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.
“I’ll just run down and get some things and as soon as the boat returns, I’ll go.” He stood awkwardly for a moment, then thrust out his hand. “Take care, sir… Matt.”
Matt shook his hand and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “You too. Report as soon as you have a handle on what shape she’s in. Holler if you need help.”
Jim grinned. “Same here.” He looked around. “Even money who hollers first.” They both chuckled, and then Lieutenant Ellis stepped back a pace and saluted. Matt returned it and after Jim left the bridge he sighed and sat tiredly in his chair. “Pass the word for Mr. Dowden.”
The whaleboat returned and the coxswain, Tony Scott, was unhappy to learn he had another trip to make. He was strangely uneasy. The water didn’t seem quite right. He was wrung out, like everybody, and the weird experience of the squall had left him unnerved. But what had him on edge right now was how many things kept bumping into the boat. He was accustomed to the occasional thump of a fish, or a shark, but they were out in the middle of the ocean and things wouldn’t stop bumping his boat. It was constant. Nothing big had struck it, and occasionally he glimpsed a silvery swirl alongside, so he knew they were just fish. But why the hell were they bugging his boat? It was like the bright white bottom paint was attracting them. He shuddered with a premonition that it might draw other, larger things as well. Jim Ellis tossed down his seabag and swung over the side, descending by way of the metal rungs welded to the hull. As soon as Ellis was aboard, Scott advanced the throttle and steered for the other destroyer, hoping to make his second run as fast as he decently could.
“Skipper,” reported Sandison, “lookout sees something ‘screwy’ in the water, dead ahead, about two miles. Wait a minute! He thinks it’s a submarine!”
“What’s the status of the whaleboat?”
“Alongside,” supplied Riggs. ”They’re hoisting it aboard now.”
“Very well. Signal Palmer on Mahan we’re investigating a possible submarine. Sonar’s still out?”
“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Dowden, puffing up the ladder. “Jim, I mean, Mr. Ellis, had us working on it, but… We still might get it working if-”
“Just put it in your report.” More worn-out equipment.
“Sir, Mr. Garrett sees it too, and damned if it don’t look like a sub to him,” said Kutas. “He says there’s debris and people in the water around it. Might be a sub taking on survivors from that Nip can we sank.”
“The whaleboat?”
“Secure, sir,” said Riggs, standing on the port bridgewing, watching the work.
“Sound general quarters! All ahead full. Maybe we’ll catch ’em on the surface.”
Spanky was inspecting the damage in the forward fireroom. Eight bodies had been removed, and he shuddered at the memory of the scalded men. Men he knew. Machinist’s Mate 2nd Class Dean Laney and Dave Elden, shipfitter, trailed behind him with clipboards. Dwindling daylight seeped through the two holes made by the ten-inch shell, one on either side of the compartment. The boilers had escaped destruction, but steam lines and conduit were shredded.
“It’s a miracle it didn’t hit a boiler,” observed Laney. McFarlane grunted. “Yeah, but a wrecked boiler’d be the least of our concerns. It probably would’ve exploded if it had, and blown the bottom right out of the ship.” The other men nodded solemnly.
“Not much we can do right now, Spanky,” said Elden. “She needs yard time bad.”
“I know. Let’s see if we can get at least one back on line as a spare, though. I don’t like steaming on two boilers. ’Specially if one’s number four. I don’t trust it. Anyway, if either of the boilers in the aft fireroom craps out, we’ll be down to one, and we’ll be a sittin’ duck for the Japs.”
The general alarm shattered the relative quiet of the ravaged compartment.
“Jesus H. Christ!” groaned Laney when the grating beneath his feet tilted and the ship surged ahead. “Not again!”
“Didn’t they tell you?” McFarlane growled, as he hurried for the air lock. “There’s a war on.”
“Surface action, bow!” shouted Garrett over the comm. “Estimate range two two double oh. Target is stationary. Match pointers!” Most of the soot had washed away, but the back of his neck still hurt where the steam scalded him when the fireroom was hit. Fire control was still a mess, but it was back on line. He watched a dark shape, barely on the surface, like a flooded-down submarine, ease slowly through a group of men in the water. He didn’t feel good about firing on helpless men, even if they were the enemy, but he was about to give the order when a strange thought occurred. He leaned over the speaking tube without taking the binoculars from his eyes. “Skipper, something’s not right.”
Matt snatched the headset from his talker and spoke into it. “What do you mean?”
“Sir, something is screwy. The sub’s moving a little, but there’s no conning tower. And the men in the water seem to be trying to get away from it. I see splashing. There’re not many men, sir, just a few, but they look… upset.” For several moments, as they drew closer to the object, no one said anything. “Skipper…? Do you think it’s one of our boats? Maybe that’s why the Japs don’t want to get aboard. I’ve heard they won’t surrender.”
