"Nice tight little formations. Damned Japs," hissed Sunderland, thumbing his nose at the sky.
Ingram counted a hundred Bettys then lost track. He closed his eyes but couldn't sleep until the vibrating faded to the south then he drifted off again...but not before he tried to work out a way to get through those damned destroyers...
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
7 May, 1942
Looc Cove
Luzon, Philippines
A mosquito gnawed in Ingram's ear waking him up. He slapped at it then checked the sun: late afternoon.
Toliver was close by watching. He shifted his gaze out to sea as Ingram again slapped his ears and neck.
Ingram blinked, "Don't know if I'll ever catch up on sleep."
Toliver said nothing. His beard had become wiry, his hair unkept, and his clothing, it seemed, was more filthy than anyone else. But Toliver's eyes: They were red as if he'd been crying for the past two days. Yet they didn't glisten with tears. They were simply red.
Have to start somewhere, Ingram decided. He said softly, "Get any shut-eye?"
Toliver's eyes were fixed on two Hubukis patrolling out to sea. "Ummm."
"Ollie, damnit! Say something."
Toliver looked at Ingram. Then strangely, his left eye stopped tracking and became fixed in its socket.
"Ollie, you're doing this to yourself. Knock it off!"
Toliver's eyes refocused for a moment. "Ummmm." Then the eye quit tracking again.
Ingram leaned close. "Ollie. Forget about the Pelican. That could have happened to anybody. I need you, Ollie. We all do."
Toliver's brows knit and his Adam's apple bounced as if he was going to speak. He opened his mouth, but abruptly stopped, looking over Ingram's shoulder.
Ingram sat back heavily and said softly, "Playing the boob won't do it, Ollie. Sooner or later you're going to have to come around."
Toliver said nothing; his eyes remained on the two destroyers.
A few minutes later, the sun's lower limb touched the South China Sea, making the light turn from brilliant reddish-yellow to a pale pink. Strange, Ingram thought, the Cicadas had chosen that moment to stop buzzing. Even the birds were silent. Why was that?
His answer came a moment later when a diesel engine approached from the north. As it grew louder, the men blinked and roused. Watching Sunderland unlimber his BAR and aim toward the entrance, they broke out the other BARs and 03s, braced them on the gunnel, and waited.
It was a barge.
"Good God," said Yardly.
The one-hundred-foot barge was packed with men so tight, they stood almost elbow to elbow. With the sun behind them, it was hard to tell what they looked like, or even what they wore. Dewitt crawled up and asked, "Suppose they're headed back to Fortune Island?"
"Must have set up a staging area there," said Ingram.
Holloway pulled out the binoculars and braced them on the gunnel, twirling the focus knobs.
Ingram asked, "
well?"
Holloway scanned until the barge disappeared behind the point. "They're GIs, all right. Mostly army. Saw a few white hats."
Ingram asked, "How many per barge?"
"Couple hundred, I'd say." answered Holloway.
"And there's--what, ten thousand on Corregidor?" Ingram asked DeWitt.
DeWitt said, "Eleven thousand. Altogether, twenty thousand or so on all four islands."
Ingram said. "That's a lot of barge trips."
"What's on your mind?" asked DeWitt.
"That," Ingram pointed. Another barge, loaded with prisoners, plowed past Looc Cove toward Fortune Island. "That's our ticket," said Ingram.
DeWitt spread his arms and let them drop, slapping his trousers.
"Take a lot of trips to ferry ten thousand men to Fortune Island," said Ingram. "If they run at dark, we go among them and squeeze through the picket line."
Another prisoner-laden barge growled by.
Ingram sat up and said, "Mr. Holloway, let's secure this boat for sea. Yardly. Evening rations. After that, we go."
* * * * *
They broke from under the trees a little after seven and cleared the entrance at full power. Further south, they slid past Point Fuego and the 51 Boat pitched up and down in troughs, with Forester fighting his tiller to keep his heading.
DeWitt leaned close to Ingram and, pointing at the growing darkness, said, "What is all this?"
Ingram said, "I'd say the wind is fifteen knots and building, Major. Could be to our advantage. Make us tougher to spot."
"Is this safe?"
"I imagine. Why do you ask?"
