(no subject)
Title: Red Skies
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 11 November 2010
Summary: Some Marines from HMS Cornwall find themselves in a very unusual situation. 17 September 1944.
Author's Note: An AoS/WWII crackfic. A squad of RevWar-era Marines participate in the opening jump of Operation Market.
Each man's alloted kit had been carefully laid out and marked, so to avoid confusion. Of that, however, there was an abundance. Thin metal curved hats, heavy packs filled with fine silk and thin rigging, slightly-less heavy packs with similar loads, canvas field packs stuffed with gear and 'essentials', thick waistbelts laden with various small pouches, other-worldly weapons called rifles, small metal devices laughably called pistols... there was almost too much for one man to carry. How were they expected to carry such a load and be able to move ably on the mission they had been given?
"This is bloody mad," Billy Springfield said in disgust, dangling his issued field pack from one hand as though he didn't want to touch it at all. "We're s'posed to wear all this over our own kit?"
Nick Frazier looked up from his thoughtful study of the small shovel he'd been given. "It fits, somehow. Me an' Berty tried it out last night. Clumsy's all hell but it fits!"
This news only made Springfield scowl. "Ain't natural," he complained.
"Oh stow it, Billy," Colbert Smith told him irritably. He already had pulled on half of his additional kit and was fussing over the placement of his white leather crossbelts underneath the straps of the extra packs. Even the colours made no sense. A mixture of green straps and tan packs, for the most part. Some were all tan, others all green. It was if they had been made out of whatever material had been closest to hand.
"Get kitted up," Corporal McIntyre called. He, of course, was already wearing everything, including the daft metal hat with its thin cotton liner. His cocked hat was tucked under one arm and his musket slung awkwardly from his right shoulder. "We got places to be, lads."
The Marines groaned but roused themselves from their various distractions. There was no escaping that they were to be part of this cutting out operation. Or that was how McIntyre had described it to them. They were to be dropped ashore with the express goal of capturing a bridge. None of them had ever heard of a place called Arnhem and only a few knew recognised the name 'Holland'. All they knew was that there was a lot of ground to cover and not a lot of time to cover it in.
"At least this rubbish don't need pipeclayin'," Tom Mayden observed, sounding relieved.
One of the army corporals appeared in the doorway. "Thirty minutes, you lot. Get crackin' on, will you?" He was gone again as suddenly as he appeared, no doubt only too willing to put distance between himself and them. That seemed to be a common theme since they'd arrived.
"One bell. That's all?" It was Springfield again. "Take half a bloody day to get all this sorted!"
"Stow it," Frazier told him. He and Smith were already busy helping each other get the bulky silk-stuffed packs comfortably settled. The others were hauling on their own kit and doing their best to find some suitable way to keep their cartridges boxes and bayonet scabbards from either digging into their flanks or sticking out awkwardly around the straps of their packs.
"You stow it," Springfield shot back.
Frazier hefted up his musket, the last piece of kit to find a place for. "Ain't me what's cryin' like a girl."
"Quit natterin' on," McIntyre called, souding amused. "Hurry up. Sarn't Potter wants the whole company paraded 'fore we load up."
His Marines grinned at each other, the passing disagreement already forgotten. Most of them had sorted their equipment and moved to fall into two loose ranks. The weight of their kit reduced their normal gaits to awkward shufffles. The subdued colour of the packs and straps stood out against their faded red coats and white facings. To a man, they looked like a horrible clash between parade-ground pride and drab campaign dress.
"Hats off," McIntyre went on. "Leave 'em here. Unless one of you's got a clever way of securin' 'em when we go, that is."
Silence. Naturally. Then, "Could hold onto 'em?" John Corbett offered.
"Aye," Tom Mayden sneered. "With all this on, an' our muskets? Good luck!"
"Nothin' to be in our hands. Even our muskets. Those'll be tied down 'cross our fronts. Hats off, then." McIntyre pointed at a table nearby. Their breakfast had been served there. Stale crackers, some thin slop somebody called eggs, and watery tea. "Corporal Murray promises me they'll be looked after carefully."
Reluctantly, the Marines shuffled forward to set their salt-stained, sun-faded hats onto the table's worn surface. McIntyre watched them impassively, his own hat already given up. He counted them as they filed slowly past. Nine, ten, eleven... "Where's Barrett?"
