“Just go get a goddamn grenade!” Spanky raged.
“Shhhh!” cautioned Laney. “You’re gonna wake the Skipper!”
Spanky’s angry expression changed to a worried frown. “Say, you know, a grenade’d probably do that too. Damn it. I better go talk to the exec. See what he thinks. If he says okay, I’ll pick one up myself.” He started forward, but then stopped in the narrow space between the rail and the aft deckhouse. He turned and looked at Silva. “Gimme that note back, you.” With an expression of purest innocence, Silva passed him the small rectangle of paper and Spanky wadded it up and threw it over the side.
Twenty minutes later, he returned with two hand grenades hooked on his belt and a sour expression on his face. “Skipper wasn’t asleep at all. He was on the bridge.” He cast an accusatory glare at Mahan. “Bastards over there kept him awake, I’ll bet, with all their damn noise.” He plucked one of the grenades like a pear and held it in his hand. “He said to give it a try.” Without another word, or a warning of any sort to the men clustered near Mahan’s stern, he pulled the pin and dropped the grenade over the side. The spoon flipped away as soon as it left his hand, and with a sullen kerplunk! the grenade was on its way to the bottom of the bay. Seconds later, there was a dull flash and the sea between the ships turned opaque white. Even as the surface heaved, they felt a jolt through the deck plates beneath their feet. A geyser of water erupted skyward and the prevailing wind carried the bulk of the spray down upon the men on Mahan’s fantail, who gestured and cursed.
Cheers and happy, good-natured jeering broke out on Walker, and even on Mahan, since the man most thoroughly inundated was Al “Jolson” Franklen. Franklen had once enjoyed a measure of celebrity throughout the squadron before the War. He did a really good Al Jolson impersonation and he wasn’t shy about performing. But even before Pearl Harbor, his act had begun to sour—for a variety of reasons—and most of his fans became distant. Then, of course, he was one of the few Mahans still alive who’d supported Kaufman’s mutiny. He only agreed to resume his duties with a full pardon—which Jim Ellis had been obliged to give because of how shorthanded his ship was. In any event, he wasn’t a celebrity anymore and the jeering continued long after he strode forward, stony-faced and soaked to the bone.
Ignoring the noise, Spanky, Laney, and Silva too were staring intently at the water. Dead flashies, belly-up, appeared at the surface. Many trailed bloody tendrils but most were unmarked. The other crewmen on both ships quickly forgot their momentary indignity or amusement and joined them in their scrutiny of the grenade’s effect. A large flashy swirled and bumped gently against the side of the ship. It twitched. It twitched again. For an instant, they thought it had resuscitated itself, but then it jerked violently and a dark cloud spread around it. Within moments, the surface of the water around and between the two destroyers’ propeller guards boiled and seethed with ravenous flashies as they gorged on the bodies of their schoolmates. Laney looked at Spanky, his face a pale, waxy green.
“Fire in the hole!” Spanky warned this time, and dropped the second grenade. The effect was similar to the first, with the exception that the Mahans had time to scramble under the aft deckhouse overhang before they were drenched again. This time, there was only the briefest calm before the roiling frenzy redoubled.
“Oh, well,” Spanky grumped, regarding Laney with deadpan remorselessness. “Back to plan A.”
“Captain, Lieutenant Mallory’s on the horn,” reported the radioman,„ Clancy. “He’s crossing Madura—I mean B’mbaado—now, sir.”
“Very well,” Matt acknowledged. “Tell him to watch out for wrecks in the bay when he sets down.”
“Aye, sir,” came the reply and Clancy disappeared back down the ladder.
“Too bad we can’t just roll a depth charge over the side,” Steve Riggs said, resuming the interrupted conversation. “We still have a full load of those.”
Garrett shook his head. “A depth charge is not a hand grenade. If we did that, we’d blow the stern right off the ship.” Matt nodded agreement. He was sitting in his chair on the bridge sipping “monkey joe,” the local equivalent of coffee, which actually looked and tasted somewhat like coffee except for the greenish foam. He mostly just listened while his officers and senior NCOs brainstormed about the propeller problem.
