>I stare out at the ocean and can't help but shiver from the cold humidity
>the waves vindictively spit a salty spray into my face as they crash against the black beach
>white foam clings to each dark pebble and rock like a drowning sailor does the flotsam of his sinking ship, but is pulled away by the infinite pale blue ocean
>the cloudy sky is just as chilly and gloomy as the water beneath it. Giving it the impression I'm trapped in a cocoon of bleak ice
>I sigh as yet more fog rolls off the ocean. Tendrils poking and prodding at where I sit. Wispy white crawling across the craggy black island towards its prey.
>only to be stopped by the lantern hanging on the bayonet lug of my Navy rifle that's slung over my shoulder
>I half expect the fog to hiss like holy water on a demon's skin as it shys away from the soft orange bloom of the creaking lantern
>The blaze inside reminds me of a sleeping fox, the tail twitching in the form of little crackles, all fuzzy and warm
>it creates a circle of respite from the relentless salty fog
>I take a deep grateful breath of the chilly, salty ocean air. I really don't want to know what it's like to breath the fog into my lungs and really all things considered, being up here is much better than being in the U-boat
>"It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three."
>I whip my head around to see a man standing in the fog
>protected by his pipe that burns with the same holy fire of my own lantern, St. Elmo's fire
>He smiles and points to himself. "'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?'" 
>"Captain?" I salute and start to hop to my feet but he motions with his pipe for me to stay seated. 
>"Don't fret, tis but an ancient mariner's rime." He suddenly stares me down with a glittering eye, "but is it true what they say? That you can't swim?"
>"Uhh…" I hesitate and look down at the black beach, "yes, it's true, I can't swim."
>I expect the Captain to reprimand me for daring to serve in the Iron Coast, knowing I can't swim
>he only chuckles softly
>"Well, you're an Iron Boot." He says he takes a drag of his pipe, "your entire job is to be on land, maybe the ocean will be kinder to yee."
>a particularly brave tentacle of fog wraps itself around my finger. It crushes it with its salty, freezing touch and I hurriedly shake it off
>the Captain laughs, "aye, but perhaps it may not be after all! The 'ocean's vengeance' might hate you more!"
>I chuckle nervously
>the captain's wire thin frame gently shakes as he smokes like a chimney
>both of us jump when we hear a drowning scream behind us
>a gurgling cry for help from someone being suffocated by the fog
>we take off in a run towards the voice
>the lantern hanging over my shoulder parting the fog as the sling digs into my tunic
>"SAILOR!" The Captain yells, "WHERE ARE YOU?"
>the sailor gasps, "here! I'm here!"
>we almost trip over his body on the ground. It was shrouded entirely by the fog
>I kneel down and turn him over, recoiling from what I see
>salt crystals around his mouth like barnacles on a ship, trickling down the side of his face instead of blood. Blood would have been better than this
>he had scratched the skin off his arms in fits of madness of trying to get at the salt growing in his pores
>he coughs up a salty pus that splatters on my face
>I shiver and fall back. Frantically wiping it off with my field cap
>it smells like rotten salted fish
>the Captain silently mouths, "the 'ocean's vengeance.'" 
>"Captain?" I ask, "what do we do?
>he recovers his composure, kneeling down to talk with the sailor
>"How long have you been out in the fog, sailor?"
>the sailor gurgles painfully, "I'm drowning… I feel like I'm drowning." He mutters. "I… drowning… my lantern went out… I got lost… 5… 6… hours..."
>the sailor desperately hugs his lantern like a small child would a teddy bear when they are having a nightmare.
>"I can't…" he repeats, "I feel like I'm drowning." He heaves in a dry gurgle, coughing up more pus. "All I can taste is salt… help me… please."
>the Captain turns to me and whispers
>"His lungs are shot." The Captain points to the sailor's pus covered lips as the sailor gasps for air, "they're blistered from the fog."
>"What?" 
>The lantern casts a grim shadow on the Captain's face.
>"If you breathe too much of the fog in, salt starts to crystallize in your lungs to make blisters. Blisters that burst and the pus inside of them causes more blisters." He continues his prognosis, covering his nose from the smell. "His lungs cannot hold any air, the salt crystals will continue to fill his lungs with blistering pus until he drowns in it."
>"So he really is drowning, on land?" I ask.
>the Captain sighs, "the 'ocean's vengeance.'" 
>"We can save him, right?" I pull my flask of healing potion from my webbing but the Captain slaps it down.
>"Healing it now will only seal more salt into his body to crystalize somewhere else."
>"What can we do then?"
>"Carry him back to the U-boat… and pray he survives the salt blisters."
>I try to take the sailor's arms but he tightens their grip around his lantern
>"No… I feel so cold… don't take away my lantern."
>"I'm not taking away yo--" I sigh, "I can't hold you by your head."
>he looks up at me sadly, "why?"
>I look at the Captain for help, he sighs and puts out his pipe. The fog giddily closing in around us, taunting us as it circles like vultures
>the Captain draws his C96 and holds it against the sailor's salt covered forehead
>"Let go of the lantern."
>I carry the sailor by his arms and the Captain by his feet
>the sailor looks back at his unlit lantern drowning in the fog
>shivering like his soul has been ripped from him as the fog consumes it entirely
>"It's okay boy, we'll get ye back to the boat in no time!"
>the sailor's eyes glass over and look up lifelessly at the gloomy clouds above
>his breathing slow and tearful, but gasping and gurgling
>the Captain grunts as we try to carry the sailor over a ravine in the rocky black ground
>"Aye…" he takes a breath before saying, "we aren't getting back like this."
>he unhooks a brass flare gun from his belt and fires it into the air
>the sailor looks into the bright green flare nostalgically
>we set him down as we wait for help
>"W-Where are you from?" I ask the sailor
>"The Iron Valley." He murmurs, getting distracted by the green flare, "it was a nice place..." he gurgles desperately like the fog is punishing him for remembering better times.
>the Captain whispers, "aye, keep talking to him. Takes his mind off the drowning."
>"What was it like there?"
>"Warm… big wide open skies… blue… not icy, pale, gloomy blue… sunny blue…" he rasps, "beautiful white snow capped mountains… gives the Swiss alpines a run for their money." He chuckles.
>the Captain chuckles with him, "isn't the Iron Valley known for its great mines?"
>"That's right… trees hold up the tunnels…" the sailor sighs. "I… I didn't want to be a miner there."
>"And yet yer a miner here?"
>the sailor gurgles up more pus, but smiles as it drips down the side of his lips
>"I wanted a scenery change, believe it or not. The Iron Coast seemed like a… good place… to…" he loses his breath when he sees an orange light ride towards us.
>A kettenkrad rumbles out of the fog.
>"We saw your flare, Captain! Wha--" The driver stops when he sees the salt covered sailor on the ground. He motions to his assistant. "Help them load him on top of the ore."
>we hang off the side of the ore filled kettenkrad as we ride back
>the driver talks business with the Captain
>"We were about to unload the ore onto the boat, sir, when we saw your flare. All the other kettenkrads were already stowed away."
>"The withdrawal is complete then?"
>the driver's assistant calls out from behind us
>"All expect for the fortifications around the boat, yeah." He holds up a loaf sized piece of iron ore. "Damn good island this was!"
>the Captain nods as we crest over the top of a hill and begin our descent into the fortified beach




>the kettenkrad crunches on the pebble beach
>as we bump along I look back at the sailor's motionless body
>the Captain pats my shoulder knowingly
>the tower of the U-boat has a bright light at its top
>from a distance one could mistake it for a lighthouse surrounded by choking fog
>the Captain points as we drive across the beach towards it
>"The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right" the Captain smiles as he points to the U-boat. "Went down into the sea."
>the machine gun nest salutes us as we pass by
>their No. 5 helmets and armor clanking as they stand at attention
>our passing lanterns make the beads of moisture on the Potato Digger glow like hot wax
>sailors hurriedly load iron ore onto the U-boat
>shoveling iron ore into barrels like they would coal into a steam engine
>the wooden barrels are shaped like giant gas mask canisters
>rolling these canisters into the ship to be loaded into the cargo bay
>we drive up the same ramp, the sailors whose work we interrupted giving us an evil eye but quickly look on in shock at the fog choked sailor in the back of the kettenkrad
>the Captain takes them aside and whispers something to them before retiring to speak to his other officers in the tower of the sub
>the sailors gently lift the fog choked sailor off the ore
>his body limp and his eyes shut
>as we drive off the deck of the U-boat, I hear something being thrown overboard
>it floated before it sunk
>"What was that?" I ask the drivers
>"Probably just garbage, I wouldn't worry about it." 
