"The Japs," word spread. "They sent us out to fight the Japs. Alone."
"Pipe down, there." Ensign Garrett hobbled towards one of the starboard work crews. For a moment, silence fell like a brick. It was nothing short of wondrous that Garrett could stand, let alone walk. His face was black and blue, the cuts were still bright, and it was a sure bet the rest of his body was in no better shape.
"We going into a fight, Mr. Garrett?" one of the sailors ventured.
"Never you mind. Just keep the ball rolling. You there! Get lower with that stroke!"
The paint fumes were potent under the hot sun. Canvas sheets were raised to protect the sections from seawater as they were first painted, then allowed to dry. This was why the sailors called it "nearpaint"--they had to lean close over their brushes. More than one of them was overcome by fumes in the confined spaces.
Each brushstroke spread their apprehension still further. Between the wood armor and flammable nearpaint, the gundecks might go up in a great sheet of flame if they were struck by even a small caliber shell.
"What happened, Mr. Garrett? Was it that boy we picked up? Did his ship run into--"
"Mr. Garrett, if a shell hit near the six-ers, it'd go right through--"
"Mr. Garrett, with no armor around the ammo hoists, won't we--"
Garrett was saved from responding when another work crew emerged from a starboard hatchway. Two things stopped the questioners dead.
First, the detail was led by Midshipman Beck, who very nearly walked over Garrett when he turned the corner. They stared at each other briefly, then exchanged stiff salutes‑‑Garrett's being the stiffer by far. This calm exchange of naval civility had required enormous self-control on the part of both men. The bluejackets nodded admiringly. Now came the moment of truth:
"Lieutenant Grissom has instructed me to augment your detail with these men."
"Very well, Mr. Beck. Put them on the next gunport. You'll have water coming up in your face. That can't be helped."
"Aye aye, sir."
That came off well enough--but the men Beck had brought with him were stewards and messmen from the galleys, every man jack of them black. They occupied the spot Garrett indicated and cast uneasy glances at the first detail‑‑whose return looks were equally bemused. One year ago, the stewards had been sailors. Few had thought twice about mixed crews before.
But the demotion en masse tainted the black sailors as much as color ever could. Everyone was glad the Negroes had been around to replace the Japanese stewards. Had they not, the whites would have been stuck with the job themselves. Yet there was little gratitude. Perversely, the unspoken belief was that they had been made stewards out of some inadequacy on their part. They were now unworthy not because they were black, but because they were stewards.
Amos Macklin noted no fine distinctions. The Navy, far from being the harbinger of a new age of equality, had showed itself as a sea‑going plantation, complete with overseers and slaves. He was not so much numb with disbelief as embarrassed over his gullibility. He had believed something because he'd wanted to believe it. It was the surest way to make a fool out of yourself.
He leaned out one of the gunports with a paint roller and cursed as briny waves slapped him in the face. He'd barely started working the roller up and down when a flash of salty spray took him by surprise, blinding him. Holding tight to the roller, he pulled back.
"Hey!" men shouted as he splattered paint around. There was a messy clatter as he dropped the roller on the deck and clutched at his burning eyes.
"Oh, fine," came a familiar voice.
A minute later he was able to open his eyes. He found himself face-to-face with Ensign Garrett. He was stunned by this close-up of the damage Beck had inflicted. Garrett could have been wearing a grisly Halloween mask. The ensign grinned at him, revealing red-tinted teeth. His mouth was still raw.
"Rough, trying to paint a casemate at twelve knots."
"Yes, sir... Mr. Garrett."
"Well, get back to it. We have to keep the marbles rolling. If we don't, the marbles will roll over us."
"Sir?"
"The yellow devils, Steward Macklin. They want their old jobs back. They're coming to get them."
Horror swelled in Amos' stomach. Not fear of harm. It was the idea that he would not be at a proper fighting post when the conflict began that staggered him. In the unlikely event of a battle, the stewards had been told back at Norfolk, they would be assigned to damage control parties. A necessary task, with no dishonorable taint to it. But it was not the job they'd trained for. Nor the status they had won, then lost.
