Long Way Home [Kantai Collection]

[Cornuthaum]

"... I had been on guard duty that day, patrolling the piers and keeping a lookout on the sea. It was unlikely, of course, that any of the Enemy would rear their ugly heads between the Kattegat blockade and the missile batteries, but it was not my place to question the necessity for harbour watch. Turns out it was the right decision, though.
The first sign that something was wrong was the sound of water on concrete: the weather was even and we were not at high tide, and as I looked around, I saw that the water had risen not just to be close to level with the pier but almost flooding over! My shout of alarum was swallowed by the first peal of thunder, and I grew frightful when I looked up at the sky - cloudless blue, no sign of anything that could have birthed such thunder.
I was already in full sprint towards the rest of my platoon, praying to the Lord to regard me kindly in the hours to come - when thunder rang a second time, and a great explosion in the harbour displaced a fountain of water five stories high. The blue lightning crackling within the mist boded ill for all of us, and my rifle felt cold as ice in my hands as I shoved fear of my impending death aside. A second and third explosion followed quickly, more and more lightning crackling in the harbour each time, and indeed, the flooding had grown much worse: We were up to our ankles in the cold waters of the Baltic Sea, a dozen different alarms braying all around us when lightning struck a fourth time.
It was like the hammer of the gods striking the sea, a pandemonium of noise and motion and sheer unbridled energy so all-encompassing that there was not one of us who knew left from right, up from down. We would not have known whether or not we were dead or alive at that moment, save for the fact that eventually the noise receded.
When we stopped gasping for breath and our wits returned to us we found the unnaturally risen tide drained away. But what we saw next is what etched that day into all our minds. There she was, standing in a well-maintained uniform, double-breasted, dark blue, the concrete of the pier cratered under her feet, and such curious wonder and confusion danced in her eyes as she flexed her hands. When she turned to face us, I nearly wept with relief that these eyes were merely blue rather than burning with eldritch flame as those of the Enemy do.
Our Zugführer called out to her, asking her to identify herself and her purpose. Her answer has become legend."​

• Legends of the Deutsche Marine, Chapter I

---​

"Soldat bin ich, Bismarck genannt, zu kämpfen gekommen weil mein Land und meine Leute mich brauchen! Den Hafen hier kenne ich, und die Fahne ist mir nicht fremd- so lasst mich denn wissen, wer seid ihr, und wo ist unser Feind?"*
*("I am a soldier, and Bismarck I am called, here to fight - for my nation and her people need me. I know this harbour, and the flag that flies here - so tell me, then, who are you, and where is our enemy?)

• Battleship Bismarck, upon her return

---​

The first day is the strangest. It takes me fifteen minutes of wobbly, uncertain motion before I can walk without exerting enough force to crater concrete almost knee-deep, fifteen minutes of desperately trying to focus on me rather than ship, of realizing that I do not weigh even a fraction of what parts of my bridge crew claim I should displace. I stumble once, sending ten-meter long hairline fractures through the concrete, and use the embarrassment I feel at the Marineinfanterie yelping with surprise and fear to force myself to stand and take another step.

It becomes much easier when I stop thinking in turning circles, in rudder shift and boiler strain. Instinct native to my new form takes over and I twirl on my heel. Pumping my fist when I do not fall over, I move on to the next few measures. Sitting down on one of the bollards comes easy, and I clear my throat to catch the attention of the soldiers watching me with unease in their hearts and posture.

They are kind enough to provide me with some experimental equipment after I explain to them that I'd really rather not find out whether or not my earlier clumsiness extends to my grip strength. The worries of what the pressure I can bring to bear would do to a human are quickly proven unequal to reality when I squeeze the first knife they hand me in half without even trying, sparks flying from my fingers as the blade warps against armor rated to withstand fire from the Royal Navy.

By the fourth attempt, I barely dent the crowbar they gave me, and I hear one of them congratulate me for being a swift learner. I resolve not to preen, and instead test my thumb on the second knife drawn from the pile at my feet. Swearing, I suck on the cut in my thumb, the feeling altogether unpleasant. My senior damage control officer is swearing up a storm and I feel guilty for making extra work for him, but this is important! The prickle of welding torches and rivet guns going to work, at least, means it's nothing serious or permanent.

I check my chronometer when I am done and blink. An hour, already? Worrisome how time flies when one has fun!

Suddenly nervous I turn my head left and right, my FuMO team scanning sea and skies for any sign of the foe, but as before, nothing patently menacing manifests. I hear a muffled curse from the man in charge of the soldiers around me as he shakes his field telephone. I grimace as I intuit its working and realize what my FuMO must have done to its delicate innards.

It is only right that I apologize to the man, startling them all as I explain what and why I just did. After all, we are at war, else I would not have returned, and I would rather not wait until I can hear the drone of incoming aircraft to ready myself against them.

Judging by their uneasy shuffling and hooded gazes, I don't quite think I got that one right.

Before I have a chance to press the Lieutenant in charge for information - it wouldn't do for me to go ignorant, not in wartime! - we are interrupted by the throaty roar of heavy engines heralding the arrival of a number of armored transports. Guards file out, their weapons thankfully not raised in alarm, but certainly moving with the cautious intent of soldiers in uncertain territory.

They pause, baffled, when they see me. Tall blonde women can't be that rare, right? I didn't somehow get reborn into the dimension of short bald women? No, no, the land, the sea, this is Germany, I can feel it in my bones and bulkheads both.

They stop their sweep of the pier as the lieutenant of the guard hurries forward, urgently requesting one of their field telephones. I do the polite thing and turn my attention away from him. I could listen in, but I've already destroyed his field telephone once and I really don't want to make him look a fool.

Instead, I warily eye the seagulls. If one of those cawing menaces comes close enough to me to defecate on my hull, I will be most cross with them. Most cross indeed. Though I'm not sure how the folks around me would react to me opening up with the FlaK? Maybe just the small ones, a few short bursts?

I sigh and chastise myself. No, surely there are better ways to deal with the winged menace.

Someone clears their throat behind me, and I turn. The man before me is somewhat portly, but otherwise well-kept, showing signs of greying hair under his cap. Briefly surveying his shoulder board I stand and salute.

After a moment, he returns it and this is what breaks the tension that gripped everyone around me. Our hands dropping, surrounded by a half-circle of soldiers, standing on a pier half-shattered by my first stumbling steps, he asks me a simple question.

"Frau Bismarck. Do I have your word that you will conduct yourself appropriately as a soldier of the Bundeswehr?"

The flush that rushes up my neck and into my cheeks is not one of embarrassment - no, it is anger! By what leave does he ask something such as this! I died for Germany once already, and--

No, I tell myself, is it not obvious why he asks? Here is one of the finest warships of our nation, reborn in his harbour and his base. Of course he has reason to ask. I am not of his command structure, not beyond that we both serve our nation. Of course he asks, and my initial flush of anger is replaced by contrition at my own presumptions.

"My word and my oath, sir, until such a time as I am sunk or combat-ineffective."

It is all he can ask, and all I can offer, and it is in truth all that needs to be said.

---​

The second day is easier than the first by a considerable margin.
They've quartered me with the other women on base, which was a pleasant surprise. A quick shower followed by getting into my uniform sees me intercepted at the door of the mess hall by an administrative aide, a fresh-faced ensign, sent to assist me by the base commander.