>the driver doesn't even look at me
>I stand watching the the withdrawal from the island
>kettenkrads driving to and fro, sailors smoking and working, and a constant noise of machines in the air
>a flakturm watches us disappointedly in the distance
>the only noticeable landmark
>all the precious red iron ore has been bled from this big black rock of an island
>my eyes wander over the unnerving quiet rocky hills, it reminds me of a giant slag pile now
>dead and quiet
>I sit on a barrel of iron ore
>the ocean laps at the side of the U-boat, the waves pointing up at the tower for some reason
>however, it's not all bad. 
>the Iron Coast has a strange comfiness to it. 
>with the quiet of the seconds before shelling and the calm before a thunderstorm combining into a soothing dreamlike atmosphere. 
>like the ballroom in the Shining, there's a certain romanticism to the quaint antiquity of everything
>really, it would be a wonderful place if it weren't for some of the residents. 
>I don't hear it at first
>but the experienced sailors do
>looking up to the sky, their eyes widening at the sound of retribution on the wind
>it's coming
>the panic slowly spreading amongst all the sailors like a herd of sheep stirring because of nearby wolves
>they've begun to hearing the roaring buzz too
>oh god not like this
>and when the rising tide of terror submerges the entire beach?
>all hell breaks loose
>"ALARM!" I hear the U-boat lookout yell, "ALARM!"
>four pairs of gunfire slice across the beach, chewing up bits of black sand and sailors
>I dive behind a barrel
>the officers in the tower cower but the Captain courageously fires his C96 at the strafing planes like Patton and yells angrily
>"And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o'ertaking wings, and chased us south along."
>I flinch from each deafening madness that passes overhead
>1… 2… please… 3… no… 4… christ save us
>"FUCKING GHOST PLANES!" I hear a sailor scream
>they disappear as quickly as they appeared, but the chopping of their propellers continue to circle the beach
>each spin of the propeller blades is the psychological equivalent of a guillotine slicing through your neck
>I hug my M1895 tight to hold onto my sanity, my Lee Navy can save me from total madness if it comes to it
>a brave sailor runs into the middle of the beach, the yelling of his friends to "STAY PUT!" is deafened by the frantic chattering of the machine gun nest
>he grabs a wounded sailor and tries to pull him to safety
>I clench my jaw as the mad whirr of propellers begin to come closer
>the sailor's jaw drops as he looks up at the sky
>bombs
>fiery explosions pound the beach like God himself was smiting us
>but the pounding of my terrified heart is still louder
>the sailor is evaporated into gore that falls back down onto the beach
>the wounded sailor gasps in pain from the blazing shrapnel buried in his heart
>I wince at his pain, feeling a burning empathy in my heart
>and suddenly remember the sailor that had died from the fog
>no… I won't stand by this time
>I aim my rifle with shivering hands, each chop of propellers stabbing my nerves
>I line up the shot and ease my finger over the trigger 
>but bullets explode from the clouds to tear him apart
>his head falls to the beach, lifeless
>I cower in horror
>the endless buzzing of planes is like the laughter of coyotes
>their bombs and gunfire coming closer and closer to my hiding spot
>and I can only watch… and wait…
>the slaughter of the attack reaching a fever pitch
>the deafening biplane crashes only adding to the madness
>the volume of the surviving planes making up for the difference
>and growing bigger as their strafes grow closer
>bullets are off the table, now there will be only bombs
>they dive so close I can hear their wings slicing through the air
>like the swishing of knives
>the sound so sleek and clean it's already biting into my neck
>the metal punch of a biplane dropping a bomb knocks all our heads to the beach in terror
>it only narrowly misses the tower of the U-boat
>that plane being cut down by the violent spray of tracer fire
>I brace expecting another bomb, but it doesn't come
>the final biplane only zipping over head, distracted by something
>"What the hell is that?" A sailor yells.
>I force my shaky body out of cover to peek at the final bi-plane
>"Christ, it's an angel," someone mutters
>the Captain laughs, "at length did cross an Albatross, through the fog it came; as if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name."
>something clings to the side of the ghostly biplane
>with feathery wings
>it… looks like an oversized seagull
>but with arms and legs
>wait… IT'S A HARPY?
>her wings are attached to her back, not her arms
>the seagull harpy pulls herself up to the pilot's canopy, her feathers ruffling in the wind
>fighting the pilot hand to hand with her feldspaten
>the sailors cheer like it's a boxing match when her shovel shatters the pilot's jaw
>but the whiplash makes the pilot spin the plane
>throwing her in front of the machine guns…
>the gunfire makes us go quiet
>the muzzle flash appearing behind one of her wings
>a sailor covers his eyes and swears
>the seagull harpy staggers back, but her final breath she brings her shovel down to righteously cleave open the pilot's head
>showing him how it feels to be on the other end of a guillotine for once
>the beach erupts in cheering, sharing in her victory
>she uses her arms to hold the gimp wing out enough to catch the wind to glide down
>but at the last moment a blowing cloud of fog beats her from the sky, throwing her to the ground
>she crashes into the beach sending up a cloud of black sand

>sailors work quietly to repair the damage from the attack
>the entire beach is shell shocked and skittish
>jumping at the waves crashing against the black sands like a puppy does at shadows
>even the U-boat seems to pull away from the beach, but that may just be the devilish ocean still trying to consume it
>the seagull harpy sits sipping soup from a mug in her hands as a medic sutures up her wounded wing
>just smiling happily at us
>her neat, orderly khaki uniform is a stark contrast to our dirty, mismatched overcoats and sweaters
>she has a dazed attitude about her like this is all some exciting dream to her
>the Captain interrogates her
>"Where did you come from?"
>she nods happily
>"What are you doing here?"
>she nods happily
>"Are you a spy?"
>she nods happily
>"... do you want to be made into 'fried chicken?'" 
>she nods VERY happily at the word, "fried chicken"
>"Sir…" I whisper, "I don't think she knows what we're saying."
>"Ah dae." She says with a nod, we all jump. 
>a glaswegian accent drips off her words
>"So then answer my questions!" The Captain demands. 
>"Bit…" she looks down at her chowder, meek from getting scolded, "ah did…"
>the Captain glares and she hides behind her wings
>"Ah thought ye wur asking if ah knew th' answers…" she shuts her eyes from embarrassment, "Ah kin be way wi’ the fairies somewhiles."
>he sighs, "just tell me your answers then."
>"Ah cam fae th' sky… a'm swallyin this chowder… 'n' ah spied ye guys fae afar… they planes wur pure loud n mean…"
>"And what about the fried chicken?" A sailor asks, he gets slapped on the head by the sonar officer
>"Dae ye hae ony?" she asks with big puppy dog eyes
>"No, we don't." The Captain declares with a curt grunt, "what were you doing before you got here?"
>"Ah wis flying tae this place… th' Deadfront… ah git caught in a storm 'n' hae bin flying ower th' ocean fur a lang time."
>the Captain whispers to the navigator, "christ, that's how far south of the Iron Coast?"
>he shrugs his shoulders, "I don't think she could have even survived that long."
>the medic packs up his bags and offers a smug opinion
>"She's more albatross than gull seeing as how long she's survived at sea for, and with how underfed she is? If the bullets didn't all hit skin, the only other thing would've been bone."
>the seagull harpy lets her wings down, before we had thought her uniform was just a little big but it hangs off her thin frame
>"Tis bin weeks sin ah git some proper big zeds, my eyes are hingin oot ma haid."
>she's a pitiful sight with her pale skin and baggy eyes, it's like she's had part of the soul sucked out of her
>a perfect fit for a submarine!
>the Captain scoffs and gives up, "fine, she can come with us." But he gets in her face, forcing her back behind her wings for safety again, "And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo!"


>"Prepare to take us down," the Captain announces
>a mourning spreads through the submarine
>each sailor becoming quiet when we hear the shutting of the hatch
>ringing in our ears the same way a prisoner always remembers the first time his cell door was locked
>those on the bridge standing up on their tiptoes to savor the last gulps of sweet, sweet fresh air
>I lead the harpy through the submarine towards the bow
>"This is where you'll be sleepi---"
>she hits her head on the door frame, wincing as she holds it painfully
>a wing reflexively spreading outwards to smack another sailor in the face
>"A'm sorry ah didnae mean tae!" She leans down to help him up
>only sweeping a nearby table clean of some sailor's card games
>"CONTROL YOUR FLYING RAT!"
>"SHE'S DROPPING FEATHERS EVERYWHERE!"
>"TRY PACKING A FIGHTER PLANE IN HERE INSTEAD!"