"Mr. Garrett," someone called, "you mean it's true? We're going to fight the Japs?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Garrett sighed.
The world blared in with trumpets and windblast. Dr. Singleton took one grimacing glance abovedecks and recoiled. "I can't go out there."
Midshipman Davis blocked his retreat. "You have to."
"The captain be damned!"
Davis was in no mood for Singleton's tantrum. Now that the good doctor had ruined his cool white tunic with his stomach contents, he was forced to wear his hot regulation blues. Sweating heavily, he relished the words duty compelled him to speak: "Sir, if you want the marines to tote you topside, that's your privilege."
"This is insufferable! All right... all right... lead the way, Mr. Davis."
The climb to the bridge was a Matterhorn ordeal that nearly undid the doctor. When they reached it, only to find out that the captain was down below, Singleton unleashed a string of oaths that would have lassoed a saint.
"He's in the wardroom," Lieutenant Grissom stiffly informed them once Singleton was finished.
Singleton was able to descend the upper decks with considerably more grace than he'd gone up them. The hot coffee Davis had plied him with had started an invigorating sweat that lubricated his movements.
In the wardroom they came on Oates in conversation with the navigator. Davis waited for them to finish before approaching. After listening to the navigator's woes, however, Singleton grew impatient and stepped forward. "Are your people still in the Dark Ages, Oates?" As a virtual prisoner, he saw no need for cordiality.
Frowning, the captain raised his head. "Sir, you are no longer a privileged guest on my ship. You'll hold your peace until spoken to."
"That's fine, but the magnetic survey yacht Galilee did its work in 1905. Seems to me your charts are three years out of date."
Oates stared at Singleton long and hard. If a man could literally ignite himself with wrath, Davis was sure Oates would be the one to do it. The silence extended like a long fuse. The middy began wondering how Lieutenant Grissom would handle their lonely expedition if Oates suffered an apoplectic stroke and dropped dead. Odd, he'd never noticed the scar running along the bottom of the captain's jaw before. As his face turned redder, the scar became whiter, until it looked like a strap that could be pulled of.
Finally, the dual colors abated. The captain pointed his chin at his chart table. "Show me."
Standing over the chart table, Singleton took up a pencil and made little notches in the navigator's chart of the North Pacific. "The Department of Research in Terrestrial Magnetism‑‑that's part of the Carnegie Institute‑‑sent the Galilee into these waters because they were a complete unknown as far as magnetic observations were concerned. Fortunately, I was at the Hydrographic Office in Washington when the new charts came in. Uh… Mr. Davis. Would you be so kind as to go to my cabin. In my trunk you'll find the volume Lines of Equal Magnetic Variation. With that, I think we can sort this out."
Having listened to Singleton maunder on and on about his crippled intellect, Davis wanted to ask if he thought he was up to the calculations he was talking about. He gave the captain a dubious glance. Oates nodded. The midshipman saluted and left.
Peering closely at the chart, Singleton asked the navigator, "How old is this?"
"Ten years, I think. It was the only one we could find on s
hort notice. The only one with Midway on it, at least."
The doctor's rude snort sufficed for an opinion. While awaiting Davis' return, he elaborated: "There are three sets of lines that denote terrestrial lines of force. The Lines of Equal Declination‑‑that is, the Lines of Equal Magnetic Variation to you seafarers. Then the Lines of Equal Magnetic Dip and the Lines of Equal Magnetic Force. These last two are vital, since they determine how much a compass can be thrown off by iron in a ship. But right now we're concerned with the navigator's chart."
Those who had known of Singleton's sorry condition but an hour before were agape. They were all the more impressed when he spun some of the variation coordinates off the top of his head. On returning with the charts from the doctor's cabin, Davis stood at the back of the wardroom‑‑the most amazed of them all.
