Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

In spite of his fire the Germans had managed to get their anti-tank gun into action.

  Peering through the downpour Curtis saw the immense shadowy shape of the snake veering and slithering toward the German gun crew.

  Another blast from the anti-tank gun sounded, and the shrill staccato of machine gun fire was added to the melee, but the mighty snake continued its inexorable advance.

  Within fifty feet of the gun crew the thick bludgeoning tail of the snake lashed out with terrific speed. Sweeping over the muddy ground with tremendous force it smashed into the Germans, slamming them to the ground like toy soldiers before the sweep of a mighty fist.

  The anti-tank gun was hurled fifty feet through the air. It crashed against the wall of the enclosure, a twisted mass of useless wreckage.

  THE immense head of the snake reared in the air and Curtis saw that the slim body of the girl was lying limply across the reptile’s broad back.

  The lance had fallen from her hand and was lying on the ground. Curtis saw then, even through the blinding gusts of rain, the blood that trickled from the girl’s body and painted a red smear against the side of the monstrous snake.

  The body of the snake slowly uncoiled. The roaring fury of the storm crescendoed to a wild pitch, and in the keening maelstrom of the tempest there was a sobbing mournful note that sent a chill through Curtis.

  Through the blinding storm Curtis could see the mighty head of the snake lowering slowly to the ground. The limp figure of the daughter of the snake god was dead, and some psychic awareness of this seemed to be transmuted to the mighty snake and to the endless darkness and mystery of the Peruvian jungle.

  Then Curtis saw the mighty length of the snake coiling again and moving with deliberate purpose toward the courtyard entrance through which the German tanks had disappeared . . .

  CURTIS held Jo closely in his arms.

  “We’ve got a chance again,” he said tensely. “With luck we can make the coast. My work here is done. Rather it was done for me by—”

  “Sacha,” Jo murmured. “Oh, Allan,

  I feel as if I’m about to lose my mind. Have I dreamed all of this unimaginable horror?”

  “I don’t think so,” Allan said softly. “There are things in the depths of this country which few white people would believe, even if they saw. I think we’ve seen one of those things. At any rate the menace to the unity of South America is over, forever, I believe.”

  Jo drew a short shuddering breath. “Is there any chance for us to get out of here? Tell me the truth, Allan. I won’t mind if we can’t. We’ll be going together, at least.”

  Curtis looked carefully around the ravages of the storm, then he looked down at Jo and, for the first time in many hours, he grinned.

  “I don’t think we’ll get out,” he said, “I know it.”

  HEMISPHERIC SOLIDARITY WINS!

  SOUTH AMERICAN NATIONS VOTE

  CRUSHING REBUFF TO THE AXIS

  (S.P.P.) With the final ironing out of the Peruvian-Ecuadorian border disputes, the Pan American Conference at Rio de Janeiro lined up solidly to form an anti-axis bloc which will undoubtedly be reviewed in history as one of the greatest Allied victories of the century.

  [1] The presence of Nazi paratroop panzer units, even in South American jungle territory, might be closer to actuality than mere possibility. Certain it is that the Axis powers interested in South American control would stop at nothing to gain that objective. And equally certain, in the terms of practical military feasability, is the fact that plane carriers, operating along the vast coastal sectors of South America, could approach close enough to jungle shores to send troops with equipment over the jungle, dropping them at locations prearranged with fifth columnists.

  Scarcely a day passes in Washington military and state department circles, that there are not clouded rumors of actual filtrations in various similarly situated sectors in many of the neutral nations. One military expert recently hinted that Jap divisions were thus landed in some of the Luzon sectors as early as five days before December 7th.

  Stories have also come out of the deeper Mexican regions, hinting that entire paratroop units have been discovered lurking in desolate jungle and mountain areas, waiting for striking orders. These rumors, fortunately, have added that alert Mexican scout patrols have swiftly “mopped up” such units, adding to the fantastic status of the modem hidden lightning warfare developed by the European Mad Dog.

  [2] Legend of Sacha, the snake god, and his daughter.