>I quickly pull the harpy through the door into the bow
>"You're lucky, you got one of the bunks that wasn't storing a torpedo for this mission. It's nice and flat still."
>I push my hand against the thin mattress to emphasize its softness
>the harpy becomes glum when she sees there's no give at all
>"I-It's better than sleeping on the floor."
>in the dim light of the U-boat her eyes are more sunken than usual
>her wings hang low as we both feel the sub begin a shallow dive into the sea
>she looks massive in the tight spaces made for much smaller beings
>she looks around the bow, becoming distraught as the cold reality of being in a U-boat settles in
>in the small confines of the U-boat, it's not that you feel like a giant with how small everything is
>no, it's that your entire reality has been imploded by the watery void around you, a void that worm its way inside to "equalize" your existence to be one with it if given the chance
>your only defense is the mere two centimeters of hull separating existence from death, with the ocean dragging its teeth along the hull at all times. Its saliva dripping through the tiniest of leaks
>so whenever you feel something wet on your forehead, you pray to God it's from sweat and not a leak
>and the smell...
>nothing but the incessant shocking salty air that leaves your sense of smell weak and open to the deep musk of sweat that has aged to the acrid odor of diesel fumes
>so revolting your pores vomit, but their puke combines into the veritable soup of stenches
>each breath leaving it on your taste buds
>but at least the food isn't that bad?
>thanks to preservation magic the food doesn't go bad nearly as easy
>we submariners only get the finest cuisine, aged in the finest of tins for exquisite metallic undertones, washed in the smokiest of diesel fumes, and finally seasoned with the most salty of U-boat air just before it's served to us 
>these "rare" and "sought after" flavors made only the more prominent since the preservation magic renders food bland and tasteless
>and don't get me started on the horror show of the bathroom
>we all sit down for dinner at the tiny table in the middle of the bow
>the harpy flanked on both sides by exhausted sailors
>my own brain is addled by the stale air, making everything fuzzy and blurry
>but the clock above us stabs my skull with an icepick to mine its "ticks" as we do ore from the islands of the Iron Coast
>time does not exist, only the clock does. The time spent at sea and the time until we surface are moot concepts, it doesn't matter, each revolution of the hour hand is as monotonous as the last
>Days? Weeks? Months? No such thing. Only the clock, but I will say this, however much time you think you have spent in the Iron Coast is woefully long compared to the truth. A truth only the clock knows.
>life is ruled by the clock, it decides all, even before we had arrived in its domain it had created the three kingdoms of life
>watch, sleep, and leisure
>in the miniscule galley some sailors spend their leisure hours peeling potatoes and washing vegetables for the cook
>Why? Because there's only so much to do in a submarine and doldrums are what drives a sailor mad
>doldrums make the walls grow closer, the engines grow louder, the smells grow stronger, the ceilings grow lower, and the sailors grow mischievous, 
>all crushing you
>the pressure of the water is child's play compared to this pressure that forms a diamond of paranoia in your mind
>so alluring in its hard, glittering "truths" that it seeps into every thought, feeding on the carbon in your body to sustain its deluding tentacles 
>choking your sanity, it festers in your lungs like blistering fog, the ocean's vengeance so powerful it reaches your subconscious without even penetrating the hull
>until the pressure of that had created it finally drive you to ma-
>"Food's here." The cook announces. 
>All the sailors cheer weakly

>harpy tries to smile but is clearly faking it
>it's like seeing a majestic bird in a cage, it should be free to fly
>the cook ladles generous helpings of stew into each of our bowls
>the harpy's bowl is filled but she doesn't eat but the instant a sailor's bowl is filled they dig into it
>she only smiles happily as the others eat
>the other sailors start to notice and stop eating
>I bump her shoulder and whisper, "aren't you going to eat?"
>her head jerks up as she apologizes, "Sorry, ah didnae ken 'twas fur me!" She begins to eat gratefully. 
>"We're still going to feed you," a sailor says, before mumbling, "not that it's worth it."
>"Hey," another sailor protests, "we'll find something for her to do."
>the sailor at the end of the table sighs, "like what? What CAN she do?"
>the first sailor agrees, "her bird bones would break if she tried to load a torpedo." He puts down his spoon and glares, "she can't work on the engines, her wings would get in the way of her opening valves, and…" he suddenly notices something in his stew, "the only thing she has been good for is dropping feathers everywhere."
>the sailor picks out a stew soaked feather and throws it back at the harpy who flinches, instinctively hiding behind her wings which slap the two sailors next to her and shower even more feathers on the table
>rousing a swell of angry complaints
>later I finish my watch and move through the boat to spend my free time in the bow
>constantly twisting and turning in the cramped corridors but still bumping into people
>I duck through the door and see the harpy is curled up nervously next to a torpedo
>"Something wrong?"
>she whispers, "there's someone in my bunk!
>"We all hot bunk, meaning we share a bed and take turns sleeping in it."
>her wings droop and she curls up tighter, like a little ball of feathers
>in "her" bunk, a sailor is sleeping on top of the many feathers she has shed
>but does so happily like they're little pillowy clouds
>I almost feel a little jealous
>I sigh and sit next to the seagull harpy
>"Do you have a name?"
>"No…" she mumbles.
>"Well, we need a name to call you by."
>a sailor fixing a leak calls out to us, "what about… Matilda?"
>"Matilda?" Another sailor joins the conversation, putting down his playing cards. "She's not your grandmother."
>another card playing sailor sarcastically says, "what about Vogel?"
>instantly every sailor smirks mischievously, the harpy smiling too but without the full understanding
>"Vogel is nice!"
>Vogel is german for bird, it's the equivalent of calling your dog, dog.
>when my I sleep, I hear Vogel stirring above me
>"Anon?" She whispers.
>"What is it Vogel? I'm trying to sleep."
>"How come ur we usin` a submarine, how come nae a boat?"
>I turn over to see her hanging upside down over the edge of her bed
>she looks scared and skittish like a little kid who just had a nightmare
>I sigh, "because it's safer to travel by submarine in the Iron Coast."
>"How come?"
>"Above us," I point to the low ceiling of the sub, "are fleets of destroyers and squadrons of planes that will destroy ANYTHING they see."
>"Even themselves?"
>"No, it's like they're all working together. No matter what navy they were from, British, German, American, Japanese, or what have you, they will attack us together."
>"Whit dae ye mean, 'were?'" 
>"Every ship has already been sunk and every plane has already been shot down, at least once."
>"A-At least wance?"
>I nod, "the first sub crews quickly found out whatever they destroy, the ocean 'rebirths,'" I explain. "Within nine months they are back on the sea again. Never needing supplies, never needing rest. Always searching." 
>I fake a smile
>"It just so happens the ocean often sweeps us into the waters they patrol."
>"Whit aboot th' beach? Those planes?"
>"That's the strange thing, if you stand on the black rock of the islands. The destroyers and planes ignore you. But step onto the beaches, too close to the water? That's when they attack." I wave the thought away with my hand, "probably because the fog enacts the 'ocean's vengeance' on the land."
>"Whit?"
>"If you spend too much time in the ocean's grasp it will pull you under or kill you with its chill, the fog does the same except it blisters your lungs, and where does the fog come from?"
>"Th' ocean," Vogel says worriedly.
>"A warm fire saves you from the ocean's chill and the glow of a lighthouse keeps you from sinking." I point to the lanterns stored beneath the beds, "and a lantern does both, coincidentally keeping the fog at bay."
>Vogel curls up in her bunk, cooing like a happy bird as she trails off to sleep.

>I look up at the clock
>the perfect white face looks like a skull 
>pockmarked by shrapnel that has scratched numerals into it
>the silent executioner returns my stare
>and begins to tick
>every sailor in the room bolts up, staring at the clock, each tick sending shivers down their body
>sub clocks aren't supposed to tick
>the hands stuck in a tapping limbo, wagging like a nursery teacher scolding unruly children
>water has gotten inside of the clock
>salt build up breaking the gears, causing it to tick
>I look down at the water pooling at my feet
>it's not a rising tide but a puddle like someone had spilled a drinking glass
>each drop clings to my boot like scarabs swarming their prey, they scare me and know it
>reflecting the clock face in the form of a cyclops eye on the front of their beady bodies
>we've sprung a leak
>the worst kind of all, one we can't find
>ocean water ends up in the strangest places
>on the underside of a table, soaked in your sleeve, inside your drinking bottle, and anywhere it should have not been able to get to
>you'll feel a drop of water suddenly running down the middle of your spine 
>you will slowly look up, your eyes straining to find the source of the water in the shadows of the sub
>but it dripped from nowhere
>and what happens when we take on too much water?
