“Hold it!” Gray shouted through clenched teeth. “Hold that brace steady, goddammit!”
“We trying!” the damage-control ’Cats chorused. He knew they were. Other ’Cats darted around him, unhooking racks and tearing them out of the way, and the space was a hell of hammering, yelling, groaning noise; acid sweat that burned the eyes; and a heaving tide of water that flowed across the deck with the motion of the ship. All this was punctuated by the steady salvos of Walker’s guns, and the explosions of enemy projectiles striking the sea nearby. Shell handlers, mostly Lemurian, but a couple of men, kept up a supply relay through the confusion, bearing shells from the forward magazine, up the companionway, through the wardroom, and up to the number one gun. Gray took a huge, rancid breath and swung the maul with all his might. The gap nearly closed—but a rivet head shot across the compartment and grazed a ’Cat’s forearm, raising a fuzz of fur like a dandelion.
“Jeezus!” the Lemurian yelped and crossed himself.
Gray just stared for a moment, then shook his head. He looked back at the repair and saw the flow had dwindled to a gentle surge. “Here,” he said, handing the maul to a big ’Cat shipfitter. “Try to finish it up. But for God’s sake, be careful you don’t knock it out! Goddamn rivets! Spanky was right.”
Tabasco stuck his head down the companionway. “Tabby need help! Water coming in the forward fireroom! You not hear call?”
“No, I ‘not hear call’!” Gray shouted. The intercom speaker was sliding across the deck. Something had knocked it off the bulkhead. He called three Lemurians by their Navy names: “Dusty, Sleepy, Poot: Go help Tabby. I’m gonna run up and check on the repairs above, then head aft. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He ran up the companionway stairs, breathing hard despite his better condition. He was a touch over sixty, after all, and you didn’t run a lot on a ship. . . . The chief’s quarters had become a maze of twisted bulkheads and supports, dangling cables and conduits, and scattered personal belongings. Besides the dashing shell handlers, a few ’Cats were working there, electrician’s mates, he thought, but there wasn’t much else to do right now. The sea was visible through a gaping hole in the port side and there was no flooding—but water splashed in when the sea slapped against the bow. There was fresh air, however, and he paused a moment to take a breath. The wardroom curtain fluttered behind him, and he stepped through.
The first thing he saw was Sandra. She was standing beside the wardroom table with the light rigged low so she could see to sew. Sick-berth attendants and corps ’Cats were holding a large mound of flesh on the table while she worked. Earl Lanier had taken one in the gut again, and a large flap of his oversize belly had been laid open. Yellow fat and blood glistened. Wounded ’Cats were on the deck, lying on rack mattresses. Some were covered with bloody bandages, and others were just covered up. SBAs were moving a steady flow out of the wardroom—either to their racks or just out of the way. The ammunition relay did their best not to step on anyone, but they were exhausted and their passage caused an occasional cry.
“What’re you lookin’ at?” Earl demanded, surprising Gray. The cook was not only conscious, but was watching Sandra sew. He took a large gulp of seep from a brown bottle.
“Just admirin’ your armor belt, Earl. A battleship’s got nothin’ on you. I bet your belly would stop a torpedo.”
“Why don’t you get out there and fight, damn you!” Earl roared. “I’m a wounded hee-ro. You let those Jap bastards sink my Coke machine, you’ll be eatin’ scum weenies for the rest of your damn life!”
Machinist’s Mate Johnny Parks stirred from his mattress on the deck. He had a heavy bandage on his head and Gray noticed Diania was there, trying to hold the injured man down. She still looked terrible—and beautiful, he thought—and seemed to have gotten control of her stomach at last. Most of the SBA women had, he realized. Combat tended to focus one’s attention, he reflected.
“I’m with you, SB,” Johnny said. “I can’t listen to that fat bastard’s bellyachin’ anymore.” He grinned. “Not that he ain’t got a helluva belly ache!”
“You stay put!” Sandra ordered Parks. “Your skull may be fractured! Do you want your brains to fall out?”
Johnny laid back down. “I guess not. Gimme some cotton for my ears, at least.”
“No. You can’t sleep right now, and with all the seep you’ve had, you might drift off.”
