A CODE FOR TOMORROW: A Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 2)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  He paused as another two officers signaled for seconds.

  “People ask me why we did that. Why we just didn’t give up.”

  No one looked at him.

  “Well. I was skipper of a minesweeper, the U.S.S. Pelican. With very little fuel we had been stranded at anchor off Corregidor, since last December.”

  They ate and ate and ate.

  “Here's why we decided to escape. On the tide, many corpses floated past my ship over those weeks and months. Some were Army, some were Marine. A few Navy. Many Filipinos. A lot of them had their hands tied behind their backs. Many were without heads.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  9 August, 1942

  U. S. Federal Building

  San Francisco, California

  They stopped eating, forks poised midway. Sutherland pushed his plate aside. “I don’t think that’s funny, Sailor.”

  “Nor do I, General,” said Ingram.

  Sutherland waved his hands in frustration.

  Ingram said, “Your aide, Major DeWitt, can confirm this. He was on the trip with us.”

  “I know what Major DeWitt did, Lieutenant,” said Sutherland. “It was Major DeWitt who suggested you speak to us. As far as what happened at Corregidor, don’t forget I was there, too.”

  “You jumped ship with Doug,” said Mott, referring to General Douglas MacArthur’s escape from Corregidor by PT-boat on March 11, 1942.

  Sutherland shot to his feet, “Damnit! I don’t have to put up with--”

  Spruance rapped his knuckles. “Gentlemen! Please remember Lieutenant Ingram has the floor.”

  Sutherland and Mott glared at each other then slowly sat. Mott turned, “Sorry, son. We’ve been at it for two days now, and there is a lot of ground to cover.” He swept an arm around the table. “All of us here admire your bravery. We’re happy you’ve returned to set an example for others who must face what you’ve gone through.”

  Ingram paused for a moment. “I have a confession, General.”

  Mott scooped up the last of his peas and nodded. Go ahead.

  “I didn’t feel brave. I was just doing my job.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” said Mott.

  “As a matter of fact I was scared to death. I really--”

  Spruance said, “Nobody expects you to come out with a smile on your face, Lieutenant. War is a dirty business--like General Sherman said, ‘War begins when the music stops playing.’“

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Spruance snapped his fingers, “I remember you. Wasn’t it in the elevator this morning? With the kid who’s going to strike for radioman?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Spruance gave a tiny smile. “Well, I was scared. How about you?”

  “Out of my pants, Admiral.” They all laughed.

  Spruance checked his watch. “We’re almost out of time, Lieutenant. Please forgive me, but I’d like to cut to the quick.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Ingram put his notes down.

  “I’m interested in what you have to say about the Jap fighting capability.”

  Ingram rubbed his chin, thinking Spruance would have heard a ton of comments from the pilots who flew at Midway. Why me? “Well, Sir. We were on the receiving end most of the time. Either Jap artillery or their Air Force.”

  “Tell us about the Naval air.”

  “Well, they bombed the Rock, too. And they finally got us off Caballo. A string of bombs ran right down the Island and into our engine room.”

  “Ummm,” From an aide, Spruance retrieved a paper stamped TOP SECRET in large block red letters. He examined it for a moment then looked up. “Have you ever seen a Japanese torpedo?”

  “No, Sir. Except...”

  “Except what?” Prompted Falkenberg.

  “Our own torpedoes,” Ingram said tentatively.

  They sighed. Spruance prompted, “Go on.”

  “A couple of weeks before we escaped, I took a launch out to meet one of our submarines off Corregidor: The Wolfish.”

  They all looked at the floor for a moment knowing the Wolffish was later sunk near the Surigao strait. Ingram went on. “For a few minutes I talked to Foggy Sutcliff, her engineering officer. We were at the Naval Academy together. He told me their torpedoes were no good. Duds, he said. Apparently they fired three point-blank at an anchored cruiser and they didn’t go off. Jap destroyers followed the torpedo tracks and held them down for eleven hours with depth charges.”

  Nobody spoke. A little breeze stirred an auditorium drape. With a glance to Spruance, Falkenberg prompted, “Anything else? From the Japanese, I mean?”

  “Bombs. Lots of them.”

  “How was their performance?” Spruance asked.

