Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen (40 page)

CHAPTER
25

////// March 25, 1944

USS
Walker

South China Sea

1142

T
he world was a cold, metallic, liquid gray, much as it had been for days, and the rough, disorganized swells still bared their jagged, windswept teeth. Most of the Lemurians on USS
Walker
moved slowly, with considerable determination, and even some of the old hands weren’t feeling too hot
.
They’d followed the slow-moving, raging storm as it thundered northwest across the Fil-pin Lands (old Luzon), until it veered north across Formosa on its way up the China coast and into the Yellow Sea. It had been a wild, bitter thing, not quite a Strakka, but certainly a respectable typhoon. Matt was no meteorologist, but the weather of this world still confused him. This should have been the tail end of the rainy season on swell-hidden Formosa, he thought, but it was too early in the year for typhoons. The experienced ’Cats on
Walker
weren’t surprised by the weather—even if the skinny, vigorously bucking ship gave them a hard time. Maybe
Walker
needed a Sky Priest “sailing master” of her own, at least as a weather weenie.

The worst had passed, leaving the old, groaning, complaining ship bounding reluctantly through the Luzon Strait. They’d deliberately made that passage in early daylight, with keen lookouts on the alert. The spray of little islands, north and south, had given Matt and Spanky the creeps. They still couldn’t get a proper fix on their position, but when the lookout high in the crow’s nest confirmed Formosa to the northeast, they knew they were in the clear. Matt never saw the island from the bridge, but it was just as well. If he had, in these seas, it would mean they were way too close.

Spanky clanked up the stairs aft and came on the bridge just a few moments before the bell at the base of the foremast was struck, indicating the afternoon watch change. Other men and ’Cats had already begun appearing, relieving those who’d been standing the morning watch. Spanky looked at the quartermaster’s log, then lurched toward the captain’s chair as the ship’s bow took a sudden plunge.

“I’m ready to relieve you, sir,” Spanky said a little anxiously. Matt had been standing far too many watches, in his view, or just hanging around the bridge too much, even when off duty. The news from everywhere had them all uptight, but Matt was letting his own impatience and frustration show a bit more than usual. The Skipper’s mood put everyone on edge, and Spanky knew Sandra was worried about her new husband. It was obvious he wanted to be where the action was, and Spanky sympathized. Particularly when their own mission was looking more and more like a wild goose chase.
Hidoiame
might be just a few miles away—or a thousand by now. Nothing had been able to fly for a week, and they had no recent reports of sightings. Of course, there was no way they could launch
Walker
’s own new Nancy either. The storm was leaving them at last, but they might as well have been groping in the dark with their hands tied behind them.

Matt yawned hugely. “Am I ever ready to be relieved!” he said, making Spanky smile. “How are things in engineering?” he asked, knowing Spanky would have checked personally before he reported for duty.

Spanky’s smile faded. “They’re keepin’ her together, but a week of heavy seas, as beat up as she was to start with, has kind of roughed her up. Tabby really wants to secure number four boiler, and it’s like a sauna down there. Loose steam all over the place.” He shook his head. “I never seen anything like it. Letts’s gasket is swell stuff, and there haven’t been any failures, but, well, if they were water lines, I’d say they were weeping. As it is, the couplings just seem to smoke, see? No jets, no gushers. Nothing has blown, but . . .” He shook his head. “It gives me the heebie-jeebies. The guys tighten ’em up and they quit for a while—but directly they start smokin’ again. It’s like the gaskets are too tough to blow, but as the creosote stuff in ’em starts breakin’ down, they get kind of permeable.”

“There hasn’t been anything like this reported on our other ships, has there?”

“No, sir, but we keep higher pressure, and we been doin’ it a
long
time. Maybe some of the industrial power plants have been running longer, but they’re in the open air and lose a lot of pressure at the piston packing. Hell, you know? I’ve never
asked
if they’ve ever had a failure. Maybe it happens all the time and they take it in stride—just cool her down and change the damn gasket!”

