Old Wounds


HMS Viperous-----> > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <

This is the Spartan galley, or kitchen of the ship. The meals for the crew and officers of the vessel are prepared in this cramped, small space fitted with small gas stoves and rows of cupboards. Shelves of food and spices have been installed into the walls, complete with railings to prevent things from the contents from them in rough weather, and kettles and mugs hang from hooks under them. There are only a few small flat spaces here for actual food preparation, and no room for dining. Those flat spaces get used by the ships doctor as needed in battle, as well. Nice!

McIntyre sits alone as he takes a puff of his cigar and another sip of bad coffee. He blows a quiet smoke ring as he watches it fly off.

Renteria has to slide past a glut of cooking staff and their lethal instruments to get to the back of the galley. Towards where boxes of medical supplies are shoved next to a stash of biscuits that are probably well on their way to being hard enough to serve as paperweights. He tugs the heavy canvas strap of his bag off his shoulder, the red cross visible as he thumps it down on the floor and kneels down to shove a few things away.

McIntyre looks over at Renteria, "Someone get their entrails ripped out?" He asks curiously, "Or are you just getting ready?"

"The worse today is a hangnail," Renteria replies as he stands back up, kicking the cabinet shut before he turns to look at the source of the unfamiliar voice. "I do not expect it stays so easy." Despite his accent and some choppy grammar, the Spaniard's English comes easily.

The highland Scotsmans english does not come as easily, "Is that so? Well, I suppose that is better than the doctor earlier threatening me with a bullet to bite on and a saw to take my leg off with." He chuckles softly, "Clearly, not from the highlands."

Renteria sets a hand on one of the free chairs near McIntyre, leaning some weight on it. It clearly takes him a few extra seconds to understand the Scot, a dark eyebrow raising. "Burke. Yes. A young man who do not understand that a doctor is a servant, not a master." He smirks, tapping his fingers on the chair. "Where are the highlands?"

Gordon says, "Scotland." He takes a moment to process, "The mountains, the high lands…I'm from Glen Coe." He then says, "Have you ever been or had a propper haggis?"

Renteria slides into the chair without invitation, stretching out his long legs. He smirks at the man across from him. "No, what is this? Or do I even want ask that?"

McIntyre beams, "Its meat and barley wrapped in a sheeps stomach. It's like sausage." He smiles, "Ah chieftan of the haggis race." He then says, "I'll have to get you one after the war." He then takes a puff of his cigar, "Where is it you are from?"

"Caray…really?" Renteria snorts quietly. "If someone bitches about the food on this ship, I know it's not a Scottish man." He absently pats his pockets until he finds his battered cigarette pack, fishing one out. "I am from Spain. Barcelona. Do you know it?"

McIntyre pauses for a moment and then gives a grin, "Aye, fair enough, I suppose not." He then says, "I know of Barcelona, I once read about it in a book. I've heard it is warm and the woman are lovely there." He pauses, "They are lovely, right?"

"The loveliest in the world," Renteria levels the cigarette at McIntyre to make the point, then lights up. The end of the white stick flares a few times before he snaps the lighter shut, tucking it away and exhaling the smoke. "When again Spain is free from her chains, you will see." He takes another drag before he stretches a calloused hand over the table. "Dr. Cristian Renteria."

Gordon offers his hand, "Midshipman Gordon McIntyre, gunner." He then takes a drag of his cigar, "I'll hold you to that. I'd like to see your fair city. I've heard simply lovely things about it." He then pauses for only a moment before asking, "Though you are all Catholic yes?"

Renteria gives McIntyre's hand a single shake, then sits back again. "She is not lovely now. But she will be again. When she wears Franco's blood on her streets." He raises an eyebrow at the question. "Catholic, yes."

Gordon chuckles softly, "Well, that is a problem for the Presbyterian boy." He then takes another puff of his cigar, "Who is this Franco? Sorry, I'm not much up on world affairs. I just point and shoot."

"Franco?" Renteria raises the cigarette for a slow drag. "He is the bastard that destroyed Spain. Your knowledge serve fine about him; he should be point and shot." The Spaniard's jaw tenses, then he tilts his chin up. "What is this, Presbyterian. I thought the ingleses were…" He waves a hand, trying to remember the name. "Anglican."

Gordon snorts, "The English are English. I'm Scottish. We Scots are Presbyterian. We are ruled by elders none of this Anglican non-sense." He almost sneers, "They say its my queen and my queen I serve, but then, they aren't Scots are they?" His contempt can be heard, "No, we serve England and yet we will never be equals."

Renteria smokes calmly through that, regarding McIntyre with a raised brow. "Why do you say this? You are one country under your Crown, aren't you?"

Gordon says, "One country that serves another countries crown." His voice is almost angered though he backs off, "Though to say so is a crime then, isn't it."

Renteria smirks, shrugging once. "I am not inglese. If she wish to prosecute you, I will not help her."

Gordon says, "There was a time when my people were free. Then the English took us over. Now we serve her crown. She feeds while we starve. My homeland cleared so she could feed."

"But yet you fight with her, on her ship." Renteria makes a vague gesture around the galley. "Does she force you to do this?"

"No, the damn axis forces me to fight. Better the evil I know than the one I don't." He says as he looks at Renteria.

"Hah." The single burst of sound moves the Spaniard's shoulders. "Es la verdad." Renteria takes a final drag off the cigarette before he reaches over to stub it out. "Let us hope the ingleses know how to build guns that work."

Gordon says softly, "The english know war. They live and breed off of it. They cut my people deeply, we brought swords and they brought guns."

"They are not always victorious," Renteria replies. "They came to Spain and lost with us. While the Irish danced with Franco in hell." He makes a gesture that might just be clearing a piece of tobacco off his lip. Or it could have been a purposeful spit. He stands up then, shoving the chair back against the table with his foot. "Well, Mr. McIntyre. I have a shift. But you will have to tell me more of this place, this Scotland."

McIntyre smiles, "Go on your shift, we will discuss the motherland later." He then smiles warmly, "Perhaps you can tell me more about how to free my home."

Renteria smiles in return, though his is wry. "I wish I could. But you see, I could not even free mine." He taps his finger against the chair back and nods. "Vaya con Dios." And with that he's off to pick up his medical bag and head for more hangnails.

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