The men exchanged glances and shrugs. Nobody knew. He'd been with them an hour before but he was utterly absent now. From the doorway came the clomp of boots and Corporal Murray appeared. "Let's be 'bout it, you boys," he said flatly. "Planes don't wait for anybody."
That was it. No more time, and no Mattie Barrett. It couldn't be helped. McIntyre shrugged awkwardly. "Move along, lads. Steadily now. No running."
Several of them offered short chuckles as they waddled toward the door, following in Murray's wake like overburdened ducks. McIntyre glanced back at the untidy jumble of cocked hats, left behind on the folding table, then he shuffled after the trailing file. Outside, the rest of the battalion was assembling, every man similarly weighted down. It was to be several brigades making the foray ashore, the 'jump' as the army called it. A truly mighty undertaking.
"Hey, you lads," Mattie Barrett called cheerfully. He stood with several soldiers, sharing a cigarette with them. Or trying to. Barrett had never smoked anything in his life. The Marines stared at him in disbelief. Gone was his red coat and crossbelts, and indeed his entire uniform. He wore instead the boots, brown trousers, and multi-coloured jacket that every other man around them had. He'd even, apparently, given up his musket in favour of a rifle. To all outward appearances, he seemed like just another of these soldiers. He might have been a stranger.
"Look who's given up everythin' that's normal," Tom Mayden observed with a sneer.
Barrett fairly beamed, after coughing on a lungful of smoke. "You always was sour, Tom."
"Least I ain't forgettin' what I am."
One of the soldiers held up a hand. "Enough. Save your spirit for the Germans, yeah?"
"Sure," Barrett agreed, passing the stub of a cigarette back. "Thanks."
McIntyre smirked at the sight of the slack-jawed expressions that lingered on his Marines' faces. He was as surprised as the rest of them, but somehow he'd expected something like this from Barrett. Out of all of them, he'd shown the most interest in this world and its strange ways. "Fall in, Barrett. If you're still comin' with us!"
"You lads with Potter's company?" The question came from the soldier Barrett had passed the cigarette off to. At McIntyre's nod, the man grinned. "You'll have loads of fun in Holland, in that getup!"
That was a similar remark to innumerable others McIntyre and the others had heard ever since their arrival. He simply shrugged. Red coats and muskets were what he understood and was comfortable with. Mattie Barrett could have the strange clothes and the rifle all he wanted. The others were better off with their original kit.
"C'mon lads," McIntyre prompted. The unusual group moved on, with Barrett falling in behind them. There were groups of soldiers drifting toward their assigned staging areas all around them, so at least they were not the only ones shuffling uncomfortably across the hard-packed dirt. Sergeant Potter, a big, tree-like man, waved a plate-sized hand to summon the Marines toward him. The rest of the company was already gathered.
"Right. About time. Listen up. We load up in ten minutes. Planes take off soon after that. Kit inspection now and in the air. Once we're on the ground, we move out directly. Stragglers won't be waited up for."
That was a not so veiled slight at the redcoated Marines, but McIntyre ignored it. "Won't be any stragglers, Sarn't."
Potter clearly didn't believe him. "Yes. Well. Stay close to the company and we won't have to find out. Fall in for inspection!"
The mixed company of soldiers and Marines straightened up as much as they could. Potter and the company's junior officer, a round-faced lieutenant, moved through the ranks, making a thorough check of every man's kit. It was a torturous wait. Men wove slightly back and forth on their feet, unable to keep from swaying that barest bit. Under the weight of his kit, Tom Mayden felt as though he was being crushed. This was not the first time he'd worn the full load, but it was to be the first time he'd jump with it. He had no idea how that might even be possible. It obviously was, somehow, to hear these soldiers talk, but he was doubtful of their stories. Soldiers were renowned for their exaggerated tales.
"Check your webbing," Potter was saying. "Make sure your straps and buckles are firm and tight."
Right. As if he had any idea how to do that! Mayden gave a half-hearted tug at one of the straps at his hip. Hardy had helped him get all this rubbish on. How was he, or Hardy, to know if it was all done correctly? It was a certainty that Potter would tell him, but he disliked the big sergeant. Not that he cared much for sergeants in general to be begin with.
"Sort out your webbing." Potter had reached him at last. "Untwist that, rebuckle this, and for God's sake why are you lot still wearing that red shit?"
