nature had a dangerous reputation. Proprietary claims to the heads were even more ridiculous, at least to the outside observer, because only a single bulkhead separated them and both were located in the aft deckhouse, behind the laundry and torpedo workshop. That didn’t make trespass less serious in the eyes of the crew, however. So naturally, Dennis Silva sat and smoked while men came and went and attended to their business on the other seats nearby. No one spoke to him, but they gave him many dark looks indeed.
Stites, Felts, and a torpedoman named Brian Aubrey found him there. They clustered around the hatchway as if reluctant to cross the threshold and braced themselves against the motion of the ship. “There you are!” exclaimed Stites. “You missed it. We ran smack into one of them big dinosaur fish, like ate the Japs, and killed it deader’n hell!”
“Good,” muttered Silva. “It’s time we killed somethin’.”
“Yeah,” added Tom, “and then a even bigger one took to eating the first one just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “It was something to see, and here you was all the time, in the snipes’ crapper!”
Silva glanced disdainfully at the two snipes sharing the compartment. “This ain’t the snipes’ crapper,” he said very slowly and distinctly. “It’s Dennis Silva’s crapper when Dennis Silva’s takin’ a crap!”
One of the “snipes” was Machinist’s Mate Dean Laney, two seats down from Silva. He was nearly as tall as the big gunner’s mate, and just as powerfully built. “You better watch your mouth,” he growled. “You damn deck- apes don’t belong here.”
Silva sucked his cigarette and looked at him. “What are you gonna do, go whinin’ to Spanky or Chief Donaghey and tell ’em I’m using your crapper?” He raised his voice to a high-pitched falsetto. “Lieutenant Spanky! Dennis Silva’s in our crapper! And-he’s takin’ a crap! Do somethin’! Make him stop!”
Laney lunged to his feet with a curse and Dennis rose to meet him, both with their trousers around their ankles. Just then, the ship heaved unexpectedly and the combatants lost their balance and fell to the deck in a tangled, punching heap. They slid against the bulkhead in the disgusting ooze and just as quickly as the fight had begun, it ended as the men considered their battlefield. Dennis began to laugh. Laney didn’t. He put his right hand on the seat nearest him and started to rise, but realized the seat was the red one-reserved for men with venereal disease. He snatched his hand away and splashed to the deck with a cry just as the ship pitched upward and the tide of muck flowed around him. Dennis laughed even harder and rose to his feet, pulling up his ruined trousers. He reached down to give Laney a hand, but suddenly stepped back.
“The hell with you, Laney! You want me catch it too?” He wiped his hands on his soiled trousers and, on second thought, rinsed them in the long sink across the compartment. He posed for a moment in front of the mirror, powerful muscles bulging across his chest and biceps. Then he relaxed and looked at his clothes. “Damn. Snipe shit all over me. I’ll have to burn these duds and who knows when I’ll get more?” He looked back at Laney, who was at least as filthy as he. The other snipe was still seated and had ignored the whole thing. “C’mon, Laney. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee with some real live destroyermen? Someday you’ll tell your grandkids.”
“Go to hell,” Laney said, but he rinsed himself as best he could and followed through the laundry where they replaced their T-shirts. They exited on the deck behind the number three torpedo mount. The sea was heavier now, and the deck twisted beneath their feet like a live thing as they lurched forward, leaning into the spray. Above their heads, on the searchlight tower, the beam swept slowly back and forth, a beacon for their absent sister. Finally, they reached the protection of the gun platform that served as a roof for the galley. There were several men standing in line with cups and the galley hatch was up. They were waiting while the cook and his mess attendant filled the big coffee urn with a new batch. They grabbed cups and took their place in line.
“Hey, Earl,” Dennis said to the cook, shouting over the churning sea, “you got anything besides peanut butter sammiches and scum weenies?”
Earl Lanier shook his head mournfully. “Sorry, fellas. Can’t cook with the sea kickin’ up. Hard enough just to make coffee. Got some cold beans, though.”
“Scum weenies in ’em?”
“Yep.”
Silva grimaced. “No thanks. Say, you got any of them apples left?” Again Earl shook his head.
