Bosje
11-16-08, 06:06 PM
Sticking it up here to prevent clutter on the story thread, it's probably gonna be continued. For your enjoyment, not meant to be taken too seriously. (duh)
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Surabaya, January 20th 1942
The pale morning sun shone on the naval base which was buzzing with personnel from four different nationalities, not including the locals. Most people wore a navy uniform of some description and the urgency of the ongoing desperate situation was clearly propagating from their manner, as if a bomb or shell was about to drop from the sky any second. The war was not going well for these, the assembled forces of ABDA Command. Amidst all the rushing, running and shouting, a man walked calmly along the docks. He wore a stained brown woolen sweater, corduroy trousers and a two week beard. A worn kit-bag was flung over his shoulder and an immaculately crafted roll-up hung loosely from the corner of his mouth. His appearance suggested he had no place here at all but he seemed to feel quite at home. Slightly younger than he looked and smelling of a long period of not having seen much soap, he continued on his way, drawing long satisfied pulls from the roll-up which was utterly illegal among the ammo crates stacked all over place. His clothes lacked any sign of rank or nationality but his casual yet deliberate step suggested that he was a military man. He turned the corner of a big ammunitions storage and strolled up to the black US Fleet submarine which was moored behind it on the quay. An armed guard, on station by the boardwalk, straightened his back, tightened his grip on the largely ceremonial rifle and announced in an authoritative voice: 'HALT! This is a restricted area!' The man froze mid-step, his right foot suspended in the air and he took a few moments to regain his composure while his eyes fixed on the well polished and oiled rifle.
'Hi there, Yank,' he finally said, blindly flicking his cigarette away to his right, 'Is this The Plunger?' The cigarette landed five feet from the entrance of the ammunitions storage, where another guard rushed to stamp on it with his boot, muttering inexplicable profanities before going back to his post.
'Maybe. What's it to you?' the armed guard replied, feeling wonderfully secure in the authority provided by his being armed. 'Ah good. Place rest! No, that's wrong. Uhm...oh yeah. At ease!' said the man, and he stepped up to the boat, swung his kit-bag from his shoulder and moved to walk past the guard onto the boardwalk. The guard opened his mouth but failed to come up with the right words and ended up looking like a guppy fish. An officer who had been observing all this from the bridge of the submarine reached deep into his eloquence and came to the aid of the guard. 'WHAT!... do you think you are doing?' His voice was completely successful in conveying the precise amount of dry wit and arrogance which he had been aiming for. His noble Irish descent served to add to the air of superiority. Again, the man on the quay arrested his casual trot and he turned to look at the ginger haired officer. The latter climbed down from the bridge and was already looking forward to dealing with the situation in a satisfyingly official and regulated manner. This was an excellent distraction from the boredom which had plagued him for as long as they had been docked here in this forgotten corner of the wharf.
The man on the quay smiled at the officer, dropped the kit-bag and produced from it a crisp and clean set of papers which contrasted with his appearance in much the same way as a broken barstool contrasts with a moonlit night. 'I am Lieutenant Commander Van Moon of the Royal Dutch Navy, I will be the new commandant of this boat.' The guard snapped to a surprised attention upon hearing the rank while Van Moon flipped through the pages in his hands which seemed to contain personnel files among other documents. 'You are the first officer?' The first officer, for he was indeed just that, snatched the papers from the Dutchman's hands and found himself looking down on his own file, right behind the new patrol orders for USS Plunger (SS 179) under the command of a LtCmdr Van Moon, assigned by ABDACOM, Surabaya naval base.
'You gotta be kidding me!' Dignity quietly slipped away as a vein revealed itself on the Irish American's forehead, the officer's blood pressure had gone up by a significant margin. The Plunger had been sitting here in Surabaya for weeks now, after the captain was sent off to hospital with a bad case of penile warts. Secretly, the XO had been hoping that he would be promoted and put in command for their next patrol. After all, things were tight and they needed every able boat out there on patrol. And now the brass sent some damn foreigner to command his beloved boat? This was just too wrong. Van Moon reached to retrieve his papers from the XO and cleared his throat from a slimy obstruction before speaking again. The rasp was testament to an unholy number of daily fags and he attempted to spit the product across the forward deck of the boat. The phlegm projectile failed to make the crossing to the open water and tangled into the boat's railing wire. 'Hmm,' he muttered admiringly: 'This boat is bigger than I expected, isn't it not.' The Dutchman went over to inspect the yellow slimy blob now half hanging from the wire. 'Sorry about that, I clean it up.' And he produced a disgusting piece of cloth from his pocket with which he returned the wire to its former glory. He smiled. 'Right, now to business? As you say it in America?' At least the obstruction seemed to have cleared from his throat.
The XO felt his vein throbbing while he wondered if he was technically supposed to be subordinate to this pig or not. The Dutchman rasped his throat again and grinned: 'Ok, Lieutenant, erm, Ogilvie. We sail out tomorrow. Get all food and ammunitions on board proper. I want all the officers and senior warrant officers in the mess after lunch for a little meeting. Meanwhile I wish to see my hut. Where do I sleep in this big beautiful thing?' Lieutenant Earl Ogilvie now noticed the smell which protruded from the woolen sweater and coughed. 'I'm sorry, Sir, but there must be some mistake here. Let me go and clear this up with Headquarters right now.' The Dutchman smiled again, which seemed to somehow add a chin under his bearded jaw and said: 'No apology necessary, Lieutenant, we all make mistakes. I just come from Headquarters. It's all ok. Oh and your previous captain says hello, he is recovering well and he works for admiralty now. He also has a message for you personally but it is a bit rude, ok.' The armed guard smirked which he could safely do with his back turned to the officers. Nobody liked the XO much. But then again, this new guy was not very promising either. The guard was worried that they would all miss their old skipper before long.
