"Peace is absurd: Fascism does not believe in it."
- Benito Mussolini, Italian dictator
Gilbert Islands; November 19, 1943
The deck glowed under the ethereal illumination of the float lights hanging suspended in the air above the North Carolina. The flares blotted out the stars, silhouetting the ships' formation and making them easy prey for the Japanese bombers racing ahead. The low drone of an airplane engine whined above Clint's head, dropping low to the height of the mast.
His mount opened fire on instinct, tracing the path of the plane as it tore down the starboard side of the ship. A plume of flames erupted from the engine as it was torn to shreds by gunfire, and Clint's fist punched into the air as the plane spiraled into the sea.
"One down, only a few million more to go!" A shout came from down the deck. The 5-inch guns roared their response, following the mount captain's rally to attack, and thundering shells pounded into the sky. Clint didn't pity the lone plane swooping towards the North Carolina, and the starboard battery unleashed all hell on the Japanese fighter. Smoke and fire bloomed from the guns, and the casual observer might think that the ship was on fire. It was a magnificent sight to behold, but danger loomed too close for comfort.
The ship rotated for another emergency turn, ducking out of the path of enemy bombers for the umpteenth time that night. If the seas were rough the men on deck would have to abandon battle stations, but now the only threat to the sailors came from the air. Molten metal poured from the port battery, then the starboard, each alternating as the North Carolina swiveled to and fro in its evasive maneuvers.
The eyes of the sailors were locked on the engagement above the starboard side of the ship, where two Japanese planes were coursing through puffs of smoke from exploded anti-aircraft shells. Clint turned away as the first plane ruptured and leaked a stream of black oil in its wake, shielding his eyes from the glare of the float lights and squinting to make out a black shadow thrown into harsh relief against the night sky.
"Port side!" He hollered, dragging the gunner's gaze away from the battle and directing him toward the shadow quickly growing on the horizon. The fighter loomed low, far too low to be acting with a squad, at speeds Clint hadn't seen the Japanese pilots dare fly before. The other mounts were too busy focusing on the battle above them they were blind to the attack to their sides.
"Holy shit! Lock up!" The gunner roared, and Clint tugged the lever to swivel the gun to its extreme left position. The gun barrel spun downward until it was almost parallel with the deck, Clint's hand steady on the lever, gently angling the end upward above the heads of the sailors. The grinding of the pilot's engine caught the attention of the other sailors, but he was coming in too hot for them to rotate and fire.
Clint's eyes strained against the light, but he thought he could see a trail of smoke following the lone plane. Its wings shuddered and balked as black clouds spewed from its side, yet its pilot remained determined as he sped closer and closer to the deck of the ship.
"What is he doing? Why isn't he parachuting out?" Kessinger called from the next mount over, his anxiety almost tangible as he tore his eyes from the dogfight to meet Clint's gaze.
"I don't know, Kess, but we're shooting him down!" The gunner pulled down on the twin triggers beneath his hands, and a stream of bullets shredded the distance between the fighter and the gun barrel. The recognizable thuds of contact sounded and gears ground together, silencing the plane's propellers. Still the pilot refused to desist, coasting the remaining distance to the deck. Many of the mounts began abandoning their posts as the pilot reached fifty yards from the end of the fantail, one wing angling up to the sky while the other dipped to the deck. Clint held his ground, tensing beside the controls as he charted the new line of flight.
A second spray of bullets peppered the body of the plane, puncturing the glass top of the plane and spider-webbing the structure with holes. The lowest wing tore across the edge of the deck, gouging a deep crevice of shredded metal in its wake as the pilot forced his craft forward. Like a knife the plane tore across the front of the 20-millimeter mounts, shearing the barrel off of one abandoned mount's gun. Clint dragged a lever back and yanked his gun in the upright position before it could be similarly incapacitated, giving him a perfect view of the pilot as he continued his screaming course down the length of the ship.
He was staring right at Clint.
The boy was young, no older than Farley had been, his youthful features shrouded behind goggles. Blood smeared the inside of the cabin, framing the shattered body of the pilot so determined to go on. His eyes gleamed with a darkness so potent it leaked into his very being, a chilling mask of death leering back at Clint before the plane swerved off of the deck and crashed into the sea. A geyser of water thundered against the side of the ship before the crumpled plane sank beneath the waves.
The all-clear siren blared hours later, the first time Clint had relaxed since he saw the Japanese pilot meet his brutal end. The men leaned against their mounts and released a collective breath. The battle of the day had been won.
-o0o-
Cards and bills slapped against the floor of the Marine barracks. Lights-out had already begun, but the men in Clint's compartment flicked on their lighters and huddled in a circle between the bunks for a late-night game of acey-deucy. The pot had grown sizeably over the night, and the sailors were eyeing their possible winnings with beady eyes.
D'Amico played in his characteristic style, betting exorbitantly high and getting swindled every time. He begged Peicott for cash whenever he was bled dry, who forked over a few dollars with a good-natured chuckle. Most surprising of all were Kessinger's winnings; he was cleaning the floor with the sailors and Marines alike, pulling in more cash than anyone else. No one guessed the bookish sailor would be the best at cards.
"If you win another round I'm going to have to frisk you, Kess." D'Amico rooted around in his pockets for change. "I call in between."
