David Sherman & Dan Cragg - [Starfist 13]

by Wings of Hell (lit)

  A few meters out, Moses surfaced again. “I love you both!” he shouted. Zechariah found he could not speak.

  “Baby! Come see ol’ Treemonisha one day! Promise me!”

  “I will! Pappy, give my love to Hannah, Samuel, and Joab! Good-bye, good-bye,” and he submerged, leaving only a small eddy on the surface of the murky water.

  Zechariah found his voice at last. “I’ve gotta report this!” He reached for the radio.

  Treemonisha laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t, Zach, don’t.”

  Zechariah hesitated. “But the fate of the entire human race may depend on our bringing Moses back with us,” he protested.

  Treemonisha shook her head. “Listen to me, Zach. The fate of the human race has depended on many things, but it’s still here, ’n that boy ain’t gonna make a bit of difference to humanity’s survival. Let him go. Set that radio down ’n let our Moses go, Zach. Besides, now he’s back in the water we ain’t never gonna find him again. They’ll think he’s dead, and we—you and I—we can keep a secret, can’t we?” She said that with absolute confidence—and joy.

  Slowly, Zechariah Brattle put the radio set down. A few days later, news of the great victory on Haulover came to them and the search for Moses the Skink was called off. Zechariah never told anyone what happened that day in the swamp and he never lost any sleep over it, either.

  Dr. Joseph Gobels, however, lost many years’ sleep. Because with the victory on Haulover, his information about the Skinks suddenly became merely academic. The attorney general refused to make a deal with him, he was convicted on several felony counts, and given a very long prison sentence. He was still there when Pensy Fogel won a pardon.

  A long, long time later, when Moses had learned how to clothe himself in the skins of furry animals, he returned to Wellfordsville to visit Treemonisha. It was an arduous trek made endurable by the soaring anticipation he felt that soon he’d see the big black woman again, eat her delicious cooking, and lay his weary head upon her capacious breast. Many times he lay hidden in the forest to avoid travelers and hunters but he knew they were no longer looking for him. And if they found him, if they threatened him in any way, he could defend himself. He possessed the strength and maturity and agility of an experienced hunter who knew how to kill swiftly and silently with hands and snares and the sturdy, sharpened cudgel he’d made from a supple pine branch, hardened in the fires he built to cook the prey that roamed his swamp.

  As he emerged from the woods his heart skipped a beat. Treemonisha’s home did not look at all as he remembered it. The chicken coop was reduced to an overgrown pile of brambles. A large blacksnake slithered through the weeds that choked her front yard. He suppressed a desire to kill it and feast, for he was hungry, but he could always catch something, and the dried meat he had brought with him still hung heavily in the deerskin pouch slung over one massive shoulder.

  He stopped and stared in fearful wonder. Treemonisha’s neat little house lay in ruins, the roof open to the sky. Bushes and weeds had grown up around the place and the windows were empty, staring sockets that revealed a dark, weather-ravaged interior.

  Moses the Skink sank down into the grass and wept. His howls of grief echoed in the surrounding forest, for he realized that Treemonisha Giddings was no more. He was now truly alone in the world.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The day after they returned from Haulover, Thirty-fourth Fleet Initial Strike Team assembled on the parade ground of Camp Major Pete Ellis, the companies marching in from various directions to gain their places in the FIST formation, the Marines resplendent in their dress reds. Families, friends, local dignitaries, and others who wanted to welcome the Marines home gathered in the bleachers to the left and right of the reviewing stand. Despite the larger than normal number of people in the stands, the parade ground and its surroundings were quiet, save for the tramp-tramp-tramp of marching feet. At length the last of the units to arrive halted in its assigned place in the formation, with a loud stomp of feet coming to a halt, and a swish as they faced left to present to the reviewing stand.

  There were holes in the formation. Some of those holes marked the positions of Marines still in the hospital, recovering from serious wounds. A few holes, among the pilots of the squadron, were the positions of pilots who had died in combat and not yet been replaced; the dead among the ground troops had been replaced by transfers from Whiskey Company. But there were twenty-seven other holes; the Marines who normally would have stood in those positions were present, standing in one line on a broad platform erected between the reviewing stand and the ranks of the formation.

