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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  "Ach! Gott!" Döttmer was immediately embarrassed that he had cried out in his mother tongue. But he was sure a shark had bumped into him preparing for a feeding frenzy. He spun to face his attacker and screamed again.

  It was a fully inflated eight-man life raft.

  He didn't realize how tired he was until he tried to climb in. With the greatest of efforts, he pulled himself over the top, then slithered the rest of the way in like a fish and lay on his back for a long time, catching his breath. At length, he rose to his knees to see who else was about.

  By noon, he had hauled in Kimble, a storekeeper; a nearly dead Lieutenant Mort Sampson, the operations officer; Ensign Gruber; Chief Hall, a radioman. The last one he pulled in was Radioman Second Class Dominic Federico Lorca, bandaged hand and all. The ex-violin player had been in the crew's mess when the shell hit. And miraculously, he was here to talk about it, except when Döttmer asked him something, Lorca spoke only in jumbled phrases and looked at him with the unfocused stare of the shell-shocked. Perhaps the idiot was still deaf from all the depth charges, Döttmer supposed. What was apparent was that all of his wonderful Hollywood hair was scattered about his eyes and forehead, making him look the fool he really was. But the man's tattoos still glistened on his arms.

  There was no water nor food nor medical supplies, and Lieutenant Sampson died at four in the afternoon. He wasn't heavy but it still took three of them to hoist Sampson's body up and over the side where he began his long journey to the deep.

  With that, Lil' Adolf drew into himself, leaving Kimble, Hall, and Döttmer the only sane ones left. Lorca, in a way, seemed dangerous as he faded in and out.

  By late afternoon it became apparent a breeze was setting them well to the south toward the bight of Butuan Bay, where Mindanao's coastline changes from a north-south axis to east-west.

  Döttmer rigged the oars and started rowing. After sunset, two dim sets of lights popped out on the coast to the south, each about fifteen miles distant. With any luck he could row them to one of the villages, and perhaps find help.

  Possibly even a radio.

  He looked at Lil' Adolf. The man slept soundlessly, his mouth a wide oval as if he were dead. The hell with it. He roused Gruber asking, "Any idea about those two towns, Sir?"

  Gruber, too sleepy to be peevish, blinked at the coast and rasped, "I think that's Gingoog Bay. To the left is Butuan Bay." He fell back, smacking swollen lips. They all needed water. "Pretty sure those lights are Gingoog City, the others are Nasipit."

  "Gingoog looks closer," said Döttmer, turning the raft to the right.

  Döttmer rowed and Gruber settled back, trying desperately for the sleep that would help him forget his mounting thirst. Soon, everyone was asleep.

  Döttmer rowed and rowed. At about midnight he looked up into the night sky and remembered something.

  Nasipit.

  The old man. ...what was his name?

  Amador. Pablo Amador.

  During the first ill-fated Wolffish rendezvous, Döttmer had overheard Amador tell Ingram he was from Nasipit, and that the resistance movement was strong there. DeWitt confirmed this later with that stupid kangaroo court with Ingram, in the Caballo stockade. DeWitt said the old man was in charge of the resistance in Nasipit.

  And that means a radio!

  With merely a flick of the port paddle, Döttmer changed course for Nasipit. While the others slept, Nasipit drew nearer. At one o'clock Gingoog City fell behind Diuata Point. At about two o'clock he woke Hall, the belching radioman, who took over pulling the rest of the way. By his best guess, Nasipit was about six miles distant, and they would land about a mile west. There would be time in the morning to find water and scout the place, and make sure they were well hidden from the Japanese. Or perhaps, he could simply turn himself in. That was a thought.

  For now, he would concentrate on finding a radio.

  Nasipit. The lights grew brighter.

  Döttmer lay down, curled an arm under his head, and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  12 May, 1942

  Masbate Island

  Philippines

  They transited the Sibuyan Sea, working past the southeastern side of Masbate Island, where a drizzly daybreak found them two miles south of Cawayan. Kevin Forester stood at the tiller with Ingram and Holloway studying the shoreline, looking for a remote place to land. The engine didn't sound good, the trip was taking its toll on the 51 Boat's little Buda. A hollow-eyed Whittaker constantly knelt before the compartment as if in a perpetual state of worship. Indeed, the engineman's altar was a lump of machined cast iron with the four pistons pumping up to three thousand psi with each revolution. The craggy-faced, third class engineman cursed and groaned as he diligently prayed over his injectors, adjusted linkage, added oil, and strained wax residue out of the diesel fuel. To add to their problems, the binnacle light had flicked on and off over the past two nights and occasionally, the starter motor wouldn't engage, giving everyone a dose of anxiety.

