Bongships Part 1

“So, are you looking forward to your imminent posting?”

The question came from an impeccably dressed dark-skinned man with a cheeky expression and a pair of spectacles. His name was John, and that was all he’d seen fit to inform the man next to him with regards to his person. He was also an SIS spook, and were it not for the perpetually smarmy grin that seemed plastered to his face at all times, he might have been halfway decent company.

*Might* have been.

“I’m going to be surrounded by bloody sailors for God knows how long,” the other man groused. “That’s not exactly my idea of a good time.”

“You managed it before with the Boaties,” John pointed out.

“Yeah, but back then I had the Marine Commandoes to liven up the place,” Ben McLeod growled. He was well-built; thick, broad shoulders that were ever so slightly hunched over and a narrow waist. His fair brown hair was trimmed short and there was a mole on his upper lip. His dark eyebrows appeared permanently furrowed and his smokey grey eyes were hooded and faintly bloodshot. Anyone taking in his features for the first time would paint the portrait of a deeply unhappy man.

They would not be far wrong.

“I thought you Paras hated the Royal Marines,” John inquired curiously.

“We don’t hate them as such; they’re just not nearly as hard as they like to think they are.”

“Is there a particular story behind that?”

“Let me put it to you this way,” Ben started. “In the Falklands, the Parachute Regiment made an amphibious landing, stormed a beach and secured it for the craphats in no time flat with *no* real training in marine operations. What would have happened, may I ask, if the seas had been too rough and Command had told us to insert by parachute?”

John said nothing.

“We’d have gotten the job done in a tenth of the time is what would have happened, and all the RMCs would have been able to do is sit on their boats and twiddle their thumbs until we’d won the war on our ownsome,” he scoffed. “'Elite'. Them? Hah.”

“I’m sure some would argue otherwise, but that’s neither here nor there,” John mused dryly.

The pair rounded a corner and passed two base security personnel, who gave them both up-and-down glances, determined that they presented no obvious threat to the naval base, its staff, or its assets, and then promptly moved onto the next train of thought in the span of a heartbeat. Ben gave them a nod but they didn’t return the gesture.

“See that?” he groused. “Bloody Navy; they’re rude cunts too.”

“Language, Benjamin,” John chided as he approached a set of double doors, “we’re about to be in the presence of ladyfolk and I rather think a good first impression is a mus–”

“YOU *BITCH*!”

The shrill exclamation was followed by a reverberating crash and a pained grunt. John’s grin vanished. Ben felt himself tense up, eyes wide and legs slightly bent, hands at his sides; open and ready to grasp and rend and tear.

“Get a move on, man!” John shouted as he threw open the doors and rushed through. Ben snapped out of his stupor and followed on. The room was unmistakably some sort of lounge, with a trio of modest, plain brown settees arranged in a broken semicircle around a widescreen television set. Seven young women occupied them, each with expressions of varying shock or bemusement. To the back of the room was a pool table, a bar area with the shutters down and a table football set. Paintings of various modern and historical vessels of the Royal Navy hung proudly on the cream walls.

All save one, which was snapped and crushed beneath the weight of a girl who appeared to be scarcely into her mid-teens, and was tenderly rubbing her jaw. Her deep brown hair was rolled into a slipshod bun, brown eyes ablaze with rage and the promise of violence. She wore a modest beige skirt with grey leggings, and black plimsolls on her feet. Her upper attire consisted of a thin maroon blouse and a thick grey leather jacket with the emblem of the Kriegsmarine sewn in felt onto the upper breast.

A German ship then. So what he’d been hearing about the returned Kriegsmarine warships was true after all. None of it, however, explained why she was picking herself up from the ground with flexing hands and murder in her eyes though.

Until he caught sight of the aggressor.

Standing off to one side was another teenaged girl who seemed perhaps a fraction younger than the downed German. Her skin was dark, a few shades lighter than John’s, and she was garbed in a long, flowing desert brown dress which bared her arms to the world and simple green sandals on her dainty feet. A thin khanjar dagger hung from a belt at her waist in an ornate sheath with a striking black and gold pattern while a chequered kufiya with a Royal Navy patch sewn crudely onto the side adorned her head, pulled low enough to display her face.

