William could see the delirium beginning to return. "Hey, what's your name?"
"First Sergeant Stanislaw Ziolkowski. Some call me Gunnery Sergeant Ziolkowski, but that's just a nick. There's only one real gunnery sergeant in the whole Corps, and you're not looking at him."
"You got anyone around here you want to talk to?"
"You mean there's others left alive?"
"See for yourself. Let me help you up."
"Wait a minute." Then with astonishing force he bellowed, "Enderfall! I know you're close by. Get your ass over here!"
Almost miraculously, an apparition arose from the scraggle of grass and sand. The man who approached was tall and skinny. His eyes were red. "Top?" he said in a small voice.
"Jesus, Enderfall... you been crying? Damn sexual deviant."
"I thought you were dying, Top."
"I probably am, but don't say you were crying over me. Give me a hand. I want to see what's going on."
Embarrassed by the howl of pain forced from him when Enderfall sat him up, he spent several moments grousing at things in general and Enderfall in particular. Then his eyes widened. "Look at all these men! Must be a hundred. We've got a goddamn brigade, compared to what we had before." He hailed a dejected marine slouching past them. "Hey, snapper! Who's in charge of all these Leathernecks?"
"Captain of the Marines, off the Florida."
"Where is he?"
"I heard he got killed on board."
"All right, who's next in line?"
"Lieutenant Forster."
"And?"
"He's dead, too."
"You ever been stationed on land, snapper? Got any NCOs in the neighborhood? I mean any that can still piss in the morning?"
"Just Corporal Slayton. All the rest--"
"Marine pie. I know all about marine pies, snapper. We've had our fill of them around here. Go find Slayton and bring him to me."
"I don't know where he is right this moment."
"That's why I said 'find' him, snapper."
"All right, sarge." The marine shuffled away.
"Jesus fucking lobster brain. I hope they aren't all that dumb.
William was amazed at the sense of power that emanated from him. It was difficult to recognize the feverish ranter of a half hour ago. He shifted with discomfort and embarrassment on his makeshift bed.
"Now, the two of you--get me a clean pair of pants. And, uh, something to wipe this shit off with. And make me up a stretcher. If what I have in mind comes off, you'll be toting me around‑‑so make it handy. Young sailor, I see your hand--"
"I can tie the stretcher to my wrist."
"Good man."
"Top," Enderfall began, "shouldn't you rest‑‑"
"And get me some of those blue pills out the boat. I feel like someone's got a saw on my leg already."
As they were leaving to do his bidding, Corporal Slayton came up.
"You're in command?"
"We're waiting for the tug to come back and take us off."
"You must've done boot in California. Marines don't wait for anything. If they do, they're sent to live with the gooney birds."
The corporal made the mistake of smiling.
"Corporal, I may be flat on my ass, but I'm in charge here now. Verstehen?"
"Well, now--"
"No 'well-nows' about it. You and your flea shit hats. Marines been on a boat too long, I get doubts about them. Been living soft with the plebes. When those serpent bastards come back, we're not going to be pissy in the missy. Assemble the men next to the warehouse. Now! Or I'll see you shit nothing but prune juice the rest of your life."
The corporal didn't know what Ziolkowski meant by that. But it sounded ominous enough and he scampered away.
"My leg... ah shit, my leg. And here's my Rexer." He studied the damaged weapon and sighed. "But you've got one more battle in you, Stanislaw. By God...." He wiped away his tears before anyone could see.
0820 Hours
Lieber had watched and memorized every step of Hart's operation. How to prepare coal gas in the large wood retorts. How to set up the net while inflating the envelope. He was amazed when he heard Ziolkowski was gathering the men at the warehouse, but he ignored the call. He tried to get some of the marines from the Florida to help him ready the balloon for flight, but all they wanted to do was argue about the uselessness of the idea. So he went to the Japanese and Chinese who had not volunteered as stokers on the tug. The Chinese could not help. They had found Bonehead's cache of opium and were lost to oblivion. But the Japanese were clear-headed and willing. They had seen the way Lieber sat up half the night with Ace as he died--a consummate act of friendship for one of their own. They responded enthusiastically to the German's request.