  “Very accurate. Of course, they were unopposed. But then...”

  “But what?” asked a thin, hollow-eyed Army Air Force General.

  “...well, Sir. They were very predictable, always flying in tight, three-plane vee elements that never varied. Likewise, those elements flew in a tight, three vee formation--nine planes in all. They always held their place, even when another was blown out of the sky. They were easy to track. Sometimes they got cocky and came in too low. We got one that way--a Betty. We held our fire until they were directly overhead. Then we let ‘em have it.”

  Spruance tried again. “I see. But no torpedoes?”

  “No, Sir. Sorry.”

  Spruance asked, “Your action report said you were at close quarters with a destroyer?”

  Ingram pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remember. “Well, that's true. It was the second night of our escape. She was a Japanese destroyer, Hubuki class I believe, patrolling off Fortune Island. She nearly ran us down. We were able to spin inside her turning radius and lose her in the dark.”

  “Nothing else?”

  Ingram wondered what they were fishing for. “Not that I can recall, Admiral.”

  Spruance nodded to the Navy captain who spoken before. His name plate read Captain Falkenberg. “Did you engage her, Mr. Ingram?”

  “Engage?”

  “Like open fire?” said Falkenberg.

  “Well, er, yessir. We had a couple of BARs, a rifle or two. Popguns, really. They caught us with a searchlight and opened up on us with small stuff. Twenty millimeter, I think. So...we returned fire. Right into their pilot house. Now that I remember, we doused their searchlight with the BAR. That’s how we got away.”

  “How close were you?”

  “Ummm, fifty, seventy-five yards.”

  “Amazing.” Falkenberg strapped on a pair of reading glasses and shuffled through papers. “Ah,” he looked over his glasses. “I have permission to share with you a fleet intelligence report. The destroyer you engaged was indeed a Hubuki class. Her name is the Kurosio and her skipper is,” Falkenberg flipped to another paper, “Yes, here it is...Lieutenant Commander Katsumi Fujimoto.”

  Ingram blinked at Falkenberg. How the hell does he know all this?

  Falkenberg looked at Ingram over his glasses. “ Do you know what Kurosio means, Lieutenant?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Black Tide, Lieutenant.” He scratched his head and continued. “Actually, Fujimoto went from the penthouse to the outhouse because of you. He was born to the purple, so to speak, to a three-generation Navy family. His father sailed victoriously with Yamamoto at the Battle of Tsushima Straits. Fujimoto went to Etajima Naval Academy and sailed through the junior ranks as favorite son with a promising future. Up until last February, he was Aide to General Yoshitsugu Tatekawa, Japan’s Ambassador to the Soviet Union. Then, it was time for his own command, so they gave him the Kurosio. But your gunfire put the Kurosio out of commission for three weeks. It also says she ran aground but that’s not confirmed. All this earned Fujimoto a letter of reprimand and I suppose, shame and embarrassment. Now, they got him on dog duty, running a repair barge and code station in Northern Mindanao. So watch out. Your Lieutenant Commander Fujimoto is one pissed-off sailor.”

  A few chuckled.

&nbs
p; Ingram said, “It’s my turn to be amazed, Captain, at how you know all this.”

  Falkenberg sat back, poker faced.

  The rear door opened and DeWitt stepped in with another figure in tow. He walked with a limp.

  Spruance eyed them on their way down the aisle. “Could you cover that chart, Lieutenant?”

  Ingram turned around to the SOLOMON ISLANDS chart; the upper left and lower right-hand corners bore the legend TOP SECRET in red. As he reached to flip the blanket, he couldn’t help but see several ships’ tracks plotted. They converged around Savo Island and at least four tracks ended abruptly with a cross. Just as the blanket rumpled over he caught two of the crossed names: Vincennes and Canberra.

  Spruance asked, “What’s your duty station now, Lieutenant?”

  “U.S.S. Tingey, Admiral. New Fletcher class can under construction at Bethlehem Shipyard.”

  “And your billet?”

  “Exec.”

  Spruance nodded. “Good. Very good. Thank you for your time. We appreciate your help. Major DeWitt will take care of you.”

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you.” Ingram headed toward the steps.

  Spruance said, “Lieutenant Ingram.”

  He stopped. “Yes, Sir?”

