The diesel droned on, driving the bow sideways into a wavelet. Water slapped ten feet in the air forming spray that found its way aft to the threesome, covering them in a fine mist.
"His decree was that the young nun should rest in an eternal state atop that mountain." Amador pointed to the peak dominating the Bataan Peninsula.
"Mariveles," said Ingram.
"That's her," said Amador. "A silhouette of her figure can be seen from the marsh, which is now the entrance to Manila Bay.
"The friar--now El Fraile Island--is on the opposite side of the channel where, mercifully, he gazes up to his beloved Mariveles."
"That doesn't seem just," said Helen.
"Possibly not," said Amador. "But then evil Corregidor himself was frozen in stone and turned into an island, keeping the two separated forever."
Ingram's hand went to Helen's shoulder as the boat slewed through a trough. She looked up at him as he steadied himself saying, "Carabao and Caballo islands," said Ingram.
"Yes," said Amador. "The water buffalo and the horse separate Corregidor from El Fraile." He bent down and took Helen's hands in his. "It may not seem just. But at least they can see each other. Perhaps, some day..."
"I think..." Ingram began. Something distracted him. He stood and searched the ocean off their starboard quarter.
Helen looked back to the islands, where artillery flashes threw sparkles across her pupils. She said, "perhaps with Carabao and Caballo close by, El Fraile can someday mount one of them and dash across the marsh to rescue Mariveles."
Amador sat back and lightly slapped his knees. "Perhaps."
Helen stood and waved a hand across Ingram's face. "Hello? Captain Midnight? If El Fraile drinks Ovaltine, can he bring Caballo back to life and rescue--
"Shhh!" said Ingram, seeing that Junior Forester and Whittaker peered aft, too.
Amador stood and looked over the starboard quarter with them.
"It's her. The Wolffish. Can't you hear?" said Ingram.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
29 April, 1942
U.S. Naval Operating Area YOKE YOKE 2
South China Sea
Framed in their vision, Corregidor lay three miles astern, the hulking island like a staggering boxer. Shells pummeled its ridges and ravines as they peered aft looking for the Wolffish. "Where is it?" Helen searched the darkness.
Ingram pointed, "Out there. That ‘whoosh.’ That was her ballast tanks."
DeWitt and Mordkin stood with them to look aft. In ones and twos, almost all the passengers rose to their feet, making the shoreboat top-heavy and slew drunkenly.
"Seats, please," barked Ingram. "Wait till she's alongside and your name is called." He drew a finger across his throat, and Whittaker throttled back to an idle.
DeWitt said to Ingram, "Lieutenant? Where's your submarine?"
Ingram pointed in the darkness.
A Fairbanks-Morse, nine-cylinder, opposed piston, model 248 engine bellowed into life. Three other mighty diesels started, each one generating 1,535-brake horsepower. Even though the exhaust's deep rumble was close off the starboard quarter, they still couldn't see her. But that didn't stop the passengers from cheering and thumping each other on the back.
DeWitt stood on a thwart and yelled something but the cacophony was too great. He tried again, but they cheered louder and hugged each other and clapped shoulders as the sound of the Wolffish's diesels drew near.
With very little headway, her snout popped into view not fifty yards distant; then, her conning tower and periscopes quickly materialized. Barely above the surface, she was a new Gato class fleet submarine, 311 feet long displacing 1,526 tons. Her topsides were camouflaged a dull black, blending well into the nighttime seascape. "She's awash," Ingram said. Her skipper had partially surfaced so as to reduce her silhouette and keep her main deck near the water, making the personnel transfer easier. It would be easier handing the seventy-pound gold bars over, too, he figured.
Junior Forester and Whittaker needed no urging to make bow and sternlines ready as the submarine's bullnose wallowed near their starboard side. Dark figures stood on her deck as Forester worked the 51 Boat under the Wolffish's port bow with a bump. The lines were made fast and Whittaker dropped a fender over the side.
DeWitt blew a whistle. "Line up in order of priority, goddamnit!" He may as well have tried to stop a Texas-style stampede as the evacuees swarmed to the starboard side and started boarding en-masse. "Bastards!" He turned and yelled at the Navy enlisted evacuees. "You, there! Line up for bullion detail."
