At the Midway

by J. Clayton Rogers

  She quickly hunted him down. He had slipped through Gooney and Spit Islands and was charging through the ocean south of the atoll, trying to outrace the pain near his shoulder. When he sensed the approach of the mother he planed in her direction. She was making hunting sounds. He would tag along, as usual, and feed off the leftovers. Hunger pains far exceeded the sting of his wound.

  Something was odd about the hunt-pulse of the mother. The sonic vibrations settled around his body, pinpointing the young male as the target. Slowly, he began veering away. When the pulse became stronger, there was no mistaking her intention.

  Too late, he put on a burst of speed. He was several miles from Eastern Island when the mother cut him off. He let out a sound unfamiliar to the ancient ocean: pure Tu-nel fear.

  The adult caught his right fin. He was spun around in a huge arc, creating a whirlpool that sucked and cracked driftwood. He struggled, but she held, until the fin was severed and he jinked wildly to the right.

  Coming alongside the male, the mother attacked the rip in his hide. She caught the edge of the wound. As the male turned she was carried with him. A ten-foot gash was torn in his side. Torn, red muscles dangled like massive chunks of bait, the young male chumming the ocean with his own body.

  The mother sank her huge teeth into his throat. After fifteen minutes of wild thrashing, hopeless defensive gestures and cries of submission, the young male drooped. Its long neck swayed in the current, aimless.

  The adult had torn chunks of meat from the male while he was still alive. Already her strength and energy were returning. Something like a stroke of genius came to her. Usually, she would eat her fill, then let the remains drop to the ocean bed. But a spark from the lean ages, when the riverine Tu-nel dragged their prey to the shore for future feedings, fired her own instincts. Taking hold of the male's neck, she pulled the body onto the reef south of Eastern.

  The battleship was the noisiest entity she'd ever encountered. Far more rackety than the ill-fated Lydia Bailey. Vaguely, she sensed the danger it presented, made the association between the fire it spit and the death of Green Stripes.

  She took advantage of the late afternoon light to bask. Afterwards, she slid underwater and listened to the sea sounds.

  Then she made a long, casual circumvention of the atoll. She would take another look... at the noise.

  XXVIII

  1715 Hours

  The ship stank of smoke and cordite. A third of the dead-lights in the passageways were shattered, the broken bulbs lying in their wire cages like sharp feathers in a nest. Amos had to feel his way much of the time. Seamen cursed lowly when he touched them with his sticky hands. Coming out amidships, both he and the petty officer leading him sneezed in the sudden light. They climbed the short ladder at the back of the pilothouse and stood at attention before the bridge crew.

  "Phew!" exclaimed the exec, turning his nose up at Amos. "I think we have our answer already, Captain."

  Oates nodded. He could smell the steward clear across the bridge. For his part, Amos was shocked by the captain's appearance. He'd heard nothing about his seizure, and assumed his blanched countenance and the deep pain in his eyes were the result of the day's horrors.

  "We saw that beast come up on you," said Grissom. "We asked you up here to find out why it didn't gobble you up, like it did that poor fellow near you. Dr. Singleton thought it might have something to do with your being a Negro."

  "The beasties might not like the smell of dark meat," the doctor commented.

  "No, sir. It was the duff sauce that put it off," Amos answered, unperturbed. He went on to describe his meeting with William Pegg and their foray into the galley. His listeners were not incredulous. They had, after all, seen that it worked.

  "Scare up Mr. Pegg and take him to the galley," Oates said to the duty petty officer. "And write down the recipe to pass around to the other messdecks. We're going to need enough of this sauce to coat another landing force."

  "Aye, sir."

  Amos was dismissed. Before leaving, he looked at Dr. Singleton. "I'm sorry about Mr. Davis, sir."

  "Midshipman Davis?" the doctor said with a start.

  "It seemed you two was close. I... thought you knew."

  "No...."

  A look of horror crossed Singleton's face.

