By Bill Wellman

The first of the four to cross the brow of the Sans Souci was the boy. Tall for his fourteen years, he stood five inches above the petty officer guarding the way. The boy paused not a moment to ponder, but instead turned his gawky young frame taut at attention to the Terentrian flag, lying slack in the summer evening calm from the pole at the stern. After a mere second, he pivoted to address the Officer of The Deck. "Request permission to come aboard, Sir."

"Come aboard," replied Ensign Gravisse, dressed in the Service Dress Blue of the Terentrian Navy, spyglass tucked neatly under his left arm. Ensign Gravisse, the new Communications Officer, was the sharpest watch officer on the large cruiser Sans Souci. Like every graduate of the Academie Navale, he had spent two years at sea between his three years of formal schooling. The first year was spent as a seaman and fireman, scraping paint and cleaning bilges. The second year was spent as a midshipman, learning the duties of an officer afloat. Ensign Gravisse had served the second year afloat on the Sans Souci, under the tutelage of the previous First Officer, Commander Lavigne, and under the watchful eye of Captain Giroux. When he had graduated, he had been assigned to the Sans Souci--the mark of respect, being requested by the ship on which one had trained. Most young officers moved on to a ship where their errors were unknown. Ensign Gravisse had the honor of returning, and even of drawing quarterdeck watch this night.

The teenager gave the slightest nod, faced forward and strode casually yet purposefully to the center of the quarterdeck, where he naturally turned to face the brow and struck a pose that was, while unquestionably relaxed, a perfect posture of attention.

"Damn, " whispered Seaman Poupon, Messenger of the Watch. The petty officer nodded almost imperceptibly. This kid was a natural born leader. Next month he would enter the Academie Navale, two years early. No surprise.

No time to dwell on the thought, either, because the First Officer followed the young man up the gangway. He pivoted, saluted the flag, and turned to the Officer of the Deck. "I report my return aboard," he said, mutually saluting the young officer.

"Very well," reported Ensign Gravisse. Representing the Captain, this was his one chance to respond to the First Officer with 'Very well.' He silently awaited the inevitable following command.

"Report," said the First Officer tersely.

"Plant at cold iron, services from the pier. Winds are light from the Southeast, seas are calm. All Departments report secure. The Commanding Officer is aboard, awaiting your family in his cabin."

"Very well, carry on," replied the First Officer, moving to stand at attention beside his son.

Another officer approached the gangway, wearing a solid two-inch stripe of gold at the end of each sleeve. His chest bore the ribbons of a lifetime of service, including four years at sea in the Great War. He was a couple of inches shorter than the First Officer, although his flawless posture tended to conceal that. Most striking was the patch covering his right eye beneath his admiral's cover. The single blue-grey eye remaining was hard as steel, yet carrying a warmth unusual for a military man.

Seaman Poupon struck the gong at the quarterdeck twice in close succession, then paused; he repeated the action three times. Six gongs.

The Petty Officer of the Watch announced, "Battle Force, arriving." A Boatswain's Mate piped the Rear Admiral aboard. After saluting the flag and requesting permission to board, the Rear Admiral stepped to the quarterdeck, where Captain Giroux had stepped out to greet him. The two exchanged salutes, then took their place in line on the quarterdeck, Captain Giroux standing between his First Officer and the visiting admiral.

One final visitor approached the brow. Strong and vital for an eighty-year-old, he walked up the gangway alone. Not a soul ventured forward to offer a hand; none would be needed, and the offer would have been an insult. The gentleman bore the ruddy tan of hard work in the sun. If his face were lined as if it were leather, it still bore the healthy glow of fit, trim, and driven man.

Eight gongs rang out clearly. The Bosns Mate piped the guest aboard, and the Petty Officer of the Watch announced, "Admiral, Terentrian Navy, retired, arriving."

Standing tall in his dinner jacket, the guest requested permission to come aboard. Saluting sharply, Ensign Gravisse replied, "Come aboard, Admiral Delacroix."