“Juan says the rest of them apples are for the officers,” said Ray Mertz, the mess attendant.
“Well, who’s in charge here, Earl? You or Juan?” demanded Dennis as it came his turn and he filled his cup.
“I am, damn you. But Juan got them apples hisself for the officers’ mess. You’re just lucky he shared some out.”
“Officers,” grunted Stites, as if the word was a self-explanatory curse. Silva nodded, as he was expected to, but without much conviction. He normally didn’t have much use for officers either, but he figured they could’ve done worse under the circumstances. Their officers sure had their work cut out for them. All their lives were in the officers’ hands and he didn’t envy them the responsibility.
“Still got some pickles left,” offered Mertz. Dennis started to refuse, but then reconsidered. If things were as bad as he suspected, there was no telling when he’d taste a pickle again. Much less an apple. There might come a day when he’d dream about that last pickle he’d turned down.
“Sure, Ray. Gimme one.”
Felts jabbed Laney with his elbow and motioned around the corner of the galley at a figure by the starboard rail, staring at the heaving sea. “Hey, snipe, lookie there,” he said in a grim tone. “That’s that Nip officer! What the hell’s he doin’ on the loose?” Laney’s eyes widened.
“I’ll be damned! You ’apes sure ain’t particular about the company you keep!” Angry faces turned to the machinist’s mate, but they looked guiltily uncertain that he might be right.
“Yeah, what’s up, Silva?” demanded Stites. “You’re tight with the Chief. What’s he think about lettin’ Nips run all over the ship? I think we ought’a pitch the bastard over the side.”
Silva munched his pickle and looked from one to the other. “Gray don’t like it, and I don’t either, but leave him be. Captain’s orders. He’s on parole, or somethin’.” He shook his head. “Whatever the hell that means. I don’t reckon them Jap bastards paroled them boys on Wake.” They were silent a moment, watching the shape as it left the rail and disappeared down the companionway. “ ’Sides,” Silva added gruffly, “he’s prob’ly the only fella in the whole wide world lonesomer than we are right now.”
Spanky sat hunched in his favorite chair near the throttle-control station, his second-favorite mug clutched tightly in both hands between his knees. It was a big ceramic mug that held twice as much coffee as was generally considered right. On one side was a stylized view of Oahu from the air, and on the other was a raised-relief sculpture of a virtually nude hula girl reclined provocatively on a Chevrolet emblem. His very favorite mug with the totally nude pair of hula girls had been destroyed, and he wasn’t going let anything happen to this one. He raised it carefully to his lips and took a sip as he listened to the sounds of the ship laboring in the moderate seas.
Over the years, he’d grown used to the noises she made and prided himself on his ability to diagnose problems just by sound or “feel.” After all the damage and repairs she’d undergone, Walker moaned with all sorts of new sounds and resonated with many feels he wasn’t accustomed to, and he felt disoriented as he tried to identify and categorize them all. He shuddered to think of the stopgaps and jury-rigged repairs he’d performed, and he was secretly amazed that the ship was still afloat, much less under way. He grimaced at the thought of how they might have to stay that way. Wood in the boilers! That would finish them off. The thing was, if they were down to burning wood, that meant they had nothing else, so with a bleak but philosophical grunt, he resigned himself to the possibility.
He was supposed to sleep. The captain had actually ordered him to, but he couldn’t escape the premonition that something would come disastrously unwrapped as soon as he did. Besides, while he worked he didn’t have to think about the dark, looming scope of their situation. It was finally starting to hit the crew. There were several guys hanging out near the throttle station now, talking about just that. He listened only halfway, but for the first time really, he noticed an edge of fear.
He rubbed his tired eyes and looked up to see two pale faces peering at him from the gloom. He was a little startled, since he hadn’t known the Mice were there. As usual, they ignored the conversation flowing around them. He sighed.
“What are you doing up? This ain’t your watch. Get some sleep.”
Gilbert blinked at him and looked around the compartment. The other men were arguing about the creatures on the big ship again. His gaze returned to Spanky.
“We seen a dinosaur before,” he said in a conspiratorial voice. “Me and Isak. We seen one in New York, in a