When I ask the young man why I can't at least have breakfast first, he clears his throat and waggles one hand in my general direction. I look down at myself but everything seems to be in order. When no answer is immediately obvious, I ask him again.

"Your uniform, ma'am. You are, uhm, well, you see…" Alright, I think as my stomach growls, this has stopped being funny five minutes ago. I tell him to spit it out already.

He swallows, but the sharpish command seems to have given him some steel in his spine. Good, good.

His answer is unexpected, but it does explain all the cross looks I got yesterday.

"You are in violation of several sections of the German federal criminal code, ma'am, particularly those pertaining to the use of a number of symbols in the Third Reich."

I blink. Is that all? If my nation has outlawed them, who am I to keep using such things? He blinks owlishly at me when I ask him which ones have to go, and I sigh. Might as well just hand them all in and get a new set of appropriate ones issued from the quartermaster, I suppose.

Automatically, I reach for the lapel of my coat, fingers moving to remove the pins I carry there, and he sags slightly as I hand him the first set.

As my hand vanishes under my coat to pluck the second set off my uniform jacket, my boilers thrum as my relative fuel shortage makes itself known. I look imploringly at the young man and cast a hopeful look at the mess hall.

When his stomach rumbles in reply a second later, we both laugh quietly. I solemnly promise to him that we shall deal with today's matters quickly and efficiently - once my stores are filled and my crew won't try to eat old boots to keep the hunger at bay. He blinks at me, confused, but hunger is an universal language of its own.

We break our fast quickly and quietly, the stares of those who recognize my uniform rolling off me as I inhale hearty fare. I have to force myself from asking for thirds, contending myself instead with picking off the remnants of the poor ensign's breakfast when he's not looking.

That done, we set out for the quartermaster, as it is increasingly obvious just how much my uniform stands out. Of a cut and cloth unlike theirs, I look out of place amongst my fellow soldiers, something that grates against my core with every second that I am aware of it.

The day passes quickly as we go about much-needed business. Half a dozen uniforms of identical cut and fit are the first thing on the list, though I hang onto my officer's cap - none shall part me of it save by death or scrapping, I say, and that is that. I handle the acquisition of new smallclothes myself, quietly and quickly, having mercy on the young man as I do so.

We spend most of the afternoon around the base, as he shows me which areas are off-limits to me until such a time as the admiralty figures out what to do with me. Being confined to base for the time being is no great onus, even if there isn't much for me to do, yet.

Several times, the base personnel pauses in their work as I seek to learn more about my new life. The folks at the mess hall take twenty minutes after lunch to satisfy my curiosity about the machines that line the corridors here, machines laden with all manner of food and drink.

It is far more fun than it should be to watch these things dispense sweet snacks in exchange for money, and perhaps even more fun to actually eat them. As much as I like steel and fuel oil in my food, chocolate is good.

The machinist's area feels like home. Yes, their tools seem unfamiliar, but I can safely say of myself that I am a quick learner. I sit for half an hour with some of the engineers. Turns out that they've still got all the annoyances and worries of saltwater to deal with, even eight decades later, although the world has come far with plastics since my first death. Indeed, much of their technology seems founded on principles already well in use the last time, but much more refined, made more compact and sturdier.

I fall asleep that night with a magazine on modern engineering clutched in my hands, my searchlights shutting off as I close my eyes.

---​

The third day is the strangest of all so far.

I go through my morning routine with mechanical precision, and were any to see me as I do this, they'd call me machine and not woman. They're wrong, of course. Punctuality, precision and efficiency are marks of good character, and it does the mind and body good to exercise.

My run is not quite as expansive as I'd like it to be, but I keep the restrictions on my range of travel within the base in mind, doubling back early. I make up for it with a sprint, boilers at full power, prop shafts thrumming as my legs eat up the distance. I take another shower and gaze out at the base.

Not free to go and fight, not free to go and see what has become of my country. Still, I'm not a prisoner. It's a good enough start to this new life while I wait for the admiralty to make up their mind about me. Sooner or later they will, I'm sure.

I maintain my composure and cool for another few minutes, staring wistfully out of my room's window, but eventually restless energy drives me out again. I still don't know why I know how to operate most of the devices of this age, but my fingers deftly manipulate the radio. It's a familiar comfort to hear the crackle of static as I tune in on several stations. Music blares at me in several languages, unfamiliar and urgent, until I finally get to the station I meant to listen to.

News. The speaker's voice is calm, refined, the cultivated blandness that you can only get from government employees who do not have to worry about their popularity reminding me of older, darker days. They talk a lot without saying much, which tells me enough about the war. It can't be going that well if they're not really talking about it. But who could threaten Germany? It has been decades, nigh on a century, and surely we have rebuilt from the last war? The unease that has been building amidships grows steadily as my crew goes discontent. The combined affront of a smidge over two thousand loyal sons of Germany at the notion that our home would be bedeviled by the sea once again makes my hydraulic pressure rise.

Surely it is the British again, craven on their island, hiding their crimes behind -

And then my thought processes grind to a halt as my eyes and ears focus on the radio with such intensity that I very nearly put my head through the wall as I lean forward in perplexed shock.

"... special thanks and mention goes to our stalwart allies in the Royal Navy and HMS Prince of Wales and her task group in particular for their gallantry in the face of the enemy off the coast of Ireland, as the carrier's task group escorted nearly a dozen of our merchantmen to safety…"

Up is down. Left is right. Cats are dogs, and dogs are cats. What on God's green Earth is going on?

I sit down with a thump, the reinforced chair they got for me creaking as I lean into it. But then, who are we fighting? The French? No, they wouldn't need me, then, and it was by that need that I returned.

As I continue to listen to the radio, the picture only becomes more and more muddied. Everyone seems to be fighting a common enemy - but who?

Doubts gnaw at me, and when I voice them to my current minder - a different ensign this time, but no less youthful - he raises his eyebrows in wonder.

"Truly, you do not know?" I shake my head and his confusion deepens. "When you returned, you spoke with such certainty of your purpose and your mission, we had assumed that …" He waggles his hands, and I urge him to continue. "Well, that you knew what we were fighting."

What, not who. That is disturbing in and of itself. I tell pace about several times, deep in thought before I make my first official request in this new life.

---​

On the fifth day, my attendant asks me what my name is. It brings me up short, because my first answer is, of course, Bismarck. But I am not just the ship, am I? Pondering this question, I eventually request access to a library - something initially denied, as I am still required to remain on base for the time being, until an enterprising soul provides me with a mobile computational machine.

What a wondrous feat of artifice, this! The means to control it are simple and straightforward, and it offers such a treasure trove of information. My attendant provides me with a prepared list of topics, but I wave him away - no, this can wait for later.

I flick through the collected information of a civilization, my crew watching in quiet fascination as I enrich myself. Several times, I pause to write down references, other times, I pause to cross them out.

Eventually, when the ardour for a righteous search gives way to the calm certainty of having found what I sought, I take a deep breath and turn to my attendant.

So innocent a question he asked of me, but one of import, and I am thankful that he brought it to my attention. I would not have considered it had he not asked, content to bear my hull designation and naught else.

Two hours later we have a good, proper lunch of sausage and mashed potatos, and thus sated does my mind turn to other questions. The way they looked at my original uniform with all the accoutrements befitting my station went past me in the heady hours of my first day returned. The way my first attendant ensign shuffled about when I handed him my pins and insignia, as if they burned him. And, of course, the fact that the german constitution has made these things illegal.