Two hundred feet away on the pier, the quartermaster chief silently snapped the shutter of a Zeiss camera with telephoto lens. Captured on film, with the city of Colnille resplendent in the background, were four generations of the Delacroix family on the quarterdeck of Sans Souci. As it was to turn out, that famous shot would be the last one of all four of them together.

Captain Giroux saluted Admiral Delacroix, then warmly shook his hand. "Admiral, it's good to have you aboard again."

The old admiral nodded slightly. "There could be nothing to make me happier than this chance to visit your wardroom, Captain. Thank you for extending the invitation." Glancing to either side of the Captain, he added, "It's not as if you lack for the company of the Delacroix family."

"I learned young how to deal with a Delacroix, Sir," said Captain Giroux, grinning broadly. Twenty-seven years before, Captain Giroux had reported aboard the old Hyrcanie as a first-class midshipman. While other midshipmen had learned to conn a ship on nimble and forgiving destroyers or slow and sedate battleships, he had learned his craft on the fast cruiser Hyrcanie, as swift and unpredictable as an unbroken Arabian steed.

"You learned more slowly how to deal with a Fermat, I recall," replied Admiral Delacroix. "I'm hungry, Captain Giroux. Could you find a piece of cheese and some bread for an old man, perchance?"

"Of course, Admiral. Perhaps better. Folks, this way." Captain Giroux gestured to the hatch leading from the quarterdeck, just as Lieutenant Commander Rene Delacroix III stepped forward to open the watertight fitting for the party. The hatch swung open to reveal a passageway with deck brighter than a mirror.

Led by the Captain, they stepped through. The young First Officer's son, next to last, was the only one who looked around at the gleaming brass and pristine steel. The others knew the drill: the path that important visitors would take was polished for hours, until every fixture shone. Sans Souci had done it right, again. That was expected. It was none the less impressive, but the career officers knew that it was best to consider the immaculate condition routine.

The senior ensign, Ensign Paul Murat, stood ready at the door to the wardroom. Two seconds before the Captain reached the door, he opened it before him and declared, "Gentlemen, the Admiral."

The officers rose from their places at the table. The wardroom silver and fine china and crystal sparkled on the white linen tablecloth atop the long mahogany table. Tonight they would use the presentation silver that the ship received on commissioning, a two-centuries-old set received from the German Weimar Republic that Frederick the Great had used at his palace, also named Sans Souci. Although most of the young officers could live without the attention to attire and protocol demanded at special dinners, everybody agreed that the trouble of dressing for dinner was outweighed by the opportunity to meet two of the legends of the Terentrian Navy. Most of the Department Heads had trained under Admiral Delacroix their first years at the Academie Navale, and several officers had served with his son, Rear Admiral Delacroix, at one time or another. The stories of those familiar with one or the other just made the evening more exciting.

The party entered the wardroom, and Captain Giroux took his place at the head of the table. The honored guests sat beside him, as dictated by protocol; Ensign Murat took his place at the far end of the table. The senior ensign was the caterer of the wardroom, responsible for all aspects of the operation of the mess. This included food quality, and dictated his assigned seat--there was a clear line of fire should Captain wish to hurl an unacceptable entree down the table into the face of the responsible officer. Of course, that never happened on Sans Souci--but like most traditions, its roots were firmly based in factual history.

"Chaplain?" asked the Captain, his question actually an order to say grace. After a brief blessing, the wardroom sat down to dinner. Before them, to start the meal, were exactly three slices of garden-fresh tomato on a small bed of greens with a light vinaigrette dressing.

Captain Giroux took a first mouthful and nodded approval to Ensign Murat. "Well done, Paul," said the Captain. "So now, as our senior ensign, would you be kind enough to start our dinner conversation with a bit of humor?"

The junior officers around the table smirked. By tradition, the wardroom dinners were never good enough. If the food were perfect and the service were perfect--as it was--the Captain could always criticize the ensign's choice of humor. Asking for the joke was always good for a laugh, though, whether the choice were good or terrible.

