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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  The two stood almost nose to nose. Ingram’s voice rose. "You've come this far."

  "So what?"

  "Who's been taking care of you?"

  Beardsley's mouth opened. Then it shut.

  "Sit down, Lieutenant," said DeWitt.

  Beardsley said, "I only meant--"

  "Sit!" ordered DeWitt.

  As Beardsley and Ingram arranged themselves on the ground, Amador said. "There's another way."

  The rain abruptly stopped as if turned off by a master valve. Amador spoke in soft tones as the band played "I'll be seeing you." The clouds parted and a brilliant early afternoon sun shot through. Ingram looked out the window, seeing a vaporous haze rise off the ground so thick it seemed to hiss.

  * * * * *

  Sergeants Guzman and Ramirez were back by nine o'clock that evening. The wedding feast was long-since over, with Ingram and the others just finishing a bowl of soup. They crowded around to listen as the ex-Filipino Scouts spoke with Carrillo and Amador in Tagalog.

  At last, Amador turned to Beardsley and said, "They found your Esperanza airfield, Lieutenant."

  "Hot damn, let's go!" whooped Beardsley.

  Amador raised a hand. "The revetments are empty."

  "Sonofabitch!"

  Amador's hand was still raised as Guzman prattled on. "Were you aware of a secret strip near Amparo?" he asked.

  "Amparo? Maybe. I couldn't remember the--"

  "There are two of your four-motor bombers there, they say."

  "No shit?" said Beardsley.

  "One sits on the ground with its wheels collapsed. The propellers are bent," said Amador.

  "Oh," said Beardsley.

  "The other sits on its wheels," Amador smiled. "Ready to go."

  "I'll be damned," said Beardsley.

  Ingram swore Beardsley sounded like George Raft.

  * * * * *

  At three in the morning they rode in the same stake truck used to haul the pig into Nasipit. Carrillo drove with Amador and Guzman jammed in the cab. Ingram and his crew were stacked like logs on the truck's bed with furniture, mattresses, clothing, and pots and pans piled haphazardly over them. Ramirez was splayed on top to balance things out with the whole rig swaying dangerously, limiting their speed to forty-kilometers-per-hour. Two of the roadblocks were unmanned. At the third, the furniture ruse worked, with two Japanese corporals passing them through unchecked.

  Whittaker lay near Ingram and lamented about the 51 Boat's engine. "We almost had her running. Why couldn't you give us another thirty minutes or so?"

  Ingram burned with his own lamentation. They had left Helen behind. Yardly was against stacking her on the truckbed among everybody, with her cracked ribs and everything else that was wrong.

  Ingram was incredulous. "But you said her functions have returned, Yardly. Her kidneys are fixed. She's on the mend."

  "I don't care if she's pissing like Niagara Falls," Yardly said." She's not riding on that damned truck with you guys all stacked around and furniture piled overhead. All she needs is a punctured lung and that's it. Besides, she's still too damned weak."

  Tears welled in Helen's eyes. Ingram became angry. But Yardly was adamant. Finally, Amador nipped the fuse by arranging for Helen to stay at the Carrillo’s. If things went well, it would only take an hour or so for them to send the truck rushing her back to the field. They would build a heavily padded cage around her for the return trip.

  * * * * *

  Someone's foot continuously jabbed in Ingram's hip as the truck bounced along. And a chair leg had worked its way down his face, bumping his stitched cheek. He said, "Whittaker, you'll get your thirty minutes if the damn airplane doesn't start. Otherwise you'll be in Australia this time tomorrow."

  Whittaker muttered, "Never will know if the damn engine runs or not."

  The chair leg banged Ingram's cheek. "I'm sure it would have, Whittaker."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  Ingram's head was pinned, so he said from the side of his mouth, "Leon?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Can you see out of both eyes?"

  "Sure."

  "One hundred percent? Both eyes? I thought Yardly said--"

  "Todd." The voice was pure Leon Beardsley this time. "What I can't see, you will."

  "What?"

  "You're flyin' copilot."

  "Leon, damnit--"

  "Todd. Lemme handle things. Do what I say. We'll be fine."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah. Besides," Beardsley lowered his voice to a perfect George Raft conspiratorial, "I'm a veteran of the mile-high club. In B-17s yet. I can handle the thing by myself, if I have to."

