And the churning silence that followed, the land falling back as a hand once sent to save but whose grip has became lost; Fingers turning on themselves and rising to become a heat haze searching amongst the buildings lining the waterfront, reconstructing the undulating hum of the ship's engine in visual form.
It was then we realised he was missing.
Sitting along the deck, basking in the sun and this moment's fleeting freedom before orders would come. Strange men who seemed as part of a mythic tribe, as if this was all somehow routine to them. Were they locked into a silence anchoring its roots in the rehearsal of old practiced friendships, or was there an unspoken language at work here that only they knew?
The heat baked upon the flaked paint of the benches along the bow of the ship. We shifted our weight against it. At intervals large black domes rose from the wood paneled deck, offering no clue as to their purpose, behaving as sudden teenage boils.
None of us had seen him that morning. No one dared remember leaving his side the night before.
The metal of the ship felt misplaced and aggressive against the gentle blue of the sky, as if climbing into bed with a gun still holstered to its waist. From within its bowels a whistle suddenly shrieked piercing the air and jolting hundreds of men to their feet. I did the same as if I understood.
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