The submariners were down to their last one. Bessie. The others had drowned when the depth charges struck and flooded the pasture deck. Klaus had managed to drag Bessie out by her bit before they had to close off the bulkheads to staunch the seawater. Now they were limping back home, with British destroyers and spotter planes dogging their every move.
‘The men simply will not work without milk,’ said Armie to the Captain. ‘And Bessie cannot provide enough to sustain us for the journey home. Our stockpiles are dwindling.’
‘If they don’t work, we all die,’ said the Captain, though it hardly needed saying.
‘We must milk Bessie for all she’s worth, if we are to stand a chance.’
‘No,’ said the Captain sharply. ‘We will not subject such a noble creature to such barbaric practices.’
Klaus was at a loss. ‘Then what do we do Captain?’
The Captain breathed deep, as if to calm his nerves for what he’d say next. ‘We do not need more milk, Klaus. But less men.’
Klaus stared, slack jawed, as the gravity of the Captain’s words settled upon him.
‘Gather the men at the airlock,’ said the Captain. ‘And bring straws. We will draw lots. I will go first, to make it fair.’
When Klaus had gone, his face paled, the Captain turned to Bessie and stroked her nose. ‘I will not let them hurt you, my lovely cow.’
Paddy Dobson
20th October 2022