Mayden bristled but said nothing. Intead, he fumbled to sort out the parts of his kit that Potter had pointed carelessly at, only to succeed in irritating the sergeant even more with his efforts. With another curse, Potter knocked Mayden's hands aside and deftly shifted one strap and adjusted another. A moment later he had moved on, to make similar remarks and adjustments to Billy Springfield's rig.
Before any of them knew it, they were loading up onto huge green-painted ship they would be travelling aboard. It was making the most unsettling rumbling roar from the flat masts that stuck out from either side of the hull. The soldiers were hauling themselves up short ladders through a door set well back from the ship's bow. Michael Quintin eyed the whole vessel with distrust. How was that supposed to sail? It was like no ship he'd ever seen before. No proper masts, no yards, no sails or rigging. Real ships didn't make such horrid noise either.
"Move along there, no dawdling. Keep to your files. Quit gawkin' at me, Hodge!"
Another officer appeared, peering impatiently at the slow-moving men. "Smartly now, Sergeant. We'll not be falling behind schedule!"
Quintin pretended not to see the flash of annoyance on Potter's face, but it wasn't hard. There was plenty to concentrate on just getting up that short ladder without falling backward off it under the weight of all his kit. The man behind him had to shove him upwards when he stumbled on the first step. Potter's hands gripped at his sleeves and Quintin found himself hauled roughly up into the ship. Inside the hull, it seemed like the noise from the flat masts was louder. It made Quintin's ears feel numb. He shuffled toward a white-faced Sam Lachlan and dropped heavily onto the metal bench that rested against the curving hull.
"Move along there!" Sergeant Potter's voice seemed faint and distant, with the roar of the ship's engines, as somebody called them, seeming to increase. Another man dropped down next to Quintin, squeezing him up against Lachlan. Bloody hell.
"Might's well get comfortable, lads," a soldier shouted, his voice carrying only a little better than Potter's. "It'll be a long ride."
Comfortable. Small chance of that! The ship gave a lurch and started drifting forward, the roar from its engines getting even louder. Quintin reached up to cover his ears. For all the good it did. They would have to suffer with this awful noise until they were near their objective. Damn. The motion of the ship grew steadily worse, the entire hull seeming to shake around them, and beside him Lachlan retched. There was a bump that made the whole ship rattle, then suddenly the deck canted sharply, the bow lifting up and up and not coming down again. Across the aisle, Billy Springfield gave a gurgling cough and was sick all over the metal deck.
Suffering Jesus, Quintin thought, his own stomach feeling on the verge of similar illness. What in the hell had they gotten themselves into? Finally, blessedly, the ship settled, but the ear-deadening drone and the awful rattling about didn't lessen. Of course not. That'd be too much to ask!
"Cigarette?" The soldier across the aisle held out a crinkly pack toward him. Quintin managed to shake his head jerkily. Who in their right minds could even think of such a thing right now? He fixed his gaze on the hull opposite him and tried to settle his heaving stomach. If this wasn't a nightmare, he couldn't think what was.
It seemed like an age before Sergeant Potter's rasping bellow vied with the drone from the engines for their attention. "Wake up, you lot. Stand up!"
Blinking, feeling unaccountably stiff, Quintin lurched awkwardly to his feet. He mimicked the soldier across from him and fumbled for the metal clip attached to the long line that was looped across the back of his pack. Like the others, he held it up before him. They had all been trained with this strange kit, but it was as if any knowledge of it had disappeared, driven from his mind by the constant rocking about and the brain-numbing noise.
"Hook up! Check kit!"
Hook up. The metal bit went onto the metal line that ran along the top of the ship. What good that did, he couldn't remember. Hands prodded just noticeably over his pack. Lachlan was checking his straps and packs. Quintin looked over the equipment of the man to his right before slapping him on the shoulder, the same as Lachlan had done to him. It could be wrong for all he could tell, but it didn't look any different from when they'd dragged themselves aboard this wretched ship. Sergeant Potter was staring down the two ranks expectantly.
"Right. You all know what's what. Secure your kit when we're on the ground and fall in on me. No dawdlin' from anyone!"