  "Mile-high club?" Ingram had heard many times the fly-boy legends of sneaking girlfriends aboard an airplane, climbing above 5,280 feet, setting the auto-pilot, and getting laid.

  Three times. Even got the clap once to prove it. She was from Bolivia."

  Ingram opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly, the truck changed gears, slowed, then lurched horribly for three minutes or so. The chair leg dug deeply into Ingram's cheek again, and a warm stickiness ran down his face. Brush scraped as the truck bounced along, grinding in low gear.

  Finally they stopped. Amador muttered something. The doors opened, and the truck jiggled to the movements of the Filipinos getting out.

  "Wheooow," said Sunderland. "Kevin, your feet smell like shit."

  Someone twittered.

  Amador rasped. "Quiet. The Hapon's camp is not far."

  "How far?" whispered Ingram.

  Amador said, "A kilometer. Maybe a little more."

  In five minutes the furniture was off the truck and they weaved to their feet. Without giving them time to stretch, Guzman lined them up, making each grab the beltloops of the man in front. With Ramirez trailing, he led them single-file into the forest. Ingram stumbled, cursing and moaning several times, as did everyone else. There was no moon and he couldn't see a thing, making him feel vulnerable. The skies had clouded again, threatening rain, and the night was noisy with insects, birds, and the screeching of monkeys.

  * * * * *

  After a half-hour of stumbling and tripping, the ground became smooth and predictable. Still, Ingram couldn't see anything except amorphous shapes, but he could tell they were out from under the jungle canopy after seeing a tree line framed against a gray-black sky.

  Suddenly they stopped. Something was nearby, within a few feet, and it glistened. It was manmade.

  "Lookit that," said Sunderland.

  "Gimme," Beardsley muttered. Ingram handed him the flashlight and he switched it on.

  Before them was a Boeing B-17D laying on its right wing. The right main landing gear had collapsed and the propellers on the two right engines were bent back over the cowls, like a toy broken by a child. They peered up at the nose compartment, seeing a small seat where the bombardier sighted out of the canopy. To the bombardier's left was an electrical control panel, and an oxygen mask dangled over the chair, its hose still gleaming as if someone had just hung it there.

  Amador said, "Easy on the flashlight, Señor."

  Beardsley muttered, "One minute." With the others rooted in place, he walked along the wing's leading edges, flicking the light here and there, peering in engine cowlings and checking underneath. Then he said, "Where's the other?"

  "Across the runway," said Amador

  Guzman motioned for them to get in line again. "Not this crap again. I can't see a thing," protested Holloway.

  Beardsley said, "Buck up, Fred. Now you know how I felt."

  That shut them up. And within five minutes they stopped again. Beardsley flicked on the light; before them stood another B-17D proudly resting on its landing gear. "Australia, fellas," said Beardsley, walking to the hatch underneath the cockpit. He reached up and, with a practiced twist of the handle, opened the hatch and let it flop down. "All aboard for Sydney and points east, you mugs."

  While Beardsley chuckled with the others, Ingram circled the bomber with the flashligh
t. Then he walked up to the B-17 pilot.

  Beardsley grinned. "How 'bout it, Todd? You don't mind getting a little airsick, do you?"

  Ingram grabbed the flashlight, flicked it on, and shined it to where the left outboard engine should have been. It was gone, propeller, cowling, and all. "I'll be glad to puke in your airplane, Leon. All you have to do is dig up an engine."

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  15 May, 1942

  Three Kilometers Southeast of Amparo

  Mindanao, Philippines

  "Huh?" said Beardsley.

  Ingram shined the flashlight where the left outboard engine should have been.

  "Shit! Number one," shouted Beardsley.

  "Señor!" admonished Amador. "Shhh."

  Ingram clicked off the light. Beardsley grabbed it, and walked over to the number one engine nacelle and clicked it back on.

  "Please!" Amador pleaded as if talking to a child.

  "Turn off the light, Leon. Now," said Ingram.

  Beardsley did as he was told and ambled back. "Not as bad as it looks," he muttered. "We can still do it."

  "We should return to Nasipit before daybreak." Amador's voice almost shook.

  "Why?" said Beardsley.

