Originally Posted 06/15/2026
“How old are you, kid?”
Olsen accepted the cigarette from Magruder and took a strong pull.
“Nineteen,” he lied.
Magruder smirked and cupped the cigarette against the wind screaming down the deck. The cargo ship rolled heavily under low, leaden skies. Mountains of green water marched past.
Their ship carried empty artillery shells headed back for refitting, but most of the convoy rode empty with nothing but sand ballast as they deadheaded home.
The two men were on the port rail, backs to the bulkhead, watching the water beyond their pedestal-mounted Lewis .30-caliber machine gun. Since leaving Saint-Nazaire, their lieutenant had kept the two of them on the machine gun until they were trained to handle the bigger three-, four-, and six-inch guns.
“I figured you for fifteen, maybe sixteen. Recruiter must have had his eyes closed when he signed you up.”
Olsen shrugged. He’d lied. A lot of men had lied so they could fight the Hun.
He’d left his father’s dusty ranch in West Texas for this. There would be no trench warfare for him. He’d heard about the mustard gas and the tanks and the withering machine gunfire from wounded soldiers who’d returned home.
Now that he’d tasted the high seas, Olsen was glad he had signed up with the Navy. Sure, there were days of boredom, long watches in the freezing North Atlantic, and waves taller than the ship, but there was something about the roll of the vessel beneath him and the endless horizon that spoke to his soul.
Suddenly, the ship’s alarm clanged.
Both men lunged for the Lewis. Magruder pulled the charging handle and swept the barrel across the waves.
Olsen strained against the rail, peering at the distant silhouettes of other ships in the convoy.
“You see anything?” Magruder shouted.
“Can’t see a damn thing.”
“You’ll know if a U-boat surfaces. Plenty of white water when they broach.”
“I figured the waves would keep them at bay.”
Magruder gave a short, hard laugh. “They’re hunters. They love this weather. On my last crossing, we had one come right up beside us. I could have spit in the cap’n’s eye. Our old man, he lays our cruiser so far over I thought the boiler was gonna give. Lost a man over the coaming.”
“They didn’t shoot at you?”
“Hell if I know. I was too busy hanging on.”
Olsen chuckled.
A flash and a dull boom rolled across the water to their rear. A ship in the convoy took a torpedo and went up in flames. Black smoke stained the sky as they steamed on, leaving the wounded ship behind. No one turned back. Not in this convoy. Not with Germans still prowling the Atlantic.
“Come on! Show yourselves, ya Hun bastards,” Magruder muttered, still hunched over the Lewis.
The alarm fell silent as they left the burning ship behind.
Magruder let go of the Lewis and spat over the rail. “Lousy Huns. Don’t even fight fair.”
Olsen kept his hands on the weapon, knuckles white. His heart hammered against his ribs.
“Don’t take it personal, kid,” Magruder said. “They hit the eastbound convoys harder, but an empty one still counts.”
Olsen wondered if the Hun chalked each sinking the way a pilot counted aerial victories.
Magruder lit his last cigarette of the day. After dark, there would be no smoking. The glowing cherry could be seen from a mile away, an easy target for a submarine running on the surface.
Hunched in their pea coats, they passed the cigarette but kept a watchful eye on the sea. “You’ll get your chance, kid. The trip back to France will be more eventful.”
Olsen nodded.
A strange mixture of fear and excitement welled in his chest. He was half a world away from his old man’s ranch, standing watch on a rolling merchantman with a machine gun and a handful of shells between him and the Hun.
Olsen should have been terrified.
Instead, he felt more alive than he ever had on his father’s ranch.
© 2026 Evan Graver