The Commodore (7 page)

“Range to probable survivor area is eight thousand yards,” Combat reported. “Range to Jap column is eighteen thousand yards. Recommend slowing to twenty knots for torpedo release.”

Sluff immediately gave the order. He'd forgotten: The torpedoes would go off the port side almost perpendicular to the ship's movement. At thirty-six knots they'd be knocked silly by hitting the water that was rushing by, sideways, at nearly forty-two miles an hour. Even at twenty knots, they'd experience a lot of dynamic stress.

“Tell Gun Control we will
not
fire. Let the torpedoes do their work, but we need to get away. If they keep coming and see us,
then
we'll fight.”

“Combat concurs, Combat, aye.”

The TBS speakers blurted out a garbled signal. Ching Lee was probably looking for his lone surviving destroyer, Sluff thought, but he wasn't waiting around to make sure we were still operational. Wise move, though. Battleships fought other battleships. Jap destroyers with their Long Lances could overwhelm a battleship like a swarm of army ants could overwhelm a jungle pig. Or a lone destroyer. He wondered why he could hear his boss's queries but not respond. If we make it through this, he thought, there will be plenty of time for queries.

“Bridge, Torpedo Control: Range is twelve thousand yards. Recommend launch at ten thousand yards with this closing geometry.”

“Let 'em go when you think it's time, Control,” Sluff said. “Report when they're all swimming.”

“Torpedo Control, aye.”

One minute later he heard the five tubes behind the bridge whooshing their lethal missiles north into the black night. Five more tubes back aft were also punching out their sleek, black loads.

“Bridge, Torpedo Control, all fish away, appear to be hot, straight, and normal.”

“Right standard rudder,” Sluff ordered. “Steady one eight zero. All ahead flank, turns for thirty-four knots.” Then he called Combat. “I'm making a major course change in case they've also launched. Keep track of where the survivors might be and let's see what happens.”

“Combat, aye. Teatime in three minutes.”

Teatime: actually, T time, when their torpedoes ought to intercept their targets. The ship accelerated as only a tin can could, digging in and thrusting forward in an all-out effort to outrun any Long Lances that might be coming for them. Almost all of the ships hit in the past few months by a Long Lance had been hit in the bows, meaning the Japs always led their targets, assuming they'd maintain course and speed. Turning ninety degrees and running like hell was a pretty good defense. Especially since their best friends in the neighborhood, the battleships, had long since opted for discretion over valor.

No: Wait. The Long Lance could do fifty-five knots. He didn't have time to do the math, but those fish could possibly overtake the
J. B. King,
even doing thirty-four knots, if they'd been fired early enough. Turn farther. “Right standard rudder, come right to two two zero,” he ordered.

Then he waited while the ship steadied up heading southwest. His eyes felt like they had sand in them. He realized he was getting really tired. “Bosun's Mate: I need coffee.”

“Coffee, aye,” the bosun answered, and then disappeared. There was no eating, drinking, or smoking allowed at general quarters. Bosun's mates, however, always knew where there was coffee. In this case, he climbed the ladders up to the signal bridge, where the signalmen kept a discreet brewer going in the signal shack, hidden under a desk. He was back in three minutes with a cup of oily, black, and definitely aged Navy coffee. Sluff took a sip and tried not to gag.

“Thanks, Boats,” he said, his eyes no longer sandy. Just what he needed.

“Teatime in sixty seconds,” Combat called over the bitch-box. “This should work—they're still coming. Recommend coming back to the east, though, or we're gonna beach her on Guadalcanal.”

Sluff acknowledged and ordered the ship to swing back to the east, finally aware that he'd totally lost track of where the ship actually was in relation to land. He ordered twenty-seven knots to reduce the strain on the main engineering plant. At thirty-six knots, all the machinery would be going Bendix. If anything broke down below, they could lose all power until the snipes regained control.

He went out onto the port bridge wing and stared north into the gloom. He was hoping for a Fourth of July fireworks show.

It was teatime, so where was the sound and light show?

God
dammit!
Ten torpedoes, and—nothing?

