At the Midway

by J. Clayton Rogers

  He was running in space.

  Stinking humid breath shot over his skin and down his back. The light from the bunker seemed to dart away like a mayfly.

  Panic sucked his soul. One of the creatures had launched after him, catching him by the shirt. He knew what would happen next. He had seen it happen to others. The serpent would nod its head and he would be flicked between its teeth.

  It was the Rexer that saved him. He held on to it unthinkingly, spasmodically. Added to his own stocky physique, it supplied enough weight to tear the shirt off his back.

  He plummeted. He could not see the ground, only knew it was coming. No way to know when to roll to reduce the impact.

  He could hear bones snap when he hit. But he felt only the beating out of air. Lights sprang out. Then pain came sweeping like a comet, unifying his broken body in a scream of agony.

  0000 - 1238 Hours

  Lieber and Hart had seen the terror of a million nights hanging like a huge ghastly bauble outside the bunker. When running into the bunker they'd felt the guide ropes whip violently in their hands. Something huge was trammeling them and they shouted for Ziolkowski to hurry. The dim light of the battle lantern allowed them to see the Top a second before he took flight. They yelled in dismay.

  When Ziolkowski fell, they did not hesitate. They dashed forward. The creature was not aware the morsel had slipped away and was busy flipping its head in an attempt to turn the shirt into something tastier. Lieber and Hart grabbed the sergeant, ignoring his howls of anguish as they dragged him inside.

  Sand exploded through the entrance, blinding the men and burying those nearest. Some of them felt death on their face and screamed.

  Hamilton Hart was one of them. The scream forced from his lungs was the scream of Alaska, of the Kiltik, of all the men who had died under his command. It was about to happen again. Only this time, he would be a full participant in the death rite.

  Yet even as terror crippled his mind, his body responded to the emergency. He leapt to the front of the bunker to help free the buried men. First he uncovered Lieber, then others. Two were unconscious. As they dragged Ziolkowski to the far end, he opened his eyes and moaned, "My fucking leg...."

  "Looks like shit, Top."

  The bunker shook again. Sand rained down through the crossworks.

  "Douse the lamp!"

  "Belay that!" Ziolkowski shouted. "I think they already know where we are."

  This drew a peculiar twist of laughter from some of them. The sergeant had been laid next to Ace, who had become feverish after his morning in the balloon. The Japanese took one look at Ziolkowski, moaned, and fell back. Hart glanced at them.

  "I think they're all out there."

  "How do you know that?" Ziolkowski gasped.

  "It sounds like it."

  "Hell, one alone sounds like a herd. Hold off. We want to toast them all."

  "Gott!" Lieber jumped back from one of the narrow gun slits as a dark shadow leaned in.

  The bunker shook like sticks.

  "Blow it! The Top don't know--"

  Ziolkowski forced himself up on one elbow. "This Top Kick knows a fucking coward when he sees--" Then the right side of the bunker began caving in. His mind changed quickly. "Do it, Hart!"

  Just before he touched the wires to the battery poles, it dawned on Hart the creatures might have destroyed the connections. They had buried the wires three feet deep. The remaining gas cans were buried half their height at an angle so that the explosions would be directed towards the center. But his calculations and precautions seemed meaningless in the turmoil. After all, they'd figured the bunker would hold out at least a week--and it was already a shambles.

  He pressed the wires to the battery.

  His teeth shifted sides when the gasoline bombs went off. Through a gun slit he saw volcanoes erupt. Heat shot in like live coals down a chute. He shielded his eyes with his forearm. Light flared through his lids. He let out a laugh of triumph.

  Then he felt the walls caving in.

  XXIV

  June, 1908  28°20'N, 177°22'W

  From the Deck Log of the USS Florida:

  All hands formed on gun deck and Mr. Grissom read the Articles of War; this caused great consternation among the crew but the Captain has expressed the possibility that we are entering a war zone; 2/c Seaman Swofford put on half pay ($13 mo) for assaulting a gunner's mate; advised that had this happened after the Articles had been read the penalty might have been death.

