Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen (44 page)

* * * 

“Up two hundred, right ten degrees!” Sonny Campeti shouted. The new tracers were more orange than red, but he could see them—two had actually passed uncomfortably close to his left—and they converged beautifully. He’d even seen the reasonably tight group of splashes through his binoculars. The rain was tapering off, but
Walker
still didn’t have a range finder. Her old one had been a piece of junk
before
it was shot to pieces, and nothing had been built to replace it. Campeti was very good at estimating ranges, however, almost as good at Greg Garrett.
That kid’s an artist,
Campeti thought. “Match pointers!” he yelled.

* * * 

Three salvos had arced away toward the distant tanker when Palmer rang the bridge. “Captain speaking,” Matt said when the phone was handed to him.

“Skipper!” came Ed Palmer’s excited voice. “I got Japs jabbering like mad, and somebody with a little English is begging us to stop shooting!” The ship shook as another three-gun salvo flashed. Splashes rose near
Walker
again, but off to starboard this time.

“Well who the hell is it? The tin can is shooting at us, and we haven’t even started on her yet. Must be the tanker.”

“I think so, Captain. I can barely understand—”

The horizon flashed pinkish red through the wet windows, and a yellow-white glare ensued. There were cheers on the bridge and Matt even heard yelling from the number one gun down on the fo’c’sle. Stites’s voice was particularly clear.

“Ah . . .” said Palmer. “The hollering just quit.”

“Guess it
was
the tanker,” Matt said simply. “Thanks for the report, Mr. Palmer. Carry on.” He handed the phone back. “Have Mr. Campeti target the enemy destroyer,” he told Minnie, and stepped out on the port bridgewing.
Hidoiame
was clear in his binoculars now, steaming almost directly at them.
She’s a strange-looking duck,
he thought. Her bow curved up and forward like a clipper ship, and her superstructure was high and blocky. So far, only her forward two guns would bear, and they were enclosed within a large, odd-looking turret on her fo’c’sle. As he watched, the two guns flashed.

“Captain, it’s Palmer again!”

Matt stepped back inside and took the phone.

“Skipper? I . . . I got the Jap destroyer captain on the horn. He’s asking to talk to you!”

Matt blinked. “Pipe it up,” he said. A big splash erupted close alongside, and there was a crash aft as a fifty-pound shell skated off a wave top and hit the forward funnel sideways, nearly shearing it in two. Another splash exploded close to starboard, and shell fragments whined and peppered the hull. Three guns boomed, following closely on the salvo alarm, and hot orange streaks converged on the enemy destroyer. They exploded short, sending a wall of spray and white smoke gushing over the distant ship.

“Up fifty!” came Campeti’s excited roar. “Load! Three rounds, rapid salvo fire!”

Walker
was in a gunfight for her life, and Matt was about to talk to the bad guy.

“This is Captain Reddy of USS
Walker
speaking,” he said calmly into the mouthpiece. “Do you wish to reconsider my offer?”

“I am Captain Kurita, of his Imperial Japanese Majesty’s ship
Hidoiame
,” crackled the harsh, heavily accented reply. It always surprised Matt how many Japanese naval officers spoke some English. Then again, they’d had to for a long time. . . . “Surrender,” Kurita spat the word, “will not happen. True warriors of the Emperor gladly prefer death to such dishonor. Besides, as you have made clear, there is no . . . incentive for myself and certain others of my crew to do so, in any case,” the Japanese captain continued. “What we did was considered a necessary expedient at the time. We might not have done it had we known then. . . . Regardless, there will be no surrender. You are no
cruiser
,” Kurita accused. “Your ship is a relic, an antique! You should beg
me
to spare
you
!”

Two very near misses straddled
Walker,
and Matt nearly lost his footing when the deck heaved. “Range nine t’ousands,” Minnie reported. The enemy begins to turn to starboard!”
Walker
bucked as another salvo lashed out. Matt glanced down at the fo’c’sle and saw Stites directing the deadly dance of the crew of the number one gun. A shell handler snatched the empty brass casing with gloved hands and another slammed a long, heavy, shiny shell into the smoking breech Stites held open.

