THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Another shell landed overhead; Epperson didn't notice the shaking and spewing dust. He picked at a scab on his head and scanned familiar text having worked on it three weeks nonstop. Ernest J. King, Chief of Naval Operations, had ordered it through Admiral Nimitz who in turn, assigned Joe Rochefort in Hawaii and Dwight Epperson in Corregidor to do the analysis exclusively. The objective was to give King their best estimate of what the Japanese Navy would be up to for the next two or three months.

  Ignoring thick dust motes, Epperson took another drag off his cigarette thinking about how interesting his collaboration had been with Rochefort. They'd communicated by guard mail, radio, and the direct telephone connection to Hawaii. To be safe, they'd decided to draft separate reports. Epperson wrote his and sent it on to Hawaii two weeks ago in a PBY.

  Once compared, their predictions were remarkably similar. Both Rochefort and Epperson concluded Fleet Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto would unleash his Kido Butai, the same carrier group that mauled Pearl Harbor, against Midway Island the first week in June.

  Epperson was amazed when the cable came back, tersely stating Rochefort’ s analysis was basically the same: that Yamamoto was going to hit Midway with an invasion force of over one hundred ships and submarines in early June. Four carriers of the Kido Butai were to be in the vanguard to deliver the knockout punch: Kaga, Akagi, Hiryu, Soryu. With two other carriers, these ships were the ones that had terrorized the Pacific Ocean the last five months, starting with the attack on Pearl Harbor.

  It was almost worth the starvation, the hideous suppurating sores, the diarrhea, the "tunnelitis," the specter of being trapped with eleven thousand other desperate men. He only hoped his luck would hold out and he'd be out of here in another five days.

  Now, the future of what remained of the U.S. Pacific Fleet was in the hands of Nimitz, King, and Roosevelt. The ship's deployment around Midway would ultimately be up to Nimitz. But for the sake of the proud cities of San Francisco, Los Angeles, and San Diego, Epperson hoped he and Rochefort had been right.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  23 April, 1942

  U.S.S. Pelican (AM 49)

  Manila Bay, Philippine Islands

  For the next three days the Japanese seemed to have forgotten the Pelican giving full concentration to their aerial and artillery bombardment of Corregidor and the other three islands which denied access to the much needed docks at Manila and Cavite. General Homma and his Imperial Japanese 14th Army was losing face. Not only had he augmented his original contingent of 100,000 with another 100,000 troops, but Homma was far behind his time schedule. The Americans had held out way too long and he was under pressure from Tokyo to do something.

  And now, Thursday afternoon, Ingram had anchored the Pelican close to the precipitous cliffs of Caballo Island's Fort Hughes. Standing at general quarters, the minesweeper blended into the background, while the men from Nippon intensified Corregidor's bombardment, two miles away.

  Ingram leaned against the port bridge bulwark wearing, like everyone else, his World War I style "tin hat." With binoculars, he watched a formation of Japanese "Betty," twin-engine G4M2 Mitsubishi bombers drone overhead, their sinister outlines standing out against a high, cirrus overcast. Operating from Clark Field, they flew formations in groups of nine. Three plane vees formed one large vee, with their station keeping so precise it reminded Ingram of the tight formations that flew over Annapolis during his graduation ceremonies.

  The Pelican's gunnery officer, a lanky, tow-headed jaygee stood aft, near the signal bridge pointing his binoculars skyward. He, too, wore a tin hat, shorts, boots, and nothing else. His skin, long tanned under the near-equatorial sun, glistened with sweat.

  The man's name was Oliver P. Toliver, III. At times, Ingram wondered what else Toliver's Long Island parents had done to him. A graduate of Yale, it was well-known that his father, a partner in the Manhattan Law firm of McNeil, Lawton & Toliver, expected his son to follow in his footsteps and become a tax attorney after the war.

  Ingram shouted, "How many, Ollie?"

  "Twenty-seven, Skipper. I'd say they're at fifteen-thousand feet today."

  Ingram braced his binoculars. With a slight adjustment to the focus knob, the entire formation snapped into view. After a moment, little black missiles simultaneously spewed from the bomber's bellies. "They've salvoed."

  The cluster of deadly specks gracefully carved a long, ballistic path ending with explosions that sprinted along Corregidor's Kindley Field.

  "East end, again," said Holloway, referring to the tail section of the tadpole-shaped Corregidor.

