The TBS, or talk-between-ships, radio blared out a question from Admiral Lee himself: “J. B. King: What are you doing?”
Sluff grabbed the radio handset, but the transmit light didn’t come on when he pressed the talk button. He dropped the handset into his chair just as the Walke blew up from a magazine explosion, showering the front of the formation with pieces of the ship and a million body parts and again lighting up the night. King’s guns reached out to starboard and rejoined the gunfight as the OOD adjusted course and speed to position the ship in Washington’s tumultuous wake. Compared to the volcanic blasts from Washington just ahead, King’s guns seemed puny. Sluff stared in horror through the front portholes. Washington was still firing, but now her great guns were pointed up at a slightly higher angle, as if she was seeking out a target miles away. Then the South Dakota came back into the fight, firing intermittently, but now she was alight with fires in her superstructure and all along her main decks. Only her forward guns appeared to be firing, and then suddenly she heeled to starboard and lurched out of the battle line, or what was left of it. Only Washington plowed ahead, punishing the night with her main battery of nine sixteen-inch guns.
Sluff scanned the horizon to the north of them, but he really couldn’t see anything because of all the gun flashes. He made sure the OOD had slowed down so King wouldn’t run up the battlewagon’s stern. The dark gray behemoth continued to send mountainous salvos northwest into the night, still regular as clockwork, the thump of her great guns almost strong enough to hurt his ears. Behind them the three stricken destroyers, two still burning and one already gone, disappeared into the gloom of the night haze. Then King’s guns stopped firing.
“Bridge, Gun Control, no targets in range,” the gun boss called over the bitch-box.
“Bridge, aye. Combat, what are the Japs doing?”
“Radar shows two groups to the west of Savo, one turning west, the other coming on. The second group has a really big one, but it’s out of range for us.”
As he watched Washington’s guns blasting into the night, he realized that the big one was probably a Jap battleship and Washington intended to kill it. He stared out into the heavy night, but the big guys were duking it out at ranges beyond the night visibility and there was nothing to be seen. He felt useless: his job was to screen the battleship, but the gunfight going on now was way out of J. B. King’s league. He was only grateful to have avoided the carnage that had erupted in the van of the formation, the one he’d bailed out on.
Survivors. That was something King could do. There had to be survivors from that deadly harvest of the Long Lances. Please God.
“Combat, Bridge, do you have a position for the point where our other tin cans got hit?”
“Wait one.” Then: “Affirmative, we have it on the plot.”
“Take us there,” Sluff ordered. “There’ll be people in the water.”
“Captain, radar shows there’s a Jap line formation coming down from east of Savo. Looks like destroyers. We go back there, they’ll be on us.”
“Then set up a torpedo solution on that line. We’re going back.”
“Combat, aye.”
Sluff ordered the OOD to haul out from behind Washington along her unengaged side and then accelerate to thirty-four knots, leaving the battleship to its long-range duel, and headed back along his own wake to intercept the point where the destroyers behind him had been shredded by the Jap torpedo swarm. He was headed east now, back toward the heart of Ironbottom Sound.
“Bridge, Combat, enemy formation at twenty-four thousand yards, coming straight down towards Cape Esperance. Looks like four DDs.”
“If they’re on a steady course, set up both torpedo mounts to fire right down their column axis, once they get close enough. Tell Gun Control not to shoot until I say so.”
“Combat, aye.”
Sluff was thinking fast. He had to keep his guns quiet right now, because the approaching Japs would see King’s gun flashes and he’d probably never get back to rescue the desperate survivors ahead. The night was dark enough and wet enough that he stood a good chance of remaining invisible. Once the torpedo solution crystallized, he’d launch ten torpedoes right at the approaching Jap column. Once they began to hit, then he’d let his gunners go to work while the Japs tried to figure out what was happening.
Wait: If he started shooting, they’d still see him, even if they were dealing with torpedoes. So: No. Don’t fire. Tear ’em up with his tin fish but keep heading east. Plus, there was a dividend to his maneuvers: Those four Jap tin cans were a distinct threat to Washington. A torpedo attack on them would be the one contribution King could make to protect the big guy. He looked aft: Where the hell was the Washington?
