Crusade

by Taylor Anderson

  “Starboard ahead two-thirds!” The frothing wake reappeared at the surface and the vibration increased dramatically. A slight fishtail began to manifest itself and Matt compensated accordingly. Still the screw refused to budge. “Somebody wipe this sweat off my face!” he ordered tersely. It was beginning to run down and burn his eyes. He couldn’t do it with his left sleeve since that arm was still immobilized against his chest and he didn’t dare let go of the wheel with his right. With nothing else at hand, Dowden sopped at the sweat with his own sleeve.

  “Starboard ahead, flank!” Matt grated. Dowden looked at him for an instant, but relayed the command. He glanced past the captain at Spanky, who was clearly concerned about the cables, but the engineer only shrugged. The prop wash from the starboard screw erupted into the air, inundating Laney, Silva, and the others who were poised on the fantail with axes, ready to cut the cables. A considerable spray even reached the auxiliary conn. The ship writhed in protest. The rattling groan was so loud now that it wasn’t possible to be heard below a scream. For two whole minutes it seemed the ship would tear herself apart while the captain fought the wheel. Smoke from the overworked boilers piled straight up into the still air in spite of the violent expenditure of energy, creating a surreal effect. The crew, human and Lemurian, exchanged worried glances.

  “Back her down!” Matt finally yelled. “Two-thirds!”

  Slowly, so rudder control could be maintained, the commands came to throttle back. When the engine stopped and the deck grew still, it seemed as if the ship herself was panting with nervous exertion, along with the crew, as steam pressure vented from the stacks.

  “That didn’t work too good,” Matt said with a tired, wry smile. Juan appeared with a carafe of ice water and cups for those on the aft conning station and he received grateful thanks.

  “What now, Skipper?” asked Dowden, wiping his mouth and handing his cup back to Juan.

  “Well,” said Matt, “we tried pliers. Let’s see if the old ‘door and string’ will work.”

  Slowly, Walker eased back until the cables went slack and dipped low into the depths of the bay. More slowly still, until the jackstaffs on the fantails of the two ships were nearly crossed.

  “The cables will never bear it,” Laney whispered nervously to Silva, standing beside him leaning on the rail. “And if they do, they’ll tear the shafts right out of us both.”

  Silva looked at the machinist’s mate and then slapped him on the back of the head.

  “Hey . . . !”

  “You idiot snipe! You tryin’ to jinx us? I guess the Skipper knows what he’s doin’! Here, gimme that blanket back!” A short Lemurian ordnance striker named Pak-Ras-Ar, hence of course, Pack Rat, stood behind the pair and Silva threw the blanket at him. “Here, Pack Rat. You have it. I ain’t sleepin’ under no damn snipe-sweaty blanket!”

  Pack Rat held the blanket at arm’s length and wrinkled his nose. “Smells mostly like Silva sweat to me,” he said.

  “Goddamn little hairball.”

  On the deckhouse, Dowden took off his hat and ran shaking fingers through his greasy hair. The captain’s expression was like stone as he calculated the angle. How could he be so calm? What he didn’t see was Matt’s left hand shaking at his side and the typhoon of acid roiling in his stomach. His right hand was on the wheel, the only thing that kept it still.

  “Signal to Mahan: Hold on.” Matt waited a moment while the message was passed. A high, fluffy cloud passed overhead, dulling the glare of the sun on the water and he looked quickly forward to check the angle of his ship once more.

  “Starboard ahead full,” he said quietly.

  Black smoke chuffed skyward from the aft stacks and Walker’s stern crouched down. Vibration quickly built as the old destroyer leaped from the block.

  “She’s comin’ up!” Silva bellowed unnecessarily as the cables raced from the depths once more. Fifty, sixty, seventy yards—the distance quickly grew. There was a hundred yards of cable. Suddenly there came a tremendous, wrenching groan and it felt as if Walker had slammed into a wall of rock. Crewmen were thrown to the deck and the bow heaved to port, nearly spinning the wheel out of the captain’s hand. Then, as quick as that, Walker lunged free and resumed her dash away from Mahan.

  “All stop!” Matt cried.

  Dowden passed the word and then ran to the rail. Below him, Silva and Laney were trying to heave on the line that trailed over the side. “Do we have it?” he shouted down.

