The Ninth Wave (22 page)

Mike slashed out with his free hand.
"Take it easy," he yelled. "You'll kill one another. Let me get this
boy on the ladder."
The men kept coming. Mike was forced underwater. He kicked himself
sideways and came up a few yards away from the Jacobs ladder, still
holding on to the boy.
Mike stared for a moment at the stream of heads. They looked disembodied
and self-propelled. The heads thickened around the foot of the Jacobs
ladder and then sleek, oil-covered bodies reared up out of the water,
clawed at the ladder, silently fought upward. Like a long multiple-linked
organism the stream of men spilled out onto the deck of the destroyer.
"Dirty bastards," Mike said aloud. "Dirty scared bastards. If you'd slow
down we'd save you all."
He had been furiously angry when the first man crawled over him. Now,
watching them, he felt a numb sort of pity for the anonymous, quiet,
frenzied men. They were reduced to raw nerve, to burnt muscle, to a
simple urge to exist. He knew that any of them would have calmly, quietly,
desperately drowned him if that were the price of gaining the ladder.
Mike swam around to the stern of the destroyer and saw an empty ladder
dangling. He shouted, and faces appeared over the railing. He put the
boy's hands on the first rung, and easily, as if he were uninjured,
the boy swarmed up the ladder and disappeared over the railing.
"Freesmith, are there any more survivors out there?" the captain shouted
from the fan-tail. "Get 'em all. Every damned one. You're doing a fine
job. You'll get a medal for this."
Medal your ass, Mike thought. He felt an intense anger and wanted to
swear back at the captain. He looked sideways again and watched the
stream of men moving toward the ladder. The stream was moving slower,
for it was made up of men who were injured or deep in shock. Occasionally
one of the heads would stop and the men behind pushed over it, smashed
it aside and under and continued toward the ladder.
"I'll check 'em, Captain," Mike shouted.
"But watch out for the transport, Freesmith," the captain yelled. "It's
going to go under. Don't get caught in the suction."
Mike looked at the transport. The oil burned in a tight circle around
the ship and it was tilted almost straight up into the air. Everything
that could had torn loose. The ship hung silently.
Mike swam toward the ship, paralleling the stream of heads. Not a head
turned to look at him and the only sound was the sharp intake of breath,
so harsh and flat that it sounded like a chorus of hisses.
Mike swam to within a few feet of the burning oil and stopped. He knew
that the oil might spread or he might be pulled under by the suction,
but he was so angry with the captain that he felt no sense of danger.
As he looked at the ship his teeth chattered with rage and he kept
muttering senseless words to himself. He knew they were real words, but
he did not know what they were. Deep in his mind, like a tiny crystal
of logic, he knew he was in some sort of shock himself; that he was not
reacting normally. He watched the ship slide slowly into the water,
inching slowly downward. At the very edge of the burning water there
were a few motionless heads and Mike touched one of them. The head fell
limply to one side and a pair of blue eyes looked lifelessly at him and
then the face buried itself in the water.
"Dirty shit of a captain," Mike said. "Dirty lousy bastard. Get a medal
for survivors. Me get a medal for survivors."
Then he saw a huge pot-bellied chief on the transport hanging to what
had once been a horizontal railing. The chief was staring down at the
ring of burning water and his fat lips worked, pulled back to expose
big white teeth. Mike knew the chief was so frightened of the flames
that he would hang on to the railing and go under with the ship before
jumping into the water.
"Chief," Mike shouted and the man's head snapped up and looked out at
Mike. "Jump into the water. Swim under water until you are clear of
the flames."
He licked his lips and glanced from Mike to the flames. Then the ship
settled for a few feet in one swift rush and the chief's shoes were
within a yard of the flames. Like a great overfed monkey he shinnied up
the railing, his face expressionless.
"Look, I'll show you how," Mike shouted.
The chief looked down and Mike dove under the water and came up in the
flames and threw his arms sideways. The burning oil was pushed away from
him and for a few seconds he was in a circle of clear water. Then the
burning oil poured back and Mike went under and came up again, throwing
his arms violently to make enough splash to throw back the flames.
