Sometimes, you get something in
your head and it just won't go away; a tune, a phrase, an image,
a story…I have at least a passing interest in virtually
everything, but I suppose I'm most passionately devoted to
history, the outdoors, sailing, flying, cannons (and pretty much
anything that flings a projectile,) and literature of every
description. I enjoy everything from Homer to Patrick O'Brian,
but the stories that stick in my head the most, that I find most
enduring and thought provoking, are science-fiction/fantasy. For
pure enjoyment and escape, that's what I always turn to.
I spent many years, in a variety of pursuits, forced to deal in
historical absolutes: What type of firearm would so-and-so have
most likely carried at such-and-such a time? How was it made?
What was it capable of? How did he make it work, and what was
the jargon he would have used? What type of drill was required
to fire a certain type of artillery piece at a given time by a
particular army? These are the questions I had to answer.
I've always enjoyed writing, but my early attempts were
always either purely historical, or a variety of carefully
researched historical fiction. The question I had was, how can I
combine many of my various interests into one, single pursuit? I
am a (probably) rare species of historian who will readily admit
I sometimes ask myself "What if?" so the answer was obvious:
science fiction/fantasy, with a heavy dose of history. Why I
chose the time period I did, (early WWII,) is still sort of a
mystery to me. It is not the period I am best at. Perhaps it was
the lure of more challenging research, or maybe it was the
influence of my parents, who remember the period well. Maybe it
was the ships.
About a fifteen years ago, a good friend named Tom Postulka,
gave me a well-worn copy of
United States Destroyer Operations in World War II, by
Theodore Roscoe. Ironically, Tom was a submariner, (probably why
he was willing to part with the book,) but he used to come in my
shop and we would visit for hours, discussing our many shared
interests; history, old guns—and science fiction/fantasy. Tom
has been gone for about a decade now, and I miss him a lot, but
I still have the book he gave me. It is an excellent, inspiring
read and I highly recommend it, but the part that resonated most
with me was the section concerning the odyssey of the
Asiatic Fleet and the old "four-stacker" destroyers that
comprised the bulk of its surface component.
The flush-deck four-stacker destroyers depicted in the
Destroyermen series were rakish, bold-looking little ships, but
they would be virtually unrecognizable as destroyers today.
Built during, and shortly after WWI, few were still recognized,
or even designated, as destroyers anymore by the time WWII
began. The term "destroyer" is actually a derivation of the
designation "Torpedo Boat Destroyer," and that's what destroyers
were originally intended to do: Screen battleships and cruisers
and destroy torpedo boats and their "unsportsmanlike" torpedoes,
before they could get close enough to harm anything important.
It's ironic then, that the primary armament of the early
American destroyers was torpedoes, and the guns they were
supposed to destroy torpedo boats with were few, and relatively
light. This is testimony to the fact that, even while they were
building the first torpedo boat destroyers, the role of the
destroyer was already changing.
Even when new, four-stackers were already obsolete and
undergunned by the standards of any modern navy, but that didn't
stop almost 300 from being built. Actually, it's a good thing
there were so many because the United States didn't build nearly
enough "modern" destroyers between the wars. Many four-stackers
were used-up to the point that they literally wore out. There
were still enough left in mothballs for Roosevelt to
give/lend/lease fifty to England during WWII to use, primarily,
as convoy escorts. Others performed that duty for the United
States and Canada throughout the war. Most of these were at
least updated to some degree, to carry more and better depth
charges and anti-aircraft weapons. Many others were converted
into fast transports, seaplane tenders, minelayers, etc.
Typically however, those relegated to the comparative
"backwater" of the Asiatic Fleet toiled away with few
modifications, if any. They had no anti-aircraft capability to
speak of, no radar, and primitive sonar. With the exception of
their radios and oil-fired boilers, they were half a century out
of date. They were still fast, though—theoretically. If in top
condition, they could hold their own in a footrace with any
modern destroyer...while delivering their practically useless
torpedoes.
After Pearl Harbor, these out-dated relics and a few slightly
more modern ships, were all that stood between the Japanese and
a quick, decisive victory in the Pacific. They were
strategically sacrificed, placed as roadblocks for the Japanese
juggernaut, in hopes they might slow it just enough…and as it
turned out, they did. Even if all they accomplished was to force
the enemy to take time to destroy them, they slowed the Japanese
advance ever so slightly—but long enough to let the Allies catch
their breath.
Some few made it out, escaping to Australia with the wolves
at their heels. Some were sunk, their surviving crews enduring
the nightmare of Japanese prison camps for the rest of the war.
