XV
May, 1908 28°20'N, 177°22'W
Day & Night
Each day, the monsters returned. Sometimes they came as a god-like triumvirate, a sky-high wall of steel-like flesh. Sometimes they bounded up on shore alone, inquisitively, and sometimes they arrived in playful pairs. The marines had no idea where or when they would appear. There was no pattern.
The ocean had become a grisly jack-in-the-box, with three Jacks, huge and deadly. For the most part, their attention remained centered on the donkeys. But during the second morning of the siege, a Japanese dared the lagoon. There was something on Eastern Island he felt he had to retrieve, but he never told anyone what it was or why it was worth risking his life. Paddling frantically in a rowboat, he made it halfway across before the water turned dark. The creature barely showed its head as it took both man and boat into its jaws. To the men watching from shore, it was a simple event. Like a pebble dropped in a pond. Splinters of wood followed the dark underwater shadow out of the lagoon.
"He have a name?" someone had asked.
Lieutenant Anthony was in a deadly quandary. He shared the opinion of his day that the Chinese were an inferior breed. On a par with the Japanese, only the Japs had a respectable navy. There were three Chinese left on Midway, now that Bonehead was gone. They were a lowly, withdrawn group of men. Bonehead had been merely the lowest of the low.
Though bullets had no effect on the beasts, Anthony's concern for the unarmed Chinese was not mitigated. What rice-eating warlord would believe a story about sea monsters? Orientals were being murdered by the general public in California every week. Why not by the U.S. Marines on Midway? Yet while the Californians might not experience remorse for their actions, the lieutenant felt a twinge for his fellow marines posted on gunboats and in consulates on the China Station. The bellicose generalissimos would use any excuse to rebel against the domineering Westerners.
Who would believe the monster story? Goblins, ghosts, witches on broomsticks. Angels on pinheads and rickety fairies. All out of vogue, all long shelved. And none more hoary than the venerable sea serpents. Anthony could hardly believe it himself. It seemed the only way to maintain credibility was to pray the monsters stuck around until a ship could come along and verify the marines' story.
What to do about the three men stranded on Eastern? He was almost embarrassed to broach the subject to his men. They had probably already written them off. Three less Chinks in the world. So what? There were plenty more where they came from. As usual, Anthony bit his lip, argued with himself, and did nothing. For a while, at least.
They were all nearly shattered by fear. But Hamilton Hart was reduced to mindlessness, at least during the first night and day. Slowly, details of what had happened in Alaska came out.
"You were in the Army?" Sergeant Ziolkowski said with vague distaste.
"My command... my entire command...."
Eighteen men slaughtered in the blink of an eye by the same creatures now besieging Midway.
"How do you know they're the same?" Lieutenant Anthony demanded.
"How many of them do you think there could be?"
"Oh... I see what you mean."
"They followed me. I was the only one left and they followed me."
Anthony first suspected the civilian was irretrievably unhinged. Fortunately, common reason brought him back.
"If they were after you, they wouldn't spend all day chasing donkeys. It's just simple bad luck."
"Hardly simple."
The donkeys had been their salvation. But at the current rate, the meat on the hoof would soon be gone.
1200 Hours
"This doesn't bother me. I come from a long line of dead men."
"Beg your pardon, Top, but that's pure horseshit."
"We'll soon have help," Ziolkowski responded. "Midway's what its name says, the link between the East and the West. With the cable out of commission, they'll send a ship in no time."
"A cable ship," Lieber said sourly. Such a vessel would take months to reach them. Commercial Pacific would attach a grapple to the southeast end of the cable and follow it out from Honolulu in an attempt to find the assumed break. They would think a whale had become ensnared while pursuing squid, severing the line. It had happened before.
"So what's your bellyache?" the sergeant growled. "You saying we can't stand up to a few overgrown fish for a couple of months?"
It was precisely the wrong thing to say. He knew it. Unfortunately, there was nothing else to say.
"If you don't let me buck up your spirits, I won't waste my breath," Ziolkowski growled. "Enderfall! Stop wavin' that gun. Won't help none if you shoot yourself in the foot. Not here."
"Top, where the hell did those things come from?"
"How the hell should I know? Where did you come from?"
It was noon. With the exception of the unimpressed birds, the island was quiet. The lieutenant and sergeant were faced with a tough tactical problem. Nine hours earlier, one of the creatures had come within thirty yards of the compound before it was spotted. It had been dark, the moon blanketed by clouds. The creature's dark skin had blended perfectly with the night.