And then,
there,
a distant red flare in the night. Then a second one. And then a real crowd-pleaser, a ball of white-yellow-red fire that expanded rapidly even as it dimmed in intensity. He heard the bridge crew grunting out cheers back in the pilothouse as a distant rumble washed over the ship. He stepped back inside and went to the bitch-box.

“Combat, we hit something, maybe even two of 'em. Gimme a course back to the initial datum on the survivors. I think the Japs are busy right now.”

“Bridge, Combat, come to course zero eight five to regain track.”

Sluff snapped the talk switch twice to acknowledge and then gave the orders, slowing the ship down to twenty knots to give the navigators time to catch up with the plot. He also didn't want to come thundering through the oil-covered clumps of sailors that should be out there, some four miles ahead.

At a thousand yards short of the projected datum he slowed down to bare steerageway and set the rescue detail. He kept the guns manned in case the Japs recovered from their surprise and came looking for them. There were no more fireworks up by Savo Island and the night remained black as ever. The radar wasn't much help because of all the rainsqualls near the island. Up on the bow the rescue crew was setting up lookouts and rope netting. Sluff ordered the signal bridge to put red filters on the signal searchlights and then to train them out to beacon any survivors.

They found and heard nothing for the first twenty minutes of creeping along in the darkness. Then came the sudden acrid stink of fuel oil, followed by some faint cries out in the water. He stopped the ship and let her drift into the oil slick, which soon produced calls from the signal bridge that they could see men in the water.

“Where are we?” Sluff asked.

“We're ten miles northeast of Cape Esperance,” the officer of the deck replied. “Good water, no contacts on the radar.”

“How far from Lunga Point?”

“Eighteen miles, sir.”

“Okay.” He reached for the bitch-box switch. “Combat, Captain, contact Henderson Field on one of those Marine field radios they gave us. Let 'em know we're out here and ask them to get some Mike boats ready to take off survivors.”

“Combat, aye,” the exec replied. “We've lost radar contact with
Washington.
Believe she and
South Dakota
have gone south.”

“Okay. Could you see what the Japs were doing when our fish got in on them?”

“Their formation broke up, but then a bunch of rain clobbered the screen. We can't see much of anything to the north except Savo itself.”

“Keep an eye on that area, XO,” Sluff said. “Don't want whoever's left up there to come south looking for a little revenge.”

“They're not going to linger, Cap'n,” Bob said. “They have to get out of there before first light or the Marine dive-bombers will be on them like stink on shit. I think we're safe right now, unless they have a sub out here.”

One of the bridge phone-talkers reported that the deck apes had several survivors alongside but that they needed more people on deck to help them out of the water because of all the fuel oil. Sluff ordered the ship to secure from general quarters except for two gun mounts and their magazine crews. Everyone else was to get topside to assist getting people out of the water.

By dawn
J. B. King
's decks were literally covered in oil-soaked survivors from the three lost destroyers. The little battery-operated field radio had worked and the Marines at Henderson Field had sent out five landing craft to begin transferring the badly wounded to the field hospital at the airfield. Sluff realized that
King
would have to get closer to Lunga Point if they were going to get this many people off by the end of the day. The sad pile of body bags on the stern grew steadily. A stream of fighters and bombers flew overhead all morning, headed out into the area of last night's battle, looking for Japs. At ten thirty the daily Jap air raid appeared, but the Marine fighters were ready and none of the bogeys even got close to
J. B. King,
which was fortunate, because she was in no position to defend herself. Sluff remained on the bridge all morning, directing the ship's movements as more and more survivors were sighted.

At noon, the exec came topside and reported that they had long-haul communications back up. Sluff told him to get a message out to the big base at Nouméa, info copy to CTF 64 on the
Washington,
that they had engaged a four-ship Jap formation with torpedoes and were now picking up survivors of the three tin cans. The exec dictated the message to Radio Central, and then took over so that Sluff could get below, clean up, and get something to eat. The entire ship reeked of fuel oil, and the ship's doctor and his two corpsmen were scrambling to attend to all the wounded. A radio messenger caught up with Sluff in his cabin and handed over an urgent message from the task force commander of the previous evening, Rear Admiral Lee, which had been sent to Halsey. Sluff frowned when he read it.

