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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Beardsley's voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. "Four cans. I stashed them under the--"

  "Haven't all night, gentlemen," said DeWitt. "Stand back, Ingram."

  Mordkin materialized between them and called to the Marines. "I have him now." He pat a .45 on his hip. "Return to your post."

  "Ssssir," said the sergeant. The two Marines turned and jogged toward Monkey Point.

  "No crap from you, Ingram," Mordkin said.

  "No crap intended, Captain," said Ingram. He walked to the dock's edge to watch Beardsley being helped into the boat. "Hey, tough guy. See you in Chicago," he yelled.

  "Rat-a-tat-tat-tat," said Beardsley, taking a seat.

  Next, DeWitt passed aboard fifteen or so nervous Army brass, including two brigadier generals. Three Navy commanders were after that, followed by a handful of blue jackets and Army enlisted. The rest of the contingent was civilian, mostly Filipinos.

  While they boarded, Ingram stood on an empty fifty-five-gallon drum and carefully scanned out to sea for mast tops. There were none. Apparently, the Japanese had pulled their picket ships farther out. Satisfied, he jumped down and walked up to DeWitt. A series of artillery rounds sprinted along Kindley Field lighting up the major's thin moustache.

  "Worried about something, Lieutenant?" said DeWitt.

  Ingram said. "There's a forty minute boat ride ahead of us. We better shove off soon, if you want to make that nine o'clock rendezvous. Submarine skippers get nervous hanging around on the surface."

  "Three to go."

  "It's your show." Ingram nodded and walked over to the Forester brothers, who stood with Whittaker smoking cigarettes. All three looked nervously at explosions pummeling Corregidor's east end. Kevin Forester, who Ingram had appointed as cox'n asked, "Any word, sir?"

  "Waiting for stragglers."

  Whittaker asked, "How're we going to find that damned submarine, Skipper?"

  "Full moon will pop up in fifteen minutes. If we steer a descent course, the Wolffish will find us, if worse comes to worse." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "All we do is just steer straight out there."

  "What about mines?" the Forester brothers asked in unison. Kevin Forester looked at his younger brother and scowled.

  "Pass right over them." With a nod to his cox'n, Ingram said, "After we clear the dock, full throttle and steer two-six-two. Should take about forty minutes." Ingram rubbed his chin thinking of the irony that he was out here at all. Technically, he was a prisoner; a murder suspect. Yet, here he was, still doing his job because he was about the only one left who knew the way over the minefield. But the mines were laid deep for big ships. DeWitt didn't know a child could have driven the 51 Boat straight out.

  He bit on a thumbnail thinking what could he say to his former crew members? What could he tell men who had looked up to him as their commanding officer? Men he had lived with in close quarters and had fought with. As the Pelican's captain, Ingram once had the power of life and death over these men. And now...he was under arrest for murder. After fifteen minutes of sputtering histrionics, DeWitt ordered Ingram to continue his duties with the evacuation party, assigning himself and Mordkin as watch dogs. Justice would have to wait until after the 51 Boat returned from the submarine rendezvous.

  A number of shells smacked into Malinta Hill. Roiling dust clouds shot up, obscuring the last of the twilight. A light breeze carried the muck over South Dock, and soon they were gagging and choking.

  DeWitt caught Ingram’s eye and looked at his watch. With a nod, he yelled in his high-pitched drawl, "Move 'em out!" The major might as well have been ordering a cattle drive.

  "Let's go," said Ingram to his crew.

  Forester jumped in the boat and stood on the aft conning platform. Whittaker followed and cranked the diesel into life. Junior Forester kneeled by the bowline while Ingram, breaking protocol that officers don't do enlisted men's jobs, grabbed the sternline taking all but two turns off the cleat.

  There was a commotion on the dock as the smoke cleared. Three figures ran out of the haze and staggered to a stop before DeWitt. The major nodded solemnly, his pencil twirling on his clip board. Finally, he jabbed a thumb at the boat and yelled, "All present and accounted for. Let's go!" He jumped in and held a hand up to the three on the dock.

  The figures, bundled in overcoats and ball caps, leaned against one another, out of breath. They were female: Nurses. One looked familiar. Ingram stepped over, finding Helen Durand last in line. "Hello."

  She managed a nod as she passed her satchel and hesitated.