  1721 Hours

  Captain Oates and his Executive Officer watched as Singleton left the pilothouse, shoulders slouched. Both men uttered soft grunts. They'd not thought the doctor would be so affected by the middy's death, which was why they had not bothered telling him about it when they saw the casualty report.

  Leaving the bridge, they sequestered themselves in the small sea cabin behind the wheelhouse. Grissom noted the old man's hands shaking as he eased himself onto the narrow cot he used whenever he wanted to spend the night near the bridge. He was fond enough of Oates, had no desire for a field promotion at his expense. But he was equally concerned that Oates should not die before they reached Hawaii. A man of his word, he would unquestionably assume all responsibility for the deaths and damage on the Florida. Unless that bit of charity came from Oates' own lips, however, Grissom might as well resign his commission. Any claim that cast aspersion on a dead shipmaster would cause the naval authorities to look askance. Grissom would be lucky to get a job on a tugboat. In a very real way, his livelihood hinged on the captain's life.

  "Our coal situation drastically limits our options, Grissom."

  "We're going to have to drop anchor."

  "And land more men. More artillery. We can't wait for the marines to come back to us. We don't know what their condition is." He pressed his back against the glossy wood paneling and sighed. "The greatest event in history and I'm meat in the locker."

  Grissom pursed his lips. Nothing could top the Annunciation on his list of historic priorities. Notwithstanding, this collision between ancient beast and modern man was certainly momentous--if also ruinous to all involved.

  "I don't want to die out here. Oh, don't look so sour. I've come to a decision. I won't die until the Inquiry's done and finished. Wouldn't want you taking any of the blame for this."

  Blushing fiercely, Grissom busied himself with the cane chair across from the bunk. By the time he was properly seated, Oates had changed the subject.

  "I want volunteers for the new landing party. Ensign Garrett, for one. And that murderous bastard who tried to set fire to my ship."

  "Fireman Gilroy."

  "And anyone else in the brig."

  "Those are the only two, I believe. We need everyone else at their stations. Sir, about Garrett‑‑"

  "I heard how he saved the ship. Admirable. But he fired without orders. God knows how many good men he killed on the island."

  "He may have saved plenty of them, too." The exec immediately regretted his words. The captain's complexion heightened dangerously.

  "What if we'd been dipping colors to the Japanese? A twelve-incher goes off and it's war. I can't have it. Not on my ship!"

  To Grissom, Oates sounded like a man trying to talk away an inoperable cancer. More faith than practicality. Yet he was right. Discipline had to be maintained. While he could not send the entire expensively-trained crew of Turret One to near-certain death, the ranking officer in the turret was another matter.

  "Very well, sir. Ensign Garrett. As for Gilroy, he was let out with Garrett during the attack. I'm afraid the Master‑at‑Arms hasn't been able to locate him."

  The thought of a drug‑crazed arsonist running loose on the Florida lifted Oates from the wall. Cramming his hands on his knees, he hissed, "Every available man‑‑"

  "Is searching for him. But he may have been caught under the boat deck when the casemates caved in. There are still bodies trapped down there."

  Sobered by this information, Oates leaned back. "All right. But I want the search continued. There's no telling what that lunatic's up to, if he's alive. For all we know, he's an Anarchist. Probably is."

  "I think that steward, Macklin, shoul
d go with the landing party. It was remarkable, the way that serpent turned its nose up at him. And maybe we could send some of the other Coloreds. They're available."

  Oates nodded. "Sounds reasonable." He was silent a long moment, then said, "At Trafalgar, one of the things that hampered the Spanish most was their religion. Being good Catholics, they wouldn't toss their dead overboard, but let them pile up. Imagine it, all those corpses rotting on the deck until they could be taken home for a proper burial."

  "We've got our own piled up, sir."

  "For a good reason. These are shallow waters. Anyone sailing by could look down and see them wash up on shore if we sent them at sea here, and I don't fancy that. We'll have burial details take them to the island when this blows over. But for myself… I want something different. See, Nelson's sailors were Protestant. When their men died, they were chucked overboard without a second thought. They had clear decks to fight from, while the Spanish were tripping over their dead. Grissom, I'm not Catholic. Not much of anything, truth be known. But I can't but help believe having a dead captain on board would handicap the operation of my ship. Besides, I don't want my men… well, staring at me. You understand? If I die, over the side." He fell silent for a long moment.