“No chance o’ that, with that elephant’s ass carryin’ on so.”
“Why, you . . .”
“Hush!” Sandra ordered, and Lanier looked at her with bleary, almost-drunken eyes.
“Well . . . you want I should keep the lug awake or not?” Lanier complained.
Gray lurched through the crowded compartment, headed aft. Sandra stopped him. “How is it going?” she asked. “Is Matthew all right?”
Gray patted her arm. “Damned if I know.”
* * *
Hidoiame was difficult to see through her smokescreen, but she was visible, and Campeti continued punishing her with the numbers one, three, and four guns even as she slowly drew away. She was faster than Walker, and Matt wouldn’t strain his engines more than necessary in these seas and with the damage his ship had taken. Not yet. The enemy was still well within range. But so was Walker. Matt’s crew cheered again when there was a bright yellow flash and white smoke burst out of the distant black cloud. One of their guns had hit a boiler, no question about it. If that didn’t finish Hidoiame, it had to slow her down.
“By God! I think we do have her, Skipper!” the scarred, battle-hardened, First Lieutenant Norman Kutas shouted jubilantly. They were the last words he ever spoke.
A massive geyser erupted just to port, the spray reaching as high as the fire-control platform. A mere instant later, a 5-inch, 51-pound “common” projectile impacted Walker’s fo’c’sle at the very base of the bridge structure, and 4.1 pounds of Type 0 high explosive detonated. The force of the blast and shrapnel it created surged through the thin steel into officers’ country and slaughtered the wounded that had been placed there, every one. More high-velocity fragments slashed in all directions, perforating the hull and sweeping up through the radio room. Signals Lieutenant Ed Palmer’s chair saved his life, but he was dashed against the aft bulkhead like a rag doll. Everyone else in the compartment was killed instantly. Heavier fragments of the shell itself punched through the pilothouse deck, launching blizzards of strake splinters. A hot shard of ragged steel hit Norm Kutas under the jaw—and didn’t stop until it snatched the steel helmet off the top of his head. Norm fell to the deck without a sound—but there was plenty of screaming on the bridge.
For an instant, Matt thought he was the only person in the pilothouse to escape injury. He was stunned by the concussion, but the only thing he felt had been a terrible jolt in his feet and legs. There was no fire, thank God, but the air was full of brown smoke and drifting fur. Norm was down, he realized, and he took a step toward the vacant wheel. He felt the pain then. Something was wrong with his leg, and there was a hot poker in his lower abdomen. “Uhn,” he said through gritted teeth, and pressed his hand against his side. Suddenly, Minnie was up, and so were a few others. Minnie lunged for the bright brass wheel, straddling Norm’s still form.
“The helm don’t answer, Skipper!” Minnie cried when the wheel spun freely and the ship didn’t turn.
“Inform Mr. McFarlane he has the conn,” Matt managed. “I’m on my way there now.” He tried to turn, but had to grab his suddenly warped chair to keep from falling.
“Skipper?” Minnie cried. For the first time she saw the blood streak down Matt’s trouser leg and saw how much there was. She dashed for her headset dangling from the aft bulkhead. “Mr. McFarlane, you have the conn!” she cried. “Caap’n’s orders. Corps ’Cats to the bridge, on the double!”
* * *
Sandra’s worst nightmare had come true. Again. Once more, her love, her husband, was laid bleeding before her, and she didn’t know if she could save
him. Before, he’d been on a bloody canvas cot on the beach at Aryaal. Now he was on the green-linoleum wardroom table in the middle of a battle on a heavy sea. She had better equipment and help this time, but as she cut Matt’s sopping trousers away, she began to suspect this wound was much, much worse.
“How bad is it? Gray demanded. He’d raced to the bridge immediately after the explosion and carried the captain down himself. He wasn’t injured, but he wore just as much blood.
“I don’t know yet!” Sandra shouted in frustration. “Something went in his leg and there’s a lot of bleeding. It may have cut the femoral artery! The way he’s holding his lower abdomen, though, I’m afraid whatever it was didn’t stop in his leg!”
Matt was still conscious, but his face was pale. “Feels like something burning in my belly,” he confirmed; then he grabbed Gray’s sleeve. “Go, Boats,” he said. “Tell Spanky . . . get those murderous bastards! We can’t let them escape!”
