"Angry as hell. Duck waddled around and crapped faster than I could clean it up. I had to take him out in the woods and let him go. Otherwise, my Dad said, we would be having duck for dinner."
"Oh, oh."
"My Dad went with me. We tossed that duck in the air and he flew away."
"Were you sad?"
"I thought I would be. But when I let him go, it was beautiful. He circled once, then was gone."
Whittaker stepped aft, opened the engine compartment and fiddled for a moment. The engine noise was loud, but the Buda seemed to be running well. Satisfied, Whittaker closed up and moved forward to where he had been lying down.
Ingram and Toliver lay still for a moment, enjoying the warm, smooth ride under a dark, overcast sky.
Toliver waved a hand toward Beardsley. "That's what my Dad said: 'Nice job, Ollie.'"
Toliver rolled over and faced the bulkhead.
Helen Durand, Leon Beardsley: Both clutched the gilded promise of restored bodies and normal lives. Yardly and Toliver had helped provide that promise. No doubt Yardly would go to medical school after the war, becoming a successful physician in a snazzy neighborhood. Ingram imagined sitting across Yardley’s desk twenty-five-years from now. His onetime hospital corpsman would be clinical, devoid of humor, and solemnly pronounce that his patient and onetime skipper was too fat and had to lose fifteen pounds at once, later sending a bill for fifty dollars.
I'd pay every penny, decided Ingram. Yardly is going to make a hell of a doctor.
Maybe Toliver, too. When he thought about it, there were a million things Ingram wanted to ask Toliver, but now, it seemed, the Pelican's last gunnery officer had divulged enough for the evening. Even so, he decided to try again. "Ollie?"
"Yeah?"
"What about medical school?"
"Screwed around too much my freshman year. Flunked out of premed and took a BS in business. Think I'll go to law school."
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
15 May, 1942
Butuan Bay, Mindanao
Philippines
It was a ninety mile run under a moonless, overcast sky. By 5 a.m., the air was tepid as after a rain, and the rich land-smell of earth and feces and flowers teased Ingram's nostrils, telling him Mindanao's heavily wooded volcanic slopes were near. A dim, yellow light bobbed to starboard where Diuata Point lay. Ingram hoped it was a fishing banca. The coast was perhaps ten miles away with his destination, the Kinabhangan River, a mile east of Nasipit. There, they planned to beach the 51 Boat and figure a way to contact one of Aguilar's people.
He roused everyone for their landfall, and by five-thirty Mindanao's rocky headland loomed close. It was a gray, clinical dawn with the mountains cloaked in a misty five hundred foot ceiling. Holloway steered for the Kinabhangan River mouth, now a dark gap a mile ahead in tall bluffs. To their right, the half-mile wide entrance to Nasipit yawned between rocky cliffs. Prominent was the timber mill, conical kiln, and tall, black stack. There were a few unlighted buildings, a long, empty pier, and a church topped by a cross.
A gentle wind scattered the overcast, giving way to a brilliant sunrise, with morning dew casting a glossy green tint to the forests rising up the slopes of Mount Maiyapay, a 2,360 peak that dominated smaller cone-shaped mountains of northern Mindanao. The water was flat and oily with hardly any surge, as they approached the Kinabhangan river mouth which was partially masked by a guano-covered drying reef fifty yards offshore. The 51 Boat entered the river, where sandy beaches ran on either bank for two or three hundred yards. But after two gentle turns, the river entrance was no longer visible and Mindanao's dark vegetation pressed on them with the banks disappearing under dense foliage.
It was hard to see ahead, so Ingram called for idle speed, slowing them to where only the wake's gentle gurgle told them they were in motion. Everything blended and it became so quiet and so tranquil that even the barely chugging engine seemed an encroachment of the still, damp flora growing closer and closer. On either side, their quarter-wake licked at trunkless Nipa palms rising from the banks to blend with the tall forest. Fifty feet overhead, the canopy was separated by mere yards, allowing a brightening dawn to inch through the foliage where creeping tendrils hung to the river's surface carrying blossoms that exploded into unimaginable colors.
DeWitt stood in the bow and pointed to starboard. Ingram spotted the beach, no more than ten yards in length, rising four feet above the river. Good enough. He drew a finger across his throat. Whittaker cut the engine and the boat nosed into soft sand. As the Forester brothers jumped to guide the boat up the beach, Ingram said, "Sunderland, grab a Springfield and stand by."