  “Aye, sir! And it’s heavy enough! I hope we didn’t yank Mahan’s shaft and turbine too!” A cheer built as men and ’Cats picked themselves up and word quickly spread forward.

  Dowden pounded the rail in triumph. “Quit fooling around with that line, men. You’ll never lift it without a winch!”

  “Ain’t tryin’ to lift it, sir, just want to feel if it hits bottom. We got three hundred feet of line and three hundred twenty feet of water—we think.”

  Dowden’s face grew troubled. “Well . . . let us know.”

  Walker’s momentum bled off until she coasted to a stop about a quarter mile from her anchored sister. At rest, she had a slight list to port, caused by the weight of the screw. Silva was the last to let go of the cable. “Swingin’ free and easy, Mr. Dowden,” he announced.

  Spanky sighed with relief and turned to relay the report from the engine room. “Seals are fine, Skipper. No more water coming in than usual.”

  “Mahan reports the same,” Riggs said from behind them as he watched Mahan’s signal light with a pair of binoculars. He lowered them to his chest. “Thank God.”

  Matt nodded, keeping his hand on the wheel so it wouldn’t betray him. “Thank Him indeed,” he said. “Good work, Mr. McFarlane. Pass the word to all hands: Well done.” He grinned. “My mother always used to say it’s easier if you just yank it out! Works for teeth, sticker burs, and apparently destroyer screws.” There was a round of appreciative chuckles and the crew had begun to cheer again now that they knew the precious propeller was safe.

  Spanky gulped another cup of water and hitched his breeches up on his skinny hips. “Now, sir, with your permission, I’ll see about landing this fish.”

  “By all means. Mr. Riggs? Send a message to Mahan. I’d be obliged if Captain Ellis would join us this evening.” He turned to Juan. “Something special tonight, if you please. I think a celebration is in order.”

  As night fell, the two destroyers were moored side by side once more, but this time they were snug against the Aryaal dock. Men and Lemurians capered from deck to deck to shore and a party atmosphere reigned on land and sea. Many stopped to gawk at the dingy brown screw that floated aft of the ships, lashed securely to a large raft. Paul Stites was spinning records on Marvaney’s phonograph and broadcasting the music on the shipwide comm. Silva had done it for a while, but Stites spelled him so his friend could “cut a rug.” On deck, he glanced around for Risa, his usual dance partner, but she was nowhere in sight. He emitted a sonorous belch as though it was a mating call, but there was no response other than nearby laughter. Alcohol was still strictly prohibited on board, but kegs of seep had been tapped on the dock and there was a steady stream of destroyermen and Lemurians going ashore and tanking up before returning to party on the ship. His second (and by captain’s decree, last) mug of seep now glowing in his stomach, Silva watched wildly gyrating Lemurian forms try to imitate the dances the Americans showed them. Most gave up and reverted to dances they knew, but it didn’t matter. They had the beat.

  Silva caught a glimpse of long blond hair leaning on the cowl vent by the engine-room access trunk. He realized with a jolt that it was one of those nurses from Mahan. Pam Cross. That was it. She was watching the dancing with an amused expression on her pretty oval face and keeping time to the music with her chin. He suddenly, desperately, wanted to talk to her—just to hear a dame’s voice—but for the first time in his life Dennis Silva felt unable to throw a line. Any line. In fact, because of the dame famine, it’d been so long since he�
��d even seen a woman other than the captain’s, he wasn’t sure he could speak at all.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he growled at himself. “Just go talk to her. Damn.” He sauntered through the dancers and found himself standing beside and slightly behind her. His mouth opened.

  “Buzz off, sailor boy,” she said over her shoulder. Obviously, she’d noticed his approach. The words came in a harsh Brooklyn accent and were intended to send him slinking away. Instead, a slow grin spread across his face. Everything would be fine now, he thought. If she’d been as sweet as she looked, he probably would have been stuck.

  “Hey, doll, that’s no way to talk,” he said in his best wounded tone. “It’s just, you standin’ there, you reminded me so much of my girl back home.” He feigned a sad, faraway look. “Gone forever, now.”

