Her main battery consisted of a meager quartet of four-inch guns- only three of which could possibly bear on a single target-and none of which could elevate high enough to engage aircraft. There was one little three-inch antiaircraft gun on the fantail, but its range was so short it was used mostly for firing illumination star shells. The only even marginal antiaircraft defenses she had were two. 30-caliber machine guns on the fire-control platform and two. 50-caliber guns on the amidships deckhouse. Hanging over the fantail where it tapered sharply to a slightly rounded vee were two old-fashioned depth-charge racks. Her real teeth consisted of twelve 21-inch torpedoes carried in four triple-tube mounts between the number four funnel and the aft deckhouse. The torpedoes, and her once-respectable speed when delivering them, had been the reason for her creation so long ago. But like everything else in this new war so far, the torpedoes had been a grave and costly disappointment.
Matt had always heard that new captains often overlooked the shortcomings of their first command. But the first thing that sprang to mind when he saw her riding at anchor in Manila Bay, besides a general feeling of dismay over her apparent condition, was that the white-painted letters “163” on her bow seemed much too large.
Matt had been to the China Station and the Philippines-the Asiatic Fleet’s area of operations-only once before. He’d been an ensign aboard another four-stacker during the buildup over the Panay incident, when the Japanese “accidentally” bombed and sank an American gunboat on the Yangtze River. Even then, the men, ships, and conditions of operation in the Asiatic Fleet made quite a negative impression. Equipment- and personnel-wise, the station was the abused, ugly dog of the Navy. The men were considered the dregs of the service, and the ships were third-rate obsolescent relics that, it was joked, were kept in the Asiatic Fleet because they weren’t worth the fuel to steam home to scrap. When he assumed command of USS Walker he’d studied the log and fitness reports of his predecessor, Captain Simmons. As expected, the crew’s reputation for hard drinking and carousing was confirmed on the pages he read. But to his surprise, there was also a subliminal thread of tolerance, amusement, and even protectiveness among the author’s words. Discipline had been strictly maintained, but it was quickly clear that Captain Simmons had liked his crew. Judging by the initial reserve with which Matt was received, the feeling was mutual. He wondered at the time how difficult it would be for him to “fill the Old Man’s shoes” and how much trouble he’d have making the men conform to his own expectations. Even on more agreeable stations, change often provoked the most friction when a new captain took command. And he hadn’t “come up” in the Asiatic Fleet.
Despite his apprehension, there was little friction after all. Perhaps it was his quiet competence and uncomplicated, black-and-white sense of duty that left no doubt among the crew where they stood. Or maybe it was his quick discovery that these men were not dregs-at least most of them weren’t. Ever since the Depression, the Navy had been particular about the recruits it accepted. A fair percentage of the misfits may have gravitated to the Asiatic Fleet, but for the most part, the men were at least as professional as their counterparts on other stations. They just led an entirely different life than was the norm in the rest of the Navy. They were forced to cope with worn-out equipment and keep their ships combat ready with little more than the proverbial baling wire and chewing gum. It was only natural that they might vent more steam than their peers on stations with less stress, a better climate, and fewer “diversions” than had been the case in China or the Philippines. He could discipline and punish them for their rowdiness and debauchery during a night on the town, but in his heart he couldn’t condemn them for it. Their ability to fix anything, or at least make it “sorta” work, in difficult circumstances appealed to his sense of independence. Whatever the reason, much quicker than he’d expected, he’d been elevated to the exalted status of “Skipper,” and he realized he liked them too.
Now, captain and crew together had been tested in the cauldron of combat, and Matt’s black-and-white concept of right and wrong had come under serious assault. They’d dodged air attacks and experienced the unexpected exultation of “victory” in the Makassar Strait. They’d seen the senseless waste of lives in the Badung Strait caused by confusion and miscommunication. They’d lived through the frustration and horror of the Battle of the Java Sea, while their comrades on other ships and in other navies died for a purpose that began to elude them. No one questioned the War; it came without warning or mercy. It was real, it was all-consuming, and it was here. Why they were fighting it here was the unfathomable question.
Leaving the Philippines was tough. A lot of the guys had Filipino wives and sweethearts, and to them it was home. Some planned to retire there. But after the Air Corps was slaughtered in the opening days of the war, the only things left that had wings had red circles painted on them. Clearly, if the air belonged to the Japanese, remaining in the Philippines was suicide. No one wanted to leave, not even Matt, who still hated being stationed there. But he hated being “run off” even more. Maybe it was his Texas upbringing, or the “Spirit of the Alamo” or something like that, but he’d been perfectly willing to fight to the last even though the withdrawal made good sense.
Shades of gray appeared when Walker and Des Ron 29 were redeployed south to defend the Dutch East Indies. It was clearly a hopeless cause. Air cover was still nonexistent, and there weren’t enough ships to stop what was coming. The Dutch oil fields were the Japanese objective, but leaving a few old ships to try and slow them down would only provide them with target practice. If they had to make an Alamo-like stand, why couldn’t they have done it in the Philippines? Their “home” waters, so to speak?
Java belonged to the Dutch, and it was understandable that they’d want to keep it, but it was impossible. Reinforcements weren’t coming. It made more sense to Matt to pull everything out and save the men and ships until they had enough to knock the Japanese on their butts for a change. Of course, he wasn’t an admiral or a politician, and the very condition of the Asiatic Fleet proved that its survival wasn’t a priority to those who were. He admitted he might’ve felt differently if Java was his home. The Nazis had Holland, and Java was all that was left. He had felt differently when the Philippines were at stake, and he hadn’t even liked it there. It was all a matter of perspective. He knew he was relatively young and inexperienced, but he couldn’t shake the thought that if it was strategically wrong to defend the Philippines, it was wrong to defend Java too. Maybe he was just bitter. The same people who expected them to fight to the last in the Dutch East Indies hadn’t lifted a finger to support the United States in the Philippines.
After the disaster in the Java Sea he thought even the Dutch would realize it made more sense to fight their way back in than be destroyed getting kicked out. As far as he knew, they hadn’t sunk a single Japanese ship during the battle. Except for Exeter and the aged destroyers, ABDA-FLOAT had ceased to exist. He was mistaken. Word was that Admiral Helfrich, the Dutchman who’d replaced Tommy Hart as ABDA’s commander, still planned offensive action even after Admirals Glassford and Palliser told him they had nothing left. The Dutch had no monopoly on stubbornness; the British hadn’t showed much more sense regarding Singapore, and thousands of Americans were trapped in the Philippines, cut off from any support. But it was past time to leave. ABDA had done its best with what it had. There’d been willing cooperation, but no coordination. Without air cover or reconnaissance, or even a common language, they’d been like blindfolded kids running around on tricycles with a steamroller bearing down. It was a disaster.