  When all were present, Brigadier Sturgeon stepped front and center on the reviewing stand, gave greetings to the Marines and visitors, and introduced Rear Admiral Blankenboort, the commander of the naval supply depot on Thorsfinni’s World and the Confederation military’s highest-ranking officer on the world. The admiral took Sturgeon’s place front and center and delivered a speech that bordered on long and boring, giving praise to the Marines of Thirty-fourth FIST and honoring the families, friends, local dignitaries, and others who thought enough of the Marines to come and welcome them home on this auspicious occasion. He volubly noted that there were an unusually large number of decorations to be given out for heroism in the face of the enemy. “After all, Marines who perform heroic acts are normally considered to simply be doing their jobs. But sometimes they do things that are heroic even for Marines.”

  Blankenboort then turned his attention to the twenty-seven Marines on the platform in front of the reviewing stand.

  “And here stand the heroes,” he said solemnly. “Marines who took the extra measure, went the extra distance, went beyond anything that could be asked of them. And lived to tell of it. There were others who went the extra distance and gave their lives that others could live. They are also heroes, and, like the twenty-seven standing here today, shall be honored.”

  He turned to Brigadier Sturgeon and nodded.

  Sturgeon stepped forward as Blankenboort moved aside. He called Commander Wolfe, the squadron commander, and Mike Company’s Captain Boonstra forward. After they arrived and had exchanged salutes with the brigadier and the admiral, Sturgeon read the citations for the Marine Heroism Medal earned by a pilot and a squad leader and presented the medals to the commanders—neither Marine had family on Thorsfinni’s World to accept the decorations. Wolfe and Boonstra would hold the medals for a brief period before returning them to Sturgeon, who would send them to the two Marines’ next of kin.

  After Wolfe and Boonstra returned to their positions in the formation, Sturgeon looked over the formation, and finally the twenty-seven Marines in front of him.

  “It is with great pleasure”—and he did sound pleased—“that I now have the honor of assisting Rear Admiral Blankenboort in presenting decorations for heroism in combat to these brave Marines.” He followed the admiral off the reviewing stand and onto the platform. Sturgeon’s aide, Lieutenant Quaticatl, and Sergeant Major Shiro, the FIST’s senior enlisted man, accompanied them. Quaticatl carried the citations and Shiro the medals about to be awarded.

  The Marines being awarded medals were lined up by unit, and within unit by where they stood in that unit. Kilo Company was first, and Dragon Company last. As the flag officers stepped in front of each Marine, Quaticatl handed the citation to Brigadier Sturgeon, who read it, his voice amplified so everyone could hear, and Shiro handed the medal to Rear Admiral Blankenboort, who pinned it on the Marine’s tunic and congratulated him.

  After Kilo Company, the awards party came to a particular three Marines from Company L. Brigadier Sturgeon absently accepted the first citation from Lieutenant Quaticatl, while he studied the three Marines. He shook his head wonderingly.

  “This is most unusual,” he said. “Three Marines from one squad receiving decorations at the same time. But they are well earned.” He cut his amplification to speak privately to the three. “I guess it shows how right I was to promote Charlie B
ass before Haulover.” Then back to allowing everybody to hear, he read the Silver Nebula citation for Sergeant Kerr, the Bronze Star citation for Corporal Claypoole, and the Gold Nova citation for Lance Corporal Schultz. Rear Admiral Blankenboort pinned each medal on as Sturgeon read the citation.

  Before they moved on, Sturgeon cut his amplification again and said to Schultz, “It’s damn well time you got a decoration, Lance Corporal. Well done, Marine!”

  “Doing my job, sir,” Schultz said.

  But Sturgeon thought Schultz was standing a little straighter with that medal, the highest General Aguinaldo could award on his own authority, pinned to his chest. And later, after the rest of the FIST passed in review and the awardees were dismissed, Hammer Schultz was noticed walking with a strut in his step.