I know in bone and bulkhead that we lost the war. I can taste the spirit of my people, and they are warriors, but not warmongers. Had they the means to win this war against the enemy, they would not have called for me to return and serve once more.

The faces of the men I share my lunch with are pinched as they look at each other. Clearly, none of them want to explain to me what happened, but I have my ways.

Mostly these ways consist of politely asking them and making sad eyes until they cave. My crew cheers me on as I press the question again. What happened after I died to bring about such laws?

The lecture that follows is enlightening and disheartening. What a grievous wound we carved into our own heart! Such terrible scars on the souls of my people. I find it hard to believe, at first, but they assure me it is no joke - and what child of Germany would joke about such matters?

I hide my stomach-ache as my political officer is being escorted to the brig with the pretense of having to get used to solid foods rather than fuel oil. They laugh at that, and the fell mood around the table is dispelled. No, the Germany of today is not the Germany that I once knew. But as I look at them talk of matters political without fear of censure, belike it is better off this way.

---​

By invitation of the base commander, I sit in on several classes on modern naval doctrine. The weapons they use are so very different to my own time, it is staggering. No exchange of guns, these days. Indeed, most vessels are armed with pathetic pop-guns scarcely larger than my tertiary armament… were it not for their unimaginably huge standoff range. Missiles! What fantastic, fascinating contraptions they are, to go so far in such compact packages.

Indeed they remind me of semi-intelligent torpedos, fired without the need for any plane. I'm quietly grateful for the way none of the men present remark upon the way I nervously rub my spine when I mention that.

Being worried about crippling torpedo strikes is perfectly reasonable and I will fight any man, woman or officer who tells me otherwise, damn it.

But when discussion and display turns to the newest war and the newest foe, they speak only of the enemy. We are not at war with the French, or the British, or the Americans, or anyone else of note. Or anyone else, at all, which is compounding my confusion.

Until they start showing images taken. From the first attacks of the war upon American merchantmen - in this case the sinking of the SS Montpelier by an enemy that is meat and metal, steel and skin, glued together by blue witch-fire to the declassified parts of the Atlantic Push against creatures of infernal smiles squatting upon salt-soaked rocks, abominations of meat-machinery bringing fire, death and fury upon humanity.

I learn about the Enemy, about how the compact aerial torpedos of the modern era fail against them. I get to see footage of these missiles tumbling from the skies like startled seagulls, their exquisite guidance mechanisms running afoul of what the instructor discontentedly describes as 'hitherto unexplained means, and I will not countenance one of you to call it magic, damn it'.

The navies of the world made do, of course. If nine out of ten missiles tumbled out of the sky before coming near their targets, and half of those that made it close enough to pose a danger were destroyed, one in twenty missiles hit. Saturation fire became the order of the day, but it was an expensive affair, with ships designed for precision forced into the role that I was made for.

They are not meant to take hits, the ships of this new era. Their armor is speed and stealth, and they are ships who fight with cunning over brute force. They fight a foe that renders their greatest advantages meaningless, who is seemingly without number. They die, too, I know that in my heart, even if the lessons cut off well before that.

I do not sleep, that night, electing to keep watch by the pier, daring any of these hateful things to come and assail my nation while I am here to defend it.

They refuse my challenge.

---​

I spend the sixth day after my return around the Commandant's office. It is difficult to claim a new name ex nihilo, especially when one has the heart and soul of a warship.

But the base staff are patient with me, and helpful even when I feel like gnawing through the paperwork in frustration. The interview for taking my personal data is probably going to enter base legend.

Sex? Female battleship. Height? One hundred and eighty one centimeters going on two hundred and fifty one meters, depending on how one wants to measure these things. Weight? Depending on the mood, between seventy-four kilograms and forty nine and a half thousand long tons. Date of birth? Well, that is the first hurdle. If I take my date of launch or commissioning, I would be into my ninth decade now - too old, legally, for service. Were I to take the date of my rebirth into this world, I would be less than a week old. No age for service either.

In the end, I ask them for an hour's forbearance, citing a need to think about it. And I do. Having my crew file into the mess hall and write down their age one after another, it makes me feel like I have butterflies in my stomach. Silly, of course, as my floatplanes are securely stowed.

Ultimately, I settle on a bit over twenty-seven, the aggregate age of my crew. By the day's end, the paperwork for my civilian identity is filled out, and I am drained, exhausted by the need to cover all angles of approach. This is, after all, who I am when I am not taking the fight to the enemy.

Carefully, reverently, I hand over the stack of papers that will be the foundation of my identity once approved by the Ministry of Defence. Ottilie Puttkammer. I smile as I silently roll the name around in my mouth. Yes, it is a good name, fitting for me. In honor of Otto von Bismarck, whose name is inextricably part of myself, and his wife.

It will serve as a historical in-joke to those who understand it, and serve as a name to use for those who don't.

---​

On the seventh day, they say, God rested. I am not by nature a blasphemer, but after yesterday's mental exhaustion, so do I. Besides, they have little use for me on the base until my open-ended status as an unaffiliated warship and soldier is dealt with.

Which is why I am lazing about in the rec room, watching a summary of the last week's Fußball matches on the television. Marvelous devices, those.

Just as the commentator winds down and I am treated to a phenomenal long shot on goal, repeated from several different angles, I hear the door to the rec room open behind me.

A negligent wave and cursory glance turn into a full-bodied motion as I jam the stop button on the remote, chuck it away from me at one of the other chairs, stand at attention and salute in the span of three heartbeats.

Briefly, I ask myself what cosmic and profound sins I have committed to earn the attention of the Inspector of the Navy himself.

For a few terrifying moments, he studies me quietly, and I run down my mental checklist of all the ways in which I am not presentable to a man of his rank. I have to clamp down on the urge to sound general quarters - I don't want to know what an alarm like that would sound like in this body and my hydraulic pressure is shooting through the roof from the tension anyways.

Eventually - it can't have been that long for all that it feels like an eternity, he bids me stand at rest and I do so. Self-control, I tell myself, self-control.

He clears his throat, and I am struck by the need to report for duty. This, at last, this is the man who can set me upon the foe that preys upon the ships of the world.

"Battleship Bismarck, reporting ready for duty, sir. All crew aboard, magazines stocked, fuel at capacity."

Ah. How embarrassing. I feel like any moment now the bosun's whistle is going to call a fire alarm out of my ears, I'm blushing that hard.

He doesn't smile, so much as his face relaxes slightly. Adjusting his glasses slightly, he bids me follow him to the office annex. We walk in silence, accompanied only by the admiral's serious-faced aide.

"You said that we - Germany, and all its people - needed you." he asks as we sit down. "And it is certainly true that we do. But tell me, by what provenance did you return? What was it that made you come back to us?"

I blink. Germany needed me. That thought burned in my mind as I rose to the surface. My home, my nation, it needed me, it needed me to shed my blood and that of my foes in mortal combat for the safety and security of its people. Was that not enough? What other cause would I need?

Vizeadmiral Krause sighs softly. "It is well spoken, yes, but please consider that you, of all people - of all ships - bear on your shoulders a dire legacy. There will be much scrutiny of you and your actions."

I swallow heavily, and I feel as cold as the Atlantic depths despite my motor overheating. No, he can't possible mean to have me impounded for my wartime actions. I manage to choke out a plaintive question, just barely, and he looks startled. Did I misread him?