Sunderland reached under a thwart and picked up a rifle wrapped in rags. "Japs close by, Sir?"
In the jungle's quiet, Ingram's voice was heard by all, "Last word we had is most of the Japs are over in Del Monte, but this place is full of crocodiles."
"Jeez!" A few of the men scampered to high ground while the rest jumped back in the boat. Standing high on a thwart, Sunderland quickly unwrapped the Springfield, then clacked a round into the breach. He crouched, swiveling his head from side to side.
"Com'on, girls." Bartholomew jumped into the knee-deep water and bellowed, "Let's get organized."
Looking nervously over their shoulders, they tied up the boat, grabbed machetes, and hacked out foliage for camouflage, then set out water tins. This time there were only two empties since they had refilled at Bohol the night before.
"You sure about crocodiles, Mr. Ingram?" said Sunderland, peering into dark underbrush.
"So I'm told," said Ingram. "Major DeWitt. How about you and Sunderland and I going into town?"
DeWitt beamed. After nine days he was off the damned ocean and once again into his element. "Glad to."
Ingram said, "Mr. Holloway, you're in charge. If we're not back before noon, shove off, head out to sea. Hug the coast and set a course for the Surigao Straits. Got that?"
Holloway said, "Yessir. What then?"
For a moment Ingram didn't speak. It was so quiet, the silence seemed almost alive as if trying to somehow penetrate their pores and stifle their metabolism.
Kevin Forester slapped a mosquito on his neck, breaking the spell.
Ingram said, "Simply turn right. You'll find Darwin, about fifteen hundred miles due south. Good luck." Ingram allowed a smile. "I suggest you post a couple of guards about a hundred yards out. Okay?"
Holloway gulped. "Yessir."
Beardsley walked up and blurted, "I want to go."
"I don't think so, Leon," said Ingram.
"If there's a B-17 around, Mr. Beardsley, we'll find it," said DeWitt.
"But I landed here. I know where those bases are," said Beardsley. "I know of at least two near here."
Ingram looked at DeWitt and rubbed his chin. "But what about...you know..."
Beardsley said, "I can see great. Look." He picked up a rock and threw it across a small tributary where it thwacked solidly into a stump.
"You sure you were aiming for that?" Ingram asked.
"My eyes are getting better by the minute. I think I'm good enough to fly," said Beardsley.
"Fly, Leon?"
"Well...yes, damnit."
Ingram looked at DeWitt.
He nodded.
"Okay. Leon, you're on. Ollie, you come, too," said Ingram.
Brian Forester went "Arf, arf," earning a cold stare from Toliver.
Sunderland picked up his BAR and hefted a bandolier of ammo. Toliver grabbed another BAR and bandolier, with Ingram and DeWitt each taking Springfield 30-06s. The remaining two BARs were issued to Holloway's lookouts, so Beardsley simply grinned and patted the small of his back.
Ingram reached into the 51 Boat and tossed a machete to Otis DeWitt. "Lead on, Major."
DeWitt caught the machete by its heavy canvas scabbard and stared at it. Ingram spread his hands and said with a grin, "Come on, Army. This is what you've been waiting for. A groundpounder's show, isn't it?"
&
nbsp; Helen sat up and waved.
Ingram said, "Call the cops if they give you any trouble."
"Got it," she said.
Ingram grabbed another machete and started hacking his way up an embankment.
* * * * *
It took a half-hour to chop their way to high ground, and another twenty minutes to claw and scramble to the hard-packed, dirt coast road Ingram had seen on the chart. Wary of Japanese patrols, DeWitt lead the men along the road's right side, ready to duck into the shrubbery in an instant. Every fifty yards or so, they stopped and listened, fully expecting a truck loaded with heavily armed Japanese soldiers to careen around a bend and pull up before them with machine guns spitting death. But it was so quiet their footfalls sounded like exploding grenades. And stumbling or tripping on a rock earned an evil glance, as if one had poured the last canteen of fresh water into the Sahara Desert.
Suddenly, pigs grunted, a carabao groaned, and they heard chickens cackle.
