Wellington99

A Bittersweet Symphony - The Tale of Manchester and Captain Falshaw

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Chapter 1 - Stand Before the Storm


November 25 1940 14:05, log of VADM L. E. Holland - Operation Collar's convoy rounding Gibraltar carrying 1370 RAF technicians, HMS Manchester and Southampton escorting the merchant ships SS New Zealand Star, SS Clan Forbes and SS Clan Fraser with Force F. Fair weather and fair seas, and no fighting God willing. No movement reported by Force H's scouts.

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This wasn't what I had in mind when I think about going on a Mediterranean cruise, John Falshaw mused as yet another man gave up his lunch to the ocean. The Yorkshireman shook his head at the sight and turned his gaze over to the ocean. As much grief he gave those RAF blokes, he too was feeling a bit queasy as HMS Manchester gently rolled along the waves, and anything to take his mind off of it was welcomed. It was hard to believe that he, a former sniper in the Duke of Wellingtons Regiment during the Great War, was now lumped in with these pseudo-fly boys en route to Malta and Alexandria to tune up Hurricanes and Spitfires. Then again, they didn't really have much that an old war dog such as himself could do.

His left knee began to ache as he started to move himself from the side railing and along the side of the warship, reminding him of the Jerry bastard that got him at Passchendaele. It was a different time back then, and remembering it brought forth a heavy sigh. He had been another one of those bright eyed youngsters who at 16 lied about his age to go off to war almost as soon as it had been declared. It didn't take long for the romantic visage to become replaced with the horror that was reality. The first battle he had ever been in had taken four of his best mates in a single artillery shell, and his second resulted in another two choking to death on poison gas. His older brother (by three years) got tangled up in barbed wire at the Somme, an easy target for the German machine guns that cut him to bloody shreds, and his youngest (by only a year) impaled by another's bayonet while he was recovering in hospital. By war's end he had seen every conceivable way a man could die on the battlefield, and he was none too excited for another Great War.

Which was why, in an ironic twist, he was now once again in the military in a new world war, only this time he hedged his bets to make sure he would never serve on the front lines again. Getting work during the Depression was hard, but he managed to do well in a machinists job, well enough that when he applied to become a Royal Air Force technician they took him on the spot. Granted it was probably out of necessity than anything. He had little experience with the planes before he and the nearly 1400 others were stowed on board HMS Manchester and Southampton, so he had been trying to read up on manuals on the voyage, something that he ended up tossing aside. He was the type to learn as he worked, rather than to be straight taught what to do, and the manuals only served to alleviate boredom.

Stopping for a moment for a quick smoke, John looked across the water to HMS Southampton, and noted the figure standing on the foredeck with mild amusement. It was unusual to have a woman on board a vessel unless they were being transported someplace, but this girl wasnt a normal woman. She was, as they called themselves, a Belle, a physical manifestation of a warship that protects the world from the Morganas, a group of seemingly demonic forces that want nothing more than to wipe out humanity. The Belles choose their captains with no discernible criteria, no matter what they are or where theyre from. There was even tale of a female American Belle captain, and of a German Belle going off with a Russian. Fortunately, Southampton's Belle stayed to her mother country so there was no fear of some foreigner getting their hands on one of His Majesty's ships. The captain was also a rather unsurprising pick, a Lieutenant who was on board for a training exercise when the Morgana fog rolled in. From this distance, John was only able to make out Southamptons white sun hat, though he was sure the daintily appearing Belle was enjoying herself in the sun. Funny how she would probably be better suited as the Belle for HMS Brighton, but that ship hadn't manifested a Belle yet, and she at least was a good enough representative of Southampton itself.

Just as he finished his cigarette, tossing the butt into the sea, he looked up only to see Southampton's Belle rigid and staring to the east. Something caught her attention, something that snapped her from her usual cheery disposition, and that wasn't easy to do. Following where she was looking, he found himself gazing at a fog bank. It wasn't close by any stretch of the imagination, but from what the sailors told them, when there's fog, there's almost certainly a Morgana. It didn't take long for the ships to turn towards the south to try and avoid contact. With all these extra bodies on board, the two Town-class cruisers weren't at peak combat efficiency; the best tactic was to avoid conflict as much as possible. It was left to Force H to deal with any such threats. Heading back inside the warship, John took one last look towards the fog bank and thought he could see lightning coming from inside. Morgana or not, a storm wouldn't do well for Force F, and with any luck they would avoid it. Hoping for the best case scenario, he went down into HMS Manchester and to his bunk to see about trying to understand those damned manuals.

Nearly an hour passed before the ship lurched, nearly tossing Falshaw out of his bunk in the process. "What the-" he grumbled as he tossed aside the manual he had been reading (rather using as a cover over his eyes so he could take a nap). He groaned as his knee shot with pain, getting down with a short leap. Those bloody sailors are trying to kill me, I just know it.

Several other technicians were wondering what was going on, some trying to look out of port holes and others like John scrambling to the deck. As soon as he had made it back on to the foredeck, the fog bank had now nearly closed the distance. From what he could tell, it was well out of sniping distance but for ships it was right in the sweet spot. Again he saw lightning coming from within, except this time he could hear thunder, followed by a whistling sound. The water next to him erupted into a column, making him jump. It was a warship alright in there, a small fleet of Morganas. The thing was though, only a scant few shells landed around them, and they seemed to be deliberately aimed so they wouldn't hit. Most shots were being fired at targets within the fog, and it was unclear who. Another British convoy? A supply train? A group of Belles from Force H out of position?

Things were slowly clicking into place for the former sergeant as the warships steamed towards the thunderous fog. The lurching was probably Manchester turning to avoid a shell and towards the fog, and the shells missing around them were probably to get the attention of the British force. At this point running away wasn't an option, so the two cruisers along with the rest of Force F were forced into combat. He just hoped that whatever happened, he'd stick to his plan of being as far from the front line if possible. Maybe the Morganas would be sunk before they arrived on the scene. In any case, he wasnt going to stick around on deck waiting to be shot at. He was going to head back down and wait this skirmish ou-

"Oh no you dont!"

A hand suddenly grabbed the back of his RAF jacket and began to yank him out. "You need to get onto the bridge, mate."

John was spun around, and was looking right into a young womans face. "We need you, Captain."

Oh, you've got to be kidding me


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Well here is my foray into Victory Belles fanfiction courtesy of YuriMom. The next chapter will have more dialogue as this was more for setting the scene and getting the ball rolling. Let me know what you think. I decided to end there because it was a decent enough spot to do so, otherwise I would have carried on for longer

 

(chapter 2)

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If the Like This worked for meh I would like it. Also added to the index.

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Chapter 2 - Stand By Me

 

November 25 1940 15:23, log of VADM L. E. Holland - Force F beginning engagement with Morgana ships, sending light cruisers Southampton and Manchester to skirmish while destroyers continue to protect merchant ships. Force H closing in on position.

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There are a few dignified ways to make your way through a ship. Being dragged by a Belle by the back of your jacket isn’t one such way. It wasn’t that he wasn’t trying to get away from the grip, far from it. The thing was, the girl’s ironclad grasp made him like a fish out of water. “You know, most people are mad fer captaining a Belle.” Manchester scolded. “Show a bit of gumption, won’t ya?”

 

“Who told you that rubbish?” John earned a hard pull for that, nearly making him trip through a doorway.

 

“South’ampton told me. Her cap’n was chuffed to be ‘ers.”

 

“She’s a dainty little thing.”

 

“And I’m not?”