“Where’s the Washington?” he asked Combat.
“Headed southwest now,” the exec replied. “Looks like she’s getting out of Dodge. We’re on our own.”
“Any sign of South Dakota?”
“That’s a negative. She left earlier.”
The relative wind was back up again as King headed east at maximum speed. Down below in CIC the torpedo plot was being refined. Up on the bridge it was still hot and dark, and there was nothing to do but wait to see if his gamble would work. The big guys had left the field. Now it was down to J. B. King to blunt the oncoming attack and then see if they could rescue anyone from the earlier disaster.
“Range to probable survivor area is eight thousand yards,” Combat reported. “Range to Jap column is eighteen thousand yards. Recommend slowing to twenty knots for torpedo release.”
Sluff immediately gave the order. He’d forgotten: The torpedoes would go off the port side almost perpendicular to the ship’s movement. At thirty-six knots they’d be knocked silly by hitting the water that was rushing by, sideways, at nearly forty-two miles an hour. Even at twenty knots, they’d experience a lot of dynamic stress.
“Tell Gun Control we will not fire. Let the torpedoes do their work, but we need to get away. If they keep coming and see us, then we’ll fight.”
“Combat concurs, Combat, aye.”
The TBS speakers blurted out a garbled signal. Ching Lee was probably looking for his lone surviving destroyer, Sluff thought, but he wasn’t waiting around to make sure we were still operational. Wise move, though. Battleships fought other battleships. Jap destroyers with their Long Lances could overwhelm a battleship like a swarm of army ants could overwhelm a jungle pig. Or a lone destroyer. He wondered why he could hear his boss’s queries but not respond. If we make it through this, he thought, there will be plenty of time for queries.
“Bridge, Torpedo Control: Range is twelve thousand yards. Recommend launch at ten thousand yards with this closing geometry.”
“Let ’em go when you think it’s time, Control,” Sluff said. “Report when they’re all swimming.”
“Torpedo Control, aye.”
One minute later he heard the five tubes behind the bridge whooshing their lethal missiles north into the black night. Five more tubes back aft were also punching out their sleek, black loads.
“Bridge, Torpedo Control, all fish away, appear to be hot, straight, and normal.”
“Right standard rudder,” Sluff ordered. “Steady one eight zero. All ahead flank, turns for thirty-four knots.” Then he called Combat. “I’m making a major course change in case they’ve also launched. Keep track of where the survivors might be and let’s see what happens.”
“Combat, aye. Teatime in three minutes.”
Teatime: actually, T time, when their torpedoes ought to intercept their targets. The ship accelerated as only a tin can could, digging in and thrusting forward in an all-out effort to outrun any Long Lances that might be coming for them. Almost all of the ships hit in the past few months by a Long Lance had been hit in the bows, meaning the Japs always led their targets, assuming they’d maintain course and speed. Turning ninety degrees and running like hell was a pretty good defense. Especially since their best friends in the neighborhood, the battle
ships, had long since opted for discretion over valor.
No: Wait. The Long Lance could do fifty-five knots. He didn’t have time to do the math, but those fish could possibly overtake the J. B. King, even doing thirty-four knots, if they’d been fired early enough. Turn farther. “Right standard rudder, come right to two two zero,” he ordered.
Then he waited while the ship steadied up heading southwest. His eyes felt like they had sand in them. He realized he was getting really tired. “Bosun’s Mate: I need coffee.”
“Coffee, aye,” the bosun answered, and then disappeared. There was no eating, drinking, or smoking allowed at general quarters. Bosun’s mates, however, always knew where there was coffee. In this case, he climbed the ladders up to the signal bridge, where the signalmen kept a discreet brewer going in the signal shack, hidden under a desk. He was back in three minutes with a cup of oily, black, and definitely aged Navy coffee. Sluff took a sip and tried not to gag.
“Thanks, Boats,” he said, his eyes no longer sandy. Just what he needed.
