Kowalski, a second class machinist's mate, stooped and patted Hampton's shoulder saying, "about time they kicked you off the old bird. Now we can get a replacement who knows what the hell they're doin'. I been tired of you tripping out the electrical load all the time." He took Hampton's outstretched hand.
Hampton said, "I'll be back, Ski. You owe me."
"Owe you what?"
"I still say you didn't draw into that full house."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you cheated me out of two hundred thirty bucks."
"Horseshit!" Kowalski withdrew his right hand but Ingram saw the machinist's left hand tuck a dark, pint sized flask in Hampton's armpit.
Hampton said, "And next time I catch you dealin' from the bottom, you're going over the side."
"You and who else?"
"Just wait."
Kowalski rose and stepped back.
Bartholomew took out a clarinet case and tucked it between Hampton's arm and blanket. "Here's Benny."
"Forget it! I'm only gonna be there for a couple days." He handed it back. "Stick it back in my locker, Rocky."
Bartholomew said, "I know. I know. But, I figured you could entertain those guys while you're there. You know, a little Moonglow never hurt no one."
Kowalski said, "Yeah, how 'bout a few bars, now, Hambone?"
Hampton fumbled at the case's latch.
"Skipper's waiting," said Yardly. "We have to get going."
Hampton swallowed and the men looked away.
Bartholomew helped tuck the clarinet under a blanket. "Let us know if you need anything. Come back, soon."
"Yeah, Rocky."
Bartholomew stood. He and Hampton knew there was no coming back from the Rock's hospital. The doctors would do what they could, then lay him out in the tunnels with everyone else...to rot...and await the Japanese.
Kevin Forester, the third class quartermaster, edged his brother aside and started to lift the stokes litter.
"What you pullin'?" said Junior Forester.
"You're on the back end, dope."
"I had the front."
Kevin Forester pushed his younger brother, "Shove off. Do what I say."
Junior Forester wailed, "Listen. I'm not takin' anymore--"
"Sssst," from Bartholomew.
Ingram walked up. "Ready Cox'n?"
"Yessir," said Forester. "As soon as we load Hampton."
Ignoring the tradition that the ship's captain board the whale boat last, Ingram hopped in the whale boat and held the IV as Hampton's litter was passed over.
Whittaker jumped in and began cranking the engine. Junior Forester followed to act as bowhook. His brother stood at the tiller as Cox'n.
"...hey Sonny," Hampton called.
"Finally rid of you," replied Sunderland, a barrel chested first class gunner's mate who chomped the stub of an unlit cigar. Except for intermittent cannon shells, one could barely see their faces as they leaned over the rail looking into the motor whale boat.
"Just to set the record straight, Sonny."
"Yeah?"
"My mount got that Val, not yours." Hampton was the ship's best gun pointer. His battle station had been on the forward three inch mount.
Sunderland shot back, "That's a crock! You couldn't hit the broad side of a hog's ass from three feet in Central Park."
The whale boat bumped softly against the Pelican's fenders while a cursing Whittaker cranked the engine.
Hampton feigned disbelief. "Hear that skipper? I got witnesses that'll prove this nincompoop is cheat'n me."
Whittaker kept cranking the diesel. One or two cylinders announced life, then wheezed to an oiled silence. The engineman muttered, "Same old shit."
A saboteur had poured a waxlike substance in the diesel fuel they had taken just before the frantic evacuation from Cavite. They had cleaned the fuel system constantly, but residue still clogged the lines and, on occasion, worked its way to the injectors.
Ingram cringed thinking about the contaminated fuel. It reminded him of Cavite and that first horrible air raid on December 8, only a few hours after Pearl Harbor. The dive-bombers had left the fuel tanks alone, but hit everything else. They were so unprepared: Many had been killed, especially civilians in the workshops. Some of the dead were horribly maimed and the burial detail refused to collect body parts strewn about. The only way to get the job done was to break out the booze. It became grisly. In Ingram's dreams he still saw the pimply faced buck private weaving down the cratered thoroughfare kicking along a human head like a soccer ball. The kid laughed demonically; a fifth of bourbon clutched in his hand as he sang a ditty--
"You're nothin' but a sponge-brained electrical jock," Sutherland roared. "Just come aft to my mount and I'll teach you how to shoot straight."