 

He was half tempted to answer back, but he held his tongue. The firecracker’s other hand was wrapped firmly around a cricket bat. How in bloody hell she had one was beyond him, but he did not want to test her swing. He shut up for the rest of the way through the vessel, turning his attention to the Belle he was now the “proud” captain of. He had to admit, for as fearsome as she could be, she had a rather pretty face free of freckles and other such blemishes. Matching in beauty were her eyes which were a sort of sapphire, contrasting quite nicely with the dark red, almost burgundy-colored hair. Not much of it stuck out from under her flat cap, and weren’t it for the fact her chest stuck out a decent ways and had a shapely rump, she might’ve been mistaken for a newsboy. She was also rather shorter than him. He had thought himself small at just shy of 5’5”, but she was a good three or four inches shorter.

 

The Yorkshireman could only assume they were nearing the bridge, as Manchester loosened her hold on him and stopped. Finally able to take a breather, he straightened up his technician uniform and brought out a cigarette. “You done?” He asked, annoyed at his treatment.

 

“That depends on you, mate.” The Belle crossed her arms and glared at him. “I didn’t just randomly choose you out of my ‘at. I felt you on board. I felt you since you first set foot on my deck.”

 

“Oh thanks for that mental image of you feeling me up.”

 

“Quit your skriking and listen, alright?”

 

Her hands tightened around the handle of the cricket bat as she became flustered. “Look, ok, fine. I get it. It’s a surprise an’ all. I can understand that. But there’s Morgana out there that need killing and we’re ‘eddin’ for ‘em. Now are you gonna pull your pants up or are you going to continue to winge?”

 

Taking a deep drag of his cigarette, John stared right into her sapphire eyes. “I’ve seen more than my fair share of death and carnage. I wanted as far away from war as I could possibly get while still serving King and Country. This was the last thing that I wanted to happen to me.”

 

As he spoke, he seemed to feel his resentment at his treatment being slowly lifted the longer he looked at her, the more he was in her presence. He could feel himself becoming more confident, and deep within his gut he could tell that he already made a choice as soon as she first laid her hands on him.

 

“Oh bloody hell…” He tossed the half smoked cigarette to the ground. “Alright... I’ll be your captain. Don’t have any choice in the matter anyways, might as well accept the facts.”

 

The last thing he had expected was for this tough tomboy to nearly tear up and wrap her arms around his neck, nearly sending him to the floor. His arms instinctively went around her as she hugged him. “Oh thank you, thank you! You won’t regret it!” Her voice wavering from her initial roughness to vulnerability. “I’m a proper mint Belle, I am. Just you wait an’ see!”

 

For the first time in his life, he felt genuinely sorry for someone. He wasn’t sure if it was how bitter he was sounding, but he wanted to punch himself for upsetting such a pretty young woman who wanted to do her best. He well and truly pitied the poor girl. When she finally pulled away, she quickly wiped her eyes and cleared her throat, attempting to regain composure. “I-I’m sorry. Just a little overwhelmed is all.”

 

“I figured.” He managed a small chuckle which seemed to help settle her down. The two stood there looking at each other, seemingly sizing the other up and trying to become calm before the inevitable storm. “Well...shall we take the bridge?”

 

A cocky smile adorned Manchester’s face. “Aye, cap’n. Lead on.”

 

-

 

“So where is the sodding Belle? Without her we’re just pissing about in the wind.”

 

“I admire your honesty, Mister Danton,” The more elderly man narrowed his eyes at the other. “But there is no need to get so mithered. She is more than likely finding her way up here.”

 

“She had better be, or else we will be joining the submarine corps, and not of our own volition.”

 

“Sir, reports from Southampton coming in.” A young radio op called over. “She’s already at general quarters and awaiting her sister.”

 

The scene on the bridge was actually not as chaotic as John had first thought it would be. Everyone seemed to be reasonably calm and at their appropriate stations with minor exception. Probably what came from centuries of training and heritage. Regardless, there wasn’t much they all could do what with Manchester in control. Speaking of the girl, her ears perked up on mention of her sister and moved towards the two senior officers. “South’ampton’s waiting for me?” She asked. Heads turned towards her, throats were cleared, and the elder officer put on a small friendly smile.

 

“Aye she is, Manchester.” He gestured towards Falshaw. “Am I to assume this is your captain?”

 

“Oh bloody hell, he’s a ruddy crabfat.” Danton swore. A stern glare came his way.

 

“If it’s all the same,” John spoke up. “I’m only a technician as of two months ago. I was a sniper in the Dukes.”

 

“With all due respect, Admiral, this man has no place being the commander of one of His Majesty’s warshi-”

 

“Captain Danton.” The admiral turned his head sharply, interrupting the impending rant. “With all due respect, you are no longer captain of this vessel. Our good fellow over there is. If you wish to debate naval politics with me, you are free to do so, sir, once we have made it into safe anchorage. Until then you are subject to his orders as well as mine, and you shall start by removing yourself from the bridge for the duration of the combat. Is that understood?”

 

Exasperated, Captain Danton’s shoulders sagged as he let out a loud sigh. “Yes, Admiral Holland.”

 

The captain spun on his heel and marched off of the bridge, right past Manchester and John. The tension in the air was rather thick. “What’s your name, son?”

 

John blinked, the question catching him off guard. “Ah, John Falshaw, sir.”

 

“Well, Captain Falshaw, I am Vice Admiral Lancelot Holland,” The older man seemed to relax. “And it appears you have commandeered my flagship.”

 

“My apologies, sir.”

 

“No need to kiss arse, captain. I’m sure the Admiralty will be all too happy to give me another assignment. For now, there is quite a daunting task laid in front of you.”

 

“That there is.”

 

The newly minted Captain Falshaw slowly approached the vice admiral, Manchester by his side. “I’ve never commanded a ship before, let alone a Belle. I don’t know what to do.”

 

A curt yet friendly laugh came from Admiral Holland. “I believe I have that advantage over you, yes, but I was holed up at HMS Excellent during the Great War while you have actual combat experience. That is something where you outrank me.”

 

“Sir?”

 

Vice Admiral Holland’s tired blue eyes looked over at John. “Jack, there is a battle out there that needs to be won. I’m no stranger to being a teacher. Hell, I’m quite the gunnery specialist if I do say so myself. So use me if you need me, but remember that I still outrank you.”

 

John nodded. “Aye aye, admiral.”

 

“Now, shall we beat to quarters, captain?”

 

“I think we should, sir.”

 

“Very well, Captain Falshaw. The ship is yours.”

 

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(crabfat - RAF personnel)

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An awesome chapter. I can't wait for the next one! Keep up the amazing work.

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Agree with Pill. Interested to see how her "voice" develops.

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Agree with Pill. Interested to see how her "voice" develops.

 

When I get to more areas when I can do more dialogue, should be interesting. I also couldn't help myself and put in a reference to your story since it was what inspired me to write this

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Just a little note before I begin that I am not the best at battle scenes. Hopefully the more I write them, the better I'll become. I usually prefer to focus on characters than action, but gotta get out of my comfort zone now and then, otherwise I don't grow as a writer. Anyways, hope y'all enjoy

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Chapter 3 - Crashing Steel, Raging Fury

 

November 25 1940 15:50, log of VADM L. E. Holland - HMS Manchester closing into engagement distance of Morgana fleet. Her Belle arrived on bridge along with her captain. Captain Danton was ordered from bridge as a result of voicing his dislike of the new Captain, and turned over command to Captain Falshaw.

 

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John could remember the organized chaos of preparing to go over the top. He could easily recall every shouted order, every scared and stern face, and how tense the atmosphere became while awaiting the dreaded whistle. These scenes of young dirty men wanting no more than to survive the impending ordeal came flooding back as HMS Manchester became alive with the swarming of crew to battle stations. His body became rigid while he looked out towards the fog, gazing at the thunder and lightning of guns blazing from within. It seemed like the battle had picked up as soon as he took command of Manchester. He could feel the mentioned Belle’s eyes on him. “I’m alright, Manchester.” He said to her. “Just gotta get used to this feeling again.”

