by Buzz Harcus
“Now, bitch,” he growled, incensed at the sight of her thighs. “Now we’ll have our party!” and he unzipped his pants.
Shaking off her pain, Osa, in a last bid for escape, yelled, “NO!” and kicked upwards catching him sharply in his chest sending him stumbling backwards toward the door. She rolled off the bunk on to her feet, angry, ready to fight.
Standing beside the desk, she yanked out a desk drawer and threw it at him. He ducked. She grabbed the second drawer down, the contents flying across the deck as she threw it at him.
“You’re almost out of desk drawers, bitch,” he snarled. “What next?” He laughed at her, at the poor pathetic female standing before him.
Angrily she grabbed for the center desk drawer and yanked it open. Suddenly she stopped. Looking inside the drawer she saw the gun that that silly little chinaman had held on Harry, it was right there in front of her.
Grabbing up the gun, she shakingly aimed it at Bert. “Get out of here!” she yelled. “Get away from me or I vill shoot you!”
Bert looked at the gun and cut loose with a gutteral laugh. “Hell, babe, that pee-shooter ain’t gonna do any damage. It’s probably a pellet gun, or at the worst, a .22 calibre.”
He took a step toward her. She fired the gun. A bullet zipped past him, struck the overhead, ricocheted, and lay spent on the deck.
Bert laughed again. “You’re a lousy shot, too,” he said. “Put the damned thing down right now. I got things to take care of and you’re wasting time!”
She fired again. A startled look came to his face. Blood appeared on his upper left chest. A second shot rang out. The bullet struck him in his upper right thigh.
“You bitch!” he screamed, lunging for her. Another shot hit him in the gut. The gun roared again and again as fast as she could pull the trigger until it clicked empty. Bert had stopped, a surprised look on his face, blood oozing from several locations.
“You—you killed me,” he growled looking heartsick at the woman. “You’ve killed me!”
Osa stood petrified, her body shaking violently as she stared at her attacker. The oozing blood, the same red blood she’d seen on those two dead men in the storage room! Now blood was running from Bert’s body, running down his clothing, staining it, drops of blood spattering on the deck.
The door burst open. “What the hell’s going on here!” yelled Doyle stepping inside, his gun in hand. He looked at Bert, then Osa, and then saw the gun in her hand. “Gimme the gun!” Doyle snapped aiming his gun at her.
“Doyle,” Bert gasped, his head slowly turning to face his fellow mate, “She killed me.” It was then Doyle saw the blood. Weaving unsteadily, Bert said, in a matter of fact voice, “The bitch killed me with that damned little pee-shooter.”
“Gimme the damned gun,” Doyle yelled at Osa. “NOW!” Hesitantly she handed it over. “Get the hell out of here,” he ordered. “Go back to your cabin. NOW!”
Osa scurried past him and her wounded assailant, and ran down the corridor to her cabin. Safely inside she locked the door, then fell on the bed shaking like a leaf. She buried her face in her pillow crying her heart out. She had shot a man. She had actually shot a man!
Harry was right; you had to take control of the situation. You might have to do something you didn’t want to do—and she had done it. She had protected herself. What was it Harry had said. It was either you or him; you had to make the decision in a split second. It was so horrible, so vile—and then she swooped off the bed, reached into the vanity and pulled out a bottle of her uncle’s brandy. She took a deep swig, sat back down on the bed, and collapsed back on the bed out cold.
CHAPTER 27
Lost in the Madness of the Moment
Doyle held Bert upright against the ship’s railing. “Hold onto the railing, Bert,” he said in a consoling voice. “I’ll be right back.” He had walked him from Harry’s cabin and eased the dying man up on deck. He knew from the way Bert talked and the way the poor guy was bleeding that he had been hit bad.
Within minutes Alward and Doyle came hurrying down the deck to Bert. His wounds were bleeding profusely, the man stood weaving unsteadily, legs rubbery. Bert looked up at Alward offering a dumb shake of his head. “The bitch shot me, George. The damned bitch shot me; I think she killed me—”
Alward stepped in close beside him. Leaning forward, he whispered in his ear, “You asked for it, Bert. I warned you, I told you to leave her alone, but no, you were thinking with your damned dick again, not your brain—and it got you killed.”