DeWitt gave Ingram a sour look, sat heavily and folded his arms. The men wedged themselves among brackets and thwarts and, even with the boat's rollicking, once again enjoyed the luxury of sleep. But from the way DeWitt was slumped on a thwart, Ingram guessed the major was as green as the 51 Boat's corroded engine bell.
Looking south, Ingram spotted the picket line in place again with the two destroyers stalking across their track. But for the moment, he knew they were safe. Moonrise wasn't until 2 a.m. and, except for starlight, it had become very dark.
Occasionally, Forester stooped over the binnacle to check his course, the red light's glow washed his face, making him look like Bela Lugosi. "Where to, Sir?" he asked.
"Head right for Fortune Island," said Ingram.
"Where is Fortune Island?" asked Forester.
Good Question.
Fortune Island, seven miles off the coast, was narrow, a mile long and only 370 feet high. Tonight it was not visible at all. In fact, there was no horizon. Except for navigation lights on the picket line, it was now pitch black. Ingram waited while they rose up the backside of a trough and went over the top. "There," said Ingram pointing off to starboard, seeing a barge's white stern light. "Follow that."
Forester got the idea and they swung about five hundred yards aft of a barge, with the 51 Boat still pitching heavily. It was more or less what Ingram wanted to do; follow a barge directly to Fortune then veer off and head around the island's western edge and run south. He just hadn't planned on it being so rough.
"Damnit!" Suddenly, Forester whipped the boat to starboard seeing red and green side lights bear down on them. He threw the rudder the other way to thread the needle between two empty barges. Their exhausts blasted from both sides as they headed back toward Manila Bay.
Choppy seas, combined with barge wakes, made the 51 Boat bounce up and down madly. Forester cursed, trying to hold a descent heading. A minute hadn't passed when Ingram heard a scream amidships, followed by a loud splintering crash. Stepping forward, he found Junior Forester, Farwell, Whittaker, and Bartholomew wrestling a fuel drum that had broken its lashings and rolled aft to crush a wooden thwart like a rotten egg.
"Someone screamed." yelled Ingram.
Farwell puffed, "Damn thing ran over my foot. I think it's okay. It just scared me."
Lucky. Ingram moved back to stand by Forester. In darkness it took the four wheezing men thirty minutes to capture the barrel and properly tie it down. While they grunted and cursed, a million things ran through his mind as he tried to organize his thoughts and plan ahead. What if Farwell's foot is broken and he doesn't know it yet? What about medical supplies? Is there enough food? And that damned Buda sounds like King Kong thumping around in a boxcar. It’s going to need an overhaul, soon. How do we do that?
But they had the best talent as far as the engine was concerned. More than Bartholomew, Whittaker was the on-board genius when it came to small diesels. If anyone could keep the thing running it was Whittaker.
His mind turned to setting up a watch schedule. At some point, he wanted everybody to take a turn, with five men up at all times. Let's see, a helmsman, engineman, and three lookouts. What if--
A bright light stabbed at them, blinding Ingram, while a diesel engine roared past.
Forester heaved in right rudder and said, "Damnit. Didn't spot him until he was almost on top."
"He see us?" said Ingram, blinking.
"Don't see how he could miss, Sir," said Forester.
As the 51 Boat flopped over another wave, it seemed the rhythm was easier and the troughs not as deep. Ingram supposed things had evened out because they were farther from shore. But he was still blinded and it took a while for his eyes to adjust. Finally, he picked out the stern light of the barge Forester had avoided. It was about a quarter-mile away now, headed toward Luzon.
It hit him. "Damnit!"
"Sir?" said Forester.
Ingram dug under a thwart, finding a chart and unrolled it. He fumbled for a light and was surprised when someone stooped beside him and snapped on a flashlight with fingers over the lens. In the red glow, Ingram recognized Otis DeWitt looking worse than Lugosi in black and white.
"You feel okay?" said Ingram, making a mental note to tape a red rag over the lens.
"I've done better," DeWitt said with a thick tongue. "You trying to find out where we are?"
"That's not the problem," said Ingram. "The problem is behind us."
"Jap destroyer?"
"No. See the stern lights?" said Ingram pointing aft.
"Yes," said DeWitt. "Isn't that what you want?"
