Chapter 78: Someone To Watch Over Me
The warm, oil-scented air of the repair docks was still as ice. Heermann and Vestal floated side by side in one of the smaller pools, lashed together by thick ropes and makeshift bridges. The little destroyer wore a happy smile as she slept, but Vestal's face was a mask of studious concentration.
Dozens of faeries milled around on her stomach. Some wore stained coveralls, others were dressed in heavy canvas and brass diving suits. Still others in equally grimy officers' uniforms supervised with grand hand gestures and teeny-tiny yells of authority.
Sparks flew from Heermann's legs as welding crews mated the little destroyer's new stern into place. Minute divers sat on the bony points of Vestal's hips, ready to leap over the side the moment they were needed. It was all a very complicated dance of steel and flesh, but one that Vestal seemed to have well in hand.
Which was good, because Crowning's attention was more focused on the lone woman observing the pair from the seclusion of a balcony.
Battleship New Jersey stood watching, her gigantic frame almost swallowing the balcony whole. Her arms rested against the metal railing, causing it to groan and creek under her immense weight. But she didn't move, didn't so much as breathe.
She was silent and still as a statute. She didn't even try to blink back the tears flowing from those stunningly gorgeous ice-blue eyes.
Crowning clambered up the stairs to join her, wincing with each step as his bruised ribs ached at him. It wasn't the worst beating he'd endured, and he was thankful Jersey hadn't done worse. A girl her size could have broken him in half, shipgirl magic or no.
"Hey," he took up position just off her beam, his own arms resting on the railing.
Jersey just blinked. Her chest rose imperceptibly, only to fall with a sharp hiss of breath. Her jaw went slack, her lips parting with the sticky sound of chapped, raw flesh.
"I…" she trailed off. Muscles in her thick neck tensed and she screwed her eyes shut.
"Jersey," Crowning had to look away. He couldn't bear seeing her like this. Broken, scared… and all because of him. "I talked with the others," he said. "They promised not to mention, uh… anything."
Jersey offered a tiny nod. "T-thanks, doc." She sniffed, "I'm, uh… I'm sorry about that."
"Don't be," Crowning put a hand against her broad back. Though the thin fabric of her shirt and vest, he could just about feel her body. A body as firm, cold, and unyielding as steel.
"No," breathed Jersey. "I… doc, you're a good man. You deserve more'n just…"
"Just what?"
"Just a shitty old battleship." Jersey scowled.
"Jersey, I-"
"No." The battleship's voice rattled with tension. "Don't… don't you dare tell me you love me."
Crowning stayed his hand, and gave the crying battleship his full attention.
"I… fuck." Jersey clamped her eyes closed, her hat casting a grim shadow over her normally pretty face. "I… you deserve someone who fucking loves you. Someone you can love not just… just fucking take care of. Okay?"
The battleship's eyes flew open, her rage powering past her disgust long enough to wrest control of her bridge. "I'm not gonna drag you down with me, okay? I'm not letting someone I love down again. Find someone better, that's a fucking order."
Crowning stared at the battleship. His mind reeled as she loomed over him. He wanted to tell her he loved her regardless. That he'd happily ride her all the way down to hell and back if that's what it took. That he couldn't find someone better because there was no one better than her.
But she wouldn't believe it. Jersey was stubborn to a virtue. She wouldn't ever give up in battle, not while she had even one gun that still fired. And she wouldn't ever let go of her… of this.
He knew he couldn't save her, and it felt like a thousand daggers thrusting into his heart. "Jersey,"
"No!" The battleship roared.
Crowning stood his ground, "I know why you're having those dreams."
The battleship's anger faded a degree, just enough for her to look to him for the answer.
"It was all that time you spend in mothballs." Crowning didn't know where he was going with this, but… but something told him her dreams hid the key to her soul. If she could just find it, maybe she'd be able to convince herself of what he already knew. She was perfect, a flawless champion who deserved to be loved. "You've stood at the edge of the abyss."
Jersey let out a low growl. The air around her shimmered with heat distortions, but Crowning continued regardless. "You've stared it in the face and you came back to us."
Her rage vanished in an instant. Her massive shoulders slumped, and her head hung to her chest. "I—"
"The Abyss gave you every chance to join it," Crowning didn't have a clue where he was going. But Jersey gave him an opening, the tiniest sliver of a chance to drive a wedge into all those repressed issues. He wouldn't let it slip by. "Again and again they temped you, but you stood firm. You stole their secrets and ran to us because you are an American Warship."