  Ingram said. "Yeah. Not Topside or Water Tank Hill or a gun battery. Just the east end. What does that tell you?"

  Holloway looked up to him. "Beach assault soon."

  "Umm."

  Just then, Chicago Battery, the navy 1.1-inch pom-pom gun opened up. Other ack-ack followed suit. Cheering ranged from the foredeck as Ingram and Holloway swung their binoculars skyward to see a Betty burst into flames and plunge almost straight down. Another Betty trailed smoke from its starboard engine and, losing speed, dropped out of formation and made a shaky turn north toward Clark Field.

  "On the way," said Ingram hearing Japanese field pieces erupt on Bataan. Fired in defilade, the counter-battery was zeroed in to silence Corregidor's anti-aircraft guns. But the Army gun crews on Corregidor knew thirty seconds was time enough to put up a few rounds and safely take their shelters before the Bataan-launched shells roared in.

  "Hey, bucket mouth," said Forester. "What the hell's that?"

  Farwell, a once robust quartermaster second class, had an oversized, jutting lower jaw; only his lower teeth showed when he spoke. Still, his were the best eyes on the bridge. He said, "I'll be damned."

  Ingram and Holloway swung their binoculars.

  "Sonofabitch," laughed Holloway.

  Ingram twirled his focus knob finding a jungle-green camouflaged hot-air balloon rising above a low ridge line on Bataan. Three helmeted figures were barely distinguishable in the basket which was tethered by a thick line.

  "Close to Cabcaben, I'd say," yelled Toliver.

  "What can they do, skipper? Throw rocks?" laughed Farwell.

  A battery of cannons erupted from Bataan.

  "They can spot," said Ingram.

  Toliver spread his elbows on the bulwark to steady his binoculars. "One hundred millimeters, I think."

  "Yes," said Ingram.

  For the next ten minutes they watched expert gunfire "walk" back and forth across the 1.1 inch Chicago pom-pom battery.

  "Jesus," said Farwell, his oversized jaw clanking shut. He ran a hand through thinning hair. "One P-40. That's all we need." He spoke for them all, knowing American air-power in the Philippines had long been obliterated.

  Stockade Battery, with its French, 155-millimeter GPFs (Grande Puissance Filloux), roared in defiance lofting ten rounds toward the Cabcaben-tethered balloon. Soon, explosions stopped raining around the Chicago Battery.

  "Give it to 'em," yelled a shadowboxing Farwell. The forward three-inch crew caught Farwell's chant and echoed, "Give it to 'em. Give it to 'em."

  Just then, a series of coughs ranged along the Bataan Peninsula announcing Japanese counter-counter-battery. In seconds, explosions fell beyond Stockade Battery. Then five or so rounds fell short. Silence reigned for a moment or two as the smoke cleared. Then the enemy gunners methodically pumped their rounds into Stockade Battery for the next fifteen minutes. For insurance, an airburst followed every tenth round.

  Suddenly the barrage stopped, the silence overwhelming. Ingram looked over his shoulder into the South China Sea seeing the sun touch the western horizon. And, as if on cue in a bizarre rendition of a Gilbert and Sullivan play, the olive-green balloon descended behind the Cabcaben ridge.

  It became serenely quiet. Nobody spoke, afraid the tiniest noise would bring back Japanese artillery. At length Ingram took off his tin hat and lay his binoculars in a bracket with a clatter. He felt their eyes fix on him
; heard their breath exhale, as the wind dispersed smoke over what was left of Stockade Battery's 155s. "They're standing down for chow," he said.

  Their eyes wandered back to the smoke.

  Ingram clapped his hands. "Come on!" Their heads jerked. He stuck his head in a pilothouse porthole and shouted at the lee helmsman, "Forester! Anchor detail to the fo’c’sle!"

  Forester, operating the engine room telegraph, blinked for a moment. "Aye, aye, Sir. Secure from GQ?" he asked, reaching in his top pocket.

  "Negative. Just station the anchor detail."

  Forester pressed his lips, shoved the cigarette back, and gave orders on his sound-powered phones.

  As the Pelican's foredeck sprang to life, Ingram called Toliver and Holloway into a corner. "I got a message from General Moore last night."

  "Yeah?" said Holloway.

  "He wants me to scuttle."

  "Come on," said Holloway.

  "I'm afraid so. We're sucking dregs out of the fuel tanks. He knows we're only good for another day or two."

  "When?" asked Toliver.

  "He's left it up to me."

