Into the Storm d-1

by Taylor Anderson

  Before they cleared Surabaya, they’d taken aboard a rather motley assortment of passengers. First to arrive was an unkempt and harried-looking Australian, a Mr. Bradford, a construction engineer for Royal Dutch Shell. He introduced himself as a “naturalist,” but paid his passage by intervening on their behalf with the harbor officials, who didn’t want to fill their bunkers. They’d argued that the fuel would be better used by Dutch ships, staying to defend Java. Courtney Bradford countered with the fact that there was only one Dutch ship left, a destroyer, and she was getting the hell out just as fast as she could. Perhaps it was their lingering respect for a corporate superior, or maybe just the final realization that everything really was falling apart. Whatever the motivation, Walker left Surabaya with her bunkers overflowing.

  Next to come limping aboard was a sergeant from Houston’s Marine contingent. He’d been wounded by a bomb that had killed dozens and wrecked the old cruiser’s aft turret. Left ashore in a hospital with a lacerated leg, he missed her final sortie. He didn’t intend to become a guest of the Japanese. Upon his arrival, he was roundly scolded for bleeding on the deck and sent below to the surgeon.

  Finally, motoring out to catch them in a “borrowed” boat just as they were preparing to get under way were six Navy nurses and two P-40 pilots who’d escaped the sinking of the old Langley the day before. Langley had been ferrying P-40 fighters in for the defense of Java, but she was caught fifty miles short. Bombed into a smoldering wreck, she was abandoned, and one of Walker’s sisters, Edsall, was forced to finish her with two precious torpedoes. The majority of Langley’s personnel shipped south on the oiler Pecos, but in the confusion, the nurses and airmen were left behind. They persuaded the driver of a Dutch army truck to take them to Surabaya, and they arrived just in time to come aboard Walker.

  Matt hadn’t seen them. He’d been aboard Exeter conferring with Captain Gordon’s executive officer. When he returned, he was informed of the ship’s newest passengers by a leering Jim Ellis and a scandalized Lieutenant Brad “Spanky” McFarlane, the engineering officer, whose strict observance of Navy custom-if not always regulations-filled him with a terrible conviction that women on board would certainly doom the ship. That Army aviators accompanied them would probably send them to hell as well. Matt was inwardly amused by the diverse reactions, and it never occurred to him to set them ashore under the circumstances. He only wondered briefly where they’d be kept. Since then, he hadn’t seen them and they’d been forgotten.

  “What’s his name?”

  “The Army captain? Kaufman, sir.”

  “Very well, send him up, but by himself. And, Exec,” he added ominously, “we don’t need the distraction of women on my bridge. Clear?”

  Lieutenant Ellis grinned hugely and went to fetch their visitor. Matt stepped onto the bridgewing as the Air Corps captain clumsily appeared. He prepared to return the salute he expected, since they were technically out-of-doors. It didn’t come. His eyes narrowed slightly and the other members of the bridge crew exchanged shocked, knowing expressions.

  “Lieutenant Commander Reddy? I’m David Kaufman, Captain, U.S. Army Air Corps.”

  The man stuck out his hand and Matt took it briefly. His initial impression was that the lack of a salute and the use of his specific rank instead of the appropriate, if honorific, title of “Captain” were due to ignorance. A Navy lieutenant commander was equivalent to a major in the Army. But the emphasis Kaufman applied to his own rank warned Matt that his guest didn’t see it that way and might try to intimidate him if he could.

  “What can I do for you, Captain Kaufman?” he asked, placing emphasis on the “Captain” as well, but in a way he’d address a subordinate. Kaufman glanced at the hostile expressions of the seamen on the bridge and modified his tone. His next words were less condescending.

  “I just thought if there was anything I or Lieutenant Mallory might help you with, why, just let us know.” He smiled smugly, and the patronizing inflection returned as he spoke. He acted like he’d granted a favor.

  “What can you do?” Matt asked simply. “Besides fly airplanes. I assume you can fly airplanes.”

  Kaufman’s face reddened, and he realized he might have overstepped. “Yeah, I can fly airplanes,” he said with a quick, brittle smile. He held his hands out to his sides. “But I’m fresh out. You don’t have one I can borrow?” His attempted joke fell flat and he just shrugged. “I can fire a machine gun.”

