Lost In Translation

The bridge is the traditional center of command for any ship and, in many ways, the basic design remains similar to the days of wood and sails. The helmsman operates 20th-century steering controls rather than an old wooden wheel and the weapon stations control gunnery and torpedoes rather than cannons, but the principles remain the same. Windows allow the captain to look out onto the water from his post at the center of it all, though the seat isn't as comfortable for the man in charge as some may claim.

Renteria is back up to the command bridge with a requisition report. The exciting life of medical staff between emergencies and seasickness complaints. The latter of which haven't even begun to pile up yet, thank God for being docked. The tall Spaniard passes off the various papers with a muttered explanation to someone, then his attention turns towards the wreckage still being cleaned up outside.

Sub-Lieutenant Conlan is the Officer of the Deck this evening, the Destroyer once more anchored near the wrecks outside of port, and everything turned quiet at last. It was an exciting day to say the least, and in under ten minutes of fighting the Gun Crews under his command had destroyed three German Ships. Not too bad for their first voyage into combat. He leans against one of the bulkheads here on the command bridge, where only dim red lights illuminate everything at this dark hour — casting the Canadian in a ruddy glow. A cup of coffee is held in his hand, and he looks out to the crews crawling over the destroyed freighter — which still burns.

Renteria folds his arms as he watches the fires rage on below, his jaw set but expression curiously relaxed. Aware of someone nearby, he asks without looking away from the wreckage, "You have heard a casualty count from them?"

"Only a few. It was anchored, and the ship mostly deserted during the attack. Small comfort for those left behind." Conlan notes somberly, taking a drink of that coffee from the Mug. "To everyone else it was a victory, but ultimately our escort rate is only fifty percent. Not a good statistic if you ask me, eh?" The Gunnery Officer give a slight shake of his head, and then moves over to the Doctor. "Anything I need to be looking at Doctor, I've got the watch."

"Nothing is pressing," Renteria answers the younger man, resting a shoulder against the wall. "We had nothing serious, a scratch or two. One opened head where someone walk into a pipe." He exhales slowly, watching the sea outside. "Not even close to what to expect."

"We're lucky, if those PT boats had struck us with torpedoes? It'd be an entirely different story." Conlan says with a dry laugh, but nods his head at the Doctor's report. "Still, you are quite right. This is not as bad as it will be eventually. It'll get a lot worse before it gets better. Right now Fate is pissing rain on us, but soon she'll send us a propper storm."

A flicker of amusement goes across the Spaniard's face. "To hope she does not decide to capsize us in the process. Ojalá." A slight smirk, and an absent glance to the coffee in the other Sub-Lieutenant's hand. "It must be the British Crown that breeds a taste for that stuff."

The Sub-Lieutenant flashes the Doctor a wry smile. "Here is to hoping." He says with a soft snort, raising his mug in a mock toast. "You've not been to Ontario in the Winter. It is so cold there sometimes that the snot'll freaze in your nose, and a good mug of coffee is just what you need to warm yourself up. Besides, if you make it right? It'll give you enough of a kick to keep you awak for an entire twenty-four hour shift."

"Ontario," Renteria repeats the name with his distinctively incorrect pronounctiation, and smirks. "This sounds almost as bad as smells that coffee. That is your city?"

"Province. Toronto is home, and the Capital of the province." Replies Conlan, before taking another sip of his coffee, and then takes in the scent of that drink. "Nothing like the smell of fresh Coffee." He drolls wryly for the Doctor's benefit. "The cold isn't too bad, at least not on land. If we get sent to the North Sea, I suspect we'll be miserable, and who ever gets stuck on the flying bridge will be yearning for the comfort of his bunk… Which is saying something."

Renteria snorts quietly. "It take a ship in winter to make a man truly appreciate Hell." His tone, however, is endearing. "Canada is a place with many sailors?" 'Overseas', it's an interesting notion.