"No, no, nothing of the sort!" He waves at his aide, who promptly hands him a folder. "In light of the extraordinary times we live in, and by special order of the Minister of Defense, you - and the others, there were three more that followed you in the last week - are to be commissioned into the Marine."

The relief I feel is so palpable that when the tension leaves my hull I sag slightly, taking several deep breaths. I smile weakly at him, but nod. Certainly. I was built and now reborn to serve Germany and her people.

"Because we will not treat you like inventory. Living, breathing, talking…" He shakes his head and grumbles something about Japan. "You are an inexplicable enigma to the sciences, that is true, but each ship of the Marine must have its crew, must have its captain."
I blink. Yes, that is certainly true. My mind goes sideways for a moment as I sound off my crew again.

"If your hull is to be commissioned into the Deutsche Marine as one of our ships, you are its captain, as surely as you are its crew." His eyes are hard as he explains this, and I can easily imagine the alternatives - a legal limbo where I am not ship, not woman, not crew. It is not a nice thought.

"We can only entrust captaincy of our warships to a citizen of the FRG." He leafs through the folder his aide handed him, and I recognize many of these papers - I filled them out just yesterday, after all.

Is is a quiet moment, unremarked and unremarkable in history's grand scope, but it transforms my life nevertheless. With a simple signature, I become a citizen of my country in truth rather than in spirit, and with five more all the institutions from social security upwards know me not by my hull-name but my human name.

These documents swiftly go back into their folder, for I would ill like to lose them. But there is more, of course - this business could have been dealt with by someone else, not the man responsible for the readiness of the Marine himself.

He nods as he looks into my eyes. "There are of course further official matters, Frau Puttkammer. The first of them is that Germany and the Marine have need of your skills in a capacity only you can reliably fill."

His aide hands him a small box, and the admiral sighs. "First of all, these are extraordinary circumstances in extraordinary times. As you are seniormost of the vessels returned in both tonnage and time of service, command of the ship-girl division of the Marine falls to you. As such, you are forthwith being promoted to the rank of Flottillenadmiral."

My breath catches as he says that, opening the box. Shoulder boards, cuffs, lapel pin, they gleam with quiet menace. Such a promotion - a mere seven days after my return - can only mean one thing, and my realization of this must show in my eyes, for Vizeadmiral Krause nods gravely.

I am served my notice of promotion, and he continues to speak. "Until such a time as a state of peace is declared by the Bundestag or an unconditional surrender by the enemy is achieved, the first ShG division - as well as all ships to follow, should there be any - are being transferred to the Pacific Ocean theater to assist the Japanese ship-girl forces in achieving victory over enemy forces where- and whenever possible."

I swallow. They really are going to do it. It is banishment. Exile. My stomach feels hollow and cold, icy hands clawing at my heart. There is wailing and gnashing of teeth from my crew, and it is only through a supreme effort of will that I keep my hands from shaking as I sign the transfer order as it comes before me.

"For what it is worth," the Vizeadmiral says as I finish, my eyes lowered to hide my grief and shame from him, "I argued at length that you and your sisters be allowed to stay. We are not so hard-pressed in the Atlantic as in the Pacific, but you and the others would be a tremendous boon to NATO operations."

Why must we go to the other side of the world, then? I cannot stop myself from asking, nor the faint hint of bitterness that sneaks into my voice. Why is it that we return to serve as soldiers for Germany, only to go unwanted into exile?

"Because of politics, I am afraid. It is in time of economic hardships that populist voices are most easily heard, and though you are no more guilty than your sister-ships in this life, political stability is a priceless commodity in these trying times."

I understand, I tell him. If it is what Germany needs of me, I will go, as will the others. But what of our return? As I ask him this, my chest feels ready to burst, like iron-shod claws are trying to pry open my ribcage from within. When will we be allowed to once more set foot upon german soil, home soil?

He flinches as I say home. It looks like I couldn't keep the plaintive note of longing out of my voice, after all.

"In… the words of the Minister of Defence, I… well." He swallows. "Your deployment will end in the manner of the Spartans of yore - when you return victorious, or when you return on your shield."

For a long, horrible moment, I want to throw up. Come home a victor, or come home a corpse. There are no words in German, French or the tongues of the Slavs that can express the fullness of what I feel about this.

---

This idea has been percolating in my brain for months now, slowly gaining shape. Thanks to @Strypgia and @Whiskey Golf for their invalueable assistancec and not removing their brain-slugs.

This fic will center around the lives of the german shipgirls-in-exile and their wartime (mis)adventures in Japan.

Edit:
After an extensive rewrite, I hope the pacing of this chapter is more palatable. All hail @Cavalier

 

[Cornuthaum]

Chapter II - Ostwärts!​

Well, in the words of wiser people than I, this sucks. Vizeadmiral Krause left, urgently busy, but his aide stayed on base for another two hours, furnishing me with all manner of information and devices required for the proper execution of my duties while on foreign deployment.

So, so many things. What amazing advances they have made since my first death. I turn the phone they gave me over again marvelling at its construction: Waterproofed, capable of connecting to other phones through the use of satellites, with all manner of convenient functions. Alarm clock! A calendar! I spend ten minutes furiously tapping away at its keys, chasing dots with the snake that lives in the phone.

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I jerk, putting the phone aside, but it is just the waiter. My snake runs into a wall and dies, but I take my coffee and… pay for it. What a novel feeling, the exchange of currency for services. And it is my money, to boot. After all, I am captain and crew of a warship of the Deutsche Marine, and 'no sailor shall be sent to war or kept without pay', they put it.

Sitting here at the airport, a freshly filled-out kit bag next to me, I feel melancholic. This is the last time I will see home, until we win this war. Or until I die again, I suppose. Listening to the people around me, sonar equipment repurposed, I filter a thousand conversations. Worried, fearful mutterings. I hear them talk about the woman in the Marine uniform, drinking in their worries. Would that I could tell them that everything will be alright, that we are here to help, that we will smite the aggressors from the seas.

Checking my watch, I sigh. Time to go.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I jog through the airport, pausing only to get a carton of cigarettes. No need to get a lighter though. one of the soldiers that was part of my welcoming committee gave me a windproof one - said that wouldn't do to have my flame go out at sea, after all.

The guards at the gate I've been told to go to stare as I approach - they were probably expecting someone like the photos of the Japanese girls that were in my briefing document, instead of a young woman with the good sense to wear an uniform and a coat. Inwardly, I harrumph.

Time to test whether or not I can pull it off. "Flottillenadmiral Puttkammer, transferring." I pull out my service identification card and hand it over. For a moment I consider whether or not to engage the other guard in small talk, but settle on sparing him the terror of having to talk to an officer, something that he is probably grateful for.

Outside, waiting for the shuttle to my - our? - transport plane, I light up a cigarette, blowing smoke rings for a bit until I hear boots on the ground behind me. Too light to be either of the guards.

I turn, my coat-tails flaring in the wind behind me, and the two girls in front of me pause as one. One of them is a brunette, much shorter than I am, slender-limbed, with a simple seaman's cap at an angle above brown eyes. The other, her pale platinum-blonde hair bob-cut under her own cap stares at me with widening blue eyes.

Are they shocked? Afraid? Maybe. But they are my sisters in this war, and I return their reflexive salute a moment later.

