Afternoon Aloft, 1st July

Well, Fingers worked for the gunner, so Terry knew not all boys were powder monkeys in battle. "You ever seen any reelly big battles?"

"Nope." Just a string of bad luck to blame for that, really.

"Oh." Terry couldn't stay downcast for too long, though; the day was lovely and sunny and it wasn't very often than he got to talk to one of the sailors properly, without them getting impatient with him. "D'you got any other good stories, though?"

Any more good stories? Chase grinned. "Do up a runnin' bowline first."

Terry had nearly forgotten the bit of spun-yarn that was tucked half under his leg, but fished it out and untied the bowline on a bight that he'd tied earlier before carefully tying a running bowline in it, holding it up for Chase to see.

He had to scramble up then to spit tobacco juice over the side, but dropped back to the deck, sitting cross-legged again as he waited for the Tar's verdict - and the story.

It was a good effort. "Gettin' better. Now. Dunno's you'd believe it, but me first week at sea, I were seasick every day. Near to packed it in, I'll tell you."

Terry nodded; he remembered what it was like to be sea-sick all too well. "But you can't jus' walk off, not when you's in the Navy," he said, going back to picking at the tar under his nail while he listened.

"Not 'less you can swim," Chase remarked airily.

"Even then they gets the M'rines out to stoppit," Terry said sagely, looking up for a moment.

That brought a mental image into his head which made him laugh. "What, the bullocks? Like to see them try to swim with all their kit on!"

"Don't need ta swim, do they? Don't they shoot deserters?" Terry had heard folks talking about that, but maybe he'd been wrong?

"If they sees 'em makin' off, aye." Chase shrugged.

Terry waved a hand impatiently. He wanted the rest of the story, after all. "Any'ow, what's that got to do wiv bein' seasick?"

What did it have to do with being seasick? "Everythin'. First time it happened, I were sick right on a bullock's shoes."

"You never did!" Terry stared up at the older sailor with wide eyes. "I bet he was proper glimflashy!"

Whatever that meant!

"Got me a good belt round the ears for it, with a mighty swat to the arse besides. But all his mates was laughin' fit to bust, so mebbe it weren't so bad."

Terry couldn't quite imagine anyone daring to box Cob Chase's ears - or swat his arse, either, though he made a valiant effort. Somehow, the Cob Chase of his imagination was the same as the man in front of him, though.

"What happened then?"

"He chased me off, heavin' one of his fouled shoes after. So's I kept it."

Terry wrinkled his nose. "Why'd you want a lobsterback's shoe? 'Speshally if you'd heaved your guts all over it."

"Me havin' it meant he didn't, an' that made him all sorta mad. Served him right though, sure!"

"'E shouldn't've chucked it atcha, stupid lobster," Terry said, trying to imagine one Terpsy's Marines getting into such a tweak that he'd throw a shoe at someone. Maybe off duty, but not while he was wearing them.

Chase shook his head. "Nope. But he did an' he never got the shoe back neither."

"Waddaya do wiv 'is shoe, then?" Terry wanted to know, imagining all sorts of possibilities.

His grin was nearly ear-to-ear. "Washed it."

"And?" Why couldn't the Tar just tell the whole story straight out?!