Destroyermen its-1 Page 12

  He sensed a flicker of humor over the profound understatement. "The good news is, nobody's shooting at us. The charts are correct, and we know where we are; it's just everyone else who has disappeared. Fortunately, that seems to include the Japs. We'll secure from general quarters."

  He started to hand the microphone to the talker, but changed his mind. "One more thing," he said, looking now at the faces of his crew. "Whatever happened to us, you can look at it a couple of ways. You can say it's strange, and I sure can't argue. Weird? I'm with you. Bad? We'll see. You might also look at it as salvation, because we were dead, people. Whatever else it was, it was that." He watched the thoughtful expressions and saw a few nods.

  "Wherever we go, whatever we do, no matter what's happened— whether we're still part of Des-Ron 29 or all by ourselves, we're Walkers! We're destroyermen! And we represent the United States Navy!" The nods became more vigorous and he sensed . . . approval. He hoped it would be enough. He sighed and glanced at his watch. "Return to your duties. Damage control and repair has priority. Funeral services at 1300. That's all."

  As always, encouragingly, were the muttered replies: "That's enough!"

  Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya sat on one of the chairs beside the table in the wardroom, his hands cuffed together in his lap. A chain extended down to a pair of leg irons encircling his ankles. The bandage around his blackhaired head drooped and obscured his left eye. The compartment was filled with cigarette smoke, but occasional gusts of fresh air reached him through a large hole in the side of the ship. Sitting across from him, leaned back in evident repose and busily creating the smoke, was the American Marine who'd been watching him since he regained consciousness.

  He wasn't fooled by the Marine's apparent ease. Nor did he think the bandage on his leg concealed a wound that would prevent him from using the .45 holstered at his side if given the least provocation. His attitude implied that he would welcome an excuse. Together, they'd listened to the captain's words from a speaker on the bulkhead, and although he pretended not to understand, Shinya honestly didn't know if he felt like laughing or if he wished the terrible fish had gotten him after all.

  He wasn't a career naval officer, but a reservist, the son of a wealthy industrialist. He'd spent several years in the United States and attended UC­Berkeley. He entered the Japanese Imperial Navy because he was supposed to, not because he was in favor of his country's China policy— although his father glowed with the prospects of a Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. He entered the Navy because he was a patriot, and that was what his family did. Besides, the war in China was an Army operation. In the Navy, he would be among cooler and more thoughtful heads.

  When preparations for war with America began, he couldn't believe it. He'd been there! He'd seen! He knew as well as anyone how dangerous war with the United States would be, not to mention—according to his sense of honor—wrong. He admitted it was difficult to be objective. He liked Americans, and he'd enjoyed California. It was possible his perceptions had been influenced by people he'd known and, yes, friends he'd made, but only to the extent that he better understood the vast cultural chasm that separated the two peoples. Despite the rhetoric on both sides, he understood the root causes of the war and that nobody was blameless, but the chasm of misunderstanding prevented any reconciliation. The alliance with Germany and Italy might have made war inevitable—and maybe even winnable—but he couldn't ignore his sense that the way it started was wrong and sure to provoke American fury.

  Without question, the war was going well so far. The relic he was imprisoned aboard was an example of American unpreparedness. But he'd been at Balikpapan and saw what they could manage, even with what little they had. He feared the outcome if the war dragged out and new and better weapons reached these determined men. Then came the lopsided fight when his destroyer screened Amagi against the two old American ships. He'd been amazed and even proud of their bold charge. They'd had no other choice, but it was stirring all the same.

  Of course, when two torpedoes exploded against his ship and it vanished from under him, all considerations except staying afloat became secondary. He didn't remember what struck him on the head, and he didn't remember being fished from the water. He did remember a bizarre, stomach-wrenching sensation when the Squall engulfed him, but nothing else until he woke aboard the American destroyer. He'd heard things, though, whispered by men who didn't think he understood.

  And then he saw it, through the shell hole, just a while ago. The enormous ship. In that moment he knew all the rumors were true.

