“I didn’t mean to take you from your work, Spanky,” Matt told him. “Gray could’ve brought the word.”
“Not this word, Skipper,” he said, looking down at the deck. Then he raised his scorched face to Matt’s and looked him in the eye. “We’re gonna lose the ship.” He spoke the words quietly, but they had the effect of a shouted curse. “The forward engine room’s flooding, and we can’t keep ahead of it in the aft fireroom much longer.” He sighed. “Hell, there’s flooding everywhere. The pumps are overwhelmed. Those last two five-and-a-half’s opened us up like a sardine can, aft. You don’t even
want
to know what that ten-incher did to us belowdecks.”
“How long does she have?” Matt asked him stiffly.
“Couple hours. Maybe three, if nobody shoots any more holes in her. Most of the leaks aren’t too bad, but they’re
everywhere
.” He shook his head. “She’s just had enough. We got maybe an hour and a half left for the engines, but after that she’s gonna go fast.”
Matt slowly nodded, and tried to keep his voice under control. “Thanks, Spanky. Stretch it out as long as you can. I’ll try to get some shallow water under her before she goes down.” He looked out through the bridge windows. Davis had glanced over his shoulder to listen to the conversation and saw the sudden surprise on the captain’s face. He quickly turned back to the front. When they brought the ship about, she should have passed far ahead of the sinking battle cruiser. Now he could see they were headed almost directly at her, and her bow was now reaching for the west. Davis broke the stunned silence himself.
“Holy Toledo! The Japs are underway!” He pounded the wheel under his hands. “They can’t
do
that!” As if in answer to his protest, a stream of tracers marched toward the ship. On the fo’c’sle, Silva opened fire without even waiting for orders.
“Grik Rout” was real, and it was happening everywhere. The weary defenders in the south charged up and over their wall with their curious but ferocious high-pitched yell. Alden imagined it was very much like what the old rebel yell of the Confederacy must have sounded like. Demoralized already by the evident destruction of their invincible iron ship, the Grik host recoiled from the onslaught. Once again, they fought viciously among themselves as those in the rear ranks battled to maintain the assault against those who’d already abandoned it. To them, the attack became one against those who would try to prevent their escape. And all the while, the former defenders waded behind them through the carnage, slaughtering them almost without resistance. The panicked Grik in front of them, fighting their own kind, added a substantial force multiplier to the charge.
Across the corpse-choked moat and onto the open plain beyond, the defenders-turned-attackers kept up the unrelenting pressure while somehow, miraculously, maintaining a semblance of shield-wall integrity. The discipline and careful training Alden had insisted on was paying off. Even so, the advance began to slow. The troops were exhausted after the long fight, and the exertion of just climbing over bodies so they could keep slaughtering Grik began to tell. The thousands who fled were being killed by both sides, and the unrouted mass behind them began to move forward bit by bit. The charge finally ground to a halt, and then it was like the field of Aryaal again in yet another way: both battle lines stood in the open without support or protection, and in that situation, the overwhelming numbers of the enemy began to swing the tide back.
Alden slashed with his rifle, butt-stroking and stabbing with the bayonet, as he’d demonstrated so many times on the drill field. His pistol was empty and he had no more ammunition. Before him was a scene from a nightmare hell. Gnashing teeth, slashing weapons, and high-pitched shrieks of pain punctuated the rumbling roar of shields grinding together. The damp earth at his feet had been churned into a bloody, viscous slurry, and the only traction afforded to those holding the shield wall were the mushy mounds of unrecognizable gore half-submerged in the ooze. The frothing, working mass of Grik beyond the shields were illuminated by a red, flickering light from the fires—adding to the unreal, otherworldly aspect of the battle. Chack almost stumbled past him, shouting his name, and Pete grabbed him by the arm. “Where’s the rifle company?” he shouted.
“The machine guns are empty, and I ordered the others to stay on the wall. They’re of little use in this type of fight. If all had bayonets it might be different. . . .”
“Never mind. You did right. Have them prepare to cover our withdrawal. I’m going to try to pull back to the wall.”
“It will be risky. The enemy will sense victory and strike even harder.”
