“I’ll tell you what you enjoy telling me. Just shut up and listen.”
Ingram sat back. “All right.”
“Here’s what I can tell you.”
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
17 November, 1942
8˚ 48.2' N; 125˚ 33.4' E
Mindanao, Philippines
Ingram looked out into the darkness. With the blister turret open, wind blasted in the PBY’s cabin and he had to shout. “Are you sure we're there?”
A young airman, his name was De Silva, chewed gum and squinted into the night. Tapping his earphones, he listened for a moment, then shouted, “Yes, Sir, Commander. Skipper sez we just flew over it. Wants to know why you didn’t jump. What do I tell him, Sir?” De Silva, a kid of nineteen years, popped his gum and slammed the blister window closed, cutting the wind and engine noise down to a decent roar.
Ingram looked into the night and gulped.
“Sir?” asked De Silva.
The reason is I’m scared shitless. “Tell him we’re ready,” was all Ingram could think of saying. He reached in his pocket, making sure Helen’s ring was there.
“Yes, Sir.” De Silva spoke into his head set, listened for a moment. “Skipper says we'll take one more circle, then we gotta scram.” De Silva clacked his gum and grinned. “So solly, Cholly. No mo gas. Skipper sez you better jump this time, or you get to play acey-deucy with me all the way back to Darwin.” The PBY's skeleton crew of five had all played acey-deucy at one time or another on the long twelve-hour trip up.
Ingram looked at Seltzer, also with a parachute strapped to his back. The boatswain's mate glanced at De Silva and then drew a finger across his throat. “Remember who you’re talking to kid.”
De Silva held up a hand. “Okay, Boats. Keep your shirt on.”
Just then, the twin engine PBY amphibian lurched, hitting an updraft, then began a slow, lazy turn to the left. “Commander?” asked De Silva.
Ingram looked down and tried to control his breathing. His pulse rate, too. He closed his eyes, willing his heart to stop thumping so fast. They couldn't be more than two thousand feet above the Amparo Airstrip. But with no moon, he couldn’t see the damned thing out there. “Yes.”
De Silva said, “I'd advise you to jump.”
“What?”
“You already owe me two hundred thirty-five bucks. Who can tell how much further you'll be in debt to me if you have to stay for the return trip? Plus, the---”
Seltzer moved close and growled, “Knock that shit off, Sailor.”
De Silva, unfazed, waved his palms in the air, “...plus, the skipper says we save gas if you guys jump. We have a much better chance of making it through that storm on the way back to Darwin.”
Ingram nodded at De Silva's convoluted whimsy. They'd punched through a vicious weather front over Halmahera on the trip up. De Silva, he was sure, innocently mirrored the pilot’s concern. The pilot was an intense, thin tow-headed lieutenant (j.g.), four years De Silva's senior.
Ingram looked at Seltzer. “You ready?”
Seltzer betrayed himself, his adam's apple bouncing up and down. “I'll go first, Sir.”
“No, that’s okay.”
A moment later, the PBY straightened out, cut its engines and began a long shallow glide. “Signal light sighted, Commander,” said De Silva, one hand to an ear phone. He reached over and raised the blister window, the nighttime air once again blasting in the aft cabin, stirring up scrap paper and dust. De Silva held a hand to his earphones, “ten seconds. Who's first?”
Ingram stepped up to a small platform and braced his hands over the bottom half of the blister window.
De Silva yelled over the air blast, “Could I have your address, Sir?”
“Why?”
“So, I can send you a bill.”
Ingram looked back. “You little---” That's when Seltzer grabbed his hips and shoved.
Ingram tumbled and spun from the Catalina. Like the drowning victim going down for the third time, his life over the past seventy-two hours flashed through his mind: DeWitt's quick sales pitch; Ingram's quick acceptance; Ingram's quick sales pitch to Seltzer; their long boring flight from Brisbane to Darwin, only to climb into the PBY and head for Mindanao. All Ingram had to do was make contact with Amador, and two nights later blink the letters QQT, a flashing light recognition-signal at the Turbot when she surfaced off Buenavista, contact her by walkie talkie and conn her close to shore, where she would off-load five tons of supplies. Ingram's reward: a return trip to Brisbane with Helen and, of course, the torpedo documents she had.