Six sailors shrank back into the 51 Boat and waited for instructions like rebellious sixth-grade pubescents.
DeWitt said, "Fall into ranks, I said. Right here. Otherwise, you're not going home."
The men were sullen but did as they were told. One was taller than the rest and went to extra lengths to keep his face averted. He had been close enough to hear Amador tell his Corregidor legend. Now he shifted positions and took a place a bit farther away.
Pablo Amador, with a broad smile, shook Ingram's hand. "I enjoyed talking to you, my friend."
"And you, Mr. Amador. Perhaps we'll meet again." He lowered his voice making sure DeWitt couldn't hear. "We may run for it."
The boat rocked, then slammed against the Wolffish. Amador had to shout over the noise and confusion. "Escape?" he said. "Where?"
"Not sure. Australia, maybe."
"Well, if you do, make sure you stop in Nasipit. North coast of Mindanao. It's my hometown and I have many friends there. They have a big radio and the resistance grows daily. It would be a good resting place, before you transit the Surigao Strait into the Pacific." Shadowy figures gestured from the submarine's deck. "I'm up next." Then he took Ingram’s hand again. "Use my name. Pablo Amador. They'll take good care of you."
"Pablo Amador. Thanks. I won't forget."
"Everywhere our resistance gains momentum. They may try to enlist you. Good luck. Excuse me." Amador stepped between the rank of sailors, braced a foot on the starboard rail, and accepted a hand from a burly torpedoman who pulled him onto the submarine's deck. He climbed down the hatch to the Wolffish's forward torpedo room.
Helen stood at the starboard gunnel. "Thanks, Lieutenant. I--what is your name, anyway?"
"Ingram. Todd Ingram." He shook her hand.
"Okay, Todd. Best of luck, and take care of that cheek." She reached for a hand on the submarine, but withdrew and kissed Ingram just above the bandage.
"Why did you do that?"
"Take care of yourself."
Ingram put his hand to his face as she gained another foothold on the gunnel. He choked out, "Where do you live?"
She turned. "What?"
"Yes. Damnit. How do I find you?"
Her eyes darted for a moment. "Ramona. I live in Ramona, California."
"Like the movie with Don Ameche?"
"He was the star."
"Here." He twisted his Naval Academy ring off his thumb and stuffed it in her pocket. "Keep it safe for me."
He was glad she didn't make a show of mock resistance. "You'll get it back," she said.
"I hope so." He had no idea why he'd given her the ring. Perhaps it was because a part of him--even though it was an inanimate object--was on its way to safety. But he wasn't sure.
"Where do you live" she asked.
"Why?"
"Where do I send the ring in case it doesn't fit?" Helen's eyes glistened.
"Echo. Echo, Oregon."
"Where's that?"
"Eastern Oregon. Farming town just outside--"
A Wolffish sailor took her hand and pulled her on deck with a rough yank.
Ingram tossed her satchel up to the sailor. "California's a big state," he shouted.
She looked back yelling something and patting her pocket.
"What?" Ingram stepped on a thwart.
She could only manage a wave as she was hustled down the forward hatch.
"Todd? Is that you?" An officer towered above In
gram on the Wolffish's deck.
Ingram squinted up into darkness. "Foggy?" There was no mistaking that voice and for a moment, he felt warm inside just hearing it. The tall, thin, Lieutenant junior grade Raleigh T. Sutcliff was so named because of his deep, baritone voice and bobbing Adam's apple. Although Sutcliff had been two years behind Ingram at the Academy, they were good friends. "What the hell are you doing up there?" said Ingram.
"Engineering officer. What the hell are you doing down there? Last I heard your ship was blown out from under."
Ingram told him about the Hayes and the Pelican as DeWitt and Mordkin organized their work party. Soon the sailors passed up the bullion.
"Sounds rough."
"It is."
"Look, Todd, we have some food, medicine, cigarettes, candy. They--" Sutcliff looked away, "didn't give us any ammo for you." All the other submarine relief missions had brought in ammunition.
Ingram said, "It's okay, Foggy. Give it to my boat crew."
Sutcliff spoke to a group of men and soon a line formed with boxes being handed down to the Foresters and Whittaker.
"What's the news from home?"