  Buried deep in the fragmentary records of ancient Inca legends, is the often referred to story of the once splendid city of Sacha. Ruled by Queen Remura, who professed to be the daughter of an incredibly huge snake—after which the city was named—the ancient Inca metropolis was devastated by Spanish Conquistadors in a sudden and savage raid. Most of the citizenry were supposed to have been slain; all of the city was left in smoking ruin. The snake god Sacha, and his daughter, Queen Remura, however, were supposed to have escaped into the jungle. And it was while the Spaniards were still terrifying the smaller villages outside the city that Queen Remura returned, astride the great snake Sacha, rallying the remaining Incans, and slaying the despoilers to the last man.

  C.H. Barrington, in his two volume treatise, “Ancient Inca, Its Legends and Civilisations,” said of this particular story around the snake god legend, “True it is that the Spaniards ravaged these particular coastal regions. And also true, is the fact that the crumbling wreck of a Spanish galleon was found shattered on the shores of this region some seventy-five years after the incident is supposed to have transpired. There were no bleached bones of the Spanish crew, as is generally the case, in the waters near the beached and rotting hulk to indicate that Conquistadors had been aboard when it was washed ashore. It’s crew, whatever happened to it, undoubtedly perished somewhere in the jungle during a raiding foray. It is not beyond reason to suppose that the crew fell victims of the surviving members of the devastated city of Sacha.”

  And about the legend itself, Barrington adds, “There is evidence that some primeval monsters, tremendous snakes of the size attributed to Sacha, were in existence in the Peruvian jungles at the time this ancient Inca city was in its glory. And even as late as 1931, rumors have come from the little explored sectors of the jungle to the effect that a giant snake prowled the ruins of the little known city, always accompanied by a strangely beautiful girl.”

  As to the native attitude toward the legend, Barrington concludes, “Among the more superstitious, it is still the belief that Sacha guards the fate of Peru with his daughter, always ready to thwart another despoiling of the proud nation.”

  THE GIANT FROM JUPITER

  First published in the June 1942 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  An incredible being stood there in the ocean; a man who was taller than a warship. He presented a problem that was very hard to solve indeed!

  CHAPTER I

  ADMIRAL RICHARD HALLET, U.S.N., retired, entered the Office of Naval Intelligence hesitantly. For a man who had spent thirty-eight years of his life in the navy, there was no reason for his feeling of bewildered embarrassment, but nevertheless he couldn’t escape the sensation of having returned to a new and strange world.

  Nothing had changed since he had walked out of the office a half dozen years ago for the last time, but now everyone seemed younger and fresher and more intent.

  The switchboard operator, a blue-jacketed yeoman, was plugging calls in and out of the office as fast as his fingers could move. The long corridors that branched off from the main reception room were thronged with serious-looking civilians, and hurrying yeomen, carrying correspondence from one department to another.

  Occasionally young ensigns, painfully conscious of their rank, strode through the reception room, grim and unsmiling, striving mightily to convince the world that they were worthy of their stripes.

  Vice Admiral Hallet smiled. It had always been like this, and he supposed it always would. Nevertheless, the bustle and th
e air of grim excitement made him feel a little older and little more useless.

  There wasn’t much a man of seventy years could do when his country was at war. Vice Admiral Hallet belied his three score and ten with his straight spare frame and keen, frosty blue eyes, but it was evident in his snowy hair and in the slight stiffness of his walk.

  A hurrying ensign collided with him as he turned.

  “Sorry, sir,” the ensign said automatically. “Anything I can do for you?”

  Vice Admiral Hallet was wearing his plain gray civilians, but there was something in his bearing and in his eyes that stamped him more expressively than any uniform could.

  “Is Commander Ward in?” he asked gently.

  “He’s pretty busy, sir. You may have to wait. Possibly I could help you.”

  Admiral Hallet smiled at the youngster’s earnestness.

  “I don’t doubt that you could,” he said, “but the commander and I are old friends. In fact I believe I was the first captain he served under in the last war. If you just tell him Admiral Hallet is here I think he’ll see me.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  He turned, hesitated, then saluted smartly and strode away.