Her features were smooth and soft, her lips tantalisingly promising… or so they would have seemed were they not twisted in fury. She held a barstool in both hands and had her head was lowered aggressively towards the fallen German.

“Say that again, you bloody mongrel. Say it again and I’ll gut you like I did at Narvik,” the dark-skinned girl snarled, her onyx orbs fixed on her opposite number.

The German bared her teeth in response.

“Easy to be tough when you have all these friends at your back. Just like Narvik,” she spat, her voice laced with enough venom to drop an elephant.

The dark-skinned girl’s eye twitched and she raised her stool in preparation for a vicious overhead slam while the German tensed her limbs, ready to pounce the moment the attack came.

“I don’t need friends to send you back to the bottom again,” seethed the faux-Arab through gritted teeth.

“*ROOM-SHUN*!” Ben roared. No one snapped to attention as Ben hoped they would, but the two would-be combatants stopped and snapped their heads around to see where the noise had come from. He’d consider that a win.

“Who are you?” Little Miss Brown asked, suspicious but notably calmer already. The German said nothing, her eyes flitting from Ben to her assailant warily.

“I’m the man who’ll flay you alive if you don’t tell me what the fuck is happening in the next ten seconds,” Ben growled. “Nine, eight, seven…”

“He used to be Parachute Regiment,” John pointed out, “they tend to break things when they’re angry.”

Ben shot him a dirty look before turning his gaze back to the girl with the stool. She lowered it but didn’t let go. Both girls then pointed to the other.

“This Nazi cow said that–”

“This English sow said that–”

“You know what?” Ben interrupted. “I’ve suddenly decided that I don’t care. We’re at war with things that might very well come from Hell itself for all we know and here you two are bitching about who-gives-a-shit-what. We’re on the same damn side and you will toe the line or so help me, I will take a knife and open the two of you up so the hardhats can see what you’re *really* made of!”

Both girls flushed deep red, and for a moment, Ben thought he had the situation in hand.

Then Queen Kufiya snarled, “You don’t tell me what to do, *Army*.”

Ben narrowed his eyes at the girl, having to remind himself over and over that the situation required tact and delicacy, and that many of the recently Returned were still getting used to their new flesh and blood forms in addition to the knowledge that their war had long since passed. Then, before he realised he’d even done it, he had strode up to the girl (a Destroyer judging by her age and slender build), slapped the stool out of her hands and hoisted her over his shoulder, wrapping an arm tightly over her waist to limit any struggling.

The young girl went ballistic, shrieking expletives and curses and promises of violence upon Ben and all his kin, thumping her tiny fists against his broad back all the while. Ben turned around, sauntered over to the couches where the other girls sat agape, cleared a space on one, and then unceremoniously dumped his hostage onto it.

The girl’s kufiya fell over her eyes and she scrabbled at it with her hands so as to clear her vision, only achieving success after a whole five seconds in her fluster. She glared daggers up at Ben, who loomed over her with an impassive look on his face, opening her mouth to no doubt offer him another threat. Ben clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Don’t,” he warned her. “The last few months have been unbelievably shitty for me and if you keep this up, then I’m going to use you to blow off some steam.”

One of the other girls, a slightly older girl in a frilly cream dress reminiscent of Victorian-era high fashion, went bright red and clapped her gloved hands to her mouth.

“Oh my!” she gasped, scandalised.

“I don’t think he means it in that way, Spartan,” whispered another girl, who was watching the action unfold with a bemused expression.

“R-really?” the other girl–Spartan–stammered, sounding more than a little relieved as she retrieved an elegant fan from somewhere within her bodice and started to cool her flushed face. “W-w-well good. Such behaviour would certainly not be p-p-proper.”

“Would have given the rest of us something to actually watch though,” the other girl said with a scowl. “Almost a century of development and there’s still nothing bloody worth seeing on television.”

