The Defector

The torpedoes hit the starboard side of their vessel-- the claxon blared and pierced the air, but every single man aboard already knew that they'd been hit, badly.

The boat was beginning to tilt-- it stopped seeming like mighty battle ship then. Now it was just a boat, hardly more sturdy than a canoe and it was moving to capsize.

The Navyman knew the icy plummet was marching towards them, their situation had gone from secure to hopeless. He sprinted through the narrow corridors and into the bridge. There was nobody there. He thumbed record and repeat on the PA, then he broadcast the order as boldly as he could through his shaky voice: "a-a-abandon ship!"

It wasn't his job to do that. Not by a long shot, but whoever's job it was they were already gone.

In the back of his mind, beneath that seething panic he worried that he'd face a court martial if he survived, for breaking the chain of command and issuing an order above his grade.

But that squirming part of him, the part that felt utterly mortal, that part was a the louder-- cold reason bled over the quivering mess of his mind: he didn't need to worry about a court martial, because he wasn't going to survive.

And as he ran in vain for the top deck through pitched coridors he burned with a powerful hate. He hated the enemy. He hated them, he HATED every single one of them.

He didn't even want the life boats as badly as he wanted to kill his enemy.

Cockroaches. Monsters. Flies. He'd squish them all if he could, and sounds of their wails would be some delight: an ointment to his ears! But the reality was no comfort. His head was filled with stampeding noises: men cursing and men praying and men babbling and shouting.... All of them were his comrades, some were his commanding officers-- others were even his friends-- but all their faces and their voices were obscured through the anonymity of shared fear.

And that damn claxon blared and the PA announced in his own recorded voice: "A-a-abandon ship... a-a-abandon ship... a-a-abandon ship."

Running through the chaos and the terror that had filled the ship he had no hope upon which to cling, the only feeling he had left in his defeat was hate.

And when he burst onto the open deck, and saw lifeboats still moored along the starboard side his heart leapt with a joy beyond understanding.

But nobody was moving to load them…

He shrieked to a crowd of men who hung back away from the boats, “what are you waiting for let’s go!”

When he rushed the boats the crowd surged with him, but as they set to their hasty work, men began to stumble.

A blossom of red opened across the white uniform of a member of command, and the commander clutched at that red stained shirt and stopped working.

Uncomprehending, the navyman shook the shoulders of one of the man in charge, and he felt how limp those shoulders were.

The commander fell in a slump, gently pawing at his flowing bossom he muttered some incomprehensible plea.

The air was cut to pieces, and more men opened and fell beside him.

The navy man screamed and fought for cover behind the life boats, as enemy bullets boiled and streaked over his head.

His rage was so deep and so powerless.

They’d lost! They were trying to evacuate!!

What kind of evil fucks would target fleeing men for sport?!

He gritted his teeth as groped his face to wring the blur from his eyes.

But his tears fell free.

He said, to himself more than anyone else, “I’m getting off this boat and I’m not gonna die. I’m not gonna die right here! I won’t stop breathing until I end one of those mother fuckers!”

And with that he vaulted over the edge of the life boat and onto its smaller deck.

Had he thought this would be a safe place to seek cover?

There were bodies in the boat, bodies of men who weren't soldiers any more. They looked like shredded beef and soggy napkins, and he knew that soon he'd wear a matching uniform.

Bullets peppered the world around him and he lurched to his feet. In one last desperate bid he leapt over the keening tilt and into the yawning blue of the ocean below.

The splash washed his senses clean and stripped the tremors from his body. Down here in the tropical sea, it was easy to feel a momentary reprieve-- no matter how coldly the threat of the deep churned below him.

But the sounds of the claxon and the crackle of gunfire mingled in his ears, just to sustain his torment.

Then another splash landed beside him and reddened the water.

A wave swelled up and he rode it west, and there was no conscious choice behind his direction. The water issued a command and he followed orders.

He swam then, as hard as he could, though his leg was aching and growing weaker with every kick.

He pulled himself desperately through the chop, and even as his strength faded he wondered how long until those shooters sighted him bobbing away in the blue….

But the sounds of battle-- no, massacre-- faded in his meager wake... His strenth too.

And then his only enemy was exhaustion.

He untied and kicked off his boots, and silently lamented the need. Then he stripped off his pants, tied the legs together and layered them out behind them. Hooking his fingers in the hip pockets, he flung the pants over his head and trapped as much air as he could.

He knew he shouldn't have had to resort to this desperate of a measure to stay afloat. He should have been able to tread for hours.

But the ached that pierced his leg laid it all plain for him to understand: he'd taken a hit. He was injured by their guns, those bastards.

And each kick away from the carnage washed his wound with salt and sucked the blood from his weakening body.

What a cruel joke! To survive the sinking of his station, to survive the loss of his comrades, only to slowly fail into his ultimate fate.

He saw no land and expected none. He knew they'd been stationed near some uninhabeted islands, but he had no idea if he was going the right direction...

A laugh cracked its way cross his dripping face when he realized it wouldn't do him much good to find those forsaken hills anyway.

He needed a hospital. Not a wilderness.

Still he pushed his way, along with the current. And he hoped pitifully to find some rock to drape himself across, so atlesat in his final moments he could catch his breath and rest his aching limbs.

When his strokes failed and water stung his air waves, he thought himself finallly caught by the grim. But one, final pathetic lurch, and his foot grazed something hard.

