This position, you realize, was forced on me by circumstances beyond my control...'
Farther down the page was an edict in bold block lettering warning all American and Filipino servicemen to surrender at specific points by May 12. After this, the edict stated, the Imperial Japanese Army would not accept their surrender.
Like an awakening ghost, the radio made soft shrieking noises as Farwell tried switches and twiddled dials. Ingram replaced the newspaper and slipped open the desk drawer, finding two neat pads of paper and two pencils. Nothing else. He eased the drawer closed and cocked his head.
Thinking he'd heard a noise in the storeroom, Ingram opened the heavy drape with a finger and peeked inside. It was completely dark, perhaps seven by ten with a small desk at the door; an iron bed was on the far side and a small table stood nearby with instruments of some sort.
Odd, he thought. It's not a storeroom and seems messy. Aren't the Japs always clean? And, peeooow. the smell.
He lifted the curtain, hooked it open, and walked in seeing a gunny sack on the desk. He looked inside, finding wallets, watches, rings, and pocket knives. Reaching in, he pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. There was a U.S. Navy ID card with a photograph of a grinning face. The caption said: Collins. Robert Allen, CDR, USN, 364516. Looking in the sack, a heavy coldness swept over Ingram as he realized what these things were.
"Skipper," said Farwell hoarsely.
"Yeah?" Ingram looked the main room.
Farwell sat hunched over the telegraph key, his earphones bleeping with static. "Got it cookin.'" He began tapping the key.
"...atta boy." Stepping back in the little room, he returned to the sack spilling its contents on the desktop. Quietly, Ingram swept his hand through the wallets and papers picking up a ring. "Damn," he muttered. It was a United States Naval Academy class ring and his stomach churned as he looked inside the band. The inscription was there, just as his mother had ordered: ACI -- 1937. The ring belonged to Alton C. Ingram, nicknamed Todd ('Ace') Ingram who graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1937. The last time he'd seen this ring was when he twisted it off his thumb and gave it to Helen Durand the night she evacuated on the U.S.S Wolffish.
"Sonofabitch!" Ingram said. That was April 29, Hirohito's birthday, and the Japanese were plastering Corregidor while he helped her aboard the submarine. She had kissed him on his cheek; the one she had sewn up--
"Aaaah..."
Ingram jumped. Something...someone was on the bed. In the gloom, he saw a blanket, a mass hidden beneath; it moved imperceptibly. "Aaaa..." It was merely a passage of air through a wind pipe.
The blanket shifted, a hand was tied to the frame. It was a small hand. It was--
"Jesus!" Ingram walked over and yanked off the blanket. Whatever lay there was human. It moved slightly making him jump. It's clothes were filthy and unrecognizable and soiled; the stench, a combination of every kind of human excrement swept around him. Hair was matted in bloody patches on the forehead and oozing blisters dotted the face, neck, arms, and chest.
The creature moaned slightly. The voice. It was a woman. Ingram bent to touch her shoulder. "Can you hear me?"
"Noooo." She said.
"Helen!" shouted Ingram
"...Daddy?" she said softly.
"God, I--"
There was a roar; the building seemed to concuss. Something fell over. Ingram ran into the other room finding Farwell face down on the desk. Part of his head was blown away and bits of flesh, skull, and blood were splattered on the radio. For some reason, Farwell's eyes were focused on the radio as if that had caused what had happened to him in his final moment. The single shot had been so powerful it had ripped open a panel making the radio spark and hiss. A small fire glowed brightly inside the transmitter for a moment, then it went dull and lifeless.
Ingram heard a click. Four feet away a Japanese in a rumpled gray suit stood just outside the window. He wore round, rimless rose-colored glasses and had just run his Nambu's action--it must have jammed.
The Kempetai’ s eyes were lifeless, dark pools, as he swung the pistol on Ingram, aimed at his chest and pulled the trigger.
CLICK!
"Kuso," the Kempetai muttered, and yanked again at the Nambu's action.
Ingram's hand went to his holster. He tried to pull out the .45--but, damnit--the pistol wouldn't move. His hand shook and, as hard as he willed, he couldn't make his hand work.
The man in the rumpled grey suit cleared his jammed Nambu and aimed once more at Ingram.
