Ragnor had a few things to say to him, too, but then he noticed the direction of the Saxon’s pointing. It was a shoreline. How could that be? When he’d gone down, his ship had been in the high seas. Could it have drifted during the battle?
Frowning with confusion, he swam toward shore. Meanwhile, other men crawled into the yellow boat, which they rowed along beside him. Some of them stared at him in compassion. The other boats and swimmers stayed where they were.
It was a considerable distance, but he was a good swimmer, and besides, being alive gave a man the stamina to go on even in the worst of situations. And he suspected this was going to be a worst-type situation.
“A-ten-hut!” his attacker screamed as he and some of the men in the boat shuffled onto the sandy beach. At the shouted order, seven of the men stood stock still with their hands at their sides, staring straight ahead. He figured he should do the same. When in enemy territory, it was best to blend in and not call attention to oneself… though kicking that man in his male parts certainly must make Ragnor stand out.
“Why are you still here?” the leader asked, coming up to stand in front of him, practically nose to nose.
Well, I know I should be dead, but what a question! “Because the gods wanted me to stay,” he offered tentatively.
“Don’t give me any of your wiseass answers. And you know the proper way to address me, ensign. Yes, Master Chief, sir.”
Ah, as I suspected, he is the chieftain. “It was not—” He stopped when he saw the glower on the leader’s face. Apparently, he hadn’t really expected a response.
Now, the chieftain was gaping at his arm rings. “I thought I told you on the first day of BUD/S to ditch those friggin’ bracelets. Have you got a death wish?”
“Nay, I can honestly say I do not have a death wish,” he said, then added, “chieftain, sir. And as for these”—he tapped the gold, etched arm rings on each of his upper arms—”I never take them off. Good luck, they are.”
The chieftain said a well-known Saxon word that sounded liked luck, but was not.
“Well, boys, since Magnusson here is such a glutton for punishment, and since he thinks it’s A-okay to defy doctor’s orders, to join an op uninvited, to wear jewelry for chrissake, to strike an instructor, and to mock the Master Chief by calling him Chieftain, why don’t you all give me one hundred push-ups, followed by a five-mile run. One for all and all for one, right?”
I understand now. This chieftain wants to establish his authority by having us refer to him as master, as well as chieftain. I can do that, if it saves my life. But, really, I call no man my master.
“Yes, Master Chief, sir!” the seven men surrounding him said as one, then shot him dirty looks before dropping to the ground, legs straight, arms braced, and began lowering and raising their stiffened frames, never quite touching the ground. He dropped down, too. After a few clumsy attempts, he got the rhythm and kept up with his fellow prisoners… if that was what they were.
What a silly way to punish prisoners! I saw Ivan Split-Nose sever body parts of prisoners one time, piece by piece, just to amuse himself. And torture! Whoo-ee, the Saxons have nothing on the Arabs in that regard.
Soon they were done with the absurd “push-ups,” but did they stand still and relax? Nay. The chieftain and some of what must be his assistant leaders yelled, “Fall in,” and the lackwitted prisoners began to run in the sand. Apparently running was a punishment, too. Pfff! Wait till he told Svein Forkbeard about this. The Saxons would be an easier target in the future once he gave him that information. “Not to worry, Svein ol’ man, if they capture you, they will punish you with running. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Get your ass in gear, Magnusson,” the leader shouted, “or do you want to do a few extra miles?”
How would I know? I do not even know what miles are. But he was a quick learner and he said, “Yea, master chieftain, sir,” which did nothing to soften the chieftain’s glower, and soon caught up with his fellow prisoners. They all, himself included, wore boots and garments similar to loin cloths except bigger. That’s all. They were barechested and barelegged. As he ran alongside the men, he noticed something else about his new comrades. They were all bald.