XXIV
June, 1908 28°20'N, 177°22'W
From the Deck Log of the USS Florida:
All hands formed on gun deck and Mr. Grissom read the Articles of War; this caused great consternation among the crew but the Captain has expressed the possibility that we are entering a war zone; 2/c Seaman Swofford put on half pay ($13 mo) for assaulting a gunner's mate; advised that had this happened after the Articles had been read the penalty might have been death.xxxxx
1130 Hours
The island came up like a chip on a pond. A peculiar apple-green reflection in the sky was their first indication. One would have thought they were coming up on a tropical paradise rather than a meager crust of sand. They noted the dark patterns of birds in flight, yet it was not until they were almost on top of the atoll that the lookouts saw its white outline. The next instant, every eye began scanning for smoke from enemy funnels as a sense of reality took hold of their senses. If the Japs were about, they posed a far deadlier threat than the things described by William Pegg.
"Captain... this is an atoll," said the exec.
"Quite right. Ring back two-thirds. I don't want to squat over any outlying coral."
"Back two-thirds, sir!" The engine room telegraph rang loudly in the tense pilothouse.
"Right, eighteen degrees rudder."
"Right, eighteen degrees rudder, sir!"
"Note those breakers, Grissom."
"Nasty, sir," the exec agreed.
"Keep two and a half cables between us. God knows how many have wrecked here."
The crash of the sea against the ram simmered down to a sluggish parting of water. Raising his binoculars, Oates fixed a wary eye on the reef, then peered at the island. Other than the birds, there was no sign of life offshore or on. "That must be Lower Brook."
"According to the chart, they call it Eastern now." Grissom left, returned a minute later. "Still no signal from Hart."
Oates experienced a twinge of sadness as he listened to a petty officer repeat the soundings that were coming in over the telephone. In earlier days he'd hearkened to the leadsman's chant from the foredeck, a different little song for each sounding as the man on the leadsman's platform heaved the chains. The Navy's conversion to giant capital ships had eliminated that charming necessity, so reminiscent of a suitor approaching a coltish and wary female who could sink him with alarming ease. The world was now much too fast for the old chants… and too distant. The leadsman was remote, far out of earshot from the bridge. He called out the depth briskly to a boatswain's mate, who then relayed the information to a petty officer, who in turn relayed it to the captain or watch commander. Might as well be listening to Madame Blavatsky talking to the dead, Oates thought grimly.
"We should be able to see the balloon HH told us about."
"Nothing on the water."
Fifteen minutes later, Grissom raised an arm. "There's the coaling station."
"No damage I can see. Damn. I was hoping... no, there's no way we can risk going into the lagoon."
"The barges are tied up. I can't--okay, there's the tug. On the beach. I hope the boiler tubes are all that's wrong with her."
"Hmmph."
"And that would be the relay station."
"What's left of it. Something's been here, lieutenant."
"Yes, sir. Still nothing on the water."
"They could be hiding on the other side. I don't see any masts or smoke, though."
"Looks like they've been moving a helluva lot of sand. Or something very large--" Grissom spat, as if he could not believe what he'd been about to say. "Could've been a sneak raid by the Nips. Take a few prisoners, turn things on end."
"In short, a warning to President Roosevelt to stay out of the Pacific." His voice tinged with concern, Oates wondered out loud, "You don't think Togo himself is out here, do you?"
The exec stared bleakly at the possibility that the man who had annihilated the Russian fleet was at Midway and tactfully declined to voice an opinion.
"Not a soul...."
"We'll have to send in a landing force."
"In time, Mr. Grissom. Let's steam around her first." His voice was querulous. Time was the last thing they had. But he dared not go in without scouting the situation.
"Nothing on the water...."
Picking up the brass telephone connecting the bridge with the masthead, Oates rang the forward lookout. "You see anything on the islands?"
"Nothing, sir," came the tinny response. "There are some buildings inland--on Sand Island, I guess that is. One's a warehouse, I think. It doesn't appear damaged. Everything else is flattened or burned. It looks to me like the garrison's been wiped out, sir."
"Let me know if you see anyone, alive or dead."
"Aye aye, sir."
"Uh, captain...?"
Oates glanced at his exec. "Yes?"
"How can we be sure this is Midway? All we have is a speck on the map. The cable director drew this map up from memory."
"See that burned out shell on the north shore of Sand? It looks similar to the submarine cable station in Newfoundland. That's the relay station, all right." Oates was about to step out of the pilothouse when the lookout phone jangled violently. He nearly pulled a muscle turning back. "What?"
"Captain, to starboard...."
"Where to starboard?"
