Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(43)
Matt knew Courtney was talking about Chief Gray now, and he was right. The Super Bosun, with all his faults and quirks, had been like a father to him—to the ship itself, in many ways and, certainly, by example, to the Amer-i-caan Navy as it was manifested on this world. And next to Sandra, Gray had been the firmest foundation for the confidence Matt needed so badly. He still missed him more than he could measure.
Courtney continued, choosing his words. “Such personal loss causes the most excruciating pain imaginable, and can’t—probably shouldn’t—go away entirely. But it does fade. The Lemurian faith that the dead watch over us from the Heavens is quite attractive and I like to think it’s true.” He smiled ironically. “I’m not much given to proselytizing in matters of faith, but whether that’s the case or not, I beg you to consider that the pain of loss also teaches us a lot about ourselves—focusing our concept of what defines us. Sometimes, at first, that concept can be distorted—I know that all too well—and not only to us, but to those who look to us for guidance and example.” He shrugged. “And ultimately to those who passed, still hugely present in our minds and hearts, who I believe do watch us. They also grieve, to see us suffer, to allow what we’ve lost to define us, even for a time. Therefore, it’s what we have, who we truly are—what they made us, to varying degrees—that we must strive to return to for their sake as well as ours, and for all who look to us for comfort.”
There came a discreet knock on the bulkhead in the passageway forward, and Juan clomped in with a tray. Two plates slid precariously from side to side with his rolling gait but he made it to the table without dropping anything. He’d had a lot of practice in heavier seas. “Pleezy-sore steaks,” he announced. “Medium rare,” he said to Matt, laying a plate on the table. “And well-done.” He sniffed disapprovingly at Bradford as he laid out the other. He paused a moment while the two men stood from their rockers and seated themselves at the long wooden table.
“Thanks, Juan. Smells great.”
“Indeed,” Courtney agreed.
Juan moved their coffee cups and added glasses of iced tea. The tea came from the Empire of the New Britain Isles. Most Allied steamers had freezers now, and ice—and refrigerated water—once unknown to virtually any Lemurian, was an accepted, beloved obsession. Juan stood for a moment while they dug in, but cleared his throat. Matt looked at him questioningly.
“I listen, Cap-tan,” he said simply. “You know I do. I spread scuttlebutt, true scuttlebutt the hands need to hear from one of their own. You allow this because you know I know when to keep my trap shut.” He shrugged. “I also know when not to listen, but sometimes I hear things by accident. The last part of what was just said was such a thing,” he admitted. “So I’ll tell you something about Chief Gray. He was a great man, a great destroyerman, but like the rest of us, was often afraid. He hid it well, but he was. How did he overcome that, you ask?” He shrugged again. “By looking to you, Cap-tan Reddy. As we all do. Because we know, no matter what or why”—he looked at Bradford—“when it all does go in the crapper, you will sort it out.” He turned back to Matt, a smile on his brown face. “You always have before. And knowing that, your crew, your clan, the whole Alliance will always back you up.” He nodded and started to turn away, but stopped and looked back. “And getting the Lady Sandra, your beybi, and all the rest back, is just as important to us as it is to you. We owe those bobo gago Japs, for this, and much, much more!”
CHAPTER 6
////// USS Donaghey (DD-2)
Mid-Atlantic
October 27, 1944
“My apologies to the Cap-i-taan, and please can he come on deck,” came Lieutenant Saama-Kera’s muffled voice from above, through the open skylight. Commander Greg Garrett had been fast asleep in a kind of gimballed hanging cot in the great cabin of USS Donaghey, but immediately tossed off the blanket made sodden and heavy by the humid night air and came instantly awake in the fashion he’d learned to do. None of the usual noises of the ship—the groan of working timbers, the rush of the sea along her side, even the calls and whistles prompting the hands to adjust the sails amid squealing blocks and thundering feet—ever disturbed him. Those were normal, practically soothing sounds, no matter how loud or sudden. Anything out of the ordinary, however—a strange noise, even a different sway of his cot, brought him instantly awake and alert. He’d become such an integral part of Donaghey that he suspected part of his mind never slept; had become as much the ship’s mind as his own. He was content with that.
Donaghey was the oldest ship in the American Navy on this world, aside from Walker and Mahan themselves. Older in this navy than Santa Catalina. But in spite of all the new construction he could’ve had his pick of, there was no other ship or assignment he’d rather have. His was the ultimate “independent cruise,” far beyond the point that anyone they knew had ever ventured. He supposed he knew how Magellan must’ve felt, and by the time he reached the Caribbean, he would’ve circumnavigated the earth himself—if one combined this world with the last. He sat up on the cot and slid to the deck, reaching to pull on his shoes even as he heard the rumble of feet coming down the companionway forward. There was a knock on his door.
“Yes?” His voice was devoid of any inflection as he tucked in his shirt and plopped his hat on his head. He knew what the mirror would show him if he could see it in the dark, and frowned. Like Captain Reddy, he tried to keep himself well groomed, even to the point of shaving—which almost none of the old destroyermen did anymore. He’d set the precedent, and the hands expected it. It was harder for him, however. His black hair and beard grew so thick that his tanned face turned dark only a few hours after his razor passed over it. In addition, his Lemurian-made khaki shirt and trousers were available only in the most basic sizes. He was as tall as Matt but slighter built, so to accommodate his long arms and legs, he otherwise looked like he was wearing a tent—impossible to keep from looking rumpled, even when he hadn’t been sleeping in it. His steward was worse with a needle and thread than he was, and he refused to add to the sailmaker’s toil. But he’d anticipated a call when he turned in, and hadn’t wanted to skin down to his skivvies. According to his and Sammy’s calculations, they’d raise Ascension Island sometime that night. Apparently, they’d been right.