Jersey's massive frame seemed to shrink into the corner.
"You're a hero given form," Crowning let his heart pour into his words, "A heart of courage wrapped in one-hundred-sixteen million pounds of fighting steel. A battleship who made nuclear powers quake in their boots with the thunder of her rifles. You havenothing to be ashamed of."
Jersey sucked down a rattling breath. "I…" she blushed and wiped away her tears. "I… I'm gonna…" she frantically glanced around for an exit, "I have to take a shower. Uh…"
Crowning waited for her response. He'd done all he could, now it was up to her to admit she might actually deserve something after all.
"Tell… tell Kongou I'll be in the showers," Jersey's voice was barely more than a whisper. "If…. she asks." The battleship's words were almost lost in the clatter of her shoes as she pushed passed Crowning.
"I will."
—|—|—
Jersey didn't even bother stripping her clothes off, she just threw the valve over as cold as it could go and huddled under the spray. The battleship shivered, hugging her bare legs close to her heavily padded chest and burring her face in her knees. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the ice-cold water pouring down onto her into a salty, briny slurry.
Her clothes were soaked though in minutes, but the battleship couldn't bring herself to move. What Crowning told her… it was so… earnest. He wasn't just saying things, he meant it. Meant it to the very core of his being.
He really, honestly, truly lo— looked up to her. Respected her. Was proud of her.
And it fucking twisted the knife in her heart to think about it. Every word of praise he offered, every ember of flaming imagery felt like bitter mockery. She didn't deserve this, any of it. There were thousands who did.
Enterprise, who stood alone against a nation and dared them to remove her. Hornet, who brought hope to a nation in its darkest hour. Yorktown, who refused to die without exacting her toll of blood. Saratoga, who'd soldiered though years of war, only to give her last full measure to ensure her sisters' saftey.
Hoel, Heermann, Johnston, Sammy… the little escorts who sent Yamato running with nothing more than their guts. Every damn ship in the navy deserved those accolades more than she did.
"Oi!" Something splintered against her shin, like someone swinging a two-by-four with all their might against twelve inches of inclined American steel. "Geddup, wanker!"
"Victory!" Jersey didn't even bother looking up. "Go fucking somewhere else, I'm not in the mood."
"Why do ya think I'm here, mate?" Victory's bouncy Australian accent echoed of the smooth tile of the shower room. "You need a pep-talk love."
"Am I gonna get smacked around again," Jersey growled.
"If you don't stop moping, probably."
Jersey scowled, and peeked up over her knees. Victory stood by her feet—even standing she barely reached Jersey's head—with a splintered oak beam in her hand. And she was wearing a skimpy Union-Jack bikini with her Admiral's bicorne. For some reason.
"The fuck is with that outfit?"
Victory glanced down at herself and shrugged. "Your fantasy, yank."
"Shouldn't your tits be bigger?"
Victory bashed Jersey across the face with her beam, splintering it even further against her nose.
"Fucking ow!"
"Oh please," Victory rolled her non-patched eye. "You're made of steel, that didn't hurt."
Jersey scowled. "Fine, it didn't hurt that much."
"Alright, we're getting somewhere, yank!"
"Why the fuck are you here?" scowled Jersey.
"Because you, mate," Victory settled onto the floor next to Jersey, her tiny frame utterly dwarfed by the gigantic American. "Are this fucking close to having a full-on mental breakdown."
"I am fucking not."
Victory bashed her in the head again, tearing open the tiny nick on her cheek.
"Ow!"
"Jersey!"
"What!"
"Listen to me," said Victory. "You're panicking because you're finally realizing that he loves you."
"Yeah!" Jersey swatted at the sailing ship, only for her hand to pass right though her like smoke. "fuck."
"Vision, mate," Victory flashed a teasing smile.
"Fuck you," Jersey scowled. "And yes, I'm fucking realize that he loves me. And I wish to fucking… anything that he loved anyone else."
"Because you've got the hots for Musashi too?"
"Yes!" Jersey thought for a moment. For being a sliver of her own subconscious, Victory was terrible at figuring out what she was going to say. "Wait, no! because-"
"You're a shitty old battleship who doesn't deserve love?"
