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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  "Who stuck 'em out there?" The commander said "theah." His accent was New England, maybe Boston.

  "Junk's floating all around the bay. They should have--hey buddy. You all right?" Ingram made room for Yardly who checked the man's pupils.

  "What do you think, Bones?" asked Ingram.

  Yardly gently probed the head, neck, and shoulder area. He said softly, "Concussion at least. In shock. Might be ripped up inside, too. I don't know what else."

  The corpsman probed the lieutenant commander's lower extremities. "Skipper?" Reaching behind the man's back, he produced two items: a .25 caliber automatic and a cylindrical device.

  Ingram palmed them. "A silencer?"

  The man groaned.

  Yardly dug at the man's left calf finding a stiletto strapped on the inside and handed that to Ingram.

  They looked at one another. At length Ingram said, "Cox'n. Slow down for a moment."

  Forester rang the bell and the whaleboat idled over an oily smoothness. "Where's the other PBY?" asked Ingram.

  "Last time I saw it was at our ten o'clock," said Forester.

  They drifted not seeing anything except explosions flashing from Corregidor.

  Ingram said, "That's it then. Back to the Hospital."

  Forester cursed then asked, "Why not take him to the ship?"

  Ingram said, "not with this--"

  To their left, two Pratt & Whitney R-1830 Twin Wasp engines wound up to full throttle.

  “What the hell?” said Whittaker. “Taking off? That was quick. Adios, Pal.”

  They listened, savoring, every stroke of each of the Twin Wasp's fourteen pistons. And for an extra delicacy, the Pratt & Whitney's superchargers delivered a certain authoritative whine, unlike the tinny Japanese engines they'd heard for the past few months.

  In the night each man visualized her on the step now, with her pilot sighting a star to momentarily steer by so he could hold her steady and build speed. The PBY's copilot would be synchronizing the R-1830s until they gave a unified, triumphant, bellow.

  The Cat's engines faded but they still hung on to it. Even when a shell rattled the foundations of Monkey Point, they cocked their ears. And when the shell's reverberations were consumed by Corregidor, they again picked up the receding heartbeat of the Catalina knowing she was safely airborne and heading into the South China Sea and on her way to Australia.

  More damned generals or colonels, probably, just a pittance out of Corregidor's eleven thousand. But those men were safe now. They couldn't help but feel relieved as they settled back knowing they would soon be among friends; maybe even home in a few days.

  At this very moment, Ingram realized, while he and his sailors bobbed aboard a stinking motor whaleboat in the carnage of Manila Bay, the ten or so colonels and generals would be drinking coffee handed over by a grinning crewman. After a few sips, they would lay back exhausted, prop a parachute or two for pillows, and grab some shuteye before they refueled in Mindanao. The long, boring leg to Darwin would be a Godsend as they continued with uninterrupted rest. After landing, they would stand beneath long, hot showers, and nestle between clean sheets. Soon they would be in Melbourne. And if the evenings were still balmy, they would drink a smooth, single-malt scotch with ice cubes, or perhaps one of the Aussie's strange, dark ales while a juicy top sirloin sizzled in--

  "I have immediate business on Corregidor," the lieutenant commander gurgled.

  Ingram jumped.

  "Okay, Commander, we'll take care of it," said Ingram. "Come on, Forester! South Dock."

  "Yessir." The cox'n rang up full speed and pushed the tiller to head for Corregidor.

  Ingram stuck out his hand, "Todd Ingram. Skipper of the U.S.S. Pelican."

  "...Richardson. Fred Richardson..."

  Ingram bent close finding the lieutenant commander had lost consciousness again.

  Yardly pulled out the man's soggy wallet and handed it over. Keeping his fingers over the lens, Ingram switched on his flashlight giving the wallet's contents a glistening, hemoglobin cast.

  Yardly looked over his shoulder as Ingram compared the picture to the face before him. "Too dark to be certain," he muttered, and squinted at the ID: 'Fowler, Robert T., CWO, USN.' The ID bore the seal of the United States Navy Department with an added inscription: 'Office of Naval Intelligence.'

  "Says the guy's a chief warrant. What gives?" Asked Yardly.

  With a look at the corpsman, Ingram grabbed the lieutenant commander's dog tags: Richardson, F. T., 149047, USN, PROT, O.

