Matt heard Gray grumbling as they worked their way aft. He'd decided to take a quick walk around—and be seen doing it—and look at repairs while getting a feel for the mood of the crew. He also wanted to talk to Spanky. The engineer was the only department head who hadn't heard his comments in person. Gray continued to growl under his breath as they climbed into the open air on the main deck and stepped into the shade of the amidships deckhouse. Men formed a line leading to the open-air galley and snatched sandwiches from the counter as fast as the cooks put them down.
It was unbearably hot. That, at least, was the same. He changed direction and went back into the sun and stooped at the drinking fountain on the back of the big refrigerator next to the number one funnel. A stupid place for a refrigerator, he reflected again, but a great place for a drinking fountain. He pushed the button, and the cool stream rose to his lips. He drank, savoring the refrigerated water. Gray joined him.
"You seem annoyed, Boats," Matt observed without preamble.
"That Nip. You ain't gonna let him go, are you?"
"If he behaves, I might. Christ, we've got enough to worry about without guarding a Jap. He offered his parole."
"So? They were making all nice before they bombed Pearl too. We wouldn't have to guard him if—" Gray shifted uncomfortably and glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. "We ought to just get rid of him. He's a Jap, for cryin' out loud!"
Matt looked at him. "Get rid of him? You mean kill him?" He shook his head and stared at his crew for a long time while they talked and ate their sandwiches. He sighed. "No. We won't. You know why? Because we're Americans and we don't do that." He was quiet a moment longer and then strode aft again. "Wherever we are, we're still Americans," Gray heard him mutter.
The sun had just touched the sea when Spanky McFarlane stepped toward the rail near the number two torpedo mount. For the first time since their run from Surabaya, the deck was almost deserted. It had been a hard day in more ways than one, and with the most critical repairs complete, it was as though the crew had breathed a collective sigh of relief and then just collapsed. The only men he saw nearby were Dennis Silva and some of his hoodlum friends in the ordnance division, talking on the amidships deckhouse. Spanky ignored them. It was a moral imperative. If he paid too much attention to what those jerks were up to, he'd probably have to put them on report.
He took a dingy rag from his pocket to wipe sweat and grunge from his eyes. They burned like hell. He pitched it into the churning wake that scoured the side of the ship. Was it just his imagination, or had something actually snapped at the rag as it fluttered to the surface? He sagged against the safety chain. Starting to get jumpy, he thought, and fumbled for his smokes. With the ease of a practiced hand, he lit one in spite of the breeze and inhaled deeply. Yeah, it had been a hell of a day.
They'd buried their dead in the time-honored fashion soon after the Skipper came to talk. All those men—nearly a quarter of the crew— slipping over the side as the captain gruffly read the prayer. Spanky shuddered, wondering how deep the shrouded corpses went before being shredded by the piranha-like fish that seemed to be everywhere. The Old Man was thinking ahead, though. Instead of the customary four-inch shell sewn into their fart-bags to carry them down, they'd been sent to their graves with whatever wreckage or heavy piece of debris Spanky thought they could spare.
That was what the captain came to talk about, to tell him to discard nothing that might have any conceivable use. So Spanky detailed some men to sort the scrap pile they'd started and find the most worthless junk. Then he checked it himself to make sure he couldn't think of any use for it either. Only then was it passed on—a piece of Walker—to accompany her dead sons. He snorted ironically. At least a few of the men went down with the customary projectile, even if they'd been Jap shells pried from Walker's hull. He was glad the Skipper was starting to think about the long haul, though. He'd seemed kind of overwhelmed the night before— and that was before they saw the ship. His speech helped a lot, and it came at just the right time. Spanky suspected the Skipper needed to hear the words just as bad as the crew did.
The sun dipped below the horizon and it began to grow dark. At least the day hadn't been all bad, he reflected proudly. He didn't know what difference the strange creatures on the big ship might make, but after the shock wore off, the fascination and speculation among the crew had done much to take their minds off their troubles. Also, they'd managed to get the number two boiler back on line. There was no hope for number one. The concussion had broken most of the firebricks. Besides, the lines and seals were shot, and he'd cannibalized it to revive number two.
He heard Silva's booming laugh and couldn't help but smile. It took more than a funeral and a battle and being transported to another world to get the big gunner's mate down. He could find humor in anything. For a moment, Spanky listened to the conversation. He couldn't help himself.
"I say they was more like monkeys than cats. Did you see them tails?" argued Tom Felts. "We ought'a call 'em monkey-cats!"
"Cats have tails too, you idiot," countered Paul Stites. "And their faces looked more like cats. Besides, `cat-monkeys' sounds better."
"What do you think, Marvaney?" asked Felts of their friend, who stood by the rail above Spanky. Mack Marvaney only shrugged and stared nto their wake. Felts started to ask again, but Silva rapped him on the shoulder with his knuckles and shook his head. Mack had a Filipino wife in Cavite. It was bad enough when they'd left the place to the Japs, but now . . . he was taking it hard.
"I have decided," Silva announced in a lofty tone that usually brooked no argument. "We'll call 'em monkey-cats!"
Stites, grateful that Silva had kept him from pestering their suffering friend, rounded. "Hell, Dennis, that's what the snipes are callin' 'em! We can't let that stand!"
"The snipes are callin' 'em monkey-cats?" asked Silva darkly. "Those bastards didn't even see 'em. They were all creepin' around belowdecks the whole time we were there. Hidin', I bet! Critters could'a looked like three-legged hippos for all they know." He brooded in silence for a while, then stepped next to Marvaney to spit over the rail. He glanced at him, then turned to face the others. "I have decided!" he repeated grandly. "From this point on, they're cat-monkeys! We discovered 'em. We'll call 'em what we want!"
Spanky shook his head, then sucked the rest of the cigarette to the tips of his fingers and flicked the butt into the sea. By tomorrow the whole crew would be locked in the "cat-monkey-cat" debate. Still smiling, he patted one of the empty torpedo tubes. Even with only three boilers, this tired, shot-up ship that he hated and loved so much was probably the fastest thing in the world, if all it had to offer was big lumbering tubs like they'd seen that morning. "There's humor for you."
For the next day and a half, Walker steamed east, searching for Mahan. The other destroyer hadn't had much head start and she wouldn't be making full steam. They should have caught her in a few hours, but so far there wasn't a trace. Everyone was worried, not only because of her damage but because she represented the only other thing in this very strange world that was familiar. That was as it should be. Besides, some of their own shipmates were aboard her.
Captain Reddy wearily climbed the ladder and returned to his chair. He waved the men back to their duties at the warning: "Captain on the bridge!" He hadn't been gone fifteen minutes. A rising tension knotted his chest, and though he thought he hid it well, his concern over Mahan was making him almost ill. He had a terrible choice to make.