CHAPTER 31
////// USS Walker
A dense column of rain swept across the stranded destroyer at the same time the Grik managed to scramble over the disintegrating barricade in significant numbers. They seemed a little stunned they’d actually made it, and most lost their footing on the suddenly—unexpectedly—slick deck. Many were quickly killed by bayonet thrusts, but more of the defenders were falling back now, wounded or dying, as the once-protective bedding was torn away. The Marines still fought from behind their shields at the main point of contact just aft of the amidships deckhouse, but bayonet-tipped rifles didn’t make good spears for stabbing downward one-handed. Most of the killing was performed by the Marines behind them, but the frustratingly helpless shield wall was starting to buckle. Here and there, Marines even pitched their precious breechloaders behind them and drew their cutlasses as they would be more effective in this kind of fight.
The machine guns were split between firing down on the boarders, clawing their way over the causeway of corpses and chattering at the larger mass beyond, waiting their turn to cross. The 25s were still mulching the enemy farther out, but their rate of fire had slowed, as had the 4"-50s forward. The gun on the aft deckhouse had ceased firing completely. Matt ducked a thrown spear and shot at a Grik trying to vault the shields, his Colt bucking in his hand. The Grik shrieked, then fell backward onto his comrades. Matt trotted to where the Bosun and half a dozen others with Blitzer Bugs were holding the Marine’s left flank, anchored on the torpedo mount. Gray was bleeding now, from a couple of cuts, but the rain washed the blood away so quickly, it was impossible to tell how bad they were. Probably not too bad, Matt judged. Gray hadn’t even noticed them. The older man was resting his Thompson on a Grik corpse draped over the rail, sending short arcs of hot brass clattering off the Marines’ helmets to his right. He fired like an automaton—Braap! Braap! Braap!—quickly choosing targets between his bursts. After every sixth squeeze of the trigger, the smoking barrel came up, and Chief Gray replaced the twenty-round magazine so he could do it again.
“Been killin’ those ones on the edges,” Gray explained matter-of-factly, noticing him there. “Bastards are heavin’ the dead down in the water on either side, tryin’ to increase their front an’ get more warriors up against the ship! Damnedest piece o’ combat engineerin’ I ever saw!” He spat. “Course, I’m helpin’ ’em do it too, since half the ones I shoot just roll in the damn water anyway! Shit!”
Matt saw what he was talking about and realized it was working too. Then he looked beyond at the seething horde and felt a terrible heat in the back of his neck. The rain obscured much, but it was clear that the numbers trying to swarm his ship were growing all the time. Silva must’ve been right. Nearly every Grik in the city not facing II Corps seemed to be surging to reach the sandbar—and USS Walker. The rain had eliminated the most dangerous Grik weapons, but there were just too many of them. Sooner or later they’d get a firm toehold on the ship, and that would be that. Matt shook his head, slinging water off his helmet. No! He emptied his pistol into the mass. “Keep at it, Boats!” he cried. “I’m going to see what’s clogging up the ammo supply to the guns.”
“We’re gettin’ low here too, Skipper,” Gray said. “Just thought I’d mention it.” Matt nodded, turning to where the torpedo talker had been, but the headset now dangled from the wires. The ’Cat who’d stood there so long was lying on the deck with a crossbow bolt in his eye, the blood on the deck quickly diluting and running away. Matt grabbed the headset.
“This is the Captain,” he said. “What’s the holdup on the ammo train?”
“No holdup, Captain,” Spanky replied immediately, and Matt looked up at the man atop the aft deckhouse a hundred feet away. His gun crew was firing rifles now. “The fact is, we’re out of common shells in the aft magazine. Nothing but AP left. I figure my guys back here can take better cover and kill as many Grik with rifles.”
“Out already?” Matt demanded, then realized how ridiculous he sounded. “The AP will still explode, if you shoot it at the planet!” he shouted angrily.
“Sure, but most of the force’ll be deadened by the dirt it penetrates first. And besides, it looks like you could use a hand. I’ve released the shell handlers to take rifles and assemble behind you as a reserve.”
Matt finally nodded. Spanky was thinking clearly—more clearly than he was, right now. “Very well, but what’s the holdup elsewhere?”
“That’s what I was tryin’ to find out—an’ for a little more good news, the twenty-fives already have all the ammo they’re getting. It is all gone.”
“Skipper?” It was Campeti, using the comm even though he was close enough to shout. He might not be heard, though, over the racket of battle.
“What’s the dope? I know the forward magazines aren’t dry.”
