He cycled through the air lock into the forward engine room. He was shaped much like the Mice, and he barely had to squat to step through. The large compartment was filled by the big turbines and a maze of steam lines and conduits, but he moved among them with practiced ease to the enclosed intercom by the main throttle control. “Throttle manned and ready,” he said into the mouthpiece. The talker on the bridge acknowledged, and Spanky looked at the other throttlemen. They looked back with almost pathetically hopeful expressions. They were all so young, and the faith they placed in him and their “new” captain made him feel uncomfortable.
He wasn’t much of a poker player. He disliked games of chance. He felt at ease only when he was totally in control of everything it was his business to control. Right now his business was the engines, and cantankerous as they were, he could handle that. He couldn’t influence the outcome of anything beyond the confines of his engine room, and in a way he was glad. Deep inside, however, was a feeling like the one he hated whenever he did play poker: knowing that his destiny, or at least a portion of his pay, was at the mercy of the cardboard rectangle held carelessly in the dealer’s hand and knowing that luck alone would dictate how it affected him. He understood the sense of frustrated helplessness plaguing the young sailors nearby. It gnawed him too. But he couldn’t let it show- just as the captain couldn’t. All he could do was hope for an ace. Somehow, they’d drawn the right cards so far, in spite of their deficiencies, but the Japanese kept stacking the deck. He hoped Captain Reddy had some card tricks of his own, because that was what they’d need to survive this call.
Matt squinted ahead against the sun. It no longer streamed directly through the windows, but it was bright enough to make everything washed-out and fuzzy. Suddenly, exactly where he looked, two closely spaced geysers of spume erupted directly in their path, two hundred yards ahead. This was followed by the superfluous report of his talker that the enemy had opened fire. The columns of water thrown up by the eight-inch shells were at least as tall as the mast. Matt glanced at his watch and took note of the time. He was glad to see that his hand was steady. His carefully hidden anxiety of a few moments before had subsided now that the first shots had been fired. Large, grayish-brown clouds enveloped Exeter as her own eight-inch guns replied to the Japanese salvo. The overpressure of the report shook the pilothouse windows. The waiting was over, and Matt felt a surge of exhilaration edge out the anticipation even further. It was much like the baseball games of his youth, he reflected. He sometimes got so keyed up for a game that he felt physically sick. He didn’t know why, but he suspected he was afraid he would screw up somehow. He played third base, and in his mind’s eye he always saw himself missing the critical catch and thus allowing the other team to score the game-winning point. The idea of such humiliation was worse than enduring the real thing, and always, as soon as the first pitch was thrown, his nervousness was forgotten. He supposed this wasn’t a dissimilar context, although if he screwed up here much more than a game was at stake.
Exeter’s salvos came faster than Matt would have expected, and he noticed with a sense of admiration and vicarious pride that Captain Gordonhad replaced Exeter’s naval jack with an enormous battle flag, much like the little destroyer Electra had done in the Battle of the Java Sea when she charged the enemy fleet all alone. That action saved the crippled Exeter from destruction by forcing the enemy to maneuver to avoid Electra’s torpedoes, but the resulting fusillade of enemy shells obliterated the gallant destroyer. It was one of the bravest things Matt had ever seen, and he’d seen a lot of courage in the last few months. Unfortunately, he thought bitterly, most had been futile.
The enemy shells became more concentrated, and the great plumes erupted continuously around the veteran cruiser. The impacts seemed to have increased in number as well.
“Sir, Exeter has sent a radio message. I guess they don’t think we’ll see their Morse lamp through the splashes.” It was Petty Officer 1st Class Steve “Sparks” Riggs, the comm officer, who had scampered down from the fire-control platform above.
“What does she say?” asked Matt impatiently.
“Two more Jap ships, heavy cruisers at least, and three destroyers bearing two one five! The heavies have opened fire. Exeter says her fire control is out-no hits yet, it just quit. They’ve gone to local control of the main battery.” Matt’s sense of exhilaration turned to dread. Without her fire-control equipment, Exeter was nearly as helpless as her escorts. “Captain Gordon wants us to take formation with the other destroyers astern and make smoke.”
Matt nodded. “Acknowledge. Confirm Pope and Mahan received as well. Make the adjustment, Mr. Flowers,” he said, addressing the helmsman. “I’m going topside for a look. You have the deck.”
“I have the deck, aye, sir.”
Matt turned and climbed briskly up the ladder to the platform above. Now, except for the mast and the four slender funnels beyond it directly astern, he had a full 360-degree view of the panoramic drama of which Walker was, so far, such an insignificant part. Garrett stepped from the range-finder platform.
“More Japs, sir! They just popped out from behind that squall. Do you see? There!” He raised his long arm and pointed far astern, off the port quarter. “There’s more and more rain squalls,” he added hopefully. The deck tilted as Walker heeled into a sharp turn to starboard. The blowers lost their intensity briefly, as Flowers reduced speed to join Walker’s partners forming in Exeter’s wake. Off to the west-northwest, a number of indistinct ships were visible to the naked eye, not far from the coast of Borneo. That landmass appeared as a hazy smear, but it was actually closer than it seemed. The shoreline was obscured by the same squall that had concealed the Japanese ships.
