The Run-Down Branch

The ship drifted at sea all night.

At dawn, a gray-green coastline appeared. The dock was cobbled together from planks and iron pilings, jutting crookedly into the water. Three Patrol Boats were moored there, most of their white paint peeling away to expose rust-speckled iron beneath. A fishing net had tangled around the stern propeller of one boat. Soaked black, it hung from the blades like a clump of rotting weed.

Two two-story buildings stood onshore, their gray-white walls cracked by the sea wind. Several second-floor windows had broken panes boarded over with wood. The military flag on the roof snapped in the morning breeze. The seagull emblem on its blue field had faded in the sun, and its edges had frayed. Several stretches of the perimeter wall were missing, the gaps hastily patched with wire mesh and wooden stakes.

Gravel covered the yard, worn uneven underfoot. Several rusty iron drums lay on their sides beside the ashes of a dead campfire.

Jack jumped off the ship, his boots crunching on the gravel. Colin followed him. His legs were still weak, and he stumbled on the slick stones, catching the gunwale to steady himself.

No one came to stop them.

A folding table stood in the middle of the yard, where three marines sat playing cards. An oilcloth covered the table, cards scattered across it. The ashtray was stuffed with cigarette butts, several of which had fallen onto the table. At least a dozen more butts and several empty bottles littered the ground.

None of the three card players even looked up. One, a man with a scarred face, threw down a card and muttered something. A bald man cupped his cards in his palm, his mouth twisted as he eyed the hand across from him. The youngest, barely in his twenties, had a cigarette in his mouth and his eyes narrowed to slits.

Jack walked past them, his boots crunching steadily over the gravel. The bald man finally raised his eyes. His gaze moved from his cards to Jack, then from Jack to Colin. It lingered on Colin's tattered navy uniform before he went back to his hand.

The scar-faced man played a card and said offhandedly, "New here? Mess hall's in the back. Go find yourself something to eat."

Then he lowered his head to his cards again.

No one asked Jack where he had come from. No one looked at the blood still seeping through the bandage on his arm.

Colin followed Jack with his head down, afraid to look at the three marines. He knew what kind of men they were: marines of the 16th Branch, in league with the Mafia. When he had been caught stealing military rations, these were the men who had handed him over. He remembered every detail of that night: being dragged out of the barracks, the fists and boots striking him, someone laughing, someone counting the few uneaten ration biscuits in his pocket.

Only then did the bald card player properly look up at Colin. "Colin? Weren't you taken away?"

Colin's shoulders trembled. His lips moved, and his voice came out faint. "I escaped on the way. When they grabbed me, I ran in the confusion."

The bald man grunted and went back to his cards without asking anything else. The scar-faced man clicked his tongue. "Lucky bastard."

Jack kept walking.

The armory stood at the far end of the yard, a separate sheet-metal building with its door ajar. A musty smell mixed with the stale scent of gunpowder seeped through the gap. A large padlock hung from the door, unfastened and merely resting on the hasp. It clanged whenever the wind blew.

Jack glanced at the armory and walked on.

The branch commander's office on the second floor was closed. A faded notice was pasted to the door, its paper yellow and brittle, its corners curled, its writing blurred beyond reading. The brass handle was coated in dark green tarnish.

Jack knocked. No answer.

He knocked three more times. Still no answer.

He pushed the door open and went in.

The office was small, perhaps fifteen square meters. A desk by the window was piled with documents, ledgers, and assorted clutter. A metal cabinet stood against the wall, its door half open and its shelves stuffed with yellowed papers. A navy flag hung on the wall. Dust coated its blue fabric, with a thick layer of gray-white powder gathered in its folds.

Bastian sat behind the desk.

He was in his forties and obese, his belly straining the buttons of his uniform. His collar hung open, exposing a greasy neck beaded with sweat. His thinning hair was parted to one side and plastered to his scalp. His fingers were short and thick, grime lodged beneath his nails. He held a fountain pen in his right hand and pressed his left against a black-bound ledger.

Bastian did not look up when Jack entered. His pen moved across the ledger, scrawling something. Cigar stubs filled the ashtray on the desk, and ash lay scattered among the documents.

Jack stood before the desk and waited three seconds.

Bastian finally raised his head and took in Jack's seven-foot-six frame. His expression shifted from indifference to confusion, then from confusion to wariness.

"Who are you?" Bastian asked in a deep, smoke-roughened voice.

Jack said nothing.

Bastian's gaze fell on Jack's hands. They were enormous, hanging at his sides, with knuckles thick as iron bars. His eyes traveled upward over Jack's arms, the blood beneath the bandage, and the shoulder seam split open on his old coat. He tapped the desk twice.

"The 16th Branch doesn't take people of unknown origin." His tone was flat, but every word was a refusal. He tilted his head, looked Jack up and down, then waved a hand as though shooing a fly. "Leave."