Spartan turned back to the other girl with a pale look of such horror that Ben thought she might actually faint. He soon diverted his attention back towards the Destroyer girl he’d harassed who, despite his threats, seemed no closer to calming down. For a moment, he thought he might actually have a fight on his hands.

“What is going on here?”

All eyes turned toward the open doors to the lounge. Standing in the portal was a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Her hair was sandy blonde and slicked back over her head, falling just above her shoulders, pinned in place by a simple black hairband with a small, silver ornament resembling the Crown on the bridge. She wore a marine blue blouse with puffy gathers and tight wide cuffs on the wrists with a short black silk scarf looped around her neck and trailing behind her left shoulder. A crimson skirt adorned her waist that fell just below her knees, with an emerald pattern that seemed to emulate the flow of a river, and it glittered in the light.

Her steely blue-grey eyes flickered from face to face, taking in the scene and its participants; her features hard but elegant in a way that was almost heart-achingly familiar. She was dressed like she was about to meet up with friends and hit the town, but her posture was ramrod straight and she carried herself like she had the utmost confidence in herself and her own abilities. This, Ben knew, was another shipgi–lady.

She bore herself into the room in black stockings and wearing equally dark Oxford stacked heel shoes, laces tied impeccably neatly, gliding across the floor until she was stood beside Ben. The woman flicked a glance down at the girl in the kufiya, who appeared dumbstruck with awe, beholding the figure before her as if she were a goddess walking the earth.

“Bedouin?” she spoke, her voice soft but clear to all those standing in the lounge and carrying a significant weight of authority. A woman used to being heard, Ben thought to himself.

And obeyed.

“Y-yes?” Bedouin stammered, still gawking up at the new arrival.

“What happened here?” she asked.

Bedouin blinked and shook her head, clearing herself of her stupor. She pointed aggressively towards the German shipgirl she’d assaulted, who had picked herself up and was regarding the newcomer with a wary expression.

“She said–”

“Bedouin.” The newcomer demanded, injecting a note of force into her voice. Bedouin deflated and sank back into the couch.

“I lost my temper.” Bedouin answered, sounding very much like she wished she could shrink herself out of existence.

“Why did you lose your temper, child?” the woman asked her in a much softer tone.

“I…” she began, casting another look towards the German. This time however, there was no outward sign of hostility.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It was a silly thing, really.”

“We were talking,” the German girl spoke, in heavily accented English, “about our… well, you know. I may have made a remark that… incited her. I thought little of it until she attacked me,” the German looked at Bedouin. “I’m sorry,” she told her.

There was a brief, awkward pause before Bedouin swallowed.

“A-apology accepted,” she said timidly.

“Good.” The newcomer smiled, lowering a hand and adjusting Bedouin’s kufiya, tightening it a fraction. “There, that should stop it sliding around on your head so much.”

“Thank you.” Bedouin mumbled. With her reddening cheeks and the way she refused to meet the woman’s eyes, she reminded Ben very much of a little girl being doted on by her mother.

“Okay,” he interjected, facing the shiplady, “this has been real helpful but, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you exactly?”

The woman waited to finish adjusting Bedouin’s headdress before standing up and regarding Ben with a cool expression. Her eyes flitted to John before returning to him. Ben noticed that the shiplady was abnormally tall for a woman, standing only a fraction shy of his own height; and he was hardly short to begin with.

“You must be Specialist McLeod,” the woman deduced.

“That’s me, yeah,” he agreed testily, “and that’s also not answering my question.”

A moment’s silence passed between them before the woman inclined her head a fraction.

“You are correct. My apologies for my lack of manners, Specialist.”

Ben shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant.

“I was referred to as both ‘HMS Warspite’ and ‘Lady Warspite’ upon my arrival in London,” she informed him, “but ‘Warspite’ will do. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s much simpler.”

Ah.

Understanding came swiftly, and Ben nodded his head slowly. The silence upon her entrance, the way Bedouin had practically cowered before her, all of it made sense. He raised his right hand and saluted the old Battleship.