  "I don't know what to believe." said Ingram nodding at the pistol and stiletto. "ONI people live in their own world and fight their own wars. The sooner we get him on the Rock the better I'll feel."

  "Skipper!" Forester called.

  Ingram looked aft seeing a bow wave overtaking them.

  "Shit! Japs," yelled Whittaker.

  A shell flashed on Corregidor. The boat was not a landing craft, Ingram had seen it before. "Take it easy," he said watching the bullet riddled nose of the 51 Boat climb over their wake.

  Soon they were abeam, and a hail pealed over engine noise.

  "Heave to, Forester," Ingram said.

  The boats slowed to an idle. Silhouettes of men in tin hats and four or five civilians formed against a murky horizon: two looked female.

  One man stood high. Shell flashes illuminated a barrel chested man who had a pug nose, cauliflower ears, short crew-cut, and carried a .45 low where a leather thong secured the holster's bottom to his leg. From the grim set of his mouth he looked like he knew how to use his pistol. "Carl Mordkin, captain, United States Army, military police. Have you seen another aircraft?"

  "What are cops doin' out here?" Whittaker chortled softly.

  "Shhht," whispered Forester. "I know that guy."

  "You should," laughed Whittaker. "Brig rat like you probably had 'is butt kicked by Mordkin. You big buddies by now? First names, maybe? You call him Carl, and he sez," Whittaker twirled a finger in the fetid air and squeezed his vocal chords in a gangster falsetto, "'Oh Kevin, sweetie. Time for us to beat the shit out of you, again. Remove your shirt, please, and Sergeant Brutus Crushus here will warm up with--'"

  "Shuddup, Pete. You don't screw with this guy," hissed Forester. Due to a preference for liberal quantities of cheap alcohol and barroom brawls, Forester had been reduced in rate several times and had spent time in military prisons. "He runs the stockade on Caballo. I know guys who have gone in there and never returned. One time I--"

  "Pipe down," said Ingram. He turned to the 51 Boat and called, "Ingram, skipper of the Pelican. Affirmative. We saw a PBY crash and recovered a survivor and two bodies. I'd like to return to my ship, now. Can you take them?"

  The 51 Boat cruised in silence for a moment. "Yes, Captain. We'll take them in."

  The boats slowed and bobbed close together, their crews propped fenders between the hulls.

  Yardly said, "Skipper, I hate to say this, but this guy has a concussion. Maybe internal problems, too. I don't think we should move him."

  Whittaker whispered, "Buzz off Bones. Send him over so we can head back to the ship."

  Ingram bit a thumbnail while the two bodies were passed. "Major?"

  "Yes?" The stockade commander stood high on a thwart with hands on his hips.

  "I don't think we should move this one. He has a concussion at least, possible internal injuries, and we're not sure what else. He lost consciousness a few minutes ago."

  "Can I help, Captain?" It was a woman's voice; she sounded familiar.

  Her outline popped up and a round exploded on Corregidor, lighting up the face of Helen Durand. "Yeah, come on over," said Ingram.

  Ingram reached for her and, along with Junior Forester, helped her over the gunwale. She wobbled a moment and Ingram held her hands until she adjusted to the whaleboat's bobbing.

  "Is Doctor Taft with you?" he asked.

  "Still there." She nodded at Corregidor.

  "You were supposed to go out on that PBY?"


  She drew a deep breath. "Nobody knew what happened. They couldn't find the other plane so we drew straws." She tilted her head toward the '51 Boat. "They were yelling. The lottery was a joke."

  "Who yelled?"

  "The men in the boat. A general panicked and screamed at Mordkin. Mordkin screamed at us and ordered take-off in sixty seconds. It all happened so fast. Two out of nine nurses made it out."

  "Who else?"

  "Couldn't tell, it was so dark. That fat general. Some other brass. Two or three civilians."

  "Lucky." He rubbed his chin. "How'd you get out here so fast?"

  "Soon after you left, they rounded us up with five minutes to pack a duffle...with all those shells falling, I had to run for the dock."

  She released his hand and bent with Yardly to examine the lieutenant commander.

  Captain Mordkin called. "Captain?"

  Ingram answered, "Yes."

  "Uh, you ID your survivor?"

  "Told me his name is Richardson. lieutenant commander."

  "Anything else?"

  "No. He passed out."