Springfield was being sick again and Quintin felt his own stomach clench painfully. It was only now dawning on him that they were about to do something horribly unnatural. These soldiers were comfortable with it, but they would be. They were as daft as this whole world was. There was a rattle in the hull, then Sergeant Potter, who had been leaning carelessly through the open doorway, bellowed, "Get ready!" He stepped back from the doorway and waved his arms at the men closest to him. "Stand in the door!"
Quintin's rank inched aft. There was a new noise. The thunder of wind rushing past outside the rectangular hole in the hull. It was all he could do to hear his own thoughts. More shouting from Potter. "Go! Go lads! Move along, move along. Go go!"
His rank was moving toward the door, carrying him along with it. He couldn't have stayed motionless even if he'd wanted to. The men behind him were jostling him forward, preventing him from freezing in place. Suddenly he was at the door, both hands gripping the hard metal hull, the wind tearing past. Good God but the ground was so far below him. He'd never been this high from the earth. Even at the very top of the mainmast, he was only two hundred feet above the deck. This was much higher. He could not even guess how far it was to the earth from here.
"Go, damn you!" Somebody behind him shoved forward. He could not have hesitated more than a few seconds but it was too long. Before he could even comprehend what was happening, Quintin's feet left the solid deck and kicked wildly at empty air. There was nothing between him and that mottled pattern of land so dizzyingly far below him. He thundered out a terrified curse, thinking he would fall helplessly the entire way.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, there was a hard, bone-jarring jerk from above him and his descent was roughly checked. Quintin dragged his wide-eyed stare from the distant blur of ground and turned it upward, toward the green circle of silk above him. It had blossomed from his pack only a few seconds after he had been pushed from the ship, but God it had felt like a lifetime. He wanted to curse again, this time in relief, but his mouth was bone-dry. A miracle. That's what it was. A bloody miracle. He clutched at the thin rigging holding him to that blessed sail. Never again!
Somewhere above him, he could hear Mattie Barrett cheering. The boy would be enjoying this, wouldn't he? It was no surprise. He could understand now why McIntyre had made them leave their cocked hats behind. They'd never have kept a hold on them through this! Quintin squeezed his eyes shut, the swirl of earth and sky making his stomach lurch unbearably. Just how anybody could enjoy this was utterly beyond him. The sky was no place for a man. Not at all. The sooner he got his feet back on solid, unmoving dirt, the better!
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 11 November 2010
Summary: Some Marines from HMS Cornwall find themselves in a very unusual situation. 17 September 1944.
Author's Note: An AoS/WWII crackfic. A squad of RevWar-era Marines participate in the opening jump of Operation Market.
Each man's alloted kit had been carefully laid out and marked, so to avoid confusion. Of that, however, there was an abundance. Thin metal curved hats, heavy packs filled with fine silk and thin rigging, slightly-less heavy packs with similar loads, canvas field packs stuffed with gear and 'essentials', thick waistbelts laden with various small pouches, other-worldly weapons called rifles, small metal devices laughably called pistols... there was almost too much for one man to carry. How were they expected to carry such a load and be able to move ably on the mission they had been given?
"This is bloody mad," Billy Springfield said in disgust, dangling his issued field pack from one hand as though he didn't want to touch it at all. "We're s'posed to wear all this over our own kit?"
Nick Frazier looked up from his thoughtful study of the small shovel he'd been given. "It fits, somehow. Me an' Berty tried it out last night. Clumsy's all hell but it fits!"
This news only made Springfield scowl. "Ain't natural," he complained.
"Oh stow it, Billy," Colbert Smith told him irritably. He already had pulled on half of his additional kit and was fussing over the placement of his white leather crossbelts underneath the straps of the extra packs. Even the colours made no sense. A mixture of green straps and tan packs, for the most part. Some were all tan, others all green. It was if they had been made out of whatever material had been closest to hand.
"Get kitted up," Corporal McIntyre called. He, of course, was already wearing everything, including the daft metal hat with its thin cotton liner. His cocked hat was tucked under one arm and his musket slung awkwardly from his right shoulder. "We got places to be, lads."
The Marines groaned but roused themselves from their various distractions. There was no escaping that they were to be part of this cutting out operation. Or that was how McIntyre had described it to them. They were to be dropped ashore with the express goal of capturing a bridge. None of them had ever heard of a place called Arnhem and only a few knew recognised the name 'Holland'. All they knew was that there was a lot of ground to cover and not a lot of time to cover it in.
"At least this rubbish don't need pipeclayin'," Tom Mayden observed, sounding relieved.
