Satisfied, he stepped to the other side of the galley and retrieved his fishing pole. It was a relatively short, stout rod made of a shoot from the curious Baalkpan bamboo. The line was rolled around it with about two feet of woven wire for a leader at the end. The hook was stuck in the handle. He took a stringy piece of the "turkey" innards and impaled it on the hook. The mess attendant, Ray Mertz, slept in a chair near the hatch.
He was leaning against the bulkhead with the front legs off the deck. Lanier was tempted to knock the others out from under him, but settled for kicking his foot. The younger man nearly fell anyway when his eyes fluttered open.
"Watch the fires," said Earl. "Time to get my breakfast." Ignoring tradition, he whistled "The Krawdad Song" happily but quietly off-key as he strode from under the gun platform. "Bad enough I have to cook the shit," he told himself. "They can't expect me to eat it." Eat it he rarely did. He, almost alone among the crew, liked the silvery flasher-fish. Fried, mostly.
The men were just squeamish, he decided. Sure, they'd eat anything that went over the side, from people to turds, but a catfish would too. Fried fish was his favorite food in the world and had been since he was a kid, near Pinedale, Wyoming. There the trout could be had with little effort, and they fulfilled their purpose in life only when they simmered in his skillet.
He stepped to the rail on the starboard side, next to the number one torpedo mount. Not far away, the lights of the city cast their ceaselessly shifting reflection on the small waves around the darkened ship. It was almost eerily quiet. The boilers were cold, and for the first time he could remember, the blowers were silent as well. The only sounds besides water lapping against Walker's plates were the snores. Most of the crew was ashore on liberty, celebrating the victory, and there was still an hour or more before the first wave of drunken revelers returned to the ship. Many who hadn't been so fortunate, or who simply decided to forgo the festivities—including some Lemurian "cadets"—were scattered about, sleeping on deck, away from the stifling confines of the berthing spaces.
But they were exhausted, and Lanier's quiet whistling disturbed no one.
He rotated the pole in his hand and the "turkey" innards began their slow descent to the water.
"Fishin'?" inquired a quiet voice from behind.
"No," Lanier sneered, "I'm rootin' up taters."
Tom Felts eased up beside him in the gloom. The scrawny gunner's mate must have the watch, Lanier thought.
"Did you hear them Mice found oil after all?" Felts asked.
The cook nodded. He felt genuine relief over that. "I wonder how long it'll be before we have any to burn?"
"Not too long, they say. Something about it being `sweet,' or something. 'Cats already have storage tanks built. All they have to do is ship 'em over there and set 'em up. Few days, maybe." Felts sighed. "Sure hope so. I only thought I felt helpless before the fires went out."
Lanier nodded in the darkness. He cooked over charcoal, but with the lights out, it was hard to see in the galley. All he had were a couple of little lamps fired by the stinky oil of those big fish the 'cats hunted.
"Yup," he said, wishing Felts would go away. Suddenly, his pole jerked downward. There was no need to set the hook. Whatever had it, had it. He held on tight as the line whipped back and forth and the end of the pole jerked erratically. He didn't have a reel, so all he could do was keep tension while the fish tired and when it was spent, he'd drag it aboard. With the leader in the fish's jaws, the braided line would hold as long as the fish wasn't much over forty or fifty pounds. He grunted under the strain as it tried to go deep, under the hull.
"Whatcha got?" Felts whispered excitedly.
Lanier risked a quick, incredulous glance. "A fish, you idiot."
"No, I mean what kind?"
"Christ, Felts," the cook rasped, still trying to control his voice, "I don't know what kind any I've already caught are! It might be another one of them or it might not. Lay off!"
The fight went on a while longer, Lanier puffing with exertion and the gunner's mate peering expectantly over the side.
"I think he's runnin' out of steam," offered Felts encouragingly.
Lanier jerked a nod and blew sweat off his upper lip. He glanced behind to make sure the coast was clear. He didn't want to trample anybody.
"Here we go," he wheezed. He turned and grasped the pole more firmly with his hands and under his arm and lumbered to port.