“Not a chance in hell,” Matt barked, “and you have no choice. Your tanker is afire and you have nowhere to replenish. Everywhere you
think
you might do so is well protected. Even if we don’t sink your murdering ass, you’re about to be stuck, out of ammo, out of fuel, and out of luck—wallowing helplessly until you end up on some strange shore and tear your guts out on a reef!” He laughed fiercely. His blood was up. “And if any of your people get ashore, they’ll be lucky to survive long enough for something to eat them. You have
no place
to go!”

Kurita was no longer listening. He’d broken the connection, and Matt slammed the instrument in its cradle on the bulkhead.

The fight became a drawn-out duel, both ships sprinting and turning to spoil the other’s aim, while closing in an ever-tightening embrace. At six thousand yards, 25 mm occasionally tested the range and sometimes clattered against steel. The sea remained heavy, the wind strong, and in the distance, the burning tanker cast an eerie glow on wet gray paint and dull whitecaps. Now that
Hidoiame
’s aft turret would bear, both ships started landing heavy blows on one another like lightweight boxers in a slugfest without any rules.
Hidoiame
had better speed and firepower—four guns to only three on
Walker
that would ever bear at once—but the old destroyer’s better, more experienced gunnery was starting to eat her up. Fires burned all over
Hidoiame
, and a lot of her 25 mm batteries had been shot away. The aft funnel was gone and smoke coursed from a spectacular hole low in the large bridge structure. Other hits had been observed along her hull.

Matt also had no illusions about what his ship could take, and not only did he have a lot more practice at . . . bizarre surface actions than his opponent, but he’d been baptized by fires much heavier than
Hidoiame
could dish out. He’d learned his ship like his own hand, and he controlled that hand like a surgeon.

Walker
was taking a beating of her own, however, mostly from that aft turret on
Hidoiame
. The forward turret hadn’t landed many hits. Maybe it was damaged. Still,
Walker
was trailing an oil slick from near-miss buckled plates, and high-explosive shells had made a shambles of her starboard 25 mm mount. A heavy hit amidships had cut off the guns on the platform above the deckhouse from the gun director. They were in local control now, but still getting occasional hits. A blow behind the deckhouse would have taken out the number two torpedo mount if it had still been there. As it was, it buckled the deck and nearly blew the aft funnel off the ship. The fireroom beneath it started losing pressure. Another hit shredded the chief’s quarters and sent the number one gun’s crew sprawling before Stites rounded them up and pushed the half-stunned ’Cats back to their posts.
That one came awful close to the wardroom,
Matt thought anxiously. Gray was down there now, somewhere in the bow, trying to stop the flooding.

Cheers and stamping feet rocked
Walker
when
Hidoiame
’s forward turret erupted like a fireworks show spraying from a volcano. Matt knew the turret was designed to blow
up
, not
out
, so there might be little internal damage, but the turret was down for the count—and
Hidoiame
suddenly turned away and started making smoke!

“We’ve got her!” Matt breathed.

“Target course is t’ree two seero!” Minnie cried, then paused, listening to reports. “Flooding in forward fireroom! Tabby says it coming from forward—she think the bulkhead’s sprung! She shoring up now. Super Bosun says we taking lots of water forward!”

“What’re we gonna do, Skipper?” Kutas asked. “They’re running.”

“Chase ’em!” Matt growled. “Make your course three zero zero. We’ll give the number three gun on the starboard side a chance.”

Norm nodded. He’d known the answer before he asked. “Making my course three zero zero,” he confirmed. The salvo warning rang, but the guns waited while the ship changed course. When she steadied up on the new heading, the bell rang again and the guns flashed.

* * * 

Chief Gray swung the heavy maul against a wooden wedge, trying to force a shoring timber against a sprung hull plate low in the forward crew’s berthing space. Damage from the hit above, in the chief’s quarters, had radiated outward, and he hoped—he prayed—it ended at this plate. The gap was right at the waterline, and the sea sprayed in around the seam with varying pressure, like blood from a terrible wound, as the bow rose and fell.

“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.