 

“What feeling is that?” She asked. He mentally chuckled as he could picture her cocking her head.

 

“Trepidation in the face of death. You never get over it, only to learn to live with constant fear.”

 

The new captain could swear he could feel his back become weighted down by his old pack and gear, his hands flexing as they tried to grab tight hold of an invisible Enfield rifle. In this moment, he was once again the soldier he used to be, but this time he wasn’t wallowing in a pit of rain, mud, and despair. This time, he was at the helm of a warship, and responsible for the lives of the thousands of sailors on board.

 

“Manchester,” John began. “What’s your armament like?”

 

The Belle grew a confident grin. “I got four triple 6-inch main guns, four dual 4-inch secondaries, eight .5-inch machine guns, and two triple 21-inch torpedo launchers. I can work wonders on enemy destroyers.”

 

“You know your ranges?”

 

“Aye, by heart.”

 

He looked over to his side and picked up a lone pair of binoculars, using it to observe the fog. “Shapes coming out.” He muttered. Just as he did, the lookout called out.

 

“Vessels exiting the fog, Cap’n!”

 

Next to him, he sensed Admiral Holland grabbing his own binoculars and heard the old man hiss. “Corruption-class destroyers. And there’s four of the buggers.”

 

Corruption, eh?”

 

“One of a few we got identified. Got a mean streak about Belles that runs miles long and they repair using battlefield debris.”

 

It was fairly obvious to see, as the hulls of the destroyers were seemingly a hodgepodge of different ships of different nations, something that added to the unsettling sight. Taking a deep breath, John hatched a plan and turned to his Belle. “Manchester, we can take them on easier one on one. Fire on whichever one you like the look of to draw them specifically towards us, then concentrate. Tell Southampton to fire at whichever takes her fancy. We’ll turn the odds in our favor.”

 

An energetic smirk grew across her face. “With absolute pleasure, Cap’n!”

 

With a loud and echoey “thwump”, the two forward turrets flung 6-inch shells towards the closest Morgana. Four of them created large columns of water, but two hit home. He could see the small explosions of HE shells impacting on the thinly armored vessel, and it seemed to get its attention. One Corruption-class peeled off from the pack, charging right towards Manchester and returning fire with its smaller 5-inch batteries. These smaller shells fell short, but it was only a matter of time before they got range and before torpedoes would be in the water. Another salvo went out, more accurate this time. The flashing of burning amatol raked across the bow of the destroyer.

 

A few small calibre shells made contact with Manchester, and Captain Falshaw could hear the Belle let out a grunt. “Bloody mozzy bites is all.” She turned the ship sharply to starboard away from Southampton, crossing the Morgana’s T in the process. “Lemme show ya real firepower!”

 

The ship shuddered as all of her 6-inch guns opened up on this sole destroyer, and the damage this time was startling. A large detonation from one of the sids tore up a large chunk of metal, while the bridge seemed to burst into flames. “You got one of her torpedo tubes!” Holland called out.

 

“Keep on her, Manchester!” John yelled, knowing he didn’t have to tell her twice. More 5-inch shells impacted against the cruiser’s thicker hide, aimed more towards the secondary guns.

 

“Lost four boys to that one, Cap’n!” She seemed to take it quite personally. “Take this!”

 

Another broadside slammed into the destroyer, followed by secondary gunfire. There didn’t seem to be any place not aflame, and soon the oncoming ship slowed down. One more volley into the Corruption-class sealed its fate, as it tore open holes along the waterline and immediately began to list to her port side. Manchester let out a yelp of victory, and pumped her fist into the air.

 

“Yeah! Take that ya bloody Morgana cu-!”

 

“Torpedoes in the water!” A lookout cut off the Belle.

 

“Go! Go! Move out the way! Everyone else brace!” Falshaw commanded. He tried to search for the oncoming ordinance in the water, but his lack of naval knowledge prevented him from identifying them. Manchester turned hard, and a tense few seconds went by. Everyone on board awaited whatever would happen with trepidation. Seconds became minutes as they hoped that they would miss. Without any warning, the whole ship suddenly and violently shook, sending most of everyone to the ground. John was right back up, looking about the bridge. “Everyone ok?”

 

The general response were those of groans, and he noticed Manchester struggling to get up herself. “Come on, girl, let’s get you back up.” He was stunned to see what had happened to her.

 

Manchester had a hand on her side, pressing hard into a crimson blot as she hissed in pain. “Fucking ‘ell…” She swore. “Blasted a hole in the side with that torp and got ‘bout twenty guys.”

 

“Can you move?”

 

“Nngh...Yeah...I can move. I can shoot too.”

 

John nodded and turned to Admiral Holland. “Is there damage control?”

 

“Aye there is. Should be getting that under control soon as possible.”

 

“Good, because we have three more-”

 

“Southampton’s got one!” Another lookout called. “There’s only two left!”

 

The captain and admiral gazed out and could make out the severed bow of the other destroyer. Now it appeared that the other two smelled blood in the water and were heading to Manchester.

 

“They know we’re badly hit. Can’t take another hit like that.”

 

“Alright so what’s your suggestion, Admiral?”

 

Holland bit his lip. “Keep showing them our side and pour as much fire and brimstone downrange as we can. Can’t outrun them, might as well outgun them. Send everything their way.”

 

“My bloody pleasure.” Manchester reared back, sucking in a terse breath as she fought to control the pain she was in. “Bugger off to hell!”

 

All at once, every single gun on board opened fire, even the small anti-aircraft guns. These weren’t so much well aimed shots as they were just a pure pouring of as much fire as possible. John could see that even Southampton was getting in on it, spurred on by the wounding of her sister. One destroyer started to turn to starboard, most likely the one that hit Manchester the first time. This didn’t bode well, as shell after shell came down in a heavy hailstorm. Within mere moments, the destroyer buckled and erupted into a huge explosion as the magazines ruptured, unable to hold up against the superior firepower. Only one was left, and as swiftly as the destroyer could, it began to turn away when a vengeful salvo from Manchester smacked right into the Morgana. The stern was engulfed in a fiery blaze as it became locked into a port turn.

 

“Got ‘er steering, Cap’n!” Manchester let loose a growl as her guns trained on target. “Teach ya to run away from me ya bleedin’ twat!”

 

“We need to get to a port soon as possible, Captain.” Holland said. “We can’t go too long with that hole in our side.”

 

“But what about-?” John began, being interrupted as a flight of Swordfish zoomed overhead.

 

“Looks like Somerville sent Ark Royal’s flyboys to assist.” The admiral sighed in relief. “Force H should be close now. Southampton should be alright to follow the convoy the rest of the way. I’ll telegraph James to request him split some of his cruisers and destroyers to escort while we turn back to Gibraltar for repairs.”

 

“Think she can make it?”

 

A curt chuckle came from the still wounded Manchester. “I can make it fine to there. Gonna be a long sail though.”

 

Admiral Holland took his cap off and wiped his brow. “You didn't do too bad today, Captain, but it could have been a lot worse than it was. Four destroyers against two light cruisers is a decent match for a first time.”

 

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” John saluted.

 

“I would like to see you later on to go over things in greater detail, but for now you deserve a bit of a rest and to spend some time with your Belle. I shall send for you this evening, and perhaps if she is feeling better, Miss Manchester as well.”

 

“Understood, Admiral.”

 

With a soft smile, the admiral walked off the bridge, leaving Captain Falshaw with Manchester amongst the bridge crew. The Yorkshireman gently rested a hand on Manchester’s shoulder. “How is it?”