  With the docklines loose, the boat drifted out a bit. "Come on," said Ingram.

  "Thanks." She took his hand and stepped aboard.

  Ingram whipped the sternline off the cleat and said, "Shove off, Forester." Whittaker fed in throttle and the 51 Boat plowed out of South dock, its engine growling.

  Ingram jumped aboard and stood beside Helen at the port gunnel. "Glad you made it, this time."

  She gasped, "ten minutes. That's all I had. A tunnel creep came in and said we had a place on the boat. Then the ghoul looked at his watch and said, 'too bad, the boat most likely has left' and walked out."

  "What did you do?"

  "Ran after the little jerk. Got him to tell us how to find you. I'll be dammed if I was going to miss another chance."

  "Was he a medical type?"

  Still wheezing, she said, "Just a tunnel rat. No insignia. Could have been in the Eskimo Army for all I know. But the doctors were great. They made us drop everything. We grabbed what we could and ran."

  Her voice. There was something he couldn't identify, a lilt of some sort that captivated him. Even out of breath, it was intriguing. "This time you'll get out."

  "I hope so. How's your cheek?"

  "Still throbs. I may have to sue for malpractice."

  "Nonsense," she said. "You'll have to prove it. Besides, my attorney specializes in frivolous--look at that!" She palmed his chin and turned his head for a closer examination. "What have you been rolling in? A slag heap? When was the last time you changed the dressing?"

  Aside from occasional throbbing, he hadn't paid attention to the wound let alone change the dressing. Actually, hunger pangs were worse than the throbbing.

  Helen Durand sighed. "Okay mister. You're my last patient."

  "In a minute. Be right back." He stood.

  "I'm serious. You'll probably have a scar as it is. I won't hurt you. Don't chicken out on me."

  "I said I would 'be right back.'" Ingram moved aft, where Forester stood casually on the helmsman's platform with the tiller resting between his legs. The cox'n yelled over the diesel's roar, "course two-six-two?"

  "Right." Ingram motioned to Junior Forester and Whittaker and said, "Get up there with him. Keep a sharp eye for Japs."

  "Yessir." The two jumped up standing behind Forester.

  Ingram climbed up with them and squinted into the gloom, finding nothing discernable on a dark horizon. Everything looked alright. Checking the compass--two-six-two--he eased down and stepped forward again.

  Helen had taken a seat beside a Filipino with hands tucked in the pockets of a Navy windbreaker. His hair was gray-streaked, round wire rim-glasses accented quick, clear eyes.

  "Excuse me," said Ingram, wedging in. They nodded to one another, then he turned to Helen, "Okay, amputate my head."

  "By the looks of your bandage I'd say that would be an improvement. Inez?" she called. "The kit, please."

  A small bag was passed over the passenger's heads from two rows forward. The boat rolled, and the bag pitched into the Filipino's hands. He caught it and handed it over.

  Helen thanked him then turned and squatted before Ingram. While unzipping the bag, the boat slewed down the back of a wave and she fell against the man. "Sorry," she said.

  "It's alright," he said. His voice had a deep, cultured timbre. "Can I help?"

  "Yes. Thank you." Helen clanked inside the case and pulled out a bottle. She handed the case to the Filipino as
the boat yawed steeply. "Hold this open, please," she said.

  The 51 Boat's diesel purred smoothly. They were through the minefield and almost in open ocean. The trip was going well, Ingram figured. In fact, it seemed strangely peaceful. They drew farther from the barrage, and were almost out of earshot of the explosions for the first time in months. In a way, it seemed odd that deadly, ear-splitting concussions, which had for so long been macabre companions, should fade in the distance. His ears rang and he wondered how long it would take for these people to get over that? Worse, how long for them to forget the sickening revulsion of the dead and dying?

  He glanced at their lolling heads. They kept to themselves, not quite ready to believe, he was sure, that they could be really escaping Corregidor's horrors. Now, it depended on a safe passage to the rendezvous, and on a submarine surfacing at the right time in the right place.

  He looked back at the Rock seeing explosions pop about its length. How can I return to that hell-hole, he thought? His mind turned black for a moment. End it now. Jump over the side and drift down into nothing. He peered into the South China Sea as it swept past the 51 Boat with a somnolent gurgle; the quarter wave a deadly, green phosphorescence. I could never do that. Stand and fight, he decided grimly.