“I can’t send a man over the side,” Spanky said. “He’d be torn to bits.”
“Maybe we could beach Mahan, take off her screw, and then refloat her with the tide,” Dowden suggested doubtfully. “Then do the same with Walker. If one ship gets stuck, we can pull her off with the other.”
“That’s something to consider,” Jim mused. “How high do the tides run around here? The charts ought to say, but it’s awful risky this close to the equator. I doubt they run more than a couple feet. Besides, more ships than I like to think about have been lost trying to pull stranded vessels off a bank in confined waters. What was that cruiser, twenty years ago or so, that tried to pull that sub off a shoal? The line parted and the cruiser went aground. Total loss. What was her name?”
“Milwaukee,” answered Spanky.
Gray grunted. “That’s all we need. Our own little Honda Point.” He referred to the 1923 catastrophe when seven four-stackers ran hard aground on the California coast in a dense fog. “A fine stupid mess we’d be in then.”
Matt shook his head. “I have to say, that’s my least favorite option so far, gentlemen. Nobody wants to deliberately beach his ship.”
“Maybe we could build a cage of some sort,” Sandison speculated. “Lower it over the side next to the screw and let the divers take it off through the bars.”
Spanky looked at the torpedo officer with surprise. “Hey! That might work. We’ve only got the one little crane aft for handling the depth charges and it won’t lift a screw, but we could use it for the cage and then rig a boom off the main mast to raise the propeller, I bet.”
“Keep working on it. I know you’ll get it figured out,” Matt said. Then he frowned and looked at his watch. “I’m afraid Mr. Ellis and I have to leave you now. We have . . . a couple of funerals to attend.” He glanced at Garrett and Chief Gray. “You too. The men we lost were in your divisions. Have the burial party turned out as sharply as they can manage.” He sighed and stood carefully from his chair, groaning slightly. “I’ll meet you ashore at, say, sixteen hundred. The Lemurians have some sort of funeral planned for dusk, I believe. We may have to be flexible, but I want to bury our people as close to eighteen hundred as we can.”
“You sure we shouldn’t just bury them at sea?” Gray asked quietly.
Matt took a breath and grimly let it out. “I’m sure. I hated putting Marvaney over the side and I’ve never felt right about it. Not like I probably would . . . back home. Not like I did when we buried all the people we lost in the fight running away from this damn place. But that was different—at least we thought it was.” He shook his head, but his frown remained. “Besides,” he finally added, “these guys fought for this crummy place . . .” He didn’t continue. There was no need. The following silence was broken by the lookout’s report that the plane had been sighted.
“Sixteen hundred, Mr. Dowden,” reminded Matt as Riggs replied to the lookout. “Carry on here. Show the flag at half-mast, if you please, and I’ll want one to take ashore. I doubt we have enough to cover them all, so we’ll just have to make do.” Instead of departing as he’d intended, he remained a moment longer with a thoughtful expression. In the distance, the droning engines of the PBY could be faintly heard. “What happened to our flag they carried during the battle?”
“The Second Marines, Skipper. They have it,” Gray answered.
Matt nodded with approval. “Good. We’ll use that one instead.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” they chorused.
Freshly shaved and dressed in his less than pristine whites, Matt appeared at the place he had specified for the burial services to commence. Sandra, Ellis, Bradford, and Shinya accompanied him. Toge
ther they waited amid a growing crowd of curious Lemurians and stared somberly at the Marines guarding the five small graves. There might have been six as far as Matt was concerned, had the ’Cat they lost during the Battle of the Bay not gone over the side. The location of the new cemetery caused considerable controversy. Matt insisted on the flat, high ground right beside the road from the waterfront and just a short distance in front of the hasty breastworks they’d thrown up facing—and in clear view of—Aryaal’s main gate. From which, there had still been no word at all.