"How many navigator's have been browbeat by their shipmasters when they missed the mark? Yet every twenty years the magnetic compass shifts one degree. In some places, such as Rio de Janeiro, it only takes six years for the change. We blame ourselves for poor navigating when it's the planet itself playing tricks.
"Let's surmise a stormy passage to Hawaii from San Francisco. The night skies filled with clouds, no celestial sightings possible--depending solely on the compass and using unrevised charts. The Galilee discovered the magnetic field had shifted one to two degrees east since charts were made in the 1870's. Given a two thousand‑mile voyage, a navigator could find himself off one-sixtieth of the distance traversed--thirty-five miles! I understand Midway is a mere two miles in diameter. A target one could easily miss given the old magnetic readings.
Davis' astonishment was shattered when Lieutenant Grissom, who had joined them a few minutes earlier, chimed in. "I'm afraid you've missed the point, Doctor. The nights are clear. We've been able to obtain very accurate shootings from the stars. It's not the compass, it's the chart itself. It's not a proper one. Not much better than a schoolboy's map."
Singleton's guise of intellectual superiority crumpled, and the rest of his body sagged with it. Now he looked like a simple, foolish drunk. "Ah. Well. Damn. Well, Mr. Davis, unroll that on the table, please. This is--uh, ignore the magnetic readings, then. This is still more accurate than what you've got." He pushed away from the chart table.
Grissom and the navigator took his place.
"Yes, doctor," Grissom said after looking over the new chart. "This is exactly what we need. Thank you very much." His tone said, We thank you in spite of yourself.
"I noticed all the paint being splattered about. Going into battle?" Singleton touched a spot on his face, as if making sure he still had nerve endings. "If my services aren't required here, perhaps I can offer myself as a journalist from the monthlies."
"Right now, I need you for something else."
Singleton shaded his eyes. The only light in the wardroom came from small electric fixtures. In his condition, they were more than enough to inflict severe discomfort. "Yes, Captain? What is it?"
Outside the infirmary, as Oates related the tale of William Pegg and the Lydia Bailey, replete with drownings and sea monsters, Singleton pressed his hands to his head, a pained look on his face.
"Exposed for that length of time, inadequately protected from the elements--" There was a pounding in his head, not helped by the noisy clang and clatter of the ship. Yet the anticipation of talking to someone claiming to have seen serpents‑‑beasts that had destroyed a whaler, no less‑‑sent a curious childish thrill through him. It was all nonsense, no doubt . Still, it would be intriguing to witness the revival of an ancient myth.
"You might see or imagine anything," the captain agreed. "But the boy did see something."
The doctor immediately understood what Oates was leading up to. He was to be the luminary of science, the calm of reason in the storm. But when he entered sick bay and saw William lying like a tossed rag, sympathy suddenly crushed his chest. "My boy... my poor boy...."
Captain Oates lifted his brow. He'd not anticipated this outburst. A gush of alcohol-induced emotion was the last thing they needed. He nudged Singleton to warn him against histrionics. Taken unawares, the doctor toppled over.
The ship's surgeon rushed in. "Doctor!"
Singleton smirked up from the deck. "Doctor...."
Appalled, Oates strained to help the surgeon and Davis lift the portly man to his feet. "Get a grip on yourself," he whispered fiercely. "You're not helping anyone by acting like this. Certainly not the boy."
"Young man...." Singleton glanced back at Oates, then sat on the bunk next to William's. "I've been given a general summary of your miraculous rescue."
William's good hand gripped the empty space where his missing fingers had been. Turning slowly, he looked the doctor dead in the eye. "The gulls talked to me. That in your summary? They cussed, told me lies, kept me company. I know that was all in my head. Their sounds weren't real. But those serpents were. They killed Lead Foot. They killed everyone. They'll kill you, if you run up on them. I know what I didn't see. I know what I saw. If you come to try and talk me out of it--"
"Please! Son! I just came to chat. My name is Dr. Singleton. Paleontology is something of a hobby of mine. You know, the study of monsters. Ancient, extinct monsters. Calm down! Supposedly extinct monsters. Now, why don't you tell me what they looked like?"