  Matt turned to Garrett, observing the exchange with wide eyes. “Mr. Garrett, perhaps the captain and his lieutenant might assist your crews on the thirty-cals on the fire-control platform? If we come under air attack they’ll need to be supplied with ammunition.” He grimaced. “Since we lost most of our mess attendants when we left the Philippines, it’s hard to spare men for that chore.” He looked the aviator square in the eye. “Thanks for the offer. You’re dismissed.” With that, he turned and peered out the pilothouse windows at the number one gun down on the foredeck. He sensed Kaufman’s furious presence behind him for a few moments more, but with an audible sigh and a few muted chuckles, the rest of the watch relaxed and he knew Kaufman must have left. I shouldn’t have let him rile me, he scolded himself, but he made a quiet snort of amusement anyway. Then he spun-“Exec!”

  Ellis’s head popped back into view. “Skipper?”

  “Those women are nurses, you say?”

  Ellis leered again. “Absolutely.”

  Matt shook his head. “If they want to help, send them to Doc Stevens in the wardroom. And spread the word! They’ll be treated with respect. Any man who inflicts himself on them will go overboard for the Japs. Understood?”

  Ellis nodded, his leer now slightly wistful. “Sir.”

  “Very well. And, Exec?”

  “Sir?”

  “Keep them off my bridge.”

  Ellis slid down the ladder, firehouse style, and caught up with Kaufman, who was striding purposefully through the amidships deckhouse. His handsome, square-jawed face was clouded with anger. Ellis touched his sleeve and Kaufman spun. He recognized Ellis and forcibly composed his expression. He stood six inches taller than the burly exec, but Ellis was more muscular. A tolerant smile never left his face. Fitzhugh Gray strode up, adding his pudgy but powerful presence to the group. He handed each man a Coke, already opened, and slipped a church key onto the cap of the one in his own massive paw.

  In a service where everyone had multiple “names”-real name, nickname, and sometimes multiple titles-Gray had the most. He was the chief boatswain’s mate, and the highest-ranking NCO on the ship. Although he was technically subordinate to the most junior officers, only the captain and the exec would have dreamed of giving him an order. Time in grade, as well as personality, made him the “senior” chief aboard, and he was usually referred to as just “the Chief” by the crew. The other chiefs and officers often used the outdated but still honorific “the Bosun.” Only the captain or the exec ever used the respectful diminutive “Boats.”

  “Going to be another hot one,” Gray said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “’Course, if the goddamn Nips get us, I guess we’ll be swimmin’. Them that can swim. I think I’d rather be sweating than swimmin’. I guess you fighter jocks don’t give as much thought to swimmin’ as destroyermen do.” It was just a friendly jibe, but Kaufman was still annoyed by Gray’s earlier threat, and what he perceived as the captain’s humiliating treatment of him.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded hotly. Gray looked at Ellis and rolled his eyes. At that moment, Lieutenant Benjamin Mallory joined them. He was already drinking a Coke and he held it up.

  “How about this, Captain?” he said. “These destroyer pukes have a Coke machine! Far as I can tell, it’s the only thing that works.”

  Rebuffed by Kaufman, Gray began to bristle. Ellis recognized the lieutenant’s friendly banter, however, and turned to him. “That’s right, boy,” he said with a grin, “and if you airedales had done your job in the Philippine
s, we’d still be sitting fat and happy going up and down with the tide in Cavite. Nothing to worry about but keeping the Coke machine stocked while the yard-apes worked on these worn-out boilers.” He stomped his foot on the deck for emphasis, indicating the forward fireroom below.

  Mallory didn’t laugh. “I’m afraid you got me. I wasn’t there, of course, but I heard the fellows didn’t do so good.” Ellis saw Gray take a breath and prepare his tirade about the ineffectiveness of the Air Corps, a topic much discussed. The Japanese air cover and the American lack thereof had been an extremely sore subject since the war began. Ignored now, and glad to be, Kaufman strode away. Mallory started to follow, but Ellis stopped him.

  “By the way, Captain Kaufman asked if we could use a hand, and the captain said if you could keep the ammunition flowing to the machine guns it would help.”

  Mallory nodded thoughtfully. “Sure thing. Not much else we’d be good for on a ship. Show me where you keep the bullets and I’ll haul as many as you need.” He looked wryly at Ellis and gestured over his shoulder with his chin. “He didn’t like that much, did he?”

  Ellis smiled and shook his head. “No, son. I think he expected us to put him in charge.”