  “You’re being recommended for the Navy Cross.”

  My God. Give it to the guys that are still out there. “Thank you, Sir. I really appreciate it.”

  As Admirals and Generals finished lunch, Ingram walked down the steps and found DeWitt standing beside another officer, a foreigner, wearing a well-tailored dress-blue uniform with two stripes. Fair complected, he had a square face, dark red hair combed straight back, and he leaned on a polished mahogany cane, his combination cap tucked under his arm.

  DeWitt held out his hand. “Congratulations, Todd.”

  Ingram took it. “You should have one too, Otis. Everybody should. After all--”

  “Nonsense. You’re the one who brought it off.” Then he glanced at the stage. “I’ll give them another minute or two. Here, Lieutenant Ingram, say hello to Lieutenant Eduard Dezhnev of the Soviet Navy.”

  “A Russian? I mean a Soviet? Welcome.” They shook.

  Dezhnev spoke in his clear baritone, “Soviet, yes. But Russian, no. I’m from Georgia.”

  Ingram tried to place Soviet Georgia on the map but gave up. “What brings you here? My God, your English is better than mine.”

  Dezhnev smiled easily, “Thanks. I’m assigned here as an assistant Naval Attaché. And please let me add my congratulations on your Navy Cross.”

  “It’s only been recommended.”

  “Nonsense. If Spruance recommends it, you’re decorated.” DeWitt spread his hands and looked toward the sky. “Turn on the searchlights, Hollywood. Here comes Ingram.”

  “No thanks,” Ingram protested.

  Spruance looked down and gave DeWitt a nod.

  DeWitt waved a hand toward the stage. “Okay, Lieutenant Dezhnev. You’re on.”

  “Spasibo.” Thank you.

  As Dezhnev hobbled up the steps, DeWitt asked, “Want to stick around? You might find it interesting.”

  “Okay,” Ingram took a seat next to DeWitt. “Say, how ‘bout dinner? Ollie’s in town.”

  DeWitt whispered, “Tied up ‘til next Monday.”

  “Monday it is then.”

  On stage, Falkenberg began the afternoon program by introducing Dezhnev.

  DeWitt whispered, “You don’t really want to get drunk, do you?”

  “Keep a secret?”

  DeWitt nodded.

  Ingram whispered, “Still have no tolerance for the stuff. I pass out at the sniff of a wine cork.”

  “I’ll be damned. Me too. Okay, you’re on. You mind if the Russian comes along? I’m his watchdog for a while.”

  “Sure.” Ingram sat back to watch Dezhnev step before the blackboard.

  Ingram was surprised at how relaxed Dezhnev was. With a great command of English, he quickly summarized the status of the Soviet Union’s fight against Hitler which he repeatedly referred to as ‘The Great Patriotic War.’ Then, after waiting for a good five seconds, he went into detail about Marshall Zhukov's plan to form a line along the River Don with hopes of throwing back the Nazi advance in the South, stemming their thrust for the oil fields in the Caucasus. If successful, Premier Stalin and Marshall Zhukov believed the Great Soviet Armies could go on the offensive and wipe out the vermin on their soil. But this could only be accomplished if the Allies opened a second front in Europe.

  Someone sat in the row behind Ingram and tapped him on the shoulder. “Sir?”

  He turned to find the elevator operator--Babcock. Close up, the seaman apprentice seemed even younger. Ingram raised his eyebrows.

  Babcock whispered, “I’m glad I found you. The chief didn’t believe me.”

  “Believe what?”

  “That the Admiral recommended me for radio school.” Babcock plopped a sheaf of papers on Ingram’s shoulder.

  Ingram took them, astounded to find a freshly typed set of orders detaching Seaman Apprentice Earl (n) Babcock from the Twelfth Naval District Services Command to Fleet Radio School in San Diego. At the bottom was an illegible scrawl by a chief boatswain’s mate. Beneath that, was an endorsement section calling for the signature of ‘Raymond A. Spruance, Rear Admiral, USN.’

  “How’d you get this done so fast?”

  “We’re self-contained here and the yeoman is a buddy of mine. So he typed the orders up for me. Er, in fact, he wants out, too.”