They deftly spread out the net and envelope while Lieber heated the coal and filled the retorts. Then the hose was connected and inflation of the balloon was begun.
An hour later, he was disconnecting Hart's antenna and reflector from the car and casting off the land anchor. He took with him a Springfield and ammunition, plus some grenades. If nothing else, he could employ himself usefully as a lookout. But if the chance came, he would do what damage he could. Death to tyrants!
Before the captive line was half paid out, he was waving a red-bordered signal flag. The Japanese below saw him point towards the lagoon.
"The big one's coming back!"
They could not hear him, but they understood. The fishermen ran to warn the marines.
1005 Hours
"We got enough jigaboos here to start a plantation."
"Sergeant, these ship stewards volunteered for this mission."
"Yeah. We got enough jigaboos here, don't we?"
While Lieber was preparing the balloon, Ziolkowski had spent the same hour verbally whipping the Florida's contingent with enough vitriol to fuel a cruiser. If he could not parade on their buttocks as he'd done his ragtag rifle team, he could at least make sure they felt the Devil lick their ass‑‑with a notion to bite.
"I've never seen more joints pulled in my life than you ninnies dickin' in the sand," the sergeant hollered at the top of his lungs. Although his leg was still on fire, he felt much better with a blue pill in him and a change of trousers. He had been dismayed by the amount of shit he had smeared himself with in the depths of his fever. Infinitely worse, though, was the fact that Enderfall and the boy had had to cut his pants off, and then practically shear the feces off him like wool off a merino. He cussed endlessly, but only to release the pain. But he managed to bite off every derogatory comment intended for Enderfall--not only because he desperately needed the private's aid at this juncture, but also because he'd reached a startling realization: Even chicken shit could have heart. Ziolkowski admired men who gave it their all, no matter how dumb or futile their intentions. He had admired the Boxers at Chefoo. Wearing silly‑assed totems that were supposed to protect them from bullets, they had charged into the European and American guns and been massacred. Unlike most of his peers, who considered the Boxers irresistibly stupid, Ziolkowski's heart had beat with admiration for them. True, he still considered them an inferior breed. But so were horses--and a thoroughbred could be magnificent.
He could not put Enderfall‑‑who was, after all, a sexual deviant‑‑in the same category. But in his half‑assed way he did the best he could with what poor material he was born with. And in the end, what more could one ask from a man?
So he stifled his sarcasm as Enderfall cleaned off his buttocks and crotch with a damp rag. Although all of this was performed out of sight of the marines gathering around the warehouse, he still had to brace himself against the embarrassment of being washed and dressed like a helpless toddler.
Had the Florida's marines seen any of this, it would have been impossible to maintain his pose as a martinet. Certainly, Ziolkowski would not have been able to use one of his pet lines:
"I never saw such a collection of numbnuts in all my years. I bet you'd shit in your pants if your mothe
r poured milk."
A daring comment from a man propped on a stretcher. Yet the sergeant was a man possessed. He couldn't believe his luck. Yes, his leg would be lopped off the instant a surgeon came within arm's reach, but ranked before him were over a hundred marines and sailors. And they were his. Not another NCO in sight, the chickenshit corporal excepted. And with the serpents owning the local waters, the nearest commissioned officer was as far away as one could desire.
"Sergeant, they took our three-inchers out with the tug. To protect the coal."
"That makes sense. Coal's more important than a marine. Besides, they left us an English three-pounder."
"And only five rounds for it. Rifles aren't any use against those things. I think you know that."
"This man speaking is Corporal Slayton. You all know Corporal Slayton. He's served with you on the Florida for well nigh how many months? By the by, how many of you are fresh from Parris? Any of you have Dandburg for boot? Do any of you have hair on your balls yet?"
