March 1914

War was no proverbial pain in the ass. It was literal, and Georg von Trapp relished it. If war and service could be his bedfellow, it would be, and it would be the best time of his life, he was sure. It was perverse and twisted, but he was a man with such a brain that navigating enemy waters was a thrill to him, and strategizing best for success in battle, whether for victory or merely for thwarting the enemy, was a puzzle that pleased his cerebral mind beyond all else.

It was hard to say what he preferred more: serving as corvette lieutenant on his assigned warship or carousing the town with his fellow shipmates while docked for a night filled with alcohol, debauchery, and merriment aplenty. And while there was nothing like the softness of a willing woman, still there was nothing in the world that could rival the joy he felt at breathing in salty sea air and stepping off land at last to be surrounded by nothing but sea—around, below, above. For as far as the eye could see. For many, it was claustrophobic. To Georg, it was freedom.

"What do you say we crash the local pub before we head back to Pola?"

Georg was startled slightly by a rough hand clapping him on the shoulder, and he turned to glare up at the sailor who had interrupted his musings. Maximilian Detweiler. Of course. The man was a weasel at best and a complete fraud at worst, but somehow, though he had at least eight years on Georg and should have reached commissioned rank by now, certainly beyond him, he had succeeded at completing the mandatory training and at least held his post.

Georg did so despise mediocrity.

"Well?"

He grunted in response, wishing he could simply turn away from the older man and go back to his thoughts. Max wasn't bad company for laugh, but Georg was not after a laugh. He was anxious to return to the water, and it would be prudent to check over the equipment one more time. He said as much, and got to his feet, brushing off his knees and the seat of his pants.

"Always with a thundercloud over your head, you are," Max observed. "Uptight. Unless you're drunk. Then, you're the best fun in the world. It's bad form."

Gritting his teeth, Georg turned toward the docks and ignored the insubordinate comments, knowing full well by now that Max did not give a damn that his mouth and his actions were what kept him where he was. Bad form, indeed. Something roiled in his stomach which he could only describe as ironic glee. The only thing that kept Detweiler in anyone's good graces.

No one could call Georg von Trapp a good man. He was a wretch, and he knew it. But at least he had one thing going for him: he was unwavering in his principles. Perhaps it was a miracle that such a man as he had any at all, but surely there was such a thing as lawful evil. When people did not play by the rules is where every problem began, whether for good or for ill.

Boarding the warship, Georg was met by his commanding officer, corvette captain Ludwig von Höhnel, who was sitting on the deck cleaning a pile of rifles and pistols. Here was a man who would go far. Not much older than Detweiler, he had spent years exploring the African continent on behalf of the empire, and had only left to serve aboard this warship for the good of the empire. Before the war was out, he would surely be made admiral.

"I shouldn't have let you all run off, ensign," he said gruffly as Georg saluted him and then sat down and picked up a rag and grease with which to clean his own rifle. "But it seemed a shame not to allow it. We'll be at sea for a long haul, this time."

"Sir?" Georg said tentatively, eyes focused on the rod he was now ramming down the barrel of his rifle, but nevertheless offering his deferential attention.

"Things aren't looking well, von Trapp, and that's the plain truth. But play your cards right, and you'll come out of this blasted travesty of a war better than most could hope. The navy suits you, and you suit it."

"Yes, sir."

It was a high compliment, but a worn one. It was true that Georg had risen quickly to a commissioned position and that his intention to make a career out of his naval service was going better than even he had hoped, but surely anything was attainable with enough dedication. With nothing else to divert him, he had all the dedication life had to offer.

His parents were dead, and he had no attachment to any extended family. They were all aristocratic bores, and Georg hated the lot of them. He had stormed off to enlist in the naval academy nearly six years ago after an altercation with his uncle, in which it was said to him that pursuing a naval career was unbecoming of a man of money, and it was forbidden. His father would not have approved.

"Blast my father!" he had shouted at his uncle, a fat old man who was red in the face with rage and far too drunk to try to win any arguments with his nephew.

Life as a society rat was a bleak prospect for a boy who had always wanted nothing more than to see the world. He played every sport hard, throwing his all into everything from football to cricket. He rode horses well, and would never dismount until his legs were quaking from the strain of controlling a newly-broken colt or filly. He had studied diligently at the naval academy, finishing at the top of his class. When not dressed in uniform, he donned billowing shirts and snug knickers, swam often, and always smelled of sweat and sea salt.

