Taylor Anderson - Iron Gray Sea

Tabasco stuck his head down the companionway. “Tabby need help! Water coming in the forward fireroom! You not hear call?”

“No, I ‘not hear call’!” Gray shouted. The intercom speaker was sliding across the deck. Something had knocked it off the bulkhead. He called three Lemurians by their Navy names: “Dusty, Sleepy, Poot: Go help Tabby. I’m gonna run up and check on the repairs above, then head aft. I’ll be there in a minute.”

He ran up the companionway stairs, breathing hard despite his better condition. He was a touch over sixty, after all, and you didn’t run a lot on a ship… The chief’s quarters had become a maze of twisted bulkheads and supports, dangling cables and conduits, and scattered personal belongings. Besides the dashing shell handlers, a few ’Cats were working there, electrician’s mates, he thought, but there wasn’t much else to do right now. The sea was visible through a gaping hole in the port side and there was no flooding-but water splashed in when the sea slapped against the bow. There was fresh air, however, and he paused a moment to take a breath. The wardroom curtain fluttered behind him, and he stepped through.

The first thing he saw was Sandra. She was standing beside the wardroom table with the light rigged low so she could see to sew. Sick-berth attendants and corps ’Cats were holding a large mound of flesh on the table while she worked. Earl Lanier had taken one in the gut again, and a large flap of his oversize belly had been laid open. Yellow fat and blood glistened. Wounded ’Cats were on the deck, lying on rack mattresses. Some were covered with bloody bandages, and others were just covered up. SBAs were moving a steady flow out of the wardroom-either to their racks or just out of the way. The ammunition relay did their best not to step on anyone, but they were exhausted and their passage caused an occasional cry.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Earl demanded, surprising Gray. The cook was not only conscious, but was watching Sandra sew. He took a large gulp of seep from a brown bottle.

“Just admirin’ your armor belt, Earl. A battleship’s got nothin’ on you. I bet your belly would stop a torpedo.”

“Why don’t you get out there and fight, damn you!” Earl roared. “I’m a wounded hee-ro. You let those Jap bastards sink my Coke machine, you’ll be eatin’ scum weenies for the rest of your damn life!”

Machinist’s Mate Johnny Parks stirred from his mattress on the deck. He had a heavy bandage on his head and Gray noticed Diania was there, trying to hold the injured man down. She still looked terrible-and beautiful, he thought-and seemed to have gotten control of her stomach at last. Most of the SBA women had, he realized. Combat tended to focus one’s attention, he reflected.

“I’m with you, SB,” Johnny said. “I can’t listen to that fat bastard’s bellyachin’ anymore.” He grinned. “Not that he ain’t got a helluva belly ache!”

“You stay put!” Sandra ordered Parks. “Your skull may be fractured! Do you want your brains to fall out?”

Johnny laid back down. “I guess not. Gimme some cotton for my ears, at least.”

“No. You can’t sleep right now, and with all the seep you’ve had, you might drift off.”

“No chance o’ that, with that elephant’s ass carryin’ on so.”

“Why, you…”

“Hush!” Sandra ordered, and Lanier looked at her with bleary, almost-drunken eyes.

“Well… you want I should keep the lug awake or not?” Lanier complained.

Gray lurched through the crowded compartment, headed aft. Sandra stopped him. “How is it going?” she asked. “Is Matthew all right?”

Gray patted her arm. “Damned if I know.”

Hidoiame was difficult to see through her smokescreen, but she was visible, and Campeti continued punishing her with the numbers one, three, and four guns even as she slowly drew away. She was faster than Walker, and Matt wouldn’t strain his engines more than necessary in these seas and with the damage his ship had taken. Not yet. The enemy was still well within range. But so was Walker. Matt’s crew cheered again when there was a bright yellow flash and white smoke burst out of the distant black cloud. One of their guns had hit a boiler, no question about it. If that didn’t finish Hidoiame, it had to slow her down.

“By God! I think we do have her, Skipper!” the scarred, battle-hardened, First Lieutenant Norman Kutas shouted jubilantly. They were the last words he ever spoke.

A massive geyser erupted just to port, the spray reaching as high as the fire-control platform. A mere instant later, a 5-inch, 51-pound “common” projectile impacted Walker ’s fo’c’sle at the very base of the bridge structure, and 4.1 pounds of Type 0 high explosive detonated. The force of the blast and shrapnel it created surged through the thin steel into officers’ country and slaughtered the wounded that had been placed there, every one. More high-velocity fragments slashed in all directions, perforating the hull and sweeping up through the radio room. Signals Lieutenant Ed Palmer’s chair saved his life, but he was dashed against the aft bulkhead like a rag doll. Everyone else in the compartment was killed instantly. Heavier fragments of the shell itself punched through the pilothouse deck, launching blizzards of strake splinters. A hot shard of ragged steel hit Norm Kutas under the jaw-and didn’t stop until it snatched the steel helmet off the top of his head. Norm fell to the deck without a sound-but there was plenty of screaming on the bridge.

For an instant, Matt thought he was the only person in the pilothouse to escape injury. He was stunned by the concussion, but the only thing he felt had been a terrible jolt in his feet and legs. There was no fire, thank God, but the air was full of brown smoke and drifting fur. Norm was down, he realized, and he took a step toward the vacant wheel. He felt the pain then. Something was wrong with his leg, and there was a hot poker in his lower abdomen. “Uhn,” he said through gritted teeth, and pressed his hand against his side. Suddenly, Minnie was up, and so were a few others. Minnie lunged for the bright brass wheel, straddling Norm’s still form.

“The helm don’t answer, Skipper!” Minnie cried when the wheel spun freely and the ship didn’t turn.

“Inform Mr. McFarlane he has the conn,” Matt managed. “I’m on my way there now.” He tried to turn, but had to grab his suddenly warped chair to keep from falling.

“Skipper?” Minnie cried. For the first time she saw the blood streak down Matt’s trouser leg and saw how much there was. She dashed for her headset dangling from the aft bulkhead. “Mr. McFarlane, you have the conn!” she cried. “Caap’n’s orders. Corps ’Cats to the bridge, on the double!”

Sandra’s worst nightmare had come true. Again. Once more, her love, her husband, was laid bleeding before her, and she didn’t know if she could save him. Before, he’d been on a bloody canvas cot on the beach at Aryaal. Now he was on the green-linoleum wardroom table in the middle of a battle on a heavy sea. She had better equipment and help this time, but as she cut Matt’s sopping trousers away, she began to suspect this wound was much, much worse.

“How bad is it? Gray demanded. He’d raced to the bridge immediately after the explosion and carried the captain down himself. He wasn’t injured, but he wore just as much blood.

“I don’t know yet!” Sandra shouted in frustration. “Something went in his leg and there’s a lot of bleeding. It may have cut the femoral artery! The way he’s holding his lower abdomen, though, I’m afraid whatever it was didn’t stop in his leg!”

Matt was still conscious, but his face was pale. “Feels like something burning in my belly,” he confirmed; then he grabbed Gray’s sleeve. “Go, Boats,” he said. “Tell Spanky… get those murderous bastards! We can’t let them escape!”