“I know, but that’s all there is. We can’t move forward and we can’t stay here. There’re just too damn many.” Chack blinked reluctant agreement. He turned to run back to the wall and prepare his troops. Then he stopped. Alden looked in the direction he faced and was stunned to see hundreds of Lemurians pouring over the wall and racing over the ground he’d been preparing to yield. More than hundreds, perhaps a few thousand in all, and he had no idea where they’d come from. There simply were no more reserves. Then he saw the proud regimental flags whipping in the breeze as their bearers crossed the wall in the wake of the charge. The Second Aryaal, the Second B’mbaado, and the Third Baalkpan were three he recognized. All were “veteran” units that had been deployed in defense of the shipyard and the north wall.
Screaming their rage, they streamed across the abattoir and surged directly into the faltering line. The weight of their unexpected charge carried the entire shield wall forward into the face of the enemy, and once again there was a distinct change in the Grik. Once again those facing the added spears turned on those behind them, slashing and screaming in panic, and slaying their unprepared comrades before they had a chance to even realize what had happened. The rout began to grow, and the air of terror was even greater this time. As the shield wall churned forward again, it became apparent that many Grik still fighting bore the same wild-eyed expressions as those trying to get away. Something was pushing them from behind, just as the reinforced attack was driving them back. Almost as if it shared a single collective awareness, the entire host suddenly shifted in the one direction it perceived safety might still be found: toward the sea.
What began as a steadily growing tendency to move west quickly built into a panicked rush. Soon the horde of Grik was flowing past the shield wall from left to right with the unstoppable chaotic urgency of a massive, flooding river. Spears continued to slay them as they hurried past, but there was no reaction from those around the victims except, perhaps, to quicken their pace. It was shocking and amazing and dreadful all at once, and a vague cheer began to build as Alden’s troops realized that this time there’d be no stopping the rout. Whatever force enabled the Grik to operate with some semblance of cooperation, cunning, and courage had disappeared just as surely as if the strings of a marionette had been cut.
The cheering grew frenzied when the flag of the Second Marines resolved itself in the flickering gloom beyond the raging torrent of Grik.
“It’s Shinya! Shinya!” came a gleeful shout at Alden’s side. He turned and saw Alan Letts actually jumping up and down and waving his arms in the air. His hat was gone and his red hair was plastered to his scalp with blood and sweat. Mud spattered in all directions as he capered. Pete grinned happily at Letts’s enthusiasm, and his unexpected presence. He was obviously right. Somehow the force in Fort Atkinson they’d feared was doomed had managed to break out and attack the enemy in the rear. Not only that, but they’d timed it just about perfectly as well. Now it looked like it would be only a matter of minutes before the forces were reunited, as what once had been the Grik right fled between them.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Alden asked the ecstatic Letts.
“After the Japs pounded the Great Hall, there was something wrong with Nakja-Mur, so we carried him to the hospital.” He shook his head. “It looked like everything was falling apart. The lizards broke through on the waterfront, and some are even roaming through the city.” He sobered. “
Big Sal
got pasted. I don’t know if there’s anybody left alive. Anyway, I sent runners to fetch every regiment not actually engaged. Stripped
everything
, and had them converge on the parade ground.” He grinned. “Then when
Amagi
blew up, the lizard breakthrough just fell apart. We charged them, and most went scurrying back to their ships!” He laughed gleefully. “The ships’re all hard aground, and the surviving gunners on the harbor wall are feedin’ the fish with ’em right now! Anyway, we left them with it, and hurried here as fast as we could.” He winked. “Good thing too.”
“No foolin’!” Pete looked at Chack. “As soon as we link up with the ‘lost garrison,’ we’ll continue to press the enemy! We’ll sweep those bastards right into the sea!”
For a moment Chack just stood there, amazed. The Grik that fled before them still outnumbered them by a very large margin. And yet, somehow, they were no longer even warriors. They’d become more like the skuggiks they slightly resembled: dangerous individually, but no more capable of concerted action, and no longer a threat to the city. Many would still die destroying what was left when the army swept forward to finish them, but he agreed completely with Alden’s intent to do it now while the panic was fresh. He didn’t know if “Grik Rout” would ever fade from such an acute state; they’d never again seen any of the Grik that fled before Aryaal. Nevertheless, they couldn’t take any chance it might, and besides, the combined defenders of Baalkpan deserved the slaughter that had been given them.