“Not quite, but we’re gettin’ jammed up. Too many wounded crammed under the deckhouse and getting carried down the companionway to the wardroom. Getting replenished through there is becoming a big problem.” Despite Matt’s concern over leaving that particular hatch open, they’d had no choice after all.
“Small arms ammo?”
“I’ve rerouted the handlers through the firerooms—I hope they don’t drop any!—and they’ll bring it up the escape trunks.” Matt glanced back just as the hatch rose and clanged against the deck. He also watched the mortar ’Cats grimly heave their weapons over the starboard side. He hadn’t heard them firing for some time now and they were obviously out of ammo as well. He nodded at them as they retrieved their personal weapons.
“Half you guys, over here,” he shouted, pointing at the Marines fighting at the rail. “The other half, help with that ammo coming up from below. And keep a watch on that hatch! If the Grik get aboard, down you go, and secure it behind you!”
Heavy crates of ammunition, stenciled BAALKPAN ARSENAL .50-80-450, started appearing out of the trunk, and ’Cats, their rifles now slung, started grabbing and dragging them away.
“I need some of that up here!” Campeti roared down, ignoring his headset. “And we need forty-five, an’ belted thirty too!”
There was a roar beyond the shield wall, and Campeti whirled. Matt saw the stunned look on the man’s face and raced back to Gray. “What’s happening?” he demanded. Gray just pointed. A dense column of Grik, several hundred strong, was sprinting up the bridge of flesh, directly at the ship. Grik caught between them and their objective were either swept up in the charge or thrown aside. The number one gun, depressed as low as possible and trained around to the stop that prevented it from hitting Walker’s bridge, blew great, bleeding swaths out of the gory slope. Machine guns and riflemen redoubled their firing and bodies tumbled into the water, but the roar only built as the leading edge of the column, ablating flesh and bone, churned up the slope of dead and slammed into the shield wall with a mighty, rain-muffled crash. Then, with a furious flurry of shots and exhausted, forlorn screams, the shield wall protecting USS Walker cracked.
Chief Bosun of the Navy Fitzhugh Gray grabbed Matt by the shoulder as Marines fell back under the onslaught. When Matt’s eyes went to the face of his old friend, they saw that he was smiling. “Tell Miss Diania I love her,” he shouted. “I never could do it. Too damn chicken, I guess. And tell Silva he can have my good hat. If he finishes his job, he’ll have earned it.”
“What?”
“And God bless you, Skipper! It’s been a helluva run!” Before Matt could even contemplate what Gray meant, the powerful old man practically threw him under the torpedo tubes as the tide of Grik washed over them. Even as Matt scrambled to his feet on the other side of the mount, his pistol up, he heard a long, final burst from the Thompson.
Matt shot his pistol dry, killing Grik as they came for him. Fortunately, somebody else took up the slack while he reloaded, but then he emptied his pistol again. Without conscious thought, he pushed the magazine release, dropping the empty to clatter on the deck, and slammed another in the well. As he thumbed the slide release, his pistol automatically chambered another round, and he aimed as carefully as he could. An anger, a hatred so sharp and focused had overwhelmed him so completely that, for a brief moment, no thought entered his mind but the necessity of killing Grik. The notion that he might take even a single step back never occurred to him. He must stand; he must kill—because somewhere under that terrible horde climbing over the rail and dashing toward him across the top of the torpedo mount was a man who’d become more than a friend.
“Cap-tan!” gasped a familiar voice as a body slammed into him. It was Juan. Matt didn’t know how the one-legged Filipino had done it, but he’d somehow managed to get out of the crush. There was blood all over him and he was hopping—his wooden leg was useless on the rain-and-blood-slicked deck—and using his Springfield as a walking stick. “Cap-tan!” Juan repeated, his tone contrite, “I hate to impose, but I find myself in the awkward position of having to ask you for help.”
Matt blinked. “Here, take my arm,” he said, firing again, but moving toward the galley.
Lanier was shooting his Thompson, flanked by a growing number of bandaged ’Cats, who also fired into the Grik as they filled the waist of the ship. “This way, Captain, if you please,” Lanier bellowed. He hadn’t been out in the rain, and for some reason, the bloated, cantankerous cook’s grimy face was streaked with tears.
Matt had a near-panicky thought and spun to look at the escape trunk. It was already closed, thank God, surrounded by shattered crates. “We’re coming!” he yelled back. Suddenly, Juan’s good leg wasn’t working as well as it should, and he slumped. “Somebody help me with this man!” He heard a clang, and watched a spent 4"-50 shell casing crush the skull of a Grik that suddenly lunged to cut him off. Shell and Grik clattered to the deck, and he looked up to see Sonny Campeti firing a pistol while his gun’s crews all started throwing shells, empty magazines, even wrenches and other tools, at the enemy.
