Into the Storm

Table of Contents

 

 

 

ROC
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

First Printing, June 2008

Copyright © Taylor Anderson, 2008 All rights reserved

 

Photo of the author taken on the Battleship
Texas
(BB-35) State Historic Site—3527 Battleground Rd., La Porte, Texas 77571, with the permission of the Texas Parks and Wildlife Dept.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Anderson, Taylor.

Into the storm: Destroyermen, Book 1 / Taylor Anderson.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-440-63262-4

1. World War, 1939–1945—Fiction. 2. Time travel—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3601.N5475I5 2008
813’.6—dc22 2007052142

 

 

 

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FOR MY DARLING DAUGHTER, REBECCA RUTH.
EVERYTHING I DO IS FOR HER, AFTER ALL.
IN RETURN, I GET HER HUMOR, WIT, COMPANIONSHIP,
INSPIRATION, AND UNQUALIFIED ADORATION.
NOT A BAD TRADE.

First, I must thank my parents, Don and Jeanette Anderson, who tolerated my various early eccentric pursuits—albeit sometimes with dubious, strained smiles and rolling eyes. Parents always want the best for their kids, and many of the paths I chose in life were untrodden, dark, and overgrown. At least they didn’t have to worry that I was running with the “wrong crowd,” since I spent most of my formative spare time in the woods with a flintlock and a bedroll. They didn’t just sit back and watch, though, and therefore must take a measure of responsibility for the example they set. My dad taught me about old radios, Fort Worth Spudders, flying—and honor, of course. My mother taught me strength of will and character. I might sometimes feel compelled to substitute “stubbornness and obstinacy” for those more noble-sounding traits, but which is, after all, more virtuous and practical?

I have to thank MMCPO (SS) Tom Postulka, USN, a good friend I miss a lot and who, even though a submariner, sparked my interest in four-stackers a dozen years ago. Erik Holland, USN (ret.), is a quintessential “snipe,” and his stories of engine-room life on diesel-electric Fleet submarines have kept me laughing and learning for years. SCPO Jeff Fairchild, USN (ret.), may be a “Nukie Puke,” but he’s helped me out of a few jams too. Lt. Col. Dave L. Leedom, USAFR, and Mark Wheeler reminded me how fun flying can be. (Bad) Dennis Petty, Jim Goodrich, Col. Alan Huffines, USAR, and Lynn Kosminski convinced me that maybe I could string a few words together after all—in spite of the harm many of my professors did by stifling all literary allusions in my earlier, purely historical work.

Other people who’ve helped me in so many ways include (but are certainly not limited to) Robin and Linda Clay, Mark Beck, Brad Fisher, USMC (ret.), Dennis Hudgens, Michael Dunegan, Walter Baldree, Sgt 1st Class Dex Fairbanks, USA (ret.), Riqui and David Wartes, Preston Furlow, and Cortney Skinner, Special thanks to Dr. David Bererra and all the nurses and staff as Harris Southwest Methodist Hospital, and of course, to my long-suffering, beautiful bride, Christine.

Last, but certainly not least, I have to thank Russell Galen and Ginjer Buchanan.

Ginjer is the best editor I know and has always been gracious, friendly, and supportive. She and her staff are a pure pleasure to work with.

Russell Galen is the best agent in the business. His patience, professionalism, encouragement, and friendship truly are the steam that moves this ship through the water. To say “I couldn’t have done it without him” is ridiculously insufficient praise. I rarely find myself at a loss for words, but I simply cannot express how much I appreciate his help. Thanks, Russ.

T
hey were running. There was no other word for it, no comforting euphemism to make the sting less sharp. In fact, it seemed impossible to wring the slightest sense of purpose from the confusion, privation, terror, and bone-numbing weariness they’d endured since the very day the war began on December 7. Now, three months later, they were running away (“limping” might be the better term) and they hadn’t even had a chance to lick their wounds. The tired men and elderly ships of Destroyer Squadron (Des Ron) 29 had hurled themselves repeatedly at the implacable juggernaut that was the Japanese Imperial Navy while their numbers were ruthlessly slashed by disaster and disrepair. It was a tragically lopsided contest, a feeble gesture of defiance against overwhelming odds. In the end, a gesture was all it had been. Now all that remained was to flee—and it was probably too late.

Lieutenant Commander Matthew Patrick Reddy, USNR, the captain of USS
Walker
, stood on the starboard bridgewing and tried to maintain at least a semblance of dignity in his rumpled and sweat-stained shirt. His left hand clutched his hat to his head against the thirty-knot breeze while his right tried to keep the half-filled mug of lukewarm coffee from slopping onto his uniform.

Red-rimmed eyes squinted from what was normally an almost embarrassingly boyish face, but at the moment a general covering of brown stubble and a fatigue-slacked expression made him look older than his thirty-two years. Not quite thirty-six hours earlier, he and his exhausted crew had participated in the largest surface action of the war to date: the Battle of the Java Sea. For once, the forces were evenly matched—in numbers, if not quality—and they thought they’d had a chance. But from the beginning, nothing went right. The battle finally ended sometime in the night with the ruthless slaughter of virtually the entire force under Admiral Doorman’s command. While the enemy grew ever stronger, the scattered Allies were picked off in ones and twos.

Walker
wasn’t there when the poor old
Houston
and the staunch
Perth
were surrounded and hammered to the bottom. All the destroyers had been ordered to Surabaya to refuel and had thus been granted a short reprieve.
Edwards
,
Alden, Ford
, and
Paul Jones
departed for Australia as soon as their bunkers were full, and nobody knew if they’d made it through the gauntlet or not. The remaining destroyers were ordered to wait for the British cruiser
Exeter
, the only capital ship to survive the battle, and escort her to Ceylon after she completed temporary repairs. Matt spent that day of short intermission sending out parties to scrounge anything they might use, but little turned up in the bombed-out remains of the Dutch naval yard. The searchers discovered some belted .30 cal, eighty rounds of four-inch-fifty for the main guns, two condemned torpedoes, a little food. It wasn’t much. All the while, emergency repairs to
Walker
were under way. Even if Matt had found the time, he couldn’t have slept through the racket.