"Dang!" muttered Sunderland.
They had walked around a gradual bend and, incomprehensibly, found they had stumbled into a small village. The dwellings were set back under trees and were well masked in the growing sunlight. Even in broad daylight the huts would have been impossible to see until they were right on them.
"Sorry," said DeWitt.
"So much for secrecy," muttered Beardsley.
"I said I was sorry," said DeWitt peevishly.
"Couldn't be helped. Come on," said Ingram.
They kept moving, certain that every step was under observation and that every unseen villager's eye was welded to their backs.
DeWitt said softly, "Nasipit should be right down the road."
Ingram nodded. "Whole damned town will know about us in minutes. Let's angle toward the waterfront."
They came to a fork and took the right one. Soon, they saw the lumber mill's black stack and headed for it. After a turn in the road the mill stood before them except--
"Where is everybody?" asked Sunderland.
Benches were overturned, windows broken, the loading dock and pier were empty, trash blew about and, except for birds flying in and out of windows, the mill was barren.
"Maybe too early," said Beardsley.
"Looks like the place hasn't been used for a while," said DeWitt.
They walked up to the mill and stepped inside. A floorboard creaked, making birds flutter squawking out the windows. Empty.
Dust and cobwebs covered lifeless machines, and it was evident a lot of machinery was gone.
Ingram said, "Remind anyone of Aguilar's?"
Sunderland said, "I'm surprised the Japs left anything."
Suddenly the Judas door creaked. A Filipino stepped in, causing the Americans to level and cock their weapons. He thrust his hands in the air, but after a moment said, "Americans." A minute passed, then he lowered his hands and stared with dark, flashing eyes. His skin was a deep olive and his face had an angular, penetrating appearance.
"Do you speak English?" asked Ingram.
The Filipino nodded.
"What's your name?" asked Ingram. It was getting brighter. He and the others eased into the shadows, leaving the Filipino standing in daylight.
"Manuel."
"Is that all," asked DeWitt.
The man swallowed and said, "Manuel Carrillo."
"Where are the Japs?" asked Ingram.
"Plenty Hapon in Malayalam and Cagayan. Some in Masao." The first two cities were over fifty miles to the west. Masao, at the mouth of the Agusan River, was just ten miles to the east.
"Any Japs here?" asked Ingram.
Carrillo shook his head.
"How many in Masao?" asked Toliver.
Carrillo flashed two bunches of ten fingers.
Sunderland hissed, "Down!"
A pickup with a Japanese flag painted on the door pulled up across the street. The driver was a sergeant. A young lieutenant sat next to him and a civilian rode in the back. The three dismounted and walked up to sturdy, boxlike structure and pounded on the door.
"What the hell?" said DeWitt.
"Lookit the size of that Jap," said Beardsley, referring to a civilian wearing a white suit. Towering over everyone else, he looked to be well over six feet.
"Shhhht!" Sunderland put his forefinger to his lip.
"Get down," rasped Ingram. He waved his Springfield. They dropped to their haunches and peered through a window.
Carrillo muttered something.
"What?" Ingram whispered.
"Damn Hapon here early. I hope they can wait," Carrillo said.
"Is that a butcher shop?" asked Ingram.
Carrillo nodded adding, "And a meat locker, but they ran out of ice."
The Japanese sergeant unholstered a pistol and used the butt to pound on the door. Soon, a large wooden flap was drawn up in front of the building. Two dark figures hovered inside.
Carrillo muttered, "They're late. Damnit the truck."
Two shots were fired, a scream ripped the air, and two Filipinos tumbled out the front door and into the dirt. They were male and female, most likely husband and wife. The woman shrieked as the sergeant and the man in the white suit tied the Filipino's hands behind his back, pushed him to his knees, and wrapped a blindfold around his head. Then the man in the white suit walked into the hut.
"Who is that jerk?" asked Beardsley.
Carrillo’s eyes narrowed. "Lieutenant Tuga," he said.
It felt as if somewhat had grabbed Ingram's throat. He gasped, "Who?"
Carrillo said, "Tuga. That big turd is a Kempetai. He's down here from Marinduque looking for--"
Ingram wasn't listening. His body shook and he ran a cartridge into the breach of his Springfield. Then he looked at Sunderland who did the same with his BAR. They nodded to one another and took aim.
