"When you were kids, you all admired the champion marble shooter,

the fastest runner, the big-league ball players and the toughest boxers.

Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser.

Americans play to win all the time."

- General George Patton

media:

"Anchors Aweigh" by Glenn Miller
blend by RachelS8766

Naval Air Station Pasco, Washington D.C.; July 10, 1941

The U.S.S. Reuben James had launched with little fanfare, drizzling rain dusting the shoulders of the Navy boys' dress uniforms as they assembled on the aft deck. Lieutenant Commander Edwards had said a few brief words, his voice barely audible above the bluster of the chilling autumn wind. The soldiers shivered in their sodden clothes – the wise ones had brought peacoats, but Clint was forced to stand motionless as the brisk air cut daggers through his dress blues.

"Gentlemen, tonight we embark on a mission not of pride, and some would not even say for our fine country. Tonight we embark on a mission to guard our allies, to protect all things the American people stand for: that of liberty, justice, and a future to look forward to! A future that doesn't wave under the flag of totalitarianism, but that of democracy!"

"The LC should be a journalist with this fancy talk." The soldier to Clint's left, Dan Sabin, cast him a wry smile and rolled his eyes skyward. Clint followed his gaze and saw the gas bag inflating above him, the off-white material slowly unfurling beneath its rigid structure and filling out the gaps between the light gundecks. From his vantage point Clint could scarcely make out the radio tower and aiming platforms cast high above his head, but soon the inflating balloon obscured them from his view.

"Yeah, he's quite the poet," Clint called back in a lull in Edwards' speech as the officer composed himself, pushing his barrel-shaped chest forward for another rousing spate of sentences.

"You, the young men of America, answered the call. You have dedicated yourself to the cause of freedom and the freedom of your fellow man. Let us unite in our aid of common good, and sail forth in haste!" Edwards roared above the screaming wind, and Clint reached up to make sure his hat was still on his head. What a day to set sail!

"Haste is right!" Sabin groused, running his hands up and down his arms. "You'd think we're off to plug up some Germans, not escort a few Limey ships."

"He makes them both sound very flattering." Clint shoved his hands in his pockets, desperately trying to bring feeling back into his frigid fingers.

By the time the LC had dismissed the soldiers Clint's hat was a soaked, misshapen lump sliding off of the side of his head. He gave the white fabric a few good wrings as the soldiers made a mass exodus to their quarters. Clint didn't pity the radiomen and the gunners who took to the ropes instead, casting baleful glances at the seamen who would retreat to the quiet and warmth of their quarters for the night.

"Glad I turned by nose up at that sort of work!" a seaman called from the crowd as boots pounded against the iron steps. The cluster of men descended below sea level into the mess hall, shoving their way past the tables and benches in the direction of the cheerily lit crew's quarters. The chatter reached a deafening level as sailors poured into the barracks, each yammering about one thing or another. A few young-looking boys had grins plastered across their faces, the mere prospect of setting off at sail enough to bring a twinkle to their eyes. A serious-faced bunch were discussing the lieutenant commander's speech as if it were an essay about Shakespeare – they looked like the ones who had gone to college, or had some semblance of an education before the war cut it short.

"Load of tosh, if you ask me," one man rolled his eyes as he peeled off his socks, each woolen undergarment draining enough water to fill a bathtub. Clint's toes were practically swimming. "All the bull about our country and our duty. Give me a Kraut or a Jap and I'll shoot him!"

"Can you believe it?" Clint's bunkmate, whose name he hadn't taken the time to learn, grinned down at him with eyes the size of saucers. He ran a hand over his stubbly beard, gazing off into the distance, a very scenic steel-gray wall. "We're off to England. Off with a cause, a purpose."

"Yeah, leave it to the English to need help carrying the stuff we're sending them!" Sabin strolled over in his soaked undershirt, which clung to his skin like a glove. His socks slapped against the floor like paddles with every step. "All the same, it'll be nice to see the good ol' United Kingdom. The National Gallery, Big Ben... Very scenic."

"C'mon, let's be honest!" Clint slugged him on the shoulder. "The only reason you want to go to London is because of all of the girls there. Besides, the Gallery's been emptied by now."

"Ah. Right. Think of all of those poor London girls, their sweethearts away sweating in the Sahara, when suddenly a handsome sailor boy swoops in with a smile and a rather spiffy-looking uniform..." Sabin grinned roguishly, planting his hands on his hips and winking with an exaggerated manner in the direction of some imaginary dame.

Clint swung down onto his bunk, propping his feet up on the bars. "Maybe handsome is a more subjective term overseas."

"You take that back, Barton!"

A scuffle ensued, with both sailors boxing each other around the ears a few times before they rolled to the side, panting and making amends. Clint wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a few bills exchange hands.

"We're off to London, boys!" a booming voice called from the other side of the barracks, bringing a rousing cheer from the sailors as they pulled on dry uniforms. A spate of applause rose from the rowdier of the group, and Sabin slapped his socks against the ground in approval.