  He didn't know how or if it would affect him. He was a prisoner of war, he supposed, but what did that mean? How should he act? His situation wasn't often discussed in training. Surrender was not considered an option by his instructors, so how to behave in enemy hands was never mentioned. Despite his "Americanization," he felt vaguely guilty for having survived, although there was nothing he could have done. The man who saved and surrendered him was dead, and he would never know why he'd done it. In any event, whatever he'd expected to happen to him as a prisoner, being shuffled from compartment to compartment but otherwise ignored wasn't it. No one even asked him a question. They had no idea he spoke English, but at least one of them, the young aviation officer, knew Japanese. It seemed unnatural they wouldn't care what he knew of the Imperial Fleet's dispositions. He'd resolved to tell them nothing, but no one ever came and he grew nervous—and wary.

  Possibly they'd been so preoccupied with repairs and flight that they'd forgotten they even had him. He hadn't seen the captain, even though he knew the wardroom was where the officers ate. As he overheard the rumors of the crew, however, he began to suspect it wasn't just neglect that kept them from questioning him. Perhaps the relevance of what he knew had diminished to insignificance. Then, not long ago, as he gazed through the hole in the side of the wardroom, it became blindingly clear that whatever information he might have no longer mattered to his captors at all. So they sat, each alone with his thoughts, listening to muted machinery noises.

  There was movement behind the green curtain leading to officers' country, and a head poked around it and looked at them, surprised. The curtain slashed back in place and a retreating voice reached his ears. "Shit. The Jap."

  The Marine smirked slightly and rolled his eyes. Then he looked squarely at Tamatsu. "That's the new exec. Somebody finally remembered you. Maybe he'll remind the captain." He grinned darkly. "I hope he throws you to the fish."

  Thirty minutes later the curtain moved again and two men entered the compartment. One was younger than the other but had a brisk, businesslike demeanor. He had brown hair, but unlike everyone else Shinya had seen, there was no trace of stubble on his cheeks. His dark green eyes betrayed fatigue, but they were alert and curious. The other man was older, shorter, with a noticeable paunch. He looked tired too, and disheveled, but his expression wasn't curious. It seethed with predatory hostility. The guard jumped to his feet as rapidly as his injured leg allowed.

  "As you were, Sergeant—Alder, isn't it?" said the first man.

  "Alden, sir," he replied. "Sergeant Pete Alden. Marine contingent, USS Houston." He said the last with a grim glance at his prisoner.

  "Glad to have you aboard, Sergeant. I apologize for not speaking with you sooner, but"—he allowed a wry expression—"I've been preoccupied."

  "No apology necessary, sir."

  "Nevertheless, I appreciate your taking charge of the prisoner in spite of your injury. How's the leg?"

  "Fine, sir."

  The captain accepted the lie. The injury didn't affect Alden's current duty, and there were plenty of wounded at their posts. Matt gestured at the Japanese. "Has he behaved?"

  "No trouble, sir. Mostly he just sits and looks around. He does what I tell him, and I keep the crew from beatin' him to death."

  Gray snorted, but Matt just nodded. He pulled a chair out at the table across from Tamatsu and sat with his elbows on the green surface, fingers intertwined, looking at the pri
soner. The man looked back, unblinking, expressionless. Matt took a deep breath and exhaled. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked himself aloud.

  Tamatsu felt a surge of adrenaline. He knew he should keep his mouth shut and pretend not to understand, but suddenly he couldn't see the point. From what he'd seen and heard, the war he was part of was gone, as were—evidently—their respective navies and probably even countries as well. He was overwhelmed by that possibility, and when he'd first heard the rumors he suspected some ploy to get him to speak, if he could. Dinosaurs on Bali, indeed! Then he'd seen the ship and, through his shock, he realized that now was the time. If they later, inevitably, discovered he'd been listening to their conversations, they would never trust him— difficult as it might be anyway. No matter what he thought of the war, he was no traitor, but he wanted them to trust him. Whatever happened, wherever they were, they might be there a long, long time.

  Hesitantly, he cleared his throat. To the astonishment of the man across from him, he spoke in excellent, lightly accented English. "Captain, I am Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya. I am your prisoner. Japan did not ratify the Geneva Protocols, but I give my word of honor I will cooperate every way I possibly can, short of treachery to my people or government. Under the . . . unusual circumstances, I find it unlikely that the cooperation I offer will cause harm to my country. If you are willing to accept it, Captain, I offer my parole."

