Ironclad

by Daniel Foster

  The guilt clung to him, but so did the image of the bottle of milk, its beads of moisture glittering in his mind’s eye, catching the first rays of morning sun between the trees. He and Molly had always shared the morning milk. He liked the cream, she didn’t, so they would divide it, and if the baby wasn’t awake yet, they would sit at the table, sipping, talking while the bacon fried quietly. If Garret was very lucky, she would sit in his lap and he would get to hold her for a few minutes before the day began.

  Even though Garret was still half asleep, he tried to push the memory away. The longing it brought burned him worse than the accusing words that came before it. Fortunately, getting rid of the milk memory wasn’t as difficult as usual because a non-dream person was talking to him. Yelling at him, actually.

  Garret came up to his elbows drunkenly, making his hammock swing hard enough to brush Sweet Cheeks’ hammock. Sweet Cheeks grunted, but didn’t stir. Garret made sure not to sit all the way up. He’d rung his chimes on the deck above them more than once. His hammock, like the hammocks of the rest of his division, was slung high enough off the berth deck that a person could bend slightly and walk beneath them. Conversely, that meant that they slept about eighteen inches away from the underside of the deck from which they hung.

  Sweet Cheeks, who was twenty years old, and thereby the venerable sailor of the group, had said that he’d once been in a storm so bad that it had swung his hammock hard enough to slam him into the deck above him. So he’d spent all night having his left side slammed against the upper deck, then his right side, then left then right, left, right, left right. On the other hand, Sweet Cheeks was full of more shit than a Christmas turkey.

  Someone was still yelling at them. It sounded like Chief Dodson.

  Jesus, it never ends, Garret thought.

  Night gun-drills, night fire-drills, night ambulance-drills, night empty-the-ash-chute-drills, night carry-your-buddy-from-one-end-of-the-deck-to-the-other-as-if-his-legs-are-broken drills… There really was no end to their instructors’ deranged imaginations.

  Chief Dodson’s yelling was ramping up to a tirade. Garret squinted at the nearest porthole. It was pitch black outside. He felt like he hadn’t been asleep for more than ten minutes. His back was tight and achy, and the fragments of metal imbedded throughout his torso and legs were hurting him more than usual.

  Several hammocks away, Twitch had already done his signature flip-over-and-drop, and was standing at attention. He had the glassy-eyed look of the severely sleep-deprived.

  Damn it, Twitch, Garret thought. You make us all look bad.

  Bootcamp had done more than just making Garret’s body even harder and skinnier than it already was: duty and obedience had become instinct. Even so, Garret wasn’t as fast as Twitch. Nobody was as fast as Twitch, hence his nickname. Garret climbed down out of his hammock and came stiffly to attention. Sweet Cheeks did the same, nearly falling into Garret before he regained his balance.

  Maybe this is just a nightmare, Garret thought hopefully. Maybe I’m still asleep.

  The electric lights waxed, dashing that hope. Garret squinted and dropped his chin. Electricity was amazing, but he wasn’t quite used to it. Whether in a hearth or an oil lamp or a forge, fire had always lit his life. He was a blacksmith, after all. Nothing more.

  No, now I’m not even that anymore. Garret’s head dipped lower. Molly I’m sorry.

  Around him, the other enlisted boys groaned and cursed softly as they climbed, fell, and flopped out of their hammocks. They struggled to attention. How much sleep had they been allowed in the last few days? Garret was too tired to try to figure it out. It was all blurring together, day after day, drill after drill. This time at least, nobody was piping or bugling or using any other ghastly instrument to shrill them out of sleep.

  Beside him, Garret heard a grouchy old woman mutter, “What new devilry is this?”

  A couple other guys snickered. It wasn’t an old woman of course, but Fishy, who had an assortment of voices for such occasions. The grouchy old woman was most everyone’s favorite, but his imitation of Petty Officer Dodson was pretty good too.

  Speaking of the Devil, Chief Dodson himself stood in the open hatchway, his big belly and his red alcoholic’s nose filling the world in front of him. They had all awakened, climbed down, and come to attention in less than eight seconds, but apparently that wasn’t good enough for him. He whipped out his boatswain’s whistle and blew a shrill blast that cut through Garret’s head like a ripsaw.

