Read Online The Commodore by P. T. Deutermann - Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€œWhat’s the count, Doc?” Sluff asked, as he buttoned a fresh uniform shirt.
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œOkay, 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?”
    â€œYes, we can, Doc,” Sluff said. “At twenty-seven knots we’ll be there in the morning.”
    â€œI thought we could do thirty-six,” the doc said.
    â€œWe 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—”
    â€œForget 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.”
    â€œDon’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