"Another loss, Danny boy," Fox gave D'Amico a cheeky wink as he dragged his coins into the pot. "Why would you make a bet like that? The cards were two numbers apart from each other."
"There will come a day when the third card will be in the exact middle of the two drawn, and I'll be there to bet on it." D'Amico grinned, leaning back against his bunk with his hands behind his head. "Hey, Peicott, can I have a buck?"
Peicott scoffed, placing a hand protectively on his wallet. "I've lost more money on you tonight than I have betting. Try someone else."
"Your turn, Clint. Bet a buck?"
"Yeah, why not. Between," Clint passed a dollar to Fox, who was the night's dealer. He had the two of spades and eleven of hearts – an easy hand. Sure enough, the seven of hearts was the next card dealt, and Clint received two dollars in return.
"You saw that Jap pilot tonight, right? The one that carved up the fantail and the starboard side," one of the Marines began, "He just tore straight across the deck. I heard damage control say there's no harm done, besides that one gun that got cut up."
"He had run out of gas and his plane was already torn up. Just coasting," Clint added, watching as D'Amico tried to weasel a few bucks out of the nearest Marine. Heads nodded in the circle around him, illuminated from below by the assortment of lighters. If Clint didn't know better, he might assume he had dropped in on a strange cult meeting. "Came in from way far off, he did. Coulda jumped out whenever."
"It's damn creepy, that's what. I hear they're all wound up about their emperor. They'll do all this shit for him, eating other people and jumping off of buildings instead of surrendering. It's unnatural," Peicott frowned, glowering down at the cards. "I'll pass this round, Fox."
"My brother's a Marine too, back on Guadalcanal," stocky Burt Clark interjected, placing a fiver on the steel floor and shoving it toward the pot. "He's told me horror stories from the land troops. It's bloody and awful down there. We're lucky we're on this ship."
Fox shrugged, drawing Clark's third card and adding his bill to the pot. "Bad luck, Clark. And bad luck we got stationed here, too. I signed up for the Marines so I could make a change, y'know, do something with my life for once. And here I am playing cards."
Clark shuddered, eyes flickering from face to face as the flames from the lighters wavered. "I don't know, Fox. The things he told me... I don't think people could do that to other people. It's unthinkable."
This chilling statement hung over the circle as they bunched closer together, shoulders brushing in the near-darkness. The only sounds were the rustle of bills and the various creaks of the ship's beams as it steamed through the waves. Cards rustled as Fox shuffled, his face as drawn and long as shadows flitted across his face.
"I can't stand it! Someone crack a joke or something, please. Don't make me do all the work here!" D'Amico burst out, his usual grin plastered across his features. "Say, Kess, how's it a guy like you is so good at cards?"
Kessinger ducked his head as the circle of betters turned to him, embarrassed by all the attention. "It's simple math, really. Any player who bets consistently on hands with less than eight numbers between them will face continual losses."
"And you just figured that out watching us play?" D'Amico released a low whistle. "You should be up there with the brass steering this hunk of metal, Kess. What are you doing with us riffraff below the waterline?"
Their conversation drifted back to war, a topic Clint was forever used to. A hardened look came over the sailors' faces when they recalled the day's battle. It was a fatal flaw of soldiers, Clint assumed, that they couldn't let go of fighting. He saw it in every bleary eye and stooped shoulders of his friends as the days of combat began to build on each other.
"I don't know, but it seems like this war is going to last forever. The Japanese would rather blow themselves up than throw in the towel, and there are millions of them on the mainland. At the rate we're going, we'll have to pry every single goddamn island from their cold, dead hands!" Peicott shook his head, eyes burning.
"Things are changing in Europe, at least. I read that Italy surrendered and is fighting against the Germans after the Allies invaded. That's good news," Kessinger added, placing a few bills on the ground for a bet which, of course, he won. "Guess who was there, Barton? Your buddy Captain America! He took down the Nazi flag over the embassy, it was all over the papers."
"I bet," D'Amico butted in, flashing Clint a quick grin, "that our buddy Barton is making all of this up. He doesn't really know the guy."
"Bet with what, Dan? You're all out of cash!" Clint fired back, and the sailors jeered at D'Amico until he returned to his position in the circle in embarrassed yet cheerful silence.
"Barton's shown us the letters, he's the real deal. Tell you what, when we get back to the States I want to meet the guy. Can't you get us an autograph or something? My girl would love a picture of Captain America, she writes about him more than she does about me," Peicott raised an eyebrow, and Clint found himself nodding.
After San Francisco, will Steve even talk to me anymore? Clint regretted some of what he had said in their falling-out, especially the part about never seeing Steve again. He was still angry, and he thought justifiably so, but D'Amico and the other sailors had helped him see some of the error in his ways. Steve was the one who probably didn't want to see Clint again after the way he had treated him stateside.
"Yeah, Paulie. I'll get your girl a dinner date, if she wants one."
"Swell!" Peicott shook his hand vigorously, and D'Amico groused as he peered into his empty wallet in a desperate bid to get back into the acey-deucy game.
"Have you seen that guy on TV? All America and justice and drink your Ovaltine... I'll bet he doesn't even drink!"
Clint clapped a hand on D'Amico's shoulder and laughed to himself. "If only you knew, Dan. If only you knew..."
(Happy Friday, everyone! Thank you so much for your continual support!)