Bullshit, Ziolkowski told himself. Bullshit. I'm not a marine anymore. Not much of a man, either. How can I force these men to do what they have to do in order to survive? But as he continued to bark at them, he realized these men were straight as ramrods. They were heeding him. Amazing. He knew he could only influence them to the extent that they allowed themselves to be influenced. If only he could pace their ranks, look them in the eye. Why were they listening?
And then he knew. These men hoped to survive. The conviction that they would be punished if they refused to obey was part of that hope, because punishment would come only if they survived. They looked like odd birds to the old sergeant. Marines serving on warships wore different uniforms from those at the Stations. On land, the uniform was khaki with a broad campaign hat reminiscent of the ten gallons worn by cowboys. But broad rims were not practical in the narrow passageways of a capital ship. Hence the adoption by waterbound marines of small caps almost identical to those worn by naval officers, along with a blue uniform to help them meld with the crew. To Ziolkowski they smacked of something less than true gut-marines. For show, not fight. But that was what he had: jigaboo sailors and hothouse soldiers.
He meant to make the most of them.
"You're right. Rifles haven't done much so far. Corporal Slayton! Have your gun crew fall out and the rest sound off by fours!"
The marines and sailors, at port arms, sounded off. With a grandiose flourish Ziolkowski dubbed each group a company.
"This isn't how we're organized," Slayton groused. "It isn't how we've trained."
"Listen up, all of you! We're dealing with something men have probably seen before, but never lived to tell. Or were never believed. What I can tell you we're not dealing with is a pack of geniuses. They can be shrewd sometimes. But they can be stupid as dogshit, too."
He told them his plan.
Playing sleight-of-hand with an enemy was old hat. What scared the men in the four improvised companies was the cost. Ziolkowski wanted them to buy time--the most expensive thing in the temporal world. They would be risking their lives for something no one could see: an amorphous chart of things to come. They listened to the sergeant because he was offering a gamble better than certain death.
And then the Japanese came racing into their ranks.
"It's coming from the north!" Ziolkowski shouted, putting a rein on the sudden fear and confusion. Now was the most critical moment for the Top. In a trice he had to decide who was the most capable of leading the four companies he'd created. Instinct and experience fused in a miraculous instant.
"You. Redhead. Do you know your signals? Good. You're red. Take A Company to that hill and form a file. You with the buck teeth. Do you know your signals? Good. You're green. Take B Company and form up at the distillery. Try to stay hid behind the dunes. Both of you--when you hear the center firing, hold back. No firing until you get the signal. Advance on the flank. Nothing fancy. If it charges you, run like hell. The other two companies stay with me. Slayton! Get the gun crew to the compound."
The first two companies dispersed east and west.
"Where are my signalmen?"
Two sailors ran up, each carrying bamboo poles.
"Start hooking them up," Ziolkowski ordered.
The signalmen began fitting the poles end to end as the island shuddered. The sailors' hands shook and their fingers knotted. Simple pre-made slots suddenly became impossibly complicated. The sergeant didn't help when he yelled, "Hurry, dammit! You know how fast that bastard'll be when he starts inland. Ziolkowski gave a quick eye to his men as the serpent loomed up on the beach. He could see more than one of them going creamy at the knees.
"Private Enderfall!"
"Yeah, Top?"
"You will shoot any man who rabbits without orders."
There was no time for Enderfall to protest that his hands would be full with Ziolkowski's stretcher. The two companies retreated inland and took up positions around the compound.
Ziolkowksi felt his litter juggle. He could not turn to see what William was up to, but the look on Enderfall's face said it was no good.
"Come here... help me!" William shouted. "Before it's too late!"
"He's tying himself to the litter," Enderfall informed the sergeant.
"That's what he said he would do." Ziolkowski glanced towards the beach. The creature had paused, taking in the entire island with its high‑perched eyes.
"I'm missing half my hand. I have to tie myself to the stretcher."