"Yes!" Jersey nodded. "That's what I meant. The first time."
Victory nodded understandingly. Then bashed her again with her beam. "How many unit citations do you have?"
Jersey mumbled something under her breath.
Victory whacked her again. "Speak up, mate. I'm an old British wanker."
Jersey huffed. "Two."
"Does that count the presidential citation you got from Korea?"
"No," muttered Jersey.
"What about the one from the Philippines?"
"Also… no."
Victory smirked and spun her splintered wooden beam between her fingers. "Aaaaand, who's the most decorated battleship ever?"
"Me." Jersey's voice as barely more than a mumble.
"Right!" Victory nodded so vigorously her hat almost fell over her eyes. "So why're ya sitting under the shower moping?"
Jersey scowled for a long, long while. "'cuz."
Victory smacked her again, gently this time. "Jersey… think, why do you always take cold showers when you're scared."
"'cause it helps, bongboat?"
"No," Victory shook her head. "Think. Really think." She winked. "Maybe sleep on it."
Jersey scowled. Her hand was half-way to slapping that silly grin off Victory's face when she realized it. There was something about this that felt familiar. Something… something… there.
Jersey closed her eyes, and let herself fall into her dream. Her memory.
—|—|—
Water was all around her. Not the calm, peaceful waters of the Delaware she'd gotten so used to, but a furious churn that rasped at her hull—her… skin?—and flooded her lungs.
Battleship New Jersey's first moments in her new body were spent desperately clawing for the surface. Oily water filled her lungs, she could feel steel shrapnel and half-burned cordite burn at her throat as she fought her way to the surface.
Waves and currents battered at her, sending massive chunks of burning, twisted steel her way. She was confused, lost, terrified… she wasn't even sure which way was up. And… she wasn't even sure she should try. Not after what she'd done. And what she hadn't done…
Swim, sailor! The voice echoed though her mind. Strong and commanding, but caring and kind. It was like her father speaking to her—or at least what she imagined her father sounded like. Swim!
Jersey didn't ask questions. Her screws bit into the water as she pushed herself skywards. She swatted aside debris with her long, strong arms. Her lungs burned in her chest, seething with the pain of debris scouring her flesh. She knew they'd burst if she tried to hold her breath a moment longer.
SWIM!
Jersey gathered everything she had for one last push. She kicked with her long legs, churning water white as her screws cavitated in the oily mire. Her vision had faded to a dim tunnel, and even that was starting to go.
SWIM, GODDAMMIT! DON'T YOU DIE ON ME!
Jersey kicked, kicked as hard as she could. Her hands punched though the surface first, followed by face. She sucked down a desperate lungful the moment she cleared the choppy waves.
The air was hot and stung with the fumes of burnt cordite and burning fuel oil. But it was air none the less. And for Battleship New Jersey, it was the sweetest thing she'd ever tasted.
Ice-cold spray crashed against her, and she fought to stay on the surface. Iron-gray waves towered higher than her mast all around her, a howling maelstrom she was caught right in the center of. A storm that extended from horizon to horizon without even a hint of landmasses in sight.
She glanced over her shoulder. Thousands of yards to her stern, the furious waters vanished into a churning whirlpool. A whirlpool that could swallow Brooklyn without blinking, a whirlpool glowing with fire and belching stinking brimstone.
Jersey screwed up her face and swam hard against it. Each stroke sent her crashing though the waves. Water drenched her deck all the way up to her bridge as wave after wave smashed against her slender bow. Every desperate breath she took she swallowed more burning saltwater.
Her turbines roared beyond their limits, her boilers glowed red in her machinery spaces. She pushed every shred of power she had left though her shafts, but it wasn't enough.
Every glance over her shoulder saw the whirlpool grow larger. Her muscles were giving out, her lungs burned as she forced them to filter though seawater for every molecule of oxygen.
"Y̷͉͠ò̭͎͙̥͇̪̰̫̀u̶̻̲͕̰͚̼̕͘ ͉̝̻͍͚̣̳͓͓ļ͖̘͢e͏̨̠̠̝͈̩̼̖t͏̵̫͞ ͉̮̪͇̮̫̗u̺̖͍̟͔̪s̺̰͔̼̥̠͠ ̵͖͈̬̝͢d͈͎̱̖̯͚͈́i͇͎͍̮̹͢e̥̙̗͓̺͔̕!̵̟̜̼͇̖́" A ship howled at her, nearly crashing into her as the whirlpool sucked it into its maw.