Like Oates before him, Singleton found himself pole-axed by the boy's conviction. As the details of William's ostensible delusion came forth, Singleton's concentration focused. What was he hearing?
"I'm going to get a drawing pad. With your aid, I'd like to make a picture of these creatures. And with your help, I'd like to perform a little experiment."
Dr. Singleton felt his lungs tighten like two great bolts in his body. He asked the boy again: "What was the length of these creatures?" Again the boy gave him comparisons between the length of the Lydia Bailey and the animals which had destroyed it. Again, Dr. Singleton checked his galvametric readings. They were wildly erratic. Which, in the contrary way of the psychogalvametric register, meant the subject was absolutely calm.
It had taken a bit of courage on the doctor's and the boy's part to enter this experiment. As minor as the wound caused by the needle was, Singleton found it unsettling sticking William in the palm with it. The boy had suffered to such a degree that even a pin‑prick seemed too much to add. William did not look at all trusting. He had only one healthy hand left, and the doctor seemed intent on puncturing it to little purpose. But all the friendly yet skeptical looks visitors had given him goaded him into uncertainty. Singleton did not tell him this device would reveal the truth. That might have been perceived as an insult. Instead, he suggested this was a way to convince others of the truth. And so William had held out his hand.
Something the doctor had not told Midshipman Davis about the psychogalvanic meter was that it was an excellent detector not only of moods, but of lies as well. A peculiar electric current excited a person's skin when he or she told a lie. The intense surge in activity would cause the indicator to become very still, like someone listening to a great piece of music for the first time‑‑an odd analogy that had popped into Singleton's mind the first time he read about the device's lie‑detecting capability.
When William repeated his story, the meter went wild, indicating complete calm and truthfulness. Singleton had expected at least some variation. It was almost like applying the test to a corpse.
Fifteen minutes later he stood before Captain Oates on the foredeck.
"Is that test of yours infallible?" Oates asked, turning red.
"By no means. But this boy's not lying about the Lydia Bailey. Something sank her, and I don't think it had anything to do with Japanese battleships. He's too detailed. The only thing analogous would be…I mean to say, the only thing that jibes..."
"Jibes with what? Are you saying he saw some kind of dinosaurs? I've been almost fifty years at sea, Doctor. I've heard of many a strange thing. Seen a few myself. But never anything like this."
&n
bsp; "Dinosaur, yes. What he describes sounds very much like a plesiosaur. But he ascribes it too many non‑reptilian characteristics. Traces of hair, for one. Not an abundance. A few bristles around the snout. But he remembers them vividly. He also says one of them roared so loudly they could not hear for several minutes after. I know of no reptiles that can make that kind of noise. The creatures seemed to move extremely fast when they wanted to, which does not fit the conception of large cold‑blooded lizards. Also, the plesiosars were very slender. Gracile, one could almost say. Pegg says his animals had extraordinarily thick brows. That might account for their ability to pound at the whaler without injuring themselves. But that's not a plesiosaur characteristic."
"Why are you telling me this? He elaborated on his hallucination and you're passing it on as fact."
"A myth is as good as a mile. Sorry. I'm speaking of possibilities, not facts. Quite different things. You're right, of course. Nothing nature could come up with would be more dangerous than Admiral Togo coming over the horizon, except perhaps a typhoon. You have to prepare for the worst. And I agree. Camouflaging the Florida in battle gray is the most prudent course. I'm only saying there's a degree of truth in what Pegg's telling us. There has to be, or the psychogalvametric response wouldn't have been so clear."
The smell of nearpaint lay thick over the Florida. Another day and she would be difficult to spot from a distance. There would be a line of white running along the base of the ship's hull. She rode so low in the water, however, that Oates believed the waves would hide it.
At the Midway Page 34
