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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  "Can I get you anything?" Ingram said louder.

  The man hadn't shaved for a long time. His mouth twisted open to a foamy drool and one could see three upper front teeth were missing. Raising his eyes toward Ingram's, he focused somewhere on the tunnel's ceiling.

  Ingram said, "Maybe some water. Here, let me--"

  "Shut up!"

  Ingram spun to the mound behind. "What?"

  "Move on!" This hirsute creature wearing sergeants stripes, had no distinguishable facial features except for an oval shaped mouth.

  "All I was trying to do was--"

  Ingram looked into the barrel of a .45 which the man quickly cocked. The muzzle leveled between his eyes. "Me and Hughie took orders from pimps like you on Bataan. He ain't said nothin' since and I don't talk to you bastards, either. Get on." The muzzle waved.

  Where were his eyes? Ingram couldn't see the sergeant's eyes. Slowly, he raised his hands then stood and edged further into the tunnel until the hideous apparition disappeared into the mist. It wasn't until then that he exhaled and took deep, choking breaths.

  His focus was better, perhaps the dust was less or he'd become used to the light. He picked his way among the prostrate bundles and reached Lateral Four.

  He presented his ID to a Marine sergeant and Epperson soon appeared and showed him into a room labeled: Radio Intercept File Room, Authorized Personnel Only.

  They sat at a conference table while Epperson--the sores on his head looking worse--prepared a mysterious concoction that was to become coffee. Ingram was surprised he had sugar.

  Grumbling to his classmate about the deranged sergeant Ingram said, "I didn't have time to be incredulous or indignant or even to put the guy on report. I just walked away. I had to. I think he would have pulled the trigger."

  "Ace, You did the smart thing."

  "What?"

  "He would have pulled the trigger."

  "Come on."

  "Happens all the time. We lost a full commander two days ago."

  "And now, if I went back with a squad of Marines, I don't think I could find the sonofabitch," said Ingram.

  Epperson sat and stirred his own cup of thick gluttonous liquid. "Most of them out there are off Bataan. They just don't care. They've had it. They're tired of seeing their buddies blown to bits. Can you blame them?"

  Ingram thought for a long time. "I suppose not."

  "Surviving Bataan for this is not any better, especially with all this Jap artillery pining us down."

  "Send them someplace else?"

  "No room. And we can't just order them outside to...to...die." He raised gaunt eyes to Ingram and sipped his ersatz coffee. "We sort of co-exist. Don't bother them and they don't bother you."

  "And they want me to scuttle and bring my crew ashore to live..." He waved a hand toward the main tunnel.

  Epperson's voice was soft. "Todd, I overheard a guy on Moore's staff say they are ordering you to scuttle in the next two or three days, fuel oil or not."

  "No!"

  "The Army wants your crew--experienced gunners--to man the mortar pits."

  "Screw 'em. What's wrong with their people?"

  "Wounded. Dead. They're losing a lot of guys with the shelling and need replacements. Except for a direct hit, the guns survive. People don't."

  A shell thundered overhead, making dust and pebble-sized concrete chips rain down.

  Ingram stood and swept a forearm across the table sending his mug shattering against the reinforced concrete wall. "How do you stand it in this garbage pit?" he shouted.

  "Didn't take long for the sugar to hit your system," muttered Epperson as Ingram quickstepped around the table.

  Waiting until the end of the second circuit, Epperson nodded to a pouch slung around Ingram's neck. "Are the charts in there?"

  With nostrils flared, Ingram walked two more circuits then sat and waited for his breathing to calm down. "Tomorrow night?"

  "No. The next one. I want to get this set, now. Then I can tell DeWitt to--"

  "Who's DeWitt?"

  "A major. He's General Moore's adjutant who is organizing the evacuation. He wants to make sure transport is set. That's the riskiest part."

  "You're telling me." Ingram spread a chart and they talked for five minutes. At length he said, "How about the tomato juice?"

  Epperson jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, then walked to a desk and picked up a phone saying, "Major DeWitt, please." He sat, put his feet on the desk, and spread the minefield chart across his lap.

  As Epperson talked, Ingram walked to a canvas-covered heap against the wall. He raised a corner finding four cases of tomato juice. Epperson palmed the mouthpiece and whispered, "I had two more, but I figured it would have gone to waste since you're going to scuttle."