“Get that damned medic, Bjorg,” Bert pleaded, “Maybe he can cut these damned bullets out of me . . . ”
“Too late. You’re dead,” Alward whispered. “You’re dead.”
In a movement that even startled Doyle, Alward yanked out his automatic, jammed it tight against Bert’s rib cage, and pulled the trigger. Bert’s huge frame reacted in sudden shock. His face went momentarily blank and then he looked at his friend unbelieving. With a dying gasp, his lips formed a question: why?
As he started to collapse, Alward grabbed him, hoisted him up, and threw him over the railing.
Before Doyle could question his action, Alward raised his hand to silence him “Mum’s the word,” he growled at Doyle. “Dead men don’t tell tales.” He turned and retraced his steps up to the bridge. At least he had one less problem to deal with now.
Alward entered the bridge, walked past Sigmund to the port wing door and waved Sigmund after him. “C’mere,” he snapped. “Outside.”
Puzzled, Sigmund followed him out onto the port wing. “That blonde cook has cost me one of my best men,” Alward said, keeping a civil tone to his voice. “Bert’s dead.”
Sigmund gasped. “Bert? Dead? Vat has dis got to do vis Osa?”
“She shot him. Killed him—”
“Shot him? But vere vould she get a gun?” Sigmund asked, surprised.
“How the hell do I know!” bellowed Alward. “All I know is she got one and shot him, and killed him!” He stood looking at his first officer as though the answer would suddenly materialize. Slapping his hands angrily together, he continued, “That broad spells trouble on this ship. I don‘t like females on any ship, especially mine!” Again he watched Sigmund, fuming inside, wanting to lash out in anger.
“Right now, at this very moment, I’d like to throw both of you over the side, but I need you; I need a seasoned officer on deck—and I also need a cook!”
He stood quietly for several seconds letting his statement sink in. “You are relieved as of right now. I want you to get your ass down below and settle her down. We only got a couple more days and I have a ship to deliver—so, I don’t want no more trouble!”
“Aye, sir,” Sigmund retorted sharply. Totally confused by the turn of events, he turned and re-entered the bridge, crossed to the back, and departed the bridge rushing below to Osa‘s cabin. What the hell had happened since dinner? Was Osa injured? Where did she get a gun? Had Bert hurt her? Was she aware that she had killed him?
Osa heard Sigmund’s voice, and quickly unlocked her door . She was still crying as she fell into his arms. “I-I shot Bert—” she cried. “I had to shoot him—he tried to—”
“Shhhh . . . ” he whispered clutching her close. “I’m here for you . . . I’ll stay here with you, protect you . . . ” She went limp in his grasp. Gathering her in his arms he carried her to her bed and gently laid her down.
“It was horrible,” she sobbed, unable to face him, instead rolling over on her stomach. “He-he vas going to rape me. I-I had to shoot him . . . had to—”
Sigmund eased onto the bed beside her. His gaze took in her ripped blouse, the tattered material separated across her upper back exposing several red welts across her shoulder and neck. Resting a hand lightly on her shoulder, he gently rubbed her back to soothe her. “I should have been here for you,” he said hoarsely. “I would have gladly killed him for even touching you at all!”
“That feels good,” she whispered after a couple m
inutes, little gasps escaping her. “I’m so glad you’re with me. I feel so much better with you here.”
Sigmund continued massaging her back moving in ever widening circles, then up and back down again in large concentric circles, ever lower.
“Yes,” she mewled huskily, “you have such strong hands . . . it feels so good . . . ”
Pleased that she was enjoying his massage, Sigmund’s hand roamed further downward unintentionally easing over the swell of one buttock. At that very instant, his hand resting on the swell of Osa’s buttock, his nanny, Helga’s face suddenly appeared in his mind’s eye, the look of desire she had worn when he had touched her, had moved up under her skirt.
Sigmund jerked back as though his hand had touched a red hot poker. No! He shook his head. No! This was Osa, a grown woman, a woman he cared for more than anything, not that young tart of a nanny!