  And in that moment he thought of Dwight and the man who murdered him: Radtke. What about Midway? How to find Radtke? Start with... "What?"

  "'Hold still,' I said." It was Helen dabbing something cool on his face. She picked at the bandage, got a purchase with thumb and forefinger, and tore off the old dressing.

  "Ouch. Damnit!"

  "Hurt?"

  "No." It did hurt. The throbbing seemed worse.

  She leaned close to inspect the wound. Even with ten knots of relative wind, he felt her warm breath on the nape of his neck. She said, "Yes, infected. You should be ashamed."

  "Glad you're getting out of here, Helen."

  "Why didn't you change this?"

  "You'll be home, soon."

  "You should have done it a long time ago."

  "Will you be going to the States?"

  She paused and looked into his eyes. She said, "Is there anyone I can...you know...talk to? Maybe deliver a letter?"

  "No."

  "Okay now. Put your head down and turn your cheek up to me." He leaned forward; she took a small penlight from the bag, and covering the lens, worked on him for a moment. "You can sit up now. I dumped in some sulfa. But the stitches should stay in for a few more days. Have you ever been to Heidelberg?"

  "Where?"

  "Germany."

  "Of course not."

  "Well, if anyone asks, you have now. Because that's where you got it."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Ingram.

  The Filipino chuckled. "Your dueling scar. It's almost perfect."

  "Will it show?" asked Ingram, touching his hand to his face.

  The Filipino said, "in Germany, they go to extreme lengths to have such a scar."

  Helen dabbed alcohol. "A dueling scar, Captain, is very distinguished."

  "Am I gonna look like a damned Nazi?"

  "The Student Prince couldn't be more proud," said the Filipino.

  Ingram gave the man a how-the-hell-do-you-know-about-the-Student-Prince? look.

  "Excuse me," The Filipino offered his hand. "Pablo Amador. I went to Harvard, then did my post-graduate work at Oxford."

  Ingram shook Amador's hand saying, "Todd Ingram. Are you in the government?"

  Amador said, "Undersecretary of the Treasury. Or, what's left of it." He nodded toward the gratings over the bilge where the gold bars had been laid. "They assigned me to accompany that."

  For some reason, Ingram felt it was more than gold bars that brought Amador out here, but he decided not to pursue it.

  Helen Durand finished taping on the new dressing and repacked her bag. "All is finished, Herr Kapitain. Sieg Heil!" She tossed something into his lap.

  "What's this?" asked Ingram.

  "A clean dressing. Put it on day after tomorrow. Get someone to pull the stitches in about three more days."

  "Otherwise, I will look like a German."

  "More like Quasimodo."

  "Thanks."

  "Sorry. Maybe, you'd rather look like a German?"

  "No," said Ingram.

  "You're going to tell me your ancestors are German and I've been insulting you."

  Ingram shrugged. "Don't know. I was born in New England. We moved to Oregon when I was ten."

  Amador offered, "Are you a Cabot? That's all I heard about at Harvard."

  Ingram didn't feel like playing. "I'm not a Cabot. I'm just a mutt."

  Helen sat back. "Well, you're a clean mutt now. I got that filthy island out of your cheek."

  Amador coughed lightly. Instinctively, they sensed he was used to commanding attention this way, and turned to him. He leaned forward putting a hand on each of their shoulders. His voice shook as he said, "God bless you for who you are, and what you are doing for the Philippine Commonwealth."

  Ingram was a bit embarrassed, but then he looked at Helen; her expression confirmed the Filipino wasn't daft. He didn't know what to say and an awkward silence followed, with all three watching flashes and listening to crumping thuds of exploding shells on Corregidor. Out here it seemed like fireworks, but on the islands, each knew the terror that reigned.

  Something seemed different about Amador when Ingram stole another look. A ghostly radiance brightened over the Filipino's shoulder that seemed to deepen the crevices in his face. It was the rising full moon over the Pico de Loro Hills, making Amador look far older, in a way, sage-like, as he braced his palms against the 51 Boat's slow roll.

  Ingram checked his watch: 8:43. He stood and looked toward Luzon, then peered at Forester in the moon's rising light. Forester waved, and then returned to concentrating on his compass. A glance at Whittaker and young Forester confirmed they were keeping a vigilant watch.