"Hey!" Felts exclaimed as something thrashed at the surface of the water and thumped and thudded up the side of the ship. Right next to him, less than a yard from his feet, some . . . thing right out of Felts's most fevered nightmare squirmed out of the darkness and onto the deck. It was six feet long, with the body of a flat snake except for a feathery "fin" that ran its length, top and bottom. Very much like an eel—except for the head. Its head looked sort of like a normal fish, but its eyes were huge and dark and full of malice and its mouth was stuffed with what seemed like hundreds of ridiculously long, needle-sharp teeth, flashing in jaws that opened impossibly wide. The lights from shore showed a rainbow color that shimmered as it flailed in spastic rage, snapping at the line, the deck . . . and Felts as it slithered past.
"Goddamn!" he squeaked and jerked back against the rail. Fumbling at his side for the pistol strapped there, he pulled it out, thumbing the safety off. An earsplitting roar shattered the night as he fired at the thing, again and again. Bullets spanged off the deck plates and whined over the water. Pieces of fish and flakes of paint rained down on the men who'd been sleeping nearby. The automatic's slide locked back, empty, and still Felts pointed it at the fish, jerking the trigger in convulsive panic.
Lanier flung down his pole. "You stupid son of a bitch!" he shrieked.
Heads were coming up slowly off the deck as men raised them with understandable caution, and voices called out to one another. The sound of shoes running on steel approached and Chief Campeti arrived with a battle lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. The Bosun wasn't far behind, dressed only in T-shirt and skivvies.
"What the hell's goin' on here?" Campeti bellowed. "Who fired a weapon?" He shined the lantern around. Eyes, human and Lemurian, squinted in the glare. Finally the beam fell on Felts's terrified face and the smoking pistol, still outstretched. Campeti redirected the light and involuntarily stepped back. Gray saw the fish too. It was shot to pieces, but its terrible jaws still snapped spasmodically. A hook gleamed brightly, piercing the lower lip, and the line trailed to port.
"Who brought that thing on my deck?" Gray demanded.
"I did!" Lanier snarled, stepping up. "I work my ass off feeding these goons and I try to catch a little fish for myself and what happens? One of 'em destroys it!" The cook had his filleting knife in his hand and Gray wondered if he meant to use it on Felts. Instead, he knelt beside the twitching fish as if by a dying loved one. The knife moved over the corpse in benediction. "Destroyed," he lamented. Quite a gathering of half-naked men and entirely naked Lemurians had assembled by now.
"Anybody hurt?" Campeti asked. There were murmured voices, but no replies.
"No eat!" came a voice from the group.
"What?"
"No eat!" One of the cadets edged forward and stared down at the fish.
He looked up at Gray. "Bad fish. No eat. Make very . . . dead sick. Chops?
Chopping? Chopper! Chopper fish not food. Eat . . . dead!"
Gray prodded Lanier with his foot. "You hear that? Felts just saved your worthless life."
Campeti shined his light at Felts, who'd finally lowered the gun. He was shaking. "You okay?"
Felts gulped. "Snakes, Chief. Ever since I was a kid. Then that thing came whoopin' up over the side . . ." He shook his head.
Campeti took the pistol from his hand and nodded. "Me too." He shook out one of his last cigarettes and handed it over, then lit it for him when the gunner's mate's hands shook too much to do it himself.
Lieutenant Garrett had arrived. He wasn't wearing any more
than Gray, but he'd put on his hat. "What's up, Chief?" he asked, and Gray told him what had happened.
While he was talking, Lanier stood up. "I demand that man be put on report!" he growled. "Shooting a pistol while everyone's sleepin', hell, he could'a shot somebody! Not to mention wreckin' my fish! He's in your division, Mr. Garrett. What are you gonna do?"
Garrett sighed and looked at Felts. They'd had a tough day and nerves were raw enough. Discipline was essential, but looking at that fish, he probably would have shot at it. "Ahhh . . ."
"Yeah, and you're in my division, Lanier," said Alan Letts, stepping forward. He, like Campeti, was fully dressed, although he hadn't been on watch. "What am I going to do with you? Creeping around in the middle of the night, releasing dangerous, poisonous creatures to run loose on deck . . ." There were loud guffaws while Letts shook his head.