They'd thought the shaking of the ground would warn them of any approach. Now it seemed the creatures could move silently as snakes, when they wanted to. The only thing that saved Anthony's bivouac was the sudden appearance of three donkeys running towards the beach. The creature had immediately taken out after them.
They needed some kind of warning system. Lone men would have to sit out on the beach on dark nights....
And do what? Fire off a warning shot? What better way to cut their own throats? Firing a gun would draw the creatures' attention and reach the same result: more dead marines. They could dig small versions of the large bunker Anthony was having built at the compound. From them, a lookout could stick out his gun and fire a warning shot. But would the beast catch the flash, as well as the sound, and attack the sentry? And Ziolkowski was familiar enough with night-fighting to know how jumbled sounds could become in the dark, even on an island as featureless as Midway. A lookout might have to squeeze off two or three rounds before they knew where the shots came from.
Sighing, Ziolkowski looked out at the ocean, thinking this was a damned typical spot for a marine to die. He'd give a finger or toe in exchange for a cool Philippine mango right this moment. Fine, ripe and golden. But this thought attached itself to a grim memory.
Fort Vickars. He was standing aloof from a group of cavalrymen inside the gate. A guard up on the wall did a double-take when he spotted a Moro warrior strolling into the quadrangle. He was a huge, strapping black man, with a kriss--a Malaysian sword--in his right hand. The cavalrymen took note of him and pulled their carbines out their saddle holsters. The Moro ignored their shouted warnings. They opened fire.
The Moro was hit in the chest--and broke into a trot. The Moro was hit in the chin--he raised his weapon. He was hit in one lung--and proceeded to chop up five soldiers. It was only after the guard up on the wall put a bullet through the base of his skull that he went down.
He was taken to a marine guard-house. Ziolkowski spoke with him three weeks later. The Moro was up and about. A blue spot under his eye marked the exit wound of the bullet that had hit him in the back of the head. The scars on his chest and chin were healing nicely. There were photographers all around him. They were amazed he was alive, and wanted proof for the folks back home.
But it left Ziolkowski with a sickness of heart. In the States, there was a great deal of talk about racial superiority. Of the 'white man's burden,' and the need to put the world straight. But if any of those pasty-faced theoreticians had seen what happened at Fort Vickar, they'd have pissed in their little shoes. Every marine had a Moro story. They were an awesome breed. Courageous, possessing magnificent physiques--and frightening as hell. It started Ziolkowski to thinking just exactly what was meant by 'superior.' His conclusion was simple and obvious: weaponry. That was why he had wheeled and dealed so hard for the Rexer. Why he doted on it like a daughter. If he ever came up against the Moros again, he'd have enough firepower to mow them into hayricks.
But even a Moro would have wet himself on seeing the demons from the sea. Just about every man on Midway already had. And about all that could be said for the Rexer was that it made a fine lot of noise.
He reported back to Anthony at the compound.
"We post look-outs at night, we might as well dig their graves now."
"Then we'll just have to concentrate on the bunker."
Using timber and masonry from the shattered barracks and warehouse, the lieutenant put his men to work building a stout bunker in the basement of the main compound house. This had a small cellar with a concrete floor. Because Midway's water table was so close to the surface, this was the only place reasonably waterproof. It was an arduous task, fighting back the sharp coral sand and shoring up the damaged walls. But no one thought twice about the work. Obviously, the only way to survive would be to get underground as quickly as possible. The hammering and their strained breathing sounded flat and hopeless in the dead air.
There was a supply of canvas in the warehouse, laid in for the handful of ships that passed their way. Most steamships still carried sails in case their engines failed. While coaling at Midway, they often had damaged sheets replaced or repaired. The canvas was now cut and sewn into sandbags. The marines and Japanese fisherman piled the bags along the rim of the bunker, with gun slits every few yards. If the monsters came their way, the marines would open up on them--for commentary, if not effect.
Stripped to the waist, Lieutenant Anthony worked alongside the others. It was a time for minimal rank and maximum effort. All the honest digging and lifting told on his slack muscles. The muggy heat made him feel as though he was wearing a wool shirt. Only by removing his mind from the present could he keep going.
Midway. What had he done to deserve it? It seemed the last pleasant memory to his name was the blustery day they had walked--he and his sister--into the hills above their grandfather's clapboard house in Lynchburg. He was ten, she twelve, and they had gathered chestnuts for an evening roast. Returning to the house with two heavy bags, they spread the nuts on the live red coals their father had prepared in the back yard. Anthony's stomach had grumbled, but the wait was more than made up for by the toasty odor. The chill wind swept down, and more than once their father had to chase down a spark and stamp it out. Then their mother had come out with an old pail and they had set the nuts inside to cool. After that came the roasted meat, bedtime, and dreams of more.