>let's just say even if the water can't suffocate you, it will turn the very air against you
>the fog alarm rings
>it has detected fog build up
>it madly rings a bell like a soldier watching gas billow towards his trench
>the lights switch from the dreary yellow to an unfeeling blue
>"A-Anon? Whit's happening?"
>the faces of the sailors become sunken as they wordlessly put on their gas masks
>"Fog build up, don't worry Vogel."
>I pull on my own gas mask with shaky hands, but stop when I see the filter is broken
>being built from seashells makes them fragile
>"Vogel? I need you to come with me." 
>I lead the scared harpy through the U-boat
>every sailor staring at us like we're mad men for not having our masks on already
>the bridge gives us especially dirty looks
>the filters makes their breathing echo loudly
>they amplify the sound of your breathing, giving the impression every sailor is madly breathing in all the good air they can before it's all gone
>the air already tastes saltier than normal, it's not humid saltiness, it's an acrid caustic one
>but the gas masks make everything smell and taste like salt, just like if the fog is seeping into your lungs, you don't know if they're defective or not until your lungs blister
>the Captain stares at us as he silences the fog alarm but the blue fog lights stay on
>I open the cabinet of extra gas masks
>all are labeled DEFECTIVE except for two good ones
>one has dried blood caked in the mouthpiece 
>I hand the nicer one to Vogel
>"Whit dae ah dae wi' this?" 
>"Put it on."
>"Ah… ah dinnae wantae" 
>Vogel shakes as her wings beat against the walls of the sub, it's almost criminal to gag a bird like this
>every officer on the bridge looks at us
>I whisper to her, "you have to, o---"
>"Ye aye didnae tell me whit's happening," Vogel's wings shiver as she looks up at me
>"I can tell you after you put on th--"
>"Ur we sinking?" Vogel's eyes widen in panic, feathers ruffled. "Juist tell me if we're sinking."
>"We're no--"
>"Then how come dae we need masks?"
>"Anon," the Captain says. "Get that mask on her." He points ominously to his quarters
>her panic has already spread to nearby sailors who have the same frenzied look in their eyes
>"That's an order."
>Vogel shakes her head side to side desperately
>I corral her into the Captain's quarters, pulling the curtain closed behind us
>"Anon, whit urr ye daein'?"
>I can't stand the way she looks up at me with such meek, innocent terror, it makes me feel sick for what I am about to do
>"Vogel… I need you to be quiet now." 
>my shadow looms over her
>"W-Why?"
>I shush her, "I need you to be still too, while I do this."
>I bring the gas mask up towards her face, my own gas mask making my breathing sound violent and threatening when it is anything but that
>"Don't force that over my mouth."
>I can taste blood on my tongue as Vogel weeps
>"Anon… no…" she pushes back at me with her arms, trying to fight me off
>outside the captain's quarters I can already see licks of fog forming above the floor
>peeking around the corner into the room
>condensation forward dripping like drooling saliva 
>wanting to blister the harpy's virgin lungs
>"please, Vogel, listen to me okay?"
>Vogel's wings flap as I block her way
>"I WILNAE PAT IT ON!"
>I pin her down and shush her 
>Vogel's eyes become teary, "Anon, ur we aff tae die?" She gasps, "if ye tell me ah will be guid! Please… stoap."
>I hold her neck and force the mask over her face, while whispering how sorry I am
>"Ah trusted ye," Vogel cries, she desperately beats her arms against my chest.
>fog gathers at our feet, rising like a tide as Vogel becomes more and more distressed from the fog and my choking hand
>it watches my sinful actions
>her wings flap about the tiny quarters
>"I'm sorry. I won't let it get to you... I'm sorry." 
>Vogel gags and chokes as I hold her neck underneath my hand beating against my arm with her hands
>"It hurts… it hurts… please stop, Anon."
>she gasps just like the sailor who I had left to his fate
>"I didn't mean to do it. I just had to do what I was told. I didn't want to see you like that. I should have stopped him." I cry.
>her panic reaches a fever pitch when I slide her head into the mask
>the exposure of her terror spreading to me like a wildfire 
>"Please... don't be angry." I plead, "please, it will all be over soon. I'm sorry."
>it's like I'm drowning her from the way she chokes
>I get the mask over her face, her final protest instantly being silenced when it folds over her chin
>she lays there shivering as her eyes look up in pure terror at me
>she tries to pull the mask off, her wings fluttering
>I gently just raise my hand to stop her, and she understands
>I pull her to her feet and walk her out of the quarters, the bridge avoiding eye contact
>Vogel holds my hand loosely as I guide her to the bow
>the wisps of fog parting around our feet
>the ghost white highlighted by the blue fog lights above us
>"It's going to be okay," I say, "you did great. Everything is going to be okay now."
>I pat her head but she smacks away my hand
>she curls up in her bunk, feathers shrunken inwards
>there's a loud clatter in the engine room
>Vogel's flinches and looks towards the noise
>a mechanic leans against the wall as he vomits up pus and salt crystals, blowing back into his goggles
>he strips the puke soaked gas mask off and cries out in pain
>two mechanics help him to his feet, pulling towards us looking for the medic
>I can make out the ominous black of a hairline fracture in his mask's filter
>the mechanic coughs up more pus onto the shirt of his friend, apologizing through tearful gasps for air
>Vogel stirs uncomfortably, "wull he be okay ?"
>"His lungs are shot." I point to the sailor's pus covered lips as the sailor gasps for air, "they're blistered from the fog."
>I hear Vogel's breathing slow as she starts to savor every gulp of good air
>we sit in silence alongside the other crew members
>it's not over yet
>water drips from nowhere onto the goggles of my gas mask
>I quickly wipe it off
>it's not even close to being over
>I lay back and try to ignore the raspy sound of breathing around me
>fingers of fog crawl onto my bed to chill my skin
>the deep blue of the fog lights remind me of how the surface looked
>dark, gloomy, and a depressing 
>it's not use trying to shut your eyes to block out the light
>your eyelids only make the light a more icy blue, reminding you of the very fog it's trying to fight
>the orange lanterns we use on land only push the fog away, it doesn't dissipate it
>a mechanic walks by with a flashlight
>searching for the leak and mumbling to himself
>"Can't find it… can't find it… can't find it… pressure is too high… have to surface… can't find it…"
>the other sailors look at each other, the whites of their eyes ghostly in the cold ambience
>"Hey, buddy you alright?"
>the mechanic flinches like he has been woken up
>"Fine, fine, just looking for the leak."
>he acts like nothing had happened
>we're all silent after he leaves
>inhaling sharply when we feel and hear waves beat against the top of the ship, sounding like a sailor who was left outside to die to the fog
>one who is desperately pounding to be let back in
>a nervous sailor breaks the silence, "d-did we surface… why?"
>"It's night… it will be okay for just a minute." A bearded sailor says as he looks around nervously, "right?" He looks at us for confirmation but everyone averts their gaze
>but we all look away, listening to the Captain in the bridge
>"We've surfaced, the fog will shroud us but only so much," he hisses to the chief engineer. "Now find that leak," he demands.
>the chief engineer runs off in a hurry looking at the ceiling of the submarine, just as worried as we are
>the Captain turns to the sonar officer, "if you see ANYTHING, anything at all, let me know."
>the sonar officer nods before turning back to the sonar
>looking deep into the inky abyss of the screen
>the green of the crosshair reflecting off his eyes
>he jumps back and shivers the instant it makes its first ping
>it's not that he sees contact in the sonar, but something far worse
>"CAPTAIN!" He turns around, "I need the chief engineer, NOW!"
>"What?" The Captain asks, terrified, "why?"
>"There's salt build up in the sonar, sir. I can't see anything."
>the Captain stares at him dumbfounded before swearing and calling the chief engineer to the bridge, "BRING A FOG LIGHT! The strongest you have! Tear it out of the ceiling if you have to!"
>the chief engineer tears a crowbar off the rack and runs towards the bow
>his boots splash in the reflective voids of water, the fog wrapping up his ankles like snakes
>he slides to a stop in the center of the bow, sticking his crowbar underneath our fog light to pry it out of the ceiling
>leaving us in the dark, the light from the bridge falling onto our faces like we're but children who have snuck out of bed
>in the bridge he holds the wirey guts of the fog light in his hands and asks for, "a power source, some kind of strong power source!"