  1130 Hours

  The island came up like a chip on a pond. A peculiar apple-green reflection in the sky was their first indication. One would have thought they were coming up on a tropical paradise rather than a meager crust of sand. They noted the dark patterns of birds in flight, yet it was not until they were almost on top of the atoll that the lookouts saw its white outline. The next instant, every eye began scanning for smoke from enemy funnels as a sense of reality took hold of their senses. If the Japs were about, they posed a far deadlier threat than the things described by William Pegg.

  "Captain... this is an atoll," said the exec.

  "Quite right. Ring back two-thirds. I don't want to squat over any outlying coral."

  "Back two-thirds, sir!" The engine room telegraph rang loudly in the tense pilothouse.

  "Right, eighteen degrees rudder."

  "Right, eighteen degrees rudder, sir!"

  "Note those breakers, Grissom."

  "Nasty, sir," the exec agreed.

  "Keep two and a half cables between us. God knows how many have wrecked here."

  The crash of the sea against the ram simmered down to a sluggish parting of water. Raising his binoculars, Oates fixed a wary eye on the reef, then peered at the island. Other than the birds, there was no sign of life offshore or on. "That must be Lower Brook."

  "According to the chart, they call it Eastern now." Grissom left, returned a minute later. "Still no signal from Hart."

  Oates experienced a twinge of sadness as he listened to a petty officer repeat the soundings that were coming in over the telephone. In earlier days he'd hearkened to the leadsman's chant from the foredeck, a different little song for each sounding as the man on the leadsman's platform heaved the chains. The Navy's conversion to giant capital ships had eliminated that charming necessity, so reminiscent of a suitor approaching a coltish and wary female who could sink him with alarming ease. The world was now much too fast for the old chants… and too distant. The leadsman was remote, far out of earshot from the bridge. He called out the depth briskly to a boatswain's mate, who then relayed the information to a petty officer, who in turn relayed it to the captain or watch commander. Might as well be listening to Madame Blavatsky talking to the dead, Oates thought grimly.

  "We should be able to see the balloon HH told us about."

  "Nothing on the water."

  Fifteen minutes later, Grissom raised an arm. "There's the coaling station."

  "No damage I can see. Damn. I was hoping... no, there's no way we can risk going into the lagoon."

  "The barges are tied up. I can't--okay, there's the tug. On the beach. I hope the boiler tubes are all that's wrong with her."

  "Hmmph."

  "And that would be the relay station."

  "What's left of it. Something's been here, lieutenant."

  "Yes, sir. Still nothing on the water."

  "They could be hiding on the other side. I don't see any masts or smoke, though."

  "Looks like they've been moving a helluva lot of sand. Or something very large--" Grissom spat, as if he could not believe what he'd been about to say. "Could've been a sneak raid by the Nips. Take a few prisoners, turn things on end."

  "In short, a warning to President Roosevelt to stay out of the Pacific." His voice tinged with concern, Oates wondered out loud, "You don't think Togo himself is out here, do you?"

  The exec stared bleakly at the possibility that the man who had annihilated the Russian fleet was at Midway and tactfully declined to voice a
n opinion.

  "Not a soul...."

  "We'll have to send in a landing force."

  "In time, Mr. Grissom. Let's steam around her first." His voice was querulous. Time was the last thing they had. But he dared not go in without scouting the situation.

  "Nothing on the water...."

  Picking up the brass telephone connecting the bridge with the masthead, Oates rang the forward lookout. "You see anything on the islands?"

  "Nothing, sir," came the tinny response. "There are some buildings inland--on Sand Island, I guess that is. One's a warehouse, I think. It doesn't appear damaged. Everything else is flattened or burned. It looks to me like the garrison's been wiped out, sir."

  "Let me know if you see anyone, alive or dead."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  "Uh, captain...?"

  Oates glanced at his exec. "Yes?"

  "How can we be sure this is Midway? All we have is a speck on the map. The cable director drew this map up from memory."

