Melville had developed an ability common in most successful sailors and soldiers. With the exception of last time, when he’d been put to bed while unconscious, he woke up every morning knowing exactly who he was, where he was, and what he had to do that day.
He lived completely in the present. He knew where he was yesterday, he damn sure knew where he was today, and he had a pretty good idea where he’d be tomorrow. If you wanted anything more than that he’d have to check his log books or calendar.
He never had to “find himself” when he woke up in the mornings because he knew exactly who he was. He was, by God, the man in charge.
Again he made a trip to the head in the quarter-gallery, and again McAndrews had a cup of tea ready for him. Lots of sugar and lemon, just as he liked it. He still ached, but when he saw McAndrews there and smelled the tea, he was willing to suffer the portly, unctuous steward to live another day. Periodically his monkey stretched its neck out and took a drink of the tea. It closed its eyes and shuddered comically with the first sip, then it came back for more.
The cutters had been loaded with everything from the old Kestrel that they thought might be needed. Melville had tossed in a small bag of his own personal gear. Some books, tea bags, and a bottle of lemon juice. Somehow his steward had found the bag and put the contents to good use. Yes, Melville thought, I might just permit him to live a while longer. With McAndrews’ help he managed to get dressed and went out on the deck, just in time to join the day watch for breakfast.
Over the centuries a rhythm had developed in the Ships of the Westerness Navy. The sailors on the “day” watch slept on the deck while the “night” watch was up and about for twelve hours. The night watch did most of the daily maintenance in the hold, worked silently, and respected their shipmates’ sleep.
Then the “day” watch went on duty, and the sailors on the “night” watch slept in the hold or gundeck for twelve hours. Their new Ship had no separate gundeck, so the night watch all slept in the upper hold, while the marines and the Guldur prisoners were berthed in the lower hold. The day watch was boisterous and loud as they worked in the rigging. They did all the maintenance on the deck, and tried to limit how much they disturbed their shipmates in the hold.
Twelve hours could be a long shift, but a sailor’s life was usually an easy, paced life, with plenty of time for breaks, and all three meals taken on duty. Out on the maindeck, in preparation for breakfast and dinner meals, their old cook, Roxy, would have her mates set up their “burners.” These were yet another special adaptation of a Keel, which were designed, in this case, to release their energy as heat.
One day Cookie would set up on the upper maindeck, and the next day she’d set up on the lower maindeck. This made the upper and lower crews socialize during meals, which contributed to the cohesion of the whole Ship. The only meal that wasn’t served on the maindeck was the night watch’s lunch, when the cooks set the kitchen up in the hold, so as to avoid bothering the day watch as they slept on the deck.
The watches “blended” into their duties at shift change. First the day watch formed up for duty and were inspected by their section chiefs. Then half of them had breakfast on deck, while half the night watch ate dinner at the same time. Finally the other half of the watches had their meals. At the end of the watch the process was reversed. This permitted the day and night watches to constantly intermingle and cross-level information.
Even with all these shared meals, if the captain wasn’t careful, the “upper” and “lower” crews could become almost two separate ships. In order to prevent this, a constant rotation was in place. Periodically the lower night watch would become the upper night watch. In a few days the upper day watch would trade off with the lower day watch.
Westerness officers sometimes ate, or “messed,” with their sailors out on the deck, but in the normal process of duty they preferred to eat in the wardroom. The petty officers and marine NCOs also ate together in a separate mess. The captain often ate alone in his cabin, in splendid solitude. Soon they’d set up an area in the hold to use as a wardroom. For now Melville stood on the upper quarterdeck, eating some kind of scrambled breakfast concoction with Lieutenant Fielder, Lieutenant Broadax, his surgeon, his midshipmen, his two rangers (who were accounted by the captain as officers on this Ship), and his four warrant officers.
The crew was lounging around on the unfamiliar maindeck. Messmates gathered in groups around the guns, clusters tucked into corners, and clumps sprawled out on the deck, as they began the process of making themselves at home. They were enjoying a leisurely meal, and during the meal they went about the age-old process of “debriefing” after combat. With each telling of the events of the battle they “multiplied their joy,” emphasizing the valor, the courage, the sacrifice, the professionalism of their mates, living and dead. And they “divided their pain,” working through the memories and “delinking” them from the physiological arousal.
Some would imagine that these sessions would be a kind of “koom-by-yah sob-fest,” but nothing could be further from the truth. Across the centuries, warriors learned that the men who grew weepy and could not control their emotions were the ones who would not be there the next year. It was okay to weep, to mourn briefly and intensely at the funeral of a friend, but it was not acceptable for a warrior to weep at the memory of combat. Perhaps you would weep the first time, but you were ashamed of your weeping, and the next time (and the next, and the next) it was expected that you would talk about your combat experiences and remain calm. You must talk, and you must remain calm, in order to “make friends” with the memory.
Across the countless centuries warriors have taken their cues from the “Old Sarge.” There was always an Old Sarge. He was the veteran of twenty battles, and he was calm. Weeping and becoming emotional at the memory of combat was not acceptable because, across the countless centuries, warriors found that the way to continue performing the desperate, wretched, debasing, dirty job of combat was by controlling your emotions, dividing your pain, and making friends with the memories. Every night, around the campfire, or over hot food with their messmates, this age-old process continued.
In these sessions the men also sorted out what had actually happened. In Alexis Artwohl’s twenty-first-century law enforcement research, almost a quarter of the combat veterans she interviewed had memory distortions. They actually “remembered,” sometimes with vivid intensity, something that did not happen. And half of these veterans had experienced memory loss, with significant gaps in the memory of what happened. Left to their own devices, there was a tendency to “fill in the gaps” with guilt-laden acceptance of responsibility, sometimes even a greatly exaggerated sense of guilt. “Its all my fault.” “I let my buddies down.” “I was a failure.” These were the kinds of responses felt by many men after combat. Only their mates, the ones who shared the event with them, could help them fill in the holes accurately. And only their friends, their comrades who had shared the searing experience of combat, only they could give understanding, acceptance, and forgiveness of the events that had occurred.
Every day, day after day, this is what occurred. This is what warriors did.
* * *
Melville’s left arm was slung securely to his side, but his left hand was free. He held the plate in his left hand, propped on a railing as he spooned the mystery glop into his mouth with his good right arm. Periodically, as a spoonful was on its way to his mouth, his monkey would reach out a three-fingered paw with amazing speed and dexterity to snag a handful. Sometimes Melville would lift up a spoonful and be momentarily disoriented when it arrived empty at his mouth. The other crew members with monkeys were experiencing the same thing. No one seemed to begrudge the little creatures their small tariff on the goods that went from plate to mouth.
“Shipmates,” Melville began. “We have a course and a mission, so now I think the first order of duty is to establish the name for our new Ship. Mr. Petreckski, I understand you have been interviewing the Guldur prisoners. What did they call this Ship?”