“I think this is gonna get bad, Cap-tan!” Juan gasped as Earl Lanier unceremoniously dragged them through the new defensive line coalescing on either side of the galley.
“Mark your targets!” Matt managed to shout. “Don’t forget we’ve got people aft!” Only then did he look around. The bridge must be nearly deserted because joining the destroyermen and Marines who’d been defending the ship from the start, Chief Quartermaster Paddy Rosen had arrived, leading Bernie and the rest of his torpedo ’Cats, Wallace Fairchild, and even Matt’s bridge talker, Minnie. All were armed with the Springfields that had been issued to the bridge watch. Matt pushed Minnie back, slamming her into Ed Palmer who was also just arriving with a Springfield—and very wide eyes.
“You two get back to the comm shack,” he ordered. “Get on the TBS and yell your lungs out! If we don’t get air support right damn now, we’re going to be overrun. Got it?”
Ed nodded thankfully, but Minnie raised her chin. “I can fight!” she insisted.
“I know,” Matt agreed, more softly, “but not yet—and not with that.” He took her Springfield for himself. With the sixteen-inch bayonet in place, the rifle was longer than she was tall. “Now quit arguing and help Mr. Palmer. You know the comm gear as well as he does, if he buys it.” He turned to Rosen who, though junior to Bernie, had more experience at things like this. “You’re in charge down here. If you have to fall back, try to get the wounded out first, then take everybody forward to the bridge. Double-check that every hatch below is secure before you leave it behind, got it?”
“Aye, aye, Captain . . . but where will you be?”
Matt pointed up. “With Campeti. If we keep the high ground and keep ’em the hell out of the lower decks, we might have a chance. The damn tide’ll be back in eventually. If we can just refloat her . . .” He shook his head. “Good luck!”
* * *
Spanky saw it all with a sick, sinking heart and unashamed tears. Across all his years on Walker, even before the Old War, he and Fitzhugh Gray had quarreled, bickered, and generally carried on their traditional “ape-snipe” conflict without even thinking about it. Even after he’d become an officer, and Gray became something far more than a regular bosun, they’d kept at it, out of habit. Right then, he’d give anything if he could just look the other man in the eye once more and simply shake his hand, because he knew Gray, that magnificent, towering example of strength, fortitude, and all that it meant to be a destroyerman, was gone. For an instant, he was sure Captain Reddy was too. Then he saw him, standing all alone between the torpedo mounts, firing his pistol at what seemed to be all the Grik in the world charging right at him. “Pour it into those bastards!” he’d roared. “They’re gonna get the Skipper!” Smokeless and black powder cartridges boomed and crackled, and Grik spun and tumbled to the deck, writhing or still, with thumps or clatters of weapons—and somehow there was Captain Reddy, still on his feet, helping Juan toward the amidships deckhouse. A moment later, he was lost to view as more and more Grik poured into the waist. Some of the things even started climbing the searchlight tower, though none of those had crossbows, and Spanky had no idea what they hoped to accomplish. They probably didn’t either. “Corporal Miles,” he shouted, his voice rough, “you’re a Marine. Quit screwin’ around and organize a line below, on the starboard side of the deckhouse. We’ve got plenty of guys and gals crammed on the fantail right now. Just a few determined men or ’Cats behind a rifle and a bayonet should be able to keep the Grik back. Hell, one fella can barely pass there without falling overboard.”
Miles wavered, looking resentful, and Spanky’s eyes narrowed. Despite his diminutive size, nobody ever hesitated to obey one of Spanky’s orders. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he thundered. “Get going before I kick your worthless ass to the fish!” He looked around. “Jeek? Where’s Jeek?”
“Here,” said the burly Lemurian chief of the Special Air Division.
“You do the same to port. One thing: everybody at deck level has to watch where they shoot! We don’t want to hit any of our people under the amidships platform!” He considered. “See if you can rig a fire hose. If we’ve got pressure, maybe we can squirt some of the sons of bitches off the ship!”
“I try,” Jeek confirmed. “An’ we not worry much about hitting our own guys much longer—we nearly out o’ ammo!”