  "See that burned out shell on the north shore of Sand? It looks similar to the submarine cable station in Newfoundland. That's the relay station, all right." Oates was about to step out of the pilothouse when the lookout phone jangled violently. He nearly pulled a muscle turning back. "What?"

  "Captain, to starboard...."

  "Where to starboard?"

  Grissom overheard and ran to the starboard wing of the bridge to scan the water with his binoculars.

  "Do you see masts?" Oates asked when the lookout failed to elaborate.

  "Sir... I...."

  "Well?"

  "Nothing, sir. I thought I saw... it must be a patch of coral."

  "Are we in danger of hitting it?"

  "I... don't see it anymore, sir." The lookout's tone anticipated a backlash from the captain. But the skipper was too flustered to issue a reprimand and slammed the phone on its hook.

  The whole thing was spooky. No sign of life on shore. Ghost sightings on the beam. Made his skin crawl. He braced himself on the bridge screen for a moment, then joined Grissom. He opened his mouth to speak, stopped, raised his Zeiss glass to starboard. Certainly, in weather as clear as this, the seaman in the mast bubble would not have risked Oates' anger for nothing. But what could he have seen?

  Damn peculiar.

  Peculiar too was the very weather which should have eliminated uncertainty in any sighting. Where were all the clouds and storms Rear Admiral Thomas had told him about? The atoll was as serene as a lady's boudoir. Then again, Oates knew better than most how false that kind of serenity could be.

  "What did he see, sir?" Lieutenant Grissom asked, staring hard to starboard.

  Instead of answering, Oates said, "Have you seen the coal returns? Whether we like it or not, we're going to have to send in a landing party. If we don't start loading soon, we'll be dead in the water by tomorrow morning."

  "I'll notify the Captain of the Marines."

  1212 Hours

  The gun captain listened through his headset, then nodded down at the others. "Permission granted."

  There was a barely perceptible sigh of relief as Garrett and Beck turned the bolt and pushed open the turret hatch. For a moment the only change was the influx of morning sunlight. The men squinted Some of them sneezed. Then the direction of the ship changed slightly and a fresh breeze wafted through the hatchway. Overhead and aft, they could hear other hatches clang open as gun crews won permission to relieve the sweltering heat in their turrets.

  Opened up, the rule of silence was temporarily suspended. The men exchanged comments in low tones. No one had the slightest idea what was going on, only that the fight they had expected seemed somehow delayed. No antagonist, bestial or otherwise, was in sight. Turning back towards the chamber, Garrett bumped into Midshipman Beck. Both men jumped as though static-shocked. The men in the turret glanced briefly their way, then looked off into a nonexistent distance.

  1235 Hours

  No one was allowed out on maindecks. Anyone caught in the open could be killed or blown overboard by the concussion of the twelve-inchers and Captain Oates had given Dr. Singleton his deadliest look when warning him to stay away from his bridge. Which left him two options: He could remain in his cabin and get drunk or he could wander belowdecks.

  While he had managed to stay sober over the last forty-eight hours, the stain of embarrassment had not washed away. The scornful looks the bluejackets tossed at him as he staggered to sick bay to interview Pegg had marred him forever. He doubted he could ever give up drink, but he would take every precaution against ever appearing drunk in public again. If he sequestered himself in his cabin while all hell broke loose outside, he would go mad. And get drunk.

  So he wandered the passageways, bemused but sober. Sudden storms of sailors would appear gullying through the corridors, prompting a wild dash on his part to escape their path. But most men were at their stations. Where was Midshipman Davis? he wondered.

  He went through one of the heavy water-tight doors near the torpedo room and came upon a long empty corridor that was, except for the thrum of engines far below, completely silent. This uniqueness tempted him to enter its length, yet each step brought increasing disquiet, as though he had entered a world where silence was no longer golden.

  "Doc! Hey, Doc!"

  Singleton was so astonished by this voice from nowhere that he whirled a full circle. "Hello?"

  "I got something to tell you. Hurry! They'll be sending down another guard any minute."

