"Them fuckers in the Services get all the credit for winnin' the goddamn war. But who got their asses shot out of the water to get them their shit, for chrissake? Us fuckers in the Merchant Marine. Goddamn sub-bait." - Cookie Rorke
"If you don't like romance, Cookie says go fuck yourself." - Holly Rennick, Merchant Marine Cadet
The son-of-a bitch sub! Everybody said they'd been run out of these parts and all we was carryin' were fuckin' refugees. Fuck!
Cookie bobbed in his lifejacket and watched the M/V Parkton disappear, a sorry excuse for a vessel, to be sure, but still his ship. All them fuckers in steerage gonna to get a new start and now this! Goddamn Nazis!
He'd seen the sub quickly dive, since a destroyer might have heard the SOS.
The lifeboat had been empty, probably dumped by the fuckin' deck crew. He'd scrambled over the gunwale and pulled one survivor with him, a girl who'd maybe been sucked out the concussion hole in the sinking ship. Life's mainly luck.
The girl was maybe fourteen. Thick black braid. Eyes almost blue, strange for one with such dark hair, Cookie thought. A lot more than fourteen by the stare in those eyes, though. He couldn't understand a word she said, but fuck it.
Nobody else floated by, not live ones anyway.
The lifeboat seemed sound and at least the fuckers hadn't spilled the rations. But goddamnit, his Giants were playin' them asshole Dodgers at the Polo Grounds and it would've been on the short wave. Luck goes both ways, he realized; he'd been on the ladder to the radio room when the torpedo hit. Anyway, who gives a shit?
The fuckin' destroyer still didn't show and after a few hours of huddling wet, Cookie realized he'd fuckin' better get to work.
The girl's name seemed to be Mirta, something like that. Cookie's asking "Momma?" and "Daddy?" must have made some sort of sense in her language, because she shook her head. She didn't try to explain more.
She may have been a foreigner, but at least she saw how a lifeboat works, making herself useful rewrapping rations and even snagging an extra oar that floated by. Not that they'd row anyplace, Cookie realized, but at least she had some sense.
Cookie had been torpedoed once before, that one up in the North Atlantic where it was colder than a witch's tit. They say the third's the one that sends you with the ship. He'd done his share in this fuckin' war. Goddamn Merchant Marine! They'd pay him for the fuckin' days till his ship got sunk. That's all. Nothin' for sittin' in this goddamn lifeboat. Fuck everything.
Cookie figured they were close enough to the African coast to drift there eventually, but he'd keep a flare ready for something quicker. The fuckin' M/V Parkton wouldn't have taken this goddamn route if it weren't for the subs and they still got us, he complained to himself. There was no way to complain to the girl.
They ate okay for being in an open boat, though Cookie would have liked a little variety. He'd cooked his way around the world enough times to know what could be provisioned if you cared how it tastes. The girl took what he served without comment. It would have been nice to talk, though, if she'd known how.
Into the second day, still no ship appeared and Cookie knew it could be a while.
The girl didn't say anything, or better put, didn't say anything that made sense to Cookie. She didn't even seem that affected, like a paying passenger would be. Maybe wherever the fuck she came from, Cookie guessed, she'd had lots of ships sunk, so to speak.
When the girl let herself over the side, her hands on the safety rope, Cookie figured she was peeing. Cookie thought it stupid to get yourself fuckin' wet, but maybe they're more private where she comes from. Just in case, Cookie looked the other direction.
Cookie didn't give a shit; he just waited to get rescued.
By the next day, though, watching the swells was tiring in itself. A turn in the weather was at least a change.
When splashes of sea soaked the girl's blouse, pasting it to breasts high and angular, Cookie could see her nipples. Probably whatever fuckin' place she came from, underwear's a luxury, these days. Puny tits, he decided.
Cookie had fucked tons of women. There were whores, in fact, if their daddy wasn't watchin', would fuck him free. Bein' a sailor, you fuck when you get the chance.
He wasn't sure if he'd ever fucked one this young. Whores lie. He'd fucked a Chinese girl he'd thought a teenager and it turned out that she had four chink kids, the oldest ready to be fucked herself.