Hampton said, "Captain? You believe that crap? The Val was smokin' by the time it drew aft."
Ingram took a deep breath and said, "It was the second Val that--"
"What the hell you mean, 'drew aft?'" Sutherland roared at Hampton.
"Exactly what I said," Hampton yelled up into darkness. "You're mount was in the stops. You couldn't have opened fire, damnit!"
A flashing shell caught Sunderland spitting thick tobacco juice over the side. "Stops, my ass--"
The diesel roared. Ingram shouted, "I'll order a complete inquiry. Let's go Forester."
The whale boat pulled away from the Pelican. Sunderland's voice drifted across the widening chasm, "...Hambone! Gimme a call when you need help with the nurses..."
Hampton raised on his elbows; his clarinet spilled out. He shouted and grappled for it at the same time, "Don't you wish, goldbrick? For once, the Navy's sending someone qualified to do a man's job!"
"Shut up, Hampton. Quit wiggling!" Yardly caught the clarinet and put a hand on the man's shoulder easing him back to the stokes litter. Whittaker helped him tuck the clarinet away.
Ten minutes later, they nosed along the outskirts of South Dock. It was a wharf with a rail line built to receive cargo from ships. But now, most of it had been blasted into useless splinters. Twisted rails hung down and dead, creosoted pilings jabbed from the water like rotten teeth.
As they closed the beach, an air burst flashed over San José Village, a small barrio where civilian laborers had lived before war broke out. Another shell hit at the tide line, raising a fifty-foot water column that settled into a hissing, misty curtain.
Forester slowed the boat to idle, leaned forward, and rubbed his chin. "Skipper?" His voice was tense.
Ingram waved an arm. "Try for the boat pool area. Closer to the beach the better. Watch for broken pilings.
"And listen to me, all of you." Ingram raised his voice. "Take a look. Shells are landing all over the Rock. It's dangerous anywhere outside. People who come outside for a breath of fresh air get killed. So stay inside in spite of the tunnels!"
He continued with, "Forester!"
"Yes Sir?"
"After you drop us, lay five hundred yards off the wharf."
"Yessir," Forester said.
"Try and anchor. If you can't. Cut the engine--"
A mortar shell landed near Breakwater Point with a bone-piercing crack that echoed for five seconds.
Ingram had to catch his breath. "...cut the engine and drift. Or tie up to a piling out there. I don't want you near the beach and don't waste fuel. I'll signal with a flashlight when we're ready. Okay?"
Five shells thundered up Malinta Hill obliterating Forester's response. Then it was silent. The whale boat's gurgle sounded oppressive in the absence of cannon fire. Forester nosed around half-submerged work boats looking like dead, bloated whales.
Hampton said, "Skipper?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't do this on my account. I'll get better. I promise"
"It's okay, Hambone," said Yardly. "You'll have good care."
"Skipper, please!"
"You have a broken femur, Hampton," said Ingram. "They can do a better job on you than we can. We'll pick you u
p in two or three weeks. Okay?"
"...okay." Hampton sighed and lay back.
Forester eased in, further working them to the small boat docks. His younger brother jumped off to moor the bow, Whittaker took the stern line.
Ingram stepped off with Hampton's duffle bag and watched as the others passed the stokes litter to the dock. Ingram stepped out of their way and stumbled on something. Turning, he saw a chunk of twisted metal. He stooped and picked it up.
"Owww." It was a red hot piece of shrapnel; it hissed when he threw it in the water.
"Come on!" someone yelled.
"What?" Ingram said.
"You stupid bastards. Hurry up!"
Ingram looked toward the beach as another round landed in what was left of San José barrio. In the shell's flash, he spotted the outline of a soldier running up to them. Wearing the pancake tin hat, he turned out to be a Marine Corps second lieutenant.
Ingram said, "I'm Lieutenant Ingram, skipper of the Pelican. We're bringing one of our wounded to the hospital."