A gust of cold wind billowed into the barracks as a rain-soaked radioman staggered in, clutching his hat to his head firmly. "The ballonets are filled! Any of you want to come out and see the launch?"

"I just got dry!" one man objected, followed by a wave of grousing.

"This is the Navy, landlubber! Did you think we'd be ballooning around the desert?"

With a chorus of grumbles spreading through the crew's quarters, the soldiers relished their last few moments of warmth before heading for the doors again, feeling the ever-so-slight lurching of the Reuben James beneath their feet as it rose to the air.

Clint ran for the railing immediately, swinging his head forward to see the buildings of Naval Air Station Pasco falling beneath his feet into a misty haze. Strong tethers of winding rope stretched up from the gloomy surface, unwinding quickly as the helium in the ballonets pulled the ship skyward. Thankfully the massive balloon shielded Clint and the other sailors from some of the rain, but a stinging burst of precipitation still barraged him from a variety of angles as the Reuben James rose higher and higher. Clint tightened his grip on the rail as the ship lurched, finally reaching the end of its tether to the Air Station.

Sabin and a cluster of other sailors joined Clint at the rail, leaning their heads backward to see if they could make out the sky control and airsearch towers. Edwards and the lot of the important Navy officials stood at the top of the Reuben James, commanding their less-thans in a visible hierarchy. A few gunners scampered about the ropes, folding away the cannons into their locked position for flight. The blast of a horn thundered above the clattering of chains, and Clint watched as the ropes fell away from the ship's hull, whipping back and forth in the mist before dangling out of sight.

A shout of excitement tore free from his throat as a battle cry rose from the deck of the ship, sailors waving their hats back and forth as the nose of the balloon angled itself eastward towards London, drifting forward into the night. Closing his eyes, Clint rested his hands on the rail and inhaled deeply, the briny scent of the ocean clearing his mind.

Free. I'm finally free.

Naturally, Clint was chosen for lookout duty on his first night at sea. He didn't really mind, because it gave him an excuse to learn the ways of the ropes days before the other seamen would. A tired-looking radioman by the name of Bridges gave Clint a quick rundown on the features of his undress uniform, which was worn at sea.

"Your jacket is the most important part of your getup when you're climbing the rigging," Bridges explained, gesturing to the black leather bomber that hung from his shoulders. Clint had received a similar jacket the day he was assigned to the Reuben James, but he hadn't had the time to truly examine all of its features.

"There's a strap of fabric that runs around your chest and hooks here." Bridges pointed to a carabiner clip protruding from a small puncture in the leather where his zipper was. "You'll use this to maintain a safety line when you climb manually. And, if you're authorized, automatically." A conspiratorial light flashed in the radioman's eyes, and Clint raised an eyebrow.

"Automatically, huh? How's about you give me a demonstration? No one's around to see us, anyways."

Clint knew this Bridges fellow had nothing to lose – it was a night watch on their first day out at sea, the ship was in no danger whatsoever. What was the harm in having a little fun, anyways? Thankfully Bridges seemed to think so too, and he led Clint over on the deck to a series of rigging lines that stretched upward to the balloon of the ship.

"These are your standard rigging lines, rope ladders. You'll be climbing them like a monkey by the time we hit the coast. And here is the metal safety line you'll hook onto when you climb. Pretty standard stuff. But this," He nodded towards a small crank at the bottom of the safety line. Bridges flipped a small switch and an amber light bloomed behind a bulb. Taking the crank in both hands, Bridges gave the gears a few good turns and the safety line started to rotate on its own, at first slowly but them gaining speed. The Radioman gave Clint a sardonic salute before snapping his hand forward almost too quickly for Clint to follow, hooking his carabiner into a metal loop and rocketing up to the balloon like a missile. He reached the first gundeck in seconds and unhooked himself easily, landing with a flourish visible from Clint's vantage point a hundred yards below.

"See? Easy!" Bridges' voice called down faintly, and Clint grinned. Now this was what he had signed up for. He was only outfitted in his deck uniform, though, which didn't have the supports of the jacket. Unwrapping his carabiner from his belt, flipped the safety line's motor off and started up the rigging hand over hand, climbing higher and higher above the deck of the Reuben James.

Wind tore at his hair and clothes as he ascended, and he looked over his shoulder to see a sweeping view of the ocean from every side. Moonlight glanced off of the crests of the waves, dappling the water in a silver sea. Stars beamed like lightbulbs with a burning intensity, filling the midnight-blue sky with tiny points of light. He clenched his fists around the rigging ropes as he risked a glance down – the safety rope would keep him from any real danger, but it would be a long way down to the faces of the waves.

Bridges called for him to hurry up, so he scrambled up the last part of the ropes and reached the first gundeck with relative ease. He accepted Bridges' hand and stood, surveying his position at the top of the world with a grin.

