Into the Storm (8 page)

Sandison shook his head. “Radio’s out of whack, sir. Radioman Clancy just reported there hasn’t been a peep since we entered the squall. Before that there were lots of distant distress calls, merchant ships mostly, under attack and begging for escorts.” He cleared his throat. “Just static now. Something probably came unplugged.”

Matt took a breath. “Casualties?”

“Don’t know yet, sir, but . . . a lot.”

The captain removed his hat and ran fingers through sweat-matted hair. “Torpedoes?”

The ensign shook his head guiltily. “No sir. Just the ones in the three mount, and with everything that’s been . . . I’m sorry, sir, I just don’t know.”

“Very well. Secure from general quarters. There’s too many men just standing around with so much work to do. But keep the crews on the guns and a sharp lookout. See if we can get some hot food into these guys.” He stifled a jaw-racking yawn that wasn’t quite an act. “And I need more coffee. Also, as soon as Lieutenant Ellis is able, have him report to the bridge.” He paused and added in a softer tone, “Ask the Bosun to detail some men to bring Mr. Rogers down.”

The rain continued and Matt yearned to be under way, making as much distance as they could under cover. There was no way of knowing
Mahan
’s fate. They’d taken as much pressure off her as they could, but he didn’t know what to think about how that turned out. Evidently
Walker
had returned to help
Mahan
while she was making a suicide charge to let
them
get clear. Hopefully, the confusion saved them both. But even if
Mahan
had made it, she would be in bad shape. Maybe even sinking. Then again, she could be miles away by now. Either way, there was nothing he could do for her.
Amagi
was badly hit, that much he knew. How badly was anybody’s guess. Enough to retire? Hopefully. Enough to sink? That would grant his fondest wish. But whether
Amagi
swam or not made little difference, because the other cruisers were still coming. He didn’t think they would give up, not when they still had spotter planes to guide them. They couldn’t be far away.

When
Walker
regained steam pressure, she must press on. All they could do was pray that
Mahan
had escaped. Matt suddenly wondered if the other destroyer had experienced the same phenomenon
Walker
had. He shuddered, and glanced quickly around the gloomy pilothouse. He didn’t think anyone else had seen what he had, and he couldn’t completely banish the suspicion that he’d been teetering on the brink of madness. It had to have been a hallucination, brought on by exhaustion and the stress of combat. The motionless raindrops were certainly explainable, he assured himself. They’d passed into the most intense squall he’d ever seen. Squalls were by nature extremely unstable. Who knew what sort of strange winds might exist within one? Sudden gusts that could capsize a ship weren’t unheard of. Why not some freakish updraft? His nervous fingers tried to reshape his sodden hat. That still didn’t explain what he’d seen when he looked over the side. Nothing could explain that. It couldn’t have happened—must not have happened.

“Skipper, Mr. Garrett says the squall’s passing.”

The volume of rain had diminished and it was perceptively lighter. Matt stirred and turned to see a woman’s face peering at him fearfully from the ladder at the back of the quarterdeck. All that was visible was her rain-drenched hair, head, and shoulders. Her big brown eyes widened in surprise when they met his and her mouth formed an O of alarm. The white of her uniform blouse was stained and sooty, her cheek smeared with grease and blood where she must have wiped it with her hand. Immediately, and without a word, she raised a shiny coffee urn and placed it on the deck. She gave it a tentative shove in his direction as if it were an offering to a terrible god and then vanished down the ladder.

“Coffee’s here,” he muttered, then blinked and shook his head. He moved from his chair and was surprised his legs supported him. “Get Spanky on the horn. I want those engines
now
!”

They were fully exposed to the midafternoon sunlight by the time they had steam to move, and then only with the starboard engine. The water beneath the fantail churned and foamed as the screw began to turn. The deck vibrated horribly and pieces of broken glass fell from the empty window frames. The pressure was rising on number four, and soon Ensign Tolson, who’d replaced Bob Flowers, wouldn’t have to fight the unbalanced thrust of a single screw. The squall still raged astern, but it was dissipating. They all expected the menacing forms of Japanese cruisers to emerge at any moment, and every eye watched the sky for spotting planes or bombers. If only they hadn’t lost the boilers, they’d have been long gone by now.