For a few seconds, nobody finds the words to speak. But I'll not let this start off on the wrong foot. We're in this together, until victory or death.

"Hello," I say, smiling. "I'm quite sorry, but my briefing didn't include your names - well, your new names." They nod.

The brunette speaks first, and as I take another drag of my cigarette I see the golden lettering on the rim of her cap - Z-3. "Korvettenkapitän Marie Schultz, at your service, ma'am."

I smile. A well-chosen name indeed. We shake hands, and for a moment I wonder why she looks like a girl of maybe eighteen when I am clearly older. "Welcome back, then, sister."

I turn to the other, and she too shakes my hand. "Leonie Maaß, ma'am. Korvettenkapitän Leonie Maaß, commanding Z-1 Leberecht Maaß." Yes, as I grasp her hand, I feel it, the slight thrum of engines primed for flank speed. She is afraid of me.

That will not do.

"Well met, then, both of you. I am Ottilie Puttkammer, recently promoted Flottillenadmiral and the battleship Bismarck." I smile, ordering my gun crews to stand down. My FuMO operator complains about keeping an eye out for planes long enough to catch a knuckle to the back of the head in admonishment before they leave their station, too. "I could scarce ask for better escorts when the time comes that we take the fight to the enemy, whatever they truly are. Do you know more about them than what the combat recordings show?"

They shake their heads, and I sigh. "Whatever they truly are, we'll give them a solid dose of german steel."

Leonie bites her lip as she drops her own kit bag next to mine, pacing slightly, arms behind her back. "Y-yeah. No other way back home, is there?" She looks despondent, and from the way Marie hugs herself she's not the only one.

Can't blame them, really, I don't like the situation any more than they do. Fortunately, I am a woman of many means, which in this case means offering them a cigarette.

They look at me, confused. "But, won't that… clog up our… boilers?" Leonie asks me, her voice uncertain. My reply is silence and blowing another set of smoke rings. "Don't tell me all your crew were saintly men who never once touched a smoke?"

The general consensus of my crew is 'duh, of course not' and it seems so is theirs. I flick my lighter open, running my thumb over the Iron Cross engraved into its steel surface, and light both of them up.

Leonie sputters after her first pull and makes a disgusted face, but, looking up at the sky, shrugs and takes another one. Marie starts blowing smoke rings just like me, though hers are smaller than mine. We spend five minutes fighting a war of smoke rings.

And then it starts to rain, and the bus is still nowhere in sight.

---​

Twenty minutes later we're huddled together to provide the rain less chance of freezing us to death before we even get into proper combat, my third cigarette is sodden and hanging from my mouth like a sad lamprey and I am silently contemplating whether or not I should summon my guns and start shooting the rain clouds above in an effort to dispel them. First Mate is strongly opposed, FuMO is strongly in favour - no clouds means no aircraft that could jump me, after all.

Leonie and Marie both giggle to themselves when I mutter discontentedly about that, saying only that they'd prefer to have the water underfoot than coming down on top of them, before lapsing into the sullen, warmth-sharing huddle again.

Just as I am about to start using my phone to make some very unpleasant calls, Leonie and Marie perk up next to me. "Got something on So-" Marie says just as I too hear the thrum of a motor.

I don't think an airport shuttle bus should drive quite like this, but when it screeches to a halt before us, wheels microbraking in the puddles, I see the driver's fear-pale face as a young woman of maybe twenty-two claps him on the shoulder. The way he sags in his chair, and the way the bus itself bounces on its front wheels makes it clear enough that this is the fourth sister.

Poking her head out of the bus door, her sidetails swinging, she waves energetically at us. "YA-HOOO! The Prinzenexpress is here! C'mon, ladies, get in here before you let the rain wash your good mood away!"

Despite myself, I start to smile.

---​

I spend a minute telling the poor driver that no, he doesn't have to break the airport's speed regulations further, and that if anyone has any complaints about his previous driving they can direct it to the office of Flottillenadmiral Puttkammer.

In the background, the fourth member of our team is sitting between Leonie and Marie, who are staring with almost wolf-like hunger at the sack the newcomer has on her lap.

"So, I don't know about you," she says as she roots through the sack, "but I didn't want to go to the ass-end of nowhere without at least a drink."

My ears perk up, and I most assuredly do not rapidly pace over to the others but instead walk calmly and with self-control. And perhaps slightly faster than normal but that's not important.

I clear my throat and she stops her rummaging long enough to look up at me. "Oh, er, hello! Sorry, I was just…" She tries to waggle her hands but just ends up bumping her elbows into Marie and Leonie, who snort and push her back. "Fregattenkapitän - ha, like I'm a frigate, pff - Eugenia Brinkmann, at your service, ma'am." She rakishly tips her peaked cap at me absent a salute in the limited space she has, and besides myself I laugh as I fold out another of the bus chairs.

"So," I ask, "what is it that you brought there with you?" I hope that she brought what I thought she did. "And how did you get that past the checkpoint?"

When she finally finishes wrestling with the contents of the sack, pulling out one can of beer after another, jostling aside what I recognize as a tube of chips and a roll of cookies beside several other things. Carefully, reverently, I relieve her of one of the cans, and so do Leonie and Marie.

"Well, my admiral, that is a long and convoluted story. You see, once upon a time there was a cute young woman surrounded by an escort of Naval Infantry, and..." She winks as she cracks her can open, and toasts with us as we all eat a portion of liquid bread.

Her tale is interrupted when we arrive seconds after we finish our beer, our plane squatting on the runway like an exceptionally ugly cygnet amongst its more elegant - and civilian - cousins.

The driver is all too glad to see us go, the poor man, and flees with almost unseemly haste. Still, his suffering got us a farewell beer - definitely worth it.

I take the lead as we file into the plane - a sturdy military transport of some manufacture I cannot readily identify - and stop to speak with the flight officers for a moment. The copilot hands me a tablet - and a brief rundown of its fairly intuitive control mechanisms - with our flight plan and some educational videos.

I wonder how bored I'd have to be before willingly sitting through however many hours of government-made informative video material they fit onto this thing.

The flight plan itself tells me much. Straight over Europe to Istanbul. Avoiding the Mediterranean and Black Sea, flying inland towards Teheran. After that, Delhi, and from there deep into China. I have never heard of Chengdu, but I know Schanghai. And from there, well, sailing to Sasebo Base in Japan. My toes curl with excitement at the prospect of taking to the sea again.

But the tablet weighs heavily in my hands. A flight plan deliberately plotted to be far from the open sea. Is it because of us? Are they fearful that we will desert, gird ourselves in our war-form and desert? Or is it because they are worried for us?

I do not know which would be worse, that they do not trust us, or that near-ocean flights are such a security risk.

---​

Takeoff is an experience. I'm not afraid of flying, and my pilots are making a racket about wanting a crack at the transport plane - not that they'll get it - but it feels strange to be so utterly at the mercy of another.

The pressure that forces me into the seat vanishes after a few minutes, and… nothing. My pilots harrumph and tell me they told me so.

In flight, there is little for us to do. The plane is large, meant to transport battle tanks and whole helicopters, and besides the four of us it is heavily laden with all manner of pallets, the exact contents of which are obscured by their secure wrapping. The young man inspecting them yet again is somewhat nervous whenever he glances in our direction, preferring to sit well apart from us and conversing only briefly with the flight engineer whenever that man delves up from the cramped cargo deck below us.