  Grissom swallowed hard. He could not think of anything to say.

  Looking up from his reverie, Oates said, "About those colored boys… if they kick up a fuss, drop it. We'll ask for volunteers from the rest of the crew. This is an historic event. We don't want a footnote that we treated them like slaves."

  "Very well, sir."

  "But Garrett goes. No backing off on that. Picture it, Grissom. I almost made him Officer of the Deck, once. Someone like that, running my ship…."

  "Sad, about Davis."

  "What? Oh, yes. Poor lad. This is a deadly business." He paused a moment, then added, "Grissom, I am not a Catholic. Keep that in mind."

  "Aye, sir."

  1940 Hours

  Throughout the ship a new, awful odor arose from the galleys. William Pegg's recipe for duff sauce had been circulated to all the cooks and was now being replicated by the gallon. Over the protestations of the ship's surgeon, William was taken to every messdeck to check the potency of each batch, like some judge in a smelly food contest. More than one cook's assistant grew nauseous stirring the brew and had to be relieved. When it became general knowledge that members of the landing party would be coated in the stuff, the prospect of volunteering was made unappetizing as well as terrifying.

  So little time. The stokeholds were empty, leaving a half day's supply of coal in the bunkers. Power would be needed for the auxiliaries, especially the searchlights. The landing force would have to leave that evening if they were to start coaling next morning.

  Anchors were dropped bow and stern a half mile from the southern entrance to the lagoon. All the motor launches were still on the island. The second wave would be rowing in. Night had fallen by the time the davits were swung out and the whaleboats lowered from the second level. Rifles were stowed under the thwarts for easy access. Colt machine guns were set up in the bow and stern of each boat.

  Without a fair trial? was Garrett's first thought when Grissom told him of Oates' decision. He saw the proposed second wave as suicidal, duff sauce or no. You could eat anything if you were hungry enough, no matter how bad it smelled. Garrett assumed the serpents were no different from the other beasts, so far as that went.

  His ribs seemed to shift like parched earth. He'd felt the same while watching the preliminary bout the day he fought Beck. Cast adrift from iron security, at risk from the very unpredictability of a direct flesh‑against‑flesh confrontation. It was utterly different from the dangerous‑yet‑mathematical, step‑by‑step certainty of the twelve‑inch turret. The process of loading, priming, aiming and firing made violence comprehensible. In an open boat, in the dark, no such order existed. Death in primal form, waiting.

  Yet he hid his fear. Grissom eyed him closely, then nodded and left.

  The forward gun crew edged around the turret. They'd overheard the exec, and looked on Garrett like someone already dead. They were stripped to their shorts, finally free of their explosive cosmetic. The ensign had hosed them down as they emerged. The pressurized water stung, but their relief had been inexpressible.

  Afterwards, Garrett had entered the chamber and closed off all vents that might allow the powder‑mud to leak down to the magazine and handling rooms. It took him the better part of an hour to hose the turret out. The young loader who'd been so certain he would die--and take the ship with him in the process --looked on with tears in his eyes. Midshipman Beck patted him on the shoulder, then stepped away. He had to choke back a sob himself as he watched the dirty water flow out the lower side vents down to the scuppers.

  When Garrett emerged with the hose and shot him a grin, Beck could not help returning it. He sensed that somehow, they were now even.

  "It isn't right," he murmured to Garrett as Grissom walked away after delivering Oates' edict.

  "Someone has to go," Garrett stoically commented. "From the look of it, that lagoon's no deeper than ten feet. We have a draught of twenty-four feet‑‑more, with all the party favors on board. That leaves…." Garrett made a rowing motion with his arms, then shook his head. "Aw, damn. Aw, damn...."