“Specialist McLeod reporting to Battlegroup Warspite as requested.”

Warspite nodded, extending a hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Specialist, I’ve been told much about you.”

Ben wondered exactly how much she had been told even as he took the proffered hand and gave it a solid, firm shake, which Warspite returned. The battleship had a nice grip, and Ben couldn’t help but notice how rough her hands felt in comparison with the other girls–

–guns flaring, howling defiance and bathed in blood, waging a war they couldn’t ever hope to survive–

–that he’d worked with before. He released her hand and gave her a cordial nod.

“Right… now that’s over with, I guess we should make with the introductions?” Ben offered.

“That would be prudent,” Warspite nodded, before turning and beckoning for the German girl, who was stood up but had remained where she was, to come closer. After a moment’s hesitation, and a quick glance at Bedouin, she approached the couch. Warspite took her, pulling her gently to her side. The young girl shifted, uncomfortable with either the attention or the proximity to Warspite.

“Tell us your name,” Warspite requested in a soft, gentle voice. The German girl looked up at Warspite, and then to Ben, uncertainty clouding her features. She was so young. Far too young.

Strangely though, even despite the knowledge that it was all kinds of fucked up, Ben couldn’t really bring himself to feel much as he took the little girl in, knowing that she would fight, bleed, and perhaps even die in a war that, even two years on, no one truly understood. The realisation should have startled him, but it didn’t do that either.

He was brought out of his thinking by a sharp question rattled off in German

“I said: Did you hear me?” the German girl asked, eyebrows furrowed in irritation.

Well, at least the nervousness was gone.

“Hm? No, sorry, I was- I guess I zoned out. Mind saying that again?”

The German folded her arms and huffed, but obliged him.

“Kriegsmarine Destroyer Z-12 Erich Giese… call me Giese.”

Ben nodded and turned to the next girl. This one also bore the insignia of the Kriegsmarine on a peaked cap so big for her head that her amber eyes only just peeked out from under the brim. Fair blonde hair fell in disorganised tresses from underneath her hat, stretching all the way to her waistline, and she was garbed in an equally oversized unbuttoned blue double-breasted reefer coat and similarly blue tricot trousers. Underneath her coat was a plain white shirt, which appeared fairly creased. Like her sister ship, she wore simple, unassuming black plimsolls on her feet.

“Kriegsmarine Destroyer Z-9 Wolfgang Zenker,” she said in a voice that was but a whisper.

“So… Zenker? Zenk?”

The little destroyer said nothing, simply staring blankly up at Ben.

“Fuck it, Zenk it is. Next,” he called, moving onto the next ship; the one in the ridiculously flowery dress he’d heard one refer to as ‘Spartan’. She looked like she’d stepped right out of a period drama with all her frills and her long, mahogany brown hair that was half-tied at the back with side-swept bangs at the front. Everything in between was all curls which looked like they must have taken hours to achieve. She held her fully unfolded fan in front of her face and still appeared considerably flustered.

“H-HMS Spartan a-a-at your service,” she stuttered, making an effort to sound more confident than she clearly felt. Ben grunted and moved on.

The next girl was a dour looking redhead. She wore a plain black skirt of modest length and a similarly plain white school shirt with a dull grey blazer, plain black shoes and plain brown eyes. Save for her shocking red hair and the smattering of freckles on her cheeks, plain seemed to fit this one to a T. A half-open book sat on her lap.

“Dainty,” she said.

“You sure don’t look it,” Ben muttered.

“I’m a destroyer,” she said with a shrug, “we were made to kill shit, not look pretty.”

“I can relate to that.”

“Whatever,” she grunted. “Hey, by the way, can you get us something actually, you know, not crap to read? This…” she held up her book, something called *The Guardian Interviews* by some Michael Clary, “is not doing it for me.”

“Watch TV,” Ben suggested.

“I did. Why do you think I’m reading this tripe?” she said, frowning at him.

“Point. I’ll ask about but don’t hold your breath.”