One of the army corporals appeared in the doorway. "Thirty minutes, you lot. Get crackin' on, will you?" He was gone again as suddenly as he appeared, no doubt only too willing to put distance between himself and them. That seemed to be a common theme since they'd arrived.
"One bell. That's all?" It was Springfield again. "Take half a bloody day to get all this sorted!"
"Stow it," Frazier told him. He and Smith were already busy helping each other get the bulky silk-stuffed packs comfortably settled. The others were hauling on their own kit and doing their best to find some suitable way to keep their cartridges boxes and bayonet scabbards from either digging into their flanks or sticking out awkwardly around the straps of their packs.
"You stow it," Springfield shot back.
Frazier hefted up his musket, the last piece of kit to find a place for. "Ain't me what's cryin' like a girl."
"Quit natterin' on," McIntyre called, souding amused. "Hurry up. Sarn't Potter wants the whole company paraded 'fore we load up."
His Marines grinned at each other, the passing disagreement already forgotten. Most of them had sorted their equipment and moved to fall into two loose ranks. The weight of their kit reduced their normal gaits to awkward shufffles. The subdued colour of the packs and straps stood out against their faded red coats and white facings. To a man, they looked like a horrible clash between parade-ground pride and drab campaign dress.
"Hats off," McIntyre went on. "Leave 'em here. Unless one of you's got a clever way of securin' 'em when we go, that is."
Silence. Naturally. Then, "Could hold onto 'em?" John Corbett offered.
"Aye," Tom Mayden sneered. "With all this on, an' our muskets? Good luck!"
"Nothin' to be in our hands. Even our muskets. Those'll be tied down 'cross our fronts. Hats off, then." McIntyre pointed at a table nearby. Their breakfast had been served there. Stale crackers, some thin slop somebody called eggs, and watery tea. "Corporal Murray promises me they'll be looked after carefully."
Reluctantly, the Marines shuffled forward to set their salt-stained, sun-faded hats onto the table's worn surface. McIntyre watched them impassively, his own hat already given up. He counted them as they filed slowly past. Nine, ten, eleven... "Where's Barrett?"
The men exchanged glances and shrugs. Nobody knew. He'd been with them an hour before but he was utterly absent now. From the doorway came the clomp of boots and Corporal Murray appeared. "Let's be 'bout it, you boys," he said flatly. "Planes don't wait for anybody."
That was it. No more time, and no Mattie Barrett. It couldn't be helped. McIntyre shrugged awkwardly. "Move along, lads. Steadily now. No running."
Several of them offered short chuckles as they waddled toward the door, following in Murray's wake like overburdened ducks. McIntyre glanced back at the untidy jumble of cocked hats, left behind on the folding table, then he shuffled after the trailing file. Outside, the rest of the battalion was assembling, every man similarly weighted down. It was to be several brigades making the foray ashore, the 'jump' as the army called it. A truly mighty undertaking.
"Hey, you lads," Mattie Barrett called cheerfully. He stood with several soldiers, sharing a cigarette with them. Or trying to. Barrett had never smoked anything in his life. The Marines stared at him in disbelief. Gone was his red coat and crossbelts, and indeed his entire uniform. He wore instead the boots, brown trousers, and multi-coloured jacket that every other man around them had. He'd even, apparently, given up his musket in favour of a rifle. To all outward appearances, he seemed like just another of these soldiers. He might have been a stranger.
"Look who's given up everythin' that's normal," Tom Mayden observed with a sneer.
Barrett fairly beamed, after coughing on a lungful of smoke. "You always was sour, Tom."
"Least I ain't forgettin' what I am."
One of the soldiers held up a hand. "Enough. Save your spirit for the Germans, yeah?"
"Sure," Barrett agreed, passing the stub of a cigarette back. "Thanks."
McIntyre smirked at the sight of the slack-jawed expressions that lingered on his Marines' faces. He was as surprised as the rest of them, but somehow he'd expected something like this from Barrett. Out of all of them, he'd shown the most interest in this world and its strange ways. "Fall in, Barrett. If you're still comin' with us!"
"You lads with Potter's company?" The question came from the soldier Barrett had passed the cigarette off to. At McIntyre's nod, the man grinned. "You'll have loads of fun in Holland, in that getup!"