  Ingram turned and faced Epperson. "I want 'em."

  "What for?" Epperson wheezed.

  "Never, mind. Can you get them?"

  "I suppose so. But why--hello? Otis? Look. Everything's set on our end. Ingram will use the 51 Boat. I had it double-checked this afternoon. They--what? Just a moment." Epperson covered the mouthpiece, "You have a crew?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "What? How can you not be sure? You must have--just a moment, Otis--I don't understand."

  Ingram raised the canvas and offered a palm to the pile of tomato juice crates.

  "Shit. Alright. Six cases."

  "I have a very good crew." Ingram allowed a smile.

  "All set with crew, boat and skipper, Otis. Yes, good-bye. Epperson hung up. "You sonofabitch. Why pull--"

  "And there better be six cases, Dwight, or I swear I'm throwing you over the side on the way out. The Rock's gonna fall. One less guy to show up at the submarine won't make any difference."

  "Todd. Be--"

  "Now get someone to help me with all this."

  Epperson's mouth curled to a confused grin. "You're serious?"

  Ingram stared at his classmate.

  "Okay. Okay." He walked to the door and called a sentry. "Sergeant, tell Radtke to report in here, please."

  Ingram and Epperson, too tired to fume at one another, sat and twiddled until a lanky man entered to the accompaniment of three shells landing near Calvary Point. He had matted blond hair and wore boots and shorts. But he was freshly shaven and Ingram caught a slight wisp of Bay Rum.

  "You wanted me, Lieutenant?" the man asked standing stiffly.

  Epperson said, "At ease, Radtke. This is Mr. Ingram."

  "Our transport?" Epperson's assistant relaxed and broke into a smile.

  Ingram raised his eyebrows.

  "Radtke. Besides being my friend, Mr. Ingram is a lieutenant in the United States Navy--his collar devices should tell you that. Also, he is skipper of the U.S.S. Pelican and, indeed, is not your personal," Epperson hissed, "transport. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, Sir." Radtke arranged himself to a listless form of attention.

  "I need six cases of tomato juice carried to the..." he looked at Ingram.

  "South Dock, berth one-oh-one or what's left of it, " said Ingram.

  "Here are four cases." Epperson gestured to the stack. "Take the other two in the crypto room--"

  "But Lieutenant. Those two are for..." said Radtke. His eyes darted for a moment.

  Epperson waited, "Yes? Do you plan on staying here long enough to drink two whole cases of tomato juice, Radtke?"

  "No, Sir."

  "Fine. You'll need help. Call the guard shack for two men. You'll each carry two cases."

  "Dwight. I'd like them to drop one off in the Hospital Tunnel." Ingram said.

  "Radtke?" said Epperson.

  The man said, "Can do, Sir. Who gets it?"

  "One of my men," said Ingram. "We brought him in tonight. Broken femur." He glared at Epperson who conveniently found a sheaf of papers to study. "He's a first-class electrician. Admittance will tell you where he is. Name is Hampton. Joshua Hampton."

  Epperson said, "not the Joshua Hampton?"

  "You know him
?" said Ingram.

  "East Coast sailor? Plays clarinet. A really hot stick."

  "That's him. How'd you know?"

  "They had a concert a couple of years ago when I was on leave in D.C.. How did you get him?"

  "Came to us from the North Carolina we...what's wrong with you?"

  Radtke's eyes opened and closed for a moment and he jammed a hand behind his back. "Nothing, Sir. Tunnelitis, that's all."

  When he said no more, Ingram prompted, "Yes?"

  Radtke licked dust off his lips. "Going crazy inside. Afraid to go outside. Don't know what the hell to do. Japs everywhere."

  Ingram said, "Where you're going you won't have to worry about Japs."

  Radtke turned to Epperson, "He knows about us, Sir?"

  Epperson ran a hand over his bald head, "He has a need to know. Now, that's all."

  Radtke walked out. "Smart kid," Ingram said.

  "Whiz-bang cryptographer. He played bugle and trumpet on the North Carolina."

  "Maybe he knows Hampton."