This time the chief jumped directly on Mike. Mike felt strong fingers
grasp his head and the breath was smashed out of his lungs. The impact
carried them both under the water. Frantically Mike kicked with his legs
and stroked with his arms. His eyes were open and he could see the orange
tint in the water and knew they were still under the burning oil. For
a moment he thought of tearing the chief's hands free, but he went on
swimming. The chief's great body was clamped onto him and his swimming
motions seemed utterly futile. But in a few seconds the orangish tint
faded and Mike stopped swimming. They came to the surface, a few feet
free of the flames.
The chief's eyes were wide open and he stared at Mike. Oil and salt
water gushed out of his mouth. His lips formed words.
"The suction?" he said.
"Start swimming and we'll get away from it," Mike said.
"Can't swim."
Mike wanted to smash him in the face, but instead he told him to roll
over on his back. Obediently he rolled over and his great khaki-covered
belly stuck up out of the water. Mike grabbed him by the hair. Swimming
on his back Mike felt a sharp pang of pleasure as he yanked the chief's
hair and heard him moan softly.
Mike saw the transport go down. It went swiftly, without a sound and there
was no suction. A circle of oil still burned on the water.
Mike towed the chief over to the Jacobs ladder. Around the foot of the
ladder there was an almost perfect semicircle of heads. They were tilted
at various angles and seemed to be staring at the silver circle of the
moon. They looked as if they were listening for some great submarine
sound that would never come.
Mike pushed between two heads and they swirled away, rolling loosely,
almost good-naturedly. He put the chief's hands on the bottom rung
and watched the huge bulk of the man become agile and alive. The chief
went up the ladder without an effort and flowed over the railing onto
the fan-tail.
Along the railing the crew looked down at Mike. In the thin pure light
of the moon and the flickering of the oil flames Mike saw admiration on
their faces.
"I don't think there are any more men alive out there, Mr. Freesmith,"
one of them said.
Mike looked back over the ocean. There was just the circle of fire,
an oil slick and the heads.
"Pass me a line and I'll tie it to the bodies," Mike called.
"That'll take a long time, Mr. Freesmith," a boatswain's mate said.
"Pass the line," Mike said.
"Aye, aye, sir," the man said. In a few seconds a line came coiling over
the side, fell precisely at Mike's right hand.
"Freesmith, what are you doing out there?" the captain yelled through
the loudspeaker. "Get back aboard. We've got a sonar contact about two
thousand yards away. Have to get moving."
"I'm going to pick up the bodies, Captain," Mike said. "I'll pass a line
around their chests and we can recover most of them."
Floating on his back Mike felt at home. Somehow he was reminded of the
days at Palos Verdes and the great curling lips of the combers and he felt
at ease; sure of himself for the first time since he had been in uniform.
He was not really interested in recovering the bodies, but he did not want
to come out of the water. He wanted to stay in the ocean, swim slowly back
and forth in a medium he knew absolutely and surely. The thick scum of oil
made swimming harder, but it was still pleasurable. If anything happened
he could swim to the black hump of the island. He felt safer here than
aboard the ship; oddly disconnected with the steel hull that had been
his home and prison for over a year. He was reluctant to enter it again.
"Get back aboard ship," the captain said. "Let the bodies go."
"Fuck you, Captain," Mike said. "I'm going after the bodies."
"What did you say, Freesmith?" the captain said in a sharp startled
voice that boomed out over the ocean.
The crew had heard Mike's words and they started to laugh, almost
hysterically, as he replied.
"I said, Captain, we better get the bodies," Mike said. "COMSOPAC has
an order out on that. The desirability of collecting all bodies after an
action; good morale element; commanders to make all reasonable efforts;
include as a figure in action reports; basis for commendation."
"O.K., O.K., Freesmith," the captain said uncertainly. "Take a turn around
each body so they're all attached to a single line. If we have to get under
way we'll come back for you."
Mike started to swim toward the closest body. Far below he heard the ocean
tremble and knew something had exploded in the hulk of the transport. His
arms rose and fell in the water, the drops turned to brilliance by the
oil. He swam a breast stroke to keep his face out of the oil and he
could see the whole bright surface of the ocean; the distant dark blobs
of transports and AKA'S, the perfect cone shape of Savo, the incredible
whiteness of the tropical clouds, the sheen of the oil, the grayness of
the ocean.
