At the Midway

by J. Clayton Rogers

  Midway! Midway? What could one say? His father had made captaincy by the age of thirty‑five. And here he was, that very age, and still only a second lieutenant without prospects. He imagined going home, pulling out a map of the world, and trying to find the sandspit.

  "Where'd you say you spent the last couple years?"

  "I'm looking, Dad. I'm looking. Can't we roast some chestnuts or something?"

  "Midway... Midway... there's a speck. No... that's a fly turd. What'd you say you did there?"

  "We guarded valuable United States property."

  "What could be so important that far away from the shipping lanes?"

  "All right, Dad. We stood guard over birds. No. We stood guard over bird shit. All right? If you don't like it--"

  "Lieutenant!"

  Anthony jumped and nearly knocked over Hamilton Hart.

  "You're swinging that shovel pretty far."

  In fact, Anthony had almost taken Hart's head off as he dug and argued with his father simultaneously. "Sorry," he said. He eyed the Commercial Pacific employee warily. He seemed to have recovered from his fearful stupor, and was busy filling and hauling sand bags. Anthony felt uncomfortable around him, nonetheless. He was a reminder that the ultimate nightmare could really happen to an officer‑‑the loss of an entire command. There was no question in the lieutenant's mind that if all his men were killed before him he would commit suicide rather than face a Naval Board of Inquiry.

  "I couldn't help overhearing what the sergeant told you. About the need to post lookouts on the beach at night." He shook his head. "I've been away, I think."

  "I don't understand."

  Hart pointed towards the ruined relay station. "I have to go back."

  "There's nothing left."

  "Has anyone looked?"

  "We dug out the bodies of your people." Anthony was perplexed. Telegraphs were extremely delicate devices. The pounding the building had taken and the subsequent fire had undoubtedly put it out of commission, at least until a company ship arrived.

  "I haven't done enough. Not nearly enough."

  "Wait! Come back here, Hart. We need every hand!" Anthony was unsettled by the look in the civilian's eyes.

  "I can make up for it. All of it!"

  "Hart--"

  "Let's begin with Sergeant Ziolkowski's problem. How to communicate safely in the dark. If you can bring me utensils--silver and aluminum plated--I can take care of that right quick."

  He was talking like a madman and Anthony considered treating him as such.

  1340 Hours

  Ace felt a sharp jab in his ribs and jumped to the side. Working steadily at the bunker wall, he'd paid little attention to the jostling around him. The man who had poked him so roughly, if accidentally, was Private Lieber. He gave a little bow, momentarily forgetting marines never bowed back. Lieber gave him a blank look of indifference, then resumed digging.

  "Ah, Flitz!" Ace yelled angrily. "You rude!"

  "Huh?"

  There was yelling. Then a gunshot.

  The men dropped their shovels and raced to the rifle stacks. The coral sand sucked at their feet.

  A sentry was running madly towards the compound. Far behind him, one of the creatures had clambered up on the beach and was yawning widely in the afternoon sun. The Japanese and marines, now armed, stood stupidly, watching the beast. Their situation seemed so hopeless. There was no point in crouching behind anything, since no one was firing at them. Standing in rank and file would be useless, too. The creature would just run them over. Running would have been next to meaningless, with so little running space. And charging the beast in an attempt to chase it off the island had been proved deadly dangerous by Ziolkowski. So they stood. In effect, waiting for the creature to make up their minds for them. Until Ziolkowski, having grabbed his Rexer, ran up to them.

  "Now here's a fine group of boots," said Ziolkowski, coming up. "Whose lunch are you waiting for? Fall in!"

  This might relieve Lieutenant Anthony of the onerous chore of issuing a command directly to his men, but it did nothing to rid them of the beast. The lieutenant, standing on tip-toe, could just make out its grotesque head over the dunes.

  "Sergeant...."

  Ziolkowski nodded. "Enderfall, come on."