When the novelty of flight wears off - our plane lacks windows, alas - we are faced with one of the most daunting challenges soldiers know: boredom.

We spend half an hour playing I See What You Don't See, until we run into the problem of 'that red knubbly thing over there' not being too descriptive. Checking our flight plan and the time, realizing that we still have most of an hour to go, Eugenia unbuckles herself and starts using the limited space available for exercise. How one girl can have this much energy, I don't know.

Marie and Leonie appear to be playing Battleship, which is amusing. As if sinking ships was as easy as just marking them down on a grid.

As for myself, I just close my eyes and travel through memories. Rolling hills and forests, wheat and hops and barley swaying in the wind, roads that connect cities like veins connecting to organs, I can see it all so clearly in my mind's eye. Home, my beloved nation, its people loving, laughing, living. It is a good vision, steeling my resolve, and I can feel the smile on my face when I open my eyes again, to see Eugenia with a permanent marker bending down to draw on my face.

She doesn't even have the good grace to look ashamed. Instead she grins insouciantly at me.

"Hold still, I don't want to make your whiskers squiggly."

Alright, that does it. I reach up and pull her cap over her eyes, then bop her on the head hard enough to make a gong-like sound of metal on metal and appropriate her magic marker. Jabbing her in the ribs with the blunt end of the thing a few times to make my point, I send her squawking into her chair.

"And what have we learned from this?" I ask them as I adjust my cap to accent my own grin. Leonie and Marie look at the flushed - and snickering - Eugenia, then at me, then at the pen I still brandish like a knife.

"Don't draw on the Admiral's face unless you're totally sure you can get away with it?"

I ponder this for a moment. Well, it's true. "Spoken like a true soldier. I'll let it pass. Now, as for you…"

Eugenia pretends to quail in her seat as she makes gestures of mortal fear and warding off great evil - though the grin on her face gives it away. "What have you learned from this?"

She pulls off her cap, shaking her hair loose, running a hand over where I administered swift justice, and grins. "I should stand outside of your reach when I ask questions like these."

We are still laughing when the copilot alerts us to the incoming descent.

Landing is a quick and much less bumpy affair than I had expected. Rising, I check my tablet again. Yes, an hour for refuelling and taking on further cargo, and then we're off again.

A brief negotiation with the loadmaster allows the four of us some range of the airport. We spend twenty-five minutes as a wolfpack of uniformed womenfolk, cutting through the bustle of the airport with intent. As their commanding officer - and, as Eugenia puts it, responsible eldest sister - it falls to me to carry the loot, though I am not quite sure how or why. Still, Maria and Leonie were in agreement, and it's hard to say no to them.

We return laden with all manner of time-waster material - books with covers just this shy of indecent for Leonie, a book as thick as my forearm that promises many hours of crossword puzzles for Maria, an english book about Da Vinci and his codes for Eugenia, and a number of newspapers for myself.

As we file back into the plane, Maria and I spend a few minutes talking to the pilot. He tells us a bit about his duties in the Luftwaffe. When he talks about his missions to England, Maria asks him if he's worried about getting shot down by the Enemy, but he just laughs.

"No, Frau Kapitän, the Brits might be the Japan of Europe -" we blink, and he grins, "you know, island nation full of folks who have strange rites and customs, who eat strange foods nobody else would touch, stuff like that?" I stifle my laughter by pretending to cough, and he continues, "Anyways, it's not so bad going to England. Wouldn't want to do trans-atlantic regularly, but the North Sea's as safe as seas get. Not like the Med, or gods forbid southeast Asia."

I blink. The Mediterranean, dangerous? But why then are we here, in Istanbul?

"What, haven't you seen?" He scratches his head. "Suppose not, you don't really have windows back there. Alright, we can show you on the way out."

---​

They turned the Bosphorus into a fortress - more than the terrain already makes it. Eugenia and I are squeezed into the cockpit, looking out of the windows, our rangefinders and magnifiers outlining a grim picture. We can see coastal batteries aimed both into the Sea of Marmara and approach from the Black Sea. Armored cannon emplacements, coastal fortifications meant to discourage ships like myself. Or the Enemy.

"The Turks put these down in '22 after the first wave of attacks. Rumor has it - well, 'rumor', the sort of we-know-and-you-know-we-know thing - that they put some missile batteries in between them to. Not that those do much good against those creepy things, but it sure keeps the Russians from getting ideas."

A sound policy, I agree. Can't trust the Russians, especially not when your megapolis is right there.

Jamming her elbow into my side as she leans forward, and here I have to stifle a giggle as I see the copilot's eyes widen when he gets an eyeful, Eugenia looks out at the sea and city below us. "So, trouble in the Med?"

He nods, still slightly hypnotized by the her dress shirt and its contents. "Oh, yes. Nobody's got an idea where the hell they keep coming from, but ever so often there's another of 'em going all fire and fury until someone can muster a response to gun it down."

We both whistle. Well, that's something.

"So, that entrance to the Med is locked up tight," Eugenia asks. "What about Suez? Gibraltar?"

The pilot grunts. "Like here, only a lot bigger. You could walk the entire length of the Suez approach on gun barrels." It sounds like he's exaggerating, but the copilot half-heartedly agrees. "Maybe not the whole length, but a lot of international money went into securing Suez and Gibraltar."

Eugenia and I share a quiet smile as we leave the cockpit. The world is working together, then, in the face of this enemy.

---​

Our stay in Teheran is a much quieter affair. It turns out that dark blue navy uniforms are not ideal for this climate, and between the fact that we have been informed that we are not to stray beyond our assigned landing zone and the baking heat outside, we use the time on the ground to nap.

---​

I wake after half an hour, restless. Pacing up and down the plane, divested of my jacket to combat the heat, I spot Eugenia slumped in her chair. The silver butt of the permanent marker sticking out of her shirt's breast pocket gives me an idea.

Carefully, very, very carefully, I slip it out of her pocket and decap it.

I cannot see the evil grin that spreads over my face, but I know it's there.

Thus armed with tools and evil intent I go to work.

---​

I am not by nature an artistic soul, but the lines and squiggles on Eugenia's face do not require much beyond a steady hand.

When the flight crew file back into the plane, the refuelling done, Leutnant Anders has to stuff a fist into his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud at the kitty-cat face I drew on Eugenia. When his shakes have subsided he pulls his phone from his flight jacket and appears to take a photo of her.

In the space of two heartbeats I'm next to him with my arm around his shoulder, whispering to him that he has been volunteered to teach me how to do this with my phone.

He stiffens in surprise, but given the cat-faced wonder before us, it is not hard to convince him. Whispering, he shows me the correct motions to bring up the camera mode of my phone, and after that, it's smooth sailing to a number of snapshots.

Vengeance, they say, is best served with kitty faces drawn on sleeping people.

---​

She bears the markings with good grace and better humor when she wakes again. Laughing, all of us pool our foodstuffs to see what we have, and we all consider the truth that the airman who can resist a cute young woman in uniform offering him food hasn't been born yet.

Leonie volunteers and what happens next is entirely predictable. The poor men try to wiggle out of it at first, claiming all manner of urgent duties, but Leonie is persistent and the rest of us cheerily wave at them when she directs their attention our way.

It is fortunate that the plane itself was made to transport wholly greater amounts of soldiers and materiel than it does right now. Between four sisters and two flight officers we have ample space to share cookies and fruit juice.