Anthony prayed that on the day he died, he would get the chance to remember that evening one last time.
Midway! Midway? What could one say? His father had made captaincy by the age of thirty-five. And here he was, that very age, and still only a second lieutenant without prospects. He imagined going home, pulling out a map of the world, and trying to find the sandspit.
"Where'd you say you spent the last couple years?"
"I'm looking, Dad. I'm looking. Can't we roast some chestnuts or something?"
"Midway... Midway... there's a speck. No... that's a fly turd. What'd you say you did there?"
"We guarded valuable United States property."
"What could be so important that far away from the shipping lanes?"
"All right, Dad. We stood guard over birds. No. We stood guard over bird shit. All right? If you don't like it--"
"Lieutenant!"
Anthony jumped and nearly knocked over Hamilton Hart.
"You're swinging that shovel pretty far."
In fact, Anthony had almost taken Hart's head off as he dug and argued with his father simultaneously. "Sorry," he said. He eyed the Commercial Pacific employee warily. He seemed to have recovered from his fearful stupor, and was busy filling and hauling sand bags. Anthony felt uncomfortable around him, nonetheless. He was a reminder that the ultimate nightmare could really happen to an officer--the loss of an entire command. There was no question in the lieutenant's mind that if all his men were killed before him he would commit suicide rather than face a Naval Board of Inquiry.
"I couldn't help overhearing what the sergeant told you. About the need to post lookouts on the beach at night." He shook his head. "I've been away, I think."
"I don't understand."
Hart pointed towards the ruined relay station. "I have to go back."
"There's nothing left."
"Has anyone looked?"
"We dug out the bodies of your people." Anthony was perplexed. Telegraphs were extremely delicate devices. The pounding the building had taken and the subsequent fire had undoubtedly put it out of commission, at least until a company ship arrived.
"I haven't done enough. Not nearly enough."
"Wait! Come back here, Hart. We need every hand!" Anthony was unsettled by the look in the civilian's eyes.
"I can make up for it. All of it!"
"Hart--"
"Let's begin with Sergeant Ziolkowski's problem. How to communicate safely in the dark. If you can bring me utensils--silver and aluminum plated--I can take care of that right quick."
He was talking like a madman and Anthony considered treating him as such.
1340 Hours
Ace felt a sharp jab in his ribs and jumped to the side. Working steadily at the bunker wall, he'd paid little attention to the jostling around him. The man who had poked him so roughly, if accidentally, was Private Lieber. He gave a little bow, momentarily forgetting marines never bowed back. Lieber gave him a blank look of indifference, then resumed digging.
"Ah, Flitz!" Ace yelled angrily. "You rude!"
"Huh?"
There was yelling. Then a gunshot.
The men dropped their shovels and raced to the rifle stacks. The coral sand sucked at their feet.
A sentry was running madly towards the compound. Far behind him, one of the creatures had clambered up on the beach and was yawning widely in the afternoon sun. The Japanese and marines, now armed, stood stupidly, watching the beast. Their situation seemed so hopeless. There was no point in crouching behind anything, since no one was firing at them. Standing in rank and file would be useless, too. The creature would just run them over. Running would have been next to meaningless, with so little running space. And charging the beast in an attempt to chase it off the island had been proved deadly dangerous by Ziolkowski. So they stood. In effect, waiting for the creature to make up their minds for them. Until Ziolkowski, having grabbed his Rexer, ran up to them.
"Now here's a fine group of boots," said Ziolkowski, coming up. "Whose lunch are you waiting for? Fall in!"
This might relieve Lieutenant Anthony of the onerous chore of issuing a command directly to his men, but it did nothing to rid them of the beast. The lieutenant, standing on tip-toe, could just make out its grotesque head over the dunes.
"Sergeant...."
Ziolkowski nodded. "Enderfall, come on."
They struggled up the crumbly slope of Mt. Pisgah. All of forty-two feet in height, it was the tallest dune on the atoll. It had been dubbed 'Mt. Piss' by Depoy when he found out Kitrell, who had a prudish streak, would duck behind it whenever he took a leak. The name stuck for a month. Then one day Anthony overheard some of his men talking about going over for a whiz on Mt. Piss. A reprimand began curling his lips, when Kitrell assured the lieutenant they had called the dune Mt. Pisgah, not Mt. Piss.
"Mt. Pisgah is part of a mountain range near the Dead Sea. We thought it'd be nice to have something biblical around."
Stunned by this unsuspected piety, the embarrassed Anthony retreated.