"Of course, Sir," said Ensign Murat. "In honor of the Navy in the times of our most honored guest, have you heard the one about the young Terentrian ensign who went ashore and met a lass in Cobh?"

Both Captain Giroux and the old admiral struggled to contain an outburst of laughter, while Rear Admiral Delacroix, straight-faced, replied, "In point of fact, Ensign, I believe that my father carried that young man back to his ship a few years ago. No need to continue with the story. I'm sure that your reference to my father's storied past is quite honor enough."

Ensign Murat turned beet-red, while the rest of the wardroom chortled approval and commented to each other about the ensign's impropriety. Everybody knew the story, but any thought that it was based in fact had been lost long before. Ensign Murat had managed to dredge up the honored guest's embarrassing youthful escapades when trying to make pleasant conversation, and that would be recorded in the Wardroom Log for posterity. Another excellent point of the evening. They were having fun.

The stewards removed the salad plates from each diner, replacing them with another plate bearing three small crab cakes with remoulade sauce and a sprig of parsley for garnish. At the same time, the Chief Steward brought an open bottle of white wine cloaked with a scarlet cloth to the head of the table. Captain Giroux made a slight gesture, and the steward stepped over to Admiral Delacroix and poured him a small portion to taste. The old man studied it, swirled it once, and took a sip. His eyes lit up. "Most impressive, Captain. May I ask?"

Captain Giroux responded, not to Admiral Delacroix, but to the far end of the table: "Ensign Murat! How could you be so lucky as to choose a wine to please such a discriminating palate?" "Pure luck, Sir," responded the ensign. "I chose a Delacroix Vineyards Muscadet 1933--even a fool can have a good day."

Above the ensuing laughter, Rear Admiral Delacroix responded, "And more surprising that, even an ensign can have a good day. Well done." A burst of applause followed the comment. "And, I understand, in recorded history, even a midshipman can have a good day. Tell me, Captain Giroux, how did you come to parade the Hyrcanie before the King and Queen in the 1911 Review?"

For once the good Captain was caught in silence. Admiral Delacroix didn't miss the moment, though. "He did it through hard work, son. I never saw a man work harder to learn his craft."

Captain Giroux's embarrassment turned to a faint smile. "You gave me every chance to improve my skills, Admiral."

"Nonsense, Captain," said the old man. "You simply applied yourself diligently to polish the abilities with which you were born."

"Indeed true," broke in Rear Admiral Delacroix. "Captain, exactly what were my father's words upon observing you on your first watch?"

"My admiral, the words were, and I quote, `Son, I have never seen a midshipman with more potential to improve his skill as a watch officer than yourself. Our standard watch rotation is inadequate. You shall stand double duty to realize your potential.'"

The wardroom howled. Double duty was the worst punishment a midshipman could receive. Standing bridge watch 12 out of 24 hours was a tremendous strain on anybody's system, and a terrible blow to the self-esteem of a first-class midshipman. To realize that their captain, reputed to be one of the finest bridge officers in the fleet, had started his career on double duty was too good to be true.

As the roar subsided, Admiral Delacroix broke in. "Yes, I did assign you double duty. But I never had to yell at you or reprimand you on the bridge, and you grew to be the best. In your last month, when we paraded for the Queen, I wanted you conning the ship. Every other ship had the First Officer conning and the captain in his chair on the bridge. I want you to know--" he turned from the captain to speak to his wardroom--" that I was out on the port bridge wing with every officer in my crew, saluting to the King and Queen. We had the chiefs running the plant, and we had Captain Giroux running the first-class midshipmen on the bridge. We were perfectly in formation, and I still remember the look on the King's face when he realized that none of us were running the watch. The channel was only about 200 feet wide, and the capital ships were only a hundred yards apart at twelve knots. Besides the ceremony, any mistake was crucial. Gentlemen, that was a moment. I was more proud of your captain than I can describe."