It was a waste of such a talented mind, his aunt insisted, and his grandmother, too. But truly, what was talent when there was passion? It played out in his physicality, in his affairs, in his drunkenness. Life was to be lived, not observed! And on that score, he had enough of the judgment and expectations, so strong and so high, and simply left. Ran that night the several kilometers to the train station and enrolled immediately at the naval academy, paying the full tuition for his entire stay outright, with nothing but the clothing on his back.

Once graduated and sent on his two-year training voyages, Georg wrote a terse letter home to his relatives, if only to inform them that he was well and thriving, and that they could send any correspondence to the naval base in Pola. Whether it was weeks or months or a year, he would receive it eventually.

A reply had come swiftly, but to Georg's delight, every intention had been thwarted by the longevity of the mission he had embarked upon after posting that letter. This fact alone did not preclude him from spiraling into a sour mood, however, for the contents of the letter all but placed a permanent scowl upon his face.

June 1912
Zara, Kingdom of Dalmatia
Estate von Trapp

Georg:

Were your father still alive, he would most certainly disown you for the cowardly behaviour you have exhibited in shirking your duties. Out of respect for him, however, I will refrain from so doing and instead offer you an ultimatum: come home and marry as we have discussed many times, or continue on your reckless path with life in the navy and find yourself cut off from your inheritance.

I will be sending an escort with this letter, and he is under instruction to bring you home upon delivering it. This can be settled reasonably, I think, and you will take your place as head of the family. I am willing to allow you a great deal of freedom, and I will indubitably remain as executor of your father's estate until your first son is born, as per his wishes.

It is our hope that this letter finds you well. Your grandparents send their prayers.

Onkel

"Send their prayers," Georg snorted loudly, and then before he knew it, the letter had found its way to the burning grate of a tavern furnace and he was knocking back shot upon shot of whiskey, an amount which the barman later remarked should have killed a horse.

The escort was long gone by that time, for it had been months between the letter's delivery and Georg's return. The haughtiness and entitlement demonstrated by this missive only served to fuel further bitterness and a flaming, intense hatred for the life that he had the severe misfortune to be born into.

It didn't stop him wondering how long the escort had been made to wait for his return, and it gave Georg every bit of perverse pleasure to imagine the family fortune being wasted on such idiocy. For all the talk and bluster of rules, tradition, and respect, there was not even a shred of respect for the office of the military. Oh, his family most certainly knew how to cozy up to the highest of the political elite, and had their dalliances with the most high-ranking officers of the empire's armed forces. But behind closed doors, when the suits and dresses were stripped, the makeup gone, and the alcohol soaking their vapid brains, the disdain came out in full force, and it never did abate. The only positive potential in any of it was for which officers had a daughter of marriageable age with enough money to grow the small, but respectable von Trapp fortune.

He would rather be dirt poor and living a twisted dream than dressed to the nines and courting wealth. At least this life of order and discipline served a higher purpose.

It made him love the service life all the more. Hardheaded, stubborn, and a creature of habit, Georg was most usually inclined to cling fiercely to what was least approved by his sordid excuse for a family, and he was happy here. Blissfully, unexplainably happy. In many ways he would dare say he had found the love of his life.

It was a love and a life that allowed him to do what he pleased without qualm, and whether that was manhandle a crew of rowdy sailors or bed a pretty girl or greet the dawn with alcohol on his breath and daring a hangover to inhibit him, so be it. There was nothing good in him. If there was good in him, he would do right by the virgin he had spoiled his first week in the port city of Trieste and marry her, and a better man still would have returned home to do his duty to his family. A righteous man would never have left at all, and would instead marry the woman intended for him and begin a new legacy for the nobility of the empire.

But his conscience simply would not allow it.

His uncle was a fool of the highest order, and would never know what it was to him to favour this life over aristocracy. Georg had been just four years old when his father died, and it had come after a successful career in the Austro-Hungarian Imperial and Royal Navy which earned him a rank that Georg hoped one day to attain, and even move beyond.

He had never been too impressed by the notion his family touted, that his father cared more for preserving the nobility bestowed upon the family by the prestigious Ritter title given by the emperor.

It was an honor, to be sure, but it was only truly that. An honor.

One he did not feel he deserved. He had not done anything to earn it, and his name by itself bore no noble carriage. It was only on his father's legacy that he stood as a part of this family, and he despised this. It was all fabricated by his uncle and grandparents, and what little his mother had told him once upon a time was the stuff of storybooks.

He liked his life much better the way he'd carved it. No one and nothing to disappoint but himself. And as it happened, he pleased himself quite well.