  Suddenly, the horizon cleared revealing two destroyers and a cruiser hull-up steaming their way. Forester needed no urging as he swung his tiller and they headed into a swampy little cove, stuffing the 51 Boat on a sand bar about twenty yards from shore. The place was thick with mosquitoes and there was no beach.

  Slapping his neck, DeWitt cocked an eyebrow.

  Ingram said, "Otis, it's either here or we go back out there and the Japs use us for target practice."

  The rain fell in earnest and it became dark. Half the men piled off and slogged ashore looking for coconut and wild fruit. The others rigged a tarp trying to keep Helen and their provisions reasonably dry. The sun broke at midday for a moment, and their cove glistened with almost every shade of green and blue as the rain evaporated and the land sprang into life. A half-hour later, the rain was with them again, drumming as loud as before.

  In the boat, Whittaker and Bartholomew cursed and swore at the Buda as water dribbled into everything. During the brief period of sunlight Ingram had called a work party, pushing the boat farther up the sandbar and tipping it on its side exposing the bottom. The rain was warm and it felt good as Ingram stood knee deep in water knocking barnacles off the 51 Boat's bottom and scrubbing the slimy surface smooth with palm leaves. He was dressed only in shorts, and the rain blasted down making little craters on the water as he pounded and whacked. In a way, the rain's throbbing was somnolent; the downpour grew thicker and he felt as if he were by himself.

  Suddenly a hand clutched the gunnel. Helen Durand, hiding beneath Whittaker's baseball cap, peeked over and mouthed, "Morning." Her eyes were alive, active, full of life.

  Ingram nodded. "Afternoon."

  "Really?"

  He turned his face up into the downpour. "Hard to tell with this going on."

  She looked good. Yardly had reported her temperature was down and she was taking liquids well. She had been sleeping most of the time and this morning she had eaten some crackers.

  The rain let up a bit. Ingram managed. "I thought Yardly told you to lie still."

  "Lousy patient. Where are we?"

  "Near Cawayan. How do you feel?"

  "Okay." Her head rested on the gunnel and she looked straight down at him. Whittaker had also given her dungarees and a shirt since he was the smallest among them. Under the ball cap, Ingram could hardly see her sores, but he knew they must hurt. And her ribs must hurt, too, he figured, even though Yardly had taped that as well. There was only one thing left to question and so far, nobody had mentioned it.

  Ingram chipped at a large barnacle clump. "Maybe you should lie down?"

  "I'm okay. What are you doing?"

  "Making the bottom smooth so we can go faster."

  She looked toward the shore and started to get up.

  Her voice dropped to a whisper, "Look, Todd. Can you put me in the water?"

  "Helen, talk about me being a bad patient. You know what Yardly said."

  "He's ashore?" Her teeth were clenched.


  "Yes. You should wait until--"

  She leaned over the side. Her face no more than two feet away carrying a certain grimace like the one covering a child's face before bedtime.

  He grinned, "You mean--?"

  "Yes, damnit. Get me out of here."

  "Alright!" Ingram slogged around to the low side of the boat. He held out his hands, Helen slid down to him and he lifted her gently over the gunnel.

  "Oooooh." She shivered in knee-deep water, weak and unsteady. Ingram clamped an arm around her waist. "Okay?"

  "Okay." She nodded toward deeper water.

  "Right." Ingram walked her slowly forward. She stumbled and Ingram reached to hold her tight. “Stop?”

  “No. Just dizzy. Keep going.”

  “Okay. Hang on.”

  Soon she was in hip-deep water and they stopped.

  Bartholomew noticed first, then Whittaker. Both stood with hands on their hips. Yardly shouted from among mangroves and started running. DeWitt, Toliver, Beardsley, Junior Forester and Sunderland walked around from the boat’s high side and gawked.