 

The bravado seemed to melt away into frustration and disappointment as she looked away. “Didn't see the bloody fish till it was too late. Should’av seen it coming an’ turned sooner.”

 

“That's tunnel-visioning, and it's something I had to get over as a sniper.” He said in a calm voice. “You need to learn to look around more at things that aren't your target in case there's something impending. It takes time, so you’ll get it eventually.”

 

“Yeah but I should’av been able to dodge it, come out with ne'er a scratch from those pop guns.”

 

“Hey, you had a non-navy person as your captain and it was only four destroyers. I'd say that's decent enough. Now cheer up. We got a long trip ahead of us to Gibraltar and I don't want you to be moping all the way there.”

 

“Oi, I don't mope! Just think I could’a done better is all.”

 

“So could I. Come on, let's see if there's anything the doc can do for you or if you really do need a port for that wound.”

 

Being careful not to agitate the wound, John gently wrapped his left arm around Manchester, steadying the Belle and giving her something to lean against as she walked. The smaller girl leaned into him, wincing with every step that she took. It was going to be one hell of a long walk.

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After a long slog, I finally got chapter 4 up and ready to go. There's also a little surprise in with the chapter too.

 

 

 

 

Thanks to Jojo for this. Now I have a fully colorized Belle too, Ninja! Muahaha!

 

 

Q8TTWVB.jpg?1

 

 

 

