him. Another reason he’d joined the submersible service was that you couldn’t be an aristocrat here—the boats weren’t big enough to permit it.
He was about to say something more when the man at the bow cried out and tumbled into the Pee Dee. The fellow came up a moment later, splashing feebly. Around him, the muddy water took on a reddish cast.
Then one of the sailors working the conning-tower machine gun crumpled. He pounded at the roof of the conning tower in agony, but his legs didn’t move—he’d been hit in the spine. Crimson spread from around a neat hole in the back of his tunic.
For a moment, that didn’t mean anything to Kimball. Then another bullet cracked past his head, and he realized the fire was coming not from the northern bank of the Pee Dee, the one the machines guns were working over, but from the southern bank.
“Christ, we’re caught in a crossfire!” he exclaimed. The Pee Dee was no more than a couple of hundred yards wide. The Negroes hiding in the bushes had only rifles (he devoutly hoped they had only rifles), but they didn’t need to be the greatest shots in the world to start picking off his men. He thought about turning the deck gun on the southern riverbank, but that would have been like flailing around with a sledgehammer, trying to smash a cockroach you couldn’t even see.
“What do we do, sir?” Brearley asked.
Without waiting for orders, one of the men from the deck gun crew had leaped into the river after the wounded leadsman. He hauled the fellow back up onto the deck. It might have been in the nick of time. Kimball thought he saw something sinuous moving through the water toward the submersible, then going away. Did alligators live in the Pee Dee? Nobody had briefed him, one way or the other.
He didn’t have a doctor on board the
Bonefish
, or even a pharmacist’s mate. He knew a little about first aid, and so did one of the petty officers who kept the diesels going. He wished again for a river gunboat, one with its guns housed in protective turrets against just this sort of nuisance fire. It would have been nuisance fire against such a gunboat, anyway. Against the vessel he commanded, it was a great deal worse.
“All hands below!” he shouted. The sailors on deck scrambled up the ladder to the top of the conning tower, then swarmed down into the
Bonefish
. The leadsman had a bullet through his upper left arm, a wound from which he’d recover if it didn’t fester. He got up and down as fast as an uninjured sailor. The man who’d been hit in the spine presented a harder problem. Moving him at all would do his wound no good, but leaving him where he sprawled was asking for him to be hit again and killed.
Kimball waited until he and the wounded machine gunner were the only men left on top of the conning tower. Bullets kept whipping past them. At the top of the ladder, Tom Brearley waited. “Nichols, I’m going to get you below now,” Kimball said.
“Don’t worry about me, sir,” the sailor answered. “What the hell good am I like this?”
“Lots of people in your shoes now,” Kimball told him. “That’s a fact—goddamn war. They’ll figure out plenty of things for you to do. And the wheelchairs they have nowadays let you get around pretty well.”
Nichols groaned, maybe in derision, maybe just in pain. Kim-ball ignored that. As carefully as he could, he slid the wounded sailor toward the hatch. When Brearley had secure hold of Nichols’ feet, he guided the man’s torso through the hatchway, then hung on to him as they descended.
The petty officer—his name was Ben Coulter—was already bandaging the leadsman’s arm. His jowly, acne-scarred face twisted into a grimace when he saw how Nichols was dead from the waist down. “Nothing I can do about that, sir,” he told Kim-ball. “Wish there was, but—” He spread his hands. He’d washed them before he got to work, but he still had dirt ground into the folds of his knuckles and grease
He was about to say something more when the man at the bow cried out and tumbled into the Pee Dee. The fellow came up a moment later, splashing feebly. Around him, the muddy water took on a reddish cast.
Then one of the sailors working the conning-tower machine gun crumpled. He pounded at the roof of the conning tower in agony, but his legs didn’t move—he’d been hit in the spine. Crimson spread from around a neat hole in the back of his tunic.
For a moment, that didn’t mean anything to Kimball. Then another bullet cracked past his head, and he realized the fire was coming not from the northern bank of the Pee Dee, the one the machines guns were working over, but from the southern bank.
“Christ, we’re caught in a crossfire!” he exclaimed. The Pee Dee was no more than a couple of hundred yards wide. The Negroes hiding in the bushes had only rifles (he devoutly hoped they had only rifles), but they didn’t need to be the greatest shots in the world to start picking off his men. He thought about turning the deck gun on the southern riverbank, but that would have been like flailing around with a sledgehammer, trying to smash a cockroach you couldn’t even see.
“What do we do, sir?” Brearley asked.
Without waiting for orders, one of the men from the deck gun crew had leaped into the river after the wounded leadsman. He hauled the fellow back up onto the deck. It might have been in the nick of time. Kimball thought he saw something sinuous moving through the water toward the submersible, then going away. Did alligators live in the Pee Dee? Nobody had briefed him, one way or the other.
He didn’t have a doctor on board the
Bonefish
, or even a pharmacist’s mate. He knew a little about first aid, and so did one of the petty officers who kept the diesels going. He wished again for a river gunboat, one with its guns housed in protective turrets against just this sort of nuisance fire. It would have been nuisance fire against such a gunboat, anyway. Against the vessel he commanded, it was a great deal worse.
“All hands below!” he shouted. The sailors on deck scrambled up the ladder to the top of the conning tower, then swarmed down into the
Bonefish
. The leadsman had a bullet through his upper left arm, a wound from which he’d recover if it didn’t fester. He got up and down as fast as an uninjured sailor. The man who’d been hit in the spine presented a harder problem. Moving him at all would do his wound no good, but leaving him where he sprawled was asking for him to be hit again and killed.
Kimball waited until he and the wounded machine gunner were the only men left on top of the conning tower. Bullets kept whipping past them. At the top of the ladder, Tom Brearley waited. “Nichols, I’m going to get you below now,” Kimball said.
“Don’t worry about me, sir,” the sailor answered. “What the hell good am I like this?”
“Lots of people in your shoes now,” Kimball told him. “That’s a fact—goddamn war. They’ll figure out plenty of things for you to do. And the wheelchairs they have nowadays let you get around pretty well.”
Nichols groaned, maybe in derision, maybe just in pain. Kim-ball ignored that. As carefully as he could, he slid the wounded sailor toward the hatch. When Brearley had secure hold of Nichols’ feet, he guided the man’s torso through the hatchway, then hung on to him as they descended.
The petty officer—his name was Ben Coulter—was already bandaging the leadsman’s arm. His jowly, acne-scarred face twisted into a grimace when he saw how Nichols was dead from the waist down. “Nothing I can do about that, sir,” he told Kim-ball. “Wish there was, but—” He spread his hands. He’d washed them before he got to work, but he still had dirt ground into the folds of his knuckles and grease
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