  Ingram and Helen stood facing out to sea. He looked down and gave a tiny squeeze, “Ummm. Water’s getting nice and warm.”

  “Shut up, damn you.”

  Like a beach lifeguard on his way to the rescue, Yardly ran toward them, the water splashing in great geysers.

  “Okay,” said Helen.

  Ingram turned her around, finding everyone watching. With a deep bow, he announced, “I give you the new, improved Helen Durand, first lieutenant United States Army.”

  A breathless Yardly drew up. “You mean--?”

  “Tinkle, tinkle, little star,” said Sunderland in a falsetto. At that the rest burst into applause and cheers.

  “How was it?” a grinning Yardly asked.

  “My God. You’d think it was my first time ever.” She tried a smile and said. “It’s okay, Bones. No pain.”

  “Good.” Said Yardly.

  “Thanks, Bones.” Still wobbly, she rose to her tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek. “I owe you one.”

  “I’m gonna collect it all!” whooped Yardly, throwing his white hat in the air.

  They moved around her with grins and pats on the back.

  Helen’s eyes glistened as she said, “Never thought taking a pee would be such a big deal.” She felt dizzy and slipped. “Uhh. Todd, get me in the boat.”

  * * * * *

  Masbate fell astern and time passed in a regimen of sleeping, standing watch, fishing, or filling water jugs. They skipped along Cebu's coast carefully picking their way through the Visayan and Camotes seas to Leyte. Ingram reflected that, except for the run-in with the Japanese on Marinduque, these past nine days had been kind to everyone, including Helen who was rapidly becoming another member of the crew. Fresh water had not been a problem; each day they found a stream or a waterfall to replenish their water cans and bathe. They caught up on sleep while underway at night. In daytime, when there wasn't much to do except look for water or haul down coconuts, they curled up in the shade and slept, again marveling at the absence of the cannon's roar or shells exploding every fifteen seconds. Their pallor was gone, replaced by deepening suntans and firm muscle tone. Helen was self-conscious about skin sores and kept to herself, but Yardly checked her over each day, satisfied with her progress.

  All showed definite signs of weight gain. They had the Filipinos to thank, Ingram's efforts to avoid them notwithstanding. They tried hard to camouflage the boat when beached, but villagers still found them. Like the Aguilars, they shared everything with the Americans.

  At sunrise on the fourteenth, the 51 Boat crept into a marsh about two-miles north of Baybay on Leyte. They were totally secluded, Ingram decided. Trees grew to the water's edge, the thick jungle canopy flourished thirty feet overhead, and vines and underbrush obscured one's vision in three directions. Bartholomew pulled guard duty with the rest fast asleep on a tiny beach. Incredulously, four smiling villagers marched up toting copra, boiled fish, and dried chicken packed in camote leaves.

  * * * * *

  The next evening they made ready to shove off from a little cove on Bohol Island about five miles south of Cogtong Bay. They were under an overhanging palm grove that grew to the water's edge, and the Buda wouldn't start, so a grumbling Whittaker rolled up his sleeves, taking two hours to clean the fuel strainer and blow out fuel lines. With Bartholomew's help, he had the Buda back together at nine-thirty; and jabbed the start button. The four-banger coughed and sputtered, but refused to catch, sending Whittaker back into the engine compartment, muttering exquisitely composed phrases of blue language.

  The men didn't seem to care. Their little beach had been so remote and so pleasant they were, in a manner of speaking, reluctant to leave. But Ingram spurred Whittaker saying, if they pushed off within the next twenty minutes they could still make Mindanao's Butuan Bay before sunrise.

  Again, Engineman Third Class Peter Whittaker thumbed the starter. Thick blue-black smoke tumbled out of the diesel's exhaust as he cursed and pleaded. In a rage, he kicked the engine housing and the Buda roared into life. With a cheer, the men piled into the boat, suddenly anxious to be off. As helmsman on the first watch, Bartholomew grabbed the tiller while Ingram arranged himself on the deck. Methodically, he laid out pencil, dividers, parallel rule, and chart, preparing to put finishing touches on a dead reckoning track across the Mindanao Sea to Nasipit.