That was a similar remark to innumerable others McIntyre and the others had heard ever since their arrival. He simply shrugged. Red coats and muskets were what he understood and was comfortable with. Mattie Barrett could have the strange clothes and the rifle all he wanted. The others were better off with their original kit.
"C'mon lads," McIntyre prompted. The unusual group moved on, with Barrett falling in behind them. There were groups of soldiers drifting toward their assigned staging areas all around them, so at least they were not the only ones shuffling uncomfortably across the hard-packed dirt. Sergeant Potter, a big, tree-like man, waved a plate-sized hand to summon the Marines toward him. The rest of the company was already gathered.
"Right. About time. Listen up. We load up in ten minutes. Planes take off soon after that. Kit inspection now and in the air. Once we're on the ground, we move out directly. Stragglers won't be waited up for."
That was a not so veiled slight at the redcoated Marines, but McIntyre ignored it. "Won't be any stragglers, Sarn't."
Potter clearly didn't believe him. "Yes. Well. Stay close to the company and we won't have to find out. Fall in for inspection!"
The mixed company of soldiers and Marines straightened up as much as they could. Potter and the company's junior officer, a round-faced lieutenant, moved through the ranks, making a thorough check of every man's kit. It was a torturous wait. Men wove slightly back and forth on their feet, unable to keep from swaying that barest bit. Under the weight of his kit, Tom Mayden felt as though he was being crushed. This was not the first time he'd worn the full load, but it was to be the first time he'd jump with it. He had no idea how that might even be possible. It obviously was, somehow, to hear these soldiers talk, but he was doubtful of their stories. Soldiers were renowned for their exaggerated tales.
"Check your webbing," Potter was saying. "Make sure your straps and buckles are firm and tight."
Right. As if he had any idea how to do that! Mayden gave a half-hearted tug at one of the straps at his hip. Hardy had helped him get all this rubbish on. How was he, or Hardy, to know if it was all done correctly? It was a certainty that Potter would tell him, but he disliked the big sergeant. Not that he cared much for sergeants in general to be begin with.
"Sort out your webbing." Potter had reached him at last. "Untwist that, rebuckle this, and for God's sake why are you lot still wearing that red shit?"
Mayden bristled but said nothing. Intead, he fumbled to sort out the parts of his kit that Potter had pointed carelessly at, only to succeed in irritating the sergeant even more with his efforts. With another curse, Potter knocked Mayden's hands aside and deftly shifted one strap and adjusted another. A moment later he had moved on, to make similar remarks and adjustments to Billy Springfield's rig.
Before any of them knew it, they were loading up onto huge green-painted ship they would be travelling aboard. It was making the most unsettling rumbling roar from the flat masts that stuck out from either side of the hull. The soldiers were hauling themselves up short ladders through a door set well back from the ship's bow. Michael Quintin eyed the whole vessel with distrust. How was that supposed to sail? It was like no ship he'd ever seen before. No proper masts, no yards, no sails or rigging. Real ships didn't make such horrid noise either.
"Move along there, no dawdling. Keep to your files. Quit gawkin' at me, Hodge!"
Another officer appeared, peering impatiently at the slow-moving men. "Smartly now, Sergeant. We'll not be falling behind schedule!"
Quintin pretended not to see the flash of annoyance on Potter's face, but it wasn't hard. There was plenty to concentrate on just getting up that short ladder without falling backward off it under the weight of all his kit. The man behind him had to shove him upwards when he stumbled on the first step. Potter's hands gripped at his sleeves and Quintin found himself hauled roughly up into the ship. Inside the hull, it seemed like the noise from the flat masts was louder. It made Quintin's ears feel numb. He shuffled toward a white-faced Sam Lachlan and dropped heavily onto the metal bench that rested against the curving hull.
"Move along there!" Sergeant Potter's voice seemed faint and distant, with the roar of the ship's engines, as somebody called them, seeming to increase. Another man dropped down next to Quintin, squeezing him up against Lachlan. Bloody hell.
"Might's well get comfortable, lads," a soldier shouted, his voice carrying only a little better than Potter's. "It'll be a long ride."