Sutcliff squatted so he could see Ingram better. "Don't know about home. We're stationed in Fremantle."
"Nice duty." Ingram looked to the bow of the shoreboat. Mordkin's work party was hard at it. He was surprised to see Beardsley still in the boat. Helped by a nervous looking pilot, he stumbled aft toward him. Ingram looked back up to Sutcliff. "New pig-boat, huh? How do you like her?"
Sutcliff said, "Beautiful. Commissioned eight months ago. Everything a man can want. Newest sonar. Even an air-search radar. Hell, they threw in an ice-cream making machine for good measure. But there's one snafu I wanna tell you."
"What's that?"
"Torpedoes aren't worth a shit."
"You're pulling my leg."
"Had a perfect setup on an anchored Jap cruiser two nights ago off Cebu. Fired four. Three hit and didn't go off. Duds. The other missed and detonated at the end of its run, waking up the Japs. Damn destroyers almost depth charged us to hell. Held us down for eleven hours. Everyone is pissed."
"I don't believe this."
"Same in the other boats," said Sutcliff.
"What are you going to--what?" It was Beardsley yanking on his sleeve. "Time to go, Leon. They'll be diving, soon,"
"Yeah, better get 'em aboard. See you later, Todd. Good luck." Sutcliff stood and walked to the torpedo room hatch.
Beardsley's voice was low and conspiratorial, Chicago style, making Ingram suppress a smile. "Uh, Skipper," Beardsley said. "You remember the night that sailor of yours died? The guy with the morphine?"
Ingram stopped smiling.
"Lieutenant?" said Beardsley.
"Yes."
"He's here." Beardsley nodded forward where four sailors worked with the last gold bricks.
"Who?" demanded Ingram.
The other pilot, a young redhead said, "Leon. Knock off the crap. We gotta get aboard." He grabbed Beardsley's sleeve and tugged.
Beardsley pulled away. "Damnit, I know the guy's here."
The pilot helping Beardsley said loudly, "How do you know? You're half blind you dumb shit. Come on!"
Beardsley reached out, finding Ingram's shirt and grabbed a lapel. "Didn't I tell you? Bay Rum. Remember? My girl gave me a bottle. The guy is wearing it," he yelled.
"Get moving," shouted DeWitt.
The red-headed pilot spat, "You're on your own, Leon." Taking the submariner's outstretched hands, he jumped up to the Wolffish's deck and headed for the torpedo room hatch.
It swarmed over Ingram: Hampton and his swollen leg. "You sure?" He looked forward. Two sailors knelt to replace the bilge gratings while another pair, under Mordkin's supervision, passed up the last seventy pound gold bar.
"Come on Leon." Ingram helped turn Beardsley around, and they walked forward.
"Hey. Hey. You. Ingram, stay away from there," screeched DeWitt.
"Leon. There are four guys up here. Have any idea which one?" growled Ingram.
"I think he was low; maybe on his knees." Beardsley said.
One of the sailors working at the bilge casually turned away from Ingram and crouched at the grating with a screwdriver.
DeWitt yelled from behind. "Is the gold loaded?"
"Last bar just went up," said Mordkin, watching Ingram and Beardsley.
"Then send those swabbies to the submarine and let's get out of here," said DeWitt.
"You!" shouted Ingram. "Turn around!"
"What's your problem?" rumbled Mordkin.
"I said turn around." Ingram grabbed the tail of the man's shirt and spun him.
The sailor fell on his side and, grappling for a handhold, looked at Ingram with wild eyes.
Ingram gaped into the face of Cryptographer Second Class Walter Radtke. "You!"
With surprising alacrity, Radtke sprang for the gunnel. He was quick, grabbing the bowline to pull himself on Wolffish's deck.
"No!" Ingram roared. He jumped after Radtke and chopped at his wrists. The man squirmed and kicked and bit and squealed. But slowly, Ingram tugged him back into the 51 Boat. Just as he let go, Radtke reached in his pocket and spasmodically tossed something looking like a box of matches over the side.
He yelped in pain as Ingram dragged him back in the boat and jumped on him, driving a fist in his face. Radtke turned his head just in time to deflect the blow. And somehow, during all this, the smell of Bay Rum played at Ingram's nostrils.