“I don’t think so, Greg. I’m looking at it too. It doesn’t look like any sub I ever saw. We have quite a few boats out here, but none look like that.”
Reynolds was in the crow’s nest and his voice suddenly crackled on the line. “Holy shit… Sir! That’s not a sub. It’s a great big stinkin’ fish!”
Garret blinked. He’d seen a submarine because he expected to see a submarine. As soon as Reynolds spoke, he realized the young seaman was right. “Jesus Christ! Skipper, it is a fish, or whale or something and it’s… I think it’s eating those Japs!”
“Commence firing!”
“Aye, aye, sir! Gun number one, range is now, ah, one four five oh! Match pointers! Commence firing!” He was so distracted by… whatever was swimming lazily about, snatching the struggling sailors, he didn’t press the salvo buzzer. The gun on the foredeck boomed, and a split second later, a geyser erupted a little beyond the target.
“Gun one, correction! Down sixty, three rounds, resume firing!” Three shells slammed out as fast as the breech was opened and another round loaded. A tight group of waterspouts erupted on and around the creature; a tinge of red intermingled with the spray. The thing heaved itself from the water and in the gathering gloom Garrett got an impression of a long, pointed flipper, like a right whale. But he also saw an elongated, tooth-studded snout like a crocodile’s, snapping viciously at the spume as the beast slapped back into the sea. Two more large flippers churned the surface and propelled the monster beneath the waves.
“God a’mighty.”
As they drew near the few remaining men, clinging desperately to floating debris, the surface of the sea churned again with hundreds of silvery shapes schooling around the survivors. Garrett watched in horror as the fish struck. They looked like tuna, but acted like piranha. They were close enough now he could hear the screams.
“All back two-thirds! Right ten degrees rudder!” Matt yelled. He leaned through the shattered window and shouted at the foredeck below. “Boats! Get those men out of the water!” He looked at Tolson and spoke in a more normal tone. “Rudder amidships. All stop. Keep them in our lee.” He looked down from the port bridgewing. The sea churned with a horrifying frenzy that brought to mind an old reel he’d once seen of a cow carcass thrown into the Amazon. He’d been fascinated as he watched the voracious fish reduce the carcass to a mere skeleton within moments. Now he fought to control his stomach as hundreds of much larger fish attacked the struggling Japanese in much the same fashion. What were they? He was no expert on marine life by any means, but he’d never seen such a thing. By the expressions on the faces of his men, neither had anyone else. Only Chief Gray seemed immune to the shock. He went about his assigned task with a single-mindedness that Matt could only envy, as though huge sea monsters and man-eating fish lurked in the water every day. Which they did, he supposed, but not like this.
In spite of Gray’s efficiency, before he could assemble a party to throw lines to the
survivors, there was no one left to save. A froth of flashing fins and teeth marked the spot where the final swimmer had disappeared. The rest of the swarm began to disperse or snatch tiny morsels drifting here and there. Alone upon the gently rolling sea, an overturned lifeboat bobbed with two forms precariously balanced. One seemed unconscious, and the other hovered over the first with a split and badly gnawed oar in his hands. He now regarded the destroyermen with inscrutable Asian eyes. His stoic face hadn’t changed expression since he had battled the carnivorous fish and the submarine-sized cross between a whale and a crocodile. We’re just different enemies, Matt thought. He turned and saw another face peering anxiously from the ladder, aft. This one belonged to the Australian engineer whom he’d only briefly met.
“May I, ah… come up there, sir, for a word?” Matt nodded, and the tall, portly man puffed to the top of the ladder. His sparse, graying hair was plastered to his skull with sweat, and he ran his left hand over it as if feeling for the hat he held in his right. Noticing that everyone on the bridge wore a hat or helmet, he plunked his back on his head. He glanced at the foredeck, where men were throwing lines to the enemy seaman on the boat and trying to convince him to take one.
“Oh, dear. Unimaginable. After what that Jappo’s been through, he still won’t surrender. I don’t suppose you have anyone who can speak to him? No, of course not.” Matt looked at him and quirked an eyebrow. He’d noticed before the man’s strange habit of answering his own questions.
“Actually, Mr. Bradford, we may surprise you. Quite a few old China hands aboard this ship. Some may have learned a few words.”
“Indeed?”
In the end, their translator was not a “China hand” but Lieutenant Mallory, the Army pilot with Captain Kaufman. He spoke a few terse phrases in what could have been Martian for all Matt knew, but the stubborn Japanese sailor finally let his oar slip into the sea and caught the rope. Matt looked up at Garrett. “Get some weapons to those men before they hoist those Japs aboard.” He raised his voice to be heard by the men on the deck below. “Where’d you learn Japanese, Mr. Mallory?”
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