sharks-- natural selection

Natural Selection
(from Eduard Ovechkin’s “Sharks of Steel”
 https://legal-alien.ru/akuly-iz-stali/glava-iii/estestvennyj-otbor)
The very first thing that surprised me upon arriving into the nuclear submarines division was simplistic relationships between people. Not buddy-buddy, not disrespectful, but exactly simplistic. When the division officer on duty saw me trying to march into his cabin, he just handwaved it dismissingle:
“Relax, son! Ain’t no parade!” Well, uhh, can’t exactly just relax here - it’s the whole captain 1st rank sitting here and writing something in his logbook.
“Captain first rank, sie!” I start the formal report as I’ve been taught.
“I know it already,” Duty officer interrupts me, “arrived for serving and stuff. What’s your specialty?”
“Control instruments tech,” I say.
“Too bad you’re not a torpedo tech. I’d take you with me, I need one real bad. You sure you don’t wanna shoot torpedoes? One tube, three valves, piece of cake.”
“Negative,” I say, ”I want to be mechanic!”
“Well, you’ve been warned. Let’s go to the mechanics then.”
So we go to the division HQ’s second floor and arrive into a humongous (as I thought back then) corridor with a whole lot of doors.
“Hey oilslugs!” The captain 1st rank shouts. “Got you a lieutenant!”
 Out of one doors hop out two officers: a tall, stout and bearded captain first rank (electromechanical service chief officer) and a lanky captain second rank (flagship electrician).
“Lieutenant! Finally!!” The bearded one shouts. “Here I thought they leave us zilch again. Come at me dear lieutenant!”
So I leave the friendly cap-one and come with these strange people. The strange people sit down and pour some tea on the desk filled with some papers, schematics and fragments of tablecloth.
“Sit down, lieutenant,” They toss some more schematics off the chair.  ”Some tea?”
Of course I’d like some tea. Surprising heat and a whole day in buses and HQs.
 “Thanks, but no.”
“What, too shy to drink the tea with such big shots?”
“A bit.”
“Don’t,” Electromechanics chief officer. “We have it simple here. If you’re a fucktard you get the fuck outta here ASAP, if you’re a decent fella you can easily drink tea with us. Are you a fucktard?”
“Don’t think so, seem like a decent fella.”
“So sit down and have some tea.”
We drink our tea for some time.
“What’s your average score?”
“Four point six, maybe four point seven.” [out of five]
“Anything else?”
“Military interpreters course.”
“That sure will come in handy down in the hold!” They laugh. “Wanna sail? Or gonna ask for an off-duty crew?”
“Of course I want. Why would I go here otherwise?”
“Fuck if we know. And what’s the reason?”
“Well, ummm, it’s romantic and stuff.”
They laugh again.
“Romaaaaantic!”
“You just don’t know a thing in romantic stuff!” I gather some courage, probably because of the tea.
“Huh, he’s arrogant. That’s a good thing. Going to TK-20 then.”
Electrical grabs the phone:
“Seryoga! Go dash like a baby deer and call Khafizych! So what if you’re too old for this? Electrical says like a baby deer so baby deer it is! Yeah, go on, bullshit me on, I dare you!”
He breathes into the receiver some.
“Khafizych! Dance!.. You dancing? Cool. Got your a lieutenant, that’s what. Pried him with my own hands. Thanks what? Your thanks doesn’t slosh in the bottle nicely. You owe me three liters now. Oh yeah, go cry into my shoulder. I said three! Sending him to you now.”
He guides me to the window:
“See the Sharks on the piers down there? Yours is the third to the left. Now go.”
So I go. Near the pier some balding Tatar man shouts at the seaman with the automatic rifle:
“You know how they’re gonna fuck us in the ass for that? By the tail and on the broom in one motion! I see that one fucking time and your mom won’t recognize you!!!”
Then he turns to me. His badge states “BS5C”. The one I need then.
“Welcome aboard, lieutenant.”
We go down into the Central..
“Here,” The mechanic points to the biggest control board,” Here’s your Molibdenum, aka the piano. The only thing I ever need from you is to play it like a fucking Van Cliburn! Everything else is dust in the wind. Let’s go see the MPP control board.”