“Thanks anyways,” she sighed before returning to her reading, wincing at a presumably painful line scant moments later.

The next girl was also a destroyer, with similar hair and features to Dainty-albeit without the freckles-and clothed in a bright, strapless, daisy-patterned sundress and yellow slip-on sandals. She was humming softly to herself, rocking her head from side to side, appearing very much off in her own little world. Ben asked her what her name was, but she was either ignoring him or that out of tune with reality.

“Oi,” Ben barked, snapping his fingers in front of the destroyer girl’s face. She blinked, and focus gradually returned to her gold-flecked brown eyes. She glanced up at Ben.

“Hello,” she chirped, an easy smile gracing her young features. “Are you new here?”

“Kind of, yeah, but we’re doing–”

“I’ll show you around then,” the girl said in a sing-song tone of voice that reminded Ben very much of a young child. “It’s really nice here. The food is nice, the people are nice to me and the others, and we get to stretch our legs every day.”

“Glad to hear it, but seriously n–”

“And it’s been so nice and sunny since I got here, and when I’m out on the water there’s a really nice breeze that just feels *so* nice I could fall asleep standing u–”

At that moment, Ben clamped a hand around her mouth, silencing her.

“Okay, time out for two seconds here,” he told her. “It is *really* good to know that you’re having fun here, but in the meanwhile, there is a *huge* amount of crap I need to sift through and I’d kind of like to know your name so I can get today over and done with. Good?”

The girl gave him a dozy nod.

“Good. Now, when I remove my hand, I want you to give me your name and *only* your name. Understand?”

Another nod.

Ben removed his hand.

“Delight,” she told him with a smile, seemingly unperturbed by the way in which Ben had quietened her.

“Fantastic. Moving right along now.”

“Have fun,” Delight smiled before humming and resuming her head bobbing.

Two girls sat next to Delight, though Ben noticed there was a significant gap separating this pair from the strangely relaxed destroyer. Though both were of similar height, one was clearly deferent to the other; sitting perched on the edge of the couch with an expectant look as if ready to attend to the other’s every whim. Queen Bee sat with her arms folded underneath her sizeable bust and couldn’t appear more bored if she tried, wearing a glamourous sea green evening dress with a thick mink fur covering her shoulders and deep blue satin gloves that extended just past her elbows. Her brick red hair fell in waves past her shoulders and her impeccably-polished high heels seemed both elegant and impossibly impractical at the same time. All in all, she appeared more like a model or a film actress than a warship.

Lackey, on the other hand, possessed dark, raven locks, with a long, messy fringe that fell far enough to cover her eyes, and every so often she would flick her head so as to clear her sight. She was garbed in a simple ochre cocktail dress and bare-legged, with inexpensive looking black kitten heels on her feet. She regarded Ben with a tentative expression, flickering her gaze towards QB as if unsure. Eventually, she opened her mouth to speak-

“Glorious,” QB said, sounding just as bored as she appeared, before jerking her head in the direction of Lackey, “Her name is Avenger.”

Ben noticed the way Avenger seemed to visibly wilt at having not been given a chance to even introduce herself, and narrowed his eyes at Glorious. He didn’t like bullies much, and what was going on with Avenger’s body language and Glorious’ nonplussed, casual cutting her off before she so much as uttered a syllable was a great big flashing neon sign to him. In spite of this, he willed himself to calm down; maybe Glorious was just pushy and having a shit day.

“Are you going to move?” Glorious asked him testily, her crystal blue eyes sharp with irritation.

Or maybe Glorious was an arsehole. Ben knew ways of dealing with arseholes, but they could come later when he had a solid cover and a better knowledge of Devonport Naval Base, its storerooms, back routes, and how effectively the latter two were guarded and watched respectively.

So Ben smiled, nodded, and moved along, noting the way Glorious’ eyes followed him suspiciously. It was not a nice smile the soldier wore, and he swiftly discarded it as he carried on to the next Hull.

