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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Manpower.

  He recalled what they did aboard the Pelican after an air attack had unbedded her reduction gear box. "We need everybody. Fred!" he yelled at Holloway who was throwing dead tree limbs off the runway. "Come on."

  "What is it, Lieutenant?" asked DeWitt.

  "Time to go to work, Otis. Fred! Hurry up," Ingram hollered checking the sky. A front was building and he didn't want to wait lest the ground become intolerably muddy.

  Leaving Amador, Ramirez and Guzman on security detail, they lined up in two teams on either side of the carabao and grabbed two heavy manila lines Carrillo had rigged. Ingram took a position at the head of the right-hand column and said, "Come on, Otis."

  "Nonsense," said DeWitt.

  "No time for that, Otis. Come on."

  DeWitt turned and walked toward the runway.

  Sunderland, third man in line on the left row called, "Major, if you don't pitch in, I'm throwing your ass out from twenty thousand feet."

  "Sunderland, damnit," hissed Ingram.

  Sunderland said, "Mr. Ingram, the sonofabitch--"

  "Shhht--" DeWitt dropped to his haunches and stretched out his palm. He rasped, “Git down.”

  They fell to their knees as thunder rumbled over the Agusan Valley. Soon the air was ionized, making hair on the back of Ingram's neck stand on end. Carrillo slapped a palm against his forehead, "My fault. I hear a whistle. Carlos. It is him. But I didn't..."

  "Forget it," Ingram whispered savagely.

  DeWitt crawled over all fours to him and said. "Jap patrol. Near the other end of the runway." He watched Sunderland take a position behind a tree and prop his BAR on a low branch. DeWitt added, "I'll have that man on charges."

  Ingram said through clenched teeth, "Do something like that again, Major, and you won't have to worry about Sunderland. I'll be the one throwing your ass out from twenty thousand feet."

  DeWitt's head jerked to him, and his mouth fell open.

  "I mean it, damnit. Your petty horseshit is slowing us down."

  DeWitt's mouth worked. "All I was trying to do was--"

  "Jesus!" whispered Bartholomew, peeking through tall grass.

  Two columns of Japanese soldiers walked across the runway's north end. They were about five hundred yards away, making it hard to distinguish faces and uniform markings. Their gait was easy, and a few balanced their rifles on their shoulders. Thunder crackled to the southwest as they walked across the strip and melted into the forest.

  Ingram said softly to DeWitt, "You don't follow orders very well, Major, do you? I'm in command here. When those Japs are gone you're picking up that damn line and hauling ass like everyone else. Got it?"

  DeWitt exhaled loudly and looked to the ground. "Peacetime mentality. It's hard to break old habits."

  It was Ingram's turn to be surprised, more so, when he turned to see DeWitt's attempt at a smile.

  The underbrush rattled; Pablo Amador rushed up out of breath. "What happened? We made so much noise trying to get your attention it sounded like the Chicago Zoo."

  Carrillo chattered excuses in Tagalog.

  "Sorry," said Ingram. "We were distracted. Are they gone?"

  "I think so. They missed the revetments, but it's only a matter of time before they stumble on them. Fito is following them while Carlos backtracks--"

  Beardsley walked up. "Mr. Amador. How often does it rain here?"

  Amador was confused for a moment. He stammered, "...this time of year? Monsoons approach. Two, three times a day. Maybe more."

  Beardsley hit his fist in his palm. "That's it. Damnit! That is it. Let’s go." He spun and ran to the left-hand rope and picked it up. "Come on you dumb bastards. We're going home."

  Ingram ran up behind him and took his place. "What is it?"

  Beardsley, this time with a Bogart accent, said over his shoulder, "It rains, Todd. The damned thunder and lightning shoots cosmic farts all over the sky. Then the toilet from the great beyond flushes, making even more noise. Noise, Todd. Noise. Lots of it. We can run up the engines and test without the Japs hearing."

  DeWitt walked up, spit on his hands, and grabbed a section of the left rope. Ingram nodded to Carrillo, who cracked his whip over Socrates' rump.

  "Ready?" growled Ingram. "One, two, three, mule haul!"

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  16 May, 1942

  Three Kilometers Southeast of Amparo

  Mindanao, Philippines

  Grunting, sweating, and cursing, the engine boys finished bolting the Wright 1820 in place by one-thirty. The men on the ground cheered as Beardsley strutted along the wing's leading edge, waving and taking deep bows. With a grin he proudly declared. "Takeoff's at sunset, girls. Rain permitting, of course."

