The Commodore (39 page)

“Very well,” Sluff said, automatically. “Where are we?”

“About thirty miles north-northwest of Savo,” the exec said. “We're on one five zero, speed twenty. That's the best the blowers can give us.”

“How's the captain?” Sluff asked.

Walker swallowed. “He died, sir, about two hours ago. Doc said he probably had a stroke from all that metal in his head. It came right through his helmet.”

“
Damn,
” Sluff said. “That's a real loss.”

“Yes, sir. The ship's not that badly damaged, but we have twenty-seven killed and I don't know how many wounded from that one shell that hit the radar, alone.”

Sluff could picture it. All those AA gun crews exposed up on the 01 level, plus the torpedo gang, the signalmen, the lookouts, the gunnery officer and his talkers up near the director, and the depth-charge crews back on the fantail. “You let the flag know all this?”

“Yes, sir, they want us to rendezvous and then we're all headed for Tulagi. The radiomen say they've been talking to the cruisers, back-channel.
Carson City
took three torpedoes, blew up, and sank.
New Orleans
was hit by eight-inch shellfire but is still operational, and
Roanoke
wasn't hit at all. The admiral wants you to highline to
New Orleans
when we join up.”

“I'll just bet he does,” Sluff said wearily. “Okay,
Captain,
carry on.”

“I'm just acting, sir. I mean—”

“Believe me, I know the feeling, Mister Walker. Acting or not, you are the captain now. Start thinking like one. Appoint one of the department heads as your acting exec. Let him handle the details of running the ship's daily routine. All your officers right now are heads down, tangled in the details of recovery. You're the one who needs to think ahead—you need fuel, ammo, medical care, repairs, replacements.”

“Yes, sir,” Walker said. Sluff could see from Walker's expression that it was all starting to sink in. At that moment, Lieutenant Commander Walker looked to be about sixteen.

“And ask Mister Price to come see me.”

Larry Price came up to the bridge a few minutes later. By then dawn was breaking and the true extent of the damages topside was becoming painfully obvious.

“Commodore,” Larry said. “Big night.”

“Bad night,” Sluff said. “My old ship's been hurt bad.”

“Yes, sir, but the Japs have been hurt worse. That convoy of army troops has been reported holding just north of the Russells. The Cactus air forces are getting ready to go kill it.”

“The admiral wants me to highline over once we rendezvous,” Sluff said. “You may or may not see me again.”

Larry smiled. “No, sir,” he said. “I don't think it's gonna be like that at all.”

His chief staff officer turned out to be right.
New Orleans
herself showed a fair amount of topside damage, but apparently her vitals inside the armor belt were all still intact. Sluff noticed that there were a lot of sailors up on her main deck and 01 level who looked a lot like waterlogged survivors who'd been plucked out of the water. As he climbed out of the highline chair, a doctor climbed in for the ride back to
King.
There were three corpsmen waiting to follow the doctor over.

Admiral Hollis himself greeted Sluff as he began shucking his life jacket.

“Welcome aboard, Sluff,” the admiral said. “You and your destroyers did some good work last night.”

Sluff was not entirely sure of what the admiral was talking about, but he went through the motions as the two of them walked forward toward flag country. He tried desperately not to yawn as they climbed the ladders to the 01 and then the 02 level, where the admiral's cabin and offices were. The small clumps of survivors backed away when they saw the admiral, some of them coming to attention while others just stared. Their dungarees were rumpled and smelled of fuel oil, and several of the men were sporting bandages. The admiral slowed and then started talking to some of them as they made their way forward on the cruiser's AA gun decks, where, Sluff noted, the gun crews were all still in place. He also saw the mounds of body bags stacked in a nice row between the stacks.

Once in the admiral's cabin Sluff sank gratefully into a chair while the admiral, who seemed to be running on a caffeine high, paced back and forth, rubbing his hands together.