  The Army captain exhaled. "Very well, Captain. We'll wait for you at South Dock."

  "As fast as we can make it."

  Lines were untied, they eased away from the 51 Boat which, being the faster of the two, roared ahead to Corregidor. Ingram sat back watching Helen Durand and Yardly work on Richardson, or whoever he was.

  Yardly said, "Skipper, you better hear this."

  With the two corpses gone, Ingram found room to kneel beside Richardson. "What is it, Bones?"

  Yardly said in a half whisper. "Looks like he's slipping."

  Helen, still probing, said, "I think he has a lung puncture."

  "Anything we can do?" Ingram asked.

  "Keep him warm; hope we get him to the hospital in time," said Yardly. "But the guy said--"

  "...Epperson." Richardson's eyes fluttered open. He blinked rapidly and searched their faces. "Any of you know Epperson?"

  "Skipper. That the guy who came out the other night?" asked Yardly.

  Ingram nodded and said softly, "You're going to be okay, now, Commander. We're taking you to the hospital."

  "Mark Hopkins...Market Street..." Richardson's focus wandered and his eyes closed.

  "Commander," said Helen. She bent close to his face. "Stay with us."

  "Come on, Commander, don't go away." Yardly said loudly.

  Richardson's eyes blinked open. He searched the stars then found Ingram. "You know Epperson?" His voice was weak.

  Ingram nodded and held up his Naval Academy ring. "Both of us were class of 1937."

  A shell landed perhaps two hundred yards away. Without looking, Ingram knew they were getting close to South Dock.

  Richardson tried to wave a hand. Helen wrapped her hands around it and held on. "...my pouch," he said, looking to his right.

  Ingram spotted it. "This one?"

  Richardson wheezed deeply. Blood trickled from his mouth. He gurgled, "...deliver to Epperson."

  As frail as Richardson was, Ingram detected an urgent tone. He picked up the letter-sized pouch and looked inside. "Empty, Commander."

  "...nooo..."

  Forester rang one bell and Whittaker eased the throttle to idle. With an upward glance, Ingram saw the dead, saw-toothed creosote pilings of South Dock glide by. "Hold on, Commander, almost there."

  Richardson went rigid.

  "Jeez," moaned Yardly.

  With clenched eyes, Helen Durand grabbed both of Richardson's hands and held them to her neck.

  Blood foamed at his mouth. It was a tremendous effort for Richardson to capture another breath. "Tell him...me." His eyes searched Ingram's.

  "I will," Ingram said.

  "...tell him, Pontiac."

  "What?" asked Ingram.

  Forester rang three bells. The whale boat's engine roared in reverse and stopped at a dock where Whittaker cut the engine.

  Richardson's mouth and eyes were wide open as if propped with sticks.

  "What?" Ingram put his ear close to Richardson.

  "...Pontiac." Richardson's pupils grew large and his last breath escaped in a prolonged hiss.

  Yardly shook his head. "Liked cars, I guess."

  Helen eased Richardson's hands down and crossed them over his chest.

  "I don't think he was talking about cars," Ingram said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  24 April, 1942

  South Dock, Corregidor Island

  Manila Bay, Philippines

  "Captain?” Carl Mordkin’s stance on the wharf was silhouetted by an exploding seventy-five millimeter shell, arms folded, feet wide apart.

  Ingram looked up.

  "We can take him now." The fireplug-shaped captain waved two men into the Pelican's whale boat.

  "He's dead."

  "I see. Did he leave anything?" Mordkin looked at the ground and kicked cement shards.

  "Not a thing," said Ingram.

  "You sure? We're lookin' for a pouch."

  "Sorry," said Ingram.

  Mordkin swore just as a shell whacked Stockade Battery, reverberating thunderously down Government Ravine. Almost simultaneously, Battery Geary's M-1908 mortar roared in defiance, the blast so loud they slapped their palms on their ears.

  The nurses wailed, Helen among them, as they looked about for cover. The mortar roared two more times, while Richardson's body was lifted out. Suddenly, staccato flashes of Japanese counter-battery rained on the mortar pits with a machine gun swiftness. The battery was about a mile away, but even at that distance, the rapid concussions were so penetrating no one could move, except to crawl to a low wall and crouch with their hands over their heads. Shells crashed and the souls around Ingram, men and women alike, moaned and wailed. He, too, was shaking and with all the cataclysmic blasts one of the people moaning could well have been him.

