“Captain, I--”
“Listen to me, damnit. This business back aft doesn’t sound good. Damage control reports are sporadic. Sick Bay is off the line. So is the aft torpedo mount. We had a fire in the after deckhouse but it’s out. Do you have contact with Mount fifty-three?”
Ingram shook his head. “Nor the aft torpedo mount. Uh, captain?”
“What?”
“What about the Japs?”
“We’re disengaged. Looks like Admiral Scott’s given them enough for one evening.”
“Well, then. You sure we can’t help the Riley?”
“No, damnit.” Landa’s voice became hard. “Turn it over to Wilson. Go aft. Assess damage. Figure out what’s happening then get back here on the double. Don’t hang around; come right back.”
“Yessir.” He stood and took off his headphones.
Seltzer groaned and heaved himself to a sitting position.
“You okay?”
“Think so.” The second class bo’s’n rubbed his head, blood running down his face.
“Ingram?” Landa said.
Ingram straightened. “On the way, Sir. But I think Seltzer needs a corpsman.”
“We’ll send one up.”
Ingram gave a thumbs up to Wilson and was quickly down two ladders to the 01 deck, making his way aft. He passed the number one torpedo mount, the bare-chested crew silently watching, their faces running with sweat, their gaunt eyes reptilian under their helmets. But with satisfaction, Ingram noted the tubes were empty. “Looks bad back there, Sir,” one said.
He passed the aft stack and sucked in his breath. The water-tank shaped blast shield on the aft torpedo mount looked as if a cosmic scythe had hacked it open. Bodies, once young living beings, lay about in bloody disarray.
Slowly, Ingram walked further aft, finding dark shadows staggering around Mount fifty-three. He recognized Lavrey, a shipfitter first class, who was in charge of the repair party. He’d been the poker king aboard the Howell. But the day before Ingram reported, Lavrey was busted from chief for running high-stakes games in the after engineroom. “What's happened?”
Lavrey’s helmet was off, his face ran with sweat and his eyes were open wide as if propped with matchsticks. His adam’s apple bounced. “Took a round head-on through the mount, Sir. Didn’t blow up and the sonofabitch exited out the back.” Lavrey gulped. “But shit. It looks like a hamburger grinder in there. They’re all dead.”
“No.”
“Yessir. Monaghan’s in there now, just to make sure.”
Just then, a short, dark haired stocky sailor with a pug nose climbed out of the hatch dropped to the deck and leaned against the gunmount. His face was white and he was obviously trying to hold it in. He was the ship’s leading medical technician; the closest they had to a doctor. Lavrey walked over, put his hand on the sailor’s shoulder. “What’s the matter, Bucky, too much pink for you?”
The man whipped around, his fist chopping away Lavrey’s hand. “I can’t help them,” he yelled. “They’re...they’re like...” His lip quivered.
Lavrey drew a face. “Oh gee, doctor. We’re sorry to take you from the comfort of a stateside hospital. And we thought you was full of miracles.”
“Shut up.”
Ingram stepped over. “Leave him, Lavrey. You sure, Monaghan?”
“Like butchered cattle.”
“Okay. Go forward to the torpedo mount. See what you can do there.”
“Yes, Sir.” With a cold stare at Lavrey, Monaghan, disappeared into the gloom.
My God. Eight men gone, just like that, Ingram thought. Another five killed on the torpedo mount. He looked up, seeing mount fifty-three's 4,000 pound gun barrel bent almost straight up. Beside it, an enormous hole, eight or so inches in diameter, had been punched through the turret’s face. The rest of the mount was filled with puncture holes, some the size of baseballs.
“How about the handling room?” Ingram referred to a space just below the gun mount where ammunition was received from the magazine, deep below the water line.
“One dead. The rest are okay. They had a fire and put it out before we got there.”
“Lucky.”
“I’ll tell ya. One of them powder cases goes up and ‘whump.’“ Lavrey’s hands wiggled out an explosion. Then he yelled, “Hopkins, Thomas! Get in there and make sure the mount is secure.”
Two men climbed a ladder from the main deck hauling a large tool box.
“Lavrey, the captain needs a status report,” Ingram said. “Find a place to plug in and tell the bridge what’s happening.”