  1945 Hours

  The stewards were assembled in the Colored mess when Lieutenant Grissom asked for volunteers. He understood the silence that greeted his request, and thought he knew a good way to crack it.

  "Now, all you boys were upset when you lost your ratings. I understand and sympathize. If I were you, though, I'd see this as a golden opportunity. I can't guarantee anything. You know that. But by Godfrey, I can see promotions‑‑Seaman First Class‑‑for anyone signing up. Now…." He leaned forward on one of the gleaming mess tables. "You can rest assured every searchlight and every gun will be trained on you. Guarding your flank, I mean. And we know the marines have at least one of their three‑inchers operating on the island." He paused, flipped his hand in the air. "For all we know, the serpents are all dead, or chased off. No one's seen hide nor hair of them since early afternoon, when the marines plugged one of them. A big slick of blood was spotted near the reef‑‑you've all heard about it. Stretches half a league to the south. They could all be on the bottom right this moment. Oversized fishbait."

  Fishbait. That's what they want us for, thought Amos. He twisted where he sat, as if offering a profile would make him less visible. Grissom had looked directly at him when entering the mess. There was a sinister cast to his eyes and Amos had glanced away, wary of any wordless message the exec might try to convey.

  "One of your own has already signed up with the party. Mr. Macklin…."

  Amos started to jump to his feet in violent protest. But Grissom caught his eye and the wordless message got through: Cooperate.

  Or else.

  The punishments a white officer could bring down on the head of a black steward were nearly unlimited in scope and severity. For all his doubts, Amos possessed fierce ambitions. This was living hell. Grissom had it in his power to make it permanent. So Amos eased back.

  And nodded.

  "That true, Amos?" one of the other stewards asked incredulously. "You goin' out there?"

  He nodded again, looking grimly over the man's head. He was ashamed to meet the black faces of his peers. He did not feel courageous, but like the worst type of abject coward. He was compromising his soul.

  "You're a credit to your race, Mr. Macklin."

  Amos had no intention of responding. He gripped the edge of the bench to anchor his wrath. And at that instant his fingers came upon something that felt like sludge.

  As a group, sailors in the United States Navy were fanatically clean. Visitors to the cruisers and battleships of the Fleet were invariably amazed that, amidst all the soot and coal dust and oxidized metal, the seamen could remain so impeccable, their blues and whites so marvelously spotless. When Amos was splashed with duff sauce
he'd been almost frantic to clean himself and his uniform. Promptly after his meeting on the bridge he had showered, hastily dunked his whites in a bucket of seawater, and donned his steward jacket and trousers.

  Chewing gum! That was what his hand had come upon. If the first lieutenant discovered it during one of his inspections, it would mean extra duty for every colored man on board. The idea that one of them had been so stupid as to clump it below the bench blew away his inhibitions. He rose. He did not face Grissom, but the other stewards.

  "What do you say, boys?" His back to the exec, his voice lowered, he added, "Let's show them."

  They immediately understood. Rather than cower, as was expected, they would rejoice in the danger, and show… them.

  Every black man on the Florida who was not on duty was in that room. Mess attendants--first, second and third Class. Warrant officers' stewards and warrant officers' cooks. Steerage stewards and steerage cooks. Wardroom stewards and wardroom cooks. Cabin stewards and cabin cooks. The commandant's steward. The commandant's cook.

  It was a roster that staggered under its own monotony. They did not serve the Navy. They served the Navy's belly.

  More than half of them stood that instant, giving a rousing shout.

  They would go.

  Amos was stunned. He had not meant to play into Grissom's hands like this. His call had been one of sarcasm, not patriotism. He wanted to shout them down as fools and dupes. But he had been the dupe. A golden opportunity, Grissom had said.

  Well, maybe he was right.

  He turned and stood at attention. Black man and white man exchanged amazed glances as they listened to the rousing cheer set up by the cooks and messmen. But Amos managed the better face and announced, "Here we are, sir!"

  2000 Hours

  "Dangerous?" said Singleton. "Not in the least. We're speaking of reptiles, Captain. Cold‑blooded. They don't move around at night."