>all eyes go to the ominous blinking of the silent fog alarm
>the engineer cuts open its stomach like a sadistic surgeon
>doing an unholy operation to suture the intestines of the fog light to the arteries of the fog alarm
>laughing madly when it lights up
>fog has begun to build in our room like steam
>he crawls underneath the sonar to hold the lamp there to "melt" away the fog condensate
>the Captain asks the helmsman to, "bring us up to periscope depth,
>the smashing of the waves against the top of the U-boat grow louder
>we watch the periscope drop down ominously, the Captain stops for a split second to gather his nerves before looking through it
>he gracefully spins it around like he's dancing with his mistress
>seducing into telling him her secrets from how gently and slowly he handles it
>the Captain struggles to see anything through the dense night time fog, nothing but bands of ghostly white luminescent from the moon light above the murky water
>he whispers a silent prayer, "The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free; We were the first that ever burst." He looks over at the still broken sonar. "Into that silent sea."


>"Almost… almost…" the fog condensate drips onto the chief engineer's mask
>his hands shiver as he holds the fog light, it looks as if the sonar's heart is being shocked to life by an ethereal blue light as the the engineer performs his technological necromancy
>he mutters a silent incantation of prayer and suddenly the sonar comes to light
>the crosshair reflecting in the sonar officer's eyes with the same feverish glow of a witch's pot
>"GOT IT!" The chief engineer yells.
>the sonar officer's eyes follow the line of the sonar's ping
>"CONTACT! 313 DEGREES AT 600 METERS!" He grabs the sides of the sonar, "christ… it's huge."
>the Captain whips the periscope around, his hands tighten around his mistress' hands
>she's been cheating on him by holding out on information
>it's as if the ocean had birthed an entire destroyer right then and there, the fog but amniotic fluid spreading out as the destroyer fully enters this world
>an enormous gash is cut in its bow from a torpedo, the wounded steely skin forming a jagged scar that still hasn't closed
>it looks like a shark's mouth
>the Captain whispers authoritatively, "I want full silence." He looks at the sonar officer, "what is its bearing?"
>the officer holds his headset closely, "it's bearing north west away from us," he hisses, "40 knots."
>the Captain instructs our submarines' scribe to, "look through the records for the 'HMS Dirge' and put its frequency on the radio."
>the scribe obeys and flips through our record book
>"The vessel was sunk 19 months ago by the "Great White," another U-Boat." The scribe's face drops. "It's top speed is only 30 knots though… and…"
>the Captain asks, "and what?"
>"It… it later consumed the Great White… ramming with its bow to sink it, witnessed by the 'Hammerhead.'"
>he looks up terrified, "i-i-it's not hungry, is it?" The scribe looks at the radio static coming through the radio.
>"No such thing. It's just a destroyer," the Captain says quickly, dismissing such supernatural drivel.
>he turns to the mechanics shining their flashlights into every part of the U-boat
>"And fix that damned leak already," he says through gritted teeth.
>Vogel whimpers and I shush her as I peek up at her
>"You need to be quiet, okay?" I whisper.
>she nods as she hides behind her wings
>we have to all stay as quiet as possible, even with the gas masks amplifying the sound of our breathing
>meaning all you can take are weak, shallow breaths that do nothing but make your chest tight and choked
>a mechanic drops his flashlight with a clatter that makes the entire submarine shake
>"Sorry," he whispers.
>"Do that again and you will be removed from duty."
>the Captain looks through the periscope again, keeping his eyes fixed on the broadsight of the destroyer
>it has a bright spotlight on top of it, giving it the appearance of a friendly lighthouse to the untrained eye
>a lesser U-boat captain would steer his craft towards the angler fish of a destroyer
>"S-Sir?" The sonar captain whispers, his eyes sunken from the blue light of the bridge, "it's slowing down."
>"I told you!" The scribe protests in a hushed voice, "it's hungry."
>the Captain watches the spotlight of the destroyer with great apprehension
>"That damned light will be the death of us," he mutters. "Do the records say anything about it having a spotlight?"
>"No sir, just… a gash in its mouth."
>"Like a shark?"
>"No sir… the Hammerhead said the mouth became like an angler fish's when it 'ate' the Great White."
>we all watch the Captain's stance change, his legs turning to jelly
>the fog has parted around our submarine like the ocean is offering us up as a snack to its pet fish
>the Captain quietly mutters, "All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon."
>its spotlight suddenly turns right towards the U-boat's periscope, somehow knowing exactly where we are
>every gun and cannon slowly turning towards us
>the Captain stands frozen like a deer in the headlights
>silently mouthing, "U-47 save us all."
>white light seeping down his cheeks in tears of fear
>and then the spotlight blinks
>"DIVE! EMERGENCY DIVE!"
>we hear shells land nearby
>sailors frantically run to open valves and fill tanks
>"What about the leak, sir?" The chief engineer yells over the chaos
>"DAMN THE LEAK," the Captain yells, "can we outrun the damn destroyer?"
>the chief engineer runs the numbers in his mind before shaking his head side to side
>"LOAD TORPEDO TUBES ONE AND TWO!" 
>sailors clamber to ready the torpedoes
>trying not to fall from the sharp dive we take
>one sailor lays his hand on the hatch of a tube
>it shudders and all the sailors step back
>it's the sound we all hear in our nightmares, that cursed sound, the sound of death
>we found the leak
>water shoots out of the valve knocking a sailor against the wall
>the water blasts up against his mask to bite underneath it
>"PLUGS! WE NEED PLUGS!" I yell.
>the mechanics push the officers aside as they squeeze through the bridge
>I look to see Vogel's face is pale and I lay my hand on her forehead to soothe her
>"We're going to be okay."
>suddenly the ship groans uncomfortably as it flexes from pulling out of its dive too sharply
>"EASE IT UP!" 
>sailors mutter prayers as they try to stem the flow of water with their hands like they're staunching the blood of a wounded sailor, god knows the U-boat screams like one
>it rushes out from between their fingers
>the mechanics inject careful amounts of freezing magic, a kind of morphine for leaks, but an overdose makes the metal very brittle
>they stitch the plugs into the metal to finally kill the leak once and for all
>"What's the bearing on the destroyer?"
>"310 degrees and 510 meters, it's closing fa---"
>the sonar officer's eyes grow wide, the green crosshair of the console disappearing the black abyss of his pupils
>"What's wrong son, finish the bearing!"
>"It's gone sir. The destroyer is gone, it's just a line pointing towards us, b-b-but I still h-have the angle! 310!."
>the Captain looks at the sonar and his jaw drops
>"U-47…"
>a creaking can be heard from the radio
>like the creaking of metal when under strain, but the pattern sounding like the click sweeps of dolphins
>it gets more and more excited with every passing second
>"Christ, it's getting closer," an officer mutters.
>the Captain points at the navigator, "can you put us on a bearing to torpedo the destroyer before it reaches us, assuming a bearing of 310 at 40 knots?"
>the navigator marks his map with needle marks from his tools, stitching together a possible course
>"I can but then we would be within depth charge range after we fire the torpedoes."
>"And if we run?"
>the navigator knits another path with hits tools, frustratedly trying every pattern he can think of but not getting the desired results
>"They'd be able to hear us on their hydrophone and chase us down."
>the entire bridge looks at the Captain
>jumping when the creaking from the radio suddenly grows stronger
>"Put us on course to fire torpedoes."
>I mutter a silent prayer and whisper to Vogel, faking a smile even if she can't see it behind my gas mask
>"Vogel, I want you to cover your ears, okay? There might be some shaking too."
>"Anon… ah'ament a bairn!" She protests before whispering, "bit... Ur we aff tae sink?" 
>her eyes look at me with the same terror when she first saw the fog lights turn on
>I sigh, "maybe…"
>but could we do, our fate is in the hands of the bridge
>if you are but a lowly sailor sub combat can be the mental equivalent of letting a coffin be nailed shut over you to bury you alive, and all you can do is trust you will be dug up
>"FIRE TORPEDOES!"
>the torpedoes shoot outwards and the ship groans as it turns face
>the creaking still growing louder
>the sonar officer looks at his pocket watch, counting down the seconds before the torpedoes should hit
>none of them do
>he closes it without a second word before grabbing the sonar console tight
>the metal dolphin creaking hits a fever pitch of deafening volume and excitement
>then it cuts out entirely
>and the first pattern of depth charges hits
>groaning, creaking, shrieking, quaking, bending, and screaming
>the sub goes mad from the concussion of the charges
>the lights flash on and off like lightning
>in the chaos I see a sailor standing in the doorway, eclipsing the light from the bridge forcing it to radiate around his presence
>the lights flash and he's in the bow
>the lights flash and he's staring down at me with lifeless eyes
>it's the fog choked sailor
>he plucks one of Vogel's feather and smiles, the salt cracking around his lips
>he disappears when the lights flash once more
>I desperately try to hold onto my sanity
>cavemen have always feared lightning but submariners fear depth charges. 
