"I've always heard that a seagull is the spirit of a seaman

that is no longer with us... If I ever get to the point that I can't walk

to this ship, and you see a big seagull upon battle two on the

splinter screen, don't chase it away.

Throw him a fish and call him Joe."

- Real Admiral Joseph Stryker

media:

"Here Comes the Navy"

by the Andrews Sisters

Guadalcanal; September 15, 1942

"You heard about the German spies that got caught on Long Island?" Kessinger called over the top of his newspaper, which was two months old and a gift from the men on one of the other ships from the convoy. He had been the first to tear into the new reading material and had been quoting articles from it to the sailors in the barracks whenever there was any free time. The one about the flying man had been pretty interesting, but the politics bored Clint. This time was an exception.

"No way! Real Krauts?" he asked, sitting up on his bunk. Even the Marines perked up at the sound of the news, and Kess continued his monologue.

"Four saboteurs caught off the coast of Amagansett. It says here they had cash, American clothes, and four crates of explosives. They tried to bribe a coast guard, but he reported them. They had buried the explosives – here, they've got a picture, come look – but the Germans scattered after the coast guard boy left. It's a real chase!"

"Don't spoil it with your commentary, then!" One of the Marines shouted after Kessinger, who brought the newspaper up past his face like he was hiding behind it.

"The report says they got a hotel, looking like every other immigrant out there. One of the head guys got tired of the antics of the others, says under interview he said they were too reckless."

"Damn Nazis, 'course they were!" D'Amico swore, and his sentiment was corroborated by the Marines in the back of the room. The sailors and soldiers hung onto Kessinger's every word as he continued to read.

"One of these lead guys, Dasch, decided to turn in his partners in crime. After getting a look at the high life of New York City, he sent the FBI after his compatriots, and in days the gang was rounded up and arrested. It says their trials are pending, but this is from months ago."

"I hope they swing," Peicott growled, drumming his fingers against his uniform. "If there's anyone worse than the guys we're going up against it's the Nazis."

"At least he was a regretful Nazi. Why would he go turn himself in like that?" Kessinger puzzled, tilting his head to the side and studying the text of the article before him.

"The only good Nazi is a dead Nazi in my book." Peicott retorted, followed by cheers from the Marines. "They got all the way to America by U-boat?"

"Let's consult our resident expert. Barton, you've seen a U-boat, right?"

Clint nodded briskly, straightening in his seat and commanding the attention of the cramped quarters. "I should hope so, it shot down and sunk the last ship I was stationed on."

"What did it look like?" Peicott's eyes narrowed, envisioning the submarine before him.

"Massive, all blackened steel. There was the figure of a runnin' devil on the top, painted in red." Clint added this last detail for effect, and he could swear he saw one of the Marines shudder out of the corner of his eye.

"Damn. I'd love to see one of them go after the Showboat. We've been battle-tested now, the Kraut machine wouldn't stand a chance!" one of the Marines, a bulky man named Fox, called out from the rear bunk. "But you think a U-boat could make it to the States?"

"Oh, for sure."

The standard murmurs of the hallways rose to a simmering tide, and Kessinger leaned his head away from the paper to look. Dull thuds reverberated through the walls and the floor, followed by what sounded like shouting up toward the deck. D'Amico propped himself on his elbow, sighing as he rolled upright and started dragging his boots back on.

"How much you wanna bet they'll call us to battle stations? C'mon, I need the money. Anybody?"

Kessinger paled, the pages of his newspaper crumpling between his fingers. "That sounded like a torpedo. Don't you think it sounded like a torpedo?"

The murmur was rising to a roar, so Clint swung down from his bunk and started for the door. "I'll head to the signal bridge to see what's going on. Anyone want to come with?"

"Yeah, better than rotting in here with the rest of you lot." D'Amico stood, brushing off his slacks. "We'll give you lazy bums the rundown when we come back under, huh?"

"Scat!" One of the Marines hollered, and Clint ducked out of the doorway with D'Amico at his heels. They ascended a pair of steep ladders onto the deck of the ship. The view in the blazing sunlight was enough to stop him where he stood, and D'Amico nearly ran him over as he emerged from belowdecks to watch the sights.

Billowing smoke blossomed into the sky, blackening the blue firmament. Flames lapped at a distant ship's deck, climbing up the metal and casting its refuse into the sparkling blue. The smoke stretched upward for what looked to be miles, a proverbial pillar of fire straight up to heaven – men who spied it couldn't help but pray. The deep crunches heard belowdecks were the explosions that peppered the ship as it thrashed in its death throes.

Clint snagged a pair of binoculars from a nearby sailor, focusing the lens and staring with mouth agape as another explosion tore across the deck. Sailors and a Kingfisher plane flew through the air and into the water. The broiling heat made his vision through the lenses swimmy.

"Jesus Christ, what happened? Who is she?" D'Amico grabbed the same sailor and shook him by his shoulders. The man was so startled he could hardly form syllables.

"Th-the Wasp, sir! She's just been torpedoed!"

Clint's blood froze as he peered through the binoculars. The Wasp, Sabin's ship, charred to a crisp and sinking rapidly in torpedo-infested waters. D'Amico wasted no time yanking the binoculars from Clint's hands and tossing them back to the sailor, dragging him up to the ladder that led to the signal bridge. Stumbling after him, Clint could hardly bear to take his eyes from the Wasp as she floundered in the water, the smoke pouring over her side. 

