Bongshorts: Meeting Glorious

“Scharn.”

“Nau?”

“I’m bored.”

The two brothers sat in a lounge of the O-Club awaiting… something. They weren’t sure. Upon their less than conventional arrival, a Royal Navy Sub-Lieutenant had taken them here, with its fancy bar and simply -awful- excuse for beer, where they had been instructed to wait. So they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And soon, they were bored.

So bored that both brothers made a contest of counting the tiles on the ceiling. Scharnhorst had gotten the furthest until Gneisenau distracted him around the mid-400s. After ten minutes bickering, they called it a tie. Scharnhorst then brought up the idea of a beer-chugging contest, which saw them at the bar harassing a very nervous-looking Petty Officer. The contest was cancelled within seconds, neither sibling able to stomach the swill these mad English -dared- to call ale.

“I’m amazed they can drink the stuff.” Gneisenau said after gulping down the last of his squash. It was the fifth one he’d had and still, the aftertaste of the foul stuff lingered. What fell powers had possessed the man who had fermented that hellish brew? He very much doubted that he ever wanted to know.

“I know.” Scharnhorst shuddered, finishing his own cup. “I would sooner traverse the North Sea blind and in the middle of the wildest, most ferocious storm than ever touch a -drop- of that foul concoction ever again.”

“It’s really not all that bad…” the Petty Officer on bar duty mumbled. The two brothers both gave him a pitying look before asking for another refill of squash.

“You see this, Nau? This is what our once esteemed foes have been reduced to.” Scharnhorst sighed with a sad, slow shake of his head.

“A pitiable sight indeed, Scharn.” Gneisenau agreed with an equally morose expression, before turning to the Englishman. “Don’t worry boy, you don’t have to suffer in silence any longer. You are in the presence of friends now.”

“Friends who recognise the good stuff,” Scharnhorst muttered, “and good that certainly was -not-.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Gneisenau said, nodding along. “What’s your name, boy?”

The Petty Officer paused, brown eyes flitting between the pair before darting towards the exit. After a few second’s hesitation, he returned his gaze to Scharnhorst and Gneisenau.

“Charlie.” He told them warily. “Charlie Marks.”

“Well, Charlie Marks, you are shit out of luck to find yourself born to a nation that has the sheer brass balls to serve -that-,” Gneisenau pointed a finger to the tap that Marks served a draught from before the siblings had cut their contest short, “and call it a -drink-.”

“Once this war is over, we will show you a proper brew from our homeland, and that is a promise!” Scharnhorst swore as he finished off his squash before unleashing a loud belch that shook the air around him. Gneisenau regarded him coolly before setting his own drink down and let rip with a deep, guttural burp of his own that reverberated throughout the entire room. The battleship favoured his glaring brother with a smug smirk and set his empty cup down.

Petty Officer Charlie Marks made an excuse to leave shortly after the display.

So, now they sat on their chairs, half-paying attention to the television which currently displayed an English afternoon chat show of some sort. A big-nosed kook in a cheap, grey suit was raving that the returned ship-people had provoked the ire of the Abyssals and if they could all be ‘returned to the deep from whence they came’, the attacks would cease. The host was stone-faced, but the second guest providing a counter-argument was trying very, very hard to keep a straight face and failing considerably–something that only incensed his opponent.

“These English do love to talk.” Gneisenau noted with dry amusement, as the red-faced man switched targets to scream obscenities at his opposite number, who promptly ‘lost his shit’ as he believed the Americans would say. The two brothers watched with a mixture of curiosity and awe as the big-nosed lunatic hurled abuse at the other guest before tackling him off his chair. The host leapt to his feet, shouting for security, who quickly swarmed the set and hauled the frothing Big-Nose away.

“Indeed.” Scharnhorst observed with a wry grin.

“I wonder if they believe that.” Gneisenau wondered softly.

“Who?”

“Our people–Germany. I wonder if they think of us like he does.” Gneisenau indicated Big-Nose, who lingered onscreen as the cameraman tracked his rough escort from the set.

Scharnhorst made a face and snorted bitterly, “You know damn well why they won’t have us, brother, and it’s -not- because they think we’re all going to slit their damned throats when their backs are turned.”

Gneisenau sighed, “Yes. Yes you’re right. I guess I just…” he inhaled, taking a deep lungful of air, and leaned back in his chair, so far back that he was staring up at the grey, speckled tiles of the ceiling once more.

“What?” Scharhorst asked; curiosity piqued by his brother’s troubled demeanour.

“You’ll find it strange,” Gneisenau began, “but I’ve always thought that this… exile of ours would be easier to handle if I thought they hated us, or feared us. Hatred. Fear. -That- I can understand. But this new, ‘modern’ home of ours, they–”

“Want nothing to do with us.” Scharnhorst finished for him. “It’s not a question of hatred or fear, though I’ll bet you a hundred Reichsmarks that there’s at least some of that going about.” He turned to face his brother, a sad look on his face. “It bothers me too.”

They shared a quiet moment, reflecting on their return. Naturally, both had returned at the same time, and both had known from the very moment they’d spotted one another that they were brothers of the same class. They had also recognised some of the others; Bismarck, Prinz Eugen, Graf Spee, Tirpitz…

All of them told they were no longer welcome in their own country; a country that all of them had fought for.

A country that most of them had died for.