  “Bless my biscuits,” groused the old woman.

  Chief Dodson was barking orders before everyone could un-grit their teeth. “Get dressed, grab your ditty boxes and your clothes bags.” He pointed authoritatively at the bulkheads and racks, as if they didn’t know where they’d put their own few belongings.

  “This isn’t a drill, boys!” he barked. “Double time, NOW!”

  Sore, but awake at last, they scrambled. Garret hesitated before he moved. He hadn’t been motivated since the moment he’d arrived at bootcamp. I’m sorry, Molly, he said as he gathered his ditty box under one arm and slung his clothes bag over the other. He made himself say it every day, at least three times.

  Moving in a quick double file, Garret and the other forty-odd enlisted men in his division moved down the dimly lit berth deck and up two sets of ship’s ladders to the main deck. Garret felt a bit better when the open air washed over his face. It stank like Philadelphia, but at least it didn’t stink like the inside of the old protected cruiser, Columbia.

  The call to quarters trilled, and Garret and the rest of starboard watch quickly fell in. So did the port watch, who were just now stumbling and staggering their way up onto the main deck.

  Off to the left stood an officer, a lieutenant by his insignia. He had keen eyes, and a nose so pointy that it looked rodent-like. Garret straightened a little more as the lieutenant strode past their formation, inspecting them with narrowed eyes as if he suspected them of something. He said a few words to Chief Dodson and the other training instructors, then disappeared down the gangplank.

  Dodson wasn’t happy about whatever he’d been told. He alternated between crossing his arms and putting his hands on his hips. The other trainers looked tired and just seemed to want to be done with whatever this was.

  Are we done training? Garret wondered tiredly. We’ve only been out of bootcamp for a couple of weeks. Though really, it kinda felt like forever.

  The old protected cruiser groaned quietly beneath them. Columbia was basically a gargantuan steel hippopotamus. Big, old, and armed with a few pea shooters. Garret was facing the dock to which she was moored. Beyond the dock, dozens of ships in various states of disrepair and refit rose into the night. Masts, smokestacks (“funnels,” they were called), and conning towers filled the night like a fantasy city of impossible architecture. Beneath their superstructure, their hulls were black in the night, slab-like edifices the size of city blocks.

  Around the shipyard, only a rare light was lit, perhaps on the forecastle of a random ship, or dimly through the window of a random building, so overall, the bay was dark and rain-swept, and the war machines slumbered. Garret envied them.

  “Guys,” Fishy muttered solemnly, and much too close to Chief Dodson. “I think this is our last night on the USS Floating Turd.”

  “McClatchey!” Chief Dodson yelled. “Drop and give me twenty! Make it thirty, just in case I never see your flat face again.”

  Fishy dropped his bag and box and hit the deck. Garret heard a quiet movement behind him and knew Fishy’s little brother Theo had also dropped, not understanding that the command wasn’t meant for him. Theo had heard his last name and an order to do pushups. That would be all he would have gathered. Any of the other chiefs, and even the bootcamp instructors would have stopped Theo. Dodson wouldn’t. It made Garret angry. Theo worked harder during drills than any of the rest of them, slow but steady, his lips set with determination. He was a great kid. People like
that shouldn’t be mistreated.

  “Not you, Minnow,” somebody whispered to Theo.

  Floyd, whose personality had so far defied a nickname, muttered back, “I’ll bet they’re going to make us throw our stuff overboard and then make us jump in and get it.” His Bostonian accent made everything he said, even when he was tired and crabby, sound like a real possibility.

  The potential of having to jump overboard woke Garret up a little bit more. He peered cautiously at the dark bay in which the silent rows of ships lay. It was a long fall off of Columbia’s main deck, better than twenty feet to the water. He could hear it lapping gently, far beneath them. The old ship groaned again.

  “Are we going somewhere, Chief?” Fishy dared to ask as he pistoned up and down off the deck.

  “An early grave if I’m lucky,” Dodson snapped. He wasn’t kidding. Even Fishy looked down at that. To Garret’s right, Curtis shifted his imposing bulk uncomfortably.