We don't talk about the war. It is a silent, solemn promise, unspoken but readily agreed upon by everyone.

Instead, we talk about home. One of them is by his own admission from the middle of nowhere in Westfalen. He can relate to the relative culture shock of arriving in modern major cities, something that leads us into a tangent about humanity as a whole.

We all boggle quietly at that. Between our first lives and our second, the world holds thrice as many people.

Thrice! Almost eight billion, a number I cannot even begin to visualize. When Eugenia stuffs her half-eaten cookie into her cheeks like a hamster to ask where the hell all of these people are because it certainly didn't feel like home was cramped threefold the engineer promises to catch us up once we've landed in India.

Either way, our flight engineer is a Kieler lad, born and raised in the city. When we ask him why he went into the Luftwaffe rather than the Marine, he just shrugs and says budget cuts.

We all share a sigh like that. Never ever enough money to go around for all the shiny gear we wish we could have. I toast this eternal truth with a plastic cup of apple juice and the others join in.

---​

Eventually, they have to leave - checking the cargo deck, making sure the plane is in one piece still, all the important bits.

When we land in Delhi, I check my chronometer. Eleven and a half hours since takeoff from Kiel. The pilot and copilot are visibly tired, and a brief conversation reveals that we're going to stay here for the next ten hours. Sleep for the crew, fuel for the plane, and sleep for its cargo.

I look around and see Marie starting to yawn, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Fortunately she clamps her mouth shut before it drags on for too long.

Wearily running a hand through hair matted by long hours of wearing a helmet, Leutnant Anders puts down his post-flight checklist.

"Ma'am? 's everything alright? Ten hour stop-over here. Some beauty sleep - not that you need this -" I fight down my smile for pilots never change. "-and then we're off again for China."

I flip my hair over my shoulder as I put on my cap, pondering this. "Sleep, yes, that sounds like an idea. If you've got suggestions on how, exactly, to sleep away from home?"

He blinks, confused, and I feel compelled to elaborate.

"It's not like we have harbour berths assigned to us here, or barracks to return to. Where do we go to, what do we do?"

Leutnant Anders sheepishly scratches the back of his head. "Oh, that, well, sorry, ma'am. Hadn't really considered that." He motions for me to follow, and the rest of the girls fall in on reflex and because you just don't abandon your flagship.

Booting down the cargo ramp, he sweeps a hand around and it is then that I realize we're in a hangar. "Rented by the ministry of defense for this flight. We've got bunks -"

He pauses as I swiftly point at him, then me, then the rest of his crew and my girls. "Yes, gender-segregated, of course, ma'am." I swear I can hear a disappointed mou from behind me. I mark this down as something to interrogate my girls about.

"Far as I know, ma'am," he adds a moment later, "we have the full range of the airport and all facilities while we're here. Your quarters are over there, just follow the Marine markers."

Before I can ask him anything else, he half-turns and yawns like a hippopotamus. "Alright, alright, not going to be pestering you further, Leutnant Anders."

He looks thankful and jogs off promptly.

I turn around and my hand flashes out before Leonie has a chance to flee. Catching her by the ear I loom menacingly in her field of vision. "So, what's that note of disappointment about proper sleeping arrangements?"

In response, she starts flicking a finger against the inside of my wrist, pouting. "What? Don't tell me you don't appreciate the thought of him and his fellows stepping out of the showers still steaming."

It is, I admit in the quiet of my own mind, a nice thought, but it is in no way shape or form proper, and that is more important.

"Be that as it may, Leonie, we must set an example. Ogle them if you want, but keep that to the shared areas and do it subtly. Besides, he's Luftwaffe! That's double improper. Really, young lady, the nerve!"

We all share a laugh at that. As if it matters which branch they're from.

When my snickers subside, I lay out some simple ground rules. "Travel in pairs, keep your FuMO and radios silent. Use your phones to contact me if something goes wrong. Catch some sleep, too, I don't want anyone being all droopy when we arrive in Schanghai, you got me?"

Nods all around. They got me.

---​

Eugenia and I spend an hour sitting outside the hangar, looking at the world around us through the eyes of our floatplane pilots. What an incredibly, impossibly large city this is.

Ever so often, we look at each other, mouths half-open as our planes dip in and out of the light clouds to see yet more city. More and more, more and more, it seems unbelievable. How many millions live here?

Eventually, I order my pilot home, and from the way he's rocking once his plane lands on my hand, the poor dear really is feeling massive culture shock right now.

Eugenia looks at me, questions in her eyes. "I… don't feel like dinner any more, Otti. I really don't."

I put an arm around her shoulders and shake her slightly. "C'mon, think positive. The world survived our war and look at how well they did."

She smiles weakly, her laugh slightly thready. "Y-yeah, and it's not like we'd have to fight that, eh?"

I shake my head. "No, of course not. If I can feel it in my bones and bulkheads, so can you. They" - our people - "have no intention of going to war."

The heavy cruiser at my side just sighs again. "Aye, I know. It still feels weird that we would stop war not with victory, but with money. The best defense…"

She trails off as Leonie and Marie approach, their eyes gleaming in the sunlight. Marie picks up where Eugenia left off. "... is apparently a good economy, yes."

They waggle their acquisitions in our direction, sacks full of spoils of peace. "So, Frau Admiral, do we have your permission to hit up the poor menfolk and play some cards?"

Eugenia and I share a look, which prompts Marie to shake her sack. I can hear the clink of can on can, which seals that question.

Magnanimously, and not in any way bribed by beer, I spread my arms. "C'mon, ladies, let's go."

---​

Walking through featureless grey streets, the woman looks around, seeing nothing. Humanoid shapes all around, flowing past her. They do not hear her questions. They do not hear her shouts.

They do not hear her whispers.

She reaches out - and grasps nothing. They flow around and away from her, forever moving away from her. Staggering to her feet, she leans against a building, trying to hear the heartbeat of her nation. She feels for the spirit of her people.

She sees nothing. She hears nothing. She feels nothing.

She staggers forward again, compelled to move, unwilling and unable to stay and deal with such emptiness.

The streets are endless, the people without number. She wraps her arms around herself, trying to stop the shaking, but fails. Staggering forward, every muscle aching, she grits her teeth.

She can't say how much time passes as she searches for something, anything, anything at all that sets itself apart from this empty world.

When her strength fails her at last, when her knees buckle, when she falls and her face digs into the the sidewalk, she hears it.

The voices of the people. The pulse of the land.

She whimpers, curling in on herself.

These are not her people. This is not the pulse of her land.

---​

I awaken bathed in cold sweat, my boilers ice-cold. As I take several deep breaths to calm myself, I feel my crew racing to their posts. They are as cold and clammy as I am, not one of them steady on their feet, but they do their duty.

Slipping out of my bed, I hear sounds of abject misery from the toilet down the hall and stagger there as fast as I can. Grimacing, I move over to brush Eugenia's face back, holding it up and safely out of the toilet bowl as she vents her stomach in gasping heaves.

After what feels an eternity, she stands up, punching handholds through the porcelain tiles of the wall, dragging herself to her feet. Fumbling for the flush, she turns to me. When I see my reflection in her eyes, I feel like I'm dreaming again.

The floor tiles crack under my knees, and I can feel Eugenia return the favour with my own hair. Porcelain screeches as fingernails as hard as steel scrabble against it, as my dream comes back to me. The sheer wrongness of it all hits me all over again, every breath and pulse of a country that is not mine slamming into me, twisting my stomach.