Matt tried a grin on for size. “If that’s so, it’s still better gasket material than we’ve ever had. At least it warns you when it’s time to replace it! Not many gaskets would have held up to as much steaming as we’ve done over the past few months.”

Spanky brightened. “I guess you’re right.”

Matt looked at him. There was something else; he could tell. “What’s eating you besides that?”

Spanky grunted, angry at himself. “Just those stupid rivets I signed off on. We’re starting to get water in the fuel bunkers, more than usual. That means loose rivets—or loose seams caused by loose rivets. Either way, it’s the damn rivets.”

“The ship’s been working hard,” Matt suggested.

“Sure, but it’s already about as bad as it was when we hightailed it out of Surabaya. It’s like the old gal’s face-lift fell in record time.”

Matt nodded grimly. “We’ve done a lot of fighting, Spanky, and taken a lot of hits. We did a lot of fighting after Surabaya, if you’ll recall. We’ll have her in the yard soon, one way or another. She’ll hold up.”

Spanky managed another grin. “Damn straight! Now why don’t you go get some sleep, Skipper?”

Matt yawned again. “I think I will, just on my little cot in the chart house.” He stood. “I stand relieved,” he said formally. “Commander McFarlane has the deck.”

Half an hour later, Sandra made her way up the stairs. She usually made an appearance after the midday casualties reported to the wardroom. There were always a few, especially when the sea was up. Cuts and scrapes mostly, but sometimes broken fingers and worse that the crew hadn’t reported to her mates. She had sick-berth attendants now to check on those confined to their racks.

Spanky happened to be looking aft to check if they were making smoke when he saw her. Her long hair was damp and escaping its ponytail, and her smile when she saw Spanky was radiant.
What a dame,
he thought. The contrast between the pretty woman and the rusty iron and roiling sea that filled the rest of his view was striking. After everything they’d been through, Sandra had been as much a rock for all the destroyermen as she’d been for the Skipper. Spanky had seen her as scared, stubborn, mad, or otherworldly calm as anybody in a fight—but he’d never seen her whine or really carry on much at all about the hand they’d been dealt. She’d made the most of things and saved countless lives.
She may have saved all of us, in a way,
Spanky thought,
by keepin’ the Skipper steady
. Now that she’d finally gotten her guy, he was happy for both of them.

Spanky nodded at the chart-house hatch, and Sandra hesitated. If Matt was asleep, she didn’t want to wake him. Her mission to the bridge was to order him to get some rest, after all. Spanky waved her in with a grin, and she nodded. Opening the hatch on the side of the chart house, she stepped inside. The hatch squeaked and the sound ’Cat stationed inside started to stand, but she motioned him back down. Matt was lying on a rumpled cot, his feet hanging off the end. His head rolled from side to side with the pitching of the ship, and he was fast asleep. Again, she was amazed by what he could sleep through—what all the old destroyermen could tune out. The hatch had been noisy, its hinges rusty, and her steps were loud, to her, as she moved to the chair beside the cot. The active pinging of the sonar sounded like a china-bell heartbeat in the earphones of the sound ’Cat, and the blower and cumulative machinery of the ship vibrated in the bulkheads, deck, and even the cot. Over all was the wild motion of the old destroyer, the booming sea against her plates, and the whistle of the wind around the rotten hatch seal. None of it bothered the tired man on the cot, but if the sounds changed, or there was an instant of silence, of all things, he could come instantly awake. She smiled and adjusted the damp pillow to still her husband’s head. He started to snore.

For a brief time, there in the pitching chart house, sitting by Matt’s sleeping side, Sandra felt a sense of happy normalcy. In the dim light of the porthole and sonar equipment, with a musty-smelling ’Cat sitting beside her in a compartment that stank of old sweat and mildew, she forgot their difficult task and greater responsibility. For a little while, Sandra was just a wife with a wifely concern for her exhausted husband, and Matt Reddy was just a man, taking a nap.

She jumped in her seat when the general quarters alarm gargled its insistent cry, and when she looked back at Matt, she saw his smiling green eyes.