  There were a variety of expressions in the room. Tamatsu's face remained impassive, but Gray's clouded with anger and the Marine's eyes widened in shock. Matt leaned back in his chair, shaken by yet another surprise, but he gathered himself quickly. If there was anything he'd learned about himself lately, it was that he had a growing ability to flow with assaults upon his preconceptions and adapt quickly. He only wished the assaults were less frequent.

  "Lieutenant Shinya," he said, "that's . . . a generous offer. I'll take it under advisement. I suppose you heard what I said on the comm a while ago?" The prisoner nodded. "Then you understand we're in a tense situation for which there are no guidelines or regulations to refer to. Technically, you're a prisoner of war, and somewhere, I assume, that war still rages. It's my duty to present you to my superiors. Since I have no idea when or if that will ever occur . . ." He spread his hands out on the table. "I'll consider it. I hope you won't find it inconvenient, at present, if you remain under the protection of Sergeant Alden?"

  Matt heard Gray grumbling as they worked their way aft. He'd decided to take a quick walk around—and be seen doing it—and look at repairs while getting a feel for the mood of the crew. He also wanted to talk to Spanky. The engineer was the only department head who hadn't heard his comments in person. Gray continued to growl under his breath as they climbed into the open air on the main deck and stepped into the shade of the amidships deckhouse. Men formed a line leading to the open-air galley and snatched sandwiches from the counter as fast as the cooks put them down.

  It was unbearably hot. That, at least, was the same. He changed direction and went back into the sun and stooped at the drinking fountain on the back of the big refrigerator next to the number one funnel. A stupid place for a refrigerator, he reflected again, but a great place for a drinking fountain. He pushed the button, and the cool stream rose to his lips. He drank, savoring the refrigerated water. Gray joined him.

  "You seem annoyed, Boats," Matt observed without preamble.

  "That Nip. You ain't gonna let him go, are you?"

  "If he behaves, I might. Christ, we've got enough to worry about without guarding a Jap. He offered his parole."

  "So? They were making all nice before they bombed Pearl too. We wouldn't have to guard him if—" Gray shifted uncomfortably and glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. "We ought to just get rid of him. He's a Jap, for cryin' out loud!"

  Matt looked at him. "Get rid of him? You mean kill him?" He shook his head and stared at his crew for a long time while they talked and ate their sandwiches. He sighed. "No. We won't. You know why? Because we're Americans and we don't do that." He was quiet a moment longer and then strode aft again. "Wherever we are, we're still Americans," Gray heard him mutter.

  The sun had just touched the sea when Spanky McFarlane stepped toward the rail near the number two torpedo mount. For the first time since their run from Surabaya, the deck was almost deserted. It had been a hard day in more ways than one, and with the most critical repairs complete, it was as though the crew had breathed a collective sigh of relief and then just collapsed. The only men he saw nearby were Dennis Silva and some of his hoodlum friends in the ordnance division, talking on the amidships deckhouse. Spanky ignored them. It was a moral imperative. If he paid too much attention to what those jerks were up to, he'd probably have to put them on report.

  He took a dingy rag from his pocket to wipe sweat and grunge from his eyes. They burned like hell. He pitched it into the churning wake that scoured the side of the ship. Was it just his imagination, or had something actually snapped at the rag as it fluttered to the surface? He sagged against the safety chain. Starting to get jumpy, he thought, and fumbled for his smokes. With the ease of a practiced hand, he lit one in spite of the breeze and inhaled deeply. Yeah, it had been a hell of a day.

  They'd buried their dead in the time-honored fashion soon after the Skipper came to talk. All those men—nearly a quarter of the crew— slipping over the side as the captain gruffly read the prayer. Spanky shuddered, wondering how deep the shrouded corpses went before being shredded by the piranha-like fish that seemed to be everywhere. The Old Man was thinking ahead, though. Instead of the customary four-inch shell sewn into their fart-bags to carry them down, they'd been sent to their graves with whatever wreckage or heavy piece of debris Spanky thought they could spare.

  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 nto 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.