Even Depoy had to applaud Kitrell for that one.
"Why us again?" Enderfall fumed as they reached the crest.
"Weren't you tired of digging?"
"Yeah. Guess I was."
From the summit they looked down directly on the northern beach. They could see the entire length of the beast. They could also see it was not alone.
Hamilton Hart was crouched in a small gully not two dozen yards from where the creature lounged. It was obvious he'd been caught in the open and decided it was safer to hide than run. All the creature had to do was stretch its neck and its shadow would fall over him.
If he bolted, the beast would quickly spot him. But it was beginning to seem he would have to try. The creature was sniffing the air--leaning back, rocking, performing a kind of serpentine promenade... and working its snout so assiduously that Ziolkowski could see the nostrils flex. There was a resounding slap-like sound.
"Shit. The damn thing farted."
"Glad it's downwind."
Over Enderfall's protests, the sergeant began setting up his machine gun. If the beast took off after Hart, he would try to distract it with the Rexer. Ziolkowski was beginning to feel like a Legionnaire. In the grand tradition, he would be picking a fight he was sure to lose.
The creature emitted a series of bleats. If a mouse had grown five times the size of an elephant and squeaked, it would have sounded similar. Its face was dark brown--no green stripes. When it shuffled forward, Ziolkowski touched the trigger. Suddenly, the creature lurched away from Hart and settled on some dwarf magnolias, the only trees of any size on Midway. They were crushed instantly when the creature lay down on them.
"What a pity," the sergeant murmured. "That's the only natural shade for a thousand miles."
The beast seemed perplexed by the sudden disappearance of the trees. It raised its head, looked left and right, and let out another monstrous squeak. Grunting, it began rocking back and forth.
Ziolkowski's eyes popped. "He's scratching his stomach!"
The luxury did not last long. The magnolias were quickly reduced to splinters and sawdust. Snorting in disgust, the creature flopped in the sand and rolled. Most of the gooney birds in the vicinity flew out of harm's way. Had it been the nesting season, far more would have been killed.
Ziolkowski swiveled his gun on its bipod, momentarily tempted to direct a few bursts against the monster's belly in the hope it would prove a softer target. But he dared not make the attempt with Hart so near.
The creature began sniffing again. That fresh morsel, so close, so tempting....
"Let's dance again." Ziolkowski locked the clip and adjusted his sights. "May I have this waltz, you fucking bastard."
There was no need to see Hart's expression to know what he was thinking. His whole body was knotted in terror. He was getting ready to run.
A call sounded across the water:
"Tooo... nel...."
The monster froze, then darted its head up, looking towards the lagoon and Eastern Island. Ziolkowski raised his sights. Could he cut the thing's throat with a burst? Still, he held off. The more he observed, the more he was convinced the creature's hide was tough as nails all around. He fantasized on the possibilities of a three-inch gun, a standard weapon with most landing parties. And a six-incher--well, that would slice the bastard's heart nicely. But artillery had not been allotted the garrison. Who could have foreseen trouble on Midway?
After all its clumsy flopping, it was stunning to see the creature abruptly lower its head and shoot across the beach fast as a horse. It hit the water, then bounced across jutting coral as if it was no sharper than fresh dough.
No... there were no soft bull's-eyes on these brutes, Ziolkowski concluded sadly. Only the eyes. And they had up to now been too quick for a clear shot at them.
"Hart! Hart! Up here!"
If Hart had been terrified before, he seemed utterly paralyzed by his good fortune. Ziolkowski trotted down the slope to confront him. "What the hell are you doing out here?"
White as a ghost, Hart rose from behind the bush. "I was measuring how much wire I'd need--" He took a single step and fell.
"Enderfall! Get your ass down here and give a hand to this civilian."
"It left." Gasping, Hart turned over. "Why did it leave?"
The sergeant was wondering that himself. The creature had not dived underwater, but was paddling on the surface in the direction of the lagoon. He could not see Eastern Island beyond the bight.
"Up you go, Hart. Standing out on the beach, you were just tempting that bastard ashore. What the hell were you doing, anyway?"
"Your problem... signaling at night. There's more than enough wire. We can strip it from the submarine cable."
"Ah... you mean string it back to the compound and give a yank when--"
"The movement might attract the serpents. I can do better. As I was telling the lieutenant, if I can get some forks... metal forks. Or spoons."
Ziolkowski had little time to question Hart's sanity. When they returned inland, they found the compound in an uproar.
"Volunteers! I want volunteers!"
"What's going on?" the sergeant demanded.
"The warehouse Posten came back. He reports die Schlangen are attacking Eastern."