  She rolled her eyes and swiveled her head to stare up at him with a mocking expression. She barely came up to his chest. “In the Asiatic Fleet? I bet you haven’t had a girl without black hair and dark skin since you came aboard this bucket.”

  He leered down at her. “My third-grade sweetheart had hair just like you.”

  She locked an iron-hard stare upon him for a full ten seconds before her stiff facade dissolved into an uncontrolled giggle. “Jeez,” she said. “We must be twins.”

  “The spittin’ image,” he confirmed. “Wanna dance?”

  She shook her head, still smiling. “Can’t. You’re cute, but I’m not supposed to.”

  “Cute?!” Silva demanded, puffing out his mighty chest. He stepped back and struck a pose that displayed his massive biceps to good effect. “The Great Dennis Silva is not cute!” he bellowed in mock outrage. Those nearby stopped for a moment at the outburst, but quickly recognized one of Silva’s playful spectacles.

  Pam Cross laughed out loud. “Okay! Okay! So you’re a great big hulking stud! But you’re still an enlisted stud, and I’m an officer!”

  Silva flung himself on his knees at her feet—which still left the top of his head almost even with her chin.

  “Aww, c’mon! You’re an ensign, right? That’s only barely an officer.” He leered again. “I’m a gunner’s mate . . .” He had to think for a moment. “Second class! That’s an awful lot of enlisted man!”

  She laughed again, and then peered around. “Oh, all right, you big goon! It’s not like it matters anymore anyway. What are they gonna do? Throw me out? Come on!”

  And Dennis Silva, for a while, was in heaven.

  They started out with a rusty jitterbug that might have looked worse, but Dennis wasn’t the rusty one; Pam was. It came out all right, though, because Dennis didn’t so much as dance with her as pose her while he danced around her. There were hoots of glee for the first couple of dances, until they fell into a third dance—a waltz this time. Inevitably, it was “Ramona” and Stites never should have spun it because it always made the guys misty-eyed at best. At worst . . . a much bruised, sharpened, and put-upon Dean Laney tried to cut in between Silva and Cross.

  “Ease up, ape!” he said. “Jeez, you two.” He glanced a sidelong appraisal at Pam. “Come up for air! Why don’t you spread it around, Ensign?”

  This struck Silva and Cross as particularly uncalled-for, since they were only, in fact, dancing.

  “Ease up yourself, Fatso,” Pam snarled at Laney. “I don’t belong to you or nobody and I’ll dance with who I want.”

  Laney glared at Silva. “Let her go, Silva. She ain’t yours.” He smirked. “ ’Sides, you already got a dame. We all ought’a have a turn.”

  “What she does ain’t up to you, you filthy, stinky, chickenshit snipe. You heard her just fine and if you don’t get your rancid, slimy grabbers off her I’ll put your greedy eyes in the bilge. You got me? ’Sides, dancin’ with you’d be enough to put her off guys at all. The rest of the crew would hang you!”

  It was then that Laney swung.

  Inasmuch as their frequent bouts usually went to Silva, mostly because of ruthlessness and experience, the two men were physically fairly well matched and Laney’s blow landed like a pile driver on Silva’s cheekbone, staggering him for the merest instant. It might have even been enough for Laney to finish him on a better day, if Chief Gray’s bearlike forearms hadn’t descended around him like a tractor tire and held him helplessly immobilized while Silva shook it off.

  “Lemme go, goddamn it!” Laney bellowed desperately, wriggling like a mackerel.

  “Yeah.” Silva smiled at the unexpected opportunity, rejected it, then began to consider it again as his cheek began to sting. “He’s got one comin’.”

  “Break it up!” Gray snarled. He glared at Silva over Laney’s madly ducking head, while the taller man took his time, aiming for a shot.

  “He cold-cocked me, Bosun,” Silva said conversationally. “We didn’t even square off.”

  “Finish it later,” Gray growled in a lower tone. “We got problems.”

  Silva’s face went flat. The party continued unabated around them, tinny ragtime strains on the comm replacing the waltz. His eyes flicked to the couple of other faces who had arrived with the Chief and he noticed Chack, Donaghey, and Campeti from Walker. Steele and the new ’Cat bosun’s mate from Mahan were there as well. He sensed a hell of a lot of body language from the humans and the ’Cats.

