Bruno’s days were spent turning the wheel, bored and physically exhausted. At night he returned to his hovel, barely awake enough to eat thin gruel. In the day there was mead to ensure the serfs didn’t rebel.
But the mead wasn’t helping today. Bruno glared at the the serf master, upset he didn’t even know what or why this wheel turned.
One day when the serf master tried to whip them, Bruno reached out and caught the whip grabbing it and knocking the serf master out. He ran as far away as he could run.
Bruno heard in the east, a landowner was giving out pieces of property in return for part of the proceeds; he thought this would be a much better living — at least, he hoped.
The submarines of old stood out in the San Diego Harbor as Carla walked Bruno and Velma the dachshunds.
After tiring out both dogs, she paused to gaze at the submarines along the walkway. It didn’t appear as if any navy personnel had worked on them in over seventy-five-years.
The subs were relics of WWII, but Carla knew many men had died and been terrified for their lives in such submarines. The US had used them effectively ‘island hoping’ to help defeat the Japanese, after Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor. Of course, the bombs had sealed the deal.
Suddenly, the dachshunds began to bark and yip ferociously. They pulled on their leashes willing Carla, their Mom, to go home.
She gazed back at the submarines one last time and let out a frightened shriek. Upon the old submarine, a ghostly navy crew with 1940’s uniforms, walked atop the sub performing their duties. They stopped, noticing Carla, and turned to whistle at her as if she was some wartime doll for kicks.
When she blinked again, the apparitions were gone. Carla decided she needed something stronger in her coffee this morning. Maybe she’d forget the coffee part altogether.