Seizing the moment, from the far end of the table Ensign Murat made a toast. "Gentlemen, the Captain!" he proclaimed.

"THE CAPTAIN!" resounded the wardroom, rising from their seats in unison and draining their glasses. Young M. Delacroix was a tad slow to pick up the idea, but within two seconds of the officers he, too, had drained his glass. Captain Giroux , seated, of course, simply nodded his head slightly to acknowledge the compliment. It was, after all, good to be the captain.

The stewards moved in immediately to charge the glasses. The First Officer took the moment to get in a word. "Admiral Delacroix, I understand that you played a role in the design of our 1919 Programme. Was the Sans Souci your idea?"

The old man tipped back an inch in his chair, raising his eyes slightly. "Yes and no, I suppose," he said. "I wanted a fast, spirited fleet of major combatants. But my ideas were slightly different."

"How so?" replied his son, Rear Admiral Delacroix. The wardroom tilted a fraction of an inch closer to hear, even as the stewards slipped away the plates for the crab cakes remoulade and replaced them with the entree.

The old man paused to reflect. "Two ways in particular. First, picturing Sans Souci as a capital ship, I included torpedo protection far superior to that included in production. Second, I envisioned the entire Terentrian battle line as possessing substantial anti-aircraft capability that was simply removed from the final design."

From the far end of the table came a young voice. "But, Admiral, that was 1920! Surely you didn't see aircraft as a threat?"

Captain Giroux fielded the question. "Paul, nobody else saw aircraft as a threat, but Admiral Delacroix did. His original design--the "Emeraude"--was optimized for night fighting and anti-aircraft duty. The guns were 9.2 inch, not 8 inch, to provide a bit more impact against large ships in close combat. She was built to take torpedoes without flinching. Her armor was lighter than Sans Souci's, but she would have been a very dangerous foe in a close-quarters night action."

"But the design board changed things for a reason, Captain Giroux," said Admiral Delacroix. "Your ship has the armor to fight at long range and devastate any ship less than a battleship. Your heavy eight-inch rounds can penetrate over three inches of armor at extreme range. You also got a couple more knots of speed than the Emeraude would have offered. In a close night battle, I'd choose Emeraude, but in a daylight hunt for a cruiser Sans Souci is the better ship."

"Indeed!" cried the young man at the end of the table. "Gentlemen, the Sans Souci!"

"The SANS SOUCI!" replied the wardroom, downing another glass of muscadet. Young M. Delacroix was prompter with his drink this time, although he was a bit woozy upon its completion. The stewards strode out rapidly to recharge the glasses. This was fun for everyone.

"Well spoken, Paul," said Captain Giroux. "And what, pray tell, have you chosen for our meal tonight?" He could see the dish before him, but he chose to allow the ensign to announce his design.

"For your pleasure, Sir, and that of our honored guests," said Ensign Murat, "tonight we shall dine upon Terentrian Matelote of Eel with fresh string beans and saffron rice."

Murmurs of approval arose from the wardroom. "Perhaps that shall suffice. Admiral Delacroix, does the bill of fare meet your approval?"

The elder Delacroix merely smiled. "Captain Giroux, we all know that it does. Let us dine as kings and speak of glories past."

The younger officers paused not a moment before commencing to devour the almost gelatinous delicacy before them. Captain Giroux, with the foresight to start with a smaller bite and the courage born of his two glasses of wine, inquired of his superior, "Rear Admiral Delacroix, perhaps tonight you could speak of your battle on LaFleur?"

Rear Admiral Delacroix looked up abruptly, but his father caught his eye. From across the table Admiral Delacroix gave a slight nod, reciprocated by his son. "Very well, Captain Giroux," said Rear Admiral Delacroix. "It was a dark and stormy night. . ."

"The year was 1916. Jutland was yet to be fought, and the fate of Britain and Tarrantry depended upon our ability to defeat the U-boats. Depth charges were the latest weapon in our arsenal, but we had nothing but our senses, intuition and faith to determine where to drop them."