"I hate to think what the captain would say about that." More laughter, and Lanier's chubby face blanched. Letts turned to Gray. "Bosun? Since the deck division seems most affected . . ." He paused until the laughter died down. "What with the damaged paintwork and the mess . . ." Even Felts was grinning now. "I suggest if Lieutenant Garrett agrees, you make the call."
Gray scratched his head and looked at Felts, whose grin immediately faded. Then he glared at Lanier, who wilted about as much as his abrasive personality allowed. When he spoke, his tone was very formal. "Mr. Lanier wouldn't knowingly allow anything more poisonous than the chow he feeds us aboard the ship"—hoots of glee—"so I hold him blameless so long as he cleans that nasty, slimy thing off my deck." His glare settled on Felts, who shriveled beneath its intensity. "On the other hand, I think the log should show Gunner's Mate Felts single-handedly defended the ship and her sleepin' crew from the sneak attack of a dangerous sea monster— provided I see him hard at work with a chippin' hammer and a can of paint first thing in the mornin', erasing all evidence of his heroic deed."
He looked at Garrett. "Lieutenant?"
"If that suits you, Bosun, I guarantee he'll be here."
"Mr. Letts?"
"Fine by me. Chief Campeti has the deck, though."
Campeti shrugged. "Bravest thing I ever saw. Blood everywhere and every shot hit. Boy ought'a get a medal."
Gray called out to Lanier, shuffling away in disgust. "Let's see that thing over the side right now, Earl. I don't want to see it again on my plate."
As the drama ebbed and the snores resumed, Campeti stayed with Felts. He still had the duty, and he wanted to make sure he was all right.
"That was somethin'," Felts whispered. "Mr. Letts sure came through.
I thought he was ashore. He's turnin' into a pretty good guy, for an officer."
"Yeah," Campeti muttered. "He was in a mighty good mood." Sonny Campeti was a man with many faults, and he was honest enough to know it. Spreading rumors wasn't one of them. Lieutenant Letts had stepped up to the plate beyond anyone's expectations. He'd gone from a comical, if popular, character to an essential member of the cadre that might get them through this alive. If the lipstick Campeti had seen smeared across his jaw in the light of the battle lantern was responsible for that, he wasn't going to make a peep. But damn!
Matt and Sandra remained at the celebration long enough to be polite, but the seep and other intoxicants flowed freely enough that they doubted their early departure was even noticed. It was the first time Matt had allowed the crew to really cut loose, and he was a little nervous about that.
They'd been told to have a good time (they'd earned it), and there was much to celebrate. He just hoped they wouldn't celebrate too hard. They'd destroyed two Grik ships and they were beginning to hate the Grik almost as much as the Japanese. The Mice found oil right where Bradford said they would and the Australian's prestige soared. He was last seen sprawled, insensible, on a pillow with Nakja-Mur. The Mice had disappeared. Matt suspected they'd crept back aboard the ship, and he hated to tell them they were still needed at the well. Again he felt a thrill at the prospect of full bunkers. These long weeks he'd felt so helpless, unable to do anything, and he was haunted by the fact that, somewhere out there, was Mahan.
With fuel, they might still save her. What haunted him more, however, was his battle with priorities, and his growing uncertainty over whether Mahan topped the list.
Intensely aware of each other's presence, Matt and Sandra strolled quietly and companionably in the direction of the pier. When they reached it, the dock was empty, but it hadn't been for long. A launch burbled slowly to the ship, filled with destroyermen in various states of animation. They were required to report aboard by 0100, and none were to remain ashore overnight. Dowden had gathered a few sober men and formed a "flying" shore patrol and was already sending those who'd become too rowdy back to the ship. He'd make sure they were all rounded up.
They stopped near the cleat where the Mice had been sitting, and Matt remembered to keep his distance. He still wore his sole surviving "dress" uniform. Some men in the launch began a song, and because of Sandra's presence, he cringed when he recognized it. The words carried over the water even above the boat's loud motor—it was plain the men were far more interested in volume than quality. The loudest voice sounded suspiciously like Lieutenant McFarlane:
The boys out in the trenches
Have got a lot to say
Of the hardships and the sorrows
That come the soldier's way.
