Taylor Anderson - Destroyermen

Encounter 's turn came next, and with appalling suddenness. Another ranging salvo of eight-inch shells screeched in, the sun glinting off the projectiles in flight. Geysers of spume marched across the sea—and across the British destroyer. In the blink of an eye, for all intents and purposes, she was gone. When the spray cleared, all that remained was twisted wreckage, already awash, and a few men scurrying about on the buckled deck, throwing anything that would float into the sea. The three tired greyhounds raced on. There was nothing they could do. Matt knew it on a rational level, but deep down he felt an overwhelming sense of shame. His jaw muscles tensed, and he ground his teeth as he forced himself to watch what was left of Encounter slip farther and farther astern. Chief Gray stood beside him, watching too.

"I'm getting sick of leaving people behind," he growled.

Matt nodded. "It could just as easily have been us. And we wouldn't want them hanging around to get slaughtered picking us up." The Bosun shook his head, but Matt would have sworn there was a damp sheen in his eyes.

"With your permission, sir, I'll see if Spanky and his snipes need a hand with anything, like patching holes, or keeping the screws from falling off." Matt felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward by themselves. Gray must really be frustrated if he was willing to descend below his holy deck and help engineering do anything . He shrugged at his captain's look. "Hell, Skipper, if they sink the bottom half of the old girl, the top half goes too."

"That's true, Boats, but Spanky's keeping up with the problems below for now, and I'd rather have you up here to direct damage control for the deck divisions if need be."

"Yes, sir."

Rogers's voice piped down from above. He was still in the crow's nest, where he'd been almost all day. "Skipper, there's a promising cloud off the starboard bow. Looks like it's working up to rain pretty good." Matt raised his binoculars.

"Sir, signal from Pope ," supplied Riggs. "Make for the squall."

"Acknowledge. Helm, right ten."

The cloud hung before them, growing darker by the moment. A new flurry of enemy shells kicked up spray as their pursuers noticed their course change.

"Jap planes! Bombers! Six o'clock high!" came the shout from the crow's nest. "Three pairs of 'em! I thought they were those observation planes, but they're comin' right in!"

Almost immediately, there came the thump thump thump of the little three-inch gun on the stern, throwing up shells in the path of the oncoming planes. Matt craned his neck upward and saw them, dark specks growing larger fast. Two angled for Walker through the small black puffs of smoke. He looked toward the cloud and saw it had started to rain. Harder and harder it fell, only a couple of miles away. They'd never make it. He looked at the planes, trying to judge their angle of attack and praying he could predict their release point. "Steady as you go, helm!" he ordered tersely. "Make them think we're easy." He waited. He couldn't see the furtive glances exchanged around him. Wait. Wait! NOW!

"Left full rudder! All ahead flank!"

Walker heeled so sharply it was difficult to stand, and she surged forward with an audible groan. Two small objects detached themselves from the pair of descending planes. They grew rapidly larger until it seemed they'd fall right on the ship. Two thunderous explosions ripped the sea less than a hundred yards off the starboard beam and fragments spanged against Walker 's side. The heavy bellow of the .50-cals and the lighter clatter of the .30s sent tracers chasing the fat-bodied dive bombers as they pulled out and thundered away. Their ungainly fixed landing gear seemed only inches above the water. Glaring red circles clearly contrasted with the white-painted wings.

"Damage report!"

The machine guns stuttered to a stop as the planes flew out of range.

"Just some scratches in the boot topping."

"How about the other ships?" Matt asked, looking for himself. They seemed okay as each emerged from the spray of bomb splashes.

The squall was closer. Still at flank speed, Walker strained with every aged fiber to reach the camouflaging shroud of the torrent ahead. To starboard, Mahan labored to keep up. Farther away, her interval doubled since the loss of Encounter , Pope blurred as she dove into the opaque wall of rain.

The bombers were re-forming and Matt urged his ship forward as she stretched her tired legs. Suddenly the bow disappeared as it parted the edge of the storm, and within seconds the windows were blanked out and a heavy drumming sound came from the deck above. Water coursed onto the open quarterdeck behind them, and small smiles of relief formed on several faces.

"Secure from flank, all ahead two-thirds. Come left ten degrees. The Japs can't see us, but neither can our sisters. Let's put some space between us."

"Jesus," muttered Sandison, and dabbed sweat from his face with his sleeve.

Lieutenant Garrett, along with the rest of the fire-control team, was soaked to the bone and water poured off his helmet, obscuring his view. No one had any idea where their consorts were. They'd altered course several times to accomplish the dual necessity of staying within the squall and continuing in a general direction away from the enemy. Garrett and his division did their best, straining their eyes to spot another ship or warn about upcoming "light" spots, but realistically they would probably run into one of their sisters before they saw her in time to turn. It was growing lighter ahead, however, and there were no "dark" areas to advise the bridge to steer for. He huddled over the speaking tube when he raised the cover to prevent too much water from pouring in.

"Bridge. We're breaking out of the squall."

With almost the same suddenness that they'd entered it, they drove out of the squall and into the afternoon sunshine. They all blinked their eyes against the glare, and the water on the decks and in their clothes began to steam. Then, less than five hundred yards to port, Mahan emerged and seemed to shake herself off like a wet dog as she increased speed. Men immediately scanned for enemies.

"Oh, my God, Skipper! Look!" shouted Sandison. The Bosun swore and Matt shouldered in beside him on the starboard bridgewing. He felt like his heart had stopped. There, about four miles off the starboard beam, Pope was enduring her final agony. She wallowed helplessly, low by the stern, while aircraft swirled like vultures in the sky above. Massive waterspouts rose around her as the spotting planes summoned the cruiser's fire upon their carrion.

"Skipper! Can't we . . . I mean, is there . . . ?" Young Reynolds clamped his mouth shut, realizing the pointlessness of his appeal. Then he looked at his captain's face and was shocked by the twisted, desperate rage upon it. With an audible animal growl, Captain Reddy spun back into the pilothouse. Ahead, about seven miles away, another squall brewed. It was huge, and darker than the last one, almost green, and it blotted out much of the horizon. For some reason, it seemed to radiate an aura of threat nearly as intense as the force that pursued them so relentlessly.

"Make for that squall!" ordered Matt in a tone none of the men had ever heard him use. It was the voice of command, but with an inflection of perfect hatred. "Signal Mahan . We'll keep this interval in case we have to maneuver. Helm, ahead flank!"

Another squall, lighter, was a little to the left of the one they were heading for. It was dissipating rapidly, though, as if the first was somehow draining it, sucking its very force. As it diminished, two dark forms took shape.

"Holy Mary," muttered Gray, crossing himself unconsciously.