Washington
and
South Dakota
were headed back to their carrier group, which was then 150 miles south of Guadalcanal. Lee reported that his force had engaged and sunk a Jap battleship and at least one destroyer, that
South Dakota
had extensive damage, and that he believed three of his own destroyers had been sunk. The fourth,
J. B. King,
had departed formation when the action began, present whereabouts and status unknown.

Sluff swore. That made it sound like
J. B. King
had bugged out when the shooting started, which, technically, he had. As he was changing clothes, the ship's doctor showed up, his uniform covered in equal amounts of fuel oil and blood. He told Sluff that Henderson Field couldn't take all the wounded and that they needed to get to Tulagi or even Nouméa if they were going to save the worst cases.

“What's the count, Doc?” Sluff asked, as he buttoned a fresh uniform shirt.

“We have over four hundred on board, and there's still some more people in the water, although the Mike boats are fishing them out. Twenty-five have died since being hauled aboard. Another eighty to a hundred are serious burn cases. Henderson's field hospital is out of room, and I don't know what they can handle at Tulagi.”

“Okay, let's get as many of the able-bodied ashore on the 'Canal as the Mike boats can carry. Then we'll head for Tulagi, and after that, Nouméa. I'll remind you it's six hundred miles away.”

The doc sighed, obviously very tired. “Can we go fast, Skipper?”

“Yes, we can, Doc,” Sluff said. “At twenty-seven knots we'll be there in the morning.”

“I thought we could do thirty-six,” the doc said.

“We can, but that takes four boilers. Twenty-seven takes only two, and that's the best we can do without running out of gas. I'll try to get some fuel in Tulagi.”

The doc ran his fingers through his hair, spreading even more oil, and then nodded. “Sorry, sir, I shouldn't have—”

“Forget it, Doc,” Sluff said. “Here's a suggestion: Keep some of the able-bodied survivors—chiefs, preferably—on board. Add 'em to your medical teams. That way you guys can get some rest, too.”

The doc nodded, and then smiled. His teeth were unnaturally white against the black oil smudges covering his cheeks. “Of course,” he said. “I should have thought of that.”

“Don't let it happen again, Doc,” Sluff said, with a grin of his own. “Now, turn to and quit screwing off.”

Once the doc left, Sluff completed dressing and then sat down on the bunk-couch. Big mistake, he thought, as he sat back and relaxed for the first time in almost twelve hours. I should get back topside, he told himself. Okay, maybe five minutes, and then he'd go back up to the bridge. He could hear the shouts and efforts of his people fishing survivors out of the water all along both sides of the ship, as well as the diesel roar of the Mike boat engines as they backed and filled alongside.

He looked at his watch. Almost ten. They'd have to get going pretty soon. He thought about the track back to the base in the New Hebrides Islands. Right through what everybody called Torpedo Alley, where Jap subs lay in wait for a chance to sink something in the endless convoys of transports that were keeping the Marines alive on the 'Canal.

J. B. King
left the formation when the engagement began? Someone senior would want to talk about that when they got back to Nouméa. He was glad he'd done it, that maneuver, but he might no longer be in command in a few days.

 

SIX

Nouméa

Two days later Sluff found himself waiting outside the flag offices on board USS
Argonne,
the submarine tender that had been converted to a support ship for Commander, Southern Pacific (COMSOPAC). Looking around, Sluff thought these were rather cramped quarters for a vice admiral and his staff. He sat in one of three metal straight-backed chairs lined up against the bulkhead out in the flag passageway, like a truant awaiting a session with the principal. There'd been no offers of coffee and a distinctly chilly reception in the outer office from the assembled yeomen. It was the end of the day, and Sluff wondered if it was the end of his command tour as well.

J. B. King
had arrived in the harbor at midday yesterday, her decks crowded with survivors from the
Calhoun, Morgan,
and
Walke
. Normally a lowly destroyer would have been sent to anchorage in the beautiful harbor's spacious roads, but because of the wounded, she went pierside. Once everyone had been taken off, they conducted a freshwater washdown, refueled, and took aboard fresh provisions. At noon the port captain discovered that a destroyer was taking up pier space and directed them out to anchorage forthwith. For the rest of the day the ship declared holiday routine, and as many people who could got some much-needed sleep.