>Depth charges are more like holy boulders being chucked at you while you're blindfolded
>Maybe it hits, maybe it doesn't
>God decides if it's your turn or not
>Lightning is like a polite house guest, announcing it's departure and clearly forecasting it's arrival
>Depth charges are ruffians who show up when they're least wanted and raise such a ruckus that it is impossible to notice the inevitable arrival of their friends
>waves of sensory overload curb stomp your brain. Your soul screams for it to stop. Not that you can with the sheer concussive force of big bangs happening around you.
>You can only pray to only receive these angry slaps of depth charges from God instead of him throwing a big bang right into the hull. There would be nothing left otherwise. 
>and then it stops. 
>All the sailors crawl up and shiver, our brains still processing the aftershocks of the overstimulation. 
>"B-Bearing?" the Captain asks
>the sonar officer smacks the console and the blipp of the destroyer appears, overshooting us
>"125 degrees at 550 meters, 40 knots to the south east"
>the entire U-boat breathes a sigh of relief
>the Captain wordlessly nods to the navigator who immediately works to sew us a plot back on course and as far away from that destroyer as possible
>the Captain sits against the wall muttering a quiet prayer of thankfulness, "And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if we had been choked with soot."
>the sub is left in awkward state of relief, dazed from the sheer unbelievable novelty of surviving our encounter
>but soon the glum, monotonous mood of the submarine's normal state seeps back into our minds
>making us forget all about what had just happened

>after a while the fog lights turn off, the sub fills with greasy yellow light but it's a welcome return to normalcy
>the clock has even stopped ticking
>and has resumed its normal stewardship of life on the boat with its guiding hands
>I sit up in my bunk and pull of my gas mask
>calling up to Vogel, "hey, you can take the mask off now," I get no response. "Vogel? Hey… Vogel?"
>I look up to see she's a nervous mess of nerves, curled up in a shivering fetal position
>"Hey, hey, come here let me get that off you."
>I peel her gas mask off as she rocks back and forth
>tears running down her face and puffy red eyes means she had cracked long ago
>weeping from sheer terror ever since, I just wasn't able to see it through her mask
>she stares at her mattress with a thousand yard stare, silently mumbling to herself
>Vogel mindlessly pulls a feather out of her wing, just like a bird when they get stressed
>an enormous pile of feathers has built up around her like drifts of snow
>"Vogel?"
>I lay my hand on her cold, tear stained cheek but she doesn't even acknowledge my touch
>"Sky… sky… lots of clouds… nice wind… warm… sky..."
>"Vogel…"
>I lay a hand on her wing and suddenly pull back, even her wings are beginning to molt from the stress
>I shush her as she cries. I notice she's biting her knuckles so hard they're about to bleed
>... am I really going to?
>fine… I will, I open my box of personal items. Smaller than a pencil case and sift through to find my precious candy bar, real Belgian chocolate from the old world, the good stuff
>I open the wrapper and look fondly at the corner of luscious creamy chocolate
>sweet confectionary richness fills the bow, cutting through every other smell like a knife through hot cocoa butter… cocoa butter they used in this...
>I resist the urge to nibble at it… no… she needs something to cheer her up
>god this feels like I'm a pedo
>I hate this
>I HATE this is the best I can do
>"Vogel? How about you have some of this chocolate?
>I offer it to her but she stays trapped in her lunacy, still mumbling madness, biting at her knuckles, picking at her feathers, and rocking back and forth
>I gently pull her knuckles away from her mouth to sneak the corner of chocolate in
>at first Vogel doesn't notice a thing but then some of it melts onto her tongue
>life returns to her eyes and she weeps harder, biting off some of the candy bar
>I shush her as she whimpers
>"Ah dinnae wantae be oan a submarine anymore… a'm waantin' tae gang home… "
>"Do you remember your home?"
>Vogel pauses before curling up tighter, "Ah dinnae remember…"
>she bites down on the candy bar, chewing sadly
>"D-Do you want me to tell you about a nice place?"
>Vogel ignores me as she wallows in her sub-shock
>"It's called the Iron Valley. Warm… big wide open skies… umm… blue, not icy, pale and gloomy… a sunny blue." Vogel's starts to listen. "Beautiful white snow capped mountains… gives the Swiss alpines a run for their money."
>she unfurls her body, relaxing at the wonder of such a place, a better place
>I start to embellish, weaseling around the mines so I don't remind her off the sub
>Even s-some harpies… they can fly as high as they like but don't even get close to the clouds!"
>"Really?" Vogel says, her eyes full of excitement
>"Really," I confirm, reciting some stuff I know about the region. "The elves who live there have a love for… chocolate and waffles. They have chocolate waffle sandwiches."
>"Chocolate waffle sandwiches?"
>"Yep, they use waffles like bread."
>"That's glaikit!" Vogel says with a grin.
>"They do, they really do." I pat her head. "Look… sub life isn't for everyone and that's okay." 
>Vogel wipes her tears and sits up
>"At least you didn't get any needle shrooms in your bed."
>the blue fog lights we used dissipates the fog, killing it, but the remains still have to go "somewhere"
>and what happens to dead remains?
>they rot
>needle shrooms grow from the fog condensate, like icicles forming upwards from the slimy film
>Only as tall as the tip of your thumb to the knuckle but grow in colonies
>a sailor can be walking along and suddenly scream in pain from a dozen needle shrooms that have pierced straight through his boot, to embed themselves from base to tip in his foot
>or one could simply rest their hand against the side of the sub and get needle shrooms through his hand
>and if you don't remove them all fast enough, or god forbid one snaps in your body?
>frostbite
>they grow anywhere ocean water can drip or flow because that's where the fog condenses into a slimy film
>making it impossible to clean before needle shrooms can grow in it because the condensate is indistinguishable from the rest of the muck and grime, unless you want to scrub the ENTIRE U-boat
>and yet no one has ever seen them grow, turn away for a second and suddenly they are there
>I point to an engineer wincing as the medic pulls needle shrooms from his fingers, the poor guy had been checking some pipes while wearing thick leather gloves
>they still penetrated clean through his finger nails
>the medic pulls one out very slowly, gently drawing it out, and being careful not to
>SNAP
>the engineer's face drops and he looks up towards the medic who sighs, wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, and grabs a knife to cut it out instead
>"Do ye mean 'cream cactuses?'"
>I look at her funny as Vogel smiles, standing up to flap her wings like they're the arms of a conductor
>all the sailors in the room look around as she orchestrates a gentle tinkling of wind chimes from seemingly nowhere
>I follow the song of a nearby wind chime to see a colony of "cream cactuses" growing under my bunk
>without any hesitation I grab my bayonet knife to cut and clean them up
>all the other sailors join me, following their ears, finding enough needle shrooms to fill a small lead box
>there's a much larger one in the bridge kept locked tight at all times, the last thing we want is for hundreds of these needles flying around from a depth charge
>Vogel whimpers sadly when she sees the needle shrooms leave the room
>Wull we git tae sloch thaim soon?"
>"Uhhh… sloch? As in, eat them?"
>"Aye! Ye kin mak' an ice cream!"
>the eyes of every sailor land on Vogel at the words, "ice cream."
>the idea of creamy cold softness, not anything like the harsh chill dreariness around and above us, of pure sweet and nothing more
>fluffy like summer clouds and not wispy like ocean fog
>how long has it been since we had some, how long has it been since we even thought of it, much less uttered the words "ice cream?"
>a sailor asks nervously, "can you make us some?"
>"Aye!"
>the word "ice cream" spreading to every sailor on the ship is enough to convince the cook to yield his miniscule galley to Vogel for just one meal
>she plucks some of her molting feathers, washing them, weaving them into a strainer
>the Captain himself delivers the box of all the needle shrooms we have gathered since we left port, giving her a good suspicious stare from his glittering eye before leaving
>"Ah wish we ad some of that Belgun choclat ta mix en," she says as she sits to tickle a needle shroom with a feather
>"Do you have to do that to every single one?"
>"Aye! Howfur else dae we wash it?"
>"If I help," the engineer with the hurt hand asks, "would I get a little more?"
>"Aye, perhaps…" Vogel bobs her head side to side like a playful chick as sailors lean forward to hear her next words, "an extra spoonful?"
>within seconds sailors are sitting in the tiny galley brushing feathers against needle shrooms as if their life depended on it
>Vogel melts the needles in a pot, gently stirring it, before she pours it through her feather filter
>it aerates the liquid into something with the consistency of a sticky ice cream complete with sprinkles of salt
>the mood in the U-boat grows festive
>suddenly the greasy yellow light becomes warm and fuzzy instead, like a Christmas fireplace
>the "ice cream" keeps itself cool with the chill of the ocean it came from
>and when all the ice cream is finished?