Three, heavy concussions reverberated throughout the large nipa hut. As if yanked off his feet by a rope, the Kempetai flew sideways, his Nambu spinning into the night.
Screams; two more heavy shots. Ingram ran to the window seeing the Kempetai face down in mud. He looked back in the room. His hand shook, the butt of the .45 was firmly grasped but it still wouldn't move.
Someone thumped up the steps. "Jesus!" It was Bartholomew. He stood rooted, his mouth agape. "Bucket Mouth! My God!" He grabbed Ingram's arm, "Two Jap barges heading in. About a mile out. Looks like the garrison coming back." Bartholomew gaped at Farwell again and said, "Bucket Mouth?" almost as if he expected Farwell to wake up and return to the boat with them.
The images burned in Ingram's mind. Helen Durand; a hideous mess in the next room, and here, Farwell's head lay on the tiny desk, his hand frozen on the telegrapher's key. His mouth was open slightly and in finality, Farwell looked at peace.
"I tried, Rocky," said Ingram. "I really did."
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
9 May, 1942
CinCPac Quarters
Pearl Harbor, Territory of Hawaii
The evening was hot and mildly humid on Makalapa, an ancient volcano that rose over Pearl Harbor. Halfway up the green slopes stood an isolated, but comfortable, four bedroom two-story house finished in shiplap.
From the home's veranda, one could see the massive expanse of Pearl Harbor. It was a breath taking view of euphoric somnolence common to travel posters. To the east, the day's haze hovered over Honolulu. Beyond Waikiki's golden beaches, Diamond Head jutted into the whitecap-studded Pacific.
Honolulu, territory of Hawaii: It was there to be seen and heard and felt; bold, red anthuriums, crashing mid-day thunderstorms, and spectacular evenings under moonlit skies.
No longer. Six months ago, euphoria came to an abrupt halt, leaving stark reality the only commodity in the islands. Even now, at the dinner hour, Pearl Harbor was abuzz, as a myriad of tugs, oil barges, and ammo lighters frantically zipped here and there tending to the fleet. With barrage balloons overhead, warships of all kinds and sizes stood in Pearl Harbor's lochs and channels. Some entered fresh from the States, eager to pick up the fight, while other ships, blackened relics, staggered on their way back from war.
Directly below CinCPac's house, on the shores of Southeast Loch, was the submarine base, its fuel tank farm intact. To the viewer's left was the U.S. Naval Station with its complex of piers, dry docks, spidery cranes, and ironically, another tank farm untouched in the December attack. Next to that was Hickam Airfield, where four SBDs took off in pairs for bombing practice in the Molokai Channel. To the far right, East Loch was stuffed with tankers, cargo ships, attack transports, refrigeration ships, and repair ships. Mixed among those were two destroyer nests of five each, snugged up to destroyer tenders. Singled out for their own separate anchorage lay a sinister brood of ammunition ships.
A constant reminder of the December attack was the lingering smell. Even to the heights of Makalapa, sea breezes occasionally carried odors of blistered paint, charred wood, and burnt fuel oil. Worse were the days and weeks right after the attack, when the sea breeze carried the fetor of rotting flesh from bloated corpses that bobbed to the surface.
And only a blind man could ignore the carnage before the veranda of the Commander in Chief of the Pacific Fleet: Ford Island's Battleship Row.
With its own sweet stench, fuel oil still bubbled to the surface to curl arou
nd hulks that lay on the bottom like freshly killed dinosaurs rotting in their own pools of blood: Arizona, Tennessee, West Virginia, Maryland, Oklahoma, California. Less damaged, because it sat on blocks in the Naval base's Drydock Number One was the Pacific Fleet's flagship, the 33,100 ton Pennsylvania. Crammed in the same drydock were the destroyers Cassin and Downes, which erupted in a spectacular conflagration when the depth charges on their main decks blew up. The Nevada was the only battlewagon to raise steam and get underway that tragic morning. But with the longest distance to go, she, too, was hit when the second wave of Japanese dive bombers pounced on her, forcing her to beach at Hospital Point lest she clog the narrow channel to the Pacific.