  The corner of Mallory’s mouth quirked upward. “Kaufman’s really not such a bad guy, but I guess he is sort of-” He caught himself and shrugged sheepishly. “I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  Ellis slapped him on the back, and the powerful blow nearly knocked Mallory into the Chief. “I know you will. Boats, have somebody show this man where we keep the bullets. I better get back where I belong.”

  Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker pushed aside the pea green curtain and led her entourage into the wardroom. She was petite, measuring only five foot three, and her long, sandy-brown hair was coiled tightly about her head. When it came down, it framed a face that may not have been classically beautiful, but was striking in a pretty, “girl next door” sort of way. Her large green eyes projected an impression of naive vulnerability, but anyone making that assumption would have been mistaken. At twenty-seven, she’d been a Navy nurse since ’35, and in that time she’d encountered every excuse, pickup line, real and imagined ailment, injury, and malingerer’s complaint possible in a bored but active peacetime Navy. She was smart, confident, and even tended toward an arrogant streak when in her realm of expertise. Her mild conceit was understandable, since she was an outstanding nurse and often made a better doctor than the doctors did. She’d assisted in a variety of surgical procedures and performed everything from appendectomies to amputations by herself, since many of her postings had been in remote areas where emergencies were handled on-site. When war loomed, she and her companions volunteered for the Philippines. She had friends there, and that was where she figured nurses would be needed. She knew she was good at her job and genuinely wanted to be where she could make the greatest contribution. That was why she’d become a nurse in the first place. Right now, although she was the highest-ranking officer in the wardroom, it became quickly obvious that she wasn’t in charge.

  The ship’s surgeon, “Doc” Stevens, was a tall, cadaverous man in his mid-forties. He and Pharmacist’s Mate 3rd Class Jamie Miller were sitting at the green-topped wardroom table with the Marine sergeant, Pete Alden, playing dominoes when Sandra entered with the five other nurses.

  The wardroom was the officers’ dining room, but it also served as a surgery when the ship went into battle. The long dining surface became an operating table, and a large light hung above it by a fixture that could be lowered near the patient. Except for the dominoes, all superfluous articles had been stowed, and various gleaming surgical instruments lay neatly arranged and ready at hand.

  The pharmacist’s mate looked to be just a boy, like most of the crewmen Sandra had seen, but the Marine was a large, well-muscled, and deeply tanned thirtysomething. He regarded the nurses with a frankly appraising eye. The imposing surgeon grimly played a domino and glanced at them as the nurses crowded through the opening.

  “I sort of expected to see you… ladies here.” His Massachusetts accent was strong and nasal. “I bet you nurses want to be nurses, right?” He shifted in his chair and rubbed his chin. “I never had a nurse before. Not counting Jamie here, of course. Tell me, Sergeant,” he said, addressing the Marine, “have you ever had a nurse?” Alden looked at him, astonished. The nurses were, after all, officers. Stevens shook his head. “Never mind, Sergeant. Of course you have. You’re a wounded hero, after all. I’m sure you had nurses all over you.” Sandra’s face clouded and she began to snap a reprimand. Doc Stevens’s look momentarily silenced her protest. “I know you’re officers and I’m just a lowly Warrant. I don’t give a damn. I know about you nurses; wouldn’t even give me the time of day if I came squirming into your nice, clean, modern hospital. Well, this is my hospital! If you want to stay here and help, that’s fine. There’ll probably be plenty to do. But if you want to give orders or get in the way, you can turn around, climb that ladder and go play dollies under the depth charges because I don’t need you.” He stopped long enough to smile at their expressions. “I’ve got Jamie. He makes a pretty good nurse, even if he looks dreadful in a dress.”

  Sandra’s eyes narrowed, and for an instant she hesitated. She’d faced this kind of attitude all her life and it was particularly pervasive in the military. Her father had perhaps been the worst, refusing to accept that she might do something with her life other than wait for “the right guy” to come along. His restrictions and expectations might have been couched more gently than Stevens’s, but they were no less corrosive and condescending. And wrong. She’d proven that. She straightened her back and forced a smile.

  “Surgeon’s Mate Stevens, is it not?” she asked, and her voice held an icy calm. Stevens arched an eyebrow, but jerked an aggressive nod.

  “Your captain asked that we report to you and that’s what we’ve done. I know this is your ‘hospital’ and I’m prepared to defer to you.” Her voice took on a dangerous edge. “But since you insist on wallowing in your ‘lowly Warrant’ status I’ll remind you I’m a LIEUTENANT in the United States Navy. My ensigns might not pull rank on you, but I SURE AS HELL WILL! You’re clearly not a gentleman, so I won’t appeal to you as one, but as a superior officer I insist you get up off your skinny ass and show the respect due my rank or by God, I’ll have you up on charges for insubordination!”