  “I take it these ain’t ‘officer’ problems?” He didn’t point out that, as acting exec of Mahan, Steele was an officer now. That’s not the way it worked.

  “If we can keep it that way,” Donaghey agreed. Silva looked at Pam Cross, who was watching, wide-eyed. Gray cursed.

  “Don’t worry, fellas.” Pam poked Silva in the ribs with her elbow. “As this big dope just told me, I ain’t much of an officer. I can keep a secret.”

  Gray exhaled. “Right. We need a nurse anyway.” He looked around and glared at the few curious faces nearby until the party resumed full force and the small gathering was forgotten.

  “Okay, a few at a time, without a word, we’ll ease on shore. Meet up by the seep kegs—hell, get another cup, then walk on up to the cemetery.”

  “What’s this all about?” Laney almost whined. Gray had been holding his arms so tight and so long, he was beginning to lose feeling in his hands. Gray let him go, but spun him around.

  “I guess you’ll find out a lot of things tonight, Machinist’s Mate Laney, and you’ll keep every goddamn thing to yourself, is that understood? We’re trusting you to be a man, but you don’t get to be a kid again. Hear?”

  Laney was startled, but he didn’t hesitate. He knew what he was being asked.

  “I won’t blow.”

  There was a fair-sized gathering near the cemetery. Human and Lemurian chiefs and senior NCOs, for the most part, all eerily silhouetted against the star-picked clouds that floated above the American graves. Two Lemurian Marines armed with Krags, sergeants both, glowed in the light of the small fire that burned to illuminate the tattered American flag. The flag would remain under the protection of the Second Marines for as long as it was uncased on this hallowed ground. The fire would also draw distant attention away from what transpired nearby. A few others were armed, too. Russ Chapelle was holding a BAR when he nodded the group through the small cordon to join the others. There were perhaps sixteen all told.

  “Campeti’ll make sure we’re not noticed away from Walker for a while,” Gray mumbled.

  “Mahan’s taken care of,” agreed Steele.

  The two men led the newcomers over the small rise and down onto the beach where Mahan had been tied up for most of her stay in Aryaal. She might have never been there, for all the evidence remaining, except for the small shelter that had been erected for Ellis’s meetings with the suspicious natives. Sealed now from outside view, the shelter served another purpose.

  Gray paused before entering and addressed Pam Cross. “There’s two patients in there for you, Ensign. One needs you pretty bad.” He paused. “The other won’t need you at all, directly, but you might make sure he’s not going to blee
d to death or pass out before we’re through.”

  Wide-eyed, but less shocked than she expected, Cross nodded and stepped inside. Silva, Chack, and Laney followed.

  In one corner of the “tent” was a young female Lemurian. She looked about the size and maturity of one of their “teenage” younglings, although she was dressed as a warrior in one of the Guard regiments. At least she wore the remnants of such garments. She was stripped almost entirely, only her shin greaves held where the lashings had survived the knife. Anywhere else her clothing or armor might have resisted, her fur was matted with blood.

  Risa held her like her very own child, sobbing right along with her, stanching the blood that welled from her face and a nearly amputated upper lip. She gave Silva the slightest nod and then her eyes flashed daggers when she glared into the other corner.

  Gagged, trussed in leg irons and even bloodier was Mahan’s quartermaster’s mate second, Al “Jolson” Franklen, and Silva knew they were in a hell of a lot of trouble. Franklen was an ugly bastard, even when his face wasn’t beaten nearly off, but he’d always enjoyed a degree of popularity because of his uncanny Al Jolson imitations. Sometimes when a bunch of the ships were in Cavite, he’d even put on blackface and stage a show. Do it up right. Some of the other fellas might throw in and it was better than a movie. Usually.

  Sometimes it got ugly.

  The thing was, in the Asiatic Fleet, the men were steeped in the diversity of centuries of empire and trade. It was not a real “melting pot” in the American sense of the word, but the men were in constant contact with Chinese, Filipinos, Malays, Arabs, Javanese, Indians . . . And that was just in the cities. Almost every island had its own distinctive culture. Regardless how they felt about them, eventually they at least got used to the locals. Even the most hard-core racist sometimes found his prejudices at least tempered to some degree, if not washed away entirely. Until the Japs came.