  With Toliver's cupped hands providing a foothold, Beardsley scrambled over the gunnel. Toliver double-checked everyone was aboard and shoved the 51 Boat into deep water. Just then, Beardsley slipped and clunked his head against the corner of the engine housing. He swore softly, raised a hand to his forehead, and wiped blood from a small cut. The boat was well adrift when Toliver crawled in and moved next to Beardsley to check the cut.

  With dividers, Ingram stepped the distance to the entrance to Mindanao's Kinabhangan River mouth, when a hand slapped the top of the chart. Startled, he looked up, seeing Beardsley six-inches away. The bandages were gone and Beardsley's face was puffy and crisscrossed with scars. Blood ran from the forehead cut into his left eye.

  But the man's eyelids: Although still terribly swollen, they had parted slightly, and his pupils glinted through narrow slits.

  Beardsley grabbed a flashlight and shined it directly in Ingram's face, running the palm of his hand down Ingram's cheek. Tears were in his eyes as he blurted, "God, you're an ugly sonofabitch!"

  Ingram sat back. "I'll be damned! Can you--I mean..."

  Beardsley nodded vigorously. His voice shook and he had trouble forming words. "Ollie yanked the bandage to check...and ...and..."

  "Tough break, Mr. Beardsley," said Sunderland, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now you gotta stand watches."

  Otis DeWitt reached over and shook his hand. "Welcome back, Mr. Beardsley."

  Others crowded around to pump the B-17 pilot's hand and nudge him with elbows.

  DeWitt helped Helen to her feet so she could kiss Beardsley on the cheek. "Goils won't fall for you until you start shaving, flyboy," she said in a husky, Mae West voice.

  "Weoooww. Lemme at that razor." Beardsley growled, wiping tears with the back of his hands. Then he said, "You dopes. All this snot'll drive me blind..."

  "We'll take care of that," roared Sunderland. With a wink at Bartholomew and the Forester brothers they grabbed his armpits and raised him high over their heads. "Hey, hey. My nickleplate," cackled Beardsley, tossing the pistol to Ingram.

  Toliver muscled his way among them. "You dumb bastards! Put him down."

  They pretended not to hear and shuffled to the gunnel, making the boat list precariously. Together, they roared, "one, two--"

  "Stop!" pleaded Toliver.

  "Woof, woof," they yelled.

  "He may go blind again," shrieked Toliver grabbing a handful of Beardsley's trouser cuff. "You don't know."

  Yardly stood and shouted, "He's right. Put him down."

  "Shove in your clu
tch," they yelled.

  With Yardley’s glare, they stopped jiggling Beardsley, "Just kidding, Bones."

  "Spoil sport," laughed Beardsley, writhing over their outstretched hands.

  "Stick him over here. I better take a look," said Yardly.

  They put him down, Whittaker clunked the boat in forward, and they headed toward the opening in the reef. Vowing he'd never sleep again, Beardsley hooted and screamed and danced as they plowed into the Mindanao Sea.

  After Beardsley quieted down, Yardly looked him over and estimated the pilot had close to full recovery in one eye; about half, so far, in the other. He really wouldn't be able to further tell until daylight. He bandaged Beardsley's forehead, irrigated his eyes, and taped a patch over the left eye.

  Even so, an ecstatic Leon Beardsley proudly stood bow lookout on the first watch, gaping at sights recently denied him by a Japanese 240-millimeter, four hundred pound howitzer shell. Ingram pondered whether or not Army Air Corps First Lieutenant Leon V. Beardsley had been better off not having the use of his eyes during Corregidor's last two weeks of horror.

  With the underway routine, they settled down for the night's passage to Mindanao. The others had already fallen asleep, when Ingram lay back seeing Toliver had turned toward him.

  Ingram said in a low voice, "Nice job, Ollie."

  Toliver's reply was masked by engine noise. Ingram cupped a hand to his ear and moved closer. "What?"

  Toliver said, "When I was a kid I found a duck with a broken wing and took him home. My folks said 'no.'"

  Ingram watched as Toliver lay back and laced his fingers under his head looking up into the sky. "You see, I took it as a challenge, thinking they didn't believe I could fix that mallard's wing. I told them I wanted to be a doctor."

  "And?"

  "I read a book. Duck turned out great."

  "What'd your folks say?"