Destroyermen

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.