literature

Who Were Those Men?

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Cold, wet and lost at sea. I had been on the mighty Titanic when she hit that iceberg, the ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’ (idiots, more like) of first class didn’t believe that there was anything to fear at first, the ship was unsinkable, everyone said so. Unsinkable, huh? So where is she now? At the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, that’s where.

The biggest, most luxurious ship of our times she may have been, but metal sinks, especially when it’s filling with icy cold water. The evening had started off like the first three preceding it, dinner, dancing, the ships fine facilities available for use to those in the right class, no signs of the impending disaster only hours away.

In the early hours of the morning, a very faint shiver ran through the ship, hardly enough to ripple the coffee in my second class cup. Within an hour, stewards were going round, trying to get the guests into lifebelts, the first class passengers didn’t want to wrinkle their fine clothes and refused. It wasn’t until later, when it became obvious that the ship was in trouble that they started to pay attention to practical safety measures, like lifebelts.

I was one of the ‘lucky ones’ I guess. I’d been watching the band up on deck, listening to the ragtime songs they were playing, when someone, or something, knocked me overboard. Narrowly missing the still turning props, I bounced off the side of the ship, and plunged into the icy waters of the Atlantic, barely managing to struggle to the surface.  A crate floated nearby, and I managed to scramble onto that.

God it was cold! Icebergs and berglets everywhere, and dotted around in between them were lifeboats, wreckage and bodies. You couldn’t see more than a yard of clear water in any direction, the whole ocean surface, as far as the eye could see, littered with the dead and dying. My heart broke as I struggled to take in the scale of the disaster before me.

Over the rumble of still working engines and the shrill screech of the emergency flares, you could hear cries of those desperate to be saved, anxious for loved ones, and the prayers of those who’d given up hope of survival. Above all of these sounds, the band played on. Even as the ship tilted at still greater an angle, and you could see people and things sliding down the decks, music drifted away from the valiant bandsmen, still trying to instil some sort of normality on this nightmare we were living.

Darker now, and colder, the ship stood on her prow, gave a final lurch back down toward her keel, and slipped quietly beneath the waves of the ice covered water, like a ghost in the morning sunlight. It had taken only two hours and twenty minutes from impact to disappearance. Now, the wait begins. Will anyone survive until help arrives? Hours passed, I’d gone beyond shivering, I was too cold for that. Then I saw, or thought I saw, lights approaching us. I didn’t believe my eyes, thought I was hallucinating due to the cold, so I stayed still and quiet, conserving my energy. It wasn’t until it let down rowboats that I realized that it was a real ship, and help had, indeed, arrived. Then, weakly, barely able to call out, I shouted to a passing boat, thankfully they heard me, and picked me up. If I could survive the cold, just a little longer, I’d be safe.

Once on board the rescue ship, my mind, now free from restraint, wandered at will, picking out faces and items I’d seen in those last terrible hours. I don’t know why, not really, but four faces kept coming back to me, every time I’d close my eyes, they were there. I was sure I didn’t know them, but I was also sure they were familiar, for some reason. In the days that followed as we sailed to shore, I asked around, describing these four men as best I could. Just as we arrived in port, I got an answer.

The faces I kept seeing in my mind’s eye were the four musicians of the band.  The man that recognised my description was maybe a teenager, maybe in his twenties, no more, certainly, and seemed glad that someone was taking care of the memory of their bravery. How they’d played on, even as the ship sank, forgoing their own safety to try and help keep others calm. I learned as much about those four men as I could, so I could report their bravery and loss. I didn’t find out much.

Two were brothers, Gerard and Michael Way by name, with their friends Raymond Toro, and Francis Iero. None were forty when they died. Three left young children, the forth a step son. They would be sadly missed.

THE END.
Not a contest entry, that's already written and in, but, inspired by that contest, I dedicate this story to ~ChaoticTwinkies

The contest in question is #ArtIsYourWeapon's MCR x Titanic contest.

Good luck to all who enter.
© 2013 - 2024 Cuddlepuss
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ChaoticTwinkies's avatar
:la: :la: :la: :la:
God, I love this! The sixth paragraph gave me chills. Actually, every paragraph after too, gave me chills.
I love how they became the band! :meow:
I couldn't help but draw connections between the two pieces and the actual historical facts.
Since Gerard and Frank died in "Into The Icy Blue Atlantic", and only a few of the original orchestra band survived the sinking.
So I thought it was so cool how they all tied into each other in some way!

:iconlaplz: This is amazing! I can't say that enough!