"W̦̼̖͙͔̤̟͍̕͜h̰͉̳̤͉è̵͍̣̞͕̹r̹̣̰̠̯ę̴̰ ̝̘̠̺͔̘̻̭w̵̻̳̩͍̲̣̟͢ͅh̘̩̼é̬̥̼̝͉̱̠͡r҉̶̩̥̫̥̻̗̪̥e̡͍͙ ̧͔̲y̷̗̤̤͢o̷̡̱̖̳u̢͔̗̦͉̻̺ͅ!̸̪̫͕́" demanded another.
"Țh͍͙̥̦͈͈̙ͅę̤̼̞̳͎̯̘̝̪͘ ̪̩̞̗̥ẁ̛̗̲͓͔o̶̠̕ŕ̘̲̜͞l̥̖͇̩͠͞ͅd̵̴̡̳̰̜̜̤̰͙ ̡ͅͅw̬̣̰̲̪͙̥̭͡͠o̵̡̨͓̰n̵͉͕̤͚d̝̠̹̤̬̟ȩ̫͕̭̞͈̲͉̜́r̷͈̰͖͇̝̰̳͍͜s̸̱͍̰͖͈̱̱̞͉͡!͖̥͓͖̹͖͞ͅ" thundered a third.
"N-no," Jersey panted. Her heart hammered against her chest, every motion took more effort than she thought possible. She fought as hard as she could, but the whirlpool was winning. It was winning and there wasn't anything she could-
DROP ANCHOR!
Jersey sucked down a desperate breath, her fingers fumbling in the howling surf for her anchor.
NOW SAILOR! DROP ANCHOR!
Jersey's hands closed around the heavy steel anchor. She brought her arm back, her clothes dripping and soaked from the freezing water. "NEW JERSEY!" she roared, "DROPPING ANCHOR!" She hurled it out with every bit of strength she had left.
The anchor flew though the driven rain, its chain roaring off her deck with a clatter of metal-on-metal. Jersey couldn't do anything but watch it sail though the sky, she'd spent every shred of strength she had just throwing the thing.
For a moment, she thought she was done for. The anchor sailed out of her sight. Towering waves passed in front of it, chain rattled off her deck with ever-increasing fury.
Then with a mighty crash her anchor found its rock. The battleship roared with pain as fifty-eight thousand tons of fighting steel crashed to a halt. Her arm was nearly torn from its socket, but she held tight to the slender lifeline of steel. This was her anchor, hers. She would not let it go.
For what felt like days, the storm raged at her. Attacking her with wave after wave, assaulting her with lightning strikes and hailstorms, but it could not dislodge her. Her anchor held within the veil. She would not be moved.
And then, its fury spent in pointless rage, the storm dissipated. In its place, the churning waters turned to ice.
Frost crept up Jersey's hull, while the ice boxed her exhausted hull in. In what felt like minutes—if time had any real meaning… wherever the hell this was—the battleship was encased. Her hull became the only object of interest for hundreds of miles of perfectly pool-table flat ice.
She shivered, clutching her hands to her mouth to try and stay warm. She didn't have a clue how cold it was, all her thermometers had frozen solid. But it was very very cold.
"Jersey?" a voice spoke. The same voice she'd heard ordering her to drop anchor.
The battleship wheeled on her heel, only to stop half-way to her new bearing.
She'd know that man anywhere. A face like an angry bulldog and a mind like a strategically-inclined freight-train. An Admiral. The Admiral. The Admiral she'd so desperately hoped was her own. "S-sir," she stammered.
"At ease, Jersey." Admiral Halsey motioned her to calm down.
"Sir, I…" Jersey stammered, "I… uh… why are you… um…"
"I'm here to ease your path," said Halsey. "I'm not sure how long I'll have, so let's make this quick."
"Sir," Jersey nodded, "But why you?"
"You're my ship."
Jersey blinked. "But… Enterprise…"
"Couldn't help me," said Halsey. His words rang with solid finality in the freezing air. "She's a good ship, and I do love her so. But she couldn't help me. You kept me in the fight when no one else could. Remember that."
"Sir, but-"
"Jersey," Halsey motioned to the stars on his uniform, "Admiral."