Grissom overheard and ran to the starboard wing of the bridge to scan the water with his binoculars.
"Do you see masts?" Oates asked when the lookout failed to elaborate.
"Sir... I...."
"Well?"
"Nothing, sir. I thought I saw... it must be a patch of coral."
"Are we in danger of hitting it?"
"I... don't see it anymore, sir." The lookout's tone anticipated a backlash from the captain. But the skipper was too flustered to issue a reprimand and slammed the phone on its hook.
The whole thing was spooky. No sign of life on shore. Ghost sightings on the beam. Made his skin crawl. He braced himself on the bridge screen for a moment, then joined Grissom. He opened his mouth to speak, stopped, raised his Zeiss glass to starboard. Certainly, in weather as clear as this, the seaman in the mast bubble would not have risked Oates' anger for nothing. But what could he have seen?
Damn peculiar.
Peculiar too was the very weather which should have eliminated uncertainty in any sighting. Where were all the clouds and storms Rear Admiral Thomas had told him about? The atoll was as serene as a lady's boudoir. Then again, Oates knew better than most how false that kind of serenity could be.
"What did he see, sir?" Lieutenant Grissom asked, staring hard to starboard.
Instead of answering, Oates said, "Have you seen the coal returns? Whether we like it or not, we're going to have to send in a landing party. If we don't start loading soon, we'll be dead in the water by tomorrow morning."
"I'll notify the Captain of the Marines."
1212 Hours
The gun captain listened through his headset, then nodded down at the others. "Permission granted."
There was a barely perceptible sigh of relief as Garrett and Beck turned the bolt and pushed open the turret hatch. For a moment the only change was the influx of morning sunlight. The men squinted Some of them sneezed. Then the direction of the ship changed slightly and a fresh breeze wafted through the hatchway. Overhead and aft, they could hear other hatches clang open as gun crews won permission to relieve the sweltering heat in their turrets.
Opened up, the rule of silence was temporarily suspended. The men exchanged comments in low tones. No one had the slightest idea what was going on, only that the fight they had expected seemed somehow delayed. No antagonist, bestial or otherwise, was in sight. Turning back towards the chamber, Garrett bumped into Midshipman Beck. Both men jumped as though static-shocked. The men in the turret glanced briefly their way, then looked off into a nonexistent distance.
1235 Hours
No one was allowed out on maindecks. Anyone caught in the open could be killed or blown overboard by the concussion of the twelve-inchers and Captain Oates had given Dr. Singleton his deadliest look when warning him to stay away from his bridge. Which left him two options: He could remain in his cabin and get drunk or he could wander belowdecks.
While he had managed to stay sober over the last forty-eight hours, the stain of embarrassment had not washed away. The scornful looks the bluejackets tossed at him as he staggered to sick bay to interview Pegg had marred him forever. He doubted he could ever give up drink, but he would take every precaution against ever appearing drunk in public again. If he sequestered himself in his cabin while all hell broke loose outside, he would go mad. And get drunk.
So he wandered the passageways, bemused but sober. Sudden storms of sailors would appear gullying through the corridors, prompting a wild dash on his part to escape their path. But most men were at their stations. Where was Midshipman Davis? he wondered.
He went through one of the heavy water-tight doors near the torpedo room and came upon a long empty corridor that was, except for the thrum of engines far below, completely silent. This uniqueness tempted him to enter its length, yet each step brought increasing disquiet, as though he had entered a world where silence was no longer golden.
"Doc! Hey, Doc!"
Singleton was so astonished by this voice from nowhere that he whirled a full circle. "Hello?"
"I got something to tell you. Hurry! They'll be sending down another guard any minute."
Something dark and sinuous emerged from the wall. The doctor could just make out the glimmer of an eye above the outstretched hand. Moving ahead cautiously, he encountered a face that was little more than a smear of soot and blood.
"Closer."
"This is the ship prison, isn't it?" Singleton noted the small barred window. "I mean, the brig."
"Doc, if you can get me a drink... something to cut this taste in my mouth--you can see it tastes pretty bad--I can tell you something that'll save your life."
"Why are you in there?"
"No one'll know, if you hurry. The provo came and took the guard away. Wanted him with the landing party. But they'll be sending someone else."
"I have to go."
"Doc... I hear you got rum and whiskey in your cabin. Everyone knows it. You don't half walk, but crawl. So c'mon, you can spare a drop... sir."
Even through the narrow opening, Singleton detected the stench of long sweat mingled with coal dust. The devil's own cloud poisoning the atmosphere. The doctor reeled back in revulsion and fear. A caged animal was pointing out a horrible fault to a human.
And the animal was right.
