Hedgehog (somehedgehog) wrote in spam_literature,

Hebrew skate biblical

Hey everyone - thanks to zia_nattora's recent contribution, I feel a renewed enthusiasm for spam literature.  Here's a few seeds, if anyone's interested:

Indias ramayana soldierz
cavalry six unveiling
serial killers time director

And here's my humble offering.  Please note that I am probably the last person on earth that should be writing about Hebrew or WWII naval officers.  If I screw something up, please forgive me.

"I think the brass is just as clueless as the next sailor," said Golding, nursing his coffee, "but even they're not dumb enough to send us on some snipe hunt.  I bet you think Hitler's building armies of golems and zombie Dobermans, too."
"Don't be so smart," said Chauncy.  "Adolf's been digging around for weird occult BS for years.  Everyone knows that."
"The man is crazy.  He's an insane genocidal despot bent on world conquest.  What you do think he's going to do in his spare time, play bridge?"
"They sent us out here to find something, Golding.  There's no submarines from here to the Falklands, and you know it."
"Look, I agree with you," said Golding.  "It's fishy, no pun intended.  But I think you've all been taking those Action Comix a little too seriously.  Read a book or something, for fuck's sake." 
Chauncy reddened and looked like he was brewing up a particularly biting retort, but never got the chance.  The stuttering of the ship's bell rang through the mess.  Eight bells.  Middle watch was up.

"Well," said Golding, pushing back from the table, "I'll let you boys get back to hiding under your bunk.  I'll be in the nav shack."
"You're a jackass, Golding," said Chauncy, smirking.  Golding smirked back and chucked a balled up napkin at his head.  Taunting was the standard mode of interaction among the junior officers; all in good fun.

Golding settled into the nav shack, started in on updating the logbook.  His superior hadn't said anything about altering course , so no need to go over the charts just yet.  The watch dragged, as midnight watches tend to; the ship was quiet save for the steady thrum of the engines.  Golding yawned, re-alphabetized the logbooks, shuffled his feet.  Bored.  Six bells rang out - three AM.  Another hour to go.

It was then, staring at the SONAR screen, in the close quiet of a ship at sea, so far from land that the sky seems to be more stars than darkness, that Golding saw it.  A blip on the screen - nothing to a casual observer, but highly irregular to Golding's eyes. 

"Sir?" said Golding, leaning close to the tiny screen.  There it was again.  He looked over his shoulder at his superior.

The lieutenant looked puzzled.  "That can't be right. Something must be wrong with the SONAR array.  Go take a look; I'll send an engineering officer up to help."

Golding saluted and dashed up the companionway, making his way amidships.  The massive cylinders of the array were barely illuminated by the yellowish running lights of the deck.  Golding walked around the array, looking for damage.  "I don't understand," he said, to no one in particular. The deck shivered under his feet - the wind was cold.  "It looks fine.  How..."

There was a noise.  It was something like Golding had heard once before, when he was stationed in the arctic and sometimes watched as icebergs calved from the glacier with an ominous rumbling roar, before disappearing into the water with an explosive splash.  But this sound was different - deeper, more terrible, it clawed at his gut and churned a dark, primordial fearfulness he could not define.  The roar seemed to go on forever, and as Golding turned to look at the black night-water of the sea, he did so slowly, deliberately.

It loomed over him, the sickly glare of the decklights glinting on its pale, sea-slicked flesh.  It was so tall - taller than the highest radio mast of the deck, and on the flat plane of its body was a pale shadow or mockery of a face, a gaping hole of a mouth and soft indentations where the eyes should have been.  Its cartilaginous wings spread, broad and terrible, blotting out the stars.

Golding stared.  He did not scream.  He thought of Tennyson's Kraken, of the flesh-eating Leviathan of the Greeks, never satiated by offerings of virgin flesh, of gargantuan monsters of Marvel Comics and Melville, of rubbery creatures from Saturday afternoon serials that haunted the back of his closet as a child.

He thought of Yonah, and the Whale.

The ship swayed sickeningly.  Huge green water swells rolled over the deck; men screamed and clung to to the rails. Golding stood, as if rooted by some unseen force.  Almost unbidden, the old words came to his lips, though it had been long since he spoke them...

"Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Ehad..."

The decks tilted, and sailors tumbled into the roiling sea as easy as falling leaves.  Golding fell , but clinging to the gunwale, he continued to speak, in a calm low tone:

"Hear, O Israel, the Lord is God..."

The metal gunwale was cold and slick.  His fingers trembled and slipped their grasp.  The water below was dark and shining.

"The Lord is One."

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