Primal Spillane Page 21

  Especially big Hank!

  ***

  A Shot in the Dark

  SINKING slowly over the horizon, the sun cast its last rays through the heavy, moisture laden atmosphere hanging over the Philippines. Shell-bursts splashed the sky a dull crimson, until it glowed as if on fire. Slowly the sharp car-r-umph of the explosions narrowed down in an ever decreasing circle, throwing dirt and huge trees into the air.

  Charlie Peters nudged his companion. “The Japs are starting to get the range. Another hour, and our battalion is going to be cut off from the base!”

  George Hale grinned, hugged his machine gun, and hitched his bag of grenades higher up on his shoulder.

  “In case you haven’t noticed it … we’re already cut off! Some got through before the barrage started, but the blasted Japs stuck a machine gun up in the entrance to the pass, and are cutting down every one of the boys that try to get by!”

  “Can’t we pop ’em off with this baby? We’ve plenty of ammo left!”

  “Not a chance! We could set ’er up within range and try it, but it’s no use. They’re so well concealed that we couldn’t touch ’em, and as soon as the bullets gave out we’d be dead ducks!”

  “Well,” Charlie said, “if we stay here we’re gonners. The big guns are creepin’ up on us!”

  George said nothing. For two days the battalion had been trying to reach its command after a successful raid on the Jap supply base, but the wily brown men had forced them into a death trap. Now the pincers were slowly closing, threatening to wipe the entire group out of existence, big guns blasting closer and closer.

  George took in every detail of his surroundings. Before them lay a small jungle of stunted trees, lava formations and shell holes. Heavy caliber shells would whine overhead, then crash with a deafening thud a few hundred yards off. Each new burst grew closer. On all sides the remnants of the battalion, hopelessly ensnared, were being pushed back. Before long, the sheer walls of a lava hill would be at their backs, and that would be the last!

  TO ONE side a narrow gorge cut through the hill, but mounted on a small ledge in a commanding position a few yards above the ground was a Japanese machine gun crew. Their weapon meant death to anyone who tried to go up the hill or through. The chances were one in a million that anyone would make the safety of the home base!

  But George started to grin. It spread across his freckled face until it was a huge chuckle. “Charlie, ole boy,” he laughed, “I think we have a chance!”

  Peters looked at him gloomily.

  “Don’t try to kid me. I can see what things are like!”

  “I’m not kidding! The chance is a slim one, but it’s the only one we have left. If it works we get through, if it doesn’t … well, we’d get it anyway. Are you game to try it?”

  “Okey by me, George. I’m ready to try anything!”

  ‘Then come on! Let’s take Betsy apart here. We haven’t much time!”

  Quickly they stripped down the machine gun, loaded the parts into slings and threw them over on their backs. Tall grasses hid their movements from prying eyes. Their every motion was careful, for the trees were full of snipers, ready to pick them off, while bands of Japs scurried around behind every lava hill.

  The pass was a quarter of a mile to the north, and this was their destination. Dusk was swiftly approaching, and the time was perfect for George’s plan. The pair would crawl on their stomachs when the grass thinned out. Where it stood head high they would dash through its cover.

  Occasionally porous rock would shield them. Bullets spanged from the lava as they were spotted by snipers, but the Japs, thinking that the machine gun in the pass would finish them, made no strong attempt to stop them. Whenever George and Charlie passed a group of their soldiers, they passed the word to be ready to run for the pass.

  CHARLIE stopped for a moment to catch his breath. “Gee, George, did you see the way those guys’ eyes lit up back there? We gotta make this work, they’re depending on us!”

  “It’ll work, all right. The more I think about it the better it seems!’

  The sun was dropping low when they reached the hill that the gorge ran through. They scrambled up the side to the protection of a bunch of scrubby trees. In front of them was a straight stretch of open lava rock, and beyond was the ledge which hid the Japs. Suddenly a shot zinged off the rock.

  “George! They saw us!”