Spanky nodded grimly. “Right. Oh well, enough Marines made it back here with their shields. We’ll fight behind those with cutlasses when we have to.” He took a moment to gaze forward. A few crossbow bolts zipped past him, but most of the apparent “shock troops” that made it aboard hadn’t carried them—and now they packed the waist so densely that there wasn’t room for more Grik to squeeze aboard. An eruption of mangled flesh and body parts alongside coincided with another blast from the number one gun, which continued to perform admirably, with its uninterrupted ammunition train, but the number two gun on the amidships platform had fallen silent. Closer, Spanky heard shots from within the 25-mm tubs and realized some of the guys stationed there must not have been able to clear out in time. The shots diminished and quit under the rising and falling swords and spears of Grik that leaped into the tubs. For an instant, there was a slight pause; then a mass of Grik turned aft and began lapping at his own platform, trying to get past or over it. “Kill ’em!” he bellowed, firing downward. “Kill every damn one! Give ’em some grenades!” They’d been saving the hand grenades expressly for a situation like this. It was then that he heard a terrifying sound: the clang of the hatch just below that led into the torpedo workshop, laundry, and aft crew’s head! And, of course, there was a companionway in the deckhouse that led down into the guinea pullman, or aft berthing spaces, and ultimately to the engine rooms themselves. He thought all the hatches had been secured, but maybe the Grik had jimmied the thing. It didn’t matter. Grenades thumped as his comrades pulled the pins and rolled them into the mass, sending sprays of blood and fuzz back in their faces. He turned to grab some himself, from a bucket near the number four gun. A bolt struck him high in the thigh. Awful close to where I got shot in the ass when we fought Amagi, he realized with dark indignation, through the waves of pain. “Goddamn it!” he roared, snapping the shaft off and hurling it at the Grik trying to scrabble up and onto the leading edge of the deckhouse. He grabbed several grenades and hooked them on his belt, then fired his ’03 into a slathering face that rose above the deck. Cursing, he lurched toward the speaking tubes by the auxiliary conning station.
“Tabby!” he shouted into the tube that terminated at the throttle station. “You’re gonna have company, aft. . . . I’m sorry, doll.” He looked around. “Quick! More grenades! We gotta keep the rest of these critters away from the hatch!”
* * *
“Grenades!” Campeti roared, seeing what Spanky was doing aft.
“No!” Matt shouted. “Belay that! We’ve still got people below us around the galley!”
“Not much longer!” a ’Cat gunner squeaked, pointing forward. Wounded ’Cats and a few men were making their way to the companionway to the left of the foremast, trying to get below to the wardroom where Sandra and her medical division waited. Matt suspected many would return to the fight once their bleeding had been stopped. No one, particularly the Lemurians, would want to die down there. If they had to die, they’d rather do it in the open. With a rush, most of Rosen’s remaining sailors and Marines pulled back, forming another line just aft of the stairway leading up to the bridge. A few clambered up to join Matt, including Bernie Sandison, chased by a flurry of clattering spears. Bernie’s helmet was gone, and his dark hair was matted with blood that the rain washed down his neck in pink rivulets. He also had a deep cut on his left shoulder, and his shirt was mostly torn away. He still had his rifle, though, and the bayonet was clotted with reddish black blood.
“It’s good to see you, Mr. Sandison.” Matt smiled. The incongruity of the greeting was profound, there on what was rapidly becoming a rectangular island of steel in a sea of Grik.
“It’s good to see you too, sir,” Bernie gasped. “Sorry we couldn’t hold them longer. . . .”
“Nonsense. You did very well. What happened to Lanier? I didn’t see him fall back with the others.”
Bernie blinked. “He dragged his damn Coke machine in the galley and shut himself in with a couple of the mess attendants,” he finally managed, and Matt barked a laugh.
“He should be safe enough in there, for a while. Mr. Campeti, go ahead and throw all the grenades you want. The Grik’ll be coming up the stairs directly, I suspect.”
As if his words had summoned them, Grik surged up the stairs, and even leaped at the platform from the tops of the vegetable lockers alongside the number three funnel. The twenty-five or so defenders immediately redirected their aim, or met the charging enemy with bayonets. Some continued throwing shell casings or the jumble of spears that had accumulated at their feet. Matt and Bernie rushed with the others, roaring and slapping away spears with their rifles before driving their bayonets into bodies that wildly squirmed to avoid them. Matt jerked back, sending a Grik tumbling down amid its comrades, and lunged again. Another Grik yanked the rifle from his grip, the wet stock slippery in his fingers, but managed to impale itself on the blade. Either way, the rifle was gone, and Matt took a step back, face set, and drew his academy sword. Somehow, he’d known it would come to this.