“Yes, Sir.” Lavrey turned to look for a sound-powered phone outlet.
Ingram walked a few paces forward, but then stopped. His mind raged, you must go back there and look inside mount fifty-three. You owe it to them. Then a wave of nausea swept over him as he thought about Monaghan: I can’t. I just can’t.
He leaned against a stanchion listening to the ship around him, the whine of air whistling through her uptakes like breath on the wind; the hiss of water foaming alongside, the luminescence casting a soft glow. Right now, he was alive, the ship, the sea making him feel, whole, almost giddy. And the Howell felt alive, too, as she rolled through moderate waves. The sky was clear now and he looked up to see the Southern Cross; but he couldn’t find it among all the sky’s shimmering brilliance.
He took a deep breath relishing that the Howell was a living being, her engines breathing oxygen, her hydraulics coursing, as it were, with blood, her crew giving her spirit and character and purpose.
Except, he knew as he leaned on the lifelines and looked aft toward mount fifty-three, that he had to go back there. To force himself to look inside the gun mount to pay his respects to those lifeless lumps of flesh and blood; those poor souls who were, until a few minutes ago, talking, laughing men most of whom had yet to shed their boy’s bodies. Would Landa look in there? Probably. Anyone else? Did it matter?
Okay.
He walked aft to the hatch, but had to wait as Thomas and Hopkins scrambled in, shoving in a toolbox. Thomas clicked on a battle lantern. “Wheeeow.”
Ingram looked in knowing the image would stay locked in his mind for the rest of his life. It was as if someone had spun furiously inside, like an ice-skater, spewing a bucket of thick red paint, letting it splatter everywhere. Bodies, parts of bodies, chunks of flesh were heaped on the deck, or hung from fittings and hydraulic lines. The two sailors slipped on the bloody deck and seeking foot-holds, booted the carcasses aside. Hopkins yelled, “Holy shit!”
Ingram leaned in further.
“Here, goddamnit. Uh, sorry, Sir.” Hopkins grimly handed a five-inch projectile out the hatch, committing it to Ingram, as if it were the devil’s own Hope Diamond.
Ingram sucked in his breath. No time for protocol. He took the fifty-four pound projectile, grunted and passed it to Lavrey.
With a mighty growl, Lavrey heaved it into space. It cleared the main deck by five feet and plopped into the ocean.
“Sonofabitch,” Ingram said.
Lavrey shrugged, then nodded at Mount fifty-three's hatch.
Hopkins stood there with a blood-streaked brass powder case: Only twenty-seven pounds this time. Ingram passed that to Lavrey, who once again gave a great heave, sending it to the bottom of the New Georgia Sound.
Ingram called inside, “That it?”
Hopkins was retching. It took a minute, then his voice echoed weakly, “Breech open, all clear, Sir.”
“You okay?” Ingram asked.
“We’ll be fine, Sir.”
Ingram turned to Lavrey. “Good toss.” The lateral distance to the outboard side of the main deck was at least ten feet.
“High school shot-putter, Sir.”
“Get a gunner in there to make sure the electrical circuits are secure.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Ingram turned and walked forward. Just then the ship wallowed in a swell, and he steadied himself on the outboard torpedo tube. A shirtles
s man was slumped over the tube, a large Chinese dragon tattooed on his bare right shoulder, Ingram knew it belonged to Ketchum, a torpedoman second class who had served in the Asiatic Fleet before war broke out. A real China sailor, Ketchum boasted of all the whores he knew from Shanghai to Singapore.
“Ketchum?” Gently, Ingram reached up and poked at the torpedoman’s shoulder.
Ketchum rolled over, and fell backwards atop the tube, his chest ripped open from navel to neck, lifeless eyes staring at the sky. Ingram quickly turned, grappled for the life line, and vomited with an urgency he never knew possible.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
13 October, 1942
U.S.S. Zeilin (APA 3)
Tulagi Harbor. Solomon Islands
Ingram jumped off the whale boat and onto the Zeilin’s gangway. Standing under a searing noon sun, he looked back to Seltzer, perched in the stern sheets, tiller between his legs, a grin on his face.
“I'll be about an hour,” Ingram said. “Make the PT boat dock, pick up our mail and come right back.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. Okay if we look into town? Maybe get some chow?”
