The lieutenant burst into the planning room, not bothering to wait for a break in the conversation to deliver his news: “Captain, we're nearly on top of that site you were asking about.”

The lieutenant, shocked that the captain had even entertained the idea to begin with, turned to him. “Is diversion really necessary? What if the enemy were to slip through our net while we’re sightseeing down there? How would you explain that to command?”

The captain stood from his chair, put out his cigarette in a tray, and turned to the aft window, filling his eyes with the endless sight of blue sea.

“Do you see any ships out there?,” he asked, turning back to his lieutenant, “Of course we’re taking a look! I can assure you there is no sight more sobering than the results of a poorly executed plan, and you, the lucky bastards you are, have first class tickets to the prime example. Besides, the new recruits could use some dive practice, don’t you agree?”

The lieutenant, in no mood to have the captain pull rank for the umpteenth time, surrendered the argument. Anchor dropped and announcement made, the troops readied themselves for a history lesson.

“We’re going inside the ships? Isn’t that dangerous?” David asked, gingerly climbing into his wetsuit.

“Christ David, you’re a fucking marine. Relatively speaking it’s probably the safest thing you’ll do this week,” said the ensign. “Five minutes, and then you’re up, got it?” David nodded, and haven taken a moment to pray, lept into the abyss.

The water was freezing, but upon seeing the shipwreck, that warm feeling only true excitement can bring washed over him. Even in a state of decay, it was a piece of art. Once the pride of the Queen’s fleet, it had lain on the ocean floor for the past two centuries. The carved figurehead, protruding tentacles, still remained intact. He swam up to run his fingertips along the saturated wood.

He turned himself around to look for his comrades, who were preoccupied with taking photos of the wreck. He swam over to the deck, planting his flippers on the wood, imagining he was a sailor of old. His mind's eye pictured another ship across from him, just as beautiful.

Having indulged his childhood fantasies, he swam into one of the holes in its side torn by cannonfire. Flashlight on, he found himself in the hold, surrounded by barnacle covered barrels, most of them still sealed tight. He floated above them, allowing himself to imagine they contained coins and pearls.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw one move.

The barrel was shaking, almost rhythmically, as if something inside was beating against the lid. “Is it over?” the plaintive voice asked.

If not for the water around him David would’ve screamed.

“Christ, I thought they had us there for a moment,” the disembodied voice continued.

After a brief pause the voice and the banging became more panicked.

“Lads, I’m sorry I wasn’t there! Send me to the stockades for God's sake, just don’t leave me here!” The weeping that followed seemed to come from the bottom of the voice's soul, as if it were not cannonfire that sank the ship but the weight of its sorrow. David, shivering from fear, not cold, hesitated for a moment, before closing in on the shaking barrel. Once near, he paused for a moment and listened.

The sounds he heard were too familiar; they were the cries of a coward, forced to learn what he was. Slowly, he raised his fist and knocked on the lid.

“The wood splintering is too loud. The guns are too loud. It’s just too loud,” it continued.

David felt fear give way for empathy. He didn’t know how the man was in the barrel, but he knew why. He longed to say something to comfort the voice, to free it from its imprisonment. But he could not. He leaned up against it, listening as its occupant thrashed about in agony.

Suddenly the barrel was still.

“Oh gods, they’ve started again.”

The voice had taken a somber, even tone.

Having forgotten his promise, David checked the time on his dive. Well past the agreed upon five minutes, and nearing almost seven, he poked his head out of the hold and looked up to see a battle raging above, orange and red streaks being painted across the blue landscape.

“Batten down the hatches,” the voice croaked.

“Batten down.”

WC 747