Emerging Bodies

Emerging Bodies

The USS Steward remains buoyant at its depth, surrounded by the deep pressures of a black ocean. Waiting for news of an ending battle, its crew collects in the center, the biggest room in the submarine. Voices echo off walls slick with moisture. A low groan emanates from the back of the vessel, a noise that often frightened new Navy Seamen Recruits.

Chief Petty Officer Warren stands near the back of the small control room, brushing shoulders with Petty Officer Travis.

“I haven’t heard any news yet,” Travis says. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, his low voice barely leaving his mouth. His fingers pick at the corner of a picture, worn at every edge. It displays Travis’s wife and daughter folded in an embrace. Travis’s eyes focus on the center of the room, but his nervous hands prioritize the photo.

Warren glances at the huddled duo of Captain Hood and Lieutenant Commander Dominic. The Captain motions towards the radio and the Lieutenant nods, eyes like reflective glass. His brows form a straight line stitched across his forehead. The Lieutenant hides his expression better, his anxiety only obvious in the way his knuckles turn white as he clutches the controls.

The room is suffocating. Barely a breath expels as Seamen, Officers, and every rank between gather in the central cavity. Dark walls enclose panels covered in controls. Blue and khaki uniforms paint the room.

“Perhaps they’re too busy celebrating a victory,” Warren says, one hand to his jaw, scrubbing at new spikes of facial hair. “That must be why we haven’t heard anything.”

Travis frowns. “Victory means no fight for us.” He slips the photo back into the pocket of his Navy uniform.

“The war’s just begun, mate,” Warren says with a light laugh. “There will be enough fight left for our torpedoes.”

An arm brushes Warren’s other shoulder as a new Seaman recruit sidles in.

“You’re late, Waterson,” Travis says, arms crossing. “Captain said zero-nine-hundred, not whatever-the-hell time it is now.” Any other day, Travis, Waterson’s designated officer, would bark demands. Today, however, there are other priorities. The air is heavy with tension.

“Let’s get up there and razzle-dazzle ‘em,” Waterson says, ignoring Travis’s cold glare. Warren notices the respectful nod that comes after. “Chief Warren,” he acknowledges. Warren nods back.

A deep sigh escapes from Warren’s mouth, his lips pursed tight as the knot in his stomach. Ahead of him, Captain Hood fiddles with a watch. He stares at an empty space on the floor, like he can see the seconds tick, fall, and splat against the wet steel.

“What’s taking so long?” Waterson asks, a boyish pitch to his voice. The Navy made men out of boys, but war tended to break down a man. The quiet room meets his loud voice in a heavy collide.

“We’re waiting for Rear Admiral Doorman’s call,” Warren answers, more softly.

The Royal Netherlands Navy Rear Admiral Doorman served as the snake’s head of the crew’s serpent’s strike, positioned on the leading sub. Warren and the crew were waiting on his call to emerge from the depths and join the battle.

Travis leans closer to Warren, his concerns intended to be private. “The sub should be halfway to the surface by now.”

Warren scratches his chin. The USS Steward wasn’t to be a star player in this battle, but it was supposed to man the rear. “Emerge to witness victory or aid in defeat,” as Captain Hood always said.

The same Captain who was now murmuring into a radio receiver, frown lines etched like tattoos on his cheeks.

“Something’s wrong,” Warren says.

Captain Hood drops the radio receiver onto the main control panel. My ears pop. “We’re surfacing,” he says quickly.

So Rear Admiral Doorman summoned us. It was time to fight.

“CPO’s and above in the tower,” the Captain adds.

Warren stiffens at the sound of his rank, Chief Petty Officer. He’d joined the Navy after college, after not knowing what to do with his degree in mechanical engineering. A degree allowed him to climb the ranks faster than a Seaman recruit, but he sometimes wondered if the promotions were deserved.

He hadn’t left anyone behind, not like Travis, and not like Waterson, who also had a wife and child. Warren was twenty-seven and unmarried, a rarity in the military. Travis always joked that it was because he was too stern, or at least because his face was. “Botox wouldn’t even fix that line between your brows,” he’d say, Louisiana accent heavy when he was cracking jokes.

Now, Warren clenches both fists, stomach churning.

Bodies move towards their positions, Warren slipping out with the rest. Travis elbows him as they reach the ladder to the bridge – as if to remind him of his importance. Warren’s calloused hands reach for the thick rungs. He feels the ballast tanks emptying before he even starts to climb. Pulling himself into the top room of the submarine, he wiggles his jaw to fight the pressure in his ears, then whistles softly. Officers join in as their heads emerge from the hole in the floor, fighting seasickness with song and climbing the ladder as the submarine climbs through the layers of the ocean. Soon the room is full of pursed lips and uneven tunes. Minor chords string together in an eerie lullaby.

Captain Hood wrings worn hands. “Open the hatch.”

Metal screams against metal. Warren closes his eyes as sunlight floods in – sunlight and smoke. Its pungent smell fills the small space, thick and acidic. Someone coughs, then silence accompanies every man as he climbs the final ladder to the bridge.

Water splashes into the open ceiling as Warren approaches the ladder. It’s his turn.

He grabs the rungs once more and lets his feet guide him to the surface. Feeling frozen in his military-issued boots, he forces himself upward, the duty of his rank like a mantra in his mind.

The sun is a beacon, blinding for the first few moments. Warren sways, steading his feet and lifting a hand to shade his eyes.

The USS Steward isn’t alone. Waves splash against the hull, carrying bodies.

The air leaves Warren’s chest as he follows the horizon down. His eyes wander the field of water, bodies atop the waves like stones amongst tall grass.

His hand reaches for his chest, where the Navy emblem sits neatly stitched to his uniform. His fingers form a fist as he stares at matching emblems scattered throughout the waves, catching the sun like tiny SOS signals.

There is no victory. This battle’s lost.

The other submarines are nowhere to be found.

But the war is not yet done.