Ingram shrugged. “Don't see why not. Just be back here in an hour. And no booze.” A rumor had reached him that a working still was aboard the Howell. The chief master at arms was trying to put the finger on Seltzer.
“One hour, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” Seltzer checked his wristwatch. “Right here at thirteen thirty, Sir. Let's hope we get some mail this time.” The Howell hadn't had a letter since they'd left Noumea, two weeks ago.
Seltzer rang the bell. Dudley, a stocky engineer sitting amidships, fed in throttle, while Travillion, standing on the foredeck, pushed away the bow. Soon, the twenty-six foot motorwhale boat ambled toward a ramshackle pier that extended into the bay. Seltzer didn't have to go far. The Howell lay anchored five hundred yards away, licking her wounds amidst a yellow, humid haze.
A figure-eight shaped island, Tulagi lay fifteen miles north of Guadalcanal with a fine anchorage jammed with craft of all sorts, from destroyers, to cargo and attack transports, oilers and other supply vessels. All maintained a head of steam for a quick exit, in case the Japanese sprung another one of their frequent air-aids.
The 12,700 ton Zeilin, once the luxury liner President Jackson of the American President Line, now converted to an attack transport, had just landed marines on Guadalcanal and Tulagi. Painted in dappled greens and grays, she swung at anchor, offloading her cargo and taking aboard wounded Marines shot-up from intense fighting ashore.
Ingram’s shirt, clean and dry when he had boarded at the bottom of the gangway, was drenched with sweat when he reached the top. He saluted the fantail and the officer of the deck. “Permission to come aboard?”
A redheaded ensign replied, “Granted.” When Ingram stepped aboard he asked, “May I help you, Sir?”
Moving under the welcome shade of a canvas awning, Ingram inquired, “Survivors from the Riley? I understand you have some here.”
The ensign’s chin was covered with stubble and his shirt looked worse than Ingram’s, almost as if he’d just jumped in the water. His shoes had the green tinge of jungle rot. He ran a hand over his jaw, his voice an odd baritone. “Don’t know, Sir. I know we took some people aboard last night. You’re welcome to check in sickbay.”
“How do I get there?”
He pointed with a scrawny arm. “Take that companionway down to the second deck. It’s forward, on the starboard side.”
Ingram scrambled down the ladder, edging past tired looking marines and ships personnel. The interior was drab, much of the metal surfaces bare, including the decks. This was in response to a recent ALNAV ordering ships to strip interior flammables, which included wood trim and paneling, paint, and deck coverings such as teak or linoleum. The Navy had learned the hard way: Pearl Harbor, Coral Sea, Midway and recently, Savo Island. Niceties cost lives and ships.
Reaching the second deck, the combined odors of alcohol and Lysol leaped into his nostrils. He followed his nose, eventually stepping through a large hatchway, finding a compartment painted in a dazzling white, with decks of polished green linoleum, almost in defiance of the ALNAV. It was as if the doctors had said, ‘Damn your restrictions, this is a hospital and we’re keeping our paint and linoleum.’
It was hot and stuffy even with the vent and exhaust fans roaring at full speed in a frantic effort to exchange the air. But other odors lingered that Ingram recognized from his days in Corregidor’s tunnels: that of human sweat, putrefying flesh, and the stark odor of fear and resignation. He stopped before a man in tee shirt and white trousers seated at a small metal desk. He had thin sandy hair. ‘J. Prentice’ was stamped on a Bakelite name plate. He was a pharmacist’s mate, dubbed shanker mechanics because of their ruthless treatment of crabs, gonorrhea, and other venereal diseases. “Help you, Sir?”
God, it’s hot. “Looking for a survivor off the Riley. Toliver, Lieutenant jay gee. Is he here?” Ingram loosened two buttons off his front shirt and checked the overhead for the nearest vent blower. It figured. Prentice was seated right beneath the duct which blew so hard it ruffled papers on his desk.
“Ummm. Oliver. Oliver.” Prentice ran his fingers down a list. “Sorry, Sir. We--”
“Toliver with a ‘T.’“ Ingram yearned to stand under that duct. But Prentice was comfortably seated directly under it. Immovable.