By the time I stop, coughing, sputtering, my eyes feeling like they are about to burst out of my head, my sonar op picks up Eugenia's voice animatedly talking to someone in the distance. My first attempt to stagger to my feet fails, but Marie is there, supporting me however she can, and concentrating on not pushing my true weight down on her lets me think about something that isn't last night.

Marie is pale, smelling of sour fear-sweat as surely as I do, and her eyes are reddened.

"How long," I force myself to ask, and wave a hand at the toilet.

"Long enough for both me and Leonie to… catch up." We smile weakly at each other. "Hit you harder than the rest of us, Frau Admiral."

I grit my teeth as I force myself to stand upright and wobble forward. "Alright." I wash most of the taste from my mouth at the washbasin. "We need breakfast. Agreed?"

Marie nods silently.

---​

By the time the flight crew awaken, I've commandeered enough of the hangar's equipment to make for a decent breakfast for ten. Several coffee pots boil and bubble away and a quick trip to one of the airport's travel essential stores has rewarded us with two hot plates that I even now use to flip pfannkuchen onto waiting plates.

The routine helps to calm the rest of my nerves. Turning back, I see Eugenia womanhandle a small one-ton pallet into place for Marie and Leonie to spread a camo tarp over it in the closest approximation to a tablecloth we can manage.

The flight crew, when they stagger into the hangar, look at us like we've sprouted horns. I quickly check my forehead just to make sure, but nope, still just same old me.

"Thought we'd kick the morning off to a good start," I lie glibly. "And I haven't met a soldier yet who doesn't appreciate a good breakfast when the chance arises."

They shrug and dig in.

---​

Breakfast was better than waking up, that's for sure. It was a taste of home, with our lads, and we leave the airport with spirits fortified.

I send an apologetic letter to our embassy, explaining that the damages to the local facilities were incurred in the process of adjusting to our current role and situation.

Technically true, which is the best kind of truth for such reports.

---​

I spend the two hours enroute to Chengdu watching educational government videos. Not out of boredom, but because I need something boring to calm myself with.

And mein gott, it works. Why is it that such informational films are always as dry as leather left in the sun for too long?

Roused from my video-induced stupor, I leave the plane and almost immediately wish I hadn't.

Something in the air makes my teeth itch, and from the uncomfortable looks on the faces of my girls, I am not alone in this.

We excuse ourselves from the flight crew as we seek a place to sit down.

With Leonie and Marie shielding us from view, Eugenia and I bring one fist up, whispering into our own hands.

Sohn und Soldat Deutschlands, einmal mehr brauche ich dich.
Son and soldier of Germany, once again I have need of you
And as always, they obey. My floatplane pilot reports for duty with an energetic Jawohl! and when I open my fist and blow his plane off my hand like a dandelion seed, I start to get a view of the city.

Such a palpable aura of misery. Empty factories, rows upon rows upon rows of them. So many people milling about without peace or purpose.

It reminds me of home, back before the war. So many of my crew look at the reports from the pilot and grit their teeth.

I can feel the surge of resolve well up in me, stiffening my keel. Yes, this is what we fight for. Against an enemy that once more reduces people to this. Against despair so thick that it chokes a city.

Silently, Eugenia nods. Yes, this is what we fight for.

An hour later, my pilot barely makes it back to us. Indeed, I have to lift my cap for him to all but crash-land on my head before I put it on again to make sure nobody questions the hows and whys of shipgirl operations.

Leutnant Anders pauses next to me before he vanishes into the cockpit, his face grave. He doesn't say anything, but there's no need to. I pat him on the shoulder and nod, and so do the other girls.

It is enough, for now. It will have to be enough.

---​

When we arrive in Shanghai, we have scant few minutes to say our goodbyes. It is Eugenia's idea that has me, my girls and the flight crew squeezed into one corner of the plane in the closest thing to a lineup we can manage.

When Leutnant Anders' phone is finally done, he quickly shares the photos with us, and it is with glad hearts that we step out of the plane and into the waiting arms of half a dozen nervous young men in uniform and a serious man of advanced age in civilian clothes.

His german carries a faint accent, but not one I heard before. He speaks quickly, with urgency, and it is readily apparent that he is terrified. Sighing inwardly, I do my best to make the transition quick and painless.

It turns out he is here to facilitate our transport to the harbour and our interpreter should we need anything.

I look at my squadron and they shake their head. No, all's well as well as it can be.

He speaks to the leader of the soldiery, rapid-fire chinese that I have no hope of understanding, and I take the time to launch my floatplane just in case.

We are swiftly led to an armored personnel carrier, and I can hear their mutters of confusion when it doesn't rock on its suspension when we board. What do they think we are, brutes without self control?

I hit our interpreter up for information about the general state of the city - I want to see how he answers, considering the view from my plane turns my stomach anew.

"Are we expected to be under attack by the time we leave port?" I ask and he touches the radio bead in his ear. Not used to military communication equipment, then.

"No, ma'am. At present, we have made safe the seas around the city as best as we could in preparation for your arrival."

It's only been a week, and yet they've done that? I grit my teeth. "What of your city? I didn't get to see much from the cockpit on approach." But I sure see it now. The construction sites all over, the burn scars across the seaward blocks of the city. The telltale marks of concrete, freshly poured.

Our interpreter sighs, and the mutters something to the sergeant next to him. His answer chills all of us.

"We are thankful that you are here to fight the enemy, ma'am."

---​

Leonie, Marie and Eugenia all bite their lips when we step out of the APC. Their eyes sweep over the harbour, expertly picking out all the hastily-repaired battle damage. We Germans know everything about ports in the aftermath of heavy air attacks, after all.

They see us looking around, and the the interpreter quietly repeats what he said earlier.

It's all the impetus we need. I tell the others to go ahead and ready themselves before I turn on our escorts.

My mind is clear, my heart no longer heavy. My stomach does not roil with disquiet, and when I speak, more than two thousand of my men speak with me.

"Germany is committed to this. We will fight this war until we are victorious or dead."

They take a step back, perhaps out of fear, perhaps from the literal fire in my eyes, and I turn sharply on my heel towards the sea.

Gathering speed, my stride lengthens. I walk faster and faster until it turns into a jog, then a full run.

The others are already standing on their water, their fitout superstructure so different from their uniforms. Their eyes alight on me, and their smile matches my own as I flex my legs, dig into the concrete - sorry, I think, you'll have to re-pour that - and leap off the dock.

My superstructure envelops me as I externalize my armor. My guns manifest as my belt plate slides into place. My FuMO sets start spinning, casting the world around me in new detail.

I land on the water, rudders digging in, salt-spray splashing up my legs, plastering my skirt to my hips.

These are not home waters. These are not my people behind me, labouring to repair the damage wrought upon their city.

But it is the ocean, and these are people that need someone to fight for them, and by the will of fate, the Ministry of Defense and my own nature this is where I am and what I am.

I shudder with pleasure as my propellers spin up to speed, as my comrades fall into formation with me. This is what I was reborn for.

-----------

I apologize for the delay with this chapter. Stardew Valley came out, which, alas, is Harvest Moon for PC and the videogame equivalent of cocaine for me. I'd say something like "I don't know where the last week of my life went" but I know exactly where, and it was good.