Chapter 1349 - The Cook Corps

Mao Shisan had been aboard the Haitian for quite some time now. Though constantly at sea and losing track of where he was, he had gradually adjusted. When first brought aboard, he had been interrogated and confined to a cabin for several days. Later—he didn't know precisely where—they had docked, and he had been thoroughly scrubbed with hot water, his head shaved, and given a worn uniform. Finally, he was allowed to move about freely.

He had secretly asked Fu Ji—the young man about his age who had cared for him while he was unconscious, and his only acquaintance aboard—whether this was the "purification" that soldiers often mentioned. Fu Ji said no; purification involved spreading one's buttocks and drinking medicine. What he had undergone was only preliminary cleaning, sufficient to at least eliminate fleas and lice, which was why he no longer had to be confined to the small cabin. However, he still had to eat alone in a separate compartment; after meals, his wooden utensils were thrown directly into the sea. Some areas remained off-limits. Fu Ji told him that next time they had a longer rest stop, the ship's medic would give him proper purification.

A few days later, the Haitian docked at a small island for "major rest and maintenance"—replenishing fresh water and conducting cleanup. Mao Shisan finally experienced the full flavor of "purification." Being stripped naked and having his buttocks spread was secondary; the medicine the medic made him drink gave him diarrhea for two days, so severe he almost couldn't stand, nearly convinced he was about to die. At that moment, the medic gave him a different medicine, and suddenly everything returned to normal. His range of movement expanded to the entire ship, and he could even use the crew's mess utensils.

Mao Shisan had fallen completely in love with this ship where he could eat his fill and stay warm, hoping to remain aboard forever. Though Fu Ji constantly extolled Lingao as paradise, Mao Shisan couldn't believe anywhere could be happier than this. According to his foster father, even generals in the Dongjiang garrison—from the former Marshal Mao to the current Marshal Huang—ate only two meals a day. Yet people on this ship ate three! Mao Shisan figured only emperors and grand councilors could afford three meals a day. But here, even an outsider like him got to eat three!

To secure a permanent place in this three-meal paradise, his simple thinking told him he needed to be proactive, to show initiative, to work hard voluntarily—helping sailors trim lines, chip ice, scrub decks, clean cannon bores. Yet after just a few attempts, he'd be politely declined. They explained it was specialized work that didn't need outside help—and besides, without proper training, he really didn't know how to do these things.

Eventually, he found his niche in the galley. The Haitian's kitchen had only a portly cook and Fu Ji, plus a black-and-white cat named Oscar. Preparing food for seventy to eighty people kept them constantly busy, so they welcomed an extra pair of hands. Thus Mao Shisan became the kitchen helper—more precisely, Fu Ji's assistant. His life as a cook's mate had begun.

"Work under the chiefs, and you'll be living the good life." This was Fu Ji's first words of welcome when he came to help.

The cook and Fu Ji originally spoke an incomprehensible "southern barbarian dialect," but fortunately they could speak "new speech"—the Australians' "official language." Everyone aboard could speak the new speech with their own regional accents, and this Australian official language sounded similar enough to his Liaodong official speech that they could more or less understand each other.

For a boy like Mao Shisan, who had grown up in cold and hunger, if he had any dream at all, it was to eat a full meal and have a warm place to sleep. If someone told him all this could be guaranteed, that would be paradise.

If there was a paradise, it was certainly the Haitian. If paradise contained a realm of ultimate bliss, it had to be the Haitian's galley.

Mao Shisan couldn't have articulated something so profound, but if someone explained the meaning to him, he would have agreed with both hands and feet. Having nearly frozen to death, boarding this ship had transported him to a perfect world beyond his wildest dreams. Aside from his foster father not being with him—his only family—he could find no flaw.

The Haitian's galley was small, with a four-burner stove that burned coal briquettes full of holes. The cooking equipment had many uses that Mao Shisan still hadn't fully figured out. Most utensils were made of steel, completely unlike anything he'd ever seen—flat rectangular frying pans and tall, deep stockpots shaped like pillars. Behind the kitchen was a smaller galley with a small stove where the chiefs' orderlies prepared their meals; it was always locked when unoccupied, quite mysterious. Though the engine room rumbled right behind the galley, Mao Shisan was content to stay in this small, warm space.

The galley staff were kind. When he wasn't busy, the portly cook would sit at the doorway chewing tobacco, alternating between teasing the cat and chatting with the two young lads. Fu Ji, the precociously mature youth not much older than himself, proved a reliable and helpful companion with decent cooking skills who often offered guidance.

The galley operated twenty-four hours a day, always with food on the stove. The sailors worked four-hour shifts; in cold seas, crew members expended tremendous energy, so hot meals had to be ready for each shift change. This meant the kitchen—head cook and two assistants alike—had to sleep in rotation, ensuring someone was always awake to prepare food.