  While he stood at parade rest, and then at attention on the platform, Corporal Claypoole swiveled his eyes right and left, looking for Jente in the stands, but he didn’t see her. That didn’t mean she wasn’t there, or so he told himself. After all, he couldn’t see everybody, standing with his head straight forward. He continued looking as the Marines from Company L marched back to the barracks, but didn’t see her then, either. He sighed softly and thought the scene she made when he boarded the Essay to head for Haulover hadn’t meant anything, not really. She wasn’t waiting for him outside the barracks, either.

  Before the medal recipients could go into the barracks, they were mobbed by the rest of the company, all of whom wanted to congratulate them, pound their backs, shake their hands, and admire their medals. It was a good twenty minutes before they could get inside and change out of their dress reds. Then came pay call. They hadn’t received their pay during the deployment to Haulover, and having all those creds in their cards felt good. Now they only needed a way to spend it. Right before evening chow, liberty call sounded, Brigadier Sturgeon gave them five days before they had to report back for morning formation. Most of the company was pretty lively as they headed for the liberty buses that would carry them into Bronnoysund, some then heading for points more distant. Most, but not all.

  Corporal Claypoole joined Sergeant Ratliff, Lance Corporal Longfellow, and PFC McGinty, all in their liberty civvies, heading for the hospital to visit Corporal Dean. Along the way they encountered Lieutenant Bass and Staff Sergeant Hyakowa, off on the same errand. Dean’s room was crowded with the six visitors.

  “Well, where is it?” Dean demanded of Claypoole as soon as the hellos were done. “I want to see it.”

  “Where’s what?” Claypoole asked, feigning confusion.

  “Your hero medal, dumbass. Come on, fork it over.”

  Claypoole indicated his clothes. “But I’m not in dress reds. I’m not wearing it.”

  “I can see that. Doesn’t mean you don’t have it in your pocket.”

  Claypoole just looked at him.

  “Come on. I know you’re not going to leave it in the barracks. You’re going to sleep with it, and probably shower with it. Now let me see.” Dean gestured to hand it over.

  A grin slowly spread over Claypoole’s face. “You’re right.” He chuckled as he reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew the presentation case the medal was in and opened it. He gazed at the Bronze Star for a moment before handing it to Dean.

  “Damn,” Dean murmured. He reverently turned the star that hung from the ribbon over and read the name and date inscribed on the back. “You did something with Sergeant Kerr, and he got a Silver Nebula for it?”

  Claypoole nodded, chewing on his lower lip.

  “Too bad I wasn’t there. I would have liked to have seen it.”

  Claypoole didn’t know whether Dean meant the action that won the two Marines their medals, or the awards ceremony when they got them. He chose to believe the former. “It was pretty hairy. You were better off where you were.” He hesitated, then added, “We lost Commander Usner then.”

  Dean shook his head, then straightened the medal in its case and handed it back. “Staff officers,” he murmured. Everybody understood the rest without him saying it. “They aren’t supposed to get killed.”

  Bass took control before everybody started getting morbid. “I talked to your doctor earlier. He said you will be released tomorrow, or the day after.”

  “You’ll be free to join the rest of us on liberty,” Ratliff added.

  That perked Dean up. After his injuries, he said, he was looking forward to a big, juicy reindeer steak and a few pitchers of Reindeer Ale. And getting hold of Carlala again.

  Longfellow assured him his fire team was in good hands and would be returned to him in good condition; McGinty agreed.

  After that, their talk ranged widely until the nurses chased the visitors out after an hour’s stay.

