That was what the captain came to talk about, to tell him to discard nothing that might have any conceivable use. So Spanky detailed some men to sort the scrap pile they’d started and find the most worthless junk. Then he checked it himself to make sure he couldn’t think of any use for it either. Only then was it passed on-a piece of Walker-to accompany her dead sons. He snorted ironically. At least a few of the men went down with the customary projectile, even if they’d been Jap shells pried from Walker’s hull. He was glad the Skipper was starting to think about the long haul, though. He’d seemed kind of overwhelmed the night before- and that was before they saw the ship. His speech helped a lot, and it came at just the right time. Spanky suspected the Skipper needed to hear the words just as bad as the crew did.
The sun dipped below the horizon and it began to grow dark. At least the day hadn’t been all bad, he reflected proudly. He didn’t know what difference the strange creatures on the big ship might make, but after the shock wore off, the fascination and speculation among the crew had done much to take their minds off their troubles. Also, they’d managed to get the number two boiler back on line. There was no hope for number one. The concussion had broken most of the firebricks. Besides, the lines and seals were shot, and he’d cannibalized it to revive number two.
He heard Silva’s booming laugh and couldn’t help but smile. It took more than a funeral and a battle and being transported to another world to get the big gunner’s mate down. He could find humor in anything. For a moment, Spanky listened to the conversation. He couldn’t help himself.
“I say they was more like monkeys than cats. Did you see them tails?” argued Tom Felts. “We ought’a call ’em monkey-cats!”
“Cats have tails too, you idiot,” countered Paul Stites. “And their faces looked more like cats. Besides, ‘cat-monkeys’ sounds better.”
“What do you think, Marvaney?” asked Felts of their friend, who stood by the rail above Spanky. Mack Marvaney only shrugged and stared into their wake. Felts started to ask again, but Silva rapped him on the shoulder with his knuckles and shook his head. Mack had a Filipino wife in Cavite. It was bad enough when they’d left the place to the Japs, but now… he was taking it hard.
“I have decided,” Silva announced in a lofty tone that usually brooked no argument. “We’ll call ’em monkey-cats!”
Stites, grateful that Silva had kept him from pestering their suffering friend, rounded. “Hell, Dennis, that’s what the snipes are callin’ ’em! We can’t let that stand!”
“The snipes are callin’ ’em monkey-cats?” asked Silva darkly. “Those bastards didn’t even see ’em. They were all creepin’ around belowdecks the whole time we were there. Hidin’, I bet! Critters could’a looked like three-legged hippos for all they know.” He brooded in silence for a while, then stepped next to Marvaney to spit over the rail. He glanced at him, then turned to face the others. “I have decided!” he repeated grandly. “From this point on, they’re cat-monkeys! We discovered ’em. We’ll call ’em what we want!”
Spanky shook his head, then sucked the rest of the cigarette to the tips of his fingers and flicked the butt into the sea. By tomorrow the whole crew would be locked in the “cat-monkey-cat” debate. Still smiling, he patted one of the empty torpedo tubes. Even with only three boilers, this tired, shot-up ship that he hated and loved so much was probably the fastest thing in the world, if all it had to offer was big lumbering tubs like they’d seen that morning. “There’s humor for you.”
For the next day and a half, Walker steamed east, searching for Mahan. The other destroyer hadn’t had much head start and she wouldn’t be making full steam. They should have caught her in a few hours, but so far there wasn’t a trace. Everyone was worried, not only because of her damage but because she represented the only other thing in this very strange world that was familiar. That was as it should be. Besides, some of their own shipmates were aboard her.
Captain Reddy wearily climbed the ladder and returned to his chair. He waved the men back to their duties at the warning: “Captain on the bridge!” He hadn’t been gone fifteen minutes. A rising tension knotted his chest, and though he thought he hid it well, his concern over Mahan was making him almost ill. He had a terrible choice to make.
The windows had been replaced, and once again he could look at the sea ahead without the wind stinging his eyes. Larry Dowden had the watch, but Matt couldn’t stay off the bridge. He knew it looked bad, like he didn’t trust Larry, but he’d hardly left at all except to go to the head.
“Report?”
“No contact, Skipper.”
Matt nodded and resumed his silent brooding. They should have seen her. The weather was fine, the sky clear. The northeast tip of Alor Island was sharp and defined ten miles off the starboard beam. They’d reached the rally point. It had been agreed that they would meet here, or if Walker didn’t make it Mahan would cut northeast around Wetar and drive south between Timor and Moa Island. Walker had cruised at twenty knots, but Matt was certain Jim wouldn’t have pushed Mahan so hard. Even if he somehow beat them here, he would have lingered, and should have been visible on such a clear day. That left only the inescapable conclusion that she hadn’t come this far. They must have passed her somehow, maybe in the dark, but she must be behind them. Unless something had happened to her.
That thought haunted him. It was his order that sent her away and led to this wasteful chase. He couldn’t have known separation was unnecessary, but that did little to console him. Now the specter that haunted all destroyermen could no longer be avoided. Walker’s fuel bunkers were down by a third. He had no choice. He spoke with a heavy heart.
“Mr. Dowden, bring the ship about. Reduce speed to one-third.”
Larry sighed. He knew how painful the order was. He wasn’t sure he could have made it. Maybe the other ship really was behind them, but it felt too much like giving up.
“Aye, aye, sir. Helm, come left to a heading of two eight zero.”
Matt stood and looked at his watch. “Pass the word, Mr. Dowden. All officers in the wardroom at 1630.” He paused. “Better see that our ‘guest’ is moved elsewhere.” He turned to leave the bridge but stopped. “I take that back. Have Sergeant Alden escort the enemy officer to the meeting.” Dowden’s eyebrows rose. “Also, ask Mr. Bradford if he’d be kind enough to join us.”
“Aye, sir.”
Cigarette smoke swirled and eddied in the breeze from the open port-holes. The shell holes had finally been patched. Captain Reddy sat in his chair at the “head” of the table, all his surviving officers ranged down either side. The table was crowded, with representatives from each division. Larry Dowden, Chief Gray, Rick Tolson, Bernard Sandison, and PO Riggs sat on his left. On his right were Sandra Tucker, Spanky, Mr. Bradford, Garrett, and Lieutenant (j.g.) Alan Letts, the supply officer. The chair at the far end of the table was unoccupied. When Sergeant Alden escorted the Japanese officer into the compartment and seated him there, a hushed silence fell on the group.
Tamatsu sat with dignity, eyes fixed upon the captain. Alden leaned against the bulkhead behind his prisoner until Juan brought him a chair. He thanked the little Filipino and sat, his leg out in front of him. The room was charged with an electric hostility, and all eyes were on the enemy officer.
“This is Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya. He’s offered his parole and I’ve decided to accept, conditionally. He’ll be treated with courtesy and allowed freedom of the ship-within reason. For now, however, he’ll be accompanied at all times by Sergeant Alden. Sergeant? Is that acceptable to you?”
“Aye, aye, sir. There’s not many places I can go now, though.”