Did he have a string of brats in the ports, he wondered? He didn't give a shit, but probably not. Too many of his shipmates got the clap or syph. He usually wore a rubber.
It would be a snap to fuck this one. She probably put out for the Nazis, so why not? Her word against his when they got picked up and nobody would understand her, anyway. Stuck out this goddamn ocean, anybody would do the same. Fuck 'em enough and they get more into it. Maybe she'd beg for more in whatever language she spoke. He'd never fucked in a lifeboat before. Shit, yes.
There weren't any rubbers in the lifeboat -- he'd have fixed that if they'd put him in charge of the kit -- but what the hell?
He'd forced women before, nothing that rough, just bitches who winked in the bar, then turned uppity in the alley. Usually when he finished, they'd tell him to go fuck himself next time, pull their skirt down and wander back toward the music.
As the girl slept, he lay on the planking beside her and touched her blouse. You want 'em to fight, just not get at your nuts. He at least wanted her to push his hand away.
Cookie didn't realize her eyes were open until he saw the disconnected stare.
Cookie wavered. "Sorry. Accident," removing his hand himself and hoping she'd understand the apology, if not the English.
The girl lay still long after he moved away, but -- he was relieved to see -- at last she returned to her dreams. He'd give her a little more time to recuperate from the sinking.
He decided to rape her the next morning, but there were too many fish on the lines and by the time they'd finished gutting, she was too messy. So was he.
He figured he'd do it that afternoon, but a squall threw itself at them and Cookie's attention was devoted to catching fresh water.
That evening the sky was clear and the moment was perfect. The sport of it challenged him. He'd rehearsed in his mind how he'd hold two wrists behind her back while he pulled up her dress. Doing it in a boat would be tricky because if she scrambled loose, she could throw herself overboard. That wouldn't be right. He wouldn't tie her hands, though. That would be too easy. He'd let her struggle to submission, make her acknowledge his strength. Should he make her lick him first? It never hurt a girl to do it, he figured.
He wouldn't mind a few scratches, though there were no shipmates to show. "Fuckin' dame fought like a cat, she did, till I got on board, then she wouldn't let me fuckin' stop."
But when he fondled the girl awake, she just lay stiffly, looking at sky, not at him. The buttons of her blouse didn't match, he noticed, as he undid them. He wished her breasts were bigger as he squeezed them like market fruit. Her skirt was thread-bare, easy to bunch up. When he pulled down her underpants, hand-stitched from linen sacking, she gave no contest. He stared at her triangle of matted blackness.
Well look at this, he thought, exposing his hard-on. I'll bet it scares you to see one so big.
She yet lay still, not bothering to close her legs when given the chance.
Cookie looked away. Shit! This ain't no fun. He'd make it quick, for the girl's sake. There'd be more times to do it longer if they weren't rescued soon. Maybe she'd get in the mood or somethin'.
But Jesus Christ, the girl's not even bothering to tell him no. Probably been fucked through the Russian lines, the German lines, the Allied lines, for chrissake! Probably nothin' left worth fucking.
Well, he knew there'd be somethin' worth fucking, of course, given her age. She'd get scrappy and make it better.
But she only looked past him.
Fuck it, he thought, still stroking his cock. Maybe he didn't need it right now. He was in charge of this fuckin' lifeboat and needed to be watching the horizon.
He pulled up his pants a bit awkwardly.
Unsure of how to redress her, he covered her with a sail. But the canvas looked too coarse, so he replaced it with his jacket. He hoped she'd warm up.
He'd not stay awake all night, but he'd keep watch for a while. A fuckin' ship always arrives, sooner or later. What he'd do would be to rethink the Giants' batting order. They'd been leavin' too many goddamn runners on second. Fuckin' sub! Did they beat the goddamn Dodgers?
A shooting star passed overhead, heading south.
When he awoke, the girl was dressed, boiling a fish stew over a Sterno and ignoring him other than to lay his jacket in the bow. But he knew she watched him while he washed his face with salt water.
Shit, he decided! She probably wasn't used to this type of weather. He gestured for her to keep the jacket.
She nodded and he could see the blue in her eyes.
For fish stew, it wasn't bad. She must have found some better spices.
The breeze blew them onward to wherever breezes blow.
.... There is more of this story ...