"What the hell you doin'?" Mordkin shouted, pulling at Ingram's arms and shoulders.
Radtke's hand grabbed at Ingram's crotch. His other hand sent two splayed fingers to gog his eyes. Ingram ducked and hit Radtke again, this time in the neck.
Radtke gurgled. But to Ingram's amazement, he powerfully raised himself off the deck.
Mordkin and DeWitt stood over them yanking and pulling at the flailing pair with DeWitt shouting, "Turn this man loose. He has to get aboard the--"
A tall column of water erupted two hundred yards to port. The four stared, unbelieving at the tumbling, cascading water.
"What's going on with the--"
Another shell landed off to starboard somewhere making ocean hiss.
"Shit! We're bracketed," yelled Sutcliff running for the conning tower. "Get below before..."
His voice was drowned out by the diving klaxon and ballast tanks venting. The forward torpedo room hatch clunked shut and the Wolffish gathered way.
Looking up in horror, Ingram saw the docklines were still attached to the submarine's cleats. The Wolffish pulled them through the water and soon, would tow them under.
"Forester!" He shouted aft. "Cast off the sternline. Cut it, you have to."
Whittaker and Forester needed no encouragement. Both hacked at the line with knives. Junior Forester sprang to the bowline, as the submarine picked up speed. Looking aft, Ingram saw the port bow plane unfolding from the superstructure. For a terrifying moment it looked as if the diving plane would crash down on the boat's transom. But it cleared by two feet and sliced into the water in the full dive position.
The next shell was to port and much closer, the explosion cracking their eardrums. Water and hot shrapnel chunks rained on the deck. Forester madly sawed at the line. Ingram scrambled over Radtke to assist him. He reached the young quartermaster, wrapped his hands around his wrists, and helped him bear down.
Through gritted teeth, Junior Forester sobbed, "Dull blade."
Another shell landed close to starboard, raining more water and shrapnel. But by now, the Wolffish's entire forward section was submerged with water peeling off her conning tower.
Whittaker got the engine started just as the bowline snapped with a twang. Ingram looked aft, seeing the sternline had been cut. Forester leaned into his tiller and veered away from the diving Wolffish.
The submarine was under. Her periscope, pulling a large wake, swept by as Whittaker opened the throttle.
Ten seconds
later another shell landed where they would have been. Then another.
Breathless, they watched for a minute or two. It became quiet. Finally, DeWitt took off his campaign hat and slapped it against his thigh, making the water shake out. With the other hand, he wiped drops off his face and said, "Damned accurate. The bastards had us. Think that's the one we picked up the other night?"
Ingram recalled the Japanese cruiser's feint toward Corregidor on General Moore's radar. On a moonlit night like this, they wouldn't have needed radar. They were in gun range. Their optics were excellent, their night fighting gunnery and torpedo tactics the best.
He stood on a thwart and looked to the west. Sure enough. The moon glinted off something metallic just above the horizon, perhaps a yardarm. He pointed toward the cruiser, "We're safe now, Major. They won't fire at small potatoes."
"Shit!" yelled Beardsley, slamming a fist on a thwart.
"Sorry, Leon," said Ingram.
"Double shit!" roared Beardsley. "I can't believe those bastards dived without me."
Ingram jumped down and tried to help Beardsley sit, but the pilot wouldn't have any of it.
"You son-of-a-bitch!" Beardsley yelled toward the bow, waving his fists in space.
Epperson's assistant moved to the forward thwart, sat with hands in his pockets, and looked out to sea.
Beardsley lurched forward and found a handhold on a thwart. "I'll kill that bastard myself. Where is--"
An enormous explosion erupted on Corregidor, sending roiling flames and pieces of rock and machinery hundreds of feet in the air. Flames cascaded in an enormous mushroom cloud, which illuminated the island from end to end. Even at this distance, they felt the heat.
"My God!" said DeWitt bracing himself on the gunnel.
A cloud of fire spilled down Government Ravine, where shipwrecked sailors from the submarine tender, Canopus, had made camp. Ingram looked away knowing men were being consumed in that inferno. Squeezing his eyes shut, he still couldn't stop imagining their screams and burning, writhing bodies.
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 17