  Why does the Chief hate us? Garret hung his head. Theo and Fishy and Twitch and all the rest don’t deserve that. Just then it started raining, of course.

  W

  The raindrops drummed on the decks of the ships and pattered on the water in the bay. Garret and the rest of his division trooped down the gangplank, double time. They had their clothes bags slung over one shoulder and their ditty boxes under the other arm. Their uniforms were soaked.

  Fishy had been right, they were leaving. It was the most relieving thing that had happened in recent memory. “Hey Lover Boy,” somebody whispered. “Think this is our first assignment?” Garret drew a breath to answer, but as he did so, someone tripped, falling into little Theo, who was walking abreast of Garret. Theo’s hat, or his “cover,” as Garret was finally used to calling it, went flying. Garret reached for Theo, but Garret’s arms were loaded, so he did little more than snag Theo’s sleeve on the way by.

  Theo hit hard, losing his clothes bag and ditty box, which flipped off the edge of the plank. Theo let out a cry as it tumbled.

  The picture of his Ma! Garret thought. Garret was falling towards the water before he realized he’d leaped from the gangplank. Theo’s ditty box had already splashed down, and because Garret hadn’t bothered to look or think before he leaped, he was going to land directly on top of the box’s ripples.

  He hit the water feet first, jamming his right big toe against the box, which, being made of lightweight wood and being full of air, had almost stopped when it hit the water. He felt wood break under his toe, so while he grimaced and flailed, the box waterlogged and sank.

  Garret sank fast too, so he took the opportunity to turn himself head-down. He caught sight of the edge of the broken box just as it vanished into the gloom beneath him. Prior to coming to Philadelphia, Garret had lived his life in the mountains. There weren’t any lakes around, and the river was often swift, so Garret had never learned to swim as a kid. He’d had no choice but to get the basic idea of swimming in bootcamp, but he’d never been swimming at night. All he could see was dark liquid, everywhere. It was disorienting. He swam downward, turning this way and that, hoping to catch another glimpse of Theo’s ditty box.

  There. Garret caught sight of a rectangular corner that looked lighter than the surrounding murk. He swam down towards it. No wait, that’s the surface. What he’d thought was a corner was actually a reflection off of something above the water. Somehow, he’d gotten turned around.

  So he turned around again and tried to swim down. His clothes dogged him, making his movements ineffective. His lungs began to ache. He swam into the blackness.

  I’m not making any progress.

  He kept stroking. His lungs were hurting.

  I’ve got to turn around. He was swimming down at an angle, so he tried to turn that angle around 180 degrees to swim for the surface. He swam and swam. The water got cold.

  His lungs burned. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. The surface should be right there.

  His arms were weakening. The need to breathe was becoming desperate. The water got colder.

  Almost there! The panic had set in, he was out of air, and his head was starting to spin. He reached out with weak, frantic arms to pull the last stroke to the surface. His left hand touched the corner of something, and his right hand struck soft silt. He’d hit the bottom.

  A full minute later, Garret lay on his side on the wonderfully solid dock, coughing up the Delaware River. A few guys crouched around him. Theo, his round face white with fright, had a hand on Garret’s side. Curtis, who’d pulled Garret out, was kneeling beside him with a ham-like hand on his shoulder.

  Garret closed his eyes. Thank God for Curtis. Garret would have preferred to say it aloud, but at the moment, he had too much of the Delaware River up his nose. Curtis was the biggest guy in their division, an ox-sized farm boy who should have been in the army, not the navy. He had a nickname, but nobody had dared use it since the first week of bootcamp.

  Curtis, who now had river muck ground into his uniform, patted Garret’s shoulder hard enough to bruise him, then stood and went to retrieve his own belongings. He muttered something at Garret under his breath as he turned, but Garret couldn’t hear it over Chief Dodson, who had bent his crotchety old self all the way over so he could yell directly into Garret’s face.

  “Congratulations, seaman! In twenty-five years of training, you are officially the stupidest kid I’ve ever met! If you ever pull a stunt like that again…”

  Garret sat up, tried not to listen, and pulled another ragged breath.

