Roaring just above his head, the aeroplanes streaked away. A couple of Americans fired their rifles at them. It did no good. They were gone. Galtier looked around at carnage compounded.
A moan that stood out for anguish even among all the others made him turn his head. The young, strong ambulance driver lay beside the soldier he had been about to help. Now he was wounded, too. His hands clutched at himself. Lucien shivered and made the sign of the cross. Maybe, if God was kind, he had been wounded near there, but not there.
The ambulance attendant, whose name Galtier did not know, came over to him and the injured driver. "We're going to have to bandage that and get him back to the hospital," he said, to which Lucien could only nod. The attendant stooped beside the driver. "Come on, kid, you got to let me see that."
In the end, Lucien had to hold the fellow's hands away from the wound while the attendant worked. The driver writhed and fought. He wasn't altogether conscious, but he was, as he looked, strong as the devil. Hanging onto his hands turned into something just short of a wrestling match.
Lucien hadn't intended to look as the attendant cleaned and bandaged the wound. But his eyes, drawn by some horrid fascination of their own, went to it. He winced and wanted to cross himself again. There, indeed.
He and the attendant got the driver into the back of the ambulance with another wounded man. "Thanks for the help," the attendant said.
"Not at all." Galtier hesitated. "With this bl-wound-do you think he can-? Will he be able to-?" He ran out of English and nerve at the same time.
"If he's lucky," the attendant said, understanding him anyhow, "if he's real lucky, mind, he'll be able to just do it." He climbed into the ambulance and drove it back toward the hospital. Galtier followed at his necessarily slower pace. He said nothing at all to the horse.
Klaxons hooted, everywhere on the Dakota. Sam Carsten threw his mop into a bucket and ran for his battle station. He'd expected the call even before the battleship fished its aeroplane out of the waters of the Pacific. Officers had been bustling around with the look that said they knew something he didn't. The aeroplane must have spotted something out there ahead of the fleet and sent word back by wireless.
And, out here south and west of the Sandwich Islands, the only thing to spot was the enemy. "The limeys!" Carsten gasped to Hiram Kidde when he ducked into the forwardmost starboard five-inch gun sponson.
"Them or the Japs," Kidde agreed. The gunner's mate rubbed his chin. "Taken 'em damn near two years, but they finally figured they could come out and play with the big boys. Now we got to show 'em they made a mistake, on account of if we don't, the Sandwich Islands are up for grabs again." He'd been in the Navy his whole adult life. He might not have been able to order units around like an admiral, but he had no trouble figuring out the way tactics led into strategy.
Lieutenant Commander Grady stuck his head into the sponson. "All present and accounted for?" asked the commander of the starboard-side secondary armament.
"Yes, sir," Kidde answered. "Loader"-he nodded at Carsten-"gun layers, shell jerkers, we're all here. Uh, sir, who are we fighting?"
Grady grinned. "Looks like one hellacious fleet of British battleships over the horizon," he answered, "along with all their smaller friends. I don't expect they sailed out of Singapore just to pay their respects." His face clouded. "By what the pilots say, they're at least as big a force as we are. They're playing for keeps, no doubt about it."
"So are we, sir," Kidde said. "We'll be ready." Grady nodded and hurried away, his shoes ringing off the steel of the deck.
"We don't have the whole Sandwich Islands fleet out here on patrol with us," Carsten said unhappily. "If the limeys smash us up and push past us-"
Kidde shrugged. "Chance you take when you join the Navy. If they smash us up and push past us, thing we have to make sure of is that we do some smashing of our own."
The sponson had only small vision slits for laying the gun. Even those had armored visors to protect against shell splinters in action. The visors were up now. Carsten looked out through one of the slits as the Dakota swung into a long, sweeping turn. The patrolling fleet was going into battle formation, the line of half a dozen battleships anchoring it, with smaller, swifter cruisers and destroyers supporting and screening them.
He felt a rumble through the soles of his feet. "That's the big turrets moving," he said unnecessarily.
Luke Hoskins, one of the shell-jerkers, made an equally unnecessary comment: "They've spotted the limeys, then." He already had his shirt off against the exertions that were to come. Even now, with him doing nothing, sweat gleamed on his muscle-etched torso.
Carsten peered through the vision slit again, looking for smoke on the horizon. He saw none, but the fire director for the main armament, up in the armored crow's nest, enjoyed-if that was the word-a view far better than his.
All at once, a great column of water fountained up into the sky, about half a mile from the Dakota. Sam might not have been able to see the British ships, but the director surely could, because they could see him. "Hell of a big splash," he said. That wasn't surprising, either: at a range like this, only a battleship's big guns had a chance of hitting.
A moment later, the Dakota's main armament salvoed in reply. The noise was like the end of the world. "Here we go," Hiram Kidde said. He sounded, if not happy, at peace with himself and with the world. He was getting ready to do the job he did better than anything else in the world.
"Odds are, we're gonna sit here with our thumbs up our asses all day long, too," Hoskins grumbled. "Anybody think we're gonna get close enough to the limeys to really use secondary guns?"
"Listen, if we could sink 'em from a hundred miles away and they never came close to hitting us, I'd be happy as a clam," Carsten said. Nobody in the hot, crowded sponson argued with him.
In a thoughtful voice, Kidde said, "That wasn't a broadside we fired at the limeys, just the forward turrets. We'd better swing"-and sure enough, the Dakota was again heeling through the water in another turn-"or they'll cross the T on us at a range short enough to hurt us bad."
Carsten grimaced, and he wasn't the only one. If the enemy crossed your path and fired broadsides at you while you could answer only with your forward guns, he was sending you twice the weight of metal you were giving back. Every admiral dreamt of crossing the T, and every one had nightmares about its being crossed on him.
More splashes rose, these closer to the Dakota. If somebody dropped an elephant into the Pacific from a mile up, it might make a splash like that. Shrapnel rattled off the armored sides of the battleship. Carsten whistled softly. "Wouldn't care to be up on deck right now," he said.
The rest of the gun crew made noises showing they agreed. "Cap'n" Kidde said, "It's going to get worse before it gets better, too."
Nobody argued with that, either. "Hard standing around here," Carsten said, "waiting for something to happen or for us to get close enough to the limeys to shoot at them. I feel like I'm along for the ride, but I'm not doing anything to earn my keep."
He looked out through the vision slit again. Some of the cruisers had started firing their main armament: guns of a range not that much longer than those he served. His turn would come before too long.
And then, as he watched, one of the cruisers, the Missoula, took a direct hit from what had to be a battleship shell. Its turrets went up one after the other, like the most spectacular Fourth of July fireworks display he'd ever imagined. When, bare seconds after the hit, flame reached the main magazine, the whole ship exploded in a spectacular fireball. One of the cruiser's big guns hung suspended on top of the flames for what had to be close to half a minute. But when the flames and smoke finally cleared, only roiled water remained. Nothing else was left to show where six or seven hundred men had been-no boats, no wreckage, nothing.