  "How are we doing?" asked Helen. Her face was lost in darkness.

  "Okay. Pretty soon, now," said Ingram taking a seat. "We're making good--"

  "There is something you should know about Corregidor," Amador said, waving a hand at Luzon.

  "I've had enough of Corregidor," said Helen.

  "After this is over, he will have gotten what he deserves," Amador said.

  "Who?" Ingram and Helen said in unison.

  "Corregidor."

  "He? Who's Corregidor?" they asked.

  Amador looked at them. "An evil magistrate." When neither spoke, he continued. "Look," he said, sweeping his hand toward the mountain on the Bataan Peninsula. "Do you know what that peak is called, Lieutenant?"

  "Mariveles," said Ingram.

  "That's right. And Mariveles was a lovely young nun who lived in a convent at the bottom of that mountain." He paused, finding Helen's eyes wide, her mouth slightly open.

  Ingram muttered to himself and checked aft to catch a reassuring nod from Forester. When he again looked at Amador he couldn't tell if the scorn in the Filipino's face was real or imagined.

  Amador continued, "Nearby was a monastery. A young friar lived there. It was inevitable. They met. They fell in love, but they could only have stolen moments together. Finally, they decided to marry..."

  The boat rolled, pitching Ingram into Amador. The man was well braced and didn't budge. Ingram sensed he was strong, without an ounce of fat. The moon had climbed higher, washing the coast line in a gray-green phosphorescence. Corregidor and the other fortified island stood out vividly.

  "...in those days, you must understand this was long before the Renaissance, the area at the entrance to Manila Bay was a salt marsh; there was no sea, as we know it, between Bataan and the Cavite headlands."

  A series of explosions flashed through Corregidor's Middleside. Barely audible, they lighted Amador's face like a child's sparkler on the Fourth of July. More bombs hit, and Ingram stood looking out to sea to search for the Wolffish. Nothing. He checked his watch.
They were five minutes past rendezvous time. Maybe it was aft. He looked over their starboard quarter searching...

  "...the lovers decided to run for it. They stole a horse from a nearby village and started across the marsh. Almost immediately, the villages learned of their disappearance and followed after them. Deep into the marsh the horse bogged down and they transferred to a Carabao. Then they--"

  "A what?" asked Helen.

  "Like a domesticated water buffalo. A sturdy, draft animal." Pablo Amador paused, then went on. "The villagers came closer, and the young friar and Mariveles grew desperate. Finally, they jumped off the carabao and ran on foot."

  Amador paused and looked up at Ingram.

  Feeling the man's eyes Ingram said, "Please don't stop."

  Amador sighed and was silent. The 51 Boat's engine purred, and her wake sizzled in a calm, flat sea. Finally he spoke again in what seemed a super-modulated voice, "The Villagers caught them. They were very angry and demanded justice for the sins of the nun, Mariveles, and her young Friar."

  Ingram's eyes darted about the sea, knowing any number of subtle shadows could mask the Wolffish. Worse, the night could cover an enemy patrol boat until it was too late. They could be murdered with deadly machine gun fire from close range as they sat listening to Amador's insipid fairy tale. But despite that, and despite hunger and exhaustion, Ingram found himself compelled to listen.

  With a nod, Amador said, "They took them to their magistrate. His name was--"

  "Corregidor," said Helen.

  "How did you know?" asked Amador.

  "You said so. He was evil." Helen said.

  "Yes," Amador continued. "Corregidor was evil. He was arrogant and contemptuous of everyone. He ordered that Mariveles and the friar be forever separated, to live on opposite sides of the marsh, never to see one another ever again."

  "How awful," said Helen.

  "Yes," said Amador. "But a merciful deity who watches over lovers pitied them. And he was displeased by the prideful magistrate. He said, 'I will show this proud Corregidor. He is not to decree eternal punishment for anyone, much less a pair of faithful lovers.'"

  "Ah," said Helen. "He gave them mercy and they lived happily ever after."

  Amador shook his head. "Sadly, my dear, no. He could not ignore that Mariveles and the friar had broken solemn vows of their orders taken before God. The deity had no choice but to make them a lasting example. But he needed something to exemplify justice for the lovers on the one hand, and fidelity to their oaths on the other."