"Right," Jersey blushed, "sorry."
"As I was saying," said Halsey. "Little E was a good ship, the best hunter this navy's ever seen. But she couldn't help me, you could. Because you're not her. You're a battleship. Understood?"
"Sir?"
"You will move heaven and earth to keep those under your protection safe. I should have been sidelined years ago, that disease should have kept me out of the fight. But you let me keep fighting. You protected me like nobody else could. Because that's what you do."
"Sir," Jersey nodded mutely. She wasn't used to getting this kind of praise, especially from Halsey.
"Which is why," continued the Admiral, "I know you're not going to just let go of Samar." He glanced up at her, his gaze suddenly focused and burning with desperate energy, "That was my fault. I made the call, not you, understood?"
Even Jersey's armor couldn't take a glare of such intensity, and she floundered for words. "Y-yes sir."
"I don't know how much of this you'll remember," said Halsey. "But if you forget it all, remember this. Blame Me. Understood sailor? Blame me, not yourself, not intel, me."
"Sir, I… but-"
"Blame me," barked Halsey. "Do I make myself understood, sailor?"
Jersey glanced at her toes. "Yes sir."
By the time she looked up again he was gone. And all the company she had was the freezing bitter cold.
A cold so intense she almost didn't notice them.
The battleship blinked.
She wasn't alone.
Figures, thousands of them, stood around her. Tiny blots of dark against the infinite white standing in a perfect circle around her. No, not standing… marching. They closed in on her with perfect harmony, the circle forming into a narrow ellipse around her hull.
And then she smiled.
They were marines.
A ragged band of marines. Some wore the heavy black-and red of the Barbary wars with muskets by their sides. Others wore the khaki and drab of the First World War, and carried their Springfields with pride. Still more marched in the heavy clothing of the Korean Winter and carried their Garands ready for actions. Yet more wore the sweat-stained olive of Vietnam, and there were even a few marching in a piexlized desert scheme she didn't recognize.
Jersey fell to her knees and wept with a broad smile on her face.
"Ma'am," one of the marines stepped forwards. A Captain in dusty desert fatigues with an M16 slung over his chest. His gloved hand came to his helmet in a crisp salute. "We are your honor guard."
Jersey wiped the tears from her eyes, but even she couldn't keep from smiling. "H-honor guard." She pulled herself to her feet and returned his salute.
"Until your return, ma'am," said the Marine. "You've looked after us… let us return the favor."
Jersey grabbed him in a tight hug and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. "T-thank you, Marine."
He grunted as she set him back down. "It's our privilege, ma'am." He glanced over his shoulder at an equally ragged line of sailors marching towards her. "Your mothballing crew's here, ma'am."
"Mothballing?" said Jersey.
"Here to tuck you in, ma'am," said the Marine. "Until you're needed again."
"And then what?" asked Jersey.
"Then you'll sleep," said the Marine. "And until you wake, me and my men will watch over you."
Jersey smiled and wiped a tear from her eye. "I… I always did love my marines."
"And we love you too, ma'am." He snapped to attention and slowly brought his hand to his brow. "Semper Fi. Even in death."
"Semper Fi," replied Jersey. Then she gave him one last hug, just for good measure.
"Excuse me, ma'am?" one of the sailors stood on her deck, his hands too laden down with tools to offer a proper salute. He wore the same blue dungarees her crew had always worn, but something about him felt familiar.
"Yes?" Jersey turned to the sailor.
"Lieutenant Jack Gale," he offered her a nod in lieu of a salute. "I'm in charge of getting you ready for bed."
Jersey beamed, "Then I'll let you get to it, Lieutenant Gale."
—|—|—
Yeoman Gale had a staggeringly long list of things she'd learned to expect out of shipgirls. A list that included such fascinating incidents as Borie's weekly naked runs, Naka's impromptu concerts, Yuudachi staying up all night for a week straight playingWorld Of Warships, Yuudachi crying that the internet people were mean to her because of her pois,Dee setting pans on file while trying to make apple sauce...
Gale still wasn't sure how that last one happened.
But one thing Gale hadn't ever expected was being glomped—then kissed repeatedly—by fifty-eight thousand tons of sopping-wet American battlewagon.
So yeah. That's a thing. It slightly worried Gale that she was jaded enough to be okay with this.
Slightly.
Beats paperwork though.