"Yes. But, I don't see bow lights. You know, the red and green ones which means the barges aren't coming out anymore tonight. The last bus to Fortune Island is straight ahead."
DeWitt peered ahead. "Where?"
Ingram had to wait until they eased over a swell. "There." When he pointed, he realized the stern light was getting smaller. With all this cargo, the 51 Boat wallowed at a snail's pace. And forward, he heard the men working the bilge pump, meaning they were taking water.
"You think that fellow had a radio?" asked DeWitt, pointing aft.
"If he does, we're up a creek."
"Maybe we better go back."
Ingram didn't want to admit he was thinking the same thing. He peered at the chart and, running a quick D/R, reckoned they were close to Fortune Island. He checked bearings, looking back to where Looc Cove lay and picked off a new course for Forester. But at the same moment, he saw something that made his heart turn cold. "Kill the light, Major."
DeWitt snapped off the flashlight and looked up. "What?"
Atop another crest, DeWitt had his answer. Almost dead aft, bright navigation lights ghosted into the coastline, stopped, then extinguished to a single, dull light. With the realization that a Japanese destroyer had anchored, DeWitt muttered, "Looks like Hotel Looc is all booked up tonight."
Ingram said to Whittaker. "That all the throttle you have?"
"Maybe a little more, Sir," said Whittaker, kneeling beside the engine.
"Do it."
Whittaker puttered, and the engine ran a little faster.
DeWitt clicked his teeth, "We should have gone inland."
Ingram allowed, "Maybe."
Thousands of stars were scattered overhead, allowing Ingram to finally discern the outline of Fortune Island. The barge they followed seemed to have reduced speed because it looked larger. Suddenly, the running lights went out, but he could still see the dark hulk. It seemed to be swinging left.
"I don't like this," muttered Ingram.
"Me neither," said Forester.
Ingram said. "Major. Go forward, please. I want everyone awake and into life jackets. Now."
Without argument, DeWitt stumbled about to rouse the men. Grumbling, they rubbed sleep from their eyes and donned life jackets.
A white light blinked from straight ahead. "Oh, shit," said Forester.
They got us," said Holloway. "Looks like it's on the island."
"What's that mean?" asked DeWitt
"It's a challenge," said Ingram, watching the light blink again: dit-dah, dah-dah-dah.
"He's flashing ABLE OPTION, Sir," said Forester.
"Dead slow, Whittaker," said Ingram. Then he shouted, "Farwell."
"Sir," said Farwell from the bow.
"Got a flashlight?"
"Right here, Sir."
Ingram rubbed his chin. It was such a crapshoot. What to signal? And as his stomach churned, he realized they all looked at him, expecting their skipper to come up with a miracle counter-sign that would somehow let them off the hook. He wanted to curse them for depending on him to make the decision that most likely would kill them all. Why not someone else? Someone smarter who knew all the answers. Someone who could get them out of this. Someone they could all look up to. Someone to whom Ingram could simply say, "Aye, aye, Sir" and do whatever the man wanted. Now, more than ever, he just wanted to follow orders.
He knew when Farwell flashed his response, the Japanese most likely would pounce all over them. Perhaps a seventy-five was sighted on them now. One touch on the trigger and...
He gave a long exhale. May as well beach the boat right here, throw his hands in the air, bow to the Japs, hand over his crew, and take their places beside their fellow Americans. He looked around the boat in desperation. Nobody stepped forward. Nobody seemed to offer a better idea. It was up to him.
The light pierced the darkness again: dit-dah, dah-dah-dah. They were closer, the waves were much smaller, which meant they were in the island's lee. Ingram was sure the light came from a control station on Fortune Island.
Farwell's silhouette was barely visible, yet his jaw stood out like something from Dick Tracy. What sort of muscles did it take to move that thing up and down, let alone eat, he marveled? No wonder they call him Bucket Mouth. He took a deep breath. "Farwell."
"Sir."
"Counter with OPTION ABLE."
"Sir. OPTION ABLE. Signal OPTION ABLE. Yes, Sir." Farwell's tone carried a tinge saying, "we're-screwed-if-you're-wrong-sir." He punched his flashlight with the response: Dah-dah-dah, dit-dah.
Two more empties roared by as the minutes crawled past.