The Marine said, "Well, if you hang around any longer Sir, there won't be any wounded. Just dead. Me included. So let's haul ass."
"Okay. Here, take this." Ingram handed Hampton's duffle to the Marine and yelled, "Come on."
Yardly and Forester jogged past with the stokes litter. Ingram ran back to the boat where a shell bursting over Topside illuminated the cox’n’ s face.
Forester stuttered, "Need us anymore, Skipper?"
"Head on out. Watch for my signal in about an hour or so," said Ingram." He tossed in the bow and stern lines. Forester, not needing further encouragement, backed into darkness.
Two twelve inch M-1890 mortar shells roared from Battery Geary. Ingram turned to run, but slipped on another piece of shrapnel falling headlong on the dock.
Yardly yelled from darkness, "Skipper, hurry!"
Ingram rose, but sharp pain throbbed in his right knee. "Go on. Check him in and stand fast," he yelled. "I'm headed for the Navy tunnel. See you in a while."
"It's your ass, Captain," said the Marine, just as another round dropped on Water Tank Hill.
"Move, damnit," yelled Ingram.
"Yessir!" Two shells silhouetted Yardly and Forester running with the stokes litter. In front, the marine second john, held Hampton's IV bottle and ran interference like a pulling guard.
Ingram sat back to massage his knee. The Japanese counter-battery rained on the Geary mortar emplacement with deafening, ripping explosions that lighted up wrecked boats and torn pilings. In the flashes, he saw Forester had gained a position about five hundred yards offshore.
The counter-battery ceased and he rose, finding his knee felt better. It must have been his funny bone. He took two shaky steps knowing it would be okay.
A Japanese air burst lighted up San José. What was that? He waited for another shell.
His eyes had almost readjusted to the dark when a shell hit near the Navy tunnel. It was enough to light up a nest of three thirty-six-foot shoreboats. One looked familiar. He walked over seeing twin bullet holes neatly stitched in the starboard bow; one hole had nearly obliterated a white stained numeral '51'.
CHAPTER FIVE
23 April, 1942
Naval Radio Intercept File Room, Lateral Four
Corregidor Island, Manila Bay, Philippines
HECKLE opened the door a crack and was relieved to see Epperson talking with that insipid Portman at his radio console. Easing the door closed, he walked to the back of the file room and stepped up to a large oak table like the ones in public libraries. He was tempted to use the darkroom's enlarging equipment but was afraid Mr. Epperson would come in when the bulb was on. It was so damn bright! It would be a sure tip-off.
Quickly, he picked up the folder and laid it flat on the library table directly under the 150-watt bulb. It was the brightest he could find and he paused to consider how to set the shutter speed. It was only a five page report so he decided there was enough film for three exposures for each page shot at 60, 250, and 500th of a second.
The room shook with artillery overhead. Afraid he might not have heard the door squeak open during the artillery's rumble he ran to the door and once again opened it a crack to double-check. Peering back from the other side was a human eyeball.
"Need something?" the Marine sergeant said.
"Trying to find Mr. Epperson," said HECKLE looking at the eyeball in fascination. It was bloodshot.
"Off to the commissary."
"It'll wait." Perfect, he thought. HECKLE shut the door and ran back to the library table. Quickly, he pulled out what looked like a common matchbox from his pocket. But then he extended it lengthwise revealing a subminiature Minox camera. He set it up for the first exposure marveling at its construction. About three inches long, it fit well in the palm of his hand, and the film was only 9.5 millimeters in width giving decent exposures with reasonable light. What fascinated him was that the Minox wasn't made in Germany like the Leica. The Minox had been invented by a Latvian named Walter Zapp in 1937 and was made in Riga by Valsts Electrotechniska Fabrika.
HECKLE leaned over the paper, extended the camera body and, with a little trouble from his deformed ring finger, was able to hold the camera correctly and sight through the little viewfinder. The image he saw was:
TOP SECRET
COMPACFLT EYES ONLY
PREDICTIONS
IMPERIAL JAPANESE COMBINED FLEET ACTIVITY
MAY - JUNE 1942
He clicked off the first three shot at different exposures then flipped the page and shot that. He was halfway through the third page when he heard the door squeak open. An artillery shell rumbling overhead seemed louder with the door open.