Scharnhorst was about to open his mouth and speak when the door was suddenly flung open, slamming against the wall with a loud crash that made both siblings jump, such was their surprise. Both snapped their heads around to the entrance and found a woman standing in the doorway. She was glamorous to behold, with luscious red hair that spilled around her oblong face like waves and heavy, lidded eyes that shone like ocean blue diamonds. She was garbed in a strapless, sea-green evening dress that glittered in the light that hugged her body tight and a fashionable mink fur was draped over her shoulders. On her feet were a pair of black shoes with heels so high neither brother was certain exactly how she managed to take so much as a step without toppling over.

Her facial expression was one of considerable vexation; scrunched up so that she looked like she might snap at the first soul who dared provoke her. The new arrival swept the club with a glance, and eventually settled upon the two brothers.

“You there,” She declared in a haughty–and unmistakably English–voice, pointing an impeccably well-manicured finger towards Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, “have either of you seen Avenger in this dreary place?”

Scharnhorst and Gneisenau blinked and exchanged a look.

“Avenger?” Gneisenau ventured curiously.

“Avenger!” the British shipgirl–for she could -only- be a shipgirl to be roaming a naval facility dressed like that–snapped irritably. “My associate. Where. Is. She? What is so difficult to understand about this?”

The two Germans turned to share another look. Whoever this woman was, she had a very real attitude problem, something they resolved to fix while the opportunity presented itself.

“What on earth are you staring at each other for?” she barked, her ire mounting with each passing second. “A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would easily suffice.”

“We were wondering, Fraulein,” Gneisenau said in a low, controlled voice, “if you might tell us what your companion looks like. We can hardly tell you if we’ve seen her if we don’t even know what she looks like.”

The shipgirl narrowed her eyes at Gneisenau. Instead of answering, however, she approached them, hands on her hips, until she stood over them.

“Your accent,” she noted, “it’s German.”

“Well observed.” Scharnhorst muttered wryly. The woman’s eye twitched and she turned slowly to glare venomously at the German battleship. If looks could kill, Gneisenau’s brother would have left the O-club in chunks.

“I’m only going to tell you this once,” the woman ground out through clenched teeth, “but I am having a considerably poor day, and your ‘clever’ remarks–German–are only serving to make it worse. While I’m sure this may be hilarious to you and your misbegotten friend over there, rest assured that it sits ill with me at the very best, and on my name as Glorious of the Royal Navy, I will make it my personal mission in life to ensure that yours is–”

“Waitwaitwait!” Scharnhorst interrupted. He glanced at his brother, and saw that he remembered too. “Are you telling us that -you’re- HMS Glorious? The aircraft carrier?”

Despite her growing fury, the two brothers noticed that she couldn’t contain the barest hint of a smile at being recognised. No doubt she presumed her fame preceded her.

She was about to be disappointed.

“The one and only.” Glorious stated, puffing out her chest. “And now that we have introductions out of the way, perhaps you might finally–”

“KMS Scharnhorst.” Scharnhorst introduced himself, managing to maintain a straight face.

“KMS Gneisenau.” Gneiesenau followed, barely containing a smug grin of his own.

There was an awkward pause as the two names hung in the air. Glorious froze completely, expression and all. It was quite impressive, really. She was quite literally statue-still. For a moment, Scharnhorst wondered if they had broken her.

“You…”

Glorious’ voice was low, and her eyes blazed with the intensity of a roaring inferno. Oh yes, she remembered. All too well, it seemed.

Another moment of quiet descended. Scharnhorst locked eyes with the British aircraft carrier and didn’t flinch. He felt, rather than saw Gneisenau tense up in his seat, ready to spring into action should she try anything.

“You…” Glorious repeated, louder this time. Scharnhorst decided to chance it.

“Us, yes.”

“You!” Glorious shouted, raising a shaking finger to point at Scharnhorst, and then swinging around to give Gneisenau the same treatment.

“Yooouuuuuuu.” She stretches the word out. “You uncouth vagrants made sport of me!”

Scharnhorst blinked.

“Pardon?”

Glorious, however, was already continuing, her face flushed red as she fumed, “Never in my entire life had I ever endured such humiliation! Even today, decades later, I still remember how you took turns pounding me with those brutish eleven-inchers; how your ruthless, unrelenting double-team shook my body, made my superstructure quake and shiver until you broke me, and left me alone and abused in the middle of the sea! You–you -savages-.”

Scharnhorst felt his eyes widen. He flitted his eyes to Gneisenau, who was equally agape. He returned his gaze to Glorious, who was inhaling and exhaling long, deep breaths as she willed herself to calm down.

Then what she said sunk in.

And Scharnhorst began to fight one of the hardest battles of his life to keep himself from exploding. He might have succeeded.

But then Glorious began to speak again.

She folded her arms and huffed, “Despite this, I am not so base as to hold a grudge. If you would simply agree to take responsibility for your past actions we might put this all behind us.”

Well, that did it then.

“Scharn.”

“Nau?”

“I can’t take this anymore.”

Wordlessly, the two brothers picked themselves up from their chairs and sauntered towards the door, past Glorious, who flinched and squeezed her eyes shut as they walked past. When she realised that they were not about to assault her, she rounded on them with indignant confusion.

“What… where are you going?” she cried.

Then Scharnhorst and his brother were outside, shutting the door behind them and holding it shut. Sure enough, they heard pounding and shouting from the other side scant moments later. Both siblings kept their hands firmly locked around the door handle, effectively locking Glorious inside the O-club. The impromptu siege lasted some five minutes before, finally, it grew quiet.

Scharnhorst and Gneisenau turned away from the door and, with nary a word or look exchanged, raised their fists and bumped them against the others’.

“Let’s get out of here.” Gneisenau said. “Before she starts up again.”

“Yes, let’s.”