Nautical Nightmares

Chapter 1

Woken at 0500 to a stern voice instructing us to get up. Ten minutes to be out on deck. Uniforms, without a SINGLE crease, shoes shining. Not a strand of hair out of place. We all stood along the deck, tall, proud, chins up. I was no exception to this. I seemed quite tall compared to other people my age (baring in mind I was merely fifteen). Relatively 'mature'  but the one problem I had (and still have), is that I couldn't keep my mouth shut even at the most serious of times.

At 0530, the Skipper was pacing up and down the line of our crew for inspection to ensure our uniforms were in order and everything was 'ship-shape' as they'd call it. He stopped at me, staring deadly into my eyes. The Skipper had a glass eye which made him look like a cross-eyed fool. So while he stared into my soul with his half-glassy glare, I couldn't resist the temptation to laugh. His glare hardened. I stopped my immature laughter, straightened my back and attempted to look serious again. He didn't move. Instead he snapped in my face with a loud, hoarse voice that made a fog horn sound quiet.

"Who in God's name do you think you are, boy!?" he boomed, leaning mere inches from my face.

"Riley Kirkland, sir." I smirked as a response "I thought you were meant to know your crew, Skipper"

"Sarcasm may have got you somewhere back home, boy, but don't expect it the raise your rank here! You're in MY domain now!" He hissed, moving away from me and proceeding down the line to complete the inspection.

I was aware my sarcasm wouldn't be of any use here but I couldn't help myself. It was an opportunity and I took it like anyone else would have. Other sailors stared at me in shock. I stood there, smirking to myself silently while they gawped at me as if I had just spat in Winston Churchill's tea or told the king himself to piss off. They were all over dramatic, Skipper wouldn't have done anything to anyone unless it was an act of mutiny or assault. That hadn't happened. I was just a 'smart-arse' as a few of the crew had said themselves. One of the crew was pulled out by Skipper. A newbie. He was quite scrawny, short; possessed pale skin, light hair and quite darkly coloured eyes. His uniform was full of creases, shoes appeared dull and scuffed up; his hair looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge backwards by a savage ape or something. Skipper shoved the newbie in my direction, as if telling him to follow me around or learn to actually LOOK like you've not been marooned on an island inhabited by an uncivilised tribe. Given a responsibility more important than cleaning the deck. Showing the newbie the ropes to being in the navy, it'd be like babysitting; only it's a grown man you're telling what to do, and not a stubborn little girl with the tendency to throw her dolls at you. 

The newbie approached, he seemed to be trembling either from cold ocean air, or out of fear but he was polite and maintained his composure "Swinson." he started holding out a hand for a handshake "Albert Swinson."

I shook his hand politely "No need for an introduction, really, but I assume you've got to learn from me. Probably the worst mistake for someone to make, but it beats mopping up some other sailor's vomit." Another sailor laughed at my comment, I turned around to him sharply and snapped "Oh piss off, Ainsworth! Everyone here KNOWS you're the worst for sea sickness!"

Ainsworth stopped laughing and looked down. He was a fairly tall man of thirty or forty, dark hair, face like he got hit with a shovel, repeatedly; he was quite 'lily-livered', often threw up on the deck rather than over the railing or into a bucket and could NEVER hold down even a pint of lager. He was by far the most pathetic man I had the misfortune to meet, but he wasn't much of a talker and that made him less annoying than others. 

It was rough aboard this battleship: many unnecessary disputes; random violent outbursts; insults or 'banter' that would make the most hard-hearted of men cry themselves to sleep. No sir, we were not in our home towns or cities anymore, we were on the Barracuda, sailing full steam ahead in the British Channel en route to the coast of France. We were about to get into some of the bloodiest battles we will EVER witness -- Far worse than a fist fight outside of your local pub, this was war.