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.
He cycled through the air lock into the forward engine room. He was shaped much like the Mice, and he barely had to squat to step through. The large compartment was filled by the big turbines and a maze of steam lines and conduits, but he moved among them with practiced ease to the enclosed intercom by the main throttle control. “Throttle manned and ready,” he said into the mouthpiece. The talker on the bridge acknowledged, and Spanky looked at the other throttlemen. They looked back with almost pathetically hopeful expressions. They were all so young, and the faith they placed in him and their “new” captain made him feel uncomfortable.
He wasn’t much of a poker player. He disliked games of chance. He felt at ease only when he was totally in control of everything it was his business to control. Right now his business was the engines, and cantankerous as they were, he could handle that. He couldn’t influence the outcome of anything beyond the confines of his engine room, and in a way he was glad. Deep inside, however, was a feeling like the one he hated whenever he did play poker: knowing that his destiny, or at least a portion of his pay, was at the mercy of the cardboard rectangle held carelessly in the dealer’s hand and knowing that luck alone would dictate how it affected him. He understood the sense of frustrated helplessness plaguing the young sailors nearby. It gnawed him too. But he couldn’t let it show- just as the captain couldn’t. All he could do was hope for an ace. Somehow, they’d drawn the right cards so far, in spite of their deficiencies, but the Japanese kept stacking the deck. He hoped Captain Reddy had some card tricks of his own, because that was what they’d need to survive this call.
Matt squinted ahead against the sun. It no longer streamed directly through the windows, but it was bright enough to make everything washed-out and fuzzy. Suddenly, exactly where he looked, two closely spaced geysers of spume erupted directly in their path, two hundred yards ahead. This was followed by the superfluous report of his talker that the enemy had opened fire. The columns of water thrown up by the eight-inch shells were at least as tall as the mast. Matt glanced at his watch and took note of the time. He was glad to see that his hand was steady. His carefully hidden anxiety of a few moments before had subsided now that the first shots had been fired. Large, grayish-brown clouds enveloped Exeter as her own eight-inch guns replied to the Japanese salvo. The overpressure of the report shook the pilothouse windows. The waiting was over, and Matt felt a surge of exhilaration edge out the anticipation even further. It was much like the baseball games of his youth, he reflected. He sometimes got so keyed up for a game that he felt physically sick. He didn’t know why, but he suspected he was afraid he would screw up somehow. He played third base, and in his mind’s eye he always saw himself missing the critical catch and thus allowing the other team to score the game-winning point. The idea of such humiliation was worse than enduring the real thing, and always, as soon as the first pitch was thrown, his nervousness was forgotten. He supposed this wasn’t a dissimilar context, although if he screwed up here much more than a game was at stake.
Exeter’s salvos came faster than Matt would have expected, and he noticed with a sense of admiration and vicarious pride that Captain Gordonhad replaced Exeter’s naval jack with an enormous battle flag, much like the little destroyer Electra had done in the Battle of the Java Sea when she charged the enemy fleet all alone. That action saved the crippled Exeter from destruction by forcing the enemy to maneuver to avoid Electra’s torpedoes, but the resulting fusillade of enemy shells obliterated the gallant destroyer. It was one of the bravest things Matt had ever seen, and he’d seen a lot of courage in the last few months. Unfortunately, he thought bitterly, most had been futile.
The enemy shells became more concentrated, and the great plumes erupted continuously around the veteran cruiser. The impacts seemed to have increased in number as well.
“Sir, Exeter has sent a radio message. I guess they don’t think we’ll see their Morse lamp through the splashes.” It was Petty Officer 1st Class Steve “Sparks” Riggs, the comm officer, who had scampered down from the fire-control platform above.
“What does she say?” asked Matt impatiently.
“Two more Jap ships, heavy cruisers at least, and three destroyers bearing two one five! The heavies have opened fire. Exeter says her fire control is out-no hits yet, it just quit. They’ve gone to local control of the main battery.” Matt’s sense of exhilaration turned to dread. Without her fire-control equipment, Exeter was nearly as helpless as her escorts. “Captain Gordon wants us to take formation with the other destroyers astern and make smoke.”