Ziolkowski suddenly regretted dragooning the boy into this predicament. "We'll get someone else‑‑"
"No!" William moved to where Ziolkowksi could see him. "There's nothing else I can do. I can't pull a trigger. But I've got enough arm to tie a strap to. I'm not going to stand by and do nothing. If you leave me to it, I'll just walk up and kick it."
He jerked his head in the direction of the creature. Ziolkowski gave him a long look. The knobby bandage on his arm was already splotched with blood. Even in the blaring sunlight the boy's face was pale. He was burly enough, if gaunt. But something ineffable had been drained from him. He reminded Ziolkowski of lepers he'd seen in on the China Station, their steady acceptance of death--almost a desire for it. So much at odds with the manic fear of the marines around him, including the hapless Enderfall. They had the same look the sergeant had seen on men trapped in palmetto scrub when an invisible enemy directed shouts and bullets from all directions. There wasn't a man on the island who wasn't swimming in a piss‑pool of terror. William was no exception. But none possessed an angel‑glow of hate like the boy's.
"You don't know what kind of pain you're asking for."
"Sir, someone once told me‑‑no, he showed me‑‑the world's just a ball of hate. That's how it started, that's what keeps it going. The monsters prove it. If God was a monster, we'd have to do our best to kill Him, even if it killed us, too. If I don't do my part, what good am I?"
"Son, you're over my head and I think you're over your own head."
"There's no time."
It would have been a small matter to call another man over from the compound. But Ziolkowski was swayed by the boy's emotion. He nodded at Enderfall. "Help hitch him up."
While the private bound William's wrist to one of the stretcher poles, Ziolkowski kept a steady eye on the creature. It swayed as it sniffed at the air, just as the two smaller creatures had done. One might have thought it was an aimless habit, like a man drumming his fingers while in thought.
"She'll come to the bunker. There's meat in there that's been cooking all day. They'll scavenge. I saw them eat dead donkeys that were swelled up fat by the sun. Get your ass moving, Enderfall! It's heading in."
Enderfall scurried to the front of the litter and they carried Ziolkowski the short distance to the compound. With his head propped on a roll of canvas, Ziolkowski could not look up into William's face, but he could hear the boy's heavy panting. He wondered if he was unfit to carry heavy loads, aside from his ruined hand. Then t
he sergeant realized these were sharp, involuntary gasps of pain. He made no comment. Let the boy admit his mistake, and they would untie him. Meanwhile, Ziolkowski was more concerned that the creature might see the two groups of men moving into position on both of its flanks.
Up and down the line men worked their bolts. Two things kept the majority of them from running: Ziolowski's threat and, more cogently, the fact that there was really no place to run. The bunker provided grim testament to the futility of trying to hide.
William and Enderfall had rested the sergeant's litter at the edge of the compound. The boy sat by Ziolkowski's head. He showed no inclination to free his arm and offered no comment on his pain. His desperate hatred glowed. It was like the only thing he owned, something to be polished assiduously.
"Okay, boys," he told the men ranked before him. "I want some whooping and hollering from you. You know, devil-may-care. You all know about devil-may-care. You marines should. Say hello to the bastard and invite him in. I want to be a proper host."
Briefly, they gaped at him. This sure as hell wasn't in the manual of arms. Finally, some of them managed a few faint yells.
"A dog pissing on cabbage sounds louder than that!"
The shouting became general. Ziolkowski nodded his satisfaction when the serpent leaned in their direction.
"Louder!"
The creature shuffled forward about twenty yards.
A steady creaking came from the right. Rolling as far as he could to his side, Ziolkowski was treated to the sight of a giant cobra dancing high into the air. Then he shook off his confusion and stared at the balloon overhead, almost invisible against the hazy‑bright backdrop. He followed the anchor line back to earth. No one was tending the winch.
"Slayton! Get that balloon down, fast! I'm going to refuse the center."
"What are you trying to do, Top?" Enderfall quailed.
"I want him to get a whiff."
"Of us?"
"Something even better. All that nice meat roasting in the sun. Back at the bunker."
"Oh God--"
"Shut up. He's taking the bait."
At the Midway Page 50