Comfortable. Small chance of that! The ship gave a lurch and started drifting forward, the roar from its engines getting even louder. Quintin reached up to cover his ears. For all the good it did. They would have to suffer with this awful noise until they were near their objective. Damn. The motion of the ship grew steadily worse, the entire hull seeming to shake around them, and beside him Lachlan retched. There was a bump that made the whole ship rattle, then suddenly the deck canted sharply, the bow lifting up and up and not coming down again. Across the aisle, Billy Springfield gave a gurgling cough and was sick all over the metal deck.
Suffering Jesus, Quintin thought, his own stomach feeling on the verge of similar illness. What in the hell had they gotten themselves into? Finally, blessedly, the ship settled, but the ear-deadening drone and the awful rattling about didn't lessen. Of course not. That'd be too much to ask!
"Cigarette?" The soldier across the aisle held out a crinkly pack toward him. Quintin managed to shake his head jerkily. Who in their right minds could even think of such a thing right now? He fixed his gaze on the hull opposite him and tried to settle his heaving stomach. If this wasn't a nightmare, he couldn't think what was.
It seemed like an age before Sergeant Potter's rasping bellow vied with the drone from the engines for their attention. "Wake up, you lot. Stand up!"
Blinking, feeling unaccountably stiff, Quintin lurched awkwardly to his feet. He mimicked the soldier across from him and fumbled for the metal clip attached to the long line that was looped across the back of his pack. Like the others, he held it up before him. They had all been trained with this strange kit, but it was as if any knowledge of it had disappeared, driven from his mind by the constant rocking about and the brain-numbing noise.
"Hook up! Check kit!"
Hook up. The metal bit went onto the metal line that ran along the top of the ship. What good that did, he couldn't remember. Hands prodded just noticeably over his pack. Lachlan was checking his straps and packs. Quintin looked over the equipment of the man to his right before slapping him on the shoulder, the same as Lachlan had done to him. It could be wrong for all he could tell, but it didn't look any different from when they'd dragged themselves aboard this wretched ship. Sergeant Potter was staring down the two ranks expectantly.
"Right. You all know what's what. Secure your kit when we're on the ground and fall in on me. No dawdlin' from anyone!"
Springfield was being sick again and Quintin felt his own stomach clench painfully. It was only now dawning on him that they were about to do something horribly unnatural. These soldiers were comfortable with it, but they would be. They were as daft as this whole world was. There was a rattle in the hull, then Sergeant Potter, who had been leaning carelessly through the open doorway, bellowed, "Get ready!" He stepped back from the doorway and waved his arms at the men closest to him. "Stand in the door!"
Quintin's rank inched aft. There was a new noise. The thunder of wind rushing past outside the rectangular hole in the hull. It was all he could do to hear his own thoughts. More shouting from Potter. "Go! Go lads! Move along, move along. Go go!"
His rank was moving toward the door, carrying him along with it. He couldn't have stayed motionless even if he'd wanted to. The men behind him were jostling him forward, preventing him from freezing in place. Suddenly he was at the door, both hands gripping the hard metal hull, the wind tearing past. Good God but the ground was so far below him. He'd never been this high from the earth. Even at the very top of the mainmast, he was only two hundred feet above the deck. This was much higher. He could not even guess how far it was to the earth from here.
"Go, damn you!" Somebody behind him shoved forward. He could not have hesitated more than a few seconds but it was too long. Before he could even comprehend what was happening, Quintin's feet left the solid deck and kicked wildly at empty air. There was nothing between him and that mottled pattern of land so dizzyingly far below him. He thundered out a terrified curse, thinking he would fall helplessly the entire way.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, there was a hard, bone-jarring jerk from above him and his descent was roughly checked. Quintin dragged his wide-eyed stare from the distant blur of ground and turned it upward, toward the green circle of silk above him. It had blossomed from his pack only a few seconds after he had been pushed from the ship, but God it had felt like a lifetime. He wanted to curse again, this time in relief, but his mouth was bone-dry. A miracle. That's what it was. A bloody miracle. He clutched at the thin rigging holding him to that blessed sail. Never again!
Somewhere above him, he could hear Mattie Barrett cheering. The boy would be enjoying this, wouldn't he? It was no surprise. He could understand now why McIntyre had made them leave their cocked hats behind. They'd never have kept a hold on them through this! Quintin squeezed his eyes shut, the swirl of earth and sky making his stomach lurch unbearably. Just how anybody could enjoy this was utterly beyond him. The sky was no place for a man. Not at all. The sooner he got his feet back on solid, unmoving dirt, the better!