Jim Ellis was on the bridge. There was blood and soot on his uniform, and his eyes were puffy and swollen. His customary ebullience was tempered by the horror he’d seen, and he spoke in a soft, somber tone. “The ship’s a wreck, Skipper. Just about everything topside is shot to hell. We’re in better shape below, if you can believe it, but we’re still taking water, and the faster we move, the more we’ll take. Hell, most of the water’s coming in through holes above the waterline. Waves slopping in.” He sighed. “You know, my granddaddy was at Manila Bay. His brother was at Santiago Bay. He always said there’d be days like this, only he always made it sound more fun.”

Matt nodded wearily. “Dad was on a can just like this in the North Atlantic, during the last war. They chased a few subs, but they never saw anything like this. Somehow I think his stories may have been closer to the mark. He didn’t have fun. I can’t imagine many things more miserable than one of these four-stackers in the North Atlantic. At least I couldn’t until the last couple of months.” He paused. “And today, of course. Especially today.”

They’d been talking quietly, but Matt glanced around the bridge to ensure that no one could hear before lowering his voice still further. “What did you think of our . . . experience, right after we entered the squall?”

Jim looked at him with a hesitant frown. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it, and his expression seemed to accuse Matt of breaking some unspoken compact by even mentioning it. “Yeah, well, that was different,” he managed at last. “I’m, ah, thinkin’ it was an updraft or something.”

Matt nodded agreement. “Me too. In fact, that’s how I’ll instruct Mr. Tolson to enter it in the log. But . . . did you ever happen to look over the side?”

Lieutenant Ellis pulled back, as if recoiling from a slap. The look on his face was sufficient to confirm he had indeed seen the same thing as the captain, and Matt’s guts twisted.

“Just a little,” Jim whispered.

Matt glanced around again. “How many of the crew, do you think, might’ve seen it?”

“Not many. Hell, probably none. They were pretty busy at the time. Then with the screwy raindrops . . . I figure most everybody was looking up.”

Matt massaged his temples. “Damn. I only asked because I hoped you’d confirm my suspicions that I
didn’t
see anything.” He took a deep breath. “Well, whatever it was, it’s over now. We’re back in the real world where all we have to worry about are the Japs.”

The corner of Jim’s mouth twitched. “Yes, sir, but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll . . .”

He was interrupted by Quartermaster’s Mate 2nd Class Norman Kutas, who’d replaced Sandison as the talker. “Mr. Garrett reports surface target, bearing one seven zero! Range five five double oh!”

They rushed to the starboard bridgewing and brought up their binoculars. A dark form was taking shape behind them as the squall dispersed. It was bows-on and listing to port. Smoke poured from amidships and slanted downwind. Even at this range, tiny figures were visible on the foredeck, wrestling with a fire hose.

“Oh, my God, Skipper,” breathed Jim. “It’s
Mahan!”

 

Walker
made a wide, slow turn to avoid having more water pour through her perforated sides. Once pointed at her sister, she sprinted to her. Everyone was at least secretly terrified by the prospect of turning back. But one man dressed in dark khaki, standing on the foredeck, silently cursed the ill luck that showed them
Mahan.
If they hadn’t seen her, hadn’t known she was there, they could have continued on. That would have salved his conscience—not seeing her—even if he knew she was there. But there she was, in obvious distress and at the moment with no enemy in sight. He fumed. Of course that upstart on the bridge would risk all their lives. He’d been safer in Surabaya! And the way he’d been treated was an outrage! He was an officer, by God, a fighter pilot! And to be forced to perform manual labor—and be physically threatened to do so—alongside common sailors was beyond the pale. Heads would roll for this, he decided. He had friends and he’d remember. Now if they could just
go
! But there was
Mahan
, damn it. They were all going to die for the sake of a ship that was already doomed. He shoved an empty shell casing savagely over the side with his shoe.

What Captain Kaufman didn’t realize was that most of the destroyermen on DD-163 wouldn’t have cared if
Amagi
still stood between them and their sister. They hadn’t expected to last this long, and the deck was stacked against them whether they went back or ran away. They might as well die doing the right thing.