Chapter 4 - Through the Punishment and the Pain
The chaos of earlier had melted away in the following hours since the battle. In his quarters, Admiral Holland was putting the finishing touches on the after battle report when there was a knock at the door. “Come in.” He called. A loud creak was followed by the sound of boots on metal as Captain Danton walked in.
“Sir.” He saluted. The admiral didn’t bother to look up, instead focusing more on wrapping up the report. It kept Danton standing there at attention awkwardly for a few moments more before he set his pen down and looked back up at him.
“Which number is this one, Marshall?” Holland asked sternly. “Number three? Four?”
“Fifth, sir.”
Holland leaned back in his chair. “You are the unluckiest captain, and yet such an asset to King and Country. To have five Belles manifest under your command and none choose you...I can understand some of your resentment towards Captain Falshaw. Almost.”
“Sir, with due respect-”
“Why do you think that is the matter then?”
“I…”
Danton shuffled about, making Holland roll his eyes. “So you have no idea why they would choose other captains over you. Perhaps there’s something about you that they don’t approve of. What do you think?”
“I think that I’m a good officer who gets the job done, admiral...sir.”
“Mm. Perhaps. You see, I’ve acquired many a friend at HMS Excellent where you went for your gunnery training from HMS Collingwood, and I asked them about you before I decided to make Manchester my flagship. Would you like to know the opinion of the senior officers?”
The captain opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Holland folded his arms across his chest. “Remarkably average scores in every area, with numerous complaints about your temperament and resistance to changes in command and situation. Not exactly the best kind of officer to have on a vessel, wouldn’t you say?
“Of course, we are forgetting that you also apparently have resentment towards anyone not of the Navy who becomes part of it, as your former commanding officers have noted the previous five times Belles manifested under your command.”
Holland leaned forward, looking at Danton with sharp eyes. “You believe it’s your right to have a Belle, instead of the privilege it actually is.”
Admiral Holland could see Danton was very uncomfortable. “Is that correct, Captain Danton?”
“S-sir, I-”
“Is. That. Correct?”
“...yes sir…”
“Well now,” Holland began to relax. “I believe we have found the crux of the issue. Perhaps you should learn to temper yourself, and maybe you shall finally obtain the Belle you have been seeking for so long.”
“I...I understand, sir.”
“For the moment, however, I have sent a message to the captain of HMS Despatch to have you take over command there. Do not disappear so easily, captain. I still have one more thing to discuss before your new posting.”
Captain Danton saluted again. “A-aye sir.”
Once the captain had left, Holland sighed heavily, closing his eyes. One down, one to go.
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Down in the infirmary, John Falshaw watched as the doctor finished wrapping a bandage and gauze around Manchester’s side. He thought it a good thing that the wound was low enough that she didn’t have to raise her top up much, sparing more his own embarrassment than anything else. The Belle winced as it was pulled tight, but managed a smile at her captain, the doctor pulling away and letting her pull her top back down. “Well I’ve done all I can for her.” He remarked, moving over to wash his hands. “The wound won’t heal until the ship itself is repaired, so all we can do is control the pain and prevent the wound from being agitated.”
“Do you think the agitation can be prevented what with the hole in the ship?” John inquired.
“I believe so, but best to play safe.”
With a grunt, Manchester slid off the bed and stood up, still in a bit of pain but not as much as she was before. “I hafta say, Doc,” She said with her hand back over her wound. “It feels much better.”
“Aye, well hopefully I don’t see either of you down here too often.” The Welshman chuckled. “Ain’t good for morale when your ship personified is bloodied and bruised.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, but once a fight gets goin’, I wanna be in the thick of it!”
John smiled at Manchester. She was easily excitable and cheery, a far cry from her just a few hours earlier at the end of the engagement. The Belle was beating herself up over not doing as well of a job as she thought she could have done, and it took everything in his power not to just slap her across the face for saying that. He did however speak his mind, that she had done as much as she could have for a new Belle under a new captain and that in the end they made it out not too bad all things considered. That had seemed to settle her down until they got to the infirmary and had to wait for the doctor to wrap up some wounded sailors before taking care of Manchester.
“I’m gonna go get some fresh air, Cap’n.” She continued. “It’ll do me good!”
“That’s not a bad idea.” He nodded. “I’ll see you back on the bridge.”
Upon her taking off, the doctor looked at John with worried eyes. “Captain, a word.”
“Uh, sure. What’s up, doc?”
“Please, call me Lenny.”
“Ok. What do you need to tell me, Lenny?”
Producing a pack of cigarettes, Lenny pulled out one and lit it up, taking a quick drag. “Y’know, this isn’t my first ship I’ve served on. I was on a battleship early on in the war. HMS Royal Oak. She was in Scapa Flow when the Morgana struck right at the start. I still remember the Belle. Long and wavy light brown hair that flowed over strong shoulders, the warmest brownest eyes I’d ever seen, and a strong sense of duty to her King and Country. Always wore a Victorian dress in red.”
“I remember her,” John said as he leaned against the wall of the infirmary. “Well the ship, not the Belle. I also remember hearing those first reports of Morgana and Belle appearances.”
“She was the most caring person you would have ever met. She desperately wanted to see frontline combat, and considering that Belles are the best counter to the Morgana threat, the Admiralty set about trying to fix her lack of speed. This meant she had to remain in Scapa Flow well after the attack, and a strong guard erected to prevent another massed Morgana attack. Other ships and their Belles either stayed in port or were shifted down to others like Portsmouth to get modernized.”
“And that’s when Scapa got attacked again.”
Lenny puffed a small cloud of smoke and chuckled a little. “It was supposed to be impenetrable, especially to submarine assault. They sure proved us wrong.”
“The radio never really went into detail on how bad the attack was.” Falshaw noted.
“Direct orders in case Jerry was listening in.” The other man explained. “Didn’t want them to know we had multiple ships heavily damaged. I was down in the infirmary when the first torpedo struck. I had issues sleeping that night, and it sure shook everyone else awake. Everyone thought it was an explosion in the inflammable store at first, that is until the Belle started to sound the alarm. Everyone rushed up to battle stations, unsure about what was going on, checking every magazine store just in case. About fifteen minutes later, no one had any doubts that we were attacked. Three of those bastard torpedos got her amidships and everyone could hear the groaning of the hull and pained screams of Royal Oak herself. HMS Brazen, having just saved some German U-boat crewmen the day before, had come to Scapa to drop them off, and now was on full hunting mode. She started to chase off the Morgana submarine, hoping to sink it before it got away, but it was too late.”
“I know. That was in the news.”
“What wasn’t was how bad Oak was. She was only just able to limp into drydock being pulled alongside HMS Pegasus and tugboats, doing their damnedest to keep her afloat. At the time, I was still fine in the infirmary, though all electrical power had been cut off in the explosion. I remember thanking God that I was in a Belle ship, because though I’m no sailor, I could recognize that in any other vessel we all would have perished. Almost immediately I rushed to sick bay to grab as much morphine as I could, taking as many boys with me as I could to grab supplies. Instinct told me that I should set up the messes to deal with the casualties, especially as I very quickly came across many a bloodied man. I was fortunate that at least the mess for the sailors was intact; I heard that the Stokers’, Boys’, and Marines’ messes were thoroughly destroyed in the explosions. I honestly can’t tell you how long I stayed awake for. Two, three days? I tended to everyone, from men who had chunks of steel embedded in their chests to charred, blackened corpses, those with arms and legs hanging on by the sinews and those already lost causes that I put out of their misery.
“At a point, I was finishing up amputating some poor lad of 16’s arm, or what was left of it anyways, when some seamen brought over to me Rear-Admiral Henry Blagrove. His uniform was shredded up and down his chest and his breathing was labored. I didn’t think he had much time left to live so I gave a quick check and gestured to move on to the next patient. A woman in obvious pain was crying and was begging me to do more to help save him. I thought at the time that Scapa itself had been attacked and she was from a hospital ship that had come over to help me, and so I turned to her, reaching forward to brush some of her matted, dark hair away from her face in an attempt to comfort her. That’s when I saw the warmest brownest eyes I had ever seen, except now they wavered with fear. I looked at her hair in earnest, and saw that the hair was actually a light brown, and what I was brushing aside had been stained with blood.”
“Royal Oak…Jesus wept.” Falshaw swore.
“And he would’ve if he saw the state of her. The red dress of hers was ripped across her stomach, and I could see she was bleeding badly from it. As much as I wanted to check her wounds, my heart wouldn’t have been able to take seeing the full extent of what the torpedoes had done to her. She coughed up blood almost every other sentence, and gripped the Admiral’s hand as if she would fall if she let go. I nodded to her and ordered morphine for the both of them, bandaging her up and gently laying her down on one of the mess tables right next to where Blagrove was. I pushed myself to extract as much shrapnel as I could from him, keeping him awake as best as possible until word got to me that ambulances would take the severely wounded to a nearby hospital. Oak was sobbing and crying out that she didn’t want to abandon her Captain. In his weak state, Blagrove was just able to get up with assistance and put a hand on her cheek, telling her that he would be fine and back in action before she knew it, setting her at ease.
“That was the last time I saw Admiral Blagrove. The doctors at the hospital informed me that he had died almost as soon as he was set in the ambulance, and the more skeptical of them believed that it was being away from Royal Oak that caused his death. The Admiralty...tried to keep it a secret from her out of fear of what would happen, instead fabricating that he had to be transferred inland and would be a long time before he gets well enough to command. She seemed to not take it well and accused them of lying to her, that Blagrove was dead. They insisted, and she got more and more distressed until finally one of them gave up and told her that she was right. Once she had been repaired, the Admiralty sent a new captain for her, but she flatly rejected him. Every captain they tried to put on her met with stiff opposition, even the crew began to side with her, until finally the Admiralty surrendered. She still fights for King and Country, but after what happened, she sails captainless.”
John looked down at his feet, letting all that was said sink in. “So what does all this have to do with me?”
Lenny finished his cigarette and stared at Falshaw hard. “I don’t want to have to do it again for another Belle. I don’t want to have to lie to them that their captain is fine when they’re dead. I don’t want to see another Belle nearly gutted by the Morgana. I don't want to risk another captainless Belle running about. I want you to do everything you can to keep me from having to do that.”
Producing a cigarette of his own, the new Captain struck his lighter. “You don’t have to tell me that twice, Lenny. I’ve seen enough horror to last a lifetime and then some during the War. Despite her aggressive tendencies, I don’t want to get stuck into that kind of situation. I promise you, Lenny. I will not let that happen if I can help it.”
Nodding slowly, Lenny extended his hand out. “Just had to get it off my chest was all.”
“No worries.”
As the two shook hands, a junior officer walked in and saluted them both. “Captain Falshaw? The Admiral wants you to meet him in his quarters.”
“Ah. Thank you…”
“This is where you salute back.” Lenny pointed out. John blinked and gave the officer a quick salute, the NCO heading out as swiftly as he arrived. “You’re still very green.”
“I’ve never been in command of anything before, let alone a ship.”
“It shows.” A warm smile crept across Lenny’s face. “Don’t keep the Admiral waiting. I hope the next time I see you it won’t involve one of you getting injured.”
“I can’t make too many promises about Manchester. She’s a troublemaker that one.”
The two men exchanged a light chuckle and a salute before Falshaw departed, determined to not only make a good impression on the Vice-Admiral, but more importantly keep everyone as safe as possible, including Manchester.
------------------------------------------------------------
As John started towards the Admiral’s quarters, his thoughts remained on what Lenny had told him. The most jarring thing about the whole experience was the description of Royal Oak, and his mind kept replacing her with Manchester. It made him feel sick to his stomach, and he would have almost collided with a sailor if he hadn’t looked up at the last second. Eventually after another couple near collisions, he stopped and leaned back against a bulkhead to light up. The nicotine started to relax him until he felt that he was fine enough to keep moving.
If it wasn't for the sailors he periodically asked for directions from, there was no way he could have managed to get to where the Admiral was, and less so in identifying it if there weren't two sailors on the burly side standing outside sternly. They reminded him of those penny dreadfuls his parents had and the pulp magazines he used to read where the heroes would encounter giant ape-men who could throw tree trunks around like they were nothing. “Captain John Falshaw, here to see the Admiral.” He saluted the guards. The men saluted back and one of them knocked on the door.
“Captain Falshaw is here, Admiral.” The sailor called in. A semi-muffled “Let him in” replied back, and gave John clearance to enter the quarters.
The quarters were well furnished, with a pair of nice leather couches on either side of a low table which had an already opened bottle of Johnnie Walker Swing. A few feet from the table was a simple oak desk cluttered with papers, a pen, and various other curios. Behind that was a leather chair which sat Admiral Holland. To his side standing with a half full tumbler happened to be Captain Danton, whose presence Falshaw wasn’t overly keen on.
“Ah, captain.”, Holland looked up and gestured to one of the couches. “Sit down, will you?”
“Uh, yes sir.”
“Would you like a glass? I find that a stiff drink usually does well for me after combat.”
“I don’t know much about spirits, sir, but if it’s got alcohol in it, I’ll drink it.”
Holland chuckled as he poured out two half full tumblers of the scotch. “Spoken like a true ranker.”
The other captain sat across from Falshaw as the admiral stood up in front of the desk, leaning against it slightly after handing one of the tumblers to John. “I don’t believe you two have been formally introduced. Captain Falshaw, this is Marshall Danton.”
“Sorry about taking your ship from you.” John apologized. Danton raised a hand.
“There’s no need. I...I understand that having another Belle in His Majesty’s service is valuable, and I was wrong to snap as I did.”
“I see…”
“Hm?” Holland raised an eyebrow. “What's the matter?”
“Nothing sir, just…”
“Just what?”
Falshaw cleared his throat. “Well, sir, with no disrespect meant towards Captain Danton here...I've seen that look on his face before.”
“Which is…?”
“The uh, look of a man whose pride has just been whipped into line. Sir.”
“Indeed.”
The Admiral took a sip from his tumbler. “Speaking your mind so freely. You are a ranker.”
John sat still for a moment before quickly knocking back some of the whiskey. He figured he had better stop saying anything along those lines unless he wanted to get whipped too.
“So why did you call me and Captain Falshaw here, sir?” Marshall broke the brief silence.
“Well-”
“There you are!”
The Mancunian accented voice startled the captains, and most likely the Admiral too though if so he didn't show it. Manchester stood across from Holland with her cricket bat over her shoulder, a happy grin on her face despite the wound. “I was lookin’ all over fer ya!”
“How did you get here without using the door? Did you...did you change your clothes?” Falshaw looked her over. She still had a white shirt and grey flat cap and skirt, but her vest was exchanged for a long dark blue one and a light blue tie was nestled snug between her chest.
“Yup! I figured it would do me well to ‘ave some clean clothes an’ fit ‘em over the bandage. I quite prefer this.” She put her free left hand on her hip. “Whaddya think?”
“Honestly I think you look great.” John smiled. “Even looks like the bleeding stopped.”
“Aye, that it has. So what’re ya talkin’ about ‘ere?”
“I was just starting when you came in.” Admiral Holland went over to the oak desk and fished out another tumbler. “Are you wet or dry?”
“Oh for sure a wet Belle.” Manchester gladly took the tumbler and began filling it up three-quarters of the way. “I'm not one of those teetotalers.”
“So how did you get in here then?” Falshaw inquired. “I never heard the door be knocked on or opened.”
“Oh, us Belles can just poof anywhere on the ship we like near instant we can! Of course, if we wanna cause some mischief,” Manchester grew a smirk as she walked through the table and sat down next to her captain. “We can ‘over through like ghosts do.”
“Speaking of the undead,” Holland cleared his throat. “Let us get to the point. You’re here, Captain Falshaw, because you are the newly appointed captain of HMS Manchester, because you need official officer training to become a Belle Captain, and because as captain of His Majesty’s Ship and Belle you have a duty to be informed of the butcher’s bill.”
Reaching behind him, Admiral Holland grabbed a piece of paper and held it in front of him. “Leonard had the tally sent up to be just before you and Manchester went down to see him.”
“Leonard?” Half a second later, it clicked in John’s head. “Oh, Lenny.”
“Yes, Doctor Leonard Mallory. Anyways, the good doctor sent this up, and it reads as follows: “Twenty-nine dead, fourteen wounded. Of those wounded, another three won't survive the night.”.”
Manchester’s prior confidence gave way to guilt, feeling her stomach drop. John on the other hand seemed very unnerved. “Not as bad as it could have been.” He mused. His Belle looked over at him.
“People died! How can you be so...so...so calm?”
“I've seen my friends die in the hellish place of no-man’s land, Manchester. I survived the godforsaken fields of the Somme with my unit. Believe me. I feel for these men, but honestly I've seen worse.”
“I hope this does not mean that you are willing to sacrifice the crew at first opportunity, captain.” Holland noted as he set the paper down.
“Not at all. In fact, I want to keep casualties to a minimum if possible. I don't want to relive that.”
“Of course.”
The Vice Admiral took another sip of the whiskey. “On to the other matters, Captain Falshaw. It is necessary to get you into training as soon as possible. Therefore, tomorrow at 1330, you will begin your journey to Gibraltar to get Manchester patched up before the ultimate destination of Portsmouth. There you will be processed and start training as a Belle captain while Manchester gets repairs. Now under normal circumstances you would need about seven to nine weeks for basic naval boot camp, as you are not a naval personnel, followed by another twelve for officer training and another month for specialized Belle training. Time is of the essence, however, and we need as many Belle captains trained up as possible. Because of this and your prior military experience, you will have only three months of training.”
“That's about as much as they gave us in the army.” Falshaw downed the rest of his whiskey and started to fish around for a cigarette. “So spring of the new year, I should be an officially trained Belle Captain.”
“With the uniform and rank to go with it.”
As John produced the cigarette and began to look for his lighter, Captain Danton had already got his own out and held it out. “Here. Least I can do for you.”
“Thanks.” John let Marshall light him up and began having a smoke.
“I've already contacted James to inform him of this, and to get the technicians transferred to HMS Sheffield.” Holland resumed. “Admiral Somerville will also take command over the rest of the operation and get the RAF lads to Malta.”
Taking a drag, John leaned back as Manchester started on her second tumbler. “So where does that leave you, Admiral?”
“Me?” The admiral set his tumbler down and chuckled. “Well I have to look after my investment, don't I?”
“Eh?”
Admiral Holland capped the Johnnie Walker Swing and started to also grab up the tumblers. “I would rather not have a Belle captain under my command perform poorly during their training, so why not follow them back at least to Gibraltar and give as much advice as I can?”
“That does seem to make sense, sir.” John nodded. “But sending one ship back is dangerous.”
“That's why Danton on the Despatch and HMS Hotspur will escort you. HMS Berwick shall also provide escort and become my new flagship, which I will move over to effective tomorrow, which is also when I shall start tutoring you what I know. It may have been years since Collingwood but I know a thing or two.
“As for now,” Holland checked the clock on the wall. “It's about that time when we should head to the officer’s mess. Marshall?”
“Aye, admiral.” The other captain got up and stood by the door as Holland put away the scotch, holding a hand out towards Manchester.
“I would prefer all my glasses together.”
The Belle frowned as she knocked back the rest of the whiskey and handed it over. “I was quite enjoying that.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to enjoy it on your own time. For now, let us get something to eat.”
Falshaw looked at Manchester and smiled. “Come along, Manc. Must be starving after the fight you put up earlier.”
A soft grumble answered him promptly from her stomach, making her blush. “Ah perhaps a little.”
“Well let's get you topped up. Don't want my Belle fading away.”
“Aye aye, cap’n!”
=====================================================================

