Chapter Text
To my wild friend,
Warspite has gotten around to regalling her exploits for the young ones. Despite the level of candid violence, she is shockingly receptive to the idea that our destroyers crave for such viciousness Though most of our ‘little ones’ have their own tales, they do like it when someone else is run to the bone, as is the case with the war corgi. The Queen knows she doesn’t get enough attention as she should.
My tales of heroism fall very short, if you can consider my actions as such. Manning a little box and tapping away longs and shorts has done wonders for my nerves. I cannot describe the joy of employing a physical and mental deficiency in a productive manner. To be of useful for king and country once again is a use I do hope to hold until either I or the transatlantic cables rust away.
But I would not correspond in like if I had nothing to converse; I recall forwarding a telegraph for American news broadcasters that highlighted some of your exploits. In particular, I find it peculiar that you managed to support your troops for as far and as long as you did. While I’m certain of basic large-scale ballistics entrusted to me by studious graduates of our naval academy, I cannot see how you managed such an exploit? Would you kindly sate my curiosity? Tapping middlessly all day does leave one wishing for more than daily chats with the postmaster, even if I have to send letters to myself. I do look forward to your letters, however.
Your dearest limey,
Lady Hood.
~ ~ ~
To my dearest limey,
Long story short, I shot my hip.
Go ahead, read it again. I know your eyes ain’t what they used to be. Just in case, lemme writing in a language you can understand:
HIP WENT BOOM.
Blamo, jointus explodous, testa ad coxae.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Good heavens and all that shines upon the known wonders of medicine, why, in the King’s gracious name, would you settle on self-harm to express your insecurities? Jolly bad, if I do dare say so myself.” I think that’s what you’d say. British doesn’t translate well into Texan, let alone American.
Let me tell it to ya straight. No one but my own sis knows this and a few of your limey ships, so I’d appreciate it if you kept the lid vacuum sealed.
Everyone always jokes that I can list at will to give my guns the elevation they need. I heard rumors from an officer’s club called the Cookie’s Jar that I can swim like a sub and snorkel all day. Another good one that gives me the kicks are the rumors USS Gun Club, Old Guns, and Old Club. The standards think modernization included increasing standard maximum elevation, the pre-standards think I cheated on my gunnery trials by purposely shooting short, and the pre-dreadnoughts think it’s magic. It’s not like I joined the exclusive Submerged Bulkhead club like that Cleveland bunny and some heavy cruisers. I don’t ever fancy drowning. Won’t start trying either, even if the floodin’s under control.
So how does a big, mean mother hubbard like me grease my elbows without drowning my lungs like a victorious vet catching the flu from dismissive and rude civilians? The answer, bend back over.
It’s not that simple. Us New Yorks got the Standing-Roosevelt treatment, that means we’ve got full-length external braces for our legs. BurShips said something about steadying our legs if we hit a torp, a mine, or another god-damn shoal! Anyway, those things make me look fat in my chaps while being much sturdier than they look. When the time came for me to answer a T-Patcher fire support mission, T-Patchers being a Division mostly made of my stateboys, I couldn’t lean back far enough to properly support all five of my side-by-sides.
So I shot the joint where my leg brace connects to my hip. The joint came loose, but I should’ve used my 3-inch automatic instead of the 5-inch revolver. The good news is that I can even beat the Iris in a flexibility contest! Only to one side, though. The bad news is that I limp a bit to one side now, can’t even walk straight. Don’t you start drafting a reply telling me to fix myself. I tried, and this is one problem where more gun just ain’t practical.
Don’t go meddling in my business under these torpedo bulges. I’m quite proud of my scars. You should be proud of yours too. Not many folks return from drink as they entered it. I know poor Okie’s still under medical house arrest at the USS Gun Club. I think the krauts share the same coping mechanism while the Japs just smoke away. If anything, you Brits oughtta hand it to y’all’s self for resiliency. I know I’d pull the trigger if I got sunk by a coastal battery.
You still drinking that recipe I sent you? I know it’s not ‘proper tea’ as your Maid Corps likes to say, but American levels of flavors might just be the thing to kickstart your tongue. I’m sending over a buddy of mine with Union-brand goodies. Rubber candies, powdered foods, and little something special that a member of our USS Old Club’s been making for a while. Don’t let your customs department get a hold of him though, I just know they’re gonna seize the cargo for themselves. If I want to spoil my friends, I’m going to spoil them right. Otherwise it just ain’t right. Take care now, you hear?
Your wild friend,
Old Tex.