We go down some more into the eighth compartment. The mechanic enters one of the bunks with me in two. The bunk contains one body sleeping in alcohol mist.
“Here, Eduard, this body is named Vladimir, he’s one of the two MPP instruments techs. Your colleague in doing nothing.”
“The fuck you mean by nothing?” The body offendedly mutters.
“Vova, just what kind of example you’re making for our fresh lieutenant? For fucks sake! Where are the control board keys?”
“Decent. I’m making a decent example to our fresh lieutenant,” Vova mutters and fetches a bunch of keys.”Lock it all up afterwards.”
“Vova, aren’t you getting fucking cocky?”
“Khafizych, please, you yourself yesterday...”
“Okay. Talking too fuckin’ much.” And the mechanic get me out of the bunk.
I was settled to the bunk neighboring Vova’s. Also in Vova’s bunk lived Andrey Borisych. A seasoned and experienced chief of the first hold crew. They both were kinda my mentors. I remember arguing with the chemical crew chief inside a compartment once. At some point we raised our voices, and at that point they both hopped out of the bunk:
“Who’s bullying our lieutenant here?!”
And Dima the chemical was the same age as Vova, with Borisych actually being older:
“Well, me!”
“Well fuck you then! Need some punching? That’s our lieutenant, only we have a right to shout at him!”
They were kidding of course. The whole crew was rather friendly.
And the mechanic alone was     was worth following him with a notebook. Or filming, when he got angry. It was a rare occasion when he did get angry, but when he did he channeled his inner Tatar. Well, he technically was Tatar, but during these moments he unleashed a true Tatar Mongol who somehow strayed from the Horde and ended up near Murmansk.
“Lyonya,” He called the intendant in the saloon, “What is this hthat you’ve poured into my bowl?”
“That’s schi,” Lyonya replied, surprised at such a level of a culinary ignorance by a whole captain 2nd rank.
“Schi? Lyona, they look like they’re derivative fro shit! Where’s the meat, Lyonya?”- Щи?
“Meat’s in the second course.”
“Oh yeah? And maybe the bones are in the third then? Lyonya, do you see these hands?”
Lyonya dutifully inspected    the palms outstretched to him and nodded.
“These very hands, Lyonya, carry your body in the depths of the northern seas. And if these very hands start shaking due to acute lack of meat in the organism, that would mean you, Lyonya, will stay in these northern seas for the rest of your bright if short life! Now look at Eduard!”
Lyonya looked at me.
“He has the main ballast tanks at the tips of his fingers! He’s like friggin’ Ikarus, raising you up, to the sun and oxygen, and you? You brew some cabbage in water and call it a day, like he’s a goat or something!”
The mechanic also carried his keys on a wide green band and put it on his head when he wanted to think, like a samurai headband. The keys kept hanging near the right ear.
“Edik, what’s up with the freezers?”
“Can’t put a finger on it, the automatics doesn’t wanna work. One of the fuses keeps burning all the time and I can’t figure out why.”
And so he put the band on his head.
“GImme the schematics!”
Which I do. We roll them out.
“Fuck, they’re bigger than the control board itself!”
We look into the schematics, tracing the lines with our fingers and realize we don’t understand shit.
“Did you try a nail then?” The mechanic of the strategic submarine asks then.
“What nail?”
“Iron nail, Edik, your usual iron nail!”
“Into where?”
“Not into where you’ve appeared from obviously! Let’s go.”
We crawl down into the seventh compartment’s hold.
“Put the cover off the board!”
I put it away, the mechanic inserts a nail instead of the fuse    and fixes it in place with an ebony cap.
“Turn it on and check for the smoke!”
So I do. The freezer gladly starts up and freezes properly, whily one of the circuits starts smoking. I turn the freezer off, replace the circuit, insert the fuse back and start again. Damn thing works now.
“Watch and learn! Keep the nail, it’s yours.”
Then the mechanic puts off his headband (no need to think anymore) and leaves utterly satisfied with himself, humming some tune.
It was some time later when I remembered the Electrical’s words about fucktards. Indeed, we never had any. There were smarter people, dumber people, serious people, goofy people, alcoholics and not touching the booze, calm and crazy, but not a single fucktard. Even if there were, they disappeared shortly after.
Northern Fleet’s natural selection in action, I guess.