“It’s a trick – get an axe.”

My brain is a bucket of oily rags and someone has just dropped a cigarette. Burn. It’s not that bad, but sometimes when you think you got everything under control and cleaned up, and then someone goes and drops a match or a flaming college acceptance list in the trash can.

“It was, it was a total electrical fire, it as like uhh the switches had sparks comin' out and the sockets and uhh... it was like the fourth of July man.”

“Why aren't you wearin' your pants Joe?”

“I tripped and...uhh then I had to take them off to, run faster out of the flames.”

I’m a Fleet Commander of a World War II Naval battle group stationed in the South Pacific. Sirens wail as incoming enemy craft are spotted and specks of an enemy fleet are seen on the horizon. Enemy bombers start in on my Cruisers and Frigates. I scramble my fighters and try to destroy them ship to ship. Just as I manage to mop up most of the enemy fighters, in come the enemy Destroyers, guns blazing, then a salvo of torpedoes. And of course, another wave of fighters. One assault after another and I start to wonder if I can even retreat now, let alone come out victorious. And to think just yesterday the seas were calm, the men were all restful in their bunks and in the mess hall, and my fleet was cleaned and polished, a well-oiled, precision machine. Charred hulls and billowing smoke now, and my ears still ring from the impact of repeated concussive explosions. What if I surrender? It’d be for all the soldiers, the boys and men who want to see their families again, I tell myself. But no, it’s not for them. The only thing I am worried about is me and my precious life and untattered, decorated uniform. Another blast rocks the command bridge, my vision blurs and I taste blood.

I grab the radio and call the nearest Fleet Commander for assistance. He can only send his regards and some tips for how to deal with the fighters; he’s under a full attack as well. I radio in to headquarters, to tell the Commander-In-Chief that we are getting pulverized and its time that we cut our losses and just retreated. “Admiral, hold that position” is the firm and calculated response. So are you saying you think we can win this or do we just need to hold this for while before we retreat or... “Admiral...hold that position.” I don’t even see why this position is even that important. All I know is that I am taking a beating and the only guidance and directions I have is to stay here and stick it out. Not directions, orders. I taste blood again and this time the high pitch ringing in my right ear doesn’t fade.

My XO stands there, mouthing words at me, his voice starting to become faintly audible in my left ear. “What are you orders, sir?” The edges of my vision dim, black tunnel vision. I don’t know what to do. I’ve always known what to do, in almost every battle, every engagement. I’ve been in control. And now, with all my rank and all my prestige, all my experience, I find myself with the least amount of power, the least amount of control. Yesterday, we had them on the run; we we’re on the pursuit and they flee before our might. But they didn’t flee like a rat or a dog, the fled like a snake; falling back only to coil and strike the aggressor. We got bit right in the face.

I stand up and order a launch of all remaining fighters, flight groups of two’s, engaging the bombers first and then the fighters, flight patterns maintained over our crafts. Don’t chase the cougars to their den. Bring around the cruisers and the destroyers, arch the formation into a semi-circle and bring all the guns to bear on the command ship, we’ll cut the head off the rattler.

“Let’s give ‘em hell”

Incoming transmission. One of my officers hands me the paper, I read. I look up and shake my head. Not forward, but straight up, fists clentched and despair in my eyes. Another enemy fleet is heading this way. And they, are fresh.

Oh, I talked to Anne today.