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Not bad, I got to say fairly believable characters and conversations.

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Chapter 5 is ready to go. It's a bit different from the previous ones, but hopefully you all enjoy it. Be sure to let me know your thoughts

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5 - In the Army Now

 

In the smoke, in the mud and lead
Smell the fear and the feeling of dread
Soon be time to go over the wall
Rapid fire and end of us all

Paschendale - Iron Maiden

 

The cold mud slithered down John’s back, sending a sharp shiver up his spine as his hands gripped tightly around his SMLE Mk III. A low misty fog hovered over no man’s land, covering up most of the craters and debris. He heard the soft sopping of boots in mud and he released a hand, open and waiting. A routine maneuver, the hot mug was settled in his palm and brought to his lips without his eyes ever drifting away from his scope. This was ruined as soon as he tasted the contents, nearly spitting it out before looking inside and then over his left shoulder.

 

“If I wanted hot mud I would have asked.” Falshaw grimaced. A chuckle came from the corporal, taking a sip from his own mug.

 

“Make yer own next time then.” The Lincolnshireman set his mug down next to him. “Better than the cold mud around ye.”

 

“Anythin’s better than this muck.”

 

Returning his gaze to the front, John brought up his rifle and peered down the scope. “Any news?”

 

“Well far as everyone else in the regiment is concerned,” The other soldier started to check over his own rifle, wiping some of the mud off. “Command’s gonna order an attack soon if Harry Hun doesn't. Captain says that we need to keep an eye out for anything they may be trying.”

 

“Yeah, well they ain't gonna’ just let us in on the plan before they do it.” Falshaw’s eyes narrowed and he adjusted the scope. “Movement. About 250 yards.”

 

“Jerry?”

 

“Can't say for sure… Riley, get the binos.”

 

“Aye Sarge.”

 

Riley fished out the pair of binoculars from his pouch and looked in the direction John was scoped in at. “I don’t see what you’re on… wait a moment... I think I see it...”