Osa rolled over on her back and looked up at him. Why had he stopped?
Their eyes met only for a fleeting moment, but in that instant a spark ignited a smoldering fire. Their lips met passionately, mashing together, grinding, tongues exploring, teasing, demanding. The smoldering fire became a roaring inferno.
They clawed at each other’s clothing in a frenzy, tearing the material away from their bodies. Naked, they fell into each other’s arms kissing, wanting.
There was no stopping, nor did she want him to stop. In the madness of the moment she urged him on, the floodgates of lust had been flung open. His mouth feasted on the fullness of her breasts and hard tipped nipples, and then she felt his penetration, felt him drive deep within. They were as one, grinding, gasping, thrusting. She wrapped her legs around him holding him tight to her, heels digging into his buttocks, crying out with lustful joy as they reached the pinnacle of their pleasure.
With a sweat drenched face, he raised up looking into her face offering a somewhat tentative, nervous smile. She smiled back at him.
“Osa—,” he started to apologize, but her fingers closed his lips.
“No,” she whispered, tightening her legs around him as he tried to pull away. “That was good,” she hissed, and rolled him over straddling him, “not yet . . . not yet . . . ”
Playfully she leaned over him weaving gently back and forth, her soft blonde hair brushing his face, breasts dragging on his hairy chest. “I-I want you like this . . . ”
His hands cupped the fullness of breasts and he feasted on the ripe fruit, her soft mewls of pleasure encouraging him, as his manhood hardened within her. She groaned with pleasure as the rhythm of love began again. It was a long wonderful night that neither would ever forget.
Harry. Harry was dead! The moment their eyes had met was powerful, triggering a sudden, urgent want—a want that they both must have felt—and it had been good, so very good, and no—no regrets!
~~~~~
Five hundred miles away two very soaked sailors braced themselves for another tropical storm. Karl Andress estimated the waves were building twenty to thirty feet, with a gusting wind that whistled shrilly in their ears. They both hunkered down in the bottom of the raft praying the wind wouldn’t catch them and throw them into the raging seas.
Harry recalled the readings of Mark in the Bible when Jesus was with the fishermen in a raging storm. They, too, were afraid of capsizing and drowning. They had turned to Jesus asking for help. Jesus had awoken from his sleep and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace, be still!” and the wind had stopped and the seas calmed. Harry called out to Karl about the passage. Karl responded, “The book of Mark, 4:38. I haf said dat passage often.” Harry prayed to God asking him to calm the ferocious seas.
Their day, earlier, had been spent under a searing sun that scorched their skin, skin already covered with sea salt caused sores. The ocean had been calm, endlessly calm and they had pulled their shirts over their heads to ward off the sun’s damaging rays. Thirst and hunger also gnawed at them. One canteen had been emptied, the other less than half filled with water.
“I sure could use a cup of Osa’s fresh brewed coffee,” Harry had said glumly at one point, “maybe two cups.”
“Yah, mit cream and sugar,” Karl added, with a wry grin.
“And a couple of jelly rolls,” laughed Harry.
“Ohhh . . . dey are so delicious.”
For the next hour they had talked about food, about breakfast with plump sausages, thin strips of bacon, pancakes that melted in your mouth and rich syrup, fried potatoes and more. Just talking about food made them feel better, lifted up their spirits and whiled away a boring day on a relentless sea.
If they felt hopeless, neither spoke of it. They had seen no less than a dozen ships over the past few days, some they thought would surely see them, but they all passed by disappearing over the horizon line. They were just a speck in a very large ocean.
What bothered them of late was the appearance of shark fins circling around the raft. Harry had felt a bump one morning that had startled him awake. Something had slid across the bottom of the raft. He glanced at Karl. Karl held his finger to his lips, “Don’t move. Shark.” They lay still for the best part of an hour fearful that a shark fin might rip through the thin material of the raft, but nothing further happened.
Small fish had taken refuge under the raft and sharks would streak in to feed on them. Both men hoped hungry sharks wouldn’t hit the raft hard enough to upset it, or even rip it open. Neither man appreciated the thought of being a shark’s meal.