Carrillo rasped, "No! Not now. Please. Wait a few moments."
Ingram growled, "That sonofabitch dies. And I'm personally gonna blast his head to watermelon chunks."
"Carrillo stood before him trying to push his rifle down. "Please, Señior. A moment, please. They'll be here. Then you can talk to him."
Ingram barely controlled himself as Tuga stepped from the hut brandishing a large butcher's cleaver, and while his soldiers tied the squirming Filipino's head over an upended log, took a couple of practice swings. "I swear I kill him before he swings that cleaver."
Just then, they heard the rattling and puffing of another truck. Soon, an ancient Ford stake-truck backfired and careened around the corner. It skidded to a halt, pulling with it an enormous cloud of dust. Three Filipinos jumped out and walked to the back where a large pig was secured.
Carrillo exhaled loudly, "Finally."
Ingram lowered his rifle. "Who is that?"
Carrillo touched a finger to his lips and, as they watched, an argument broke out much like the polemics heard on Marinduque the night Farwell was shot. While the debate was in full rage, the sergeant nonchalantly stripped the blindfold off the meatpacker, untied his bindings, and nudged him with his foot. The woman ran into the Meatpacker's arms; they embraced fiercely for a moment then, incredulously, the meatpacker rose to his feet and joined in the argument against the Japanese.
It was four against three, but nobody seemed to be winning. There was another Filipino, Ingram noticed, sitting in the truck's cab. He wore a planter's hat and had long, silvery hair. He looked familiar, but Ingram couldn't place the man. He squinted, trying to see better, when Tuga thrust a pistol in the air and fired a shot. The two groups parted, with the shopkeeper and civilians facing the Kempetai. After a few moments, the meatpacker bowed, Tuga handed him some bills, took the pig's leash, and waited patiently.
Carrillo spat in the dust.
"What?" said Ingram.
"Hapon's peso worth shit." He referred to the Japanese Occupation currency which was basically worthless. Filipinos shunned it except in transactions with the Japanese.
The meatpacker bowed again, then walked inside his hut. Soo
n he returned wearing a full apron and long knife, which dangled from a belt. He held out a hand and Tuga returned the cleaver that had, only moments before, been intended for a different use.
Ingram said, "Bastard doesn't mince words, does he?"
DeWitt said, "I'm surprised he returned the cleaver."
"One butcher to another," said Ingram.
The pig squealed loudly and dragged its feet as the Japanese sergeant pulled it to their truck. Calling to the Filipinos, they half-pulled, half-carried the wiggling pig, while the lieutenant jumped in the cab and started the engine. Suddenly, the three flipped the pig on its back, grabbed its feet, and shoved the head under the left rear wheel. The sergeant nodded to the Lieutenant. The gears ground into reverse, the engine roared, and the lieutenant let out the clutch abruptly, cutting off the pig's last ululating squeal.
DeWitt, Beardsley, Sunderland, and Ingram, although seeing far beyond their measure of grisly deaths on Cavite and Corregidor, still had trouble holding their bile.
They watched from the shadows while the meatpacker deftly butchered the pig then loaded it in the truck. After twenty minutes it was done. The meatpacker and Lieutenant Tuga bowed to one another. The Japanese jumped in their truck and drove off.
Carrillo rose to his feet and said, "Okay."
Before anyone could say anything, he stepped outside the Judas door and gave a short whistle. Actually, it was more like a chirp. But the three Filipinos saw Carrillo beckon as they boarded their truck. Quickly, they rushed across the road and stepped in the door. In a moment, all stood in the lumber mill's darkness, staring at one another.
Ingram looked at DeWitt and shrugged. Wordlessly, they felt these Filipinos were genuine and trustworthy. Possibly, they could lead them to the resistance.
Turning to Carrillo, Ingram asked, "Do they speak English as well as you?"
The man with the wavy silver-gray hair said, "I hope so. I went to Oxford University."
Ingram's mouth dropped.
"Welcome to Mindanao, Lieutenant Ingram. And Major DeWitt, a pleasure to see you again." He whipped off his planter's hat and extended a hand to Ingram. That fool Tuga looks for me in every nook and cranny, in Nasipit yet he doesn't know who I am face to face."
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 39