  The propeller was quickly hoisted and reattached to the engine. An hour later, Ingram, with mud sucking at his boots, stepped to the forest's edge and checked the sky. They had already had two harsh storms and the approaching front promised more, with ominous blue-black thunderheads roiling well over thirty thousand feet. Rain would be on them in less than an hour.

  Forty-five minutes later, the rest of the engine was hooked up and the cowling secured. After a quick test of the cowl flaps, Ingram called, "Leon." With a nod to the sky he said, "Storm's almost here. Can you hurry?"

  "On my way," Beardsley said as he kneeled atop the wing behind number one engine checking an oil line. He called to Yardly and Toliver just below, "Seems okay. Let's pull the props through."

  Standing beneath, Yardly and Toliver grabbed propeller blades and rotated them counterclockwise ensuring oil was evenly distributed throughout each engine.

  As they did so, Ingram spoke with Amador. "Good chance we may be on our way. Time to send the truck for Helen."

  "Right." Amador turned and gave instructions to Carrillo who soon walked off with thunder rattling in the Agusan Valley.

  In the meantime, Guzman took Socrates into Amparo returning forty-five minutes later with food and water for their trip. Beardsley still straddled the number one engine, madly twirling a socket wrench through an open panel. "Todd," he beckoned.

  Checking his watch, Ingram walked under the engine. "How much longer?"

  "Forgot something," Beardsley said. "Go to the cockpit and take the left seat. Hurry."

  Ingram climbed in the B-17's aft hatch, made his way to the flight deck, sat in the pilot's seat and leaned out the window.

  Beardsley, still spinning his ratchet, said, "Master electrical panel at your left. See if we have battery power. Try battery one, two, and three, and check the voltmeter." He called to Yardly and Toliver as they pulled number one's propellers. "That's enough. Back away."

  Lightning flashed overhead as Ingram groped for the panel. He flipped the switches, testing batteries one, two and three. The needle barely quivered on battery number two. There was no indication of life on one or three. The smell of ozone mixed with a cold rush he felt in his bloodstream. He said. "Nothing."

  Beardsley kept twirling. "Try again."

  Ingram methodically redid the battery check. The result was the same. "Leon. We have a big problem," he called.

  Beardsley leaned over the engine and shouted down to Bartholomew, "Plan B, Rocky."

  Bartholomew said. "Got it. Pete, Bones, come on."

  Whittaker, Yardly, and Bartholomew ran in the gathering darkness toward the other B-17. While they waited, Ingram scrambled outside and detailed the Forester brothers to clear debris from the revetment, while Toliver and Holloway rolled the empty fuel barrels outside. Then he called Amador over. "Carrillo?" he asked. "It's been well over an hour."

  Amador shrugged. "I'll let you know as soon as we hear something."

  Ten minutes later, rain had started spattering when Bartholomew, Whittaker, and Yardly trudged up, out of breath. Between them, they carried an eighty-pound, twenty-four volt battery from the other B-17. Beardsley secured number one's cowling, eased himself to the ground, and ran to the battery access panel where the wing's leading edge
joined the fuselage. As he popped open the panel door, wind twirled leaves and dust in small cyclones; lightning flashed and thunder cracked loudly overhead, as the four worked frantically replacing the battery.

  The job was done just as the rain fell in earnest. Beardsley slapped the fuselage and said. "Okay. Let's give her a shot." With a practiced swing, Beardsley pulled his feet through the escape hatch just forward of the bomb bay and disappeared inside. Ingram tried the same thing and was surprised his feet made it up and through on the first swing. Once inside, he scrambled up to the flight deck and sat in the copilot's seat.

  Beardsley worked the electrical panel muttering, "Only about twenty volts. Maybe so, maybe not." He pointed to a large cellophane-encased card hanging next to Ingram's right knee. "Read that."

  Ingram grabbed the card, "Check off sheet?"

  "That's right." No Bogart. No George Raft. Strictly Flight Officer Leon V. Beardsley.

  Ingram read the first item. "'Doors and hatches.'"

  "Okay."

  "'Parking Brakes.'"

  Beardsley reached to the instrument panel in front of Ingram and yanked a knob. "Set."