“Skipper . . .”
“Go! That’s an order.”
With an anguished glance at Sandra, Gray bolted aft.
* * *
“No, goddammit!” Spanky stated firmly. His face was black and his beard was singed, and he looked as determined as Gray had ever seen him. A fire around the aft deckhouse was just coming under control as hoses played on the flames. “Japs hit a gas can for the ‘Nancys’ with a wild twenty-five, I guess,” he explained, seeing Gray’s stares. “You musta’ passed Boats Bashear coming aft. He damn near burned to death rollin’ all the depth charges before they blew the ass completely off the ship! I think he got hit by something too.” He shook his head. “We’re done here, Boats,”—he gestured at the column of smoke on the horizon, aft now—“and so are they. We got ’em, don’t you see? The Skipper already got ’em. Even if they don’t sink, and my guess is they will, they got no fuel and damn little ammo left. They are no longer a threat!” He stopped and hawked out the hard-used tobacco he’d been chewing.
“I’m exec. I’m in charge. It’s my decision,” he said. “I won’t waste another man or ’Cat like Bashear”— he jerked his head at Pack Rat—“him, or even you, to stomp a roach just ’cuz it’s still got one leg twitchin’. More important, I won’t risk this ship, what’s left of her, and I damn sure won’t risk the Skipper.” He crossed his arms. “We still got a lot bigger war to win, and he’s the one.” He turned to Paddy Rosen. “Reduce speed to one-third—or however she rides easiest. We’ll see. Our surgeon has some delicate work ahead of her, and so do our damage-control parties. Make your course one seven zero. We’re bound for Manila.”
“One seven zero to Manila, aye,” Rosen replied, his expression carefully neutral.
Gray let out a breath he must have been holding. “I had to pass the order, Spanky,” he said softly. “I . . . I’m glad you see it this way. The Skipper’s . . .”
“I know,” Spanky interrupted. “He’s special.” He scratched his bearded chin. “Hell, we’re all pretty scarce fellas. Now get back forward and find out what kind of blood the Skipper needs. That Jap can is finished. Let’s make sure Walker and Captain Reddy aren’t.”
Gray nodded. “What about the crew of that tanker? There might be survivors in boats.”
Spanky took another chew. “The hell with them. Our survivors got priority, and if gettin’ ’em to Manila soonest would save just one of ours, I’d leave a hundred o’ theirs behind any day.”
CHAPTER 28
Battle of Madras 1322
USNRS Salissa (CV-1)
Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar studied the oncoming monsters, their dark smoke standing high to leeward. Beyond the approaching columns of smoke was a more distant, grayer pall that marked what remained of Des-Div 4. He couldn’t grieve for them now, not yet. He had to concentrate. He realized furiously that ultimately, he’d made the same mistake as General Aalden: he’d split his force in the face of an underestimated foe. But his had been the greater failure because he’d had even less cause for confidence. His flyers had been telling him about the Grik ships all along, but he really had believed he still held the qualitative edge. Well, maybe he did in many ways, but not in a slugfest like Des-Div 4 had just endured. He would send no more frigates—DDs—against the enemy, but he must take Salissa into battle after all. She alone might still retain one qualitative—ironic—edge over Kurokawa’s malignant creations . . . the very weapons Kurokawa had once commanded. Keje knew the risk; his ship was not only indispensible to him, but also to the entire Alliance. Still, he had to try. If the enemy could not be stopped, all the troops on Saa-lon and Indiaa would be on their own, for a time, at least, and there was no telling how long they could hold without support.
“Range?” Keje called. The enemy had reassumed a column approach, and Keje’s telescope showed him that the line had rearranged itself. The lead ship had almost no damage forward.
“Fifty-two hundreds!”
“Very well,” Keje said. “The secondary baat-tery may commence firing!”
Salissa’s fifty muzzle-loading smoothbores were still considered her main battery. The big gun forward was simply “gun number one.” The secondaries were the 5.5-inchers, and they alone were tied into a salvaged Japanese gun director. Like Walker, Salissa also had a salvaged alarm bell for a salvo buzzer. It rang.
