"God help us," he muttered when they were close enough to hear.
"They have learned to march fairly well," Shinya said to console him.
"And form a wall. But if it ever comes to that"—he waved at the chaos— "we'll be destroyed."
Alden smirked, but nodded. It didn't help that they'd suddenly been told to train for a different type of battle. Until now, defense had been the priority. He turned his back to the practicing troops and took a small green book from his tunic. It was an old copy of The Ship and Gun Drills, U.S. Navy, from 1914. He'd found it in Doc Stevens's library while rooting for something to read. It was probably on the ship when she was commissioned. Much was obsolete (even for Walker), but it had a rather extensive section on physical exercises, including bayonet and sword drill. The pages were illustrated, too. The bayonet drill translated easily to a short spear, but there was, of course, no mention how to combine the sword work with a shield. It didn't really matter. The activities on the parade ground were not even slightly similar to the pictures in the book.
Shinya studied the pages over his shoulder as Alden held the book so he could see. For a moment he reflected how strange it was to be working with a Nip. Sometimes it seemed perfectly natural, but other times his skin practically crawled. A lot had happened in the last few months, but nothing could erase Pearl Harbor or Cavite or the Philippines or the Java Sea. But Shinya hadn't bombed Pearl Harbor and he couldn't help being a Jap. And every now and then, God help him, Pete Alden caught himself almost liking him. Not many felt the same. Bernie did, and maybe Garrett. The captain respected him, Pete thought. But the Chief still hated his guts. Gray was a good guy, steady as a rock, but something about Shinya gave him the heebie-jeebies. Alden wondered what it was.
"Damn," he said, and slapped the book shut. He handed it to Shinya.
"Can you make heads or tails out of that sword shit in there?" he asked.
Shinya nodded. "I believe so. It seems straightforward. Believe it or not," he said, grinning, "I actually fenced in college."
Pete harrumphed and rolled his eyes. "Just don't teach 'em any of that Samurai bullshit. We want 'em to stay behind their shields, not run around flailing their swords in all directions. All that'll do is confuse 'em."
Shinya chuckled. "I'm a better fencer than I ever was a practitioner of Master Musashi's teachings. I learned enough not to shame my father. He was very insistent. But I doubt he was proud of my skill." His smile faded, and he looked at Alden, expressionless. "You see, the Way is very spiritual," he explained. "Regrettably, I am not."
"Yeah, well. Mmm. Closest thing I ever came to, looked like a sword, is this," Alden said, grasping the long bayonet at his side, next to the .45 holster. "Unless you count my granddaddy's Civil War sword over the fireplace." Teeth flashed in his bearded face. "I'm not much for this swords and shields shit, but bayonets I can do. And I think it's time to stir things up."
He retrieved one of the six-foot, bronze-bladed spears. "You do the swords. Teach 'em ways to use 'em in the open—we'll need that too, and maybe first. But also behind shields when they've got 'em locked. Ask the captain. He seems to know about that. C'mon, Chack." He gestured for the Lemurian to follow. "I need your mouth."
"What are you going to do?" Shinya asked.
"Pick a fight." He motioned toward the middle of the field, where a group of warriors from one of the ships gathered, taunting the recruits.
"I'm going to show those Navy cat-monkey types they ain't as tough as they think they are. No offense, Chack."
Chack blinked amused approval. He'd experienced Alden's "bayonet drills" himself. Together, they waded through the play-fighting troops, and Alden knocked some aside as they went. That got their attention, and some followed in his wake to see what he would do. Eventually they reached the knot of warriors, a group from Fristar. Alden was surprised to see them, since all their High Chief talked about was taking off.
They hadn't done it yet, but it was plain that all these showed up for was trouble.
They'd formed a rough circle and were pushing and shoving any land folk who came within reach. They were enjoying their game immensely and seemed to think it was at least as effective as the training going on around them. One reached for Alden as he came close, but pulled back when he saw he'd nearly grabbed one of the "Amer-i-caan Wizards."
"Go ahead," Pete said, grinning pleasantly. "I'm a Grik. Kill me." Chack translated. The Fristar, a wing runner, looked aside at his fellows. One, easily the largest Lemurian Pete had seen, dipped his head. The shorter 'cat gave a high-pitched cry. He leaped at Alden with arms outstretched.
The sergeant's spear blurred. With a yelping, breathless grunt, the wing runner was on his back, looking cross-eyed at the spearpoint inches from his face.
"You're dead," Alden said. "Next?"
Another troublemaker stepped forward at a nod from the "leader."
This one had a few white hairs lacing his amber coat. His tail twitched back and forth. He accepted a real spear from a companion and assumed a more cautious stance.
An experienced warrior this time, Alden thought to himself. Good.
The 'cat held the spearpoint forward, left hand grasping near the blade. His right arm was fully extended behind him, holding the shaft like a harpoon. He crouched and took a step to his right. Lightning-fast, he lunged with the spear. Pete stepped inside the thrust, knocking it aside as he turned and drove the butt of his own spear into his opponent's midriff.
Somehow the Lemurian's face showed surprise as he doubled over with a "woof!" Pete reversed the spear and made a classic thrust, ending just short of the chest. Then he turned and looked at the gathering crowd. The point he'd made was obvious. One down, one gasping for air, and Pete Alden wasn't even breathing hard.
Some of the land folk cheered in their curious high-pitched, chittering way, but Pete knew it was more who he'd bested than how he'd done it.
That wasn't what he wanted to get across. "Chack, speak for me," he said.
He walked in a circle, scowling. Gradually, the cheering faded and he started to speak. Before he could, the big Fristar Lemurian stepped forward. He was tall enough to look Alden in the eye. He wasn't as heavily built as the Marine, but Pete had to concede that he was probably stronger. Muscle rippled under the dark fur as he drove his spear into the ground in formal challenge. There was a sudden hush.
"Why do you humiliate the Fristar clan in front of these mud-treaders, Tail-less One? You who is a person of the Great Sea?" Chack translated as he spoke. Pete took a step closer to him and returned his glare.
"If you're humiliated it's not because of anything I've done. Your pride makes you believe you're a better warrior than you are. Besides, among my people, I'm a mud-treader too. Walker has clans, just like you, and we're all ruled by our High Chief. For us, that's Captain Reddy. I obey him, but I'm chief of my own clan. The Marines." He turned and looked at the gathering sea of faces. All training stopped as more recruits pressed forward to hear, and maybe see a fight.