Destroyermen

With fuel, they might still save her. What haunted him more, however, was his battle with priorities, and his growing uncertainty over whether Mahan topped the list.

Intensely aware of each other's presence, Matt and Sandra strolled quietly and companionably in the direction of the pier. When they reached it, the dock was empty, but it hadn't been for long. A launch burbled slowly to the ship, filled with destroyermen in various states of animation. They were required to report aboard by 0100, and none were to remain ashore overnight. Dowden had gathered a few sober men and formed a "flying" shore patrol and was already sending those who'd become too rowdy back to the ship. He'd make sure they were all rounded up.

They stopped near the cleat where the Mice had been sitting, and Matt remembered to keep his distance. He still wore his sole surviving "dress" uniform. Some men in the launch began a song, and because of Sandra's presence, he cringed when he recognized it. The words carried over the water even above the boat's loud motor—it was plain the men were far more interested in volume than quality. The loudest voice sounded suspiciously like Lieutenant McFarlane:

The boys out in the trenches
Have got a lot to say
Of the hardships and the sorrows
That come the soldier's way.
But we destroyer sailors
Would like their company
On a couple of trips in our skinny ships
When we put out to sea!

"Nice night," Matt said, lamely trying to distract Sandra from the chorus, but it was no use. It was the men's favorite part and they always belted it out.

Oh, it's roll and toss
And pound and pitch
And creak and groan, you son of a bitch!
Oh, boy, it's a hell of a life on a destroyer!

Matt glanced at Sandra, expecting to see her cover her mouth with her hand in shock or something, but instead she grinned.

Oh, Holy Mike, you ought to see
How it feels to roll through each degree.
The goddamn ships were never meant for sea!
You carry guns, torpedoes, and ash-cans in a bunch,
But the only time you're sure to fire
Is when you shoot your lunch!
Your food it is the Navy bean,
You hunt the slimy submarine.
It's a son-of-a-bitch of a life on a destroy—er!

Sandra did cover her mouth now, giggling. The boat was nearing the ship. There was no moon and in spite of her new, lighter shade, they only vaguely made out Walker's form in the darkness. She seemed forlorn out there with no lights, and moored away from the dock like an outcast. The song's last verse reached them with less vigor, as if the singers sensed the mood of loneliness as they came alongside. Or maybe now, after all they'd been through with the old four-stacker, they were less inclined to hurt her feelings. The last verse was more somber anyway.

We've heard of muddy dug-outs,
Of shell holes filled with slime,
Of cootie hunts and other things
That fill a soldier's time.
But believe me, boys, that's nothing,
To what it's like at sea,
When the barometer drops
And the clinometer hops
And the wind blows dismally.

"They're fine men, Captain Reddy. Your crew," Sandra said softly.

"Yes, they are." He sighed. "And that makes it even harder."

"What? Using them up?"

He looked at her, surprised, but nodded. "Yeah, and that's what I'm doing. I've gotten them into a war I know nothing about." He shook his head. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not feeling sorry for myself. I know there wasn't a choice. We haven't had a choice since we went through the Squall.

I'm not even complaining about that. However inconvenient it's made our lives, it saved us. It's just . . ." He couldn't tell her how he felt. Especially couldn't tell her about the doubts and nightmares and guilt he felt over Mahan. He'd made so many mistakes! And he definitely couldn't tell her how he felt about her. He changed the subject.

"You came out on the old Langley, right?" She nodded. The Langley was America's first real aircraft carrier. She'd been built on a merchant's hull and had a goofy flight deck erected above the superstructure, earning her the nickname Covered Wagon. By modern standards, she looked very strange and was too small and slow to be considered a real carrier anymore, even before the war. She'd been transporting P-40s to Java when Japanese planes hammered her. She was helpless under the assault, and it was the most terrified Sandra had ever been—up to that time.

"We'd been on sweeps off Bawean Island, looking for the Jap invasion fleet for Java when we heard about Langley," he said. "We were heading to Surabaya to refuel when Doorman turned us around." Matt's voice became a quiet monotone as he stared across the water at Walker's silhouette. "The Japs were off Bawean. We'd just missed them. We took off so fast, Pope couldn't catch us." He grimaced. "Not that it made any difference. As soon as we cleared the mines, we came under air attack again and there was nothing we could do but take it. We had a total of eight fighters left, and the Dutch were saving them to use against the invasion as it landed." He snorted. "Eight planes weren't going to stop the invasion force, but they might've helped us find it, and kept the Jap planes off our backs." He was silent for several moments before he continued. Sandra waited patiently, quietly.

"The Jap screen for the invasion convoy wasn't much heavier than us, for once, but we had no air cover at all. The Japs corrected their fire with spotting planes throughout the battle. It was a hell of a thing to see, though. Cruisers aren't battleships, but even cruisers look damned impressive steaming parallel, blasting away at each other. Of course all we could do was watch." He took a deep, bitter breath. "Exeter got hit, and a few minutes later, Kortenaer took one of those big Jap torpedoes. She just blew up. Edwards was right on her tail and had to swerve. By the time we went past, she was upside down, folded in half. We didn't see anybody in the water.

"Electra, one of the Brit destroyers, made a torpedo attack alone, to distract the Japs from finishing Exeter. She was flying the biggest flag I ever saw . . ." Taking off his hat, he passed his hand over his head and stared at the lights on the water, remembering. "I guess every Jap ship in the line concentrated on her. All we saw was waterspouts, then steam and smoke . . . then nothing." He shook his head with sad amazement. "It was getting dark and I guess Doorman'd had enough. We charged in and launched torpedoes while the cruisers turned away, but nobody got a single hit."

He shrugged. "We did break the Jap formation, though, and Doorman got away. You got to give him credit for guts. As soon as we gave them the slip, Doorman went looking for the transports again. We didn't. We were out of torpedoes and nearly out of fuel, and our engines were finished after running thirty knots all through the fight. Binford ordered us back to Surabaya."

The launch's engine could be heard again as it shoved off to return to the dock and await another load.

"Doorman wasn't an idiot. I didn't like the way they put him in charge, but his biggest problem was he never knew what he was up against, never knew what he was facing or even where the enemy was. Now I know how he must've felt. We don't know what we're facing either, and like I said when we first helped Big Sal . . ." He stopped and looked at her. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad we did! These people, Keje, Adar, Chack, even Nakja-Mur, they're good people. They've helped us and deserve our help in return. I just didn't feel right getting the men involved in a war we know nothing about. The Grik are bad news, maybe even worse than the Japs.