“It was a victory, Sluff,” he said. “We creamed them. You guys
really
creamed them, and we put down two of their heavy ships. We lost
Carson City
but I swear to God, it was her own damned fault. I turned the formation to get out of torpedo water and she did
not
follow us around. Next thing I knew there was a volcano erupting at the back of the formation and she was just—gone. But: We got into it with at least one heavy cruiser. They got some licks in, but radar won the night. We literally shelled the heavy into a flaming wreck and then got the light cruiser with her. I remembered what you'd said about torpedoes, so we'd fire for a minute, make a major turn, then start back up again.”

Sluff nodded, glad to hear that something had worked out according to plan last night.

The admiral kept going. “Your initial attack was apparently devastating. We could see when your fish started hitting and it looked like the Fourth of July out there. We also saw a bunch of radar contacts turn around and head back north, so we guessed that was the troopship convoy. Marine bombers are already on their way to see what they can do.”

“I split my squadron into two divisions, like we planned,” Sluff said. “Three ships each. Dragon Murphy took one west, I took the other half east.
King
's all that's left of my half, and I don't know where Dragon went after he made his torpedo attack.”

“We saw his formation go in and then back out. Then he turned north, went up and around the Japs, probably firing five-inch. Then he came back down their east side, which is when I told him to stand clear because he was headed into our firing arcs. Once you went back at the Japs, though, we had to stop firing, which was a good thing because they had already fired torpedoes at our gun flashes. Like I said, I remembered your rule about going dark and making bold course changes, so that's what we did. Or two of us did, anyway. Those were
Carson City
's survivors I was talking to out there. I've sent one of Dragon's ships back to the sinking site to make sure we got 'em all. Japs'll be busy with the Cactus air force right about now.”

“Speaking of which,” Sluff said. “I need to get my people in
King
attended to and then go back to pick up any survivors from
Morgan
and
Whitfield.
”

“Dragon's been in the area since daybreak, doing just that,” the admiral said, finally sitting down. “They're recovering a fair number, too, thank God.”

Sluff closed his eyes for a moment, suddenly weary beyond telling.

“Halsey was right,” the admiral said. “Putting you back in. You did exactly what he was looking for—you went
after
the sonsabitches. Dragon Murphy was told to get clear and that's what he did—got clear. You found yourself in deep shit and turned on them instead.”

“At the cost of two destroyers,” Sluff reminded him. “And Bob Frey. That's a real loss.”

The admiral grunted but did not reply. Sluff's steel plate was bothering him for some reason, and he went to put his right hand on it, but his arm was just too heavy.

An hour and a half later a quiet Negro voice asked him if he'd like some coffee and some breakfast. Sluff started in his chair, and then realized he'd gone to sleep while talking to the admiral. The cabin was empty now, except for him and the steward, and
New Orleans
was under way with a purpose. Based on the light coming through the portholes, she was headed east.

“I'd love some of both,” he said to the steward, who showed him to a side table. As he was finishing up, the cabin door opened and the admiral and three of his staff officers came in.

“Oh, good, you're awake,” the admiral said, beaming.

Sluff went to stand up but the admiral waved him back into his chair. “Sorry about that, sir,” Sluff said.

The admiral dismissed his apology. “We're coming into Tulagi in about twenty minutes,” he said. “I took the liberty of getting your ops officer on board so that we could complete the after-action report, but the big news is that Halsey himself is flying up from Nouméa.”

The admiral sat down at his desk and invited his staffers to find chairs. “Marine air got at that convoy this morning and then again a half hour ago. Tore it up pretty good, although that's based on aviator reports.” There were grins all around. Everyone knew about aviator reports.

“Was there a light cruiser with them?” Sluff asked.

“There was, but not anymore,” the admiral said, proudly. “Now, Halsey wants to see you, and me, of course. But apparently, mostly you. Are your uniforms on
King
?”

“Yes, sir,” Sluff said, risking a look at his own bloodstained uniform. Bob Frey's blood, he realized. Jesus.

“Okay, you take a boat back to
King
when we get in and get spruced up, then return aboard here. I know you're tired. We all are, but this fight last night may have marked a turning point, especially for the Marines on the 'Canal. Does that thing hurt?”