“Good day, m’dear,” he said. “Help me with my shoes, wilya?”

“Of course, Matthew.”

* * * 

“What have we got?” Matt demanded before Minnie could announce him.

“Smoke, Skipper,” Spanky replied. “Sorry to bug you, but the lookout in the crow’s nest is pretty sure he seen smoke due north in the Formosa Strait.” Spanky scratched an ear. “Kid must have freaky-good eyes to spot gray smoke against all that gray out there, but I believe him.” He looked thoughtful. “I guess it could be one of our guys, but I don’t think so.”

“Me either,” Matt agreed. “All our steamers are supposed to have cleared the area.” He looked at Spanky with a predatory grin. “I think we’ve caught our Japs, Mr. McFarlane.”

Spanky nodded. “Looks like. Or they’ve caught
us
.”

Matt didn’t reply. He looked at the diminutive talker. “Ask the lookout if he could determine anything about range, course, and speed.”

“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan,” Minnie said in her small voice. She spoke into her microphone. “Nothing yet, Skipper. Jus’ smoke bearing tree fi oh. A blue-gray smear at angle to horizon.”

Matt rubbed his forehead above his eyes. “Very well. Let’s go have a look, Mr. McFarlane.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Helm, make your course three two zero. If they’re steaming southeast, we’ll have to meet ’em. Lee helm,” he said to the ’Cat on the engine-room telegraph. “All ahead two-thirds.”

“Making my course three two zero,” replied Chief Quartermaster Paddy Rosen.

“All ahead two-thirds,” announced the ’Cat as the engine room pointer advanced from STANDARD to match his TWO
-
THIRDS
,
and the old destroyer reluctantly surged against the sharply corrugated swells. Once, standard would have signified twenty knots, but it meant closer to fifteen now. Less, in these seas. Two-thirds
would
take
Walker
churning through the rough waves at a touch over twenty. Matt looked at his watch. “You still have the deck, Spanky. I’ll be back in half an hour. Call me when we get a positive ID, or if anything breaks.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper. Uh, you gonna get some more rest?”

Matt shook his head. “No, I think the surgeon and I will take a walk around the ship.” He looked at Sandra. “If you like?”

“Sure.”

“Okay,” said Spanky, “but use the damn hand ropes!” he warned. “The old gal’s still hoppin’ around like a ca—” He caught himself and looked around. “Like a rabbit on hot asphalt!”

The whole crew was still at general quarters, and Matt wanted to see them there. He couldn’t roam the ship as often as he liked, but he always tried to see his people at times like this. Everyone knew they’d seen
something
, and there wasn’t much doubt among the crew that it was the murderous Japanese. They’d all seen a lot of action now, but only about half the ship’s complement had faced a “modern” enemy, either aboard
Walker
or
Mahan
.
Amagi
had been infinitely larger and more powerful than their present quarry, but they had essentially mousetrapped the great battle cruiser. A lot went wrong and a lot went amazingly right, but they’d still sunk her almost by accident. Few retained any illusions that their upcoming fight would be a cakewalk. Even the newest hands no longer believed
Walker
was invincible. She’d taken too much damage from relatively primitive enemies to think that way anymore. And if anyone forgot how fragile she really was, she reminded them herself with her groans and rattles, her deep, painful shudders, and the running rust sores the long voyage had given her.

Matt knew enough about
Hidoiame
to fear her; he’d seen earlier versions of her Kagero class. He was pretty sure they’d fought some on their run out of Surabaya. They’d been faster and more heavily armed than
Walker
even then. He knew from what the crazy cook had told Okada that this specimen had only two twin five-inch mounts instead of three; one forward and one aft, but an augmented battery of 25 mm guns like the two mounts
Walker
had taken from
Amagi
had been added. Apparently, surface actions had grown less common in that other war, and clusters of twenty-fives were better against aircraft. Enough of those things could shred his ship by themselves, despite what Spanky or the Bosun thought of the weapons individually. Campeti had grown to like them—and if he liked them, they were bad news.