He pulled the rip cord and,”--- uhhh!” The canopy burst overhead jerking his shoulders out of their sockets.
The sky was clear and moonless and it wasn't until he was nearly abreast of the trees that he realized it was time to tuck his---
“Oooff” Ingram hit the ground, pain shooting up his left leg. The chute didn't collapse, and a light breeze pulled him along over damp scrub-brush for a moment. Then he managed to stand, pull on the shrouds and collapse his parachute. But his ankle hurt, and he favored it as he walked forward gathering his chute into his arm. Off to his left he heard a soft curse which was soon followed by the squeaking of silk: Seltzer. And ahead, along the drop path, was the sharp crack of the supply pack plunging through trees and then thumping on the ground. Without that, they were lost: it carried radios, weapons, food and medicine,
But then it became quiet. He stood for a moment and breathed deeply taking in Asia’s night air: it had rained within the last two hours and the odor of fresh water mixing with the soil and the tall grass brought back memories of two years ago when he first reported for duty at the Cavite Naval Station on the lush, green Manila Bay. There was also a tinge of lighting ozone, it must have been a thunderstorm and the ozone mixed with urine and fresh dung.
His ears popped. The sounds of Mindanao returned: wild monkeys screeching through the trees, and cicadas, and birds, and four-legged things of all sizes. All were prey to boa constrictors lingering in the tree’s life-canopy where they waited to fall and quickly twirl and squeeze their victims to death. He really was back in the Philippines, a place from which he’d almost paid with his life to escape; a place of phenomenal natural beauty and equally as phenomenal natural disasters, all seeming to mark time until the vicious political system that scourged the land was gone.
Twigs crackled behind him. “Meestair Ingram?”
Ingram spun, finding a shadow standing before him, whipping off a large planter's hat. “Yes?”
“How do, Sair.” The man bowed deeply. “I am Emilio Legaspi. Good-welcome to Mindanao, by God.” He bowed again and extended his hand.
They shook. “Thank you,” stammered Ingram. “Is Don Pablo Amador here?”
“Todd, you're blinder than I thought.” Don Pablo Amador emerged from the darkness, his white mane flowing in the night.
“My God.” Ingram and Amador threw their arms around each other, hugged, then they stood apart and clapping shoulders. “It's so good to see you.” Then he laughed. “Actually, it’s good to see your hair, I can't see anything else out here. Just like last time.” One pitch-black night six months ago, they had tried to patch up a B-17 and fly it out of this airstrip.
Amador bowed deeply. “Welcome back to Mindanao, my friend. I only wish we could meet you in better style. Perhaps someday...”
“More than I expected.”
Seltzer walked up, escorted by Felipe Estaque and Carlos Ramirez, carrying the supply pack. Brief introductions were made, they shook hands, then Amador said, “Is there only one supply pack?”
“Yes,” said Ingram.
“Are you armed?”
Ingram pulled a colt .45 from his holster, chambered a round, and made sure the safety was on. Seltzer did the same. “All set.” He put his full weight on his ankle. It felt much better.
“Very well. It's time to get out of here. Hapons everywhere. They've been on the move for the last couple of days. So let's go.” Wi
th Legaspi leading the way, they started walking west toward the Butuan Road.
“Same truck?” asked Ingram, referring to a battered truck Amador once had.
“Bicycles this time. The Hapons confiscated the truck. Then we blew it up for them and put it out of its misery.”
“I'll miss that old wreck.” Branches slapped at Ingram’s face as they plunged deeper into jungle. Pushing them aside, he could barely see Amador's hair three feet ahead. Behind he sensed rather than heard Seltzer and Ramirez taking up the rear. Fifteen minutes later Amador negotiated some boulders and led them down into a gully where they forded a raging brook. They slipped and fought their way up the other side, with Ingram grabbing onto tree roots to gain the muddy embankment, trying to keep his balance. Wheezing and gasping for air, he finally rose, covered with slime, and one or two leaches he suspected, and followed Amador’s white mane back into the jungle. Ingram’s lungs felt as if they would burst, and Amador, now ten feet head, seemed to be virtually leaping through the bush. He’s into his sixties, and here I am with my tongue hanging out, Ingram thought sheepishly.
