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“WHAT THE DEVIL IS THIS swill?” The young seaman cursed, gulping down the tepid liquid before glaring into the glass as though bearer of the most fatal of poisons. A morning’s stubble grew red over his long jaw, a stark contrast to the blonde, wavy hair and sharp, blue eyes. His uniform fit nicely over his masculine frame that began at a pair of strong shoulders and slimmed into a form well-toned by years at sea. The man standing over him was much the same, save a head of dark sticks for hair and a face that was more round than oblong.
“It’s tea.” The brown-haired man stated firmly, as if to convince himself of the cup’s supposed contents. A dark pool of liquid still swirled about in its metal confines, but it was nothing like tea. Water and twice-used tea leaves did not make a proper cup of tea. It couldn’t even pass as the watered-down coffee they were forced to drink every now and again.
“What’s your name, man?”
“Seaman Second Class, James Harrison. You?”
“Brendan Keane. Seaman First Class.” The younger man swung his arm into a salute and nearly knocked him upside the head. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, Harrison? If we spent all our time bickering over ranks and nationalities we might as well let the blasted Germans have a parade through Piccadilly. Now—sit down, man—let me make one thing infernally clear. I am not an Englishman.”
“You damn well sound like it, ‘cept for that funny singing sound.” Brendan’s brow furrowed slightly, creating lines otherwise nonexistent on his face.
“That ‘singing sound’ is the last remnant of my brogue—my Irish brogue—and if you have something to say about it, you had best say it now while there’s no one to watch you embarrass yourself.”
“Ireland? But isn’t that a part of England? Oh, right, that whole Easter thing.” Harrison pushed himself back ever so slightly from the other seaman. “You aren’t one of those rebels, are you?”
“No.”
Not yet.
The Irishman took a long draw from the watery tea and allowed his brows to furrow together. One war was enough—more than enough—for any man. No mortal could live long beneath the shroud of death without fully considering its benefits.
Suddenly the ship gave a mighty heave and forced his body to sway in unison, an occurrence that happened constantly and, while not unpleasant, could cause untold havok if a man bore not the sea legs necessary. Brendan sighed.
In death there was no rain of led, no fires from above, no final screams as one sunk into a darkened abyss. There was not but silence—a cool, blissful quiet—to lay one’s soul at rest and allowed them to sleep soundly in eternal arms.
Sleep. The young man scratched the red starts of a beard. Yes, that was something he needed—they all needed. How long had they been at it now? It seemed a string of several years, yet it had hardly been a day; one, dreadfully draining twenty-four hours.
Harrison took out a package of cigarettes—American by brand—and offered one to Keane. The Irishman smoked every now and then back home, but now it had become a constant; something to do with his hands while his mind wandered to safer waters. The bitter taste of tobacco had become pleasant to his palate as a pretty girl who smiles at you when she saunters past. That was another problem.
There was no female companionship. A man could not delve into the depths of his soul, for, to do show on a warship was a weakness. To do so to someone who listened and did their best to comfort, that was divine.
That was Natasha.
Harrison finished his cigarette first and debated whether or not to have another before deciding the better of it and instead shoved his hands into his coat pockets.
“Tell me, Brendan, when did you last have a good, hearty meal?”