>three scoops for every sailor, thick, heavy, full scoops. The weight of each scoop pulling 10 times its weight off your shoulders
>the clean, pristine white looking up at you as the light reflects off its perfectly plump curves, supple and soft against the metal of your spoon that swoops through the ice cream like it's hot, fluffy butter
>as I look around the submarine, it's as if the sailors have learned how to smile. As excited as little kids when Vogel scoops ice cream into their bowls, they even say "please" and "thank you"
>it tastes like saltwater taffy and salted caramel combined
>covering your mouth with how heavy and rich it is
>the sailors all get rowdy as they laugh and move with uncharacteristic cheer
>the mood swelling as they begin to sing a sugar rushed rendition of "Rolling Home to Old New England."
>Vogel even using a feather like a harmonica to play along albeit badly, but it only makes the sailors sing with more passion
>but then we hear an ominous clicking on the hull
>The crew goes silent before debating in hushed voices what it could be that's tapping on the sub
>A part knocked loose by the depth charges, loosening itself up to dive into the depths, leaving the U-Boat to fill with water as it leaves?
>A ghost of some damned soul knocking to be let back in?
>Vogel curls up in her little wing ball when it scuttles above her
>the Captain slowly draws his pistol
>seemingly shoots blindly into the ceiling and the entire crew ducks for cover
>and a crab drops from the ceiling with a bullet stuck in its head
>we all stare at it awkwardly before bursting out in laughter
>I gently pat Vogel on the back to coax her out of her fright
>"Ye hae crabs oan this ship?" She asks me
>"Yeah? We have them instead of rats."
>"Kin ah sloch it?"
>"Uhhh… go ahead and sloch it if you really wa--"
>Vogel crunches on it like a large potato chip
>Vogel speaks through mouthfuls of crab, "This is wey better than eating hee haw bit cream cactuses fur weeks!" 
>... she is a seagull harpy after all, they are scavengers

>feathers, feathers everywhere
>Vogel is molting
>she winces anytime she brushes up against anything, her wings red underneath the new and remaining feathers
>"A'm feelin' lik' a'm swimmin` in a bucket o' goosed gless" she laments to the medic as he checks her wings
>"Hmmm… has the irritation ever been this bad in the past?
>"Ne'er!" 
>the medic brushes across a bad spot and Vogel jumps while gritting her teeth
>"I once knew a goose harpy and when her wings molted she would swim in the ocean to calm the irritation."
>"Isnae that juist rubbing salt in th' wound?"
>"It is and it will hurt a bit, but it's like ripping a bandaid off."
>the medic stands to go talk to the Captain, he looks back at Vogel
>"It's either go for a swim now or be like this until we reach port."
>"Howfur lang is that?"
>the medic glances up at the clock and shrugs his shoulders
>Vogel scratches her wing nervously
>"Fahein…"
>but Vogel doesn't get the relief she needs right away, not until we surface to recharge the batteries and replenish the air
>with the Captain's permission she squeezes past the bridge to climb up into the conning tower
>I move to follow her but the medic grabs my arm
>"It's your turn for a check up."
>"A check up?" I ask, confused.
>I got my check up before I even had boarded the U-boat
>the Captain stares me back down the ladder with his glittering eye
>this isn't for a check up, is it?
>I'm pulled into his quarters alongside the medic
>the sonar officer knocks politely on the wall outside
>"Captain, we've reached periscope depth, no sign of enemy contact."
>"Thank you, surface and double up on lookout duty in the tower." But before the sonar officer can leave, the Captain whispers something else, "officers only up in the tower." 
>the sonar officer raises an eyebrow as the Captain continues his secret orders
>"And tell the chief engineer to make some noise with the diesels, if that's alright with him."
>the sonar officer nods as he leaves, throwing one last concerned look back at me before the medic draws the curtain closed

>the Captain and medic look at each other, neither sure how to proceed
>the engines rumble to make the sub shiver with worry at what is about to take place
>treason?
>"This isn't about a check up, is it Captain?"
>"No," he says curtly, "it is not."
>the Captain's face are like rough, rolling clouds
>keeping the mystery of a storm within its emotionless depths, it might storm, it just as easily might not, all that you know now is that it will loom over you with its threat
>"It's about Vogel," the medic explains, "about her 'memory loss.'"
>"What about it?"
>the Captain sighs and leans back in his bunk
>"Do you know how some cuckoos raise their young?"
>"No, I don't."
>"They engage in something called, 'brood parasitism.' Cuckoos lay their eggs in the nests of other birds and these other birds? They take care of the Cuckoo's egg just as well as any of their own, even raising them to adulthood."
>the Captain gestures towards the rest of the ship
>"Do you know what happens when the Cuckoo chick hatches?" The Captain's glittering eye burns into my pupils like fire through camera film. "It kicks the other eggs and young out of the nest, it kills them."
>he draws his C96 and lays it on the desk
>"Personally, I can't say I like Cuckoo birds very much." He picks up one of Vogel's feathers and stares at it vindictively, "I wouldn't like to be played for a fool." 
>He flicks the feather out of his hand, it spins happily as it falls
>it lands onto the desk and recoils from his gun
>"Are you calling her a spy?" I ask.
>the medic clears his throat, "we just need to know if she's faking or not."
>"And how would we find out?"
>the Captain leans in to stare at me
>"There's two first mates to a captain: the one he appoints, and the one that chooses him; his floater." He taps at his glittering eye. "The little buggers are attracted to feelings of guilt and regret." He leans in closer, his glittering eye becoming almost blinding with how it shines in the weak light. "Feeds on your sorrow. And, there is no man more sorrowful on a ship than her captain."
>"Your floater?" I look at the medic for help, he refuses to make eye contact. "I understand, Captain."
>"Look into my eye, son. Look."
>I look into his eye
>into the pitch black, unfeeling pupil
>the pupil looks back
>with two tiny white eyes of its own
>I jump back and start to swear but the medic covers my mouth, he shushes me while pointing to the rest of the U-boat
>the pupil begins to slowly unwind itself and starts reaching out from the unusually slimy surface of the eyeball
>mucus drips off its long stringy body like saliva off a tongue
>it slowly unduates like a glutton's tongue around a mouthful of food
>the eel shivers as it nears me, seeking out another meal
>it wants to swim in my eye just as it swam in the Captain's
>the medic muffles my protests as it looms like a needle of pure black, I can almost hear it gnashing its miniscule teeth that will gouge its way into my own pupil
>it's been in the Captain's eye so long it doesn't irritate it anymore, the overworking tear ducts trying to wash it out have long since stopped their proper function and now they constantly produce a more viscous substance
>"It's very important you don't tell the rest of the crew about this," the medic whispers. "Very. Important."
>I nod slowly still trying to move my head out from the path of the eel. I can see its two tiny white eyes staring at me like the button eyes of a doll, unfeeling.
>he lets me go and I gasp for air
>"How did you even find that?"
>"I woke up with it in my eye one day," the Captain says. "It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring— It mingled strangely with my fears, yet it felt like a welcoming."
>"Do you mean to use it on me?"
>"No, I mean to sic it on the Cuckoo, on the bird."
>"And what? Use it like a polygraph?"
>the medic puts his hand up to silence me
>"They don't detect lies. They feed on guilt."
>"Guilt?"
>"Mutineers always feel the burn of guilt somewhere in their soul. A floater simply reveals its light."
>"It reveals thoughts of mutiny or deception?"
>"No." The Captain says, "just feelings of guilt."
>"What if you feel guilty for a different reason? What if she feels guilty for forgetting her family?"
>"The floater will glow."
>"You don't even know if that's because she's a spy, and what if she feels none at all for being a spy or even in general?"
>"The floater won't glow."
>"You mean to decide based on that? What kind of damn madness is this?"
>the Captain lunges to crush my neck
>"Madness spreads like wildfire among sailors, it breeds deceit and dissent. All it takes is a party of sailors with sick minds to burn down a ship. But sabotage? That takes only ONE to sink us all."
>I cough and beat against his arms, the Captain lets me down.
>"We have to know, Anon." He pulls me to my feet, staring at me with one blank white eye, "I will have no cuckoos in my nest."