After a while, they found a trail, the going smoother. Ingram caught up to Amador and whispered, “Uh, how is Helen?”
Amador chuckled softly. “She awaits you in Buenavista.”
Soon, they stepped into a clearing with Amador holding up his hand calling, a halt. Legaspi emerged from the darkness and he and Amador drew together, speaking in a subdued Tagalog. Once in a while Ingram caught Hapon---Japanese, and lechon---pig. Legaspi spoke faster and faster until Amador had to grab both the man’s hands and silence him.
Seltzer joined Ingram, and the two moved up. Ingram whispered. “What is it?”
Amador whispered, “We’re about fifty meters from the road, and Emilio swears he heard a truck. And he says he smells garlic, too.”
“What’s garlic have to do with anything?” asked Ingram.
Amador answered, “Koreans love garlic.”
“I’m lost,” whispered Seltzer.
In the dimness, Amador shrugged. “Many of the Kempetai are Korean thugs. They love garlic. Psst.” He waved and Felipe Estaque trotted up from the end of the column. Amador whispered to the guerrillero who sniffed at the air and then shook his head. No garlic.
Seltzer said, “Something doesn’t feel right, Mr. Ingram.”
Ingram felt it, too. There was something...
With a hand in the air, Amador whispered, “The jungle is quiet. No screeching monkeys.”
“That’s it.” Ingram agreed.
Amador jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and wordlessly, they crouched and began to step back, blending into denser jungle.
“TOMARE!” Stop! A bright light clicked on twenty yards before them.
Then another light clacked from their left rear; another to their right. There was a guttural shout and a machine gun fired at them.
“Cross-fire,” screamed Seltzer, his face ashen white in converging beams.
Ramirez ran off to his left. Instantly a sub-machine gun and five or six rifles opened up, catching him at a full sprint, his body jinking and jerking in the frosted light. The guerrillero was dead as his body hit the ground like a sack of overripe tomatoes.
Cordite smoke rose around the clearing, and another guttural shout tore at the night.
Shadows rose from the bushes around Ingram. He crouched to run but then, a shadow dashed up swinging a rifle. Ingram raised a hand to parry the blow when something crashed into the backs of his knees and he fell to the ground. Someone else kicked him in the ribs and he doubled up in pain. Screams around him meant the others were also being beaten. Bracing his hands under him, Ingram shoved to rise to his knees but a split toed-sandal was braced on his head, another foot shoved the small of his back and he crashed into a low bush. The man at Ingram’s head twisted his foot turning Ingram’s face into the ground, forcing damp muddy soil in his mouth and nostrils. He couldn’t breathe and began to squirm and wiggle. Then, a terrible crashing blow, shooting lights and dashing bolts of pain. ...blissful darkness...
...Todd... He bounced as the truck ground through gears, shifting into second, working its way up a steep grade. “Todd?”
Ingram lay on his side on the floor of the truck. Hog tied, his hands were bound behind his back; another line was secured around his feet, tied to the line around his wrists. He coughed as the truck bounced again, his lungs shrieking in pain as he spat dirt from his mouth. ...Todd... He wanted to go back to sleep.
With a loud grind of its gears, the truck shifted to third and gained speed. From the corner of his eye, Ingram could tell he was in a covered truck, its canvas top, illuminated by jinking headlights on a truck behind.
Slowly, as he regained consciousness, it hit him. Captured. Held by the Japanese. On his way to some torture chamber for all he knew. God. He felt like he’d lose control. Then he wanted to vomit and fought to keep it down. He gagged for a moment,
Water splashed over his face and he opened his eyes to see a guard sitting above him, holding a canteen over his head, laughing.
Spitting more dirt out he moaned. My worst fears, Oh, God. This is why he’d left Corregidor. To escape exactly this. Oh God, dear God.
The Japanese had quickly overwhelmed their party. A set up. How?
“Todd?” It was a hoarse whisper, the voice right next to him.
“Pablo?” He whispered.
“How are you?”
“I’ve been better. You?”
“I think by arm is broken,” said Amador, his voice weak.