"I was on the very old destroyer LaFleur. It was one of the few ships I could command at such a junior rank. We were escorting a convoy from Halifax to Liverpool, when we came under attack by a group of U-boats."

"There were four escorts. I don't know who depth-bombed the sub, I only know that it emerged from the sea off our starboard bow. I ordered full right rudder, flank speed. The Germans were pouring out of the conning tower, racing to man the deck gun."

"LaFleur turned hard to starboard, heeling at least twenty degrees. The seas were tossing our bow into the air. At over twenty knots we impacted the sub, but our bow went into the air just before impact. Instead of piercing her hull, our bow came down upon her just forward of her gun. The gun was ruined; half the gun crew was crushed. The trouble was that our bow was stuck upon the sub's deck. A man waving a pistol--it must have been her captain--ordered the crew climbing out of the hull to safety to board our ship via the anchor and its chain."

"As you know, we no longer arm our men or prepare our ships for personal combat at sea. The Bosn of the Watch proclaimed `Stand by to repel boarders,' and our men not compelled by watch to stand by their stations raced to the bow, but there were no weapons for either side. The Germans knew their ship was doomed, and they were fighting for their lives. In extremis, we were doing the same."

"I called to the Officer of the Deck, `You have the conn! Save the ship!' I raced to the bow--but I took a moment to divert to my cabin off the bridge, grasping the only weapon at my disposal, my ceremonial sword."

"Charging down to the focsle, I found my men struggling against the Germans, armed with nothing more than a wrench. With a savage cry I lit into the enemy. Ancient though it was, my sword was the best weapon there. I struck down two unarmed Germans easily. Then I turned to see their captain."

"He was wearing a scruffy feldgrau cap, and he was drenched with oil and seawater, but he was the sole man there with a firearm. He swung his pistol toward my face, just as I desperately swung my sword at his neck."

"I guess that I closed my eyes before the moment of contact. Whatever I did, it saved my sight. Both my eyelids were peppered with the powder from the muzzle blast of the pistol. The bullet creased the right side of my skull at the eye socket. The bone fragments blinded my right eye. After I was struck I collapsed in agony and I was out of the fight."

"Lucky for me, my Chief Engineer had come to the main deck with a fire party. He had the right idea--blasting the men off our deck with a fire hose in the heavy seas. The Germans were literally swept from the deck, and their boat sank beneath us."

"As most of you know, the LaFleur was wrecked by her impact with the sub. I was rescued, along with all of my crew, by the British. We sailed into Liverpool without further incident, and in a few days I returned to Colnille. I retained my sight and my career; an eye was a small price to pay. By the courtesy of my crew and the British, I survived, and they thought to return to me my sword as well."

Murmurs of approval arose from the wardroom. Several had their mouths full of the delicious Terentrian Matelote of Eel, but all appreciated the chance to hear the legend firsthand. The story was so exciting that few had noticed the Flag Lieutenant slipping into the wardroom to whisper a word to Rear Admiral Delacroix.

The Rear Admiral, Commander of the Terentrian Battle Force, suddenly stood. "Gentlemen, excuse me. Captain Giroux, Lieutenant Commander Delacroix, your company, please. Something has come up."

The two senior officers of the large cruiser Sans Souci exited the wardroom with the admiral. Instead of going to the operations center or the bridge he chose to lead them to the afterdeck. The sun was setting across the island of Tarrantry, concealed by the superstructure of the ship. The landscape and the waters were colored by the hues of red in the sky.

"Gentlemen, we have a problem," said Rear Admiral Delacroix to Captain Giroux and his son. At moments like this, his eyepatch served only to focus the intensity. "The German battleship Deutschland has seized the Terentrian merchant ship Alouette on charges of carrying munitions. Alouette was carrying commercial machine tools to Barcelona--any allegation of her aiding or abetting the war effort in Spain are certainly contrived. Alouette is proceeding, under prize crew, toward Germany. Deutschland is in close company."