Sharks seemed to stare at them through deadly eyes. One large twelve footer had brazenly eased up to the edge of the raft and stopped, just staring. The two had frozen. Harry had stealthily grasped one of his shoes and in a surprise move, smacked the shark solidly on his snout. Startled, the shark disappeared coming up a short distance away, staring back for several seconds, and then it turned and disappeared.
And now they were in the midst of a storm that had come up suddenly out of the west, foreboding, crackling with spider webs of lightning. Heavy laden clouds released torrents of chilling rain down on them, rain that showed no let up.
As luck would have it, as one of their daily routines so they wouldn’t be laying in water, they had used their shirts to mop clean the bottom of the raft of sea water. Wringing out the shirts time and again, they continued mopping until the bottom was dry. Now, the raft was filling fast with rain water and they were hurriedly collecting fresh water into their canteens.
As the storm grew in intensity they prayed. Though spoken in their respective languages, the Lord’s prayer was the same. They had talked about the power of prayer, and they believed. And, too, in their prayers they prayed for the lives of the crew aboard Nurad, that they would come through whatever faced them, and they especially prayed for the safety of Osa and Sigmund.
Karl assured Harry that Sigmund was an officer, and a gentleman. He had known him since he’d attended an all male school and then the Swedish Maritime Academy. Yes, a good officer, he had chuckled, but a bit shy around woman. He would look out for Osa’s safety and protect her. Harry agreed; yes he knew Sigmund was a good man, and he was sure that at this very moment he was probably watching over her.
The storm passed as quickly as it had appeared, the wind diminishing, and huge threatening waves becoming calm, almost as it had happened in the Bible in Mark. Soon, the sky above them was filled with a myriad of bright white stars. Harry hunkered down in the bottom of the raft. “Thank you, God,” he whispered.
~~~~~
CHAPTER 28
Manila Only a Day Away
Monday morning found Osa in the galley fixing breakfast. She was in a cheerful mood today, although tired from a wonderful night in the arms of her young lover. Yes, she had felt guilty at first having sex with someone other than Harry. Knowing the circumstances of his being thrown overboard, she couldn’t allow her mind to dwell on the horrible incident, nor to continue to hope that Harry, even uncle Karl, could have survived the fall and survived the storm that had struck them. In fact, thoughts
of Harry had been all but driven away last night. No longer did she allow her thoughts to stray back to Shanghai and those nasty films she and Harry had seen for now her mind blossomed anew with creative ideas to please her new lover.
And any thought of Bert Kilgrew was ignored. He was a vile man. She had shown him she was a woman to be reckoned with, one who could protect herself from trash like him. She determined to ignore him when he came through the line.
The crew had lined up waiting for the serving line doors to be raised. Now open they started through the line with their usual chatter and banter. Osa had outdone herself again: sausages, bacon, French toast, warm syrup, scrambled eggs, hot cereal, cold milk, cold orange juice, coffee, tea and fresh glazed buns. She perked up when she saw Sigmund. She made sure he had an extra helping of eggs. He needed his energy. Sigmund reddened as she served him, and winked.
Following close behind him were Alward and Ace. She served them in silence. Alward paid scant attention to her. What had happened, was over. He had more important things to think about than her and Bert. Although it bothered him that she had been able to get her hands on a damned gun!
He and Ace settled in across the dining area away from the rest of the crew. Sigmund sat at the next table with his back to them, yet able to see Osa. Last night was fabulous. No! It was absolutely fantastic! Never in his wildest fantasies about making love to Osa, had he ever thought they would actually have sex— nor have made love the way they had last night.
Alward tapped Sigmund on his shoulder interrupting his pleasant thoughts. “I want you on watch now,” he said. “We’re getting into tricky waters the closer we get to the Philippine Islands.”
Sigmund acknowledged, finished eating, dumped his dirty dishes and, with one last look at Osa, headed topside.
Doyle was on watch up on the bridge. There was an exchange of information, standing orders, a reading of the dials and gauges, and then Sigmund took command of the vessel. Dirk Pedersen served at the helm.