  Her voice had risen as she spoke, until her final exclamation was uttered as a roar that her small form seemed incapable of producing. Jamie Miller’s chair hit the deck as he rocketed to attention. Even the wounded Marine struggled to his feet, his face a study of embarrassment mingled with respect. Doc Stevens remained seated a few moments more, but finally he stood also, an expression of mocking insolence on his face. He threw an exaggerated salute.

  “Your orders, ma’am?” The question dripped sarcasm, but Sandra smiled in anticipation of his reaction. She looked at Jamie. “You!”

  “Pharmacist’s Mate Miller, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Miller, stow those dominoes and disinfect that table this instant. We could have casualties at any moment.” She looked at the blood-soaked bandage the Marine wore. “Are you even fit for duty?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Hmm. I doubt it, but we’ll see. We’ll have a look at that leg presently, circumstances permitting.”

  Stevens cleared his throat. “And what about me?” he demanded, surly. Sandra was sorely tempted to upbraid him again, but instead she smiled sweetly and indicated the rest of the nurses.

  “You, MISTER Stevens… will tell us what you want us to do next. This is your ‘hospital,’ after all.”

  Matt had already forgotten his encounter with Captain Kaufman. He had far more important concerns. A Morse-lamp message from Captain Gordon was composed of only three words: “Enemy in sight.” Exeter’s lookoutshad a higher vantage point than Rodriguez, but just a few moments later Garrett held his earpiece tight against his head and looked up.

&nbs
p; “Sir! Rodriguez sees them too. Still dead astern, but coming up fast. They must be making thirty-five knots!” He sounded incredulous. Matt nodded. Even without Exeter slowing them down, Walker couldn’t outrun them. Not anymore.

  “Very well, Mr. Garrett. Return to your station. Mr. Rogers?” he said to the first officer. “Relieve Rodriguez in the crow’s nest, if you please. If we can see them, they can hit us. Lieutenant Flowers”-he addressed the navigating officer-“take the conn.”

  Flowers spoke to the man holding the brightly polished wheel. “I relieve you, sir.”

  The seaman relinquished his post. “Mr. Flowers has the conn,” he responded and looked around, at a loss. Matt motioned for him to put on a headset.

  “Sound general quarters again. We’ve been at battle stations all morning, but somebody might be fooling around in the head.”

  The rhythmic, ill-sounding gong, gong, gong of the general alarm reverberated throughout the ship.

  In the aft fireroom, Brad “Spanky” McFarlane, the engineering officer, wiped sweat from his narrow face and shook it off his hand to join the black, slimy slurry on the deck plates. In the space containing the number three and four boilers, it was at least 130 degrees. He barely heard the sound of the alarm over the thundering blower and the roar of the burners as atomized fuel oil was consumed at a prodigious rate.

  “Gotta get back to the forward engine room. That’s the second time they’ve sounded GQ. Maybe they mean it this time.”

  Firemen Isak Reuben on the blower control and Gilbert Yager on the burner nodded, but paid him no further attention. They were both entirely focused on their tasks. Their two jobs, and that of the water tender, required careful concentration. Too much fuel and not enough air, and black smoke billowed from the stacks, earning an instant reprimand from the captain and the scorn of their fellow “snipes.” Not enough feed water in the lines, and white steam rose overhead. Too much water, not enough air and fuel, and water instead of steam sprayed into the turbines. That could damage the delicate blades. Isak and Gilbert were magicians at their jobs and the very best he had, but McFarlane didn’t know what to think of them otherwise. They were inseparable, but rarely talked to anyone else. They were both wiry, intense little men, and neither seemed to mind the hellish temperatures in which they worked. Even off duty, they lingered in the vicinity of their posts-which annoyed the men on watch. They never caused any trouble, but they didn’t make friends and they didn’t play on the ship’s baseball team. They just kept to themselves. The other snipes called them the White Mice, or just the Mice, because of their similar, almost rodent-like expressions and because they never went above deck if they could help it. Therefore, their otherwise perpetually sooty skins had an unhealthy pallor. The only explanation McFarlane ever got was that if they spent too much time in the “cool” air on deck, they’d lose their tolerance for the temperatures in the fireroom. McFarlane shrugged and stepped to the air lock. They were squirrels, sure enough, but they were his squirrels.