He was pulling himself up the ladder when the North Carolina listed hard to the right, throwing him against the edge of the ladder railing. One hand went flying from its grip and Clint pulled his weight toward the ladder, swearing as he clung for dear life. The turn put him at the perfect angle to see the geyser of water erupt from the bow of the nearest destroyer. The ship's front was shredded, tearing a large chunk out of her hull like the torpedo had taken a bite out of the steel.

At that moment the shrill alarm for battle stations rang across the Showboat, and D'Amico was kicking Clint's head to get him moving back down the ladder. Batting his friend's feet away, Clint slid down the length of the ladder and ran for his mount. He had made it halfway when a torpedo collided with the port side of the North Carolina, sending her jumping out of the water and slamming back into the Pacific. Sailors went sprawling, and Clint was thrown a foot into the air before colliding with the deck. Water gushed over the side of the ship, dousing him with salty brine and a dark sludge-like substance that had to be the ship's oil. The entire structure trembled, sending waves of seawater over the deck.

Leaping to his feet, Clint rushed over the stunned soldiers and took his place at his 20-millimeter mount. He was the last sailor from his group to arrive, most likely looking like he had just escaped from the depths of an oily hell. Eyes scanned the sky for planes, sailors poised and waiting for orders. Clint's heart pounded in his chest with furious anticipation. He wasn't scared by the attack, he wasn't even shocked – he was excited. Rigorous training on the 20s demanded a chance to show his skills, and who better to use them on than the men who had attacked his friends?

Nothing came. The skies remained clear blue, mottled by the foul billows of smoke from the carcass of the Wasp, with no enemy planes in sight. Nothing to shoot at. The frustration was tangible. Clint heard muttered swears echoing from the gunnery crew as they stood ready to fire. What use would an anti-aircraft gun be against a submarine, anyway?

They stood for hours, muscles tensed and spring-loaded to leap into battle at a moment's notice, but another threat never appeared. The only motion the ship made was to turn back on the return-trip to Pearl Harbor. Whispers through the gun crews informed Clint that the torpedo damage was too severe for the ship's damage control to patch up in the water, so they would be heading away from the fight.

Bitter curses echoed across the deck, and many men laid down on the deck to relax after hours of tense waiting. Clint rolled his shoulders back, taking a seat with the men from his mount as they discussed the events of the brief attack.

"I swear, we're never going to fight in this war. I haven't fired a shot yet!" One complained, then amended his statement. "Not that there's a problem with that – I love this ship and all, but I enlisted to shoot some Japs, not eat ice cream and do calisthenics!"

"They're fighting and dying over there, and we turn tail and run... I'm going to apply for transfer to get off this damn ship. They should put a sign on these guns: For Display Only."

"You're an idiot. I'd rather have no fighting at all than risk getting killed by the Japanese. Don't you want to get home alive after all this mess?"

"You're the one who's an idiot! They just torpedoed the Wasp and killed our boys. Pacifist!" the first sailor roared, jumping to his feet and drawing his fists back before Clint and the other sailors pulled him away. The second sailor sat still, the image of calm, and watched the situation unfold with a serene expression.

Their frustration was paralleled by the other sailors on deck, who were observing the would-be fight with mild interest. The others were looking to the side of the ship, where a knot of boys stood and looked over the rail with palpable grief. Clint tapped the shoulder of one of his mount partners and nodded in the direction of the small group.

"What's going on over there?"

"You didn't hear? Abe Geary got washed overboard when the torpedo hit. Those are the guys from his gun mount. Real shame."

"Yeah, terrible," Clint replied, dumbfounded by the sailor's claim. How could he have been thrown over the side that easily?

"And did you hear about the rooms that got flooded down belowdeck? They had to seal them off to keep the ship watertight. Some of the guys will have to be sleeping beside the flooded bedrooms with their buddies still inside!"

Clint expected his stomach to turn at this, but there was no reaction to the sailor's grotesque claim. He stood on the deck feeling numb, the buzz of conversation and the movements of sailors transitioning back to general quarters surrounding him, washing over the trauma that shrouded the ship. Excusing himself with a wave of his hand, the sailor hurried off to spread his gory gossip with some of his friends and left Clint to his own thoughts, if only briefly.

"Came as quick as we could, they just dismissed us," D'Amico's labored breathing sounded beside Clint, and he turned to see his bunkmate hunched over to catch his breath. "Are you all right? You're covered in oil!"

"Funny, I didn't notice," Clint extended his arms, which were soaked through with the viscous mixture of black oil and salty seawater. The oil was beginning to dry in the steaming Pacific heat, releasing a vile smell. He turned away from D'Amico and looked back over the rail, where the wreck of the Wasp shrank to a smaller and smaller smudge of black across the sky.

"What a day, huh? We're attacked and don't get to fight back. Not a single shot, I tell you! Hey, what's the matter with you?" D'Amico moved to clap a hand on Clint's shoulder, then noticed the oil and retracted his arm.

"Nothing. It's just that... I knew a guy out there."

"Don't we all, huh? Look, I'm going down to get some ice cream after this mess. Want to come along?"

Clint waved him off with an oil-slicked hand. "Sure. Just give me a minute."

As soon as his friend had departed, Clint rested his forearms on the metal of the rail and released a slow breath, keeping his eyes on the horizon and the black cloud of smoke hovering where the sea met the sky. The North Carolina limped away from danger, he was alive, and in the distance the Wasp sank into the unceasing hunger of the lapping waves.

(Thoughts so far? Thank you so much for your feedback!)