Lord Rolak joined them, as did Queen Maraan. Rolak had polished his armor and replaced his missing plume, but in spite of his expressionless eyes, his deep frown left no doubt he was troubled. He spoke to Captain Reddy through Courtney Bradford. “My lord,” he began hesitantly, “I am yours, as you know, and will do as you command. But since you’ve placed the burden of friendship upon me, it is my duty to counsel against this act.” Matt turned cold eyes upon him as he continued. “If we and the sea folk agree on one thing, it is that the souls of the dead belong in the heavens, where they are taken by the flames of the pyre. Not planted in the ground—from which they may never ascend.” Rolak had little experience upon which to base his perception of human expressions, but Matt’s darkening mood was clear enough. As a credit to his courage, he continued. “Please. Do not take offense. I understand you have different beliefs, as do we differ from the sea folk regarding where those souls ultimately reside. But to do this here, like this, can only breed resentment among those beyond the walls who wish us ill.”
Matt nodded calmly enough, but when he spoke, his quiet words were iron. “On land, burial is the way of our people. We believe our God can find our souls wherever they are. The men we’re going to bury here today died to save your city—the same as the sea folk and the people who followed you did. I’m going to bury them in the shadow of that city, so, from now on, people who live here will see their graves and remember the sacrifice they made for a people who—with a few noble exceptions—didn’t lift a finger in their own defense and then betrayed those who did. Tomorrow, we’ll talk to whoever rules behind those walls whether they want to or not, and you’ll tell them what I said and why we’re doing this. You’ll also tell them that if I ever hear these graves have been desecrated in any way, or the memory of the men we bury here is ever given less than the respect it deserves, I’ll steam here in Walker from wherever I am and reduce this city to dust. No offense.”
Adar arrived beside Matt while he spoke, and he wore a different robe than the one in which they usually saw him. This one was black instead of purple, and golden stars covered it entirely instead of the usual silver ones upon the shoulders. “Not until this moment,” Adar said, “did I truly realize how different your people are from mine, Cap-i-taan. I knew from the beginning that we worshiped differently, of course, but I always believed that, in the end, we only sailed a different wind to the same destination. Your ‘charts,’ as you call them—when I first saw them, I was angry. I believed you didn’t treat them with proper respect, but I made that judgment from within the context of my own belief. When I came to know you, I lost my anger, particularly in light of the kind of people I now know you to be. I believed you were heretics, yes, and misguided, but certainly not nonbelievers.” Adar sighed, looked at Matt, and blinked compassion. “But you are.” He held up a placating hand. “Do not be angry! What I mean is, I now know you do not believe at all the same as we, and I suppose I am relieved.” There was a rattling growl deep in his throat that was a kind of chuckle. “You’re not warping the True Faith as I feared. Any similarity between your practices and mine are entirely coincidental. You do not disrespect my faith either intentionally or otherwise—you don’t share it at all! This ‘burying’ of souls in the ground is proof enough of that!” He stopped and glanced at Rolak. “Although, if it must be done, I find it highly appropriate for you to do it here.”
Matt looked at his friend with new respect. With a human Bronze Age priest, this would have been about when the torches would be lit.
“You’re not angry that we don’t share your beliefs?” Sandra asked.
“Of course not,” Adar replied. “No one can be forced to accept the True Faith. It would not then be True, would it? I was only . . . uncomfortable . . . when I thought you mocked it.” He looked darkly at Rolak. “As the Aryaalans do.”
Rolak sniffed. “A lie,” he said pedantically.
Matt was looking at the Marines and the graves they guarded. “You might be wrong, Adar. My people sail many winds to reach the same destination, but once there, I believe the place might yet still be the same. Perhaps the same as yours.” A commotion grew behind them and they saw the approach of seven destroyermen dressed in whites. They had probably scrounged both ships to find so many bright, clean outfits. All of them carried Springfields on their shoulders and they marched in step well enough, despite being more than a little rusty. Matt swelled at the sight, as well as when he saw the battle-scarred American flag that had been rescued by the Second Marines leading the way. He was surprised to see who carried it. Walking slowly in front of the riflemen, also dressed in whites with gaiters laced on above his bare feet and with his battered helmet on his head, was Chack-Sab-At. His eyes were grimly set and focused before him and his tail was held erect as it swayed back and forth behind him as he walked.
