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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Kelly, a Purdue graduate with sandy hair and clear blue eyes, stood redolent in his oil-stained engineer’s coveralls. Supposed to be at parade rest, he actually teetered at a near-insubordinate stance, his face mirroring the traditional destroyer engineer’s countenance of ‘you guys ain’t going nowhere without my boilers and turbines.’ Kelly’s mouth grew into a lopsided grin, “Sorry, fellas. But you have to realize that---”

  ZZZZZSHHHHHHHHHHHHHTTTT!!!

  It was a game they played that was as old as the first steam-driven ship. Engineers versus everyone else topside: Deckforce, gunners, torpedomen, storekeepers, signalmen, the rest of the ship. Ingram had seen it many times and didn't pay attention as Kelly made his excuses. He took his time flipping through the rest of the messages. Most had to do with supply items or ship movements. But one interested him. A conference for all destroyer captains and executive officers was scheduled at 1500 that afternoon.

  “XO?” Lieutenant Dutton, standing in the first rank, raised his hand.

  “Yes, Luther.”

  “Can't we ask Mr. Kelly to knock off the crap, so we can get some real work done around here?”

  Kelly piped up. “Oh, I'm so sorry for making the ship safe for you, Luther. Next time I'll just let the safety clog, so the boiler will blow. Then you’ll see shit fly, while seven hundred degree steam carves a hole in your ass.”

  Uncharacteristically, Dutton spouted, “Shit fly? Shit fly? I've got a five-inch gun mount and a torpedo mount to repair and you're slinging shit?”

  Dutton was from Massachusetts, Kelly from Alabama. The two were as opposite socially as one could get. Yet they were good friends. Half the time, Ingram couldn't tell if they were arguing or what. He began, “Come on, you two. We don't have time for---”

  ZZZZZSHHHHHHHHHHHHHTTTT!!!

  Kelly said, “Yeah, I'm slinging shit all over your face, Luther.”

  Dutton turned and stuck out his chin. “Who says?”

  “Me! But come to think of it, you’re so ugly, I wouldn’t use your face for a shield in a shit-fight.”

  “That's enough, damnit,” said Ingram tuning to Kelly. “Who do you think you are to---”

  The quarter-deck phoned buzzed. The messenger of the watch answered it and leaned over to Ingram and said in a low voice, “It’s for you, Sir.”

  “Take a message.”

  “Sir,” said the messenger, “It’s the Captain.”

  “Oh.” Ingram jammed the phone to his ear. “XO.”

  “KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF! GODDAMNIT.” It was Landa, screaming.

  On the way to quarters this morning, Ingram noticed Landa’s cabin door was closed. And he hadn’t shown up for breakfast. Deservedly, the Captain was sleeping in. At sea, Skippers don’t get much time for rest, especially in a war zone.

  “Sir?”

  “WHO THE HELL AUTHORIZED--”

  ZZZZZSHHHHHHHHHHHHHTTTT!!!

  As the steam blasted, he checked the faces of the officers standing before him. All of them, rested, eyes gleaming; kids again, after war's somber business. They were happy to be alive, and happy to be part of the victory at Cape Esperance.

  The safety valve re-seated. A world of ugly, wrenching, ship-yard stridency became a relative atmosphere of peace and tranquility.

  “--THOSE BASTARDS TO SET SAFETIES WITHOUT MY--”

  Ingram handed the phone to Kelly. “It’s for you, Hank.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  16 October, 1942

  U.S.S. Argonne (AG 31)

  Noumea, New Caledonia

  Moored to the downtown dock in Noumea’s sweltering heat, the Argonne was headquarters for Admiral Robert L. Ghormley, Commander, South Pacific Area and South Pacific Force (SoPac). She was built in 1921, displaced 11,100 tons, and had twin turbines powered by a 6,000 horsepower plant that could drive her at fifteen and a half knots. But the Argonne’s crew muttered that she wasn’t going anywhere. They called her the “Agony Maru” and to all within earshot, claimed she was high and dry on coffee grounds; glued to the damned dock. What the old girl needed was a week at sea to exercise her machinery and to let the sharp, sea air, cleanse the tropic’s moldy stench from her compartments and passageways.