“I see them, Mr. Garrett,” he said in what he hoped was a confident tone, but he felt like he’d pronounced their death sentence. There were now two distinct battle groups in pursuit and far above in those loitering planes he knew even more forces were being called. It would probably not be long before attack aircraft arrived as well. He leaned over the speaking tube. “Let’s make a little smoke, Mr. Flowers.”
Immediately, his orders were relayed to the torpedomen, who sprang to activate the smoke generators. At the same time, in the boiler rooms, the burner batters exchanged the sprayer plates to increase the flow of oil through the burners. Slowly at first, but building rapidly, a huge column of sooty black smoke gushed from the funnels and piled into the clear morning sky. It was joined by the smoke of the other three destroyers, rapidly creating an opaque wall between them and the enemy. The incoming fire began to slacken, and Matt stared aft at the huge cloud they were creating. It seemed to blot out the entire western horizon. Lieutenant Garrett glanced at him when he chuckled quietly. “I always get a hoot out of doing that.”
They continued east-southeast under a black pall. The enemy barrage was less accurate, but it didn’t stop. The cruisers were in direct radio contact with the spotting planes overhead, correcting their fire. The Allied squadron tried to zigzag subtly, to increase the correction error, but they couldn’t deviate much from a straight heading because the enemy was already faster and zigzagging slowed them down. All they could hope for was a squall of their own to hide in, to stretch the chase until dark. Then they might change course unnoticed and lose their pursuers. Matt had little hope of that. It was now only 1100. Whatever fate awaited them, it would certainly unfold before the sun went down.
Lieutenant Rogers’s excited voice screamed from Garrett’s headphones.“Surface target! Starboard quarter! Four Nip destroyers out of the smoke. God, they’re fast!” The ordnance strikers on the platform swung the gun director.
“Gun crews, load!” Garrett shouted into his mouthpiece.
“Fire on the nearest target as soon as you’re ready, Mr. Garrett,” Matt said, and stepped back to the speaking tube. He looked to see how the other destroyers, in line abreast, were maneuvering. “Conn, starboard ten degrees.”
At this speed, Walker’s range f
inder was useless because of vibration, but Garrett estimated the range to target. “Fire up-ladder. Range, nine five-double-oh!” The shouted commands came rapidly and Matt heard the tinny replies of the gun crews leak from Garrett’s earphones. He couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride in his crew as they went about their duties with calm, well-drilled precision. After the range, bearing, and apparent speed of the target were fed into it, the mechanical fire-control computer reached a solution.
“Surface action starboard. Match pointers!” Garrett instructed the three crews whose weapons would bear. He listened as they reported their readiness and looked at Matt. “The guns are ready, Captain.”
“Commence firing.”
“Three rounds, salvo fire. Commence firing!” He leaned forward and stabbed the salvo buzzer button. The nerve-racking, jangling raaaa sound was almost instantly overwhelmed by the simultaneous concussion of three 4-inch guns. Even before the first rounds fell, the buzzer sounded again and the second salvo was on the way. Splashes kicked up beyond and astern of the closest enemy destroyer, but seconds later more splashes rose among the ships when their friends opened fire as well. The third salvo seemed to have the range, but it was still behind the enemy.
“They’re even faster than I thought! I guess I didn’t lead them enough,” Garrett said apologetically. He fed corrections into the computer. Somebody got a lucky hit with the first salvo, and the third Japanese destroyer belched black smoke from her curiously raked ’stack and slowed out of line. Men cheered and even Matt felt like pumping his fist. It looked like the hit came from Pope or Encounter. The remaining enemy ships continuedthe charge. They opened fire from the twin mounts on their fore-decks, all three shooting only at the damaged British cruiser.
“They’re making for Exeter. Get on them, Mr. Garrett!” To Matt, the enemy strategy was clear. They were trying to get in a few licks on the primary target and slow her down still more. Her escorts would then be forced to leave her or stand and fight. Either way, the result would be the same. Another salvo slammed out from Walker, and this one looked on target, but there were no explosions. Either they were still shooting long, or the shells were passing through the thin-skinned Japanese ships without detonating.
“That’s it!” shouted Garrett into his comm. “No change! No change! Rapid fire! Let her have it!” The geysers erupting around the advancing enemy now resembled those that had bracketed Exeter a short time before, if not in size, then surely in volume. The Japanese couldn’t know that Exeter’s fire control was out, and Matt had to admire the courage of their approach. They began to angle for Exeter’s starboard side. Knowing their gunnery was in capable hands, Matt realized his place was in the pilothouse. Without a word of distraction for Garrett, he dropped to the quarterdeck below.
“Captain on the bridge!” somebody shouted.
“As you were. I have the deck, Mr. Flowers. You keep the conn.”
“Aye, aye, sir. You have the deck. I have the conn.”
“Skipper.” PO Riggs spoke up. “Captain Blinn on Pope sends to execute a starboard turn in column and prepare to fire torpedoes.” Blinn was senior to both Matt and Captain Atkinson on Mahan and had authority over the three American destroyers.