  "'Controls.'"

  He wobbled the control column and pushed the rudder pedals. "Unloaded."

  Ingram called the next item. "'Fuel transfer valves.'"

  "Checked on my way in. 'Off.'"

  Ingram read down the list. Beardsley's hands were a blur as he moved about flipping switches or yanking levers. Finally they moved into the start sequence. Ingram read. "'Master switches.'"

  "On."

  "Do you--"

  Beardsley said, "hold on." He leaned out the window and yelled, "Back up, Pete!"

  Whittaker, standing just below number one engine, nodded and stepped back ten feet. Just then an enormous bolt of lightning flashed through the revetment, with thunder clapping almost immediately. Rain fell in torrents so hard Ingram could barely see Whittaker.

  Beardsley pulled in his head. "Go on!"

  Amador ran up to the right side of the plane. He looked up to Ingram with a thumbs down. Soon Carrillo joined him.

  Ingram leaned out and shouted, "What happened?"

  Amador said, "Roadblock. He didn't even get back to Nasipit."

  "Damnit!"

  "Todd, come on!"

  "What?" Ingram pulled back inside.

  Beardsley pointed to the card.

  Shit. "'Master switches'."

  "'On,' I said."

  Ingram fumbled at the card and looked out at Amador who had stepped away from the revetment with Carrillo. From a distance, both stood and watched, their hands in their pockets.

  "Todd!" shouted Beardsley.

  "'Battery switches and invertors!'"

  Beardsley crossed his fingers. "On and checked."

  "'Parking brakes--hydraulic check'"

  "On and checked."

  "'Booster pumps--pressure'"

  Beardsley pointed to the right side of the panel. "Todd, damnit, do I have to do everything?"

  "What?" said Ingram.

  "Look at that gauge. What does it say?"

  "It says about, I don't know. Is that twelve pounds?"

  "Good enough," said Beardsley

  Ingram resumed the list. "'Carburetor filter--'" Then it hit him. "Can you see alright?"

  "Not a damn thing from my right eye."

  "Awww, shiiit."

  "Read, damnit."

  The rain eased somewhat as they reached the section where Ingram called, "'Prime.'"

  "Here we go." Beardsley leaned out the window and yelled. "Clear one!" Next, he wiggled the "prime" toggle, then hit the start button on Ingram's side of the panel.

  Ingram expected to see the prop turning. But it wasn't and, he said with more concern than he intended. "You forgot to hook up the starter motor."

  "It's inertial. Takes a few seconds to wind up."

  "Yeah?"

  "'Oh ye of little faith,'" said Beardsley. He swiveled his head to look out the window while throwing the start switch to 'mesh.'

  Number one's propeller slowly rotated. "You didn't forget," said Ingram.

  "Count twelve blades."

  "...five, six, seven, eight..." Ingram was mesmerized as the blades flashed past. He barely noticed from the corner of his eye that Whittaker had dropped to the ground. "...ten, eleven, twelve--"

  "Zippo, baby," urged Beardsley, flipping number one magneto to 'Both'.

  Through the rain, Ingram felt a shudder. A black belch of smoke vomited from number one's exhaust pipe.

  The propeller became a blur and scythed the air. But then it stopped firing. Beardsley desperately jazzed throttle and mixture levers on the control pedestal. "Come on Tilly, sweet baby. I love you, honey," he coaxed.

  With an enormous backfire the engine caught and roared into life. Beardsley settled it back to idle and grinned as Ingram slapped him on the back. He checked oil and fuel pressure. "Battery was the diciest part. It's charging nicely now."

  "You okay, now?" asked Ingram.

  "We're okay. Ready to roll number two."

  "Can you find someone else?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Helen. They couldn't get her. I'm going back."

  "Hell, we're just testing engines. Get her later."

  "Leon. I think--"

  "Come on Todd."

  Beardsley reached again and concentrated on priming number two engine. Lightning flashed outside, and Ingram felt two things simultaneously: A rush of air blow over his head and a hand violently shake his shoulder. He turned in his seat seeing Otis DeWitt, his mouth working. His face was white as he pointed to a fresh bullet hole over Ingram's head.

  "Japs!" DeWitt shrieked. "Whittaker and young Forester are hit."

  "How bad?" demanded Ingram as number two roared into life.

  "Not bad. Amador and his boys are holding them off."