1243 Hours
"Move it, move it. If you can't lift your black ass, drag it!"
The stewards were not the only ones shifting cargo in the lower holds, but the petty officer overseeing the job chose them as the chief targets for his insults.
These were desperate minutes. The ship's ballast had been shifted in the belief they would have a fight on their hands the moment they reached Midway. Now it seemed they would be taking on fuel first. All the hard labor done the day before had to be reversed. Cargo and ballast had to be adjusted to accept the load of coal.
The Florida was paying a heavy price for the festive spirit with which she had departed Hampton Roads. Not only a superabundance of supplies, but five pianos, a ton of party favors, an equal weight in fireworks, extra tables, crockery and victuals--all the innumerable notions needed to make foreign dignitaries happy--inflicted a grievous burden on her fighting trim. This imbalance had not been a drawback during their practice runs off Mexico. At that time, their coal bunkers had been full, offsetting the holiday load. But with the bunkers now nearly empty, a major reorganization of materiel was required to allow smoother, quicker maneuvering.
Amos had missed the first detail. Captain Oates had been insistent that his men be well fed on the eve of battle, so the stewards had been kept busy on the messdecks. After the last bluejacket had eaten, Amos had tried to sleep. Because of the overcrowded conditions, the stewards were compelled to sleep in the common mess. Finding sleep impossible, he had tried to deliver the flask to Gilroy.
Shamed by his confrontation with the marines guarding the stoker, he'd barely returned to his hammock before word came down: The fight was off. They would be taking on coal. Work crews were needed immediately to reshift the cargo.
"And that means you," the petty officer barked as he roused the stewards.
Tons of party supplies had to be laboriously removed. The insidious coal dust penetrated the protective canvas coverings. From there, it was transferred to the men in the detail, then to the passageway walls. Palm prints lined the corridors like children's graffiti.
Chains clattered and men shouted warnings against things falling or things about to fall. The sounds registered as faint echoes in Amos' mind. He was dead from exhaustion and lack of sleep; dead in spirit after his humiliation before the marines. The thick mesh imprisoning the electric bulbs in the passageways chopped the air with cruel shadows. Amos would have been little surprised had a warden popped up to tell him his execution could be delayed no longer.
For so long he had contemplated rebellion against his predicament. Burning Ensign Garrett's supper and the ambush that had ensued from that act had been but the opening shots of the war.
The abject creature that had cowered before the marines shocked him with truth. A lone man's moral shout stood no chance of being heard in the mechanized, modern world exemplified by the Navy. At most, it could be misinterpreted as a knock in the machinery. Garrett's beating had been almost conversational next to what the marines could dole out. And no one would hear.
There was a gap between the leg and body of the upright piano he was helping to carry. Turning a sharp corner, they rested the instrument on the deck for an instant. The gap closed on Amos' palm. His howls rifled the corridor as he lifted his end to pull out. But the piano leg had clamped tight against the frame, locking his skin no matter how high he raised it.
"We've no time for this!" The petty officer stiff-armed Amos in the chest. Blood spurted from the web of his hand as he fell back. "Get a bandage on that. We can't have you staining the goodies. Then get back here!"
On his way to sick bay Amos overheard preparations for a landing party. He could not resist the building excitement, listened eagerly for details of who was going, what was expected.
It dawned on him that the pain in his hand succeeded where self-loathing and secret reprimands had failed. He felt he had awakened from a long sleep. Not a nightmare, but a more frightening numbness. A hundred rounds of boxing, winning or losing, could not have done the same. Pugilistic pain was something he was familiar with and always prepared for. This tearing out of skin and flesh between his thumb and index was nothing more nor less than an arbitrary, blind-stupid accident. The very fact that anything could happen at any time hinted the possibility of things one could make happen. The penalties were there whether you willed them or not, whether they were man-made or not.
Then he stepped into the infirmary and saw the men injured in the fire Gilroy had started. Amos had assumed Gilroy became an incendiary in a fit of madness. As a consequence these men had been grievously hurt--by chance. Did they consider their pain the key to spiritual wakefulness? Listening to their cries and moans, he knew for a fact they did not. He realized now he was merely lucky. The piano had not grabbed him on a bone, or fallen on a foot. Had it been so, he would be nearly as blind with suffering as these men were.
"Here!" The surgeon tossed him a roll of gauze. He was obviously too busy for Amos' minor injury. Besides, he did not like tending blacks. Unlike many doctors, he did not attack wounds but nursed them like feverish babies until they were healed. He was a good doctor, but his personal and professional philosophy made him reluctant to tend like a slave someone he considered half a slave. "Wrap some of that around your hand."