  They struggled up the crumbly slope of Mt. Pisgah. All of forty-two feet in height, it was the tallest dune on the atoll. It had been dubbed 'Mt. Piss' by Depoy when he found out Kitrell, who had a prudish streak, would duck behind it whenever he took a leak. The name stuck for a month. Then one day Anthony overheard some of his men talking about going over for a whiz on Mt. Piss. A reprimand began curling his lips, when Kitrell assured the lieutenant they had called the dune Mt. Pisgah, not Mt. Piss.

  "Mt. Pisgah is part of a mountain range near the Dead Sea. We thought it'd be nice to have something biblical around."

  Stunned by this unsuspected piety, the embarrassed Anthony retreated.

  Even Depoy had to applaud Kitrell for that one.

  "Why us again?" Enderfall fumed as they reached the crest.

  "Weren't you tired of digging?"

  "Yeah. Guess I was."

  From the summit they looked down directly on the northern beach. They could see the entire length of the beast. They could also see it was not alone.

  Hamilton Hart was crouched in a small gully not two dozen yards from where the creature lounged. It was obvious he'd been caught in the open and decided it was safer to hide than run. All the creature had to do was stretch its neck and its shadow would fall over him.

  If he bolted, the beast would quickly spot him. But it was beginning to seem he would have to try. The creature was sniffing the air--leaning back, rocking, performing a kind of serpentine promenade... and working its snout so assiduously that Ziolkowski could see the nostrils flex. There was a resounding slap-like sound.

  "Shit. The damn thing farted."

  "Glad it's downwind."

  Over Enderfall's protests, the sergeant began setting up his machine gun. If the beast took off after Hart, he would try to distract it with the Rexer. Ziolkowski was beginning to feel like a Legionnaire. In the grand tradition, he would be picking a fight he was sure to lose.

  The creature emitted a series of bleats. If a mouse had grown five times the size of an elephant and squeaked, it would have sounded similar. Its face was dark brown--no green stripes. When it shuffled forward, Ziolkowski touched the trigger. Suddenly, the creature lurched away from Hart and settled on some dwarf magnolias, the only trees of any size on Midway. They were crushed instantly when the creature lay down on them.

  "What a pity," the sergeant murmured. "That's the only natural shade for a thousand miles."

  The beast seemed perplexed by the sudden disappearance of the trees. It raised its head, looked left and right, and let out another monstrous squeak. Grunting, it began rocking back and forth.

  Ziolkowski's eyes popped. "He's scratching his stomach!"

  The luxury did not last long. The magnolias were quickly reduced to splinters and sawdust. Snorting in disgust, the creature flopped in the sand and rolled. Most of the gooney birds in the vicinity flew out of harm's way. Had it been the nesting season, far more would have been killed.

  Ziolkowski swiveled his gun on its bipod, momentarily tempted to direct a few bursts against the monster's belly in the hope it would prove a softer target. But he dared not make the attempt with Hart so near.

  The creature began sniffing again. That fresh morsel, so close, so tempting....

  "Let's dance again." Ziolkowski locked the clip and adjusted his sights. "May I have this waltz, you fucking bastard."

  There was no need to see Hart's expression to know what he was thinking. His whole body was knotted in terror. He was getting ready to run.

  A call sounded across the water:

  "Tooo... nel...."

  The monster froze, then darted its head up, looking towards the lagoon and Eastern Island. Ziolkowski raised his sights. Could he cut the thing
's throat with a burst? Still, he held off. The more he observed, the more he was convinced the creature's hide was tough as nails all around. He fantasized on the possibilities of a three-inch gun, a standard weapon with most landing parties. And a six-incher--well, that would slice the bastard's heart nicely. But artillery had not been allotted the garrison. Who could have foreseen trouble on Midway?

  After all its clumsy flopping, it was stunning to see the creature abruptly lower its head and shoot across the beach fast as a horse. It hit the water, then bounced across jutting coral as if it was no sharper than fresh dough.

  No... there were no soft bull's-eyes on these brutes, Ziolkowski concluded sadly. Only the eyes. And they had up to now been too quick for a clear shot at them.

  "Hart! Hart! Up here!"

  If Hart had been terrified before, he seemed utterly paralyzed by his good fortune. Ziolkowski trotted down the slope to confront him. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

  White as a ghost, Hart rose from behind the bush. "I was measuring how much wire I'd need--" He took a single step and fell.