* * *
Captain Jis-Tikkar orbited high above the battle in his hard-used Nancy, leading the airworthy remnant of Arracca’s pursuit squadrons. He had only ten planes left. None had taken any fire on their bomb runs against the Grik, but two had been damaged by their own mortar-bomb fragments and he sent them to Madras. Two more had developed serious engine trouble, their overworked motors finally giving up, and he’d directed them to set down as close to what remained of Des-Div 4 as they could. He shuddered. The terrible sea was always full of monsters, but battles seemed to attract them somehow, like cannon fire drew rain from a heavy sky. The destroyermen had to be very busy, he knew. He understood that only one ship in Commodore Ellis’s battle line had escaped damage—but the three DDs that had remained to windward were racing in to help. . . . He told his OC to ask someone to pick up the Arracca flyers.
Below him now, the battle had reached a terrible climax. Five Grik battleships and a lone remaining armored frigate were plodding toward Salissa—as she steamed directly at them. The sight of the massive ships, the columns of smoke, the long, white wakes against the purple sea, was stirring but horrible. Salissa was a little larger than her foes, but as mighty as he knew her wooden sides to be, they were only wood—and she was all alone.
Two tall geysers erupted just in front of the lead Grik ship, and Tikker knew Salissa’s 5.5-inchers had opened up. That was one consolation, he thought; the Grik would have to get much closer to Salissa than they had to the DDs to seriously damage her—and she had those 5.5-inchers and that massive gun forward. If she could find a range where she could dish it out without taking too much . . .
“Cap-i-taan!” came an excited cry through his voice tube. “I just receive from Arracca COFO. He lead our other planes to Maa-draas—”
“Yeah? So?”
“He say Grik zeps, twenty plus, head this way! He . . . he can’t do nothin’! The pursuit ships already down, and his bomb planes . . .”
“I know,” Tikker said. “They’ve got nothing to shoot with, and they’ll be low on fuel!” He paused, considering, looking down. Salissa’s guns had scored a telling blow on the lead Grik ship. Smoke gushed out of the foremost part of the casemate, and the ship was heeling out of line. A stutter of broadside guns flared, but their shot fell short of Salissa. He took his left foot off the rudder pedal and caressed the.50-caliber Browning machine gun mounted in the Nancy’s nose with his toes. The 1st Pursuit had more machine guns, but besides being out of gas, they’d used most of their ammunition on strafing runs against the Grik behemoths. They didn’t have armor-piercing (AP) rounds, and their bullets had achieved nothing he could see. Only one other plane in this squadron had such a weapon. The re
st had muskets loaded with incendiary tracers, but the Grik zeps had teeth now too. He sighed. “Confirm that Ahd-mi-raal Keje got the word, then send to all planes: We will intercept enemy airships!”
USNRS Salissa
Salissa’s fifth salvo slashed into the crippled Grik battleship, and black smoke and steam jetted high in the sky above its two center funnels. Fire spurted from the tortured forward casemate where the wheelhouse likely was, and smoke started pouring out the gun ports spaced down the side of the ship. Abruptly, it lost speed and wallowed to a stop. We have punched through their armor! Keje realized with a thrill—but the next fresh Grik battleship was now steaming past the derelict and growing relentlessly closer. Three guns situated in the forward casemate fired one after the other, and Keje was sure he saw the monstrous roundshot rise out of the smoke on surprisingly high trajectories! Moments later, two of them struck Salissa.
The massive ship barely flinched. One ball glanced off the starboard bow below the leading edge of the flight deck, just beneath the number one gun, and the splash drenched its crew. That strike did no more than leave a long, deep dent in one of the thickest parts of Salissa’s hull. The other shot landed on the flight deck, however, plunging down through the relatively thin timbers and crashing through the hangar deck as well. Even as Captain Atlaan-Fas called for reports from the damage-control parties, the salvo bell rang and the 5.5s barked again.
“Have number one commence firing!” Keje ordered.
“The range is still long,” Atlaan warned, “and we have not many shells for the great gun!”
“We have enough for this fight, and it is more accurate than theirs,” Keje said, “which they are already hitting us with! Besides, if they hit it, we will not be able to use it at all! It is fairly exposed.”
Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen Page 41