“What happened?”
“A trap, I think, growled Amador.”
“Jesus. How?”
“While you were unconscious. I heard two officers talking. I understand a little Japanese and...well, it looks like they’ve broken our code.”
The truck bounced and Ingram tried to roll toward Amador. “The code? I thought it was airtight.”
Amador’s voice shook as the truck bounced over a rutted road. “I thought so too. And I tell you, it couldn’t have come from this end. Otherwise, how would they have heard the name Wong Lee?”
Amazing. “The San Francisco Wong Lee? The restaurant guy?”
“Yes. How did you know? And more importantly, how did they know?”
Through the pain and haze, Ingram churned over that one.
Then Amador added, “Also, my friend, how would they have known of your graduation date?”
Ingram twisted further. “Me? My graduation?”
Amador hissed. “Yes. And who would know Helen’s graduation date?”
A guard leaned over Ingram, shouted and poured more water on him, making sure it ran up his nose. Then he kicked him and shouted again.
From pain, Ingram screamed loudly. But he extended it as much as possible to give the guard satisfaction, hoping that he wouldn’t be kicked again.
The bucking stopped abruptly as the truck rolled onto a smooth, asphalt highway, the humming of the tires making him drowsy. As he nodded off, Amador’s questions crashed through his mind, wrenching him awake, denying him sleep. Otis needed code authenticators back in San Francisco. He remembered recommending Helen’s graduation date.
Outside Helen and her parents, who would know about Helen’s graduation date?
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
17 November, 1942
Service Barge 212, Nasipit, Mindanao
Philippines
Rain cascaded as the trucks bounced onto the Nasipit wharf. It was a little after daybreak as Ingram, Amador, Seltzer and Legaspi were kicked off the trucks and prodded up the Service Barge’s gangway at bayonet point. Once aboard, they were searched and then left to stand as rain came down in torrents. With the others, Ingram turned his face to the sky, letting the lukewarm tropical waters wash away muck and slime accumulated during the night. Feeling better by the moment, he heard men shouting and grunting from the bow. He carefully moved outboard to the deck-edge for a peek. Five men worked on a set of chain falls, loading a
torpedo in a set of triple tubes. He watched with professional interest, and had to admit they were good. In fact, they were very good. Their movements were more efficient than the torpedomen on the Howell, or for that matter, the crew he’d trained on a four-stack destroyer after his graduation from---
“My God,” he whispered. Just forward of the Service Barge was an American four-stack destroyer, freshly painted, and looking as if it had just been delivered from Bath Iron Works. But her color scheme was a darker grey than the U.S. Navy’s, and a decorative white ring was painted around her forward stack. Her markings were Japanese, and the Rising Sun flew from a staff at the fantail. But unmistakably, she was an American four-stacker. Sailors walked about her decks, depth charges were loaded in racks on her fantail, and light-brown stack gas rose from number two and three funnels, almost as if the ship were poised to get underway. Even as he watched, a flatbed truck pulled up and more sailors ran down the brow and started passing crates aboard the ship. He caught Amador’s glance and raised an eyebrow as if to say, ‘Why didn’t you tell us about this?’
Amador shrugged and Ingram perceived that the old man didn’t realize this was an American destroyer.
An officer shouted. Two soldiers prodded Ingram toward a stairway at bayonet point.
“Pablo, don't worry if---” A rifle butt hit Ingram in the back and he went to his knees with an “ooof!” He was dragged to his feet and Amador whispered, “Via con Dios,” as he walked by.
With the two guards shoving from behind, he was marched up a companionway and aft, into a living quarters area. As he walked, he was astounded to see from the corner of his eye what was once Amador’s proud lumber mill. The destruction of the three story mill and warehouse was complete with blackened wooden beams protruding a few feet above the ground.
Aft of the service barge was another surprise, a floating drydock, her faded white hull number YFD-5, still visible. Ingram had seen this one many times in the Naval Shipyard at Cavite in Manila Bay, once the homeport of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet until the war broke out. It hit Ingram that this barge was also an American war prize---a repair, berthing and messing barge, an old YRBM.
A CODE FOR TOMORROW: A Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 2) Page 38