  "There is nothing here," said Amador, spreading his arms and flopping them to his side.

  DeWitt sighed. "Nice try. Lieutenant. Maybe we'll find another airfield tomorrow. By the way, is there a chance of using the radio?"

  Ignoring DeWitt, Beardsley spun on his heel and stood with hands on his hips watching the men line up. They grabbed belt-loops and stood patiently with heads bowed and shoulders slumped. "Hold on," he shouted, "Nobody's going anywhere."

  Amador urged, "Lieutenant. Hapons are camped less than two kilometers away."

  Beardsley's forefinger waived toward the B-17's cockpit. His voice cranked up as he said, "The hell with the Japs, damnit. Within--"

  "Shhhh," said Amador.

  "...within twenty-four hours I'm going to fly that sonofabitch out of here. Now who wants to go?" Beardsley said softly.

  "How?" said Ingram.

  "Grab an engine. Spin some nuts and bolts, start it up, and take off," said Beardsley.

  The men dropped the belt-loops and stood straighter.

  "Take one from over there?" said Ingram, nodding toward the wrecked B-17.

  "Exactly. Let's get to work."

  * * * * *

  It soon became apparent Leon Beardsley knew what he was talking about. After Guzman led them back to the wrecked B-17, Beardsley clattered inside the fuselage, finding a tool kit. With Bartholomew and Whittaker pitching in, he built a small platform and was soon tearing the cowling off number one engine.

  Army engineers had blown up two bridges, making it impossible to bring the stake truck to the airfield. So Amador sent Carrillo to Amparo to find something to haul the engine and propeller to the other bomber. Then Beardsley, Bartholomew, and Whittaker, they called themselves the "engine boys," spent the rest of the night cursing and racking their knuckles disassembling the myriad of hoses, exhaust pipes, and the fuel and hydraulic lines packed behind the engine, while the others slept.

  At first light, their heads turned to a dull, clopping noise. Ingram stood with the others as a grinning Carrillo led a large, cumbersome black carabao around the wing. Using a cat-o-nine-tails, he flailed the animal's back lightly as it pulled a logging sled, a flatbed tobogganlike arrangement used for hauling felled trees. Sunderland walked over and clapped the great beast on its broad shoulders, making dust rise. "Reminds me of a bull we had at home. Won lots of ribbons."

  Bartholomew bellowed from under the wing, "What was his name?"

  "Socrates."

  "What?"

  "You know, like the Roman poet," Sunderland said, jumping on the logging sled.

  "Greek philosopher," said Yardly, stepping up beside him.

  "Let's hear it for Socrates." The Forester brothers jumped beside the other two and Carrillo whipped the big animal, giving them a ride around the B-17, while the others followed with whoops and catcalls.

  What an odd picture they made in the predawn, Ingram thought. Boys grown into men who had seen the horror of war up close and, in one way or another, had killed other men. Now, as if nothing had ever happened, they literally pranced on an ancient logging sled drawn by a big dumb animal that was flogged by one who barely spoke their language.

  Their voices were husky with sleep and hope and thoughts of home as they shouted obscenities and threw dirt clods. Maybe, Ingram thought, this dawn will indeed bring their first day of release from this hideous war. With the glib-tongued Leon Beardsley and his engine boys, maybe we really will make it.

  While they bantered, Ingram inspected the low wing, four-engine bomber at close quarters. It was still in its livery of polished aluminum and lay about a hundred yards off the runway. Furrows of dirt and ripped-steel planking confirmed the right main landing gear had indeed collapsed during rollout. The bomber had ground-looped off the runway and plowed into thick underbrush at the forest's edge. The fuselage and the two inboard engines were riddled with bullet holes. Half the cockpit instrument panel was blown away as was a large section of the top turret Plexiglas. Dried blood was splattered about the cockpit and radio compartments. Someone had hastily covered the flying fortress with foliage, branches, and tarps. But sections of the plane were exposed and Ingram grabbed some dead brush to cover it back up. He asked Beardsley, "Do you know this plane?"

  Beardsley finished disconnecting an oil line and looked at the nose where a scantily clad female figure was painted. The name was SHEZABITCH to which Beardsley smirked, "No. But I'd ground-loop too, if they called me that."