  Holloway asked, "Why don't we just bottom her off, say, Fort Drum and act as an AA platform."

  "No dice. They're worried about her falling into Jap hands. He said to send her into deep water when we do it."

  "That's that." Toliver looked down.

  "I don't like it either. But we've no choice," Ingram said.

  "We'll be tunnel termites," said Toliver as the sun's upper rim disappeared.

  Holloway said, "The Rock's goin' anyway. One way or the other, they got us."

  "We'll anchor off South Harbor tonight. I have to go ashore to talk to Epperson," Ingram said.

  "What's he want?"

  "I'm becoming boat pool officer."

  "Huh?"

  "Tell you later. Another reason is Yardly says Hampton should go ashore."

  "Why?"

  "Broken thighbones are dangerous. Hampton could die. Yardly can't handle it as well as the Rock's doctors, so I'm taking him over."

  "We're gonna miss him," said Toliver.

  "I know." Ingram dug his shoe at the deck.

  Toliver stared at the horizon leaving Holloway to figure it out. "Todd?"

  "What?" said Ingram.

  "What's on your mind?"

  After a pause, Ingram said, "I want to get out of here."

  "Me, too," echoed Holloway.

  They looked at Toliver who finally said, "Get to what?"

  Ingram said, "Soon, we'll be on the Rock sitting in the tunnels or filling sandbags or manning batteries. We can get killed just waiting it out."

  Holloway stood in the early twilight with his hands on his hips. "Go on."

  Ingram took a breath. "And then the Rock falls and the Japs come along waving flags and sticking swords in the air. We'll be prisoners with thousands of others."

  "Yes."

  "It's a crock. We remain under orders after surrender. Which means we're obligated to lay down arms and turn ourselves over to the Japs.

  "While I'm away tonight, take a straw vote and see what the crew wants to do. Start with Bartholomew."

  "You mean escape?" asked Toliver.

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "China. I'll bet they love us after Doolittle's B-25 raid. I've heard some sections of the coast are not patrolled. And they'd take good care of us if we could get far enough inland."

  Holloway's eyes gleamed. "You know, I heard--"

  Twenty-millimeter cannon shell spouts raced through the water and across the Pelican's fo’c’sle. A shadow zipped over them, gunned its engine then whipped around the northwest corner of Caballo Island.

  Ingram found himself piled on deck with the others. He cursed, picking himself up. "Damn Zero cut its engine and snuck right up to us."

  Toliver squirmed free, ran aft, strapped on his head phones and helmet, and roared orders to his gun mounts.

  Ingram yelled aft to Toliver, "Tell mount one heads up. I'll bet he has a buddy."

  Toliver had no sooner spoken when more cannon spouts raced toward them. The forward three-inch mount opened fire just as the second Zero's shadow flicked astern. Instinctively, Ingram and the bridge crew dropped to their haunches, then spun to watch. "Damn!"

  The aft three inch opened up as the sleek fighter gunned its engine to reach for altitude. But then its left wing dipped, and a light-blue haze trailed from its cowling.

  Corregidor's 1.1-inch Chicago Battery joined in. Two seconds later, the Zero exploded in an orange ball at five hundred feet.

  Ingram shouted to Forester, "Tell the fo’c’sle to hoist anchor. Stand by for turns on the main engine."

  Apparently, the first Zero hadn't learned of his wingman's fate; the forward three-inch mount was ready for his next run. The Mitsubishi's outline whipped around Cabala’s headland, seven hundred feet away. Five rounds snapped from the forward three inch before the Zero's pilot could shove in throttle. At first, the single-wing monoplane shuddered, then straightened out weaving toward Corregidor. Then, the propeller stopped and the plane mushroomed. Desperately, the pilot pulled up. But the dark-green Zero stalled and smacked the water, disintegrating in a giant plume.

  Forester shouted over the cheering, "Engine room ready to answer all bells, Captain."

  Ingram checked forward and said, "Very well. What's taking the anchor detail so long?"

  The lee helmsman cupped his hand to his earphone and turned white. He bit his lip with, "Oh, shit."

  "What?"

  "Nothing, Sir."

  "Forester, damnit! Talk to me."

  In the pilothouse, Farwell yanked his sailor hat from his rear pocket and walloped Forester's arm.

  Forester looked up. "Anchor's aweigh, Sir." Forester said.

  "About time," said Ingram.

  Ingram walked to the starboard bridge wing to watch the anchor detail on the fo’c’sle. A deck ape, Forester's younger brother, stood on tiptoes jabbing a long pole over the side.