  Something dark and sinuous emerged from the wall. The doctor could just make out the glimmer of an eye above the outstretched hand. Moving ahead cautiously, he encountered a face that was little more than a smear of soot and blood.

  "Closer."

  "This is the ship prison, isn't it?" Singleton noted the small barred window. "I mean, the brig."

  "Doc, if you can get me a drink... something to cut this taste in my mouth--you can see it tastes pretty bad--I can tell you something that'll save your life."

  "Why are you in there?"

  "No one'll know, if you hurry. The provo came and took the guard away. Wanted him with the landing party. But they'll be sending someone else."

  "I have to go."

  "Doc... I hear you got rum and whiskey in your cabin. Everyone knows it. You don't half walk, but crawl. So c'mon, you can spare a drop... sir."

  Even through the narrow opening, Singleton detected the stench of long sweat mingled with coal dust. The devil's own cloud poisoning the atmosphere. The doctor reeled back in revulsion and fear. A caged animal was pointing out a horrible fault to a human.

  And the animal was right.

  1243 Hours

  "Move it, move it. If you can't lift your black ass, drag it!"

  The stewards were not the only ones shifting cargo in the lower holds, but the petty officer overseeing the job chose them as the chief targets for his insults.

  These were desperate minutes. The ship's ballast had been shifted in the belief they would have a fight on their hands the moment they reached Midway. Now it seemed they would be taking on fuel first. All the hard labor done the day before had to be reversed. Cargo and ballast had to be adjusted to accept the load of coal.

  The Florida was paying a heavy price for the festive spirit with which she had departed Hampton Roads. Not only a superabundance of supplies, but five pianos, a ton of party favors, an equal weight in fireworks, extra tables, crockery and victuals--all the innumerable notions needed to make foreign dignitaries happy--inflicted a grievous burden on her fighting trim. This imbalance had not been a drawback during their practice runs off Mexico. At that time, their coal bunkers had been full, offsetting the holiday load. But with the bunkers now nearly empty, a major reorganization of materiel was required to allow smoother, quicker maneuvering.

  Amos had missed the first detail. Captain Oates had been insistent that his men be well fed on the eve of battle, so the stewards had been kept busy on the messdecks. After the last bluejacket had eaten, Amos
had tried to sleep. Because of the overcrowded conditions, the stewards were compelled to sleep in the common mess. Finding sleep impossible, he had tried to deliver the flask to Gilroy.

  Shamed by his confrontation with the marines guarding the stoker, he'd barely returned to his hammock before word came down: The fight was off. They would be taking on coal. Work crews were needed immediately to reshift the cargo.

  "And that means you," the petty officer barked as he roused the stewards.

  Tons of party supplies had to be laboriously removed. The insidious coal dust penetrated the protective canvas coverings. From there, it was transferred to the men in the detail, then to the passageway walls. Palm prints lined the corridors like children's graffiti.

  Chains clattered and men shouted warnings against things falling or things about to fall. The sounds registered as faint echoes in Amos' mind. He was dead from exhaustion and lack of sleep; dead in spirit after his humiliation before the marines. The thick mesh imprisoning the electric bulbs in the passageways chopped the air with cruel shadows. Amos would have been little surprised had a warden popped up to tell him his execution could be delayed no longer.

  For so long he had contemplated rebellion against his predicament. Burning Ensign Garrett's supper and the ambush that had ensued from that act had been but the opening shots of the war.

  The abject creature that had cowered before the marines shocked him with truth. A lone man's moral shout stood no chance of being heard in the mechanized, modern world exemplified by the Navy. At most, it could be misinterpreted as a knock in the machinery. Garrett's beating had been almost conversational next to what the marines could dole out. And no one would hear.

  There was a gap between the leg and body of the upright piano he was helping to carry. Turning a sharp corner, they rested the instrument on the deck for an instant. The gap closed on Amos' palm. His howls rifled the corridor as he lifted his end to pull out. But the piano leg had clamped tight against the frame, locking his skin no matter how high he raised it.