 

“Herr Kaiser grey.”

 

“Aye.” The corporal dropped the binoculars and stroked his chin. “Looks like they're moving’ about. Think they're gearin’ up for somethin’?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Sergeant Falshaw lowered his rifle and turned to Riley, ready to give an order when his ears caught a whistling sound. “Artillery! Down! Down! Section down!”

 

All along the trench just behind the sniper/spotter team, men dove for whatever kind of cover they could get. John and Riley hunkered down in their crater with their guns held tightly as the first shells landed. Mud and dirt flew up into the air, the debris coming back down to pelt them. More shells began to fall, one striking just in front of the crater the two men were sheltered in. The ground shook intensely, almost as if the world was ending all around them.

 

“Jaysus! Ye think they’d keep it light so they have somethin' left to fight!” Riley cursed.

 

“Just keep your head down!” John ordered as a spattering of mud rained down upon them. “Hopefully someone got word to command!”

 

“Peh! Bunch of useless gits the lot of them!”

 

“No kidding! Wouldn't know how to pour piss from a boot with the instructions on the heel!”

 

Almost as if accentuating the point, one such shell brought with it the screams of wounded men and a shredded leg thrown right in front of John and Riley’s foxhole. After what seemed to be an eternity, the bombardment slowed to a halt. For a moment the air was still, only the sounds of the wounded moaning and the soldiers’ heavy breathing filling it. Then, the dreaded whistle and a rising thunder from across no man’s land. John swiftly picked himself up and readied his rifle, Riley loading a fresh ten rounds in his.

 

“Here they come!” Falshaw yelled. “Stand firm, boys! Hold your fire until I say!”

 

From inside the fog, it was hard to see specifically who they were, but there were things that allowed him to identify a few of them. Scanning the mob, he spotted one shadow with a pistol, squeezed the trigger gently, and fired.

 

The bullet screamed down range until it hit its mark, sending the supposed officer down into the ground. Chambering another, he repeated this feat three more times, until he eyeballed the Germans at a hundred yards or so.

 

“Open fire!”

 

The first guns to open up were the sharp putputput-ing of the Lewis guns, beginning to mow down the charging foes. After them came the massed rifle fire of the rest of the soldiers interspersed with more accurate sniper fire from John.

 

Despite the firepower sent their way, however, the blob kept coming, screaming and howling as they got closer and closer until John had to shoulder his rifle and draw his Webley revolver, just as one screaming German beared down upon him with a bayoneted rifle. Aiming in the general direction, he fired, reaching around to draw his knife as well and hoping his shot would hit home.

 

---

 

John woke up in a cold sweat, panting hard and looking around him. His right hand was gripped so tightly the knuckles had turned white, and his left hand was grasping for a non-existent knife. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he began to relax as he recognized the surroundings as the captain’s quarters on Manchester. Slowly he began to fully wake up and sighed, bringing a hand up to his brow and rubbing it. “Shitting hell…,” He swore. “Another bloody dream.”

 

Realizing what probably happened, he turned his eyes to the closed door. “Lenny won't be too happy about this.”

 

Sure enough, through the closed door came Manchester, stopped with a loud bang as she apparently forgot that the person with her can't go through bulkheads and doors like she could. “Gah! Sorry Lenny!” She sheepishly opened the door, letting in a very grumpy Welshman.

 

“Ya know, I wouldn't mind so much her gettin’ me up here to help ya if it wasn't the fourth bloody time this night!” Lennard rubbed his forehead and stood unamused across from John. “Lemme guess. Another night terror of sorts?”

 

“Sorry Lenny.” John shrugged. “It's what I have to put up with on a usual basis at night.”

 

The ship’s doctor sighed heavily. “Care to bring over the Johnnie’s, lass? I have a feeling we’re gonna need it.”

 

“Aye, Lenny!” The Belle began to root around for the scotch as Lenny grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the bed where John was.

 

“Jack, it’s three in the morning, I'm dead tired, and I'm pretty sure if Belles can get heart attacks Manchester’s going to have one. So let's work out what the hell these dreams are about and how to knock you the hell to sleep so I can get some shut eye.”

 

“Three tumblers comin up!” Manchester called out as she started to fill them up. John swung around so he was facing Lenny and scratched the back of his head.

 

“I didn't know you were a psychiatrist.” He mused as a three-quarters full tumbler got passed to him.

 

“I'm not,” Lenny paused to take a big sip from his glass. “But if it'll get me my sleep, I’ll even be a bloody politician. Now, what's wrong? And don't tell me “It's nothing” like you've done before. It's something, that's for sure.”

 

Nursing the tumbler in his hand, John took a drink and sighed, looking up at his audience and chuckling to himself: an exhausted Welshman who was close to strangling the captain just for a night's rest, and a rather eager Belle who had pulled up a chair of her own and was sat rather...unladylike, straddling the chair and resting her arms on the top of the backrest.

 

“Well,” John began. “I have been having these dreams for years. Not really dreams but more like memories I'm reliving.”

 

“From the war?” Manchester piped up. “What was it like? Did you kill a lot of Germans?”

 

“Lass, let the man take a question at a time.” Lenny grumbled. John chuckled again.

 

“Yes, Manchester. From the war. For a while now it's been of the same battle I was a part of. See, in late 1915 I had been injured in my leg by a German sniper and was sent to hospital where I was treated, slapped on the back, and sent back out after a few months as it wasn't a terrible injury. Thing was, by then my unit had been moved somewhere that the local brass didn't know or didn't care, so I was lumped in with a bunch of other strays into another regiment. For the moment things seemed fine until we entered Hell on earth: the Somme.”

 

“Bugger me… you were in that mess?” Lenny swore.

 

“Aye. Up and down wherever command needed a hole to be plugged until about the 20th of October when we were stuck about the Ancre valley. We had seemed to finally catch a break, that is until a few days later when the Germans attacked our line.”

 

---

 

15 November, 1916

Ancre, France

Battle of Ancre, Somme Offensive

 

Sergeant Falshaw braced himself as the charging German soldier collapsed in front of him, his revolver shot, catching the foe in the chest dead on. There was barely any time to celebrate as another two seemed to take his place.

 

Firing away with the Webley, John managed to just knock the bayoneted rifle of the first soldier away and thrust his own knife up and into his rib cage, yanking out with a twist. The second caught one of the wildly fired pistol bullets in his arm but kept coming at the Yorkshireman, dropping his rifle for a makeshift club on his belt.

 

Suddenly a bayonet appeared through the German’s chest from behind, followed by its retrieval and a hard hit to the back of the head from the Enfield Riley was holding.

 

“Gotcha, sarge!”

 

“Thanks Riley.” John sighed a quick breath of relief before holstering his pistol, grabbing the club the German dropped. It was made out of some kind of oak with two metal bands around the top and some “studs”, which were more than likely cartridges hammered down into the wood.

 

“Come on, sir!” Riley cracked a shot off at another German. “They're in the trench!”

 

“I see that, Corporal! With me!”

 

The two managed to get out of their foxhole and dashed for the trench. With a knife in one hand and the club in the other, Falshaw leaped down into the British trenches, his knife driven down into a German neck.

 

All along the trench, Englishmen and Germans were brutalizing each other, trying to get the upper hand. One such Jerry saw the two newcomers and yelled out a warning for the next closest guy. He had only turned his head to see what the warning was about when it was promptly bashed in by the newly acquired club with a sickening crunch.

 

For what seemed to be hours, the two sides smashed, stabbed, gutted, strangled, and outright slaughtered each other in the trenches until there came another whistle. The Germans, battered and bloodied, began to fall back. As they did, those English that could still fight opened up on them, killing more and more until at last they were out of sight.

