'Eighth generation, and proud of it.'
Kathy put her eyeglasses and wristwatch in the little storage space beneath her mattress. Ilse watched as Kathy reached up, and with both hands grabbed the heavy rod that supported the curtain in front of the top sleeping rack.
Kathy's face grimaced. She scrunched her stomach muscles, took as much weight as she could on her arms, and literally walked up the bulkhead. She rolled into the top rack in one smooth motion.
'I didn't know people could do that.' Ilse used the middle rack — easy to get in or out. The bottom one held stationery supplies.
'I need all the exercise I can get,' Kathy said, 'which is why I didn't buy the pajamas with the whales.' Both of them giggled. Ilse yawned.
'You look completely exhausted,' Kathy said.
'I am.'
'When was the last time you got some sleep?' 'About twenty-four hours ago.' Ilse reached for her coffee, which was cold and stale. 'Don't,' Kathy said. 'Change and turn in. You have to rest.'
'I have so much to do.'
'That's an order,' Kathy said, as a joke.
'Ouch,' Ilse groaned.
If Kathy was surprised, she let it pass. 'Look, you've got to grab sleep whenever you can. Put on your pajamas. Get in your rack. The messenger will wake you when he 'mocks for me. In about four hours.'
Ilse remembered what COB had said. She realized how right he was. She wanted to resist Kathy, and she resented being told what to do — by anyone.
Instead, Ilse changed. She slept in heavy cotton p.j.'s, green-and-black plaid. She also wore thick mountain- climbing socks, and used an extra blanket. It got cold on USS
Challenger.
'Mmmm,' Kathy said. 'Delicious beddie-bye.'
'Yes,' Ilse said. She got in her rack. She knew she sounded depressed.
'Jeffrey trouble?' Kathy said, from inside the top bunk. 'Crap, is it that obvious?'
'Basically, it is.'
Ilse didn't say anything.
'Don't worry' Kathy said. 'These little flirtations do occur. It's meaningless, mostly just displaced stress, homesickness, fear of getting killed in action…. I think guys do it aboard ship sometimes because they know it's safe.'
'You mean, nothing really happens.'
'Usually not. Maybe I should say, hopefully not.'
But that didn't fit, Ilse told herself. Jeffrey wasn't a flirt. And I'm not sure anyone who used to be a SEAL, wounded on some secret op in Iraq back in the '90s, could possibly be considered 'safe.' But in a way, Jeffrey was safe.
'Still,' Kathy said, 'he is single, so that's all right. Love and family are natural…. Not my type at all, but I can see he might be yours.'
'I'd rather not talk about it.'
'Okay. My advice, which you didn't ask for, is just relax and be patient.'
'I'm sure you're right,' Ilse said. But she wondered what would happen if and when they did reach port. 'Do you have a steady boyfriend?' Ilse said.
'We talked about getting married. He got killed.' 'At sea?'
'His destroyer was vaporized.'
'I'm sorry'
Kathy sighed. 'I miss him a lot, but life goes on.' 'You're okay about the way Captain Fuller treated you before?'
'Certainly.' Kathy put on a mock upper-class accent. 'One cannot take it personally when a superior officer criticizes one, justified or no.' She went back to her normal voice. 'If someone's landing all over you, Ilse, you just act like a helo pad. It's for the good of the ship.'
'I guess that's the whole point. The ship comes first.' 'Starting to feel your individuality get submerged?' Ilse didn't say anything.
'That was a pun,' Kathy said. 'Submerged.'
'Very funny.'
'I know what you mean, though. It's part of being in the Navy. Everyone has a boss. Every captain has a commodore, or an admiral. The First Sea Lord has the First Lord of the Admiralty. He has the Minister of Defence, and she has the PM and the King. It's the same in the U.S. Navy, just different titles, and they spell defense with an s while we Brits use a c.'
'I'm beginning to see how war is so depersonalizing.'
'To me that's the worst part of it,' Kathy said. 'I'm not afraid to die. I've led a clean life. I say my prayers. But war-fighting is so relentless, so complicated, so huge, it can make you feel very small. You get completely gobbled up.'
'It's different for you,' Ilse said. 'You chose this, as a profession. The Royal Navy, I mean. You knew there could be war someday; you trained for it. I got dragged into something horrible I wish never happened. It ruined my whole life.'
'You and a few hundred million other people, Ilse. So far.'
'There it is again. We each become a cipher, a cog in a little wheel, in a world full of wheels within wheels.'
'Just do your job. Concentrate on the small things, and do them as well as possible. Take the track you're given to run on, and run it splendidly.'
'Is that what you do, Kathy?'
'Think of yourself as a vital organ in a special organism. An instrument of peacerestoration and statecraft. It helps maintain your sense of self.'
'It just all seems so, I don't know, so regimented, so horribly rigid.'
'Have you ever tried to run a warship, my dear?' 'Of course not.'
'Then don't talk. Routine and hierarchy are what hold everybody together. The rules and procedures get us back alive.'
'So you enjoy the work, day to day?'
'Immensely. Sure. Don't you?'
'Yes, I do. And I am good at it.' Take that, COB. Take that, Jeffrey Fuller. At least I don't have to go on the SEAL
raid this time…. Best put Fuller out of my mind right now. He could easily get killed, like Kathy's boyfriend.
'Anyway, Ilse,' Kathy said, 'sleep well.'
'Good night, Kathy. Thanks for the advice.'
Just as Ilse was about to drift off, Kathy looked down from her rack.
'You know,' Kathy said, 'the submarine is not a penis.' Ilse was wide awake now. ' What?'
'Everyone thinks it is. The shape, how it launches torpedoes. How it's so nice and long and thick and hard. But they're wrong.'
'You're not a Freudian?'
'I am, I am,' Kathy said. 'But listen to this.' She smiled. 'The submarine is a womb.'
'You know, you're right…. I never saw it that way before…. It's snug and cozy. It protects you from the outside world.'
'It goes into the sea, which represents Mother.'
'I guess it takes a woman to realize that,' Ilse said. 'Or at least, to admit it.'
'And on that note, Ilse, good night.'
