Cold All the Way Through, But Warming

Live Bait

Will truly hated the torpedo room. While it was brightly lit, it was cramped with no portholes, up in the bow so every crash of the waves thundered through the bulkheads, the air was stale, and he felt like he had spent months down here. He was glad for the training he had gotten, even though it had been miniscule, for it meant that he didn't make a total ass of himself in front of the crew.

Instead, he kept quiet, listening to the crew as he ran them through drills to ensure that they could perform their jobs quickly and accurately. It also allowed him to observe the movements of the crew, memorizing them so that he could have loaded a torpedo tube on his own, practically in his sleep.

It wasn't all drill though, Will had them calculate firing solutions over and over. He helped when the math grew too dense for some, and encouraged them to question if one method was better over another. To be quite honest, he had no idea if a wider spread of torpedoes was better than a denser spread, and he hardly cared. But the men, many of whom had entered the navy and requested the torpedo work, seemed to enjoy it and he wasn't going to gainsay them a little bit of joy.

What little joy there was on this ship had to be savored.

The change of home ports from Chatham had set off grumbling, even though privately Will was relieved that they'd moved up to Rosyth. Everyone else had complained about the dismal Scottish weather, especially Captain Bligh, but he felt more at home. The few times all of the officers had dined together Bligh had needled him about any defect he found in the Rosyth docks; the inferior quality of the coal, the surliness of the dock crews, the poor food to be found in town, and the incomprehensible accent of the locals. In Bligh's eyes, every fault lay with Will, somehow.

He had simply remained quiet, even when the senior officers had begun a discussion about the inferior quality of the Scottish people as a whole, both physically and morally. He may have cut the fish he had been given a bit more harshly than needed, but not one word of defense sprang from his lips. One of the other juniors, Quigley, the one with the wispy mustache, had looked at him so pitiably during it that Will had half expected him to pull out a handkerchief and dab at his eyes at the cruelty he was suffering.

Fortunately, Will's presence seemed to offend Bligh so much that he was rarely invited to dine with the senior officers, nor were the other juniors. If anything, the senior officers held themselves above everyone onboard, and only respected Bligh. Which in turn, meant that they treated the juniors as little more than up-jumped stokers and Will like a rat that had crawled up a hawser. During watches, Will had been aghast to see the charts and figures that the other juniors had drawn up under the supervision of the senior officers, and had quickly corrected them.

But now he heard the bells that signaled it was time for the torpedo crew, and the junior officers, to head off to lunch. So, he nodded to the men as they looked up from their calculations. "Well done, lads, go get some food and we'll run a few drills before it's time for dinner." He shuffled off after them, at least glad that the wardroom was still open to him.

They even had their own steward, harried as he was taking care of all of them. A destroyer had a great many more officers than a liner, for every man who could handle some form of gun or department onboard was at least a Lieutenant. And, unlike him, they were addressed as such. The steward had learned that quickly after Bligh damn near bit his head off after referring to Will as "Commander Murdoch" during the first dinner.

So, Will gratefully accepted the chicken dumplings that were on the plate placed in front of him and didn't get offended when it was only handed over with a mumbled, "Mr. Murdoch."

"Thank you." He replied, reaching for his glass. He didn't look forward to lunch as much as the other officers, and even the men did, for Bligh had found yet another way to set him apart. He'd told the purser that Will was a teetotaler and that his rum ration was to be restricted. That was one thing Will was angry about, for a tot would have made some of this easier to deal with. Instead, Will had to endure everything sober, but today seemed to be a bit different.