“Pandora,” came the response before Ben had even expected it. He found himself looking at a petite young thing with a bright smile and luscious green eyes. She possessed short, fair brown hair which was tucked messily under a black swimming cap with a pair of old, thick rubber goggles wrapped around it. She wore a blue one-piece swimsuit with stark white polka dots and was bare-footed. Ben regarded her curiously.

“You not cold like that?” he asked her.

“No sir,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. The young girl seemed to shiver with barely contained energy. “We submarines are quite resistant, let me assure you.”

Ben took a few more moments processing what she’d told him and taking in her attire before grunting and shrugging his shoulders.

The last girl looked to be somewhere just beyond the cusp of adulthood, and had such finely sculpted features that Ben had to blink just to be sure he wasn’t seeing things. She had an outstandingly pretty face with high cheekbones, flawless alabaster skin, amber eyes that shone like gold and full, cherry red lips. For a moment, Ben was speechless.

Then the warship opened her mouth.

“’Ello guv. Bit noisy in here ainnit?”

And like that, the illusion was shattered forever.

She wore a thick, brown woollen overcoat, her hands buried inside the pockets at her hips. Underneath was a considerably unflattering beige sweater and dirt grey hunting trousers. A pair of thick wellington boots adorned her feet, and perched atop her mane of burnished gold hair was a woollen flat cap. Ben fought to recall his grasp on the English language. Eventually, he succeeded.

“Right. Yeah. Name?”

“Effingham. But you lot can call me Effie,” she said with a bright grin. “So you used to be Specials then? Nice, nice. You know, I was used to help train blokes like you after I beached mesself, so I was.”

Her accent was pure Cockney. Worse, it was *Cabbie* Cockney; by far and large one of the most frustrating dialects to translate into the Queen’s own tongue. It was pure fortune that Ben had managed to comprehend her thus far, but he was under no illusions that his luck would hold for long. So he nodded and then took a step back, eleven pairs of eyes tracking him.

“Right,” he started, “I’m McLeod. Or Ben; one of those two, I’m not fussed.”

He paused for a moment, wrestling with himself. Eventually, he decided to come clean.

“I’m going to tell you a few things now. I can’t promise you’ll like any of it but hopefully you’ll appreciate me clearing the air like this later down the line…”

He told them an abridged version of the events that had led him to his current position. Dredging up old memories was just as difficult as he imagined it would be, and though he managed to keep his voice level and even, several times he felt like the mask he’d slipped on would crack and he’d break down. Some, like Spartan, wore expressions of shock, and Ben felt his choler rise at the sight of what he thought might be pity. Others, like Dainty, appeared interested but, thankfully, kept whatever they might feel about it off their faces. Only Glorious seemed entirely uninterested, inspecting her ruby red nails and frowning at some imperfection.

“They call me a Specialist,” he continued, “because somehow, I’ve managed to log the most hours actually talking with… well, people like you.”

“So, what, you’re our babysitter?” Effingham asked in barely-comprehensible English, her earlier warmth giving way to suspicion.

Ben gave her a measured look, then glanced at John. The spook’s expression was completely unreadable save for that dumb grin. This was his play then.

“Yeah, for lack of a better word, I guess I am.”

Effingham folded her arms and levelled her head at him, her body language radiating pure aggression.

“Don’t give me that,” Ben groused in a sour voice. “Fact of the matter is that we know about as much about you as we do those spooky freaks lurking about in the water. Only real difference is that you don’t seem so eager to give us meatsacks a bath of high-ex. For whatever goddamn reason, someone up somewhere high looked at me and thought I’m their guy. So now, I’m here to keep an eye on you. Official description of my job is ‘Oversee and maintain the health of the Returned, mentoring them on the ways of the modern world and ensuring no conflict occurs between the Returned vessels of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy and our once-foes of the honourable and esteemed German Kriegsmarine.’”

He paused to take a breath, “Flowery as all dicks and unspecific as fuck; just the way we like it. So until they find someone better, or until they work out just what your deal is, you’re stuck with me. Help me out and I can guarantee the next… however long this shit takes, will go a whole lot smoother than if you don’t.”