  George grinned. “Yeah, I made sure of that! Let them know we’re here. They know we can’t cross that flat space, but we’ll worry them a bit!”

  “Well, what do we do now?”

  “Here’s the plan.”

  They conversed a few minutes, and even the solemn Charlie began to smile.

  “If that won’t do it,” he said, “nothing will!” First they set up the gun, then wiggled through the short brush until they came to a huge, round boulder. For all its size, it weighed no more than a man, for it was sponge-lava rock, full of miniature caverns and tunnels made by gas bubbles. With their shoulders against the rock, they pushed it through the grasses. Finally they gave it a hard shove and it tumbled across the flat rock and came to rest about forty yards off.

  THE SWIFT whirr of bullets from the Jap gun sent chunks flying from it, but they realized that it was only a ruse: Darkness had settled, but the moon overhead lit the place up brightly.

  George laid his grenades down and grabbed the gun. He turned to Charlie. “You, stay here and cover me with your pistol if I’m seen, otherwise, don’t shoot!”

  “I gotcha. Now watch yourself!”

  A cloud crept over the moon, and in the brief shadow George got a firm grip on the gun and made a mad dash for the rock. Working with his bayonet, he dug down into the soil until he had a pit large enough to fit the gun into. Once the rock in front of him had stopped enough bullets, it would crumble to little pieces.

  Even now a warning shot would careen off the side, covering him with a grey powder. He worked at the hole furiously. In a few minutes George was able to squirm in alongside the gun. Then he took off his coat. Underneath he had on a heavy woolen sweater, for the nights were cold. George looked at it.

  “Well, old sweater, if my girl knew what I was going to do, she’d bean me. Imagine, after her spending days knitting it, I’m gonna take it apart in five minutes!”

  He worked loose a stitch, then quickly unraveled the sweater.

  Driving a stake in the soil on either side of the gun, he tied the end of the yarn to the gun handle, then ran it around the stake. He did the same with two pieces, so to move the gun, all he had to do was pull on the cord. Another string was attached to the trigger. This done, George tied the loose ends to his belt to be sure he wouldn’t drop them.

  Once again a cloud came by, and he ran for the brush.

  Charlie was anxious. “Does it work?”

  “I hope so!” George settled himself. “Here goes!”

  He pointed the gun at the rock in front of it and pulled the trigger. The lava boulder shivered, then split wide open. The gun now commanded the flats! But the Jap gun came in then. It sprayed a steady stream of flame around the flats. Few of the shots went into the clump of trees where the boys lay, for they were trying to search out the gun which they knew was on the flats.

  GEORGE pulled the trigger string. Flame poured out of the muzzle to the Jap emplacement, but bounced harmlessly off the rocks. Quickly the Japs returned the fire. Bursts matched bursts. The Americans in the little valley heard the gunfire and cheered. This was their only chance to get through, and they were desperate! Nevertheless, their cheers split the night.

  George nodded to Charlie. “This is it. If only those Japs are conceited enough to want to kill us with their bare hands, we’ll take ’em. Keep your fingers crossed!” Charlie crossed them.

  George pulled on the trigger string and held it. A long burst spewed from the gun, then it went silent. For a moment there was silence, then a piercing shriek rang out! Six figures waving long bayonets dashed madly to the gu
n.

  “There they come, George! They think we’ve run out of ammunition!”

  George peered into the darkness. “I see them, get the grenades ready!”

  Charlie stood up, a grenade in each fist. George, on the ground, kept the Japs silhouetted against the moonlight. On they came, shouting in joy at the anticipated slaughter of the helpless Yanks. They reached the gun pit … then stopped short. “Now!” George whispered.

  Charlie let the grenades go. For one brief instant the Japs stood still, knowing that they’d been caught, then they turned to run. BOOM! A terrific blast, and the way was clear!

  “We’ve done it!” Charlie shouted. He turned to the valley. “Come on, you guys, the road’s clear, let’s go!”