  Five minutes later it stopped. Blessed silence reigned for a moment then a distant shell fell on Monkey Point, sounding like a firecracker. Mordkin was the first to stir. "Pack up and get inside," he yelled.

  Whittaker rose, dusting himself off. "That's it for them mortar pits."

  "Those poor bastards," said Junior Forester.

  Mordkin walked up and nodded to the three nurses who struggled to their feet. "Too bad about the ladies. They should be halfway to Mindanao by now."

  "Too bad about all of us," muttered Forester.

  "I know you?" asked Mordkin, squinting his eyes.

  "No, Sir!" Forester walked to the dock and fiddled with mooring lines.

  Mordkin turned to Ingram. "We have to go back out, Captain. Appreciate your help." He called his men; they jumped in the shoreboat, cast off, and disappeared into South Harbor's gloom.

  Helen Durand stood and watched them go.

  Ingram stood beside her and said, "I'm sorry."

  "I don't know why...guilty..." she said looking at the ground.

  "Nonsense. You're not guilty of anything."

  "Why I don't--" Her eyes glistened and she pulled her ball cap low to her eyes.

  "Go on."

  Her chin jutted out. "Alright, damnit. I don't know why I don't feel guilty. I don't. Maybe it's because I had a chance to live. And I wish with all my soul I was aboard that airplane right now."

  "You mean guilty about leaving everyone here? Walking out on us? Leaving us to face the Japs? Forget it. You deserve the chance."

  "So do you. So does everybody."

  "Maybe."

  She grabbed his shoulders. Ingram was surprised at the strength of her grip. "Why us?"

  "What?"

  "Why is Roosevelt throwing us in the toilet?"

  His temperature rose and he realized it wasn't the tropical heat. "I don't know what he has in mind. Why don't you--

  "Where is your damned Navy?"

  Navy. Where is the Navy? My Navy! He'd heard that so many times. Ingram jerked. Her hands flew away as he shouted, "Honey. I'll tell you where the Navy is. The Pacific Fleet
is on the bottom of Pearl Harbor. The Asiatic Fleet is on the bottom of Cavite or the Sunda Straits. And the Japs are kicking leftovers to Timbuktu."

  Helen Durand took a step back.

  He stepped with her. "Our warships have been sunk needlessly while the brass dithers in Washington trying to come up with another foolhardy scheme. All the while, thousands of good men are being killed.

  "There is no Navy. You and I are next, honey. Maybe we can wave to each other when the Japs stand us against the wall and..."

  She folded her arms.

  With an effort, he controlled his breathing. "...sorry."

  "The apology is mine. Those men in the PBY gave everything tonight."

  "Their number came up."

  "And Richardson's."

  "And Richardson's."

  "Good-bye."

  Helen Durand picked up her duffle.

  Ingram caught the stenciling on the side: HELEN Z. DURAND. "What's the 'Z' stand for?” he asked.

  "Not now."

  "What?"

  "I'll tell you, sometime." Helen caught up with the other nurses; the three disappeared in the direction of the hospital tunnel.

  Ingram watched for a moment then called, "Forester!"

  The cox'n' said, "Yessir."

  "Take the boat and lay offshore for an hour. I have to go to the Navy Tunnel."

  "Yessir."

  Two mortars belched from Battery Geary flinging their projectiles toward Sisiman Cove on Bataan.

  "Let's move," yelled Forester.

  "I'll be damned," said Whittaker, marveling that the mortars had survived the Japanese counter-battery.

  Ingram didn't hear. He was already running for the Naval Intercept Tunnel.

  * * * * *

  Ingram walked up to Epperson's door as Tokyo Rose moaned, “...so I plead with you men of Corregidor. Give up. While General MacArthur basks in Australia you are dying. While he and his staff grow fat on fried shrimp and play eighteen holes of golf each day, you are dying. While your own admirals and generals hide like rats in the tunnels, you are dying. What is the use?"

  The Marine sentry knocked. Epperson stuck out his head and waved. "Todd! Be right there," he said, and closed the door.

  The loudspeaker hissed and Portman, wearing a splotchy-gray T-shirt, skivvies, and shower sandals, adjusted the squelch. Ingram sat on a table and, looking at his own skinny arms, wondered, how can that radioman be so fat?