This morning, the sailors aboard the British Royal Navy vessel HMS Exeter had awoken to the aftermath of a bombardment. On the previous night they had sunk one of the Third Reich’s boats, and had done so without the expected support of the Royal Air Force. The planes had been kept at bay by a storm, and the Navy had had to manage on their own. Shots had whizzed over their heads as the rain lashed over the deck and obscured their vision, in a hellscape that seemed without end. William was still shaken by the violence of that night, and held his cat close to him. Right up until the break of dawn the poor animal had scampered desperately around the deck, terrified by the sound of the cannons. But this morning the sky was blue once again and the German warship was sunk, hidden somewhere beneath the oily sea. The sailors aboard the Exeter were delighted, for they had been honoured with a visit from the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill.
William’s cat had been there for the visit, and deservedly so, for the animal had a weighty mission and mighty tasks to carry out aboard the battleship. “You did very well, pet,” the sailor whispered in the cat’s ear. His cat was responsible for pest control on their vessel, hunting down the rats and mice that nestled in the boat’s warm storerooms. These pests could get into the food supply and spread disease, or worse, eat their way through ropes and cables. Their presence was a scourge aboard a warship. For William, the cat had become an ideal shipmate: it slept in his bed and woke up at his side, and never left him. The two friends had not known each other long, but had formed an instant bond. Such practices had been in existence since the days of ancient Egypt some 8,000 years ago, when cats had ever been the perfect companions for the Egyptians as they sailed along the Nile. William did not love all animals; he was wary of seagulls, for he believed they represented the souls of the dead. He also hated rabbits; in fact, on board a ship no sailor was allowed to utter the word ‘rabbit’ – they brought bad luck, and if one absolutely had to make mention of this animal, one said ‘the chap with big ears.’ William thought of the cat as his best friend. It didn’t really have a name, but it came to him when he whistled.
After the battle, William wanted to give the cat a name, for he felt it deserved to become a full-fledged member of the crew. The cat had not lost its hearing even amidst the cannon fire, and still came to William’s call. “A pet’s name should always have an ‘e’ or a ‘y’ at the end – they hear sharp sounds better,” one of his shipmates had told him. William had pondered this, and finally settled upon the perfect name: he would name his cat ‘Victory’ to honour their defeat of the German boat. It was a fitting name, and it gave the cat a sense of grandeur. On the docks, William baptised his cat Victory, and then Victory went back on duty, proud and brave, off to hunt down every last rodent that dared creep aboard their ship.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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