“Yes, Sir. Toliver. Ah, yeah.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Aisle thirty-one, bunk one-oh-five, starboard side.”
“Thanks.”
“Excuse me, Sir. But are you a doctor?”
“Friend.”
“What ship, Sir?”
“Howell.”
Prentice pursed his lips for a moment. “Howell, Howell. “ He snapped his fingers and grinned. “Bucky Monaghan’s ship?”
“That’s it.”
Prentice laughed.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, Sir. It’s just that...” He returned to the medical chart still chuckling.
Curiosity got the better of Ingram. “Come on, Sailor.”
“How long you been on the Howell, Sir?”
“About ten days.”
“Ahh.” Prentice looked both ways. “Well, Sir. This guy Monaghan is supposed to be a real lady killer. A shanker mechanic’s shanker mechanic, you know what I mean?”
“Frankly, no.”
“He was a third year medical student at University of Chicago. They kicked him out when he knocked up a doctor’s daughter. Turned into a drunk. I heard he ended up on the Howell.”
Ingram leaned on the desk with his fists. “Well, what about him?”
“A real screw off. I heard...” Prentice found a chart and examined it, flipping pages, “I dunno, Sir. This says visitors are restricted.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Well...”
Another man, wearing white surgeon’s scrubs stepped up, dropped his mask. “Prentice. Can you help us pull the Marine out of post-op and get him into a bunk?” He drew a handkerchief and dabbed sweat from his brow, then effortlessly pushed Prentice’s chair easing him from under the vent blower.
Prentice struggled with his composure. “Yes, doctor. Uhh, this officer here, wants to see a patient.” He pointed to a list.
The doctor whipped his cap and gown off and stood under the vent. With a smile, he luxuriated in the air-blast for a full ten seconds then grinned, “Ahhh. Best thing in the South Pacific. Now if they can only figure out a way to cure crotch itch.” The doctor was stocky, large boned with a broad face and clear blue eyes. A name tag read ‘W. M. Gobbell, MD, LT., USN (MC).’
Ingram seconded that. He’d only been in the tropics for a few days and already was scratching constantly, his groin and armpits broken out with a rash. And his socks and underwear were turning a putrid green just like that ensign’s shoes topside.
The doctor glanced at Prentice, “You have a chart?”
Prentice reached in a metal tub, withdrew a
clipboard and handed it over.
The doctor dabbed more sweat. “Yeah, I remember this guy. He gave Ingram a cold stare.
“Is it Serious?”
With a nod, the doctor said, “It's what we call an intertrochanteric fracture. Also he’s got--”
“A what?”
The doctor leveled his eyes to Ingram’s. “Let’s get one thing straight, sailor.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Doctors speak in words of at least ten syllables, so you can’t tell how screwed up they are.”
Prentice gave a short laugh. Ingram smiled, too.
The doctor lay down the clipboard. “If things are really bad we resort to Latin.”
“Well then, Ollie’s going to be okay?”
“No, he’s not.,”
“But , I thought...”
“Who are you?”
“Close friends. I was his CO on his last ship. We escaped from Corregidor together.”
“Ahhh. You might be just what I ordered.” The physician eased to the edge of Prentice’s desk and parked a cheek, his dark brown hair lightly ruffled by the blower. “Here it is, Mr. Ingram. Toliver has a broken hip. That’s what ‘intertrochanteric fracture’ means. Also, he’s suffered first and second degree burns on his face. Burning fuel oil on the water, I suppose, after his ship went down. It’s painful but I don’t think he’ll need skin grafts.”
“Will he...I mean--”
“No, no. He’s out of danger. Barring infection, he’ll live. The best part is that we’re shipping him to Stanford-Lane hospital in San Francisco. He needs an orthopedic surgeon to nail his hip back together. Out here, it's too dangerous to try; the most qualified people to do it are back home.”
“Oh.”
“But he’s on the restricted list because he’s in pain. He’s in traction and that’s uncomfortable as hell. And we don’t have enough morphine for everybody. There are far more serious cases here who couldn't make it without the stuff.” He waved a hand around the compartment. “Plus, we had to bandage the poor bastard’s head damn near to his mouth. So he wakes up all the time thinking he’s blind.”
A CODE FOR TOMORROW: A Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 2) Page 21