“Teatime in sixty seconds,” Combat called over the bitch-box. “This should work—they’re still coming. Recommend coming back to the east, though, or we’re gonna beach her on Guadalcanal.”
Sluff acknowledged and ordered the ship to swing back to the east, finally aware that he’d totally lost track of where the ship actually was in relation to land. He ordered twenty-seven knots to reduce the strain on the main engineering plant. At thirty-six knots, all the machinery would be going Bendix. If anything broke down below, they could lose all power until the snipes regained control.
He went out onto the port bridge wing and stared north into the gloom. He was hoping for a Fourth of July fireworks show.
It was teatime, so where was the sound and light show?
Goddammit! Ten torpedoes, and—nothing?
And then, there, a distant red flare in the night. Then a second one. And then a real crowd-pleaser, a ball of white-yellow-red fire that expanded rapidly even as it dimmed in intensity. He heard the bridge crew grunting out cheers back in the pilothouse as a distant rumble washed over the ship. He stepped back inside and went to the bitch-box.
“Combat, we hit something, maybe even two of ’em. Gimme a course back to the initial datum on the survivors. I think the Japs are busy right now.”
“Bridge, Combat, come to course zero eight five to regain track.”
Sluff snapped the talk switch twice to acknowledge and then gave the orders, slowing the ship down to twenty knots to give the navigators time to catch up with the plot. He also didn’t want to come thundering through the oil-covered clumps of sailors that should be out there, some four miles ahead.
At a thousand yards short of the projected datum he slowed down to bare steerageway and set the rescue detail. He kept the guns manned in case the Japs recovered from their surprise and came looking for them. There were no more fireworks up by Savo Island and the night remained black as ever. The radar wasn’t much help because of all the rainsqualls near the island. Up on the bow the rescue crew was setting up lookouts and rope netting. Sluff ordered the signal bridge to put red filters on the signal searchlights and then to train them out to beacon any survivors.
They found and heard nothing for the first twenty minutes of creeping along in the darkness. Then came the sudden acrid stink of fuel oil, followed by some faint cries out in the water. He stopped the ship and let her drift into the oil slick, which soon produced calls from the signal bridge that they could see men in the water.
“Where are we?” Sluff asked.
“We’re ten miles northeast of Cape Esperance,” the officer of the deck replied. “Good water, no contacts on the radar.”
“How far from Lunga Point?”
“Eighteen miles, sir.”
“Okay.” He reached for the bitch-box switch. “Combat, Captain, contact Henderson Field on one of those Marine field radios they gave us. Let ’em know we’re out here and ask them to get some Mike boats ready to take off survivors.”
“Combat, aye,” the exec replied. “We’ve lost radar contact with Washington. Believe she and South Dakota have gone south.”
“Okay. Could you see what the Japs were doing when our fish got in on them?”
“Their formation broke up, but then a bunch of rain clobbered the screen. We can’t see much of anything to the north except Savo itself.”
“Keep an eye on that area, XO,” Sluff said. “Don’t want whoever’s left up there to come south looking for a little revenge.”
“They’re not going to linger, Cap’n,” Bob said. “They have to get out of there before first light or the Marine dive-bombers will be on them like stink on shit. I think we’re safe right now, unless they have a sub out here.”
One of the bridge phone-talkers reported that the deck apes had several survivors alongside but that they needed more people on deck to help them out of the water because of all the fuel oil. Sluff ordered the ship to secure from general quarters except for two gun mounts and their magazine crews. Everyone else was to get topside to assist getting people out of the water.
By dawn J. B. King’s decks were literally covered in oil-soaked survivors from the three lost destroyers. The little battery-operated field radio had worked and the Marines at Henderson Field had sent out five landing craft to begin transferring the badly wounded to the field hospital at the airfield. Sluff realized that King would have to get closer to Lunga Point if they were going to get this many people off by the end of the day. The sad pile of body bags on the stern grew steadily. A stream of fighters and bombers flew overhead all morning, headed out into the area of last night’s battle, looking for Japs. At ten thirty the daily Jap air raid appeared, but the Marine fighters were ready and none of the bogeys even got close to J. B. King, which was fortunate, because she was in no position to defend herself. Sluff remained on the bridge all morning, directing the ship’s movements as more and more survivors were sighted.