“It’s hard to believe it’s almost over,” he said at last. Then he ran to detail a runner to make contact with Shinya.
“Almost over,” Letts repeated happily; then his smile faded. Out on the water he could see the flames of the battle cruiser, but she wasn’t where she’d been before. She was creeping toward the mouth of the bay. Behind her, moving just as slowly, was another, smaller ship, also burning. Tracers arced back and forth between them. Was that
Walker
or
Mahan
? He couldn’t tell in the dark. Whichever it was, it wasn’t over for her. With a hurried word to Alden, he raced back toward the city.
Amagi
was listing hard to port, but somehow she remained afloat. Roaring flames leaped skyward, and black smoke coiled and billowed. Her tall, pagodalike superstructure shimmered in the heat and leaned to the left at a drunken angle. Two of the three aft turrets were still trained to starboard, guns slightly elevated at the angle from which they’d been battering the city and
Big Sal
. They were silent now. Their crews had either been cooked inside them, or abandoned them to the fire spreading swiftly aft. The third turret probably hadn’t moved since that day so long ago when the dive-bomber crashed into it. She looked destroyed, yet still she floated. She was underway, and it looked more and more as if she might escape.
Walker
had found a seemingly magical place directly astern of
Amagi
, where the battle cruiser could bring nothing heavier than light, fixed, or handheld machine guns to bear on the battered destroyer that dogged her. The problem was, that was all she needed.
Walker
’s bridge and foredeck were a bullet-riddled wreck. Only one of her machine guns still spoke from the fire-control platform, manned by Lieutenant Garrett alone. A steady stream of replacements ran to the number one gun, as those crewing it were killed or wounded. Only Dennis Silva remained of the original four who got it back in action, and he was wounded in a dozen places. Still he stood there, drenched in blood, directing the gun at the retreating ship. An occasional stream of yellow “tobacco” juice arced onto the deck. The shots he fired were few and far between, however. There couldn’t be more than half a dozen AP shells left on the entire ship, and those were mainly scattered on the wrecked aft deckhouse, where the number four gun had been knocked out by that last 5.5-inch shell. They had to be found and carried forward the length of the ship.
On the bridge, Leo Davis was dead, hit above the left eye by a ricochet. The ’Cat who’d replaced him at the helm was also down. Matt now stood there alone, crouched low behind the thin bulwark and the upright compass housing. Communications were cut off throughout most of the ship, and Reynolds was effectively out of it, yet he stayed on the bridge, curled in a fetal position against the chart house bulkhead, still trying to raise the ship’s various compartments. They’d heard only by word of mouth that the auxiliary conning station, aft, was destroyed. Its crew—including Larry Dowden—had never known what hit them. Matt mourned Larry, and all the others lost this night. If there was a later, he’d mourn them properly, but without the auxiliary conn, somebody had to steer from the pilothouse. And so it was there, on
Walker
’s bridge, that Matt played tag with the devil.
With the loss of the foremast, the radio was out, and Clancy had been ordered to remove it and place it in the whaleboat—the only boat left. The launch was a shattered wreck, and the other launch never returned from searching for survivors of the PBY. Of course, they’d been steaming at high speed ever since it left. Maybe it was still out there somewhere, vainly trying to catch them.
An intermittent pounding, metallic drumming, came from the front of the pilothouse where bullets struck, but the enemy fire had begun to slacken. Matt saw Spanky crawling across the strakes from the ladders. He was bleeding and seemed disoriented. Matt risked a peek out the window to make sure their position relative to
Amagi
was unchanged. His hat had been snatched off his head during a recent similar check. “Are you all right?” he shouted.
McFarlane shook his head. “I’m shot, God damn it. How’re you?”
The captain almost laughed. “Nothing, would you believe it?” A throbbing pain resurfaced. “Busted nose, a few scratches,” he amended. “How’s she holding up?”