But while docked at Duozhi Island for "minor maintenance," the pressure eased. The Haitian switched to two daily shifts, reducing their cooking to three meals plus a midnight snack.

Early in the morning, before dawn, the two young men were kicked awake by the portly cook. Bleary-eyed, they opened dampers and cleared ash, swept the galley, and pumped up the gas lamps. Congee that had simmered all night bubbled in the stockpot as the cook loaded the steamer with coarse-grain wotou buns. The buns were made from some unidentifiable gray mixed flour—dry and hard to swallow on their own, edible only with a fiery red sauce that burned the mouth. Mao Shisan had been so overwhelmed by the spiciness at first that he kept gulping water, but after a while, he found he couldn't eat without dabbing on some "chili sauce."

The congee contained various grains; today it was mixed with diced sweet potato. Regulations supposedly required a seven-day rotation: sweet potato, potato, sorghum, millet, mung beans... various grains taking turns. Fu Ji said this prevented "beriberi."

At five-thirty in the morning, soldiers who had tidied their quarters and were preparing for duty filed into the galley, chatting and laughing as they queued at the window for their rations. The Haitian wasn't large enough for a proper mess hall, so they took their food back to the crew quarters or up on deck to eat. Fu Ji ladled two scoops of congee into each enamel mess tin, while Mao Shisan added pickled vegetables and half a salted egg to each lid—the eggs were cut lengthwise while still in their shells, supposedly for the most even distribution of white and yolk. Soldiers helped themselves to wotou from the basket—as many as they wanted.

The flickering gaslight haloed by steam, the mingled sounds of chewing and conversation creating a blurred wall of noise—it all made Mao Shisan feel he was dreaming.

After the morning shift finished eating and departed, the night watch sentries came down frosted with ice and snow to eat. Just as they were distributing food, an orderly in a white apron came running over to demand: "Where are the eggs?"

The portly cook bowed and smiled apologetically, assuring him they were on their way, then turned and called: "Shisan! Quick, go fetch the officers' eggs!"

Mao Shisan immediately set down his chopsticks, grabbed the gas lamp, and lifted the hatch to the lower deck to climb down.

Leaving the warm galley, a wave of cold, musty air hit his face. Mao Shisan shivered, carefully descending the ladder with his lamp held high. The lower deck was the galley's domain; he passed through rows of bean sprout racks. The poultry cabin was on the left, where five hens were awakened by the light and began clucking. Mao Shisan rummaged through the coop and found four eggs.

"Not bad, good work," Mao Shisan praised them. "Nice weather today—I'll give you some fresh air." He carried the coop to an open porthole, hung it outside to ventilate, and stuffed in some feed before leaving.

The orderly took the eggs but still wore a sour expression, not even offering thanks before going off to prepare breakfast. Mao Shisan was curious about what mountain delicacies these "chiefs"—treated like gods by everyone—might eat, so he seized the opportunity to sneak a peek.

One glance revealed nothing special. The breakfast for the two officers, arranged on a wooden tray, was merely cabbage-and-potato noodles—the noodles were curly; Fu Ji called them yi-fu noodles, which could be stored for a long time. Being made from wheat flour, they counted as "premium food" aboard ship, normally reserved for officers and sick bay patients—each bowl topped with two poached eggs.

Eggs were certainly precious, but not exactly rare delicacies. Mao Shisan felt slightly disappointed: nothing novel here.

The orderly carried off the two bowls of noodles. Shortly after, he returned with a small bowl containing two poached eggs: "The officers said one each is enough. Give the others to the patients."

"Right, I'm making noodles for the sick bay now," the cook acknowledged.

The patients' breakfast was also yi-fu noodles, but with more mouths than eggs, the cook had to cut each egg into portions, adding a piece to each bowl.

The officers are truly bodhisattvas at heart, Mao Shisan thought admiringly as he carried the noodles to the sick bay.

By the time he returned, all the breakfast foods had been swept clean. Fu Ji scraped around for a while before managing to produce a bowl of congee dregs. There was no side dish either: salted eggs were rationed by headcount—Mao Shisan wasn't included to begin with—and the pickle jar couldn't simply be opened. Before Mao Shisan could say it didn't matter, Fu Ji offered an apologetic smile: "No side dishes left. Try some sugar congee." He reached for the sugar canister and with a flick dumped in a spoonful of snowy white granulated sugar. Before Mao Shisan's eyes could even blink, another spoonful went in. Seeing Mao Shisan's astonished expression, Fu Ji raised an eyebrow and, quick as lightning, added yet another spoonful—as if to say: Look! This is how well we Fubo Marines live.