“Petty Officer Simms,” the enemy leader called back, having turned and continuing to run backwards, “do I hear you engaging in conversation with Ensign “I’ve Lost My Mind” Magnusson? Perhaps you would like to help us pick up the pace with a jody call?”
The brown man, presumably named Simms as well as Sly, surprised him by beginning to chant out a sort of song, which the other prisoners repeated back to him:
“I don’t know but I been told.”
“I don’t know but I been told.”
“Navy SEALs are good as gold.”
“Navy SEALs are good as gold.”
“But we ain’t SEALs yet, nosirree.”
“But we ain’t SEALs yet, nosirree.”
“Three more months and we are free.”
“Three more months and we are free.”
“Till that time we toe the line.”
“Till that time we toe the line.”
‘”We got pain, but we don’t whine.”
“We got pain, but we don’t whine.”
“Sound off, one two …”
“Sound off, one two …”
“… three, four.”
“… three, four.”
There was silence then except for the rhythmic pounding of boots on sand… until he asked Sly, “You all want to be turned into animals?” Ragnor did not really believe in all that fantasy nonsense, but many Vikings did. Dragons, trolls, magic and such. Still, he was beginning to wonder if he really was dead and had landed in one of the other worlds many Norsemen believed in… not Asgard, like the Christian heaven, or Nifhelm, like the Christian hell, but someplace in between where humans might be turned into animals.
“Huh?” Sly said.
“Seals? Your song… and a very fine song it was, too… spoke of wanting to become seals. Which is a mistake. I have met more than a few of those slimy animals in my time, and they do not lead a pleasant life. It behooves you to reconsider, believe you me.”
Sly gave him another of his disbelieving looks and said, “Suck my dick.”
Ragnor was smarter than the average Norseman, especially when it came to languages, and he did not need an interpreter to tell him what dick meant. Sly’s slur was comparable to Dar the Dangerous’s favorite saying, “Lick my manroot.” But he decided not to take offense and answered with dry humor, “Thank you, but, nay, I do not think I will partake of that pleasure.”
Laughter surrounded him then, even from Sly. And one man in back of him remarked, “You are in rare form today, Max.”
At first, he thought the man was addressing someone else, then realized that Max must be a shortened name for Magnusson. He liked it. And, yea, he was in good form as the man said… but not as good as he’d originally thought. That he realized when their running punishment went on and on and on. For at least an hour they ran, up and down the beach. All of them were aromatic, to say the least. He had sand in his boots, sand in his small clothes, sand in his mouth and ears. He’d thought his leg muscles were strong, but apparently not as strong as these fellow prisoners. His thighs and calves screamed with pain, whilst the other men, including the enemy leaders, just loped along.
When they finally finished, with the leader yelling, “Fall out,” then “At ease,” the other men were bending over at the waist, walking in slow circles, and breathing easily. He, on the other hand, sank to the ground with a thud. He was panting as loudly and heavily as a war horse after a siege.
The chieftain hovered over him within seconds. “Are you alright, ensign? Should I call the medic?”
Well, that is interesting. Concern from a captor? And medic, what is that? Ah! “Nay, I have no need of a healer. I was winded, that is all.”
“You’ve been injured. You had no business coming out here today, sailor.”
Of course I was injured. You would be, too, if you’d engaged in a sea battle, fought off a horde of bloody Saxons, then almost drowned. He shrugged, and stood. He and the chieftain were about the same height and build. “You are wrong. I had no choice.”