  Looking from side to side, Babcock leaned closer. “My chief thinks it's all B.S., Sir. Dares me to get ‘em signed by the Admiral.”

  The people on stage heard Babcock and turned their heads momentarily. Dezhnev too. He cast his eyes at him but kept talking.

  DeWitt leaned over and hissed, “What the hell is this?”

  Ingram held up a hand. “I’m not your CO, Babcock.”

  Babcock leaned close, his voice desperate, “Sir, please help me. The chief, well, his last duty station was the Bremerton Stockade. He’s a sadist----a real jerk. It’s hell working for him, Sir. I’d rather fight Japs.”

  DeWitt glared at Ingram. “Get him out of here or I’ll tell that Marine to stuff him down a manhole.”

  In frustration, Ingram grabbed the orders. “Wait back there.”

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” Babcock walked quickly to the back of the auditorium and took a seat.

  Dezhnev was winding up. “...as to the B-25 crew from your Tokyo Raid who landed in Vladivostok. They are in good health and spirits and send their love to their countrymen and families. My government regrets that we must intern them for the war’s duration since we are a neutral to your Pacific conflict. One of which,” he spoke sotto vocé, “We commiserate with you mightily.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Mott.

  Dezhnev braced himself on his cane. “There is a saying in my country that goes: men with clenched fists cannot make friends. Thus we hope you’ll understand that while we are engaged in mortal combat against Hitler’s thugs, who daily slaughter thousands of our civilians, that we may seem unresponsive at times, even insensitive. But I want you to know that the people of the Soviet Union do appreciate what the United States is doing for us. You are our friends and we hope you’ll forgive us just a little for our preoccupation until our final victory. Thank you.”

  Dezhnev gave a perfect bow as the men at the table clapped.

  Spruance said, “Ten minutes for head-call, gentlemen.”

  “Damn it all. Why don’t you just call it a latrine?” protested Sutherland, scraping back in his chair.

  Falkenberg zipped down the steps and headed up the aisle.

  “Captain,” Ingram called.

  Falkenberg stopped, his eyebrows raised.

  “You’re not going to believe this Sir, but...” Ingram told Falkenberg about the morning’s elevator incident.

  Falkenberg rubbed his chin for a moment. “Why not? The kid has balls coming in here.”
He grabbed Babcock’s orders and took them up the steps to Spruance who was talking to Mott and Sutherland. While waiting, Ingram turned to see Babcock still in the back, sitting on the edge of his chair and twisting his white hat in his hands. Then his face broke into a broad smile. Ingram spun to see Spruance take the orders, prop them on the table, sign them and hand them back to Falkenberg. With a nod to Ingram, he rejoined his conversation with Mott and Sutherland.

  Babcock rose from his seat, the smile on his face even broader. But then he slipped and fell, bumping his forehead. Seconds later, he scrambled to his feet and ran down the aisle. “Sir,” Babcock puffed to Ingram. “I can’t tell you what this means to me.”

  “Not at all. Good luck. Say, looks like you cut your forehead. Better have it looked at.”

  Babcock held out his hand. “So damned happy to be getting out of this hell hole. Thanks again.”

  Ingram shook it. “Not at all. You better stop by the head. That thing’s bleeding.”

  Babcock grinned, “It’s worth it.” He waved and mouthed ‘thank you’ trying to get Spruance’s attention. But the Admiral was still talking to General Mott and ignored him.

  DeWitt growled, “Get moving, Babcock.”

  “Ye--yes, Sir.” Babcock spun and dashed for the door.

  Just then the lights went out. The men instantly turned into vague shadows.

  There was a collective groan. “Who's keeping score?” someone grumbled.

  Spruance’s voice rang through the auditorium, “We need you back in the elevators, Babcock.”

  Babcock’s voice echoed back, “Sorry, Admiral. I’m a radioman, now.”

  A roar of laughter followed Babcock as he blasted through the doors.

  CHFPTER SIX

  19 August, 1942

  U. S. Federal Building

  San Francisco, California

  A buzzer howled. The Marine sergeant stepped into the auditorium waving a battle lantern and bellowed, “They just called up, gentlemen, with orders to evacuate. If you will follow me to the fire exit, please?”

  “What about our classified stuff?” asked Falkenberg. “There’s more than we can carry.”