What one breathed and saw was stark evidence of that which obliterated the lives of over three thousand Americans on December 7, 1941. In a single stroke, the Japanese surprise attack killed more servicemen than the combined Naval losses from the wars of 1898 and 1917-1918. Just a quick glance at necrotic hulks in Battleship Row--now swarming with salvage crews--was more than enough to stir one's outrage. The same glance was a grim omen of what the future held.
* * * * *
A regulation forty-six-by-six-foot horseshoe court was laid under a banyan tree beside the Makalapa home of the Commander in Chief of the Pacific Fleet (CinCPac), Admiral Chester W. Nimitz. Four men, dressed in shortsleeve working khaki uniforms were there, two at each end, one pitching, the other three watching. At the risk of losing points, no one spoke as their boss, Admiral Nimitz, hurled the two-pound-ten-ounce shoe. An ounce below regulation weight, the gleaming 73"-by-7e" shoe spun lazily through the air, hit the platform, flipped on its heels, and leaned against the stake.
"Good toss, Admiral," called Nimitz's partner, Rear Admiral Robert H. English, from the court's opposite end. Until a few days ago, he'd been Commander of the submarine base. Now, he was COMSUBPAC, Commander of Submarines Pacific, and was here as Nimitz's dinner guest for an informal "wetting down" party. CinCPac, the gracious host, had picked English as his horseshoe partner. But English didn't know a damn thing about the game. He asked politely, "Does that rate as a ringer, Sir?"
A tight-lipped Nimitz held up two fingers and slowly shook his head. This throw, his second, was a "leaner," and worth two points. Nimitz's first shoe had been well outside the scoring zone.
"Old man is as serious about horseshoes as he is about Japs," whispered the man next to English, Captain Elphege Alfred M. Gendreau, CinCPac's Fleet Surgeon, friend, and housemate.
English tried not to look nervous. He'd known Nimitz a long time. They had served in submarines together in the old days. But tonight, English knew he was being looked over, even if informally, for his newly won job as COMSUBPAC. With a sidelong glance at the Oklahoma laying capsized beside Ford Island, he knew he was in the right job. His wife's younger brother had been the engineering officer in that old battlewagon. And now, Hank was gone. No, Rear Admiral Robert H. English didn't want to do anything remotely stupid, such as looking like a dodo on the horseshoe court. As any other American, he simply wanted to do his job: Take the war to the enemy.
But for now, English was required to be the consummate guest under the banyan tree. "Damn! The old man's good," English said as Rear Admiral Milo F. Draemel, at the opposite end with Nimitz, stepped up for his second toss. Draemel, Nimitz's Chief of Staff, was another housemate. "You guys must intimidate the hell out of whoever you have to dinner."
Gendreau, with hands on his hips, watched Draemel close an eye and take practice swings. "Yeah. We do our share of scaring people." He dropped his tone. "It's working, Bob."
English arched an eyebrow.
"The old man is sleeping through the night."
"Finally."
"No pills, either." For the first time in his life, the taciturn Nimitz had suffered insomnia. The sleepless nights began soon after he took command of the decimated Pacific Fleet on December 31, 1941, when a Spartan ceremony was conducted on the deck of the submarine U.S.S. Grayling. Gendreau prescribed mild exercise and ordered the horseshoe court installed. Now, Nimitz, Gendreau, and Draemel played often, usually just before dinner.
"How about his hands?" English offered. The last few weeks he had seen Nimitz's hands shaking.
"Pistol range."
English was surprised at Gendreau's quick answer. "What the hell for?" he said.
"A couple of neurologists told me shooting pistols may do the trick. Something to do with hand-eye concentration. So I'm having a pistol range built in the new CinCPac Headquarters."
Draemel's shoe spun slowly in the air and clanged around the stake: The ringer was worth three points. Worse, it nullified the two points from Nimitz's leaner. Draemel whooped and Nimitz twirled on the ball of one foot and slapped his forehead.
English gave a soft chuckle. "Good idea, Doc. Japs invade the island and we strap him up in a coconut palm with a sniper rifle, bandolier, canteen, and telescopic scope." An invasion of the Hawaiian Islands was a reality. Many visualized hoards of Japanese soldiers, their officers waving samurai swords and yelling "banzai," effortlessly sweeping over Oahu. All dependents had been evacuated to the mainland, and beach defenses were frantically under construction.
