The Rat of Tobruk

HMAT Tyche – Main Galley – 15 September 1946 – 0745 hours

The galley stank of old grease and black coffee. Men jostled shoulder to shoulder, some already half into their tins of bully beef and biscuits. The Tyche wasn’t built for comfort, and it sure as hell wasn’t built for a breakfast rush.

Buck Norvegicus, Lieutenant and lifetime scrounger, weaved through the crowd with the easy grace of a man used to rough living. He had a mug of something that claimed to be coffee in one hand and a slab of fried bread in the other. He was looking for a place to park himself when she came barreling through the crowd—coat open, notebook clutched to her chest, eyes ahead and oblivious.

She tripped on something and would’ve hit the floor hard if Buck hadn’t shifted and caught her by the elbow.

“Whoa there, sheila!” he said, steadying her. “This ain’t a bloody footrace.”

Mary Protandry righted herself immediately, cheeks flushing—not with embarrassment, but irritation. She glared at Buck like she was measuring whether to thank him or bite his head off.

“I had it under control,” she snapped.

Buck grinned, unbothered. “Course you did. You’re a tough one, ain’t ya? Bet you’re from Melbourne. Always thought you lot had steel for spines.”

She blinked, caught off guard, then snorted despite herself. “Melbourne born and bred. RMIT. Science faculty.”

“No kidding,” Buck said, loosening his grip but not stepping back yet. “Well, reckon the Tyche’s seen worse than a smart sheila in a hurry. Name’s Buck. Rat of Tobruk.” He gave a rough nod, like a man offering a handshake without actually moving.

“Doctor Mary Protandry,” she said curtly, smoothing her coat. “And thanks. I suppose.”

“Oh, we’re doing titles? Lieutenant Buck Norvegicus,” Buck chuckled, stepping aside. “See ya round, Doc. If you get lost, just follow the stink of old socks and hopeless cases — that’ll be me.”

Mary gave him a sideways look — assessing, amused, suspicious all at once — and moved off into the galley crowd, her notebook tucked tighter under her arm.

Buck watched her go, sipping his burnt coffee. “Melbourne, eh?” he muttered. “Bloody hell. Maybe there’s hope for this voyage yet.”