Soon, Ingram distinguished Fortune Island's low humpback ridge. And the landscape was dotted by campfires, which in a way, seemed pathetic. But there was no challenge. No cannons. No ripping machine gun fire. No banzai charge with sword wielding Japanese crawling over the gunnels and chopping them into glistening, wiggling pieces of meat.
Sunderland muttered, "Real dazzle job, Bucket Mouth."
Just then the boat rose over a ground swell and a shout rose up forward.
"Sonofabitch!" yelled Forester, slamming his tiller over.
"Shift your rudder," shouted Ingram. Forester did it just in time with the 51 Boat's stern barely swinging out from under a barge's bow. It bulled down their starboard side, its bulk radiating heat.
"Pete, full throttle!" shrieked Forester. The 51 Boat surged ahead and, as the empty barge plowed into the gloom, a pair of flashes lit up the night followed by a thunk-thunk somewhere in the boat. "Bastard's shooting at us, Skipper," yelled Forester.
Ingram yelled, "Down everybody! Sunderland! Take that barge under fire."
"Got it." Sunderland propped his BAR on the gunnel and waited until the barges' shooter fired two more rounds. Spotting muzzle flashes right at the bow, Sunderland jammed the BAR's butt in his shoulder, took aim, and cranked out ten rounds on automatic. He waited for a moment and, not seeing return fire, shifted to the helmsman's pulpit and emptied the rest of his magazine into that.
"Enough," said Ingram, watching the barge swing into a lazy circle.
"Three guys on those gut buckets, Skipper," said Sunderland. "Still one to go."
"'Hold on,' I said," called Ingram.
"Skipper!" Forester pointed.
From darkness, a mass lunged toward them. Ingram recognized the graceful lines of the Hubuki in a tight turn three hundred yards away lining up to ram them. She was so close she couldn't depress her guns which normally could have chopped them to bits. Barely visible was her superstructure sporting square glass panes in the pilothouse. They glittered in starlight, making her appear like a leering shark.
Ingram swallowed, looking up to the ship as she drew closer.
"Skipper!" shrieked Forester.
<
br /> Ingram tried to open his mouth to shout, to scream. Anything.
The Hubuki combined a backing bell on her port engine, ahead full on starboard, and threw her rudder left full to enhance her rotation. Edging closer, her searchlight clacked on and, almost immediately, fixed them in its powerful glare.
"Mr. Ingraaaam," pleaded Forester.
Ingram's brain shouted at his hand to shield his eyes. But he couldn't even do that.
A powerful hand grabbed Ingram's shoulder and shook it violently. Ingram snapped his head to the side, seeing Toliver's wild beard in hoary brightness. Ingram worked his mouth. But his lips barely moved.
Toliver shook again, stronger this time. Ingram heard a roaring in his ears and didn't know if it was in his head or outside. Miraculously, his hand moved and he raised it to shield the light. "Sunderland!" he finally croaked. "Get that damned light."
Sunderland slapped a new magazine in his BAR and started firing. Junior Forester grabbed another BAR and opened up, with the rest scrambling for weapons.
Sutherland pumped the last of his magazine into the Hubuki's signal platform, and the searchlight fizzled out in a bright puff of smoke. While the gunner's mate cursed and rooted for another magazine, Junior Forester hosed down the thirty-seven-millimeter anti-aircraft gun tubs amidships.
"Shift your fire. Forester, get the pilothouse," yelled Ingram.
Junior pumped in the rounds and they heard glass shattering.
"Skipper!" yelled Kevin Forester.
Ingram turned to see the barge had circled and bore down on them once more. "Number three guy must be on the helm," said Holloway, raising a BAR and firing at the stern pulpit.
Sunderland said, "The guy's laughing at you, Mr. Holloway. He ain't standing up. He's prone or kneeling." He slapped in a new magazine and fired it all at the base of the stern pulpit. Enormous chunks of wood flew off, with the whole structure collapsing like barrel staves without rings.
Ingram gauged the Hubuki. Her skipper was good. And she was getting closer. But being near to land, she had to be careful, holding her speed to less than ten knots. Even so, the graceful ship twisted radically using her twin, forty-thousand-horsepower turbines. She was just about lined up to spear them.
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 26