  A laughing band of men, snatched from death, tore for the gorge. Charlie looked at George, who was still sitting on the ground, a funny expression on his face. “Aren’t you coming? Say! What’s the matter with you, anyway?”

  George looked up hazily. “Nothing, except the reaction from not having to meet St. Peter this time!”

  ***

  Intro to “A Turn of the Tide”

  The following never-before-published story was discovered among a stack of Mickey Spillane’s manuscripts, and was likely not intended as a comic book “filler.”

  The character “Wardie” is most likely a tip of the hat to Mickey’s son Ward, who was born in 1950 — a little late for comic book work. The publication of I, the Jury (in 1947) marked the beginning of the end of Mickey’s blue-collar days toiling in relative anonymity.

  Still, “A Turn of the Tide” deserves inclusion in Primal Spillane. A previously unpublished, complete story by the master himself (not many of those remain) is significant, and the format approximates the prose “fillers” of comics’ golden age.

  Also, the subject matter — two young boys from different backgrounds working together and overcoming adversity — is possibly an early sign of Mickey’s desire to write for kids. Just as interesting is the story’s nautical setting, reflected in his two well-received children’s books The Day the Sea Rolled Back (1979) and The Ship That Never Was (1982).

  More significantly, “A Turn of the Tide” demonstrates Mickey Spillane could write all types of characters, with different backgrounds. He could tell stories in every genre, but — until relatively late in his life, when he turned to kids’ books and his adventure novels, Something’s Down There (2001) and the posthumously published The Last Stand (2018) — he chose to maintain his position as the postwar king of hardboiled crime fiction.

  We are indebted to to Joseph C. Hsieh for providing scans of the original manuscript.

  A Turn of the Tide

  Wardie didn’t mean to fall asleep in the bottom of the skiff, but seeing that old fashioned boat all alone, just plain sitting there with its prow nudging the edge of the beach like it was tired or something ... well, he had to get in it ... and with the gentle tidal action pushing it farther up the beach, he had to ride it just a little way, as any young boy would.

  It was a great little boat, well kept, but well used, too, and he wondered what could have worn the seat down the way it was, or put the grooves in the gunnel. He grinned when he remembered the word for the boat’s railing. Tied to a short, stout post that jutted up through the small bow decking was a piece of rope, the end frayed where it hung over the side. It wasn’t like the lines they used on boats around the marina at all. This was real rope, soft with age and fuzzy its whole length with tiny strands of fiber that seemed to sparkle in the sun.

  When the incoming tide lapped at the side of the boat he rocked with it, then looked down to see what was rolling under his feet. Oh, he knew what these were, all right. Oars. And on either side of him two sturdy pegs fitted into the gunnel, oarlocks, the way they made them in the old days.

  He took a quick look up and down the beach, a quiet little cove where he’d go looking for shells, but nobody was around at all. He grinned again pulled out the oars, set them in place and made believe he was a pirate rowing in from his ship to hide his golden treasure in a shoreline cave.

  And what a day it was! Warm, a light mist off on the horizon, salt air tingling his nose, and he was captain of his own ship. Wardie couldn’t believe how lucky he was. He slid off the seat and nestled down on the bottom, his back against the port side. Now the curved planking seemed to tower above him, and for all the world he was out on the deep blue sea dreaming of the greatest adventures of all.

  That’s when he fell asleep.

  The skiff floated at the edge of the ocean, the shadow of the sand dunes shading it, then hovering a moment as if tasting the change of tide, gently swung around in the fresh offshore breeze, and bobbed away from land until it was only a small speck in a vast sea, and even that vanished when it drifted into the grey mist.

  PEDRO was scared. He was almost fully grown, and never had he known fear at all until now. Growing up on the Island of Cuba had not been easy, but he took the beatings and the harsh drudgery of work the gaunt farmer gave him because he knew that someday he’d escape from this terrible person who treated him like a slave.