  ADMIRAL HALLET felt a warm glow around the region of his heart. The ensign’s salute seemed to strike away the years and the uselessness that burdened him. Damn it! A man was as young as he felt. Why couldn’t the navy see that? It wasn’t as if he wanted a command, or even an active post. He’d be satisfied anywhere, doing anything that was necessary and had to be done.

  How could a man putter around a farm and listen to the radio at night when his country was at war? Admiral Hallet threw back his stiff shoulders as these thoughts flitted through his mind. This was his war as much as anybody else’s and he didn’t intend to stay on the shelf for the duration.

  The ensign returned a moment later.

  “Commander Ward will see you,” he said. “Room 204 at the end of the corridor.”

  “Thank you, mister,” Admiral Hallet said.

  The ensign saluted and went on his way.

  Room 204 bore the plain legend Office of Recruiting.

  Admiral Hallet opened the door and entered. There were six or seven uniformed officers working at desks, and a clattering teletype was set up in a corner of the office.

  A door that led to a private office opened and a tall, dark haired young man with ruddy cheeks strode into the outer room. His eyes lighted as he saw Admiral Hallet.

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” he said with a smile. He strode to the admiral’s side and pumped his hand enthusiastically. “How’s the farming business? And when does that grandson of yours start at the Academy?”

  Without waiting for an answer to either question the young man took the admiral by the arm and led him into his private office.

  “Let me get my breath,” Admiral Hallet laughed, as he sank into a chair.

  Commander Ward sat down and regarded the old man affectionately.

  “Too much easy living, eh?” he grinned.

  “Hardly that, Paul,” Admiral Hallet denied vigorously. “I think it’s just the excitement of being back here, ready to step into harness again, that shoots my blood pressure momentarily skyward.”

  A swift expression of discomfort and embarrassment crossed the young face of Commander Ward.

  “Back in harness, did you say, Dick?”

  Admiral Hallet’s eyes were pained. “Yes, Paul. That’s what I said. And that’s why I’m here, seeing you. I felt certain that you wouldn’t react to my wishing to serve the way the others have.”

  Commander Ward cleared his throat. He tried to keep the deep sympathy from his voice, knowing his old chief wanted none of it.

  “But you’re well over the retirement age, Dick,” he protested kindly. “You know how Washington feels about that sort—”

  “Washington be damned,” Admiral Hallet said sharply, his eyes flashing. “Look at me, Paul. I’m an old sea dog, yes. But I’m just as sharp now as I was twenty years ago up here.” He tapped his gray temple with a firm finger.

  “But—” Commander Ward started to cut in.

  “And physically,” old Admiral Hallet went ahead, “I’m still the pride and joy of my life insurance company. Had a check-up just a week ago. Doctors admitted I was finer physically than half the fifty-year-olds they’d examined.”

  COMMANDER WARD noted those keen, frosty blue eyes, the set to those square, tough shoulders, the alert and combative way his old commander still held his head. He smiled ruefully.

  “I believe you, Dick. And for my money you’d be chief of operations tomorrow. But there’s the matter of your age on the records. You can’t lick that, Dick. Seventy is seventy. It’s navy.”

  “And I’m navy, Paul,” Admiral Hallet declared softly. “Down to the last inch of this tough old frame. I can serve. Hell, man, these young spriggens they have in blue today can’t know everything. They’re a good, stout, fine lot. But experience is the final balance in any man’s navy.”

  Commander Ward leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  Old Admiral Hallet watched the young commander breathlessly, as the barometer-clock on the desk between them ticked loudly in the silence.

  “I don’t know if we could get you a post commensurate with your retired rank, Dick,” Commander Ward said after a moment.

  “If I were young enough to enlist as an apprentice seaman, I wouldn’t be here, Paul,” Admiral Hallet said with quiet sincerity. “Any post, doing anything. That’s all I want.”