"I'm not crippled," Amos said nonsensically as he caught it with his good hand. Turning, he unintentionally locked eyes with a young man propped on a bed. "You're the boy they picked out of the water," he said spontaneously.
"William Pegg, aye," the young man said.
He cast a wary eye at the surgeon. He and two surgeons' mates were peering closely at a sailor who'd inhaled opium fumes. One of them was taking notes. They paid no attention to Amos as he slipped over to William.
"Cut my hand open," Amos explained when the boy glanced down.
"Got mine half bit off," William boasted, lifting the bandages clumped at the end of his arm. "Don't ever fall asleep with one arm out the boat."
"That's a damn shame." Sitting on the edge of the cot, he spoke as he wrapped the gauze around his wound. "Is what they say true? You saw some kind of monsters?"
"I saw them." William lifted his chin. "Don't believe me if you don't."
"I guess I don't know either way."
"We've slowed down. I feel it."
"We've reached Midway."
"Isn't that in the Aleutians?"
"Down from the chain. Closer to Hawaii, but further west either way."
"Why are we here?"
Amos paused in his self-ministration. "No one's told you?"
"I guess not."
"And I guess… no, you wouldn't hear much down in sick bay. Tell the truth, I don't know all that much myself. They say Midway's been attacked and we're sending a landing party to look."
William bolted up. "They can't go out!"
"Pipe down! No one's seen anything. I heard them aft."
"You don't know how fast they are! No one's listened to me!"
"We have lookouts. They can see miles in every direction."
William was unconvinced. He began pushing himself out of bed. Amos glanced at the surgeon. He did not want to be accused of agitating the patient. "Git back down!"
"No! Help me up! I know something that can save their lives."
A dark coal flared in Amos' chest. The last time he'd heard words to this effect had been when Gilroy told him about the dynamite in the bunkers. It had been his way of extracting liquor from the steward--twisting personal greed into a shared necessity. As difficult though it was picturing a dark purpose behind William's words, Amos warily asked, "Save whose life?"
"Anyone out there. Anyone in an open boat."
"Ease down! Sawbones'll kick your butt he sees you--"
"You're a cook, aren't you? That's a cook's uniform."
Since a cook had more status than a steward, Amos nodded.
"You can help. We can cook something that'll save the landing party."
"Say what?" Amos was tempted to hold the boy down. But if the surgeon looked over and saw him wrestling with his prize patient, he would lose what little rating he had left. "You're going to get us both sunk."
"Where's the galley?"
"Take your pick."
"Take me to the nearest."
His hand throbbed with pain. Returning to the work detail would be futile and someone had to keep an eye on this lad, so obviously distraught. As William struggled into a pair of trousers from the ship's stores, his eyes seemed to sink for an instant. Amos thought he was going to pass out. Reaching around, he reluctantly helped the boy cinch up. Neither the surgeon nor his assistants noticed as they slipped out.
The galley in the common mess was empty.
"We need to get a fire up."
"Not during battle stations you don't."
"You said the lookouts could see everything. They'll warn us and we can douse it. Get me a saucepan. A big one. I'll start the fire."
"You're not making a whole lot of sense. You need to get back in bed."
"The serpents hate this stuff. They hate it! They hate it!"
Amos was tempted to hit him over the head with the kettle. Instead, almost hypnotized by the boy's intensity, he placed it on the fire ring.
1325 Hours
The davit pulleys squeaked peevishly as the two large assault boats were lowered. At nearly dead stop, the men on the Florida could hear the boom of waves against Midway's northern barrier. They were nearly two miles out from the islands, dark wafers barely showing above the spume. The deadly reef was much closer. Though the weather was still with them, the swell was powerful. Oates made sure to give the assault party a proper lee. Everything from the bridge indicated a smooth entry through the northeast entrance to the atoll. A smaller gap in the barrier was sketchily indicated to the south, much closer to the islands, but Oates dared not risk it. He had no intention of entering at all until the northern breech was properly scouted and sounded.
The marines hunkered on the thwarts as the coxswain swung out. There were two signalmen with the boats. They tested their lamps as the launch propellers nibbled, then bit hard into the waves. Wink-wink, wink-wink. Human communication reduced to components, little better than squirrels clicking at each other in the trees.
"Ah, Grissom…?"
"Sir?"
He looked at his exec a moment, then pursed his lips. Stepping into the pilothouse, he took up the phone to the forward mast lookout. "Don't be afraid to sing out if you see anything out of the ordinary. Do you understand?"
Grissom heard a voice buzz at the other end and faced away so Oates would not see his grin. Obviously, the skipper was convinced he'd driven the lookout into a coma with his earlier gruffness. Now, of course, if a s