“Very well, acknowledge. Mr. Flowers, bring us in behind Mahan when she makes her turn.”
Ensign Bernard Sandison, the torpedo officer, stood on the starboard bridgewing and adjusted his headset while an ordnance striker fiddled with the connection linking the antiquated torpedo director to the two mounts on the starboard side. As the four destroyers accelerated to block the enemy thrust, his eyes burned when they turned into their own smoke screen.
“Sir,” commented Flowers, “Exeter’s firing torpedoes.” He pointed at the cruiser, now off their port bow. Puffs of smoke drifted aft from her amidships tubes, but the splashes when the weapons hit the water couldn’t be distinguished from those of enemy shells. Then, as they looked on, there was a small reddish flash between Exeter’s two funnels. A column of black smoke rocketed skyward and a cloud of escaping steam enshrouded her amidships. Except for the racket of the blowers and the wind, there was stunned silence in Walker’s pilothouse, broken only by someone’s soft, pleading murmur.
“No, oh, no… no.”
Matt didn’t know who said it. It might have been he. Somebody cursed. Exeter’s speed dropped to nearly nothing, as if she’d slammed into a wall. Shells rained down and more began to hit as she wallowed on helplessly at barely four knots. The Allied destroyers executed another turn, in column, and ran up Exeter’s starboard side, placing themselves between the doomed cruiser and the oncoming enemy ships. Through the thinning haze of the smoke screen, the Japanese cruisers were visible, much closer than before. At the head of the line, smoke and steam spewed from Encounter as her torpedoes leaped into the sea. The two American destroyers ahead followed suit.
“Engage as they bear with the starboard tubes, Mr. Sandison.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” he replied, and cried into his microphone: “Torpedo action starboard! In salvo! Fire one, fire three, fire five! Fire seven, fire nine, fire eleven!”
Matt peered around the chart house. The amidships deckhouse was in the way, but he saw the cutoff-looking muzzles of the pair of starboard triple launchers angled out thirty degrees from the side of the ship. As he watched, the first three 21-inch-diameter, 2,215-pound MK-15 torpedoes thumped out, one after another, the sun shining on their burnished metal bodies as they plunged into the sea with enormous concave splashes. They disappeared, but a moment later dense trails of effervescent bubbles rose to the surface in their wakes. There were only three, however.
Sandison looked at his captain with an apologetic, frustrated expression. “Sir, there’s a casualty on the number-three mount. They don’t know what it is yet, but the torpedoes are secure.”
Matt swallowed a curse. It probably wasn’t anybody’s fault, just worn-out equipment. “Very well, Bernie. Let me know what you find out. Light a fire under it, though. I want those torpedoes!”
“Captain!” cried the talker. “Lookout reports torpedoes in the water!”
Matt looked at him blankly for a second. Of course there were- Then realization struck. He ran to the bridgewing and shouldered Sandison aside.
“JAP torpedoes!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Right full rudder!” Walker heeled sharply. “Signal to all ships-torpedoes inbound! Lots of torpedoes! Am evading!” During his brief glance, he saw over a dozen wakes. He looked back at the incoming streams of bubbles, which contrasted sharply with the dark, deep water. They should be relatively easy to avoid in daylight, but there were so many. They might blunder into one while maneuvering to miss another. Walker was only thirty feet wide, and Matt instinctively turned directly toward the oncoming weapons to present the smallest possible target. The rest of the column of destroyers disintegrated into chaos as they maneuvered independently as well.
“Lord, looks like the Nips just flushed a covey of quail,” said Flowers as dryly as he could manage.
“Rudder amidships!” With gratifying alacrity, Walker steadied, and the cant to the deck disappeared. She may be old, Matt thought with an unusual sense of proprietary satisfaction, but she still handles like a rum-runner. Nimbleness wasn’t a trait usually associated with four-stackers, but Chief Gray had told him an extra three feet of depth had been added to her rudder as an experiment. It worked, but there were objections to the added draft and, as far as Gray knew, only a couple of her sisters were ever altered.
“Here they come!” someone yelled. Almost everyone in the pilothouse but the helmsman rushed to the bridgewings and looked anxiously at the water as a pair of torpedoes raced by on either side of Walker’s frail hull. The one to starboard passed less than a dozen yards away. A young seaman’s apprentice named Fred Reynolds, a boy who looked all of thirteen, grinned at Matt with a pallid expression and then vomited over the rail. The malicious wind made sure that most of the spew wound up in his close-cropped hair. The salv
o buzzer rang again, and the number one gun fired alone. The report stirred the bridge crew from the momentary relief of having dodged the torpedoes, reminding them that they were steaming directly toward the enemy.
“Where the hell do you think you are? Watching toy boats in a duck pond?” bellowed Chief Gray as he ascended the ladder. He gave Reynolds a malevolent glare and pantomimed dumping a water bucket on the deck. The boy wiped his mouth and staggered back to his station. The rest of the bridge crew followed suit. Matt winced inwardly. He’d been as guilty as the others, but Gray just winked at him and sighed theatrically when no one was looking. Matt nodded grimly and turned.
Into the Storm d-1 Page 3