  “What the hell are you all still doing here?” Dodson yelled at the others who’d stopped to make sure Garret was okay. “You have your orders, get out of my sight!”

  Garret got shakily to his feet. Theo held out Garret’s ditty box and clothes bag. He had brought them down to the dock. Garret took them.

  “Are you okay?” Theo asked. He rarely said anything, and his voice was always soft. Garret nodded, but couldn’t meet Theo’s eye.

  Dodson was still yelling at him. “If you’d done that two minutes earlier while you were still under my command, I’d have made sure they sent you home for good!”

  Upon hearing that simple remark, Garret became swamped in his own inner misery again. Can’t go home, he thought. Can’t ever go home. So he started walking after his division. His first few steps were unsteady, but he followed the line of navy covers and neckerchiefs. Apparently they’d been reassigned, but Garret didn’t know where they were going. He hadn’t heard the orders because he’d been trying to drown himself at the time. Wherever they were headed, it was away from Chief Dodson, and for the moment, that would have to be good enough.

  W

  They trudged through the rain. Garret gave no thought to their destination. For him, that was the best part of the Navy—he didn’t have to think. He could just follow orders blindly and let the world’s craziness work itself out. Or not. Whatever. He was trying to shake the misery, but sometimes it held on tight. This was one of those times. Before they’d walked a hundred yards, he’d sunk so deep that positivity had fled him completely.

  Ma and Pa are dead, and I think Molly might hate me. Maybe that’s why she never answers my letters. And our baby, I wonder how big he is now…

  The thought of his infant son brought such a wash of guilt that it nauseated him. He mentally fled from the thought before he threw up. Someone was gripping his arm. It was Theo: small build, round, soft-featured face, worried eyes. He reminded Garret of Sarn for some reason, even though the two boys couldn’t be more different. Garret nodded, gave Theo a weak smile, and picked up his pace to catch up with their division. Theo stayed close. They caught up with the stragglers and slowed down to pace.

  Theo was fifteen, the youngest in their division, but he looked like he was twelve. Most of the rest were around Garret’s age of seventeen. The only notable exceptions were Sweet Cheeks and Twitch. But then, they seemed to be the exception to everything: rules, expected knowledge, even temperament. S
weet Cheeks and Twitch had known one another for a long time, that much was clear, though neither of them would talk about when or how they had met, or how they’d ended up back in bootcamp again. They acted more like brothers than friends.

  For Garret and the other guys, it had become a game, trying to pry information out of Twitch and Sweet Cheeks about their previous assignments. The game wasn’t much fun, though. In two months of wheedling, tricking, and prying, they hadn’t managed to worm a tidbit out of them. Twitch and Sweet Cheeks’ silence on the matter was almost eerie. Then, Fishy had heard a rumor that Twitch and Sweet Cheeks had another friend, possibly more than one, who was killed on their last assignment. Curtis put an end to their information game right then and there. No one objected.

  Garret and Theo tromped onward, following the column of bedraggled sailors. The rain seemed content to continue pelting them. The clouds had weight and they weren’t moving, so the bad weather was probably going to stay the night. Garret gazed ahead drearily at the rows of white uniforms and covers, trudging through the downpour in front of him. The ragged bulk of a partially disassembled battleship loomed up to their right, but whoever was leading the pack turned away from it, off the dock and into the grass. They all followed like sheep.

  “Hey Lover Boy!” someone called back at Garret. The voice was happy and had an Alabama drawl that made Pennsylvanians raise an eyebrow. It was Pun’kin.

  “You know only Fishy can breathe water, right? What with ‘is gills and all.” Pun’kin guffawed at his own bad, poorly-timed joke, which had apparently taken him the last five minutes to put together.

  “Fins, Ernest,” Sweet Cheeks corrected, too weary to use Pun’kin’s nickname. “We call him Fishy because he has fins.”

  Pun’kin got quiet. Garret could hear him thinking from fifty feet behind. Pun’kin whispered, but everyone heard him, “He don’t really have fins, does he?”

  “Just one long one,” Fishy sang out, somewhere ahead in the dark. “But it works more like a rudder.”