Ignoring English's sarcasm, Gendreau took a deep breath and looked at Battleship Row. He said without a smile, "When it comes to that, I'll be up there next to him."
Something in Gendreau's tone made English feel warm. No wonder Nimitz had picked this man for a housemate. Draemel, too. Both were fiercely loyal to the old man. It seemed ironic to English, a commander of over thirty submarines, to hear something like that from one who saves lives. "We'll all be up there with him, Doc," he said.
Nimitz cupped his hands and yelled, "Batter up."
A jeep drove up just as English and Gendreau stooped to recover their horseshoes. A dark-haired young lieutenant commander jumped out and walked up to Nimitz. It was Edwin T. Layton, Nimitz's Fleet Intelligence Officer. Layton handed Nimitz a folder. The two strolled off a few paces and talked.
English checked his watch. Almost seven forty-five. Dinner was supposed to have been served at seven-thirty.
Gendreau caught his glance and said, "Rochefort's late again." Another lieutenant commander was due to join them for dinner. He was Joseph J. Rochefort, who was in charge of the Hawaii--station HYPO's--branch of the communication security section of the office of Naval communications. The main office, formally called Op-20-G, was in Washington, D.C.
English said, "How does the old man put up with his tardiness? I would have fired the sonofabitch a long time ago."
Gendreau gave a long exhale and shook his head. "I think he assumes Rochefort will always be late, so he asks him early and everything works out."
"Huh," growled English.
Gendreau looked across the court at Nimitz. CinCPac quickly nodded, and the Fleet Surgeon took one practice swing. "Don't judge Joe too harshly, Bob," he said.
"Little bastard works his butt off. I'll give him that," said English.
Gendreau flung his shoe with a graceful release. It sailed, bounced off the stake, and skidded to a quick stop, stirring little dust. Draemel held his hands three inches apart: one point.
"The best defense, Bob, is to knock my shoe outside the scoring zone," said Gendreau.
Layton walked back to his jeep and got in. Just then another Jeep pulled up and Rochefort jumped out. The two lieutenant commanders nodded to one another, and Layton drove off.
A steward quickly appeared on the porch. Nimitz said, "Dinner's on. We'll have to pick this up later."
English was happy about that as he walked inside. There would be no later for this game unless they played by moonlight. The islands were under a strict blackout.
Nimitz lead them to the dining room and sat at the table's head. Draemel was next in seniority and sat to CinCPac's right; English was to the left. Gendreau was next to Draemel, Rochefort beside English. They talked of home and movies and children and grandchildren, as a light salad was served.
More Smalltalk took them through Mahi Mahi, boiled potatoes, peas, rolls, and coffee.
They lingered over orange sherbet, then sat back as their places were quickly cleared. The stewards refilled the coffee as Draemel and Rochefort lighted cigars. Nimitz cranked the conversation up a notch, "How many?"
"At least ten thousand. Maybe more," said Gendreau.
The other four looked on as Gendreau explained, "Cerebral malaria killed more Japs than we thought in the Philippines."
Rochefort puffed his cigar, blue smoke curled around the ceiling light fixture. "How can you be so certain. You didn't hear it from me."
English smiled inwardly at Rochefort's peevish tone. In spite of the informal setting, a lieutenant commander simply didn't speak to a full captain like that. He sat back and waited for Nimitz to tear his head off.
"How did you find out, Al?" asked Nimitz.
English turned red.
Gendreau said, "Garrity. Army G-2. They got some reports from Corregidor a few days before it fell. Apparently the Japs bombed warehouses full of quinine before they occupied Manila. Tons of the stuff was there just for the taking. Instead, they blew it up, and a lot of their boys died."
English couldn't help it. "So did ours."
It was quiet for a moment then Nimitz said, "I wish I could have seen Homma's face."
Rochefort sat forward, an impish expression on his face. "How about Yamamoto's?"
This is where Rochefort gets it, thought English.
Nimitz narrowed his eyes and swept the table. Finally, he looked at Gendreau.
The fleet surgeon sighed, nodded, and stood. He quietly said, "'scuse me, Admiral. Reports to go over before tomorrow." He walked around and plopped a hand on English's shoulder. "Hope to see you around for horseshoes again, Bob. Good night, gentlemen." With a nod, he walked out.
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 34