  But Admiral Ghormley was not in a mood to cruise anywhere. The man was a workaholic, wrestling with the terrible responsibility for the First Marine and Americal Divisions, now locked in deadly combat with the Japanese on Guadalcanal, 950 miles to the north. Ghormley, also responsible for the Naval Forces in the Solomons, was out-numbered and outgunned by his opponent's Navy, and thus worked twice as hard to maintain a semblance of support for the beleaguered Marines at Guadalcanal. SoPac staff and the Argonne’s crew dare not smile, lest they be seen by the Admiral, lest they be accused of slacking off. Ghormley, a classmate of Admiral Chester Nimitz, was not going to slack off. His men were locked in a death struggle, and with the Japanese beating the U.S. Navy to every punch, there was simply nothing to laugh about.

  At 1512, Landa and Ingram stepped up the Argonne’s gangway, saluted the quarterdeck and OOD, and walked quickly forward, looking for the wardroom, sweating and puffing as they went. They were late for the skipper's conference.

  “Whew!” said Landa. “I haven't been in an air conditioned space since I left the States. Ahhh.” They found a large door, pulled it open and walked down a passageway to a set of double wooden doors. A Marine corporal stood guard, dressed in helmet and clean, crisp battle fatigues, a Thompson sub-machine gun hanging over his shoulder by its strap. A small bakelite tag announced ‘wardroom.’ “Finally.” At the Marine's demanding glance, Landa said, “Landa and Ingram, U.S.S. Howell.”

  “Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.” The corporal turned and opened the door for them.

  They stepped in, finding a large compartment. A pantry was situated forward and six long tables were set up in a ‘U’ shape and covered with the traditional green baize tablecloths. There were perhaps twenty-five to thirty officers gathered on either side of the ‘U,’ with ten or so at the head table. In spite of the open ports, it was hot and stuffy, all perspired freely and fanned themselves. “Damn, no A/C.” Landa muttered.

  Everyone looked as they stepped in, the room becoming silent. Obviously, the meeting was in progress.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. So nice of you to join us.” The speaker sat at the head table. His nameplate read ‘Captain Robert A. Jessup.’ He had brown wavy hair, dark eyes and the largest set of canines Ingram had ever seen. It reminded him of a saber toothed tiger. Seated to Jessup’s left was an older man, heavily jowled, with thinning hair. Dark circles ran under his eyes, making him look as if he hadn’t slept for a week. His nameplate announced ‘Vice Admiral Robert L. Ghormley.’ and he shuffled through an enormous stack of papers, slowly shaking his head from time to time, almost oblivious to the others gathered in the compartment. A clean-shaven lieutenant in pressed work khakis stood directly behind Ghormley, handing papers over the Admiral's shoulder, retrieving them after Ghormley scrawled his signature. Other officers were seated to Ghormley’s right. One Ingram recognized as the totally bald, stocky, red-faced Captain Theodore Myszynski, the division commodore of Destroyer Squadron Twelve, who sat chewing a cigar and puffing blue smoke. Ingram hadn’t yet met Myszynski, but he and Landa complimented one another, both quick tempered. Myszynski, with an impeccable career in the surface Navy, was nicknamed Rocko and called the 'Mad Pole' behind his back. Seated to Jessup’s right was--

  “I’ll be damned,” Ingram muttered. It was General Sutherland, MacArthur’s Aide. Otis DeWitt sat to his right. Ingram smiled and waved.

  DeWitt returned the greetings with a barely perceptible nod, which Ingram recognized as his servile, brown-nosing facade, a dark habit that DeWitt had so richly cultivated in the peacetime Army.

  Landa slipped into a chair. “Sorry, Sir. The launch ran out of gas.”

  “Perhaps you should plan better, Commander,” said Jessup.

  Ingram caught a glance from DeWitt who rolled his eyes
, his face saying, ‘Don’t screw with that guy.’

  Landa grinned. “Sorry, Sir. Won’t happen again.”

  Jessup leaned forward. “What ship, Commander?”

  Landa stood and swept his gaze across the room at large, his best white toothed smile flashing, “I’m Jerry Landa, skipper of the Howell, DD 482.” He waved at Ingram, “My XO, Todd Ingram.”

  Jessup asked, “Do you make it practice of being late?

  Landa sat slowly and looked around. “Sir?”

  “Isn’t it true that you were late also when forming up with Task Group 64.2 on its way to Cape Esperance?” Snapped Jessup.