"Captain Giroux, our ships are mostly on summer holiday. I need you to intercept Deutschland and free the Alouette. Are you ready?"

Although the moment called for a serious response, the personality and confidence of Captain Giroux did not lend itself to such an answer. "Ready, Sir? Your fleet on summer leave is ready. The other capital ships are ready--merely give the word. Admiral Delacroix, this is the Sans Souci--we are beyond ready. We are straining at the bit. Admiral, release us to do our job."

Rear Admiral Rene Delacroix II regarded the men before him for a moment. Deutschland was a decade newer than Sans Souci, bearing eleven-inch rifles instead of the heavy eight-inch rifles of Sans Souci. But the Sans Souci was bigger, with a decent design balancing armor and speed. . .

The Admiral spoke. "Set sail immediately. Intercept the Alouette and the Deutschland. Take any action necessary to restore the freedom of our vessel."

"Aye-aye, Sir," responded Captain Giroux. Without a further word, the three marched deliberately back to the wardroom.

Without waiting for the protocol of a steward or a member opening the door, Lieutenant Commander Delacroix opened the door for the captain and the admiral. "Gentlemen," said Captain Giroux, striding in forcefully, "we shall not have a cheese course tonight. Our dinner is interrupted. Fire the plant; set sea and anchor detail. This is the moment for which we have trained. Gentlemen, we are going to war."

For the ship's company, superbly trained, this was not a shock. They rose from the table and moved away, all with a focus for their actions. For Rene Delacroix IV, this was beyond imagination. He sat silent in his chair as the wardroom moved to their stations. Admiral Delacroix, his face showing nothing but the twinge of regret that he could not be sailing himself, reached across the table and placed his gnarled hand upon the strong, tanned forearm of his great-grandson. "This is not our moment, Rene. We must go now." The boy nodded, composed himself for a second, and rose to depart with his great-grandfather.

Rear Admiral Delacroix and Captain Giroux left for the cabin, just off the bridge. The last of wardroom officers stepped out as well, leaving only the First Officer, his grandfather, and his son. "May I see you to the quarterdeck, Admiral Delacroix?" he asked, holding the door for the two of them.

The old admiral stopped beside his grandson. "No, please don't. You have much to do. We shall try to leave quietly. I have known this ship from her earliest design debates, and I was there for her launching and commissioning. I imagine that I can find my way."

"Yes, Sir." The door was still open, and the dinner was over, but the three just stood for a moment. From the pantry came muffled sounds of the stewards cleaning. From the other side of the bulkhead came the thumps and bangs of the deck force getting ready for sea. Inside the wardroom, those sounds were audible yet unnoticed. For three men, it was a pure moment of silence.

Finally the old admiral reached his hand to the shoulder of his grandson, offering a brief benediction. "Very well, Little Renny. I shall take your son home. Godspeed, Rene. Please fight my ship well."

"Thank you, Grandpapa," said the First Officer. "You have given us all this chance with your life's work. We will do as well tomorrow as we've done when we trained. No better. No worse. I'll act the way you and Papa taught me to act. I pray it will be enough."

"More than enough," said Admiral Delacroix, stepping out the door. The tall young boy followed him, glancing at his father as he passed. The right words escaped him, and he said nothing. A mixture of fear and apprehension crossed his face, until his father gave just the hint of a smile. Just that one look was enough to tell his son that all would be well. The boy returned the smile, then followed his father away.

Eight gongs sounded as Lieutenant Commander Delacroix started his way up the ladders to the bridge, signaling the departure of his grandfather. Two hours later, as he received readiness reports, he heard the six gongs marking his father's departure. When the Sans Souci cast off the last line shortly after midnight, the only souls visible on the pier were the young seamen handling the lines. There was no fanfare or well-wishing crowd, just the faint shadows of the quarter moon bidding the ship farewell.

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Last revised 11/07/2006 ... by RM Robinson

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