The first body was covered with so much oil that the head was only a
tarry knob. Mike ran the line under the armpits, tied it with a half-hitch
and moved toward the next body.
Behind him there was a shout from the destroyer. "We're getting underway,
Mr. Freesmith," the bosun shouted. "Submarine contact. I've attached the
line to a cork float and it'll unreel as you pull it. We'll come back
for you. You're being set toward the 'Canal by a two-knot current. Stay
close to the slick."
Mike waved his hand. He floated on his back and watched the destroyer
get underway. A streak of foam stretched out from the stern and for a few
seconds the ship remained motionless. Then silently it began to move, with
an impossible slowness. Under the stern a ball of foam grew and shattered
the surface and in a few more seconds the destroyer was cutting through
the water. It went without effort or sound or light. The sharp bow cut
through the slick and with pleasure Mike watched it carve through the
thick oil, heel over in a sharp turn and rush out into Sea-Lark Channel.
An hour later the destroyer returned. Mike was resting at the edge of
the slick, treading water. Reaching into the slick, like it huge-beaded
necklace, was a line of bodies. They bobbed and twisted in the water
whenever he tugged at the line.
For a few moments Mike had thought of towing the string of bodies to
the island, but had given it up.
The destroyer came to a smooth stop a few yards away. Mike threw the
end of the line over the railing and then climbed up a Jacobs ladder.
"Sorry we took so long, Freesmith," the captain said. "I think the
soundman got a bounced echo off the hulk of the transport or a thermal
layer. Anyway it wasn't a submarine. Also took longer because the ship
is crowded with survivors."
"How are they?" Mike asked.
Two seamen were swabbing Mike down with gasoline to get the oil off. The
gasoline hurt on his shoulders and arms.
"Pretty bad," the captain said and his voice was puzzled and somewhat
resentful. "Even with the doctor and the corpsmen working on them six
have already died. Nothing wrong with them. They just turn white and die."
"I'll go help out," Mike said.
The captain sighed and walked back toward the bridge.
Mike walked forward to the wardroom. He opened the inner door and stood
for a moment, blinking in the bright light.
The table had been converted into an operating table. Three naked men
were stretched out on it. Oil and blood ran off the green baize and
covered the deck. Wounded men sat hunched up against the bulkheads,
their legs under their chins, watching Dr. Martin and two corpsmen. In
one corner there were some blankets with legs sticking out.
Mike walked over to the table.
"Can I help, Doc?" he asked.
Dr. Martin had a cigar in his mouth. It was unlit and he held it so
tightly that his lips drew back, showing the moist pink inner surface,
and from the corner of his mouth a trickle of brown tobacco juice ran
down his jaw. His white smock was streaked with blood, oily fingermarks,
bits of hair, pieces of thread. He looked fiercely at Mike.
"Sure you can help, get the hell out of here."
"Tell me what to do and I'll do it," Mike said.
"Get out," Martin said. He lifted his head and watched two seamen bring
in another injured man. They held him by his legs and arms and the man's
body sagged between them.
"He just collapsed back in the crew's quarters, Doctor," one of them
said. The man's eyes were open, but his face was chalk white and his
lips were a bright blue.
"Swell. And you're helping him out," the doctor said bitterly. "You
lifted him up like he was a sack of potatoes so that if he has any
internal injuries you will kill him for sure. That's swell. Thanks. We
need more patients." He turned back to the man on the table and said
between his teeth, "Put him on the deck. Mr. Freesmith here will give
him a shot of morphine. The man is in shock. If the morphine works and
you wrap him up he has a little chance of living. Not much, but a little."
The two seamen gently placed the man on the deck and backed out of
the room.
"Where's the morphine?" Mike asked.
Martin waved his hand at the table.
"On the table. Everything in this god damn ship's medical locker is on
that table. Just grab for what you want."
Mike looked at the table. It was covered with a thick, hardening layer
of blood and black oil. On top of the layer floated a debris: broken
capsules, bits of black thread still attached to short curved needles,
strips of white bandage, little bags of sulfa powder, empty bottles of
plasma, shining surgical instruments, alcohol bottles, discarded rubber
gloves, fragments of flesh with hair protruding from them, a few teeth
with bloody roots still attached.