  When the latecomers arrived, the din at Big Barb’s sounded louder than any of the firefights third platoon had engaged in on Haulover. The Marines of third platoon occupied a cluster of tables in a corner of the big common room, celebrating their return in high style. Sergeant Kerr, with Frida on one knee, feeding him slices of reindeer steak, and Gotta on the other, lifted his mug of Reindeer Ale to his lips between bites. Erika snuggled with Corporal Pasquin, who managed to eat and drink steadily without ever removing both hands from her. Sigfreid cupped her breasts for Corporal Chan to fill with ale, into which he dipped cuts of steak before wolfing them down. Klauda straddled Corporal Dornhofer’s lap and draped her arms over his shoulders, leaning back to give him room to feed himself. Meisge was tucked under Lance Corporal MacIlargie’s left arm, holding his mug, while he fed himself with his right hand. Lance Corporal Zumwald bounced Skoge on his knee and fed her tidbits of reindeer steak when he wasn’t shoving bigger pieces into his own mouth. Stulka, the youngest of Big Barb’s girls, hovered about, not sure which of the Marines to attach herself to. Asara, Hildegard, and Vinnie busied themselves serving the tables.

  “Take over for me, Stulka,” Asara shouted, as she squeezed between the table and Lance Corporal Quick’s chest to sit on his lap. She picked up his mug and took a sip before holding it to his mouth. Quick grinned and took a gulp.

  “Talulah, over here!” Vinnie called. She wanted to squeeze in with Corporal Doyle. Some of the other Marines looked at her oddly when they saw, but nobody said anything about it. Hey, some of them were even willing to accept that Doyle was almost a real Marine.

  Lance Corporal Schultz was nowhere to be seen, and the quality of the food coming from the kitchen dropped noticeably shortly after the big man disappeared into it.

  That was the situation into which Sergeant Ratliff, Corporal Claypoole, Lance Corporal Longfellow, and PFC McGinty entered.

  Stulka saw McGinty, squealed, almost dropped the tray she was carrying before managing to put it on a table, and ran to him.

  Ratliff twisted around when a low voice behind him said, “Hey, sailor, buy a girl a drink?” It was Kona.

  Ratliff grinned and said, “I’d love to, but you gotta stop calling me a damn squid!” He had to struggle to maintain his balance when she threw herself into his arms.

  Claypoole and Longfellow exchanged looks, then headed for the tables that held the rest of the platoon—Longfellow eagerly, Claypoole less so. He didn’t expect to see Jente here and couldn’t for the life of him remember whom he’d paired off with after she’d kicked him out before the last deployment—or if there’d been more than one; he thought there might have been at least two, maybe three women. Not that it much mattered whom he’d paired off with; she wasn’t Jente.

  It was well into the evening and every Marine was fed, a sheet or two to the wind, and with a woman—except for Sergeant Kerr, who had two women, and Corporal Claypoole, who had none. Big Barb had done her wailing act about wanting her Cholly and insisting that a skinny woman like Katie wasn’t enough woman for him, then had gone back to tallying the day’s take. The locals, many of whom had to go out on fishing boats early the next morning, were drifting away, well enough fed and far enough drunk.

  The door opened, with co
nsiderably less exuberance than it normally did, and a figure slipped quietly inside. She stepped aside once she was through the door and looked around. She saw the man she was looking for and sighed with relief—that he was back, seemingly whole, and not encumbered. She wasn’t sure how she would have reacted had he been with someone. She softly stepped toward him. She moved so quietly and smoothly that she was almost there before any-body noticed her; Sergeant Kerr raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

  She reached the man she’d come for, placed her hands gently on his shoulders, and bent to kiss the top of his head. She found herself standing face-to-face with him, with his arms wrapped tightly around her and his mouth crushing hers.

  “Oh, Rock,” she murmured when they broke apart enough to take a breath.

  “Jente,” he murmured back.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “I missed you,” he rasped.

  “Let’s go,” she said, almost too quietly to hear.

  He picked her up and started toward the stairs to the second floor.

  She slapped at him playfully and giggled. “Not here, silly. Let’s go home.”

  “Home?” he croaked.

  “Home.”

  He looked into her eyes, searching. He didn’t find any sign of the woman who had angrily thrown him out of her house. “Live in sin?”

  She bit her lower lip and nodded. “Live in sin.”

  “Home,” he agreed, and carried her to the entrance and outside, without a word to, or even a glance at, the other Marines.