And sharp. He felt the lesh between his toes sting with the raw

And rock, or coral, or debris-- he knew not what-- did not give way before him. He rose a scant few inches above the crests and wakes and saw a green shore…. *and* the shadow of a man splashing out towards him.

***

Th next free hours or days he lay in a stupor.

Broken rays of sunlight filtered through swaying fronds, and he sipped from cracked coconuts. Their water soothed just parched lips and annointed his insides from tongue to stomach.

But whatever they did to soothe his fever, that was what he appreciated most.

Shivering in the hot tropical shade, he wondered if he was going to die.

Then anguish exploded in his thigh— it was a pain unlike any he had ever felt.

He found that he had a bit of coconut husk in his clenched teeth, and that was good, but as the joints in his face creaked, his scream spilled out beyond his muffle.

He passed out and that was best.

***

When the Navyman awoke, he saw a lean man, bronzed from the sun, crouched by a fire.

He was scrubbing a pocket knife in what appeared to be flame-blackened mess kit full of steaming hot water.

There was smoke on the horizon and what looked to be a sheen of oil and flotsam on the distant water.

He wanted to say something to this other survivor… but he didn’t know what to say.

So he watched the man work.

And he cried.

***

After he fell asleep his face still curled into a pained grimace, wrought from the intensity of his dreams.

He was standing on the look out, a scoped rifle in his hand. And he sighted in on the ent ship, it was sinking and they were scurrying like so many doomed ants.

Whenever they charged forward, for their life boats be opened fire and punched them back.

Young men, old men, commanders, and draftees— all fell to the purity and the rage of his bullets.

And he laughed to pluck their lives away.

But beyond the dream, he lay on a desolate beach in a fevered sleep, and though his leg had grown numb, there were tears that trickled down his face.

***

Into the night, the cold deepened. So did his delerium.

Senseless to his surroundings, he wandered in his disjointed perceptions, erring though they were:

The cold nibbled at his body, but a friend broght him comfort-- a blanket, light but warm. It just come out of the dryer, and it was a blessing over his salted skin.

He pulled this blanket up to his chin, groaned and silenced his shivers.

Then he rested well and easy, and whenever he woke he sipped coconut and smacked his bruised lips.

Then that strange night receded and he saw the sun crack a smile over the far horizon. There was no longer any sign of the murders that had been, out in that beautiful distance-- no longer any sign of the long-ago of war.

He pulled his blanket close. But it was cold now, and he began to tremble. His eyes stung. The navyman looked down, and blinked. The blanket was a jacket, and there were certainly no dryers in this--

"That's gotta be cold by now, Mr. Blevins. Here's a new one one."

The man from the night before strolled over and knelt beside him and pulled the cold jacket away, to replace it with one that was full of toasty warmth.

It smelled of smoke and when the Navyman looked at the Stranger, he saw that the stranger was shirtless.... and he was warming the second jacket beside the fire.

The stranger turned his wide face toward the navyman and smiled. "How does it feel to be alive brother?

It felt sore. It felt broken. It felt resentful.

His body was still weak, pitifully weak.

But his mind was climbing out of the funk of confusion that had grippex him throughout his age-long illness. "Sir... how do you know my name?"

And the stranger smiled, "It's on your jacket."

And Blevin's face set into a grim, but steady frown. "And what, sir, is the name on your jacket?"

The man smiled. And his skin wasn't bronzed from the sun-- it was simply dark. His brows were soft, and his voice tainted with the accent of the enemy. "My name is Francis, brother. Not sir. Now we aren't strangers any longer!"

And Blevin saw the name, printed on the breast of the jacket as it warmed by the fire. And he saw the jacket lapells... they were not the colors he adored.

He looked desperately around for a weapon, but his head was overwhelmingly heavy and he saw nothing. Not even a stick or a stone. The enemy's eyes did not waver. Blevins had seen what his kind were capable of. And he recognized something rotten in the one who had nursed him through the nights-- the same hate he felt! This man, this soldier was toying with him.... Gloating. Luxuriating in the lead up to the kill.

The soldier's eyes were like a mirror and Blevins saw himself, burning for revenge.

But helpless.... He forced himself to meet the enemy's gaze. "When do you plan to kill me? When I'm regained enough strength to make a suitable sport?"

And Francis furrowed his brow. "Never. I don't plan to kill you at all."

And his eyes seemed to wander for the first time in what seemed like an eon. They widened and the image those deep mirrors cast wasn't one of hate. It was one of supreme sadness-- thick remorse. He added, "I'm not going to kill you, or anybody else. Once was enough of a stain on my mind, and I will never hate again either. I am not a soldier any more."

They sat in a deep silence, and Blevins swore he could hear a sound beneath the whispering waves and he wondered what it was-- some inarticulate peace? But it was not complete. There was still an anger loud enough to feed.

And Francis passed Blevins a coconut, and said, "I'm very tired after such a long night. I'd like to sleep, but I'll lay near, in case you need me for anything more, brother."

Blevins heard the stampede, revenge called out. If Francis slept, how easy would it be to crawl beside him and smother the life out of his breast....

But Francis did not seem like the enemy Blevins had hoped for. He didn't seem evil, or even different enough anymore.

And he wondered if any of the men on that opposing boat, even the ones who pulled the triggers would have been evil enough for him to glory in harming.

Or would the act... haunt him, the way it seemed to haunt this would be stranger?

He let the impulse pass and reached out to take the coconut.