  The engine boys had disassembled a respectable pile of parts. Ingram picked up a section of cowling and headed for the other B-17. "Come on," he said to the others. Silently, they staggered along the runway with cumbersome components and bulky subassemblies, crossing over to trudge deep in the forest, where one-hundred-foot Narra trees formed a natural canopy over the revetments. In the other bomber's revetment, Ingram carefully leaned the cowl section against the sandbags, noticing the paint jobs didn't match. This B-17 was painted a dull olive-drab, and she, also, had a name on her nose: TILLY THE TERRIBLE. A caricature of an angry terrier with blond, curly hair, wearing a doughboy helmet cocked at a rakish angle, was painted there. Beside TILLY were six bombs which, Ingram supposed, meant she had flown six missions. He returned to the forest's edge pondering which of the two dogs the lesser evil was. Along the way he came across seven other revetments. Four held burnt-out B-17s that had obviously been torched. Two other revetments contained charred remains of trucks, jeeps, furniture, and GI uniforms. He explored further, finding no supplies around the other revetments. But, returning to TILLY, he found four barrels of fuel, a barrel of engine oil, various boxes of spare parts, and a crated .30-caliber machine gun with ammo.

  He walked back to the runway and checked his watch: 0727. He could barely see the other B-17. Figures filed back and forth carrying parts, and he wondered how Beardsley was doing.

  As the yellow disk rose higher in the east, Beardsley called them together, announcing everything was off SHEZABITCH, except engine, propeller, and supercharger. "Time soon for muscle, you guys," he said.

  The engine boys went back to work while everyone else eventually wandered off. Some lay under trees and fell asleep, others wiggled out of their rags to bathe in a stream that pleasantly gurgled in a nearby forest. But Amador warned about leeches so they settled for throwing rocks.

  With hands on his hips, Otis DeWitt strutted about, looking at the men as they lazed. "Lieutenant Beardsley. We're reassured you are fully conversant with this aircraft's mechanical systems."

  Leon Beardsley stood under the aft nacelle section with Bartholomew and Whittaker, unbolting the supercharger mounts. All three were sweaty and greasy as they twirled wrenches and screwdrivers. Beardsley said. "You're in good hands Major. Joint Army-Navy cooperation."

&nbs
p; DeWitt continued. "And you really know how to fly that thing?"

  "Mile-high club, Major."

  "What?"

  "Yes," Beardsley said, an edge creeping into his voice. "I can fly that thing, as you call it. That should be obvious."

  "What's obvious is that we're not going to get anything done until we get organized."

  "Oh?" said Beardsley.

  "Look at everybody." DeWitt swept his hand around.

  Beardsley said. "Be my guest, Major. Right now, I'm just an engine boy." Wiping his hands on a rag, he went back to his supercharger.

  A tiny smile crept around DeWitt's lips, as he bellowed orders: Beardsley, Bartholomew, and Whittaker were to continue with the engine detail; Holloway and the Forester Brothers were assigned to check the runway and fill the furrows dug by SHEZABITCH's right engines. After that they were to make sure the rest of the runway was clear for takeoff.

  And with instructions from Beardsley, Ingram took responsibility for topping off TILLY's fuel and oil tanks. Sunderland, Amador, Guzman, and Ramirez set up two-man security details at each end of the runway with Yardly acting as corpsman, messenger, and water boy between all four locations. This, of course, left DeWitt free to swagger around getting in everyone's way.

  Nevertheless, things went quickly. By nine o'clock the engine boys jury-rigged an A-frame, and with block and tackle, unbolted the three bladed, Hamilton-Standard propeller and lowered it to the logging sled. With Carrillo swatting and prodding, Socrates dragged the propeller to TILLY's revetment where they unloaded and propped it against the sandbags.

  At ten-thirty, Ingram felt a genuine surge of hope as they lowered the one thousand-horsepower, nine-cylinder, Wright R-1820 engine to the logging sled. Soon it was ready. Carrillo whipped, Socrates strained and moaned, but the sled didn't move. Carrillo whipped and whipped again. The carabao bellowed in protest and strained against the harness, but the engine-laden sled didn't budge.

  Ingram kneeled for a moment, and sighted the ground, finding a slight incline to the runway. Also, the ground around the sled was muddy from rains. But once they gained the runway, it would be smoother for hauling.