  “We’re in the process of organizing a civilian shore patrol defense outfit on the Pacific coast,” Commander Ward said after a moment. “We were considering putting a well-known yachtsman in charge of it.”

  Admiral Hallet leaned forward eagerly.

  Commander Ward ran his hand through his close cropped dark hair. “I suppose I’ll get in hot water with any number of civilian bigwigs who want publicity from this thing; but I don’t know why it couldn’t be supervised much more efficiently by a navy man. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t appoint any navy man now in active service. But if I were to take a well-known figure from the retirement ranks—” he paused, eyes twinkling.

  “Well?” Admiral Hallet grinned.

  “Get on with it, Paul. The suspense is terrible.”

  “If I were to appoint a well-known figure from the retirement ranks,” Commander Ward repeated, “there wouldn’t be a damned thing they could do about raising a fuss. They’d have to like it. Want the post, Dick?”

  Admiral Hallet rose, standing erect, shoulders thrust back proudly, eyes twinkling a little mistily. His lean features creased in a grin of utter elation.

  The old man’s hand flashed briskly in salute.

  “Reporting for duty, Sir,” he said.

  Grinning, too, Commander Ward returned the salute from his old chief.

  “Glad to have you aboard, sir,” he said . . .

  CHAPTER II

  Blackout

  ADMIRAL RICHARD HALLET, U.S.N., retired, Commander of the United States Civilian Defense Shore Patrol, stood on the wharf of the yacht club harbor some twenty miles from Los Angeles and gazed out at the small flotilla under his command.

  Good craft, all of them. Sturdy little power launches, sleek racing sloops, heavy, seaworthy steam yachts. As varied and odd a group of vessels as he had ever commanded. Fifty of them, all told, excluding the small boats under twenty feet—a full hundred of them—that had been offered to him for whatever auxiliary duty he could find for them.

  At Admiral Hallet’s side stood tall, bronzed, blond haired, Luke Forest, President of the Billings Yacht Club in whose harbor the strange little fleet was assembled.

  Forest was lean, seawise from the yatchsman’s standpoint, and though five years over forty, still looked like a college kid at first glance. Since Admiral Hallet’s arrival, Luke Forest had been of inestimable help. He knew
almost every small craft on the California coast by name and owner, and it had been he who was most helpful in spreading the call for this civilian scouting fleet. And now, in just two weeks, Admiral Hallet already looked on Luke Forest as his second in command.

  “It’s quite a different command for you, I imagine, sir,” Luke Forest observed with a friendly grin.

  Admiral Hallet returned the smile. “We won’t classify it in tonnage,” he said dryly. Then, more seriously, he added, “But just remember, Luke, that it was a flotilla such as this that turned the tide at Dunkirk.”

  “We have a good bunch of amateur skippers,” Forest declared. “I think I know most of them well enough to say there’s not a one you couldn’t depend on in a crisis.”

  “We’ve enough for a twenty-four hour coastal patrol in this area, seven days a week,” Admiral Hallet observed. “But of course, until we can equip all the craft with similar apparatus, we’ll have to depend principally at the start on those having radio sending and receiving equipment.”

  “We have twenty-five such craft,” Luke Forest said. “And the cruising range on each is great enough to cover up the lack of radio equipment in the other vessels for a few weeks at least.”

  “I’ve put in a requisition for enough equipment to cover all our patrols,” Admiral Hallet said. “I don’t think it will be long before we get it. At any rate, ten of the steam yachts are already well armed. I’m placing navy crews at their guns tomorrow morning. They’ll stay until they’ve trained the civilian crews to operate them.

  Luke Forest nodded. “And at dawn tomorrow we get into operation, eh admiral?”

  Admiral Hallet nodded. “They’ll be test patrols to begin with,” he declared, “to give us some idea of the working efficiency we’ll have to count on.”

  The two turned back down the wharf. “It’ll be good to get this finally under way,” Luke Forest commented, walking beside the Admiral.

  “It will help destroy some of the complacency that’s starting to crop up along the coast here once more,” Admiral Hallet observed.