  "Could be. Anyway, they sent him to me after three weeks of crypto school. Showed up just a day before Pearl harbor. It's too bad. Apparently had a swell career going in big bands. Word is he was a backup to Ziggy Ellman. But then money ran out and he joined the Navy. And now he ends up with me."

  Interesting. Ingram had heard that musician's from battleships sunk at Pearl Harbor had been sent to crypto school. The Navy had discovered their natural ability at understanding complex relationships within structured musical formats gave them a significant head start learning cryptography. And at war's outbreak, the Navy needed legions of cryptographers instead of piano players or trumpeters or drummers. "Heard him play?"

  "Haven't had a chance. This place has been topsy-turvy since the Japs bombed Cavite."

  Epperson leaned back in his chair seeing Ingram's mind clicking. "Todd. I say this to you as a friend. It's best not to ask much about what goes on with stuff I'm involved in."

  "Okay."

  "I was trying to tell you that the other night. The people I work for play for keeps."

  "I said, 'okay.'"

  Epperson nodded. "Why tomato juice to the hospital?"

  "It's miserable in there. And it's gonna get worse. Hampton will need something for himself plus something to barter with--I don't know--food, clothing, medicine."

  "Tell him he better stay awake, Ace."

  "Yes?"

  Epperson turned to study charts. "Otherwise someone will steal it. They may even kill him just for the fun of it."

  CHAPTER SIX

  23 April, 1942

  Navy Radio Intercept Tunnel

  Monkey Point, Corregidor Island, Philippines

  Ingram finished twenty minutes later and, dodging an occasional shell, made it to the Hospital Lateral of Malinta Tunnel. The barrage had slackened. Maybe the Japs were tired, he figured. A corpsman gave him directions and, picking his way through red fog, he found Yardly and Junior Forester curled against the concrete wall.

  Forester snored loudly but Yardly’ s eyes snapped open the instant Ingram tapped his shoulder.

  "Tomato juice show up?" whispered Ingram.

  Yardly nodded. "You made Hambone the richest man on the Rock."

  Ingram's eyebrows went up.

  "Me and him bargained a cot and two bottles of quinine from a corpsman. And we got a bottle of aspirin from a blind guy. Just two lousy cans of tomato juice. That's all it cost. Here." Yardly reached over and patted a bulging pouch. "Hambone wanted the quinine and aspirin for us."

  Yardly looked up and down the tunnel. "Good thing about the cot. They were going to stick him out in the main tunnel with all the other ghouls." He shuddered, his eyes rolling up to Ingram. "Can we go back to the ship now, Skipper?"

  "In a minute. I have to see Hampton. Where is he?"

  "Skipper. You don't wanna go back there."

  "I have to give him something." Ingram slapped the .45 on his hip.

  Yardly watched Ingram's hand and slowly nodded. "I'll show you."

  "No. Stay with Forester and guard the quinine."

  "Okay." Yardly gave directions.

  "Be right back," said Ingram.

  The lateral seemed endless as Ingram worked his way through anguished groans of the sick and wounded. Odors of rotting flesh, ether, vomit, alcohol, urine, and sweat pulled at his nostrils.

  There was another smell common to everyone on Corregidor: fear. Naked fear, which, it seemed to Ingram, was more pronounced here than on the Pelican.

  And while on cold, concrete walls, stark shadows of medical teams silently danced their bizarre renditions of mercy, Ingram tread further, dodging heaps that moaned and writhed. Some, he grimly noticed, were forever silent being covered from head to foot.

  Catching a patient's eye was to be avoided, Ingram learned. Some had the distant stare of hopelessness and acquiescence. Others looked with envy at healthy passersby. One sensed the driving, wrenching, denial in these sick and wounded, that this was not really happening to them; that in who ever walked by, there was the desperate hope of cure, or escape, or hidden relief.

  Ingram found his way blocked by three people hovering over a man on a stretcher. The supine figure groaned louder, longer; it was an army major whose torso glistened darkly. For the moment, they ignored his right leg which was crooked in an obscene direction. A freckled army captain with a full mustache stood opposite with arms folded and feet spread. Flanking him were two sergeants whose cigarette smoke beckoned oddly in wisps and coils inscribing symmetric halos against the red lights.

  One of those kneeling called, "How much is left?"

  "I'll check, Doctor." It was a woman's voice. She turned from the stretcher and opened a large bag next to Ingram's foot.