“That a threat, mate?” Effingham asked, narrowing her eyes dangerously.

“So what if it is?” Ben shot back. For a moment, silence reigned. Both locked eyes with each other, unblinking and unflinching.

Then Dainty ruined the moment by sighing and saying, “If you want to fuck, then get to it already and stop pissing about.”

“D-Dainty!” Spartan gasped, covering her mouth with her fan.

Effingham sniggered. Even Ben couldn’t hold back a snort.

“Okay, you know what mate? You got stones, so you have,” Effingham said with a wide grin, once she’d recovered. She opened her right hand, spat into her palm, and then offered it to Ben. “I think you and me’ll get along thick’s’thieves so we will.”

Ben stared at the proffered limb, shrugged, spat on his own palm, and clasped his hand with hers.

“Looking forward to it,” he said, surprised to find that he meant it, if even a little.

“Good show,” the energetic cruiser boomed, breaking the handshake before sweeping an arm around Ben’s shoulders and ushering him towards the door. The firm, unshakeable grip she had on him informed the ex-Paratrooper that resistance was futile.

“Come on girls!” she called back to the others. “We got a new bud for the battlegroup; and that means it’s party time! Tell the Admiral to rev up those strippers and bust out the booze!”

“Effingham such behaviour from a Royal Navy Cruiser i-i-i-i-i…” Spartan spluttered, jumping up from the couch and pursuing her errant sister, sounding more and more distressed with syllable that left her mouth.

“Better than reading this,” Dainty said with a shrug and hopped up off the couch to follow. Delight trailed just behind her with Pandora, humming all the while. Bedouin and the two German destroyers favoured each other with a quick, wary look before joining the impromptu conga line.

The only ones who didn’t move were Glorious, Avenger and Warspite, the former of which gave a dramatically long sigh and picked herself up from her sitting position, patting her dress down with her hands, before turning to Avenger, “We may as well keep an eye on the rabble, as well as the fresh arrival. I assume you’re coming with me, sister?”

Avenger paused but nodded silently before standing to take her place next to the carrier. She cast a curious look at Warspite before the pair left the room to go after the rambunctious cruiser, leaving the old battleship alone with John, the pair of them watching the open set of double doors with curious expressions.

“Well now,” John said, “he’s certainly made an impact.”

“Mm,” Warspite hummed in agreement.

“I don’t suppose you’d like an escort to wherever it is Effingham has in mind?” John asked, offering an arm politely.

“Thank you,” Warspite said with a gracious nod, “but I doubt very much that you know the way, and it would be–as Spartan might say–‘improper’ for a lady to take the lead.”

John laughed.

“Social conventions have changed, Madam Warspite.”

“Just Warspite, if you will; ‘Madam’ makes me feel old. And please, indulge me.”

“I suppose I can do that,” John responded with a shrug. “The very last thing I’d want is to do something to upset you or the other girls.”

He stepped over to the open doorway, gesturing for Warspite to pass on through with a sweep of his hand.

“Shall we?”

Warspite nodded, and waited courteously outside for John to rejoin her. The pair began to traverse the corridors, following the din and clamour of seven Returned warships of a bygone era, raising as much stink as they thought they might get away with.

“An interesting man you’ve brought here,” Warspite mused.

“We aim to please,” John said.

“Do you believe he can really help as much as your colleagues profess?”

“I believe so; there are precious few veterans of London still packing a pulse who’ve had as much contact with the Returned as he has. We’ve given him some incentives but, ultimately, it’s all down to him and how much he wants to make of the opportunity we’ve given him.”

“Incentives?” Warspite inquired, cocking an eyebrow. “What kind of incentives?”

“Nothing that needs to concern anyone at this moment. Please, just trust that both he and I will do all we can to make yours and the girls’ acclimatisation and adjustment easier.”

Warspite hummed dubiously but otherwise said nothing, hoping Mr McLeod would turn out to be everything she was told that he would be as they re-joined the others outside a certain office in Devonport Naval Base.