The Officer offers Renteria a slight shrug of his shoulders. "Depends where you are really." In the distant the smoldering hulk of the freighter lights up briefly, a fire finding some new source of fuel, and there is a brief flash of light — the fires fading swiftly and soon after though. Conlan drifts forward to the fore of the bridge then, and looks out towards the wreckage with interest. "We share the Great Lakes with the Yanks, and sail them nearly just as often as they do." Conlan muses over something briefly, and then laughs. "Great Lakes, more like land locked seas then lakes really."

Renteria' head turns as the flare comes, and he regards it in calm silence for a few moments. "You should try warmer waters," he finally comments with a mild chuckle. "The Mediterranean, now she is a beautiful sea. That much better if you can avoid the Italians."

"Italians. Used to rule the world once, probably why they're so bloody annoying. Got a stick up their arse is all." Says Conlan with a laugh, leaning up against one of the consoles now, after he turns to face Renteria. "It seems every country has its shot at ruling the world, or making an Empire of it's own. Right now the Brits are one of the last dominant powers, but for how long I wonder?"

"Until they tear themself apart from the inside, I suppose," Renteria answers while he watches the flames. "History rolls this way. Spain had her day too. That Inglaterra will fall some day, this is not surprise. The question to think is 'who will take her place?'"

"Inglaterra?" Questions Conlan with an arched brow, not understanding the Spaniard.

Renteria's slight grin shows his teeth as he realises his slip. "England, I meant."

Conlan laughs, and shakes his head. "Dunno. Certainly wont be Canada. We're too quiet and easy going to rule the world. Probably be the Yanks, assuming the Mooks don't take over everything. They got real potential I think, even if they've been having a real hard time of it lately. Real potential, and I don't think they even know it. They're just coming into their own, and the Old World is crumbling and passing away, but not the New World."

"The Yanks?" Renteria starts to laugh, the sound interrupted by a brief smoker's cough. "Maybe. They are loud enough for it, this is truth. But we will see. If this war is to be as bad as some believe it will be, they may just be the last men alive."

"You just wait and see." Says Conlan with a knowing nod of his head. "Britain? They've got a whole island of people. The Yanks? They've got a whole bloody continent of people, and an entire ocean between then and all their troubles. They aint wrote their chapter in history quite yet."

Now it's Renteria's turn to fail to parse the conversation. His green eyes squint slightly. "'Ain't'?"

"If I was at home, my mother would have so given me Hell for using that word. Ain't means… Nearly any contraction really. I aint gonna do this. You aint listening. The crew aint doing that. They aint wrote their history, yet." Explains Conlan, and certainly doesn't even hit all the meanings of that multipurpose word.

"Cagada…" Renteria draws the word out in that appreciative tone that only profanity can have. "You don't have enough word already, you have to invent nonsense too?" He laughs again, shaking his head. "Do you understand the Irish?"

"Only half as well as I should like, and only half as well as they deserve." Says Conlan quickly with a wink. "They got their own language, and it certainly can get in the way sometimes of their English I think. You having problems understanding that mechanic down in the Engine Room?"

"All of them." Renteria snorts, making an expressive gesture with a calloused hand. "I know the Irish one immediately when he opens his mouth. I can understand not a word." He shrugs, rolling his eyes. "I will leave Burke to these ones."

"Just have to listen carefully," drolls Conlan wryly, smiling widely here. Still at that moment another Officer comes in, and the Gunnery Officer perks up some. "Well, Doctor. It appears my relief is here, and I need to brief him before heading myself off to bed. If you'll excuse me? Please, have a good evening." With that the Sub-Lieutenant tips his hat to Renteria, and moves with the other Officer towards the radio room.

Renteria returns the gesture. "Vale, buenas." He's still got an amused look on his face, even as Conlan's relief also drags in a sailor after him that comes jogging up to the doctor to whisper some report of someone who doesn't look so good below deck. The Spaniard listens and, with a slight shake of his head, he's back to it as well. Life goes on.

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