But we destroyer sailors
Would like their company
On a couple of trips in our skinny ships
When we put out to sea!
"Nice night," Matt said, lamely trying to distract Sandra from the chorus, but it was no use. It was the men's favorite part and they always belted it out.
Oh, it's roll and toss
And pound and pitch
And creak and groan, you son of a bitch!
Oh, boy, it's a hell of a life on a destroyer!
Matt glanced at Sandra, expecting to see her cover her mouth with her hand in shock or something, but instead she grinned.
Oh, Holy Mike, you ought to see
How it feels to roll through each degree.
The goddamn ships were never meant for sea!
You carry guns, torpedoes, and ash-cans in a bunch,
But the only time you're sure to fire
Is when you shoot your lunch!
Your food it is the Navy bean,
You hunt the slimy submarine.
It's a son-of-a-bitch of a life on a destroy—er!
Sandra did cover her mouth now, giggling. The boat was nearing the ship. There was no moon and in spite of her new, lighter shade, they only vaguely made out Walker's form in the darkness. She seemed forlorn out there with no lights, and moored away from the dock like an outcast. The song's last verse reached them with less vigor, as if the singers sensed the mood of loneliness as they came alongside. Or maybe now, after all they'd been through with the old four-stacker, they were less inclined to hurt her feelings. The last verse was more somber anyway.
We've heard of muddy dug-outs,
Of shell holes filled with slime,
Of cootie hunts and other things
That fill a soldier's time.
But believe me, boys, that's nothing,
To what it's like at sea,
When the barometer drops
And the clinometer hops
And the wind blows dismally.
"They're fine men, Captain Reddy. Your crew," Sandra said softly.
"Yes, they are." He sighed. "And that makes it even harder."
"What? Using them up?"
He looked at her, surprised, but nodded. "Yeah, and that's what I'm doing. I've gotten them into a war I know nothing about." He shook his head. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not feeling sorry for myself. I know there wasn't a choice. We haven't had a choice since we went through the Squall.
I'm not even complaining about that. However inconvenient it's made our lives, it saved us. It's just . . ." He couldn't tell her how he felt.
Especially couldn't tell her about the doubts and nightmares and guilt he felt over Mahan. He'd made so many mistakes! And he definitely couldn't tell her how he felt about her. He changed the subject.
"You came out on the old Langley, right?" She nodded. The Langley was America's first real aircraft carrier. She'd been built on a merchant's hull and had a goofy flight deck erected above the superstructure, earning her the nickname Covered Wagon. By modern standards, she looked very strange and was too small and slow to be considered a real carrier anymore, even before the war. She'd been transporting P-40s to Java when Japanese planes hammered her. She was helpless under the assault, and it was the most terrified Sandra had ever been—up to that time.
"We'd been on sweeps off Bawean Island, looking for the Jap invasion fleet for Java when we heard about Langley," he said. "We were heading to Surabaya to refuel when Doorman turned us around." Matt's voice became a quiet monotone as he stared across the water at Walker's silhouette. "The Japs were off Bawean. We'd just missed them. We took off so fast, Pope couldn't catch us." He grimaced. "Not that it made any difference. As soon as we cleared the mines, we came under air attack again and there was nothing we could do but take it. We had a total of eight fighters left, and the Dutch were saving them to use against the invasion as it landed." He snorted. "Eight planes weren't going to stop the invasion force, but they might've helped us find it, and kept the Jap planes off our backs." He was silent for several moments before he continued. Sandra waited patiently, quietly.
"The Jap screen for the invasion convoy wasn't much heavier than us, for once, but we had no air cover at all. The Japs corrected their fire with spotting planes throughout the battle. It was a hell of a thing to see, though. Cruisers aren't battleships, but even cruisers look damned impressive steaming parallel, blasting away at each other. Of course all we could do was watch." He took a deep, bitter breath. "Exeter got hit, and a few minutes later, Kortenaer took one of those big Jap torpedoes. She just blew up. Edwards was right on her tail and had to swerve. By the time we went past, she was upside down, folded in half. We didn't see anybody in the water.
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