-
Surabaya, January 20th 1942
The pale morning sun shone on the naval base which was buzzing with personnel from four different nationalities, not including the locals. Most people wore a navy uniform of some description and the urgency of the ongoing desperate situation was clearly propagating from their manner, as if a bomb or shell was about to drop from the sky any second. The war was not going well for these, the assembled forces of ABDA Command. Amidst all the rushing, running and shouting, a man walked calmly along the docks. He wore a stained brown woolen sweater, corduroy trousers and a two week beard. A worn kit-bag was flung over his shoulder and an immaculately crafted roll-up hung loosely from the corner of his mouth. His appearance suggested he had no place here at all but he seemed to feel quite at home. Slightly younger than he looked and smelling of a long period of not having seen much soap, he continued on his way, drawing long satisfied pulls from the roll-up which was utterly illegal among the ammo crates stacked all over place. His clothes lacked any sign of rank or nationality but his casual yet deliberate step suggested that he was a military man. He turned the corner of a big ammunitions storage and strolled up to the black US Fleet submarine which was moored behind it on the quay. An armed guard, on station by the boardwalk, straightened his back, tightened his grip on the largely ceremonial rifle and announced in an authoritative voice: 'HALT! This is a restricted area!' The man froze mid-step, his right foot suspended in the air and he took a few moments to regain his composure while his eyes fixed on the well polished and oiled rifle.
'Hi there, Yank,' he finally said, blindly flicking his cigarette away to his right, 'Is this The Plunger?' The cigarette landed five feet from the entrance of the ammunitions storage, where another guard rushed to stamp on it with his boot, muttering inexplicable profanities before going back to his post.
'Maybe. What's it to you?' the armed guard replied, feeling wonderfully secure in the authority provided by his being armed. 'Ah good. Place rest! No, that's wrong. Uhm...oh yeah. At ease!' said the man, and he stepped up to the boat, swung his kit-bag from his shoulder and moved to walk past the guard onto the boardwalk. The guard opened his mouth but failed to come up with the right words and ended up looking like a guppy fish. An officer who had been observing all this from the bridge of the submarine reached deep into his eloquence and came to the aid of the guard. 'WHAT!... do you think you are doing?' His voice was completely successful in conveying the precise amount of dry wit and arrogance which he had been aiming for. His noble Irish descent served to add to the air of superiority. Again, the man on the quay arrested his casual trot and he turned to look at the ginger haired officer. The latter climbed down from the bridge and was already looking forward to dealing with the situation in a satisfyingly official and regulated manner. This was an excellent distraction from the boredom which had plagued him for as long as they had been docked here in this forgotten corner of the wharf.
The man on the quay smiled at the officer, dropped the kit-bag and produced from it a crisp and clean set of papers which contrasted with his appearance in much the same way as a broken barstool contrasts with a moonlit night. 'I am Lieutenant Commander Van Moon of the Royal Dutch Navy, I will be the new commandant of this boat.' The guard snapped to a surprised attention upon hearing the rank while Van Moon flipped through the pages in his hands which seemed to contain personnel files among other documents. 'You are the first officer?' The first officer, for he was indeed just that, snatched the papers from the Dutchman's hands and found himself looking down on his own file, right behind the new patrol orders for USS Plunger (SS 179) under the command of a LtCmdr Van Moon, assigned by ABDACOM, Surabaya naval base.
'You gotta be kidding me!' Dignity quietly slipped away as a vein revealed itself on the Irish American's forehead, the officer's blood pressure had gone up by a significant margin. The Plunger had been sitting here in Surabaya for weeks now, after the captain was sent off to hospital with a bad case of penile warts. Secretly, the XO had been hoping that he would be promoted and put in command for their next patrol. After all, things were tight and they needed every able boat out there on patrol. And now the brass sent some damn foreigner to command his beloved boat? This was just too wrong. Van Moon reached to retrieve his papers from the XO and cleared his throat from a slimy obstruction before speaking again. The rasp was testament to an unholy number of daily fags and he attempted to spit the product across the forward deck of the boat. The phlegm projectile failed to make the crossing to the open water and tangled into the boat's railing wire. 'Hmm,' he muttered admiringly: 'This boat is bigger than I expected, isn't it not.' The Dutchman went over to inspect the yellow slimy blob now half hanging from the wire. 'Sorry about that, I clean it up.' And he produced a disgusting piece of cloth from his pocket with which he returned the wire to its former glory. He smiled. 'Right, now to business? As you say it in America?' At least the obstruction seemed to have cleared from his throat.
The XO felt his vein throbbing while he wondered if he was technically supposed to be subordinate to this pig or not. The Dutchman rasped his throat again and grinned: 'Ok, Lieutenant, erm, Ogilvie. We sail out tomorrow. Get all food and ammunitions on board proper. I want all the officers and senior warrant officers in the mess after lunch for a little meeting. Meanwhile I wish to see my hut. Where do I sleep in this big beautiful thing?' Lieutenant Earl Ogilvie now noticed the smell which protruded from the woolen sweater and coughed. 'I'm sorry, Sir, but there must be some mistake here. Let me go and clear this up with Headquarters right now.' The Dutchman smiled again, which seemed to somehow add a chin under his bearded jaw and said: 'No apology necessary, Lieutenant, we all make mistakes. I just come from Headquarters. It's all ok. Oh and your previous captain says hello, he is recovering well and he works for admiralty now. He also has a message for you personally but it is a bit rude, ok.' The armed guard smirked which he could safely do with his back turned to the officers. Nobody liked the XO much. But then again, this new guy was not very promising either. The guard was worried that they would all miss their old skipper before long.