  "Enderfall! Get your ass down here and give a hand to this civilian."

  "It left." Gasping, Hart turned over. "Why did it leave?"

  The sergeant was wondering that himself. The creature had not dived underwater, but was paddling on the surface in the direction of the lagoon. He could not see Eastern Island beyond the bight.

  "Up you go, Hart. Standing out on the beach, you were just tempting that bastard ashore. What the hell were you doing, anyway?"

  "Your problem... signaling at night. There's more than enough wire. We can strip it from the submarine cable."

  "Ah... you mean string it back to the compound and give a yank when--"

  "The movement might attract the serpents. I can do better. As I was telling the lieutenant, if I can get some forks... metal forks. Or spoons."

  Ziolkowski had little time to question Hart's sanity. When they returned inland, they found the compound in an uproar.

  "Volunteers! I want volunteers!"

  "What's going on?" the sergeant demanded.

  "The warehouse Posten came back. He reports die Schlangen are attacking Eastern."

  Ziolkowski knew what a Posten was. He'd been in the Corps long enough to learn more than a few German words and phrases. He could guess from Lieber's tone the meaning of Schlangen.

  "The Chinks...." The sergeant shook his head. "Poor bastards. But what's the teniente on about?"

  "He's going to rescue them."

  "What? He's going to risk good men to save Chinks?"

  The sergeant walked over to Anthony. The lieutenant misinterpreted his determined expression. "No, sergeant. You stay here. No use both of us.... Patterson! Good. McDonald! Good. Lieber! That's fine. No more. We can't repair the Iroquois and there wouldn't be enough time if we could." He was speaking of the island's sea tug, which had been disabled by difficulties with the engine well before the arrival of the monsters. "We'll have to take the motor launch. Enough room. And we might be able to outrace them."

  "I don't think so, sir."

  "Well, sergeant... what are we if we don't take the chance?"

  Stupefied by this senseless bravado, Ziolkowski raised his Rexer in salute as Anthony and his three volunteers disappeared in the direction of the lagoon.

  "You going to let them go like that, Top?"

  "Yeah, they'll get ate up."

  "So?" Ziolkowski shouted. "Go to hell for a few Chinks--that's the teniente's business. Now man those shovels. Those bastards'll be back. If we're not dug in, we'll end up the same. Enderfall! Not you! Take three men to the fuel shed. I want you to roll some gasoline drums down to the beach. You heard me. And make sure you roll them away from the water distillery."

  1412 Hours

  What the hell am I doing? Lieutenant Anthony wondered halfway across the lagoon. What can four rifles do against those behemoths?

  More than what three unarmed Chinese can do, came a guilty response that was paradoxically relieved by a deep sense of satisfaction. He had finally made up his mind about something.

  Anthony checked his Springfield. It had been quite a while since he'd used one. He found himself wishing he'd paid some attention to Sergeant Ziolkowski's firing range lectures. The unauthorized gun was about as clean and battle-ready as a rifle could be. Packed in cosmoline when it arrived, it had been kept impeccable ever since. Cams, safety lugs and the bolt interiors had been lubricated with graphite paste. The bluing was protected by wiping down the exposed metal with chamois skin dampened with oil. To prevent the stock from warping, boiled linseed oil had been rubbed frequently into the wood. When stored in the shed, Ziolkowski kept an open canister of calcium chloride nearby to reduce excess moisture. The guns of Midway were as healthy as human care could make them. Coming down to this, all that care seemed an exercise in futility. Yet there wasn't a man in the boat who didn't hug his Springfield as if his life depended on it.

  Private Lieber acted as coxswain. At full throttle he guided the craft to the nearest beach. Most of the time his eyes were glued to the great necks of the creatures ahead of them, weaving back and forth at the far end of Eastern. The closer the boat came, the more profoundly the water shuddered. The vibrations were transferred to the boat, increasing the nervousness of the volunteers. Glancing down into the clear water, he noted the lagoon seemed empty of life. Even the sharks had abandoned the area. Had they sensed the approach of the monsters? Were they as afraid‑‑though it was hardly conceivable that sharks were capable of fear‑‑as the humans were? Leiber couldn't blame them, if that was the case. As fantastically beautiful as the monsters were, the private would have swum away, too.