  "Forester, is the anchor clear of the water, yet?"

  The lee helmsman's voice was distant. "Yes."

  A second wallop from Farwell and Ingram's "WHAT?" were simultaneous.

  "Sorry, Sir," Forester said mechanically. "Anchor's clear of the water, Sir."

  "Very well. Rudder amidships, Farwell. Main engine ahead two-thirds."

  Forester said into his mouthpiece, "Bridge, aye." He turned to Ingram and said in a quiet voice. "Fo’c’sle requests you back from the anchorage, Sir."

  "What?"

  "That's what they said, Sir."

  "Whose ship is this?" demanded Ingram.

  Forester shrugged; but there was something in his voice.

  Forward, the anchor detail still leaned over the starboard rail. A glance aft told Ingram it wouldn't be difficult to back away. The precipitous cliffs of Caballo Island towered above his starboard quarter and he'd tucked the Pelican in fairly tight for protection this morning. But there was perhaps fifty yards maneuvering room between the minesweeper and the shoreline.

  Ingram rubbed his chin, knowing he would find out soon enough. He ordered, "Main engine back two-thirds. Right full rudder."

  With Farwell spinning the helm to starboard, Forester rang up the engine order, and froth kicked under the Pelican's transom. She pirouetted counter-clockwise and edged toward the beach. Soon, Ingram said quietly, "Main engine ahead full, rudder amidships. Steady on course three-two-zero."

  The Pelican's sternway slowed; she stopped, shuddered momentarily, then moved ahead.

  With a look forward, Ingram saw what it was and made a course correction. "Come further left to three-one-zero. Main engine ahead two thirds."

  Farwell saw it, too. Easing in more left rudder, he growled through clenched teeth, "Three-one-zero, aye, aye, Sir."

  Holloway, Toliver and Forester, the latter two trailing sound powered phone cords joined Ingram at the starboard bridge-wing. "Bastards," Toliver hissed.

  Four bl
oated corpses drifted facedown along the starboard side. Recognizable were US Army fatigues with name and serial number stenciled on the back. Their legs and hands were tied and on one, long, wispy red hair undulated with the current. The corpse next to it had no head. They'd seen this many times since the fall of Bataan, but were never accustomed to it.

  Toliver ran aft and gagged over the signal bridge rail. Holloway, looking green, stumbled to the pilothouse bulkhead, leaning against it with one hand.

  Ingram waited for his own stomach to stop jumping before saying, "Mr. Holloway!"

  "Sir?" croaked the pale jaygee.

  A look at a pallid Forester sent him back to the pilothouse. Taking Holloway by the elbow, Ingram moved aft out of earshot. Beckoning to Toliver he said, "I'll be damned if I'm going to let that happen to us."

  With unfocused eyes, Holloway watched the cluster of dead men bob as the Pelican's quarter wake washed over them.

  "Tonight, Fred. While I'm on the Rock. Start with Bartholomew, like I said."

  Looking at the deck, Holloway straightened his hat.

  "Ollie, you talk to the deck force. Got it?"

  Toliver nodded.

  Ingram squeezed harder on Holloway's elbow. "Listen to me," he hissed. "We're going to take inventory of what's in this harbor and grab what we need."

  "Yeah?" asked Holloway.

  "Ask Rocky what we need for a long trip."

  "How long?" said Toliver.

  "I'm not sure. But see if he knows where we can get things. Diesel fuel, lube oil. Stuff like that."

  "Todd," asked Holloway. "How do we take eighty-two people to China?"

  "I don't know. We have to plan. Start with Rocky."

  After twilight, the Pelican pulled into her anchorage. An accelerated night bombardment provided all the light needed to find a place near the South Dock. But she laid off the Rock further than usual so as not to be hit by a wild shot.

  On the bridge Ingram ordered "finished with engines,' left Holloway in charge of the ship, and went to his cabin and grabbed his charts. He walked aft toward the quarterdeck where the motor whale boat rocked alongside, but a bursting shell on Breakwater Point illuminated a group of men gathered in a semicircle around Hampton laying in a stoke's litter on the main deck. Yardly bustled among them making sure his patient's IV and Thomas Splint were well secured. Ingram drew up in darkness to await their good-byes, marveling that the crew had pooled their rations so Hampton had three squares a day. The result was that, in spite of his broken leg, he looked better than his shipmates.