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A cloudy week, yet no rain. The usual dust from the foundries blew the other way, and 4 of the latest American destroyers code named fee-through-fum were due to arrive and bolster the local press gang—I mean escort group. What a delightful day today turned out for Commander Poole!
Now, why do I hear children running in the hallways?
“Sir, MAJOR! MAJOR—” bashed in a breathless Gallant, gleaming in saber-rattling enthusiasm as if the jaws of death were past the fifth destroyed oak door this quarter
“Firstly, I drink rum, not beer,” the Commander corrected, already filling out a work order for yet another door, its hardware, and other associated damage. “Secondly, I liked that door.”
“MAJOR PROBLEM!” Gallant slammed his desk, sending neatly completed, organized, and tied papers everywhere, even the one under his pen.
“It’s Commander Problem…no, no. Just get on with it,” sighed the Commander, watching his delightful day dissolve like…like a cube of sugar in tea. Oh, that’s a good one!
Gallant geared her hands for another table-breaking strike, causing the table to jump into the air. She turned away and posed aghast with two hands pointing at the man in charge of fixing problems, “We have a problem!”
“And what seems to be the problem?” questioned the Commander coolly before quickly cutting off the gerrymandering Gallant, “And if you slam my desk one more time I will pull out my cherished problem solver and shoot you.”
“Sorry, sir.” the destroyer of wood objects reverted to attention, adjusting various parts of her non-regulation uniform. At least the maids have some sort of code despite being on par with every other deprived kansen in the home fleet.
“Very good. Now, tell me what this major problem—”
SLAM!
“MAJOR MALFUNCTION!” Gallant slammed, splitting the desk in twain.
“Right, that’s it!” Commander Poole retrieved the 18th Century swivel gun from beneath the once-desk. “TALLY-HO!”
~ ~ ~
“Condenser Issues?” The Commander asked, completely appalled that the light cruiser could report something so complex to his standing. Why should the line officers care what the machinists have to say about strategy?
The attendant maid read off the report in level tones and disproval, “Aye, air. Five auxiliary steamers, four corvettes, three flying boats, two destroyers, and a tugboat in a chestnut tree.”
“A tug boat.” The commander stared out the sea sprayed windows.
“Aye, sir.”
“In a chestnut tree.” Ah, there it is. The Royal Botanical Society will surely be pleased at the discovery of the mari adiutor ligno species. Tug boats growing on trees…the Commander reloaded the swivel gun and shot the good idea fairy. In his mind, of course.
“Aye, sir.”
“And I don’t suppose the local tow man can help.” Or a steam crane. A steam crane would do fine. It could also help the Commander dump some of these problems into the harbor.
“No, sir. May I ask what happened to Gallant?” the maid politely, but carefully asked. Poole sat down at his desk, looked at his desk, and realized he did not have a desk anymore.
“No you may not. You will tell me how this Condenser Issue came about so I can order a new desk. And speak plainly.”
“The ships are—”
Poole air-slammed his air-desk with less force with air-emphasis. “Not that plainly!”
“The issues are muddy, but all seem to have afflicted the affected steam condensers,” the cruiser kansen cringed. At least she wasn’t among the rabble in the berths.
“I see,” the Commander accepted, eyes wandering out the window unlike his spirit which remained chained to this plain of those insane. He was a destroyer flotilla commander, so at least he’s qualified.
“Should we delay admittance of the Lend-Lease destroyers?”
His eyes remained glaring at the hazy pane, or maybe what scene unfolded behind it. “Who on his Majesty’s seas?”
“Destroyers Fee, Fi, Foe, and Fum, sir.”
“No no, why is Cootamundra rolling about like a drunk sky foozey pulling aerobatics?” the Commander clarified, presenting the view of 750 tons moving about the harbor upside down.
“The girls are sick, sir,” she spoke plainly, slowly realizing why assignment to an escort group is considered a punishment.
“Of what? Don’t tell me it’s the food now. I spend a generous sum on spices, I’ll have you know.”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Then visit the shore galley, they have more spices than they know what to do with. I suspect they don’t know what to do with spices, actually.”
The maid frowned, “No, sir. I meant the girls.”
Poole placed a completely placid and harassment-free hand on the cruiser’s shoulder. “I never expected them to understand why I value meaninglessly dried organics. Don’t pull yourself over this small matter. You are a Royal maid after all.”
“Sir, I meant the condenser issues!” she stressed, gently and respectfully removing the superior’s hand.
“Condenser Issues?” The Commander asked, completely eluded to the relationship between machinery and seasoning. Other than seasoned machinery, boyo that stuff turns faster than a lanc’ster in a corkscrew!
The maid read off her disapproval, “Aye, sir, and it’s affecting this flotilla’s ability to carry out assigned duties!”
The Commander glanced back at the muted fever showing outside, then struck upon a moment of clarity belonging only to a man of his station, “I suspect this, Condenser Issue, is the result of mal-ingestion.”
“Aye, sir,” the maid released the longest, most inelegant breath of pent up frustrations she’s had since looking at that body on the floor. Forget sending for corpsmen, she has to clean the bloody thing!
“You, uh, Warwick, you are to investigate the ingestive cause and report back to me,” Poole preened, already drafting up operational use-case plans should the results prove earnestly.
“I’m not Warwick, I’m not even a destroyer!” Not-wick protested, taken back by such a simple mix up. Given the sanity of the man in question, though…
A dismissive hand wave rejected the maid’s claims, “You jest, have you seen how big the Royal Navy kansen are getting nowadays? It’s ridiculous! Half the time I can’t tell if I’m talking to a capital ship, an escort, or a rowboat!”
“I’m a cruiser!”
“A Harlot?!” Poole reloaded the swivel gun at a rate that would make His Majesty’s Machinegun proud, “Get out of my office! I will have no pleasure girls in my flotilla! TALLY-HO!”
Bang!
~ ~ ~
“Ah, those were fun times!” Commodore Poole reminisced, adding a pinch of curry powder to his tea. “That maid never did tell me what those poor kansen had to drink.”
Hood, having seen many things, found the Commodore’s fashion of beverage flavoring a little intriguing. If those curry buns were still being made more than a generation since their introduction, surely the Commodore must be on to something.
“Perchance Mrs. Peony knows of such a substance?”
Hood just smiled and held a single finger to her lips.
“A shame, I was hoping to try some of this secret coolant for myself.”