  He had no idea why he'd been so prompt to volunteer. From the stunned expressions of the other volunteers, it seemed they could not tell what had overcome them, either. Perhaps it was the utter conviction and courage that suddenly burst from the Loot‑‑all the more overwhelming from a man who'd rarely spoken to them, seemed the model of reticence. Standing on the prow like some jarhead George Washington, he was an unlikely inspiration. Even as the thudding on the island became perceptible, Anthony's campaign hat tugged the air, as though saluting the danger. A dark semaphore of sweat flattened the back of his blue shirt. A man charging on water‑‑a feat almost as impressive as walking on it.

  Lieber clipped this blasphemous thought with a harsh interior admonition. So, he had volunteered. The act of a fool. But it was in his blood. His father had been accused of plotting to murder the Kaiser. A human monster. Here was a true monster in the flesh. The very spirit of Wilhelm.

  There was no sign of the Chinese. If they had any sense, they would have dug holes to hide in as soon as they saw what was happening on Sand. There were one or two rowboats on the island, as well as a sampan. But if they witnessed the fate of the Japanese fisherman who'd tried crossing the lagoon, they would know how dangerous such an attempt would be. Besides, up to now there had been no incentive to leave. For reasons of their own, the creatures had limited their attacks to Sand.

  "They could be dead," said Anthony doubtfully. "We wouldn't know until we searched the entire island."

  Lieber reached down with his free hand to check his haversack. The bullet clips felt hard and lumpy. "Death to tyrants!" he murmured as the boat scraped the sand. He killed the engine and jumped out with the others. They dragged the boat a short distance up the beach.

  The womanish screams of donkeys carried a half mile on the wind. There was still no sign of the Chinese. Anthony was hit by an embarrassing realization. He did not want to pull the launch up very far. Even if the creatures did not chase them, necessitating a quick escape, he wanted to stay on Eastern as little as possible. But for the life of him, he could not coordinate the tides in his head. Even looking at the waterline, he could not decide if it was high or low. It would go hard on them if the tide came in and took the boat away. Rather than admit part of his mind was paralyzed, he ordered one of the men to stay
with the boat. Lieber and the other volunteer gave the third a stern look, as if cautioning him not to attempt leaving without them. The third man put his hand over his heart, then imitated the movements needed to start the motor. Then they exchanged startled glances, surprised at their ability to jest at a moment like this.

  Anthony had been giving some thought to their tactics during the trip across. The first break with his plan had just occurred. He was about to face another.

  "Fan out and search. We'll meet back here in thirty minutes?"

  "Thirty minutes?"

  No one else had a watch.

  "All right...." Anthony was frightened and flustered. He wanted to strike his head and re-order his thinking. "Go as far as you can, then come back. And do it quickly as possible. Don't call out. Don't draw attention to yourselves. If they chase you...." Another sentence clipped short. He was about to order them not to run towards the lagoon if chased. If the creatures followed one of them to the boat, their only means of escape might be destroyed.

  What a rare bird, Lieber thought. You didn't see many weak sisters in the Corps. Especially ones who charged into dangerous situations, then stopped cold like confused ducks waiting to be shot. Court martial or no, the German had had enough of pish-pashing.

  "Herr Leutnant?"

  "Yes?"

  "Fuck it, sir. Let's do it."

  They moved inland.

  1441 Hours

  "Enderfall! You couldn't cut salami in a knife factory. Didn't I tell you to move the drums away from the distillery? Can't you see what I'm up to? Goddamn sexual deviant, move 'em down, down!"

  The gasoline drums were moved further along the beach. The men were already tired from all the digging at the bunker and this pointless labor further exhausted them. When they reached a spot that satisfied Ziolkowski, they dropped to the sand and stared across the lagoon.

  They could just make out the four men who comprised Anthony's crazy expedition. Whenever the creatures raised their heads, their dark brown hides contrasted dramatically with the sun-brightened dunes. The men below seemed like fleas worrying at the flank of a three-headed, imperturbable beast.