At noon, the exec came topside and reported that they had long-haul communications back up. Sluff told him to get a message out to the big base at Nouméa, info copy to CTF 64 on the Washington, that they had engaged a four-ship Jap formation with torpedoes and were now picking up survivors of the three tin cans. The exec dictated the message to Radio Central, and then took over so that Sluff could get below, clean up, and get something to eat. The entire ship reeked of fuel oil, and the ship’s doctor and his two corpsmen were scrambling to attend to all the wounded. A radio messenger caught up with Sluff in his cabin and handed over an urgent message from the task force commander of the previous evening, Rear Admiral Lee, which had been sent to Halsey. Sluff frowned when he read it.
Washington and South Dakota were headed back to their carrier group, which was then 150 miles south of Guadalcanal. Lee reported that his force had engaged and sunk a Jap battleship and at least one destroyer, that South Dakota had extensive damage, and that he believed three of his own destroyers had been sunk. The fourth, J. B. King, had departed formation when the action began, present whereabouts and status unknown.
Sluff swore. That made it sound like J. B. King had bugged out when the shooting started, which, technically, he had. As he was changing clothes, the ship’s doctor showed up, his uniform covered in equal amounts of fuel oil and blood. He told Sluff that Henderson Field couldn’t take all the wounded and that they needed to get to Tulagi or even Nouméa if they were going to save the worst cases.
“What’s the count, Doc?” Sluff asked, as he buttoned a fresh uniform shirt.
“We have over four hundred on board, and there’s still some more people in the water, although the Mike boats are fishing them out. Twenty-five have died since being hauled aboard. Another eighty to a hundred are serious burn cases. Henderson’s field hospital is out of room, and I don’t know what they can handle at Tulagi.”
“Okay, let’s get as many of the able-bodied ashore on the ’Canal as the Mike boats can carry. Then we’ll head for Tulagi, and af
ter that, Nouméa. I’ll remind you it’s six hundred miles away.”
The doc sighed, obviously very tired. “Can we go fast, Skipper?”
“Yes, we can, Doc,” Sluff said. “At twenty-seven knots we’ll be there in the morning.”
“I thought we could do thirty-six,” the doc said.
“We can, but that takes four boilers. Twenty-seven takes only two, and that’s the best we can do without running out of gas. I’ll try to get some fuel in Tulagi.”
The doc ran his fingers through his hair, spreading even more oil, and then nodded. “Sorry, sir, I shouldn’t have—”
“Forget it, Doc,” Sluff said. “Here’s a suggestion: Keep some of the able-bodied survivors—chiefs, preferably—on board. Add ’em to your medical teams. That way you guys can get some rest, too.”
The doc nodded, and then smiled. His teeth were unnaturally white against the black oil smudges covering his cheeks. “Of course,” he said. “I should have thought of that.”
“Don’t let it happen again, Doc,” Sluff said, with a grin of his own. “Now, turn to and quit screwing off.”
Once the doc left, Sluff completed dressing and then sat down on the bunk-couch. Big mistake, he thought, as he sat back and relaxed for the first time in almost twelve hours. I should get back topside, he told himself. Okay, maybe five minutes, and then he’d go back up to the bridge. He could hear the shouts and efforts of his people fishing survivors out of the water all along both sides of the ship, as well as the diesel roar of the Mike boat engines as they backed and filled alongside.
He looked at his watch. Almost ten. They’d have to get going pretty soon. He thought about the track back to the base in the New Hebrides Islands. Right through what everybody called Torpedo Alley, where Jap subs lay in wait for a chance to sink something in the endless convoys of transports that were keeping the Marines alive on the ’Canal.
J. B. King left the formation when the engagement began? Someone senior would want to talk about that when they got back to Nouméa. He was glad he’d done it, that maneuver, but he might no longer be in command in a few days.
The Commodore Page 5