Then he lowered his head to the ledger again. His pen scratched across the paper.

Jack did not leave.

He stood motionless. Light streamed through the office window, casting his shadow across the desk. It covered the line Bastian was writing.

Bastian's pen stopped. He looked up, irritation now in his eyes. "I said we're not taking you."

Jack spoke. His voice was quiet, but every word was clear.

"Article Seven of the Navy Recruitment Regulations. Anyone at least sixteen years old, with no criminal record and in good health, has the right to apply to join the navy. A branch may not refuse without valid grounds."

Bastian's hand froze. His pen hovered over the page, ink bleeding into a small black spot.

He stared at Jack, Jack's expressionless face reflected in his pupils. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. A young man who looked not yet twenty could not possibly recite the Navy Recruitment Regulations from memory. Unless he had looked them up and made a point of memorizing them. Why would someone who had done that come to a decrepit branch that had not put to sea in three years?

Bastian did not know. But he knew one thing: he could not afford to cross this man. Judging by his size alone, this man had to be strong, and Bastian had no idea who stood behind Jack.

"You..." Bastian cleared his throat, set down his pen, and leaned forward. He tapped the desk twice, then twice more. "You want to enlist?"

Jack nodded.

Bastian's fingers went still. He looked into Jack's eyes. There was nothing in them—no longing, no anger, no plea. Only absolute, emotionless calm.

He did not want to take Jack. But he could not refuse. If he did, this man might not let the matter drop.

"Fine." Bastian pulled a blank appointment order from a drawer, picked up his pen, and began to write. His handwriting was a hurried scrawl. He did not ask for a name, filling in "New Recruit" himself. Rank: Corporal. Duty: none. He stopped writing and looked up at Jack.

"What do you want?"

"A uniform. A patrol boat. Four men."

Bastian's mouth twitched. He added a few strokes to the order, then pushed the paper to the edge of the desk. "The boat's at the dock. The oldest one. Pick your own men. Don't blame me if nobody goes with you."

Jack picked up the appointment order. The writing was crooked. The rank field read "Corporal," with the pay grade of junior noncommissioned officer. The patrol boat field read "16th Branch, No. 03." The field for four men was blank.

Jack folded the order and slipped it into his pocket.

Bastian watched him. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he swallowed it. He lowered his head to the ledger again. His pen scratched across the paper much faster than before.

Jack turned toward the door. He paused for half a step at the threshold without looking back.

The door closed.

Bastian's pen drew a long streak of ink across the page, from the end of the line to the edge. He raised his head and stared at the closed door, his face blank. He tapped the desk twice, stopped, then tapped it twice again.

Outside the office, the corridor was empty. Colin was leaning against the wall. When he saw Jack emerge, he straightened. He looked at Jack's hands. Jack was carrying nothing, but his pocket bulged.

Jack pulled out the appointment order and handed it to him. Colin took one look, and his eyes widened.

"Corporal? A junior NCO?"

Jack did not answer. He headed downstairs, his boots thudding against the wooden steps. Colin followed, clutching the order so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The card game in the yard was still going. The scar-faced man had won the round and was collecting his money while the bald man cursed and dug into his pockets. They glanced at Jack as he came out of the building, then turned back to the table.

Jack tore the Corporal's armband from the appointment order, rolled it up, and put it in his pocket. He walked toward the dock at a steady pace, his boots crunching evenly over the gravel.

Colin followed him, looking back every few steps as though checking that no one was coming after them.

Patrol Boat No. 03 was moored on the outside of the dock. It was in worse shape than the other two. Almost all its white paint was gone, exposing the dark gray iron beneath. A crack in the hull had been patched with sheet metal held by more than a dozen rivets. Junk lay piled on the deck: fishing nets, empty barrels, broken ropes. One pane of the wheelhouse window was shattered and covered with plastic sheeting that snapped in the wind.

Jack jumped aboard. The deck sagged slightly beneath him with a dull creak. He went to the stern to inspect the engine. Dust coated the engine cover. He wiped a finger across it, revealing rust underneath. He opened the cover. Most of the parts inside were rusted, but several key components still gleamed with bare metal.

He closed the engine cover, stood, and looked out to sea. Morning light spread across the water, golden flecks dancing on the waves. A cargo ship passed in the distance, riding low in the water, its deck covered by a black tarp.

Jack turned away, jumped off the boat, and headed back toward the yard. Colin followed, the appointment order creased from his grip.

"Colin."

"Here." Colin's voice was quiet but clear.

"Find me three men. Men who can move, can fight, and want the job. If you can't, that's fine."

Colin paused in surprise, then nodded and ran toward the barracks.

Jack stood in the yard and pulled the Corporal's armband from his pocket. He glanced at it. White letters on blue read "Corporal," printed slightly crooked near the edge.

He rolled it up and put it back in his pocket.

A navy Corporal. A junior noncommissioned officer.

It was his first legal identity.