  But running away had been difficult too. He had realized the farmer, his relatives and the soldiers too would be looking for him, and if they ever caught him, his life would be worse than ever. For months, now, he had been building his boat by the stream that wormed its way East until it spilled into the gulf. He knew nothing about building boats, but he knew what floated, and week by week he had been collecting empty five gallon cans, tying them together under lengths of saplings until he had a raft that would support him and whatever he brought with him.

  All he needed now was the right tide and favorable winds that would take him away from Cuba and blow him to a new land of freedom where he could find his real family. His water jug was filled, a tin packed with yams was ready and his father’s last gift, a pocketknife, was hung around his neck on a leather thong.

  He got his tide and his wind. He sailed away in the middle of the night and when the sun came up he was headed North and Cuba was only a smudge on the horizon. Right then he wasn’t scared at all. But Pedro’s knowledge of the sea was scant. From the hillside where he had lived the waves seemed small, the breeze light. One day out everything had changed.

  Cotton rope that had seemed so strong wore through and two of his cans drifted off. The raft had a tilt in it now and the saplings were coming loose. The second day the fear was eating at him because all he had left were four cans loosely joined by rapidly fraying rope and loose pieces of young trees. He had dragged himself on top of the pile, holding them together with his arms and legs. Every hour he grew weaker, knowing he couldn’t hold on much longer.

  The big fear came when he saw the first fin drift by.

  Sharks!

  Within minutes there were two more circling the remains of his boat. They didn’t attack. They just waited, seeming to know as he did that it was only a matter of time before the raft collapsed and he’d be an easy meal for them, helpless in the water.

  A DASH of salt spray woke Wardie up. At first he hadn’t realized that he had slept, but when he raised himself up he knew immediately what had happened. The tide had swept him out to sea! He was alone, totally alone in a boat that looked smaller the longer he looked at it. He was only a little sailor in a little boat alone on a great big ocean and he didn’t even know which way the shoreline was. A heavy mist hung around him and the sun was like a dim bulb in the sky overhead. He wanted to cry, but there was nobody to hear him so he bit his lip instead. He would have given anything, even his new bike, to hear the sound of just one friendly voice.

  The rope was nearly gone now. Only Pedro’s weight on the few pieces of sapling held the cans together. The top of one had come loose and half the can had filled with seawater before he could tighten it. The sea mist was cold and he shivered, rattling the cans he lay on. One of the sharks moved in closer and he felt its rough skin brush his foot.

  Fear was like fire
in his throat. The shark moved in again, another following it and he lifted his dangling legs out of the water and yelled, “Get away from me!” His voice was hoarse and weak, muffled by the fog.

  Wardie raised his head. He had heard something! But what, and where? Again, he heard a faint sound and thought it came from dead ahead. His oars were still in place and he squirmed up on the seat, remembering his father had taught him in his rubber boat on the bay. Grasping the oars firmly, he began to row.

  THE THING looming up in front of him almost scared Pedro to death. Sharks were bad enough, but a sea monster … and it was coming right at him! He let out a yell of pure fright when huge arms seemed to lift ready to grab him, then the yell turned to one of pure joy when he saw Wardie looking at him. He made a grab for the boat as it nudged his raft, pulled himself inside the skiff as the shark made a last, futile grab for his legs and crumpled to the bottom, exhausted.

  But no two people were ever more happy to see each other than Wardie or Pedro.

  An hour’s rest was all Pedro needed, and luckily, he knew where to row from the sun’s position. Hours seemed to pass before they broke from the fog … and there was the beach directly ahead, the small water tower marking the very key where the skiff had drifted up to start with!

  When the boat ground to a stop on the sand, Pedro leaped out with a laugh, said something in Spanish, then turned back and hugged his little friend. Neither could understand what then other said, but Pedro seemed to think Wardie came out to rescue him all by himself. He grinned again, took his father’s pocketknife from around his neck, draped it on Wardie, hugged him again and ran off.

  SO MUCH had happened in one turn of the tide. Wardie couldn’t believe it. He had to tell somebody and he took off toward his own house. When he reached the dune line he looked back … and there was the little skiff drifting off again.