  Eyes in the room fell on Landa and Ingram. Landa said, “Ordered to Espiritu Santo, Sir, to pick up my new Exec, er, Todd Ingram here. You see, Al Stoner, my old exec got appendicitis, and we were without him for three weeks while--”

  “Very well. I suppose that’s a good enough excuse.”

  Landa sat straight up, dark blotches forming under his eyes. He muttered to Ingram, “Shore-based, back-water sonofabitch.”

  Ingram had become used to Landa’s hair-trigger temper and knew when the man was close to the edge. He wondered sometimes if Landa would ever be selected for captain. “Easy, Skipper,” he muttered softly. He patted Landa’s arm and glanced at Ghormley. The Vice Admiral seemed oblivious to what was going on around him as he studied a thick report, slowly rubbing his chin. At the other end, Sutherland smirked, DeWitt’s head was in his hands, his face tactfully masked.

  “Now that we’re all here, Gentlemen,” Jessup looked at Landa, “the purpose of this segment is to discuss--”

  “Sir?” Landa stood, shaking off Ingram's hand.

  “Xnay, Skipper,” said Ingram quietly.

  “What is it this time, Commander? By the way, is it true they call you ‘Boom Boom?’“

  “‘Boom Boom.’ Yes, Sir. Every bit of it, Sir. It started in my sophomore year at the University of Michigan. You see, I could fart louder than anybody else.”

  “What?” Jessup sat back, his mouth open.

  Ghormley looked up. Sutherland’s smirk turned to a grin, while DeWitt’s head remained in his hands slowly shaking.

  “Nobody better. You see, we had contests. I was always the loudest. And the most precise, I might add. Then, my pals gave me the great honor of placing me in charge of a term-project where we researched and recommended a fart classification system. We did a white paper and submitted it to the Atlantic Monthly under the title of The Social Impact of Flatus In The Common Man And Its Emancipatory Challenges. In it, we hypothesized ten, non-distress, categories of---.”

  Jessup found his voice. “Commander, this is not the time to---.”

  Landa’s gaze leveled on Jessup like a five-inch gun. “As far as Al Stoner goes, his appendix burst six days after we reported it. We were at sea on convoy duty and he almost died because some gold-brick right here on the Argonne delayed permission for us to bring him in.”

  The room was silent, four fans, one in each corner, buzzed back and forth, ruffling papers. The ports were all open but the day was still without wind. The men fanned themselves fervently as it grew warmer.

  “As far as the launch running out of gas, it was the Argonne’s damned launch that picked us up, not mine. We always make sure the Howell's launch is topped off with fuel at all times.”

  Ghormley looked up and tapped his pencil. “I’m sorry, son. We’re all a little on edge, here. Please sit down, Commander.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Landa sat, glaring at Jessup.

  The door opened and an ensign wearing a holstered .45 pistol stepped in, his face deeply furrowed. He walked up to Ghormley, handed him a radio flimsy, and stood at a semblance of parade rest, his eyes fixed in the distance.

  Ghormley sat back, read the message then ran a hand down his face. “Oh, my God. What are we going to do about this?” He closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded to the ensign, “No reply.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The ensign turned and left.

  Ghormley looked up as if seeing everyone for the first time. “Please, continue, Captain.”

  Jessup eyed his audience and cleared his throat. “We’re here to examine our failure at Cape Esperance, which includes a review of night tactics, radio procedure, and,” he paused, “gunnery and torpedo tactics.”

  There was a roar among the skippers. One shouted, “What the hell? How can you call sinking fourteen Jap ships a failure?”

  Myszynski, the bald division commodore barked, “Enough.”

  After they quieted, Jessup said, “Your gunnery wasn’t quite that good. With aerial reconnaissance and coast watcher's reports, we now have a more accurate picture of what happened. The results are, Gentlemen, we sank just two ships. Not fourteen.”

  “Two?” they yelled.

  “A heavy cruiser, the Furutaka and a destroyer, the Hubuki. As you know, we lost the Duncan and the Riley.”

  They sat back, unable to find words.

  “You were eleven ships: two heavy cruisers, two light cruisers, and seven destroyers against only five Japanese ships: three heavy cruisers and two destroyers.’ He folded his hands on the baize and looked around. “You had radar, gentlemen, they didn’t. You had numerical superiority and the advantage of surprise. They didn't.”