"Some view, isn't it? Bet you can't get a better lookout at Adolph's Eagle Nest." Bridges turned on his heel and rapped a knuckle against one of the metal lockers stowed against the side of the balloon. "This is where we keep the light guns, mostly for fending off planes at this level. Submarine stuff is on deck. If a meager seaman like you ever needs to unlock a gun, just push your weight at the bottom of the locker."

Fixing his heel against the edge of the barrier, Bridges braced his shoulder against the sleek metal locker and leaned forward. A mechanism clicked beneath the surface of the metal and he stepped away rapidly before the flat surface sprang inward and a pair of 40-millimeter guns swiveled forward, rotating on a base of wires and grinding gears that latched free from the locker's wall in an instant. A metal tub stood behind the guns where the gunners would fire. Clint could tell they were recycled from the Great War, due to the liberal amount of rust that the seamen hadn't been able to scrub off, and the fact that they had to be operated manually.

"They're buckets of rust, but about the best we could wrangle from the isolationist chumps." Bridges rapped a knuckle against the metal, his expression souring. "They didn't want escort ships to be armed, can you imagine? I'd hate to have one of those buckets of lard as a G.I. You volunteer?" He gave Clint a sharp sort of look.

"Quick as I could."

"That's what I like to hear. I hate to vent to you, but it eats me up when those politicians blather on about morality and the greater good. Poland and France've been crushed, Lord knows what Japan is doing to those colonies in the east, and Hitler's gearing up for more. They didn't want us to send aid to England!"

"And here we are now." Clint rested an arm against the 40-mill, his eyes tracing its corroded barrel. "I almost wish I had been trained a gunner, so I could man one of these against the Axis blokes."

Bridges dropped a shoulder under the gun barrel and pushed up, wheeling the gun back into its locker with a smooth hiss of hydraulic steam. Clint ducked as the metal swung wide over his head, the guns folding back into the locker and the doors shutting with a firm click! "These guns won't do much against a plane anyways, the Great War weapons are as accurate as a spitball. But you, seaman, need to man your post. Want me to finish giving the tour and leave you on your sorry lonesome?"

"I've been waiting for you to ask all night!" Clint groaned, and Bridges clapped him on the back with enough force to drive the air from his lungs.

"I've taken a liking to you, seaman, so tell you what... Want to see something most men of your pay grade would give their right arm to lay eyes on?"

"The Ark of the Covenant?"

"Some comedian." Bridges clipped his carabiner to the safety line of the closest set of ropes and leaped over the barrier, snagging the rigging in both hands with practiced ease. Clint followed suit, tugging on his safety line to make sure it was fixed before he gingerly climbed over the railing and followed after Bridges. The wind pulled at the ropes and Clint's legs were beginning to throb as they ascended above the second gundeck and around the swell of the balloon, reaching above it to the top of the Reuben James. Rubber squeaked beneath Clint's boots as his feet made contact with the top of the zeppelin's balloon.

The safety lines of the rigging ran all the way to the top of the ship, where a mass of lookout towers, battle stations and the prickling antenna of a radar system loomed. Bridges raised an arm to shield his face from the biting wind and gestured Clint over to the front of the balloon, which made for a difficult journey with gale-force winds tearing at them from all sides, but Clint finally reached a small platform at the very front of the ship before the balloon dipped downward into a cone.

"Best seat in the house!" Bridges shouted, and Clint squinted to see into the horizon, where the ever-darkening sky blended almost seamlessly into the choppy waves below. The stars lay before him like a vast panorama, undisturbed in eerie silence, and a grin split Clint's face as he watched. Here he was on top of the world, here he was truly invincible. The war blended away into the shadows of the night, the thrill of flying filling his body with heady euphoria.

"Don't tell the LT I let you up here, or I'll get a good licking. This is my favorite part of the ship, the best view in the world. If you stay up here long enough I'll bet you'll see us meet up with the Brits. But you didn't hear it from me." Bridges raised his eyebrows, and before Clint could respond he had turned and hurried off to the side of the balloon, the hiss of the metal safety line trailing after him as he activated the motor and rocketed down to another deck.

Clint knew he shouldn't linger – it wouldn't be very soldierly of him to spend his first night on patrol stargazing – but he hesitated a moment longer, looking to the distance to make out the faded shadow emerging from the horizon. The smudge of darkness began to swell into view, revealing the pointed frame of a British cruiser, a column of black smoke trailing in its wake. Even from a distance, Clint could see the ship was massive, laden with tons of American supplies and rations to bring back to the British Isles.

Clint waited for a second longer before turning away from the stern and hurrying back to the gundeck to start his patrol. It was his first night on the job, after all, and he wasn't letting anything get in his way.

LC - Lieutenant Commander; LT - Lieutenant

Isolationism - a policy of remaining apart from the affairs of other countries. Popular in the early years of World War II in the United States.