Some were never heard from again.
As a historian, I've always been stirred by the epic stand
against overwhelming odds. As a Texan, the Alamo probably stands
out most in my mind as an indisputable example, but there have
been others. The Spartans at
Thermopylae, the men who stuck it out at Valley Forge during
the darkest days of the American Revolution, the defenders of
Hougoumont in the center at Waterloo, the small garrison at
Rorke's Drift, the Battle of Britain, the Marines and
civilian contractors on
Wake Island, the magnificent defiance of the destroyers
attached to
Taffy 3, Doolittle's B-25's, that flew from the pitching
deck of a carrier to drop the first bombs on Tokyo. All these
are prime examples.
Perhaps less well known are the nameless men who fought to
the last on the
Bataan Peninsula, or finally broke through at Omaha beach.
The countless thousands over the years who pushed forward in the
face of withering anti-aircraft fire, sleeting machine gun
bullets, massed musketry, or the shriek of canister and grape.
And the crews of the outdated four-stackers who fought and
perished alone, surrounded by enemies, overwhelmed and forgotten
even by history.
Of the various "stands" I have cited, not all resulted in
utter annihilation, and the motives of the participants were not
all the same. Some knew they were doomed and chose to stay,
others were just following orders, but the ultimate similarity
is that they did their duty, as they saw it, regardless of the
cost. One such "stand," largely ignored, is the one made by the
U.S. Asiatic Fleet and the ABDAFLOAT Allies.
I was drawn to this footnote of history by the drama,
tragedy, and apparent sheer chaos of it all. Picture a wild
"mish-mash" of decrepit relics from various countries and
another age, armed only with criminally faulty ammunition and
torpedoes. Add to the list an almost total lack of air cover,
different languages and naval doctrines, no support, few spare
parts, and little hope they would ever be relieved. Place this
force in the path of the most powerful and modern navy in the
world, and you have what almost seems the storyline for a novel,
rather than recorded history.
A story began to evolve in my head that just wouldn't go
away. A story that would encompass many of my diverse interests.
I had to write it, but I had to write it about the people.
Destroyermen in general were often considered some of the most
resourceful men in the Navy, and those assigned to the long
neglected Asiatic Fleet would have, of necessity, been doubly
so. Destroyermen were also fiercely devoted to their "little
ships" and again, those in the Asiatic Fleet often formed much
longer—and deeper attachments. It might have been a love-hate
relationship because of the vessel's condition, but in many
cases, the ships were not just their duty stations, they were
their homes.
I imagined the effect something like the ordeal the Asiatic
Fleet endured would have on those involved, then imagined what
it would be like for them when, or if, they emerged.
Particularly if they emerged on another world. In those days,
surface actions were mainly line-of-sight affairs. One had to
see a target to hit it. Radar existed, but only one ship in the
Asiatic Fleet had it, and it had been sent away for repairs.
Just as in the days of sail, it was not uncommon for ships to
seek refuge from their enemies in a squall. But what is a
squall?
I have seen squalls that were simply rainstorms, marching
across the sea or countryside. The leading edge might be
intense, but after that, it's only rain. Even that type of
squall might aid a ship on the run; spotting planes couldn't see
them through rain-lashed canopies, their outlines would be
blurred, at least, in the range-finders and sights of an enemy
ship. I've seen other squalls however, that when they overwhelm
you, you can barely breathe. It's as if your boat has capsized
and you are utterly disoriented...as if you've entered another
world, where everything you've known—sunlight, sky, air—has
ceased to exist.
It was only a short leap to associating my fascination with
four-stackers and the heroic stand of the Asiatic Fleet, with
whatever world might lay beyond such a squall. Such a world had
to be at least as frightening and disorienting as the squall
itself. Perhaps a different earth—but not completely different.
That might be even harder to accept, in a way. Ordinarily, in
stories involving an alternate universe, the differences between
the "other" world and this one range from subtle: an
acquaintance's eyes are green instead of brown, to overwhelming:
magic is commonplace, and laws of physics and nature have no
meaning. I find virtually anyone's vision of an alternate
universe, history, or reality, highly entertaining. In this
instance, my vision for an alternate earth is exactly the same
as ours—except for that cataclysmic event that occurred 65
million years ago. That's the obvious diversion point.
That plus 65 million years of further, un-interrupted evolution
(except for natural phenomena) have left a world that is
poignantly familiar (in some ways) to the destroyermen who pass
through the squall; and traumatically, wildly, different in
other ways. How the destroyermen cope with these similarities
and differences is the essence of the Destroyermen series.
—Taylor Anderson