Matt nodded. “Acknowledge. Confirm Pope and Mahan received as well. Make the adjustment, Mr. Flowers,” he said, addressing the helmsman. “I’m going topside for a look. You have the deck.”
“I have the deck, aye, sir.”
Matt turned and climbed briskly up the ladder to the platform above. Now, except for the mast and the four slender funnels beyond it directly astern, he had a full 360-degree view of the panoramic drama of which Walker was, so far, such an insignificant part. Garrett stepped from the range-finder platform.
“More Japs, sir! They just popped out from behind that squall. Do you see? There!” He raised his long arm and pointed far astern, off the port quarter. “There’s more and more rain squalls,” he added hopefully. The deck tilted as Walker heeled into a sharp turn to starboard. The blowers lost their intensity briefly, as Flowers reduced speed to join Walker’s partners forming in Exeter’s wake. Off to the west-northwest, a number of indistinct ships were visible to the naked eye, not far from the coast of Borneo. That landmass appeared as a hazy smear, but it was actually closer than it seemed. The shoreline was obscured by the same squall that had concealed the Japanese ships.
“I see them, Mr. Garrett,” he said in what he hoped was a confident tone, but he felt like he’d pronounced their death sentence. There were now two distinct battle groups in pursuit and far above in those loitering planes he knew even more forces were being called. It would probably not be long before attack aircraft arrived as well. He leaned over the speaking tube. “Let’s make a little smoke, Mr. Flowers.”
Immediately, his orders were relayed to the torpedomen, who sprang to activate the smoke generators. At the same time, in the boiler rooms, the burner batters exchanged the sprayer plates to increase the flow of oil through the burners. Slowly at first, but building rapidly, a huge column of sooty black smoke gushed from the funnels and piled into the clear morning sky. It was joined by the smoke of the other three destroyers, rapidly creating an opaque wall between them and the enemy. The incoming fire began to slacken, and Matt stared aft at the huge cloud they were creating. It seemed to blot out the entire western horizon. Lieutenant Garrett glanced at him when he chuckled quietly. “I always get a hoot out of doing that.”
They continued east-southeast under a black pall. The enemy barrage was less accurate, but it didn’t stop. The cruisers were in direct radio contact with the spotting planes overhead, correcting their fire. The Allied squadron tried to zigzag subtly, to increase the correction error, but they couldn’t deviate much from a straight heading because the enemy was already faster and zigzagging slowed them down. All they could hope for was a squall of their own to hide in, to stretch the chase until dark. Then they might change course unnoticed and lose their pursuers. Matt had little hope of that. It was now only 1100. Whatever fate awaited them, it would certainly unfold before the sun went down.
Lieutenant Rogers’s excited voice screamed from Garrett’s headphones.“Surface target! Starboard quarter! Four Nip destroyers out of the smoke. God, they’re fast!” The ordnance strikers on the platform swung the gun director.
“Gun crews, load!” Garrett shouted into his mouthpiece.
“Fire on the nearest target as soon as you’re ready, Mr. Garrett,” Matt said, and stepped back to the speaking tube. He looked to see how the other destroyers, in line abreast, were maneuvering. “Conn, starboard ten degrees.”
At this speed, Walker’s range finder was useless because of vibration, but Garrett estimated the range to target. “Fire up-ladder. Range, nine five-double-oh!” The shouted commands came rapidly and Matt heard the tinny replies of the gun crews leak from Garrett’s earphones. He couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride in his crew as they went about their duties with calm, well-drilled precision. After the range, bearing, and apparent speed of the target were fed into it, the mechanical fire-control computer reached a solution.
“Surface action starboard. Match pointers!” Garrett instructed the three crews whose weapons would bear. He listened as they reported their readiness and looked at Matt. “The guns are ready, Captain.”
“Commence firing.”