  She wore coveralls, boots, and a baseball cap. Bottles and instruments clanked when she reached in.

  Ingram stooped beside her and whispered, "Mam?"

  Dark ebony hair was pulled back under the cap fixed with an Army first lieutenant's devise. A name tag on the breast pocket said HELEN Z. DURAND. But it was her eyes: dark brown, quick, intelligent, calculating. This one, he could tell, was as used to triage as the doctors who decided which ones lived while ignoring the terminal ones, letting them die.

  She gave him an efficient glance. "Navy."

  "That's right. We brought one of my men in here tonight. A first class electrician named Hampton. Broken thigh."

  One corner of her mouth raised slightly as she knelt closer to her bag. "The guy with the tomato juice. And you're the skipper?" Durand didn't waste words.

  "Well, yes."

  "Idiots. Your corpsman and all his razz-ma-taz. Those three couldn't have done better if they'd flashed the Hope Diamond." She looked up and nodded further into the lateral. "I think your man is in the cots area starting about twenty feet over there. Third row back."

  "Thanks."

  The major moaned again, softer than before.

  The army captain's voice had a deep rumble, "Doc? What's going on?"

  Ingram didn't rise as Nurse Durand reached in the bag. He barely saw her hoist a large bottle labeled Ether. A half-inch or so swirled on the bottom.

  "Helen, goddamnit. Where is it?" The doctor demanded.

  "All gone, Sir," was Helen Durand's answer.

  "Very well. Kelly and lap sponge, please."

  Ingram had seen it, she knew. Helen's eyes implored for a moment, then she reached in the bag, drew the instrument, crawled to the stretcher and slapped it in the doctor's palm. The major gurgled and his arms spasmed for a moment.

  "What is this shit? What do you mean, no ether?" growled the captain. He stepped around the stretcher and walked toward Helen.

  Ingram stood as if to pass but stumbled against him. "Oh, sorry buddy."

  The captain didn't notice. Instead, he reached at the doctor's back grabbing a handful of shirt and roared, "You dirty bastard! He's hurting. Give him ether!"

  The doctor, trying to ignore the man, wigg
led to free his shirttail and work on his patient at the same time.

  "You can't let him die, you sonofabitch!" yelled the captain.

  "Come on, Captain." said one of the sergeants.

  The captain yanked harder on the doctor's shirt. "If he dies, you die!" The captain pulled his .45 and started to cock it.

  With his fist, Ingram hit the captain in the left temple. The blow felt weak to Ingram and he was surprised when the man collapsed at his feet with the pistol clattering alongside. The two sergeants quickly moved around, pulled the captain against the wall and propped him to a sitting position.

  "Water's over there." Helen Durand pointed to a steel jug on a small table. She looked up to Ingram. Her eyes said thanks.

  "Yes Mam," said one of the sergeants. He stepped over, poured a tin cup and returned to feed it to his captain.

  Ingram felt the other sergeant's eyes fixed on him. A shell boomed overhead, shaking the tunnel. He stooped, picked up the captain's .45 and dumped the clip. Handing them over he said, "Wait 'til tomorrow before you give it back."

  "Yessir." The sergeant stuffed the pistol and clip in his belt.

  They all turned to hear the major give a long expulsion of breath releasing him from the world. The doctor rubbed his cheeks and closed his eyes for a moment. At length he gasped, "You said there was someone else?"

  Helen said, "Over there. It's his left arm."

  Moving farther back in the tunnel Ingram found it quieter; the shells weren't as loud and he heard occasional snoring. He counted along the cots until he found the third row. He looked down seeing an open case of tomato juice. An I.V. drip was set up at the head of a cot and with a smile, Ingram bent to see Hampton asleep on his back. He was without shirt and trousers and his blanket had fallen to the floor. Ingram picked it up to cover Hampton but noticed the man's mouth was wide-open. On a whim, Ingram felt at Hampton's neck. No pulse.

  "Jesus!" he roared, and put an ear to Hampton's chest. No heartbeat; his skin was clammy. Joshua Hampton was dead.

  "Hampton!" Ingram yelled, and shook the electrician's shoulders.

  A heavily bandaged man in the next cot said, "Knock it off, damnit. People are trying to sleep."