The firing party halted beside the graves and the flag fluttered in the breeze between them and the walls of Aryaal. “I have to go now,” Matt said quietly, and stepped quickly through the Marine guard to stand before the graves, facing the growing crowd with his back to the city. He reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his small Bible, but found himself faced with the difficulty of opening it with one hand. Sandra rushed to join him, opening the book to a page where he had inserted a small piece of paper. He looked at her and smiled.
“Please stay,” he said. She returned his smile with a supportive one of her own and took her place beside him. A column of thirty destroyermen was moving toward them, swaying in step from side to side. Between each group of six was the body of one of their comrades, sewn in his mattress cover. Chief Gray led the procession, hobbling on his crutches. When they drew even with Ellis, Jim joined the Chief and the column followed the pair to the graves. Matt noticed that almost half of the party who bore the bodies of his crewmen were Lemurians, in spite of what might be a religious aversion toward what they were doing. He felt a surge of affection for them, mingled with a sadness that the original crews of the two destroyers had dwindled so far. When the bodies were deposited beside the graves, the bearers stepped back.
To Matt’s further surprise, the final member of the procession was a stony-faced Dennis Silva. Before him in his hands he carefully carried Mack Marvaney’s portable phonograph. He stepped into position beside Chief Gray where a bugler would have been if they’d had one, set the phonograph on the ground, and opened it. It had already been wound and he merely released the brake and positioned the needle on a record as the turntable began to spin.
“Atten-shun!” barked Gray.
Sounding tinny and forlorn, emanating from the open louver in the side of the small machine, “The Star-Spangled Banner” began to play. Instinctively, all the destroyermen, human and Lemurian, snapped a salute to the flag that floated over Chack’s head. The recording was an upbeat, cheerful, even sort of jazzy rendition like Matt had heard played by a lot of dance bands before the War to start things off. For a poignant moment he could almost smell the perfume of a girl he’d danced with in San Diego when he was on his way to the Philippines to take command of Walker. Many of those in the gathered crowd gasped at the unexpected music, but Matt felt a sudden tightness in his throat and a strange pressure behind his eyes. He blinked.
Looking sidelong at Sandra, he saw a sad, wistful expression and as the anthem ended and Silva leaned down to turn off the machine, he saw tears streaming down the gunner’s mate’s face. Tears for Tom Felts, or Mack Marvaney, or any of th
e dozens they’d lost, there was no way to know. Or maybe he was just thinking about all they’d left behind.
“Pa-RADE, REST!”
Matt cleared his throat and looked at the book Sandra held open for him. Then he shook his head. “I never was one much for church,” he apologized, “and I guess we’ve all missed a few services lately.” Some of the men chuckled quietly, in spite of themselves. “It’s not my way, or my place, I think, to preach a sermon here today. I do want to say a few words about these men we are burying, as well as all the rest of you destroyermen. Like all of us—except maybe Juan—Tom Felts and Glen Carter, Andy Simms, Loris Scurrey, and Gil Olivera were a long way from home even before the Japs bombed Pearl and Cavite. For some reason, all of us are even farther away now. Tom was from Arkansas. Glen and Andy were both from Ohio. Gil was from New York and Loris was from California.” He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts.
“Mr. Ellis is from Virginia and so is Lieutenant Tucker. Sonny Campeti is from New Jersey and Frankie Steele is from Brooklyn. Chief Gray and Dennis Silva are from Alabama. I miss Texas as much as any of you miss the places you’re from . . .” He shrugged. “We might be stuck here, however it happened. My guess is we probably are. But no matter how far we’ve come from those places we yearn for, they’ll always be with us—part of us—deep down. And no matter how far apart they were from each other, those places had one thing in common. They were part of the United States of America, and that made us all Americans.” He looked out at the faces of the firing party and the bearers, and some of the others who had come ashore. He saw out into the bay where Walker and Mahan floated side by side in the distance and, for the moment, those who’d stayed aboard them lined the rails and the flags flew low. “We’re all still part of that no matter how far we’ve come. We were still Americans in the Philippines, and by God, we’re still Americans here.”
Crusade Page 19