They ran down on
Mahan
and hove to upwind. Jim Ellis took the conn and kept
Walker
poised forty yards off the other destroyer’s beam. Matt went on the bridgewing with a speaking trumpet and stared at the other ship. She looked doomed. She was low by the bow and her forward superstructure was a shattered wreck. Smoke gushed from the ventilation hatches above the aft fireroom and men directed hoses into them. More smoke still wisped from the first two funnels, so the forward fireroom must be okay, but her aft deckhouse and auxiliary conn were wrecked, so her only means of maneuvering was still the exposed steering cables. The number four funnel was gone, probably rolled over the side to clear the deck, and the searchlight tower had fallen across the number one torpedo mount, crumpling the tubes. Men on the amidships deckhouse manned the guns, but everyone else seemed too busy trying to save their ship to even talk to Matt.

He glanced at the sun, nearing the horizon, and he willed it to move faster. He looked up at Lieutenant Garrett’s disheveled, blackened form on the platform above, and the younger man returned his glance with one of confusion. The squall had finally spent itself and all the lookouts were tense and alert, but so far there was nothing. Matt wasn’t about to complain, but he couldn’t believe the Japanese had simply given up. Even if the cruisers had turned away, the aircraft would have continued to search. Of course, some were carrier planes. Maybe they were low on fuel, or didn’t want to land at night. The spotting planes might have returned to their ships as well. He frowned. Even so, they’d mauled
Amagi
badly—at least he hoped they had. He thought two of
Mahan
’s torpedoes had struck her at the end. She at least should still be near, unless she’d continued on at full speed, and he didn’t know how she could have unless she was even tougher and faster than he thought. Maybe she sank. Now that was a happy thought.

All these considerations came in an instant, just before he turned back to
Mahan
and raised the speaking trumpet.

“Is your fire under control?” The trumpet projected his tinny voice across the intervening distance. “Will our hoses help? Can you steam? Where’s Captain Atkinson?” He thought he already knew the answer to his final question. A bedraggled form moved to the rail. It might have been the same man who had helped coordinate their charge, but it was impossible to be sure. The man cupped his hands and shouted.

“I’m Lieutenant Brister. Engineering. Captain Atkinson’s dead. The whole bridge crew’s dead or badly wounded. I think we’ve about got the fire licked and we can steam, but I had to use the men on the steering detail for damage control. If you can spare some men, I think we can get under way.”

The entire bridge crew? “Who’s in command?”

“I guess I am, sir.”

 

“Lieutenant Brister’s a fine officer,” commented Matt as he and Ellis watched the whaleboat motor across the short distance between the ships. They’d sent half a dozen seamen under Bosun’s Mate 1st Class Francis “Frankie” Steele, of the second deck division, as well as Signalman Ed Palmer, with one of the portable Morse lamps. None of
Mahan
’s lamps had survived the destruction of her bridge and auxiliary conn. At least now they’d be able to communicate.

Jim nodded. “Yes, sir. He deserves a commendation for keeping his ship afloat, not to mention fighting her so well. He’s gonna have his hands full, though.”

“Yeah, he’s not a navigator or a bridge officer. I hate to lose you, but maybe you better go across and assume command.”

Jim frowned. “Well, sure, if you say so, Skipper, but we’ve got damage of our own.”

Matt waved away his objection. “Lieutenant Dowden can handle it. He knows what to do, and the men like him. Besides, he’s the assistant damage control and repair officer. With Richard dead, it’s his job.” He looked at Ellis with a sad smile. “Go on, Jim.
Mahan
needs you. We have to get her under way as soon as possible, and if anybody can speed that up, it’s you.”

Jim quietly watched several ratings sweeping and mopping debris. “Aye, aye, sir. I guess I just hate to leave the old girl in such a shape.” He smiled wryly and looked at
Mahan
. “I never expected my first command to be the best ship in the Navy, but this is ridiculous.” Matt barked an unexpected laugh at how closely his exec’s thoughts mirrored his own when he first assumed command of
Walker
. Of course,
Mahan
was in worse shape than
Walker
, and
Walker
had taken a terrible beating. Comparatively speaking, Jim had more right to complain.