"Radtke?"
Epperson! "Sir!" Quickly he snapped off the light, pocketed the camera, and shoved the folder in the back of his trousers.
Epperson walked up. "Anybody call?"
"Nossir. You expecting one?" asked HECKLE, hoping he wouldn't have to turn around lest Mr. Epperson see the folder. But just in case, his eyes darted about looking for a weapon. He soon spotted a holstered .45 hanging from a hat rack. Too loud. What else? he thought.
"Todd Ingram. If he does call, I'll be just outside with Commander Jacobson. Got it?"
"Yessir. You're not going to the commissary?"
"Who the hell told you that?"
"I thought--"
"Never mind. I'm expecting Ingram. Let me know if he calls at once. Understand?"
"Yessir!"
Epperson walked out.
HECKLE held his breath for another ten seconds then let out a long exhale. Then he took the folder from the back of his trousers and quickly put it back in the file cabinet marked TOP SECRET. Sometime soon, he resolved. Sometime soon.
* * * * *
Ingram stood rubbing his jaw momentarily unaware of an explosion near the Topside Barracks. The 51 Boat bobbed at its mooring and except for the bullet holes in her bow, seemed oblivious to the destruction that rained on the Rock. It seemed as if on signal, the barrage’s tempo had stepped up a notch with a shell landing somewhere on Corregidor every fifteen seconds.
It wasn't until a monstrous explosion knocked him over that he came to his senses. He scrambled to his feet and ran, dodging barbed-wire weaved in hideous patterns, toward Hooker Point. But another explosion raised a misty curtain, making it difficult to keep his bearings. Cursing, he stumbled through smoke until the cordite laden cloud dissolved.
He sensed, rather than saw, a smoking crater before him and, congratulating himself, deftly skirted its edge--only to trip on a sandbag and topple headlong into another. He blocked his fall with his hands just as another shell landed, its blast deafening.
Dirt and rocks tumbled about as he wiggled snakelike finding himself atop an ammunition belt. In panic, he discovered he was sprawled among the cordite-infested debris of an armed outpost.
He raised his head seeing a machine gun barrel's ugly snout within inches; his hands found something soft and y
ielding...
Just then, an airburst lighted up the wide-open, surprised eyes of a dead Army corporal. Pulling his hands from dark stickiness, Ingram took endless seconds to untangle himself from the corpse, ammo boxes, and radio equipment. Gasping and cursing that he'd not taken the longer, but safer route through Malinta Tunnel, he rose and ran east stumbling among rocks, bomb craters, and wreckage.
He trudged along the coastal path trying to shake the horror of what lay behind. Reassuring was the familiar outline of Water Tank Hill as it rose above his left shoulder. At Ordnance Point, he was challenged by Marines and gained the Naval Radio Intercept Tunnel. With some fumbling, he showed his ID to the sentry and passed into relative quiet of the reinforced concrete throughway.
Red night lights, surrounded by a curious fog, illuminated the tunnel's single lane. Visibility was only ten feet and two wheezing breaths made him realize it wasn't fog but dust that shrouded his path.
The first offshoot was labeled: Lateral One-Commanding Officer-Marine Garrison. Trying to squint at the "Lateral Two" sign ahead, he tripped on something soft. He barely caught his balance, and stumbled over another bundle which went "uhhh." He looked down seeing he'd stepped on two men sleeping on blankets. One man sat up and rubbed his finger at his lip.
Knowing his boot had connected with the man's head, Ingram crouched and said softly, "Sorry, buddy. You okay?" Someone else moaned; Ingram looked up, seeing similar heaps stretched as far as he could see.
The man raised slowly to an elbow and studied blood that ran over his finger. He was perhaps nineteen years old with thickly matted, dark curly hair that grew to his neck and covered his ears and forehead. He wore a dungaree shirt without insignia and oddly, cutoff corduroy shorts and unmatching tennis shoes. Scarecrow-thin arms and legs, far worse than Ingram's own, protruded from the young man's sleeves and shorts.
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 6