>I'm told a U-boat surfacing is a beautiful thing
>like the city of Atlantis rising from the depths once more
>climbing out of the ocean's maw like Jonah from the whale
>the lantern of the conning tower motionless above the water looks like the piercing beam of a lighthouse that dances in a single twirling glow
>the fog has parted in a perfect circle around us
>we climb into the tower to find two other officers standing watch
>"Where's the bird," the Captain asks
>one points out to the sea
>Vogel happily floats like a duck on the gentle waves of the ocean
>gentle enough to make you think she had tamed it, but so gentle you realize it's as if the ocean sees her as her own child perhaps even an ally
>the Captain stares at her with his glittering eye, the floater unwrapping itself
>the eel drips out of the Captain's eye 
>leaving a trail of mucus
>it plops onto the deck like snot from a cold
>quickly becoming so thin it gets lost in the shadows to be consumed by the sea from whence it came
>I gag when I realize the eel hadn't been expelling the mucus from its behind, it was vomiting to make room in its stomach
>Vogel swims not knowing the horror that undulates hungrily toward her
>I grab the cold metal of the conning tower, the frosty steel biting my fingers while salty spray laps at my cheeks
>the ocean spreads out like saliva on the tongue of the biggest beast known to man
>all it needs to do is curl its tongue… maybe that's where waves come from
>I look up at the cloudy sky
>Lord knows the moon can never be seen even with clear skies here, only its light
>the floater looks as the shadow of a shallow wave does
>thin and unimportant
>it hides using the dark depths of the sea
>perhaps that's where it had come from, it's but the lost taste bud of the beast's tongue that sits beneath the entire ocean
>we watch in silence, waiting for it to sink its teeth into Vogel
>I can see the handle of the Captain's gun poking out of his holster, the moisture on the grip laughing at me as it glints in the light of the conning tower
>"It's of a merchant's daughter brought up in Callao."
>I look back at the officers who watch Vogel sorrowfully as she swims blissfully unaware that the ocean has turned against her
>it is has begun a mutiny of its own
>"Hurrah, me yaller girls, doodle let me go"
>their chanting makes my hairs stand up on end
>"She took me in the parlour and said, 'Won't you be my boy?'"
>I grab the conning tower's edge tight as the officers continue their funeral chorus
>"It was e'er I seen this pretty girl a-swimming in the tide"
>suddenly Vogel pops her head up
>thinking she had gotten some seaweed stuck in her ear
>she doesn't find anything and goes back to floating alongside the floater worming its way inside her ear canal
>I begin to walk around the conning tower nervously, praying no light appears
>"As I was out a-walking all in the bright moonlight. Hurrah, me yaller girls, doodle let me go"
>one last time I look out at Vogel, I can't stand it, I'm going back down into the boat
>"It was e'er I seen this girl a-swimming and arise, it shone so bright"
>blood seeps out into the water from a stark red light
>the officers go quiet, all of them staring terrified at the Captain
>he turns to me with his one blank white eye to ensure I don't try and stop him
>watery mucus runs down his cheek like his eye had popped, forming a trail of tears
>He mumbles, "'god save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus!— Why look'st thou so?'—With my cross-bow. I shot the ALBATROSS."
>he draws his pistol
>aiming it at Vogel, the ocean's waves seem to grow stronger to try and push her away
>I shut my eyes and wait for the bang
>he eases his finger over the trigger
>and pauses
>his hand shakes
>the Captain stares at the red light, the trail of mucus turned red from its glow
>suddenly his resolve is broken
>he looks down at his gun and puts it away
>"Bad luck to kill a seabird."
>he climbs back down the conning tower, closing the hatch behind him
>I fall against the tower as the floater's light goes out
>silenced by the ocean
>leaving only the holy orange light of the U-boat's light
>soothing and gentle
>I watch its hypnotic fresnel lens spin
>"You do know why the Captain did that, right?" The medic asks
>I ignore him
>"He was once a young sailor too. A naive one who found someone who had 'drifted' ashore."
>the medic sighs and watches his breath become a cold cloud in front of him
>"It was actually a sailor from a competing sub. He broke the Captain's lamp and left him to die, to drown in the fog."
>I turn over to listen to the medic
>"It was because he had trusted a spy that his lungs are scarred," the medic chuckles and mimics smoking a pipe, "that's why he always smokes because otherwise they feel as cold as the ocean."
>Vogel waves to me from the water
>"Is that true?" I ask
>the medic shrugs, "that's what he told me."
>he shivers and goes back into the boat
>leaving me with the two other officers
>we sit in cold silence until Vogel comes back from her swim
>when we go back into the boat
>I stop in the bridge to dry the cold drizzle from my face
>"Psst, Anon," the sonar officer whispers, "how's the bird?"
>I look at him confused. "She's better now, why?"
>"I uhh… I'm worried I might have pissed her off." he takes off his headset, "I asked her if she remembered her family."
>I freeze, "w-what did she say?"
>"She looked down at the floor and just kinda picked at her feathers before saying she doesn't."
>"Did she do anything else?"
>"No, she just climbed up into the conning tower really quick."
>"Did she seem to feel guilty about it?"
>"I don't know."
>I look at Vogel sitting happily in the bow, ruffling her feathers freely without much stinging at all now
>I don't know either

>I sit polishing my Iron Boots
>it turns out harpy feathers are great for polishing leather
>Vogel flips down from her bunk
>"Dae yi''ll need ony mair?"
>"No, I'm okay."
>"Whit urr ye polishing they fur anyway?"
>"I need them to scout out for iron."
>"Scouting iron? Wi' bits?"
>"Yeah, it's a bit li---"
>there's a ruckus in the bridge
>the scribe hisses to "wake up the Captain, we found an island!"
>the Captain steps out of his quarters
>his eyes are back to normal, with a pupil in each, and the floater is back
>"Have you found the island's frequency on the radio yet?"
>"Not yet, sir. I'm still trying."
>the scribe plays with the dial of the radio, searching through the foggy static for the island
>"Whit does he mean island frequency?" Vogel asks.
>"Do you know what number stations were?"
>"Aye! Thay wid broadcast oan shortwave tranny frequencies fur a'body tae pick up. Whiles at set times 'n' whiles randomly. Thay wid broadcast cryptic, formatted messages o' numbers. Repeating a tae times afore cutting oot." She smiles happily, "thay wur believed tae be used tae send messages tae spies!"
>"T-That's right." I try to hide my worry of her knowledge. "Each island in the Iron Coast has their own numbers station, like how people have their own voice. Some play a high toned buzz before childrens' songs are hummed. Sometimes, the broadcast ends in the middle of a hymn, only to return several minutes later to continue the message. Some of the channels have happy-go-lucky tones to them, some a sort of tired... or a panicked voice synthesized to blankly say numbers."
>Vogel nods with great interest
>"U-boat crews share the encryptions with each other so we know who has claimed what island and if they are mined out or not."
>the scribe jumps up
>"Found the frequency, sir!"
>"All quiet," the Captain orders, "divert all power to the radio."
>"All power to the radio, aye sir." I hear the engineers call.
>the lights go out, leaving us all in the dark
>a ghostly glow emanating from the radio as the scribe listens to the island's number station
>his eyes look sunken as he listens to it
>peering through the static until a tune plays
>the eyes of every sailor looks demonic with the way the radio's lumisense reflects off them
>we look at each other as we begin to recognize that tune
>the Captain would play it sometimes in his quarters while we were docked at an island
>La Mer
>I hear two sailors whisper to each other
>"I thought everything in the Iron Coast was from before 1945."
>"What do you mean?"
>"This was recorded only a few years before Django Reinhardt died."
>"When did he die?"
>the first sailor looks worriedly at his friend, "in 1953."
>we all jump when a disembodied voice comes through the radio
>he croaks painfully, like his neck was sliced open
>"Cuckoo, cuckoo," he wheezes.
>it falls into a cryptic synthesized message of numbers
>he repeats a few more times, the scribe checking his work as he decrypts it
>until the broadcast ceases entirely
>the lights flicker back on as the scribe moves to scribble his translation onto a chalkboard
>"H-E-W-A-S-O-N-C-E-A-Y-O-U-N-G-S-A-I-L-O-R-T-O-O" the scribe reads out, "I-D-R-I-F-T-E-D-A-S-H-O-R-E-A-N-D-H-E-B-R-O-K-E-M-Y-L-A-M-P-H-E-S-L-I-C-E-D-M-Y-N-E-C-K"
>the medic's face goes pale
>"H-E-C-A-L-L-E-D-M-E-A-C-U-C-K-O-O."
>the Captain stares blankly at the chalkboard before uttering, "is this island in the records?"
>the scribe flips through the record book
>"No, sir… it's a new island."
>the Captain looks at the chalkboard one last time before he speaks to the entire sub
>"Prepare to go ashore."