  "Sunny?"

  "He's aboard," said DeWitt, as thunder crashed so loud it felt like it had originated in the revetment. "A couple of Japs got close but Sunny took care of them with his BAR. We figure it's those squads on their return trip."

  Twenty men or so, he thought. Ingram turned, seeing Beardsley mesh number three. Then he knew. "Helen!"

  DeWitt said, "Shit! Where is she?"

  "Still in Nasipit. Truck didn't get through"

  Beardsley said, "Why do I have the idea we gotta roll, Todd?"

  DeWitt nodded. "It's now or never."

  Ingram said, "Wait a minute. We--"

  "Bullshit." Beardsley goosed throttle levers and shouted, "Major. Get everyone aboard and pull the wheel chocks."

  Rain thundered on the B-17's aluminum skin so loudly that Ingram barely heard number three cough into life.

  Otis Dewitt swallowed rapidly; he leaned between them and said. "Aren't you going to test first?"

  In spite of their predicament, Beardsley said, "Major, what the hell do you want? A brass-plated toilet seat? Now get out there and pull the damn wheel chocks. Make double sure everyone's aboard. We'll hold until you let us know."

  With a gulp, DeWitt nodded and disappeared as number four fired up. Beardsley fumbled under the seat, handed Ingram a set of earphones, and gestured how to hook them up. Finally they were plugged in; Beardsley's voice was a metallic, "--think of this bird so far?"

  Ingram managed to say, "It'll do."

  Beardsley pat Ingram's shoulder, "Todd, it can't be helped. She'll be okay."

  Ingram looked over and forced a nod.

  Then Beardsley's eyes darted over the instrument panel.

  "This thing going to work?" asked Ingram.

  "Who knows? The list, damnit."

  Ingram fumbled with the list; the rain pummeled so hard it almost obliterated engine noise.

  "'Brakes.'"

  "Locked."

  "'Trim tabs.'"

  "Set."

  "'Tail wheel.'"

  "Unlocked."

  Two bullets stitched the fuselage just below Ingram's seat. "Shit
. 'Vacuum.'"

  "Check."

  "'Altimeter.'"

  "God, I wish I knew."

  Otis DeWitt clapped them both on the shoulders and held up two muddy wheel chocks.

  Beardsley leaned around and yelled, "Everybody get in the waist and radio compartments. Brace your backs to the forward bulkhead. Got it?"

  DeWitt nodded and crawled aft.

  Beardsley flipped off the parking brake, and none too delicately, advanced the throttles. TILLY THE TERRIBLE rolled out of the revetment, spraying a large cloud of water behind them.

  "Where's the runway?" yelled Ingram.

  "We turn at the tree."

  "There's millions of trees."

  "The one with an oil drum in the crotch."

  "We're almost passed it. Come right. It's at our two o'clock."

  "Got it. Keep talking, damnit," said Beardsley, revving up the port engines, pulling the bomber into a right turn. Then he let TILLY straighten and thread her way between two enormous Narra trees.

  Ingram said,"'Instruments.'"

  "Checked. You forgot radio."

  "Sorry. 'Radio.'"

  "No radio. I think that's about it, anyway." He reached down and turned on the generator switches then said, "Todd," pointing to the deck. "That lever is the tail wheel lock. Flip it on when I tell you."

  Something rattled and chattered over Ingram's head. DeWitt popped up between them saying, "Sunderland got the top turret going. Looks like he took out a couple of Japs trying to throw grenades."

  The top turret's twin fifty-caliber machine guns rattled again, followed by an echoing war whoop.

  Beardsley rolled TILLY on the runway, turned and stopped, with her engines rumbling at a confident one thousand rpm. He looked out the windows. "Where do you think the little bastards are?"

  "Don't know."

  "Well, look." Beardsley stuck his head out.

  Ingram poked his head out the right-side window into an incredible world of sound, as thunder crashed and rain thumped the fuselage. A twenty-knot wind whipped the downpour into sheets almost lacerating his face, while the four Wright 1820s waited patiently in their nacelles for the summons to full power. He pulled back inside, wiping rain off his face, and said, "Not a thing."

  Beardsley, whose face was wet as well, grumbled, "Wish we had someone on intercom so I knew what the hell's going on." Then he grabbed Ingram's sleeve. "This is important. When I call 'gear up,' flip this switch."