Sluff realized he'd been probing the steel plate with his fingertips. “Not really, Admiral. It mostly feels—strange.”

“Okay then, Commodore, and once again, congratulations on a nice piece of work with your destroyers.” They heard the ship's forced-draft blowers slowing down, indicating they were beginning the entrance into Tulagi's harbor. “My aide will get you back to the quarterdeck. I've told
King
to lay to nearby.” He looked at his watch. “The admiral will be here in about two hours.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Sluff said, getting up. He found himself a bit unsteady on his feet and realized that the staff officers were looking at him, their expression reflecting concern. “Cruisers,” he said. “Don't know how to walk on a cruiser. Doesn't move around enough.”

There were polite smiles all around, and then the aide was beckoning.

 

THIRTY-EIGHT

Tulagi Harbor

Halsey was late. It seemed he had seen the hospital vehicles moving like a heavily burdened train from the piers to the field hospital at Tulagi as his plane came in for a landing. He had jumped into a passing jeep and gone up to visit the troops.
New Orleans
swung at the hook about a half mile offshore, side boys in fresh whites sweating while waiting on the port quarterdeck. The ship's port side was clear. Hidden from view on the starboard side were ammo barges, a fuel barge, and a stores barge. Sluff and most of the admiral's staff were lounging around in the flag cabin, discreetly looking at their watches. A hurriedly cleaned-up motor whaleboat and crew bobbed at the Tulagi fleet landing waiting for their very important guest.

With Bob Frey gone, Sluff had permanently taken over the inport cabin in
King.
Old Mose, who seemed to be genuinely older and perhaps even a little bit sad, had promptly fixed him up with a clean uniform and shined shoes. Mose had truly admired Bob Frey, and Sluff had commiserated with him for a few minutes. Mose had apologized for the lack of fat pills. The ship's baker had been a pointer on the port forty-millimeter mount when the shell had exploded over the ship.

Then he summoned the exec and got a report on
King
's readiness for sea. She still had no radar, although there was a chance they could swap an antenna and some new waveguide out with a destroyer that was headed back to the States for an overhaul. Fuel, boiler feed-water, fresh water, and ammo were being topped off. The wounded had been sent ashore, and the dead were laid out on the fantail in preparation for burial at sea, probably this evening. The ship's baker was among them.

Now resting in an armchair in the flag cabin aboard
New Orleans,
he wondered what he would say when he saw Halsey again. There was probably going to be a medal ceremony—Halsey liked to do that. If one of his commanders hurt the enemy, Halsey would pin a medal on his shirt as soon afterward as possible. That would then allow the commander to authorize medals for individual ship captains, officers, and crewmen who had distinguished themselves in battle. Sluff's problem was that didn't think he had distinguished himself in battle.

He remembered von Moltke's maxim and even talking to Bob Frey about it before the shooting started. He had a sneaking suspicion that Hollis and maybe even Halsey though that he, Sluff Wolf, had run some kind of brilliant tactical exercise out there in the dark, when, in fact, it had been chaos. If it hadn't been for Larry Price reminding him to do this or do that, he'd have gotten them all killed. As it was, he had two more destroyers sunk to his everlasting credit—or shame. He wondered if he'd sunk more Japs or Americans in his brief stint as commodore. He heard eight bells sound over the ship's announcing system as Hollis's aide stepped through the cabin door.

“Gentlemen, Admiral Halsey's on his way up,” the aide announced. Everyone put down coffee mugs, doused cigarettes, stood up, and made sure their uniforms were shipshape.

Halsey followed Hollis through the door. He had a huge grin on his face as he looked around the cabin before fixing his eyes on Sluff.

“I took a chance on you, Harmon Wolf,” he said in a loud voice. “And by God, sir, you rang the bell.
Damned
if you didn't. Come over here and stand to attention.”

An aide handed Halsey a small, opened box from which he withdrew a Navy Cross, a decoration second only to the Medal of Honor. He pinned it on Sluff's shirt and then shook his hand. Then he turned to the rest of the assembled officers.