  The room was silent. Jessup continued, “We’re very concerned. The Japs outsmart us at every turn. We’re losing capital ships faster than we can replace them, and we’re down to just one carrier with another, hopefully, to soon re-join us. Whether you know it or not, the Japs own the seas at night and are replenishing their Guadalcanal garrison. This means they will soon achieve parity to our ground troops within,” he held up a document, running a finger down a column, “by November first. It just doesn’t look good.” He glanced at Sutherland.

  Sutherland confirmed it with a somber nod. “I’m sorry to say we don’t believe Guadalcanal can be held.”

  Ingram sat back, dumbstruck. Sutherland’s use of the royal ‘we’ meant that it was General MacArthur’s belief that the Solomons couldn’t be held.

  Myszynski gasped, “Why the hell did Admiral Scott tell us fourteen ships?”

  Ghormley blinked, laid down a sheaf of papers and looked up, “It was a mistake. He had bad dope. But then, don’t get us wrong. You accomplished one of the primary missions. That of turning away the Japs who were there to bombard the Marines. As you know, they've had it pretty rough the last few weeks...and the Army was able to land their troops.”

  “The worst thing is,” Jessup’s voice was a whisper, “that we were hit by some of our own ships. Can I see a show of hands of those who were hit by one of us?”

  Three skippers raised their hands.

  “Any of them dye-loaded?”

  Here it comes, Ingram thought. Toliver had mentioned a yellow dye-load that crashed through the Riley's wardroom. Ingram had to admit he was curious as anyone else as to who was shooting with yellow dye-load. Jessup was saying, “I hear the Riley, before she went down, was hit by shell with--”

  “Don’t answer that!” Roared Myszynski. “Identifying dye loads is counter-productive; I’m not about to tie a can to someone’s tail. This is not the time. I think you all performed remarkably. Yes, we lost two ships but we bloodied the Jap’s nose. Let’s take it from there.”

  “What if I order you to tell me?”

  “Bullshit!” Said Myszynski, sitting straight, his face red. But nobody looked at him, their eyes fixed on the table cloth. Each of them knew, that one look at the DESRONTWELVES’s Squadron Doctrine would tell them which dye-load colors were assigned to what ship.

  The thought must have occurred to Jessup, because he smiled. “I’m sure we can take a look at your --”

  Ghormley said, “I agree with Rocko. I don’t want to lay blame, either. So just leave it be. That won’t do any good. But I do want to adjust our night tactics so we’re not doing the Jap’s work for them.”

  Jessup didn’t give up and turned to Ghormley. “I realize th
at Admiral. But if it hadn’t been for friendly fire, the Riley would be here among us. We lost a brand new ship and three hundred American boys.”

  Ghormley shrugged. “I don’t know. Pointing the finger isn’t going to--”

  The door opened announcing the return of the duty ensign from radio central. All fell silent as he walked up to Admiral Ghormley and handed him another message.

  Ghormley signed for it, then sat back to read it. Soon, he let out a sigh, “Oh, my God.”

  “Sir?” The ensign stood at attention, his eyes fixed in the distance.

  ‘No. No.” Ghormley’s voice was faint. He shook his head as he stared at the flimsy. At length, he waved the back of his hand to the ensign. “Go.”

  The ensign walked out, closing the door softly.

  Jessup looked at Ghormley, then at the assembled officers. “Well, I agree dwelling on the culprit isn’t going to accomplish anything. I only wanted to underscore that the Riley would be here if--”

  Ingram stood. All eyes focused on him.

  Jessup eyed him warily. “Well, Lieutenant, ahhh...”

  “Ingram, Captain.” He took a deep breath, realizing he could well be jumping in the same boat with Landa, committing career suicide. A hold-over from the peace-time Navy psyche was that one never argued with a superior in the presence of others, no matter how wrong the superior was. And Jessup had lead with his chin today. There would be a time, Ingram knew, that Jessup could whisper in the right ear at the right selection committee, leaving Ingram frozen at Lieutenant for the rest of his life. Or worse.

  Screw it. “Actually, the Riley was hit by a Jap torpedo,” Ingram said.

  “We’re not sure of that, Lieutenant,” said Jessup.

  “Well I am. I talked to her gunnery officer.”

  “How could you? He’s missing.”

  “No, Sir. He’s a friend. I found him on the Zeilin in Tulagi, in her sick bay with a broken hip.”