Moving to the edge of the deck, Frieda looked out at what lay beyond, and her breath caught in her throat. The massive Yamato had run aground on some strange beach. Beyond the shore stretched an endless expanse of dense, emerald-green forest, its canopy undulating in the sea breeze.
"What in the..."
The stark contrast between her last memory and this peaceful scene before her was jarring, almost painful in its incongruity. The blue sky above was unmarred by aircraft or smoke, the air clean and free from the acrid smell of gunpowder and burning metal. Birds called to one another from the forest edge, their songs strange and unfamiliar to her ears.
Tearing her gaze from the horizon, Frieda turned her attention to the ship itself. The extent of the damage was clear even from the deck. There were deep rents in the previously immaculate metal where enemy shells had hit, and twisted remains of gun emplacements hung out of their mountings like shattered teeth.
Reconstruction would require not just an abundance of time and effort, but also resources she lacked and skilled individuals who were nowhere to be found. She had no idea where she had landed, and there was no guarantee that the ship would ever sail the seas again. The thought sent a pang through her chest.
To see it reduced to this state felt like a personal failure, despite the impossible odds they had faced.
Where am I? Is this some unknown island in the Pacific? Or have we washed up on neutral ground? The worst possibility is that we''ve landed on an island with an enemy base. That''s the last thing I need, to survive the impossible only to become a prisoner of war.
Frieda pushed a hand through her knotted black hair, grown long during the months at sea, tired of these futile circular thoughts. Action alone would bring answers.
"This metal coffin is making me feel sick to my stomach, how did everything end up like this..." she muttered, scanning the deck for a means of descent.
The emergency equipment on the ship was in disarray, ropes that were to be wound into their stations were either cut to useless stumps or gone entirely. There were charred black marks where fires had burned out during the fight, melting equipment and rendering much of it unusable. She would need to re-enter the ship''s hull to see if she could find something that would get her down to the shore below.
She glanced back at the dark entrance leading into the ship''s interior.
"Damn it, going back in there gives me the creeps," she admitted to herself, the confession feeling like a weakness.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself. Talking to herself wouldn''t change the reality of her situation. Although she was afraid of the dark, she had no choice.
She stepped back into the ship''s shadowy passages, the small gas lamp in her hand casting eerie, dancing shadows on the bulkheads. Its feeble light barely illuminated an arm''s length around her, leaving the rest in murky darkness.
The first room she visited was a shambles. It had been the officers'' mess, where she had shared countless meals with her fellow commanders. Now it was unrecognizable, overturned chairs, papers strewn about the floor like autumn leaves, and a shattered picture frame holding what looked like a family photo were all that she could spot in the corner. She searched the space systematically, but nothing presented itself to help her descend.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
The second room was equally unfruitful, the medical bay, with equipment scattered around, supplies missing, but no ladders or ropes to aid her descent.
The pattern continued through room after room, the third, fourth, fifth, each one a similar scene of abandonment and disorder. By the fourteenth room, Frieda''s patience had worn dangerously thin. The lamp oil was running low, her stomach growled with hunger, and her initial fear had been replaced by a simmering frustration. Not a single space contained anything that could help her reach the ground or address her growing list of basic needs.
"They literally sent me to war in an empty tin can with weapons attached," she snarled, kicking a dropped helmet along the ground.
"What kind of warship is this? All guns, no supplies? Don''t fuck with me!" Her voice rose in volume, the frustration of her situation finally boiling over.
The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like they had been sent on a suicide mission from the beginning. The Yamato, for all its impressive firepower, had been poorly equipped for actual survival. It was as if high command had never expected them to return, only to deal as much damage as possible before being destroyed.
Did Wilhelm know this when he assigned me to this posting? Did my mentor, the man who saved and raised me, knowingly send me to die? Or did he genuinely believe in my ability to beat the impossible odds? This uncertainty is gnawing at me...
Her frustration grew with each empty room, but she continued her search. The ship was vast, and she had only explored a small portion of it. There had to be something useful somewhere.
In a giant room that seemed to be a storage facility, one she hadn''t been familiar with during her time commanding the ship, her light finally came to rest on something hopeful, a line of tall, deep cabinets secured to the wall by bolts.
It was an emergency equipment cabinet.
Frieda rushed to the cabinets, her heart racing with hope. The first two were disappointingly empty, containing only dust and scraps of paper. As she opened the third, her hope began to falter.
Then, finally, a stroke of luck. The fourth cabinet was filled with a number of pilot ladders, their rope sides and wooden steps rolled up neatly and ready for use. These were the standard equipment used to descend from the deck to the water in emergency situations, exactly what she needed.
"Nice," she muttered, running her hands over the rope and wood to check for integrity. The materials were old but appeared well-preserved, protected within the cabinet from the elements and the damage that had afflicted the rest of the ship.
She did not hesitate, grabbing two of the wooden rope ladders and pulling them taut to test they were secure. They were heavier than she had expected. They appeared sturdy enough to hold her weight, despite their age. Reasoning that she was only going to make this journey once through these ghostly corridors, she tied the ladders together with a secure sailor''s knot and started hauling them along to the deck.
The journey back was arduous. The combined weight of the ladders was considerable, and navigating the narrow corridors while dragging such bulky equipment proved challenging. The wooden rungs clattered noisily off the metal deck, the sound was echoing through the empty ship.
"I..." she groaned, hauling the heavy load around a corner,
"...DIDN''T..." Her voice echoed off the metal walls,
"...COME..." The word emerged as a grunt as she heaved the ladders over a fallen beam,
"...ALL THIS WAY..." Her muscles tightened as she came to a steep slope,
"...TO BE DEFEATED BY TWO FUCKING SIMPLE LADDERS." The last words emerged as a primal roar, a release of all the frustration that had been building since she first awoke in this situation.
With a final, mighty effort, she dragged her prize up the last incline and emerged onto the deck, blinking in the sudden brightness. The sun was lower in the sky now, casting long shadows across the beached battleship. She had spent more time below decks than she had realized.
Breathless but triumphant, Frieda stood for a moment, relishing the fresh air and the sense of accomplishment. It was a small victory in the face of overwhelming uncertainty, but it was hers. And now, with these ladders, she could finally leave the ship and begin to explore this strange new shore, perhaps find answers to the countless questions that swirled in her mind.