 

Panting heavily and leaned up against the trench wall, John slid down until he was sat on the bloodstained floor. The club he had used was now busted and had small specks of pink matter embedded between the metal bands, bloody splinters now making up the majority of the weapon.

 

His knife had long since left him, been driven down into one German’s guts and forced to be left there when another had gotten the jump on him. Cuts and bruises adorned his body, and his uniform was sticky with blood from friends and foe alike.

 

Riley sat down next to him, passing a cigarette and lighting one up for himself. John took it with a shaky hand and lit it. Turning to the other man he asked, “How's it?”

 

The Lincolnshireman winced as he adjusted himself and put a hand over his left side. “Missed me by enough to matter. Bugger got Tommy before comin’ after me, dropped him .”

 

“Know about any of the others? Harris?”

 

“Didn't keep his bloody head down and got his face torn to shreds by Jerry arty.”

 

“Martin?”

 

“Head bashed in with a rock.”

 

“Cochrane?”

 

“Still breathing.” The aforementioned soldier yelled over from his Lewis Gun position.

 

“How many rounds you got left?”

 

“Two full magazines, one almost spent loaded up, Sarge!”

 

“Is Donnie with you?”

 

“Yeah, he’s here. The blighter got stabbed in the hand but he’ll live.”

 

“Alright.” John took a deep drag of his cigarette and raised his voice. “Get the wounded looked after and sent back. I wanna know how the other sections are and these dead removed in case the Huns want to attempt another attack.”

 

“You heard the sergeant!” Riley spoke up. “Get to it, lads!”

 

The bloodied men collectively groaned, but began following their orders, some grabbing the dead and beginning to shift them from the trench. Tossing a quickly finished cigarette, John forced himself to stand up and ready his Enfield, hands gripping it tightly. “I’ll keep an eye out for Jerry patrols while you lead the clean up.” Sergeant Falshaw fished around for a fresh 5-round clip and loaded it into the rifle, looking over at the Lewis Gun team. “Cochrane, Donnie, you too. Keep the Lewis ready to go. If there’s another attack, load the full mag.”

 

“Yessir!”

 

As he began to get into position, John stepped over a gutted German and pulled one who was missing most of the left side of his face down into the trench, resting his rifle on a relatively undamaged stahlhelm helmet to help stabilize. Peering through his scope out into no man’s land, John kept hands tight around his sniper rifle, anxious for when the next attack would be.

 

---

 

“And did they attack again?” Manchester asked, nearly stood up as she leaned forward to listen intently. John shook his head.

 

“Not until we had been reinforced, but by then we were on the offensive.” He explained. “Drove into their lines, then were pushed back. Practically netted nothing.”

 

He turned his head towards Lenny, who was two and a half tumblers down. “So, that’s my dreams. Got anything, Freud?”

 

“First,” The Welshman gestured with his half empty (or was it half full?) tumbler. “No. I don’t have to be a psychiatrist to know about him and his sodding Odey-pus complexes and,” He looked at Manchester and coughed, “...other, fixations.”

 

“Eh? Why’d’ya look at me like that fer?” The Belle huffed.

 

“Second,” He continued, ignoring her. “I think I found a theme going on there.”

 

“Care to enlighten us?” Falshaw refilled his tumbler, then looked at the bottle. “Need to get more of this.” He mumbled. The ship’s doctor mumbled back some form of agreement, but it looked like he was nearing the point where he’d collapse asleep.

 

“Well, near every time you’ve woken up, your hands have been clutched tightly together, almost like you're holding something.”

 

“Hey, I noticed that too.” Manchester nodded taking a nip from her drink. “When we were approaching the Morgana, you had your hands like that.”

 

“It's comfortable.” John explained. “Whenever I'm in a situation like that, my mind thinks up me holding my old rifle.”

 

“Hmm…” Leonard turned to the Belle. “Lass, mind grabbing a splint or a crutch for me? I wanna try somethin’.”

 

“What are you on about?” The captain raised an eyebrow, only to be met with the Welshman shaking his head.

 

“You’ll see.”

 

Manchester nodded and stood up, setting her drink on the chair. She then seemed to descend through the floor as she ghosted down to the sick bay. John chuckled. “So how often you think the crew’ll be surprised by that?”

 

“Enough that they’ll get used to it. She’s quite the rascal y’know.”

 

“Yeah, but so far there's no harm in it.” Falshaw shrugged. “If she was more destructive I’d be more concerned.”

 

“Don’t give her ideas. The last time she woke me up tonight she did it with a bucket of water.”

 

“Yeah, you were steaming mad at that.”

 

“Were she anyone else, I’d’ve throttled her.” Lenny growled before downing his tumbler.

 

It took a further ten minutes for Manchester to return, holding a wooden leg splint in her hands. “Sorry it took so long! I can’t ghost through or anything while ‘olding this thing!” She apologized.

 

“Just get in here before I fall asleep.”

 

The Belle nodded and walked in, handing the splint over to her captain. “So…,” He looked at it. “...what do I do with this?”

 

“Sleep with it.”

 

“Ok. Now what do I really do with it?”

 

“Sleep. With it.”

 

John raised an eyebrow at Lenny. “You...want me to sleep with this?”

 

“Jesus it’s not like I told you twice already-YES bloody sleep with it!”

 

The ship’s doctor sighed heavily and slumped in his seat. “Sorry...I’m so bloody exhausted.”

 

“It’s fine, Lenny.” Falshaw smiled, stifling a yawn. “So I sleep with the splint. How does that help me?”

 

“Well remember when you said about how when in a stressful situation you think about holding your rifle?”

 

“...I think I see what you’re getting at.”

 

“Then you don’t mind me getting to bed before I pass out?” The Welshman yawned and stood up. “See you in the morning.”

 

The two men nodded at each other, and Lenny headed out of the captain’s quarters. Once gone, Manchester looked over at John. “So what’re ya supposed ‘ta do with that?”

 

“Well,” He got up to set his tumbler down. “I’m supposed to think this is my rifle.”

 

“Oh, I got it!” She beamed. “You’re too used to havin’ a rifle on ya on all times, right? So you’re tryin’ ta get that feelin’ back to help ya sleep better!”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“...will it work?”

 

“I don’t know, but if it does,” John chuckled as he laid down on his bunk. “This’ll be the weirdest thing I’ve ever done, including joining the Navy to be the Captain of the female manifestation of a boat.”

 

“Oi! I ain’t weird!” Manchester huffed.

 

“No but you’re one hell of a troublemaker.” He smiled gently at her. “Please, for Lenny’s sake, don’t go after him if I get into another dream. Otherwise he’ll probably try to knock you out.”

 

“Pah! No one can knock me out! Not even a Morgana!”

 

“I don’t want to test that on Lenny though. Promise?”

 

She sighed. “Promise.”

 

John finally settled down and closed his eyes, holding the splint as if his rifle. It was a bit shorter, but had a similar size overall, and he found himself easily able to imagine the feel. Eventually, he felt himself dozing off, tightening his grip on his “rifle”, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt secure and safe.


-

 

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I like the character development, including the rifle pining. Some good ideas. Your doc has a lovely bedside manner - this doctor approves! Your Capt Falshaw and my Rep Stirling (it'll be a LONG time before she feels comfortable being called captain, even by her Belle) couldn't be more different, but I suspect the latter will like the former if they ever meet. I need to follow your lead and write more about Pensacola...

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I rather enjoyed the gruff and very annoyed doctor. He brought a good bit of life to the story. The backstory scenes were interesting. They feel a bit like a side event, unrelated to the story, but they offer a stark contrast and a nice insight into the pre-Captain life of Mr. Falshaw. They're very chaotic, which I enjoy as it reflects what they're trying to portray. Not much of Manchester this chapter, but that was fine because I was more focused on Lenny.

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