dissenting opinion as unpatriotic and traitorous.

Tempers flared in August 1861 when a white flag symbolizing opposition to the war was spotted hanging outside the home of Andrew Palmer, just north of Litchfield in Goshen. An elected group of five men spoke with Palmer about lowering the flag. Their efforts proved to be in vain, as the flag reappeared the next morning. According to the Litchfield Enquirer, a group of 100 men assembled in front of the Congregational Church in Goshen and marched toward the Palmer property. Palmer removed the flag before the mob arrived. The crowd demanded the flag be turned over but Palmer refused and was arrested. He was taken before a local justice of the peace and signed an oath promising to refrain from flying any more peace flags in the future. To address the problems of war dissent, on September 1, 1861, Governor William Buckingham issued a proclamation outlawing the display of peace flags.

Presentation of Colors to the 19th Connecticut Regiment, Litchfield, September 10, 1862 – Litchfield Historical Society

Peace Convention Disrupted

Less than a year later, a peace convention was organized in Morris (a town that itself had “seceded” from Litchfield in 1859 to form its own government.) A platform was erected on the property of Morris Ensign, and the outspoken peace proponent Reverend Ellis B. Schnabel was scheduled to be the event’s key speaker. The rally was disrupted when Schnabel was arrested on a federal warrant just after he spoke. We learn from a Litchfield soldier’s letter home what became of Schnabel; Alva Stone of Litchfield, who joined the 8th Connecticut Regiment in October 1861, wrote to his wife Lucy on November 17, 1862:

I see by the paper that “Schnable” of “Peace Meeting” notoriety is figuring in the rebel army in Arkansas and so he at least has found his proper place while his audiences are deserting the cause of the rebels and trying to creep back into decent society- What has become of your peace men that used to congregate in your village and hold forth evenings[?]

Townspeople responded by forming the Litchfield Vigilance Committee, which appears to have consisted of rowdy young men who used the veil of the committee to intimidate residents they viewed as unpatriotic. One incident recounted by Esther Thompson, then 10 years old, involved the Palmers (no direct relation to Andrew Palmer), an elderly couple from Litchfield. According to Thompson, Mr. Palmer was an outspoken “copperhead.” One night a group of 40 to 50 men tacked an US flag to the front of the Palmer house and then bullied the Palmers into signing an oath of allegiance.

No One Exempt

Dr. Josiah Gale Beckwith and son, artist unknown, ca. 1845. The respected Litchfield doctor was suspected of providing medical exemptions to drafted soldiers in exchange for money – Litchfield Historical Society

Even the most prominent of Litchfield’s citizens was not free from scrutiny. In an incident that garnered statewide media attention, Dr. Josiah Beckwith, a well-respected medical physician of Litchfield and acting president of the Connecticut State Medical Society, was accused of providing drafted soldiers with medical exemptions from military duty in exchange for money. He answered his accusers in an editorial in the Litchfield Enquirer, stating, “we regard it a solemn and responsible duty which devolves on military surgeons, to muster none but proper men into the Federal Service . . . the reports of Hospital Surgeons and the medical press have shown the disasters which have resulted from mustering men having ‘Hernia, Varcicle, [sic] Heart and Chest diseases.’” Though no criminal charges were brought against Beckwith, his participation in the medical screening of military soldiers was suspended by the United State Surgeon General in August 1862.

Articles in the Litchfield Enquirer, which from June 27, 1861, to February 13, 1862, had closely monitored and denounced the peace movement in the county, suddenly stopped appearing. From then on, the town maintained a united front in favor of the war.

The mythology of the Civil War holds that citizens of the North were uniformly pro-Union. History reveals a different story. While the peace movement in Litchfield may have been short-lived, it provides an important reminder of the disparity in public opinion during the first few turbulent months of the Civil War.

Julie Frey Leone, curator of collections at the Litchfield Historical Society, helped create The Ledger, an on-line, searchable database of the students who attended the Litchfield Law School (1784-1830) and Litchfield Female Academy (1792-1833).

© Connecticut Explored. All rights reserved. This article originally appeared in Connecticut Explored (formerly Hog River Journal) Vol. 9/ No. 2, SPRING 2011.

from Connecticut History | a CTHumanities Project https://connecticuthistory.org/the-peace-movement-in-litchfield/