Ingram's eyes meandered over a large circular saw, not unlike the type seen in Perils of Pauline serials. "You think Tuga is really going to set up shop here."
Her eyes followed his to the saw. With an involuntary shudder she said, "Looks like he has all the right instruments."
She turned to him and said. "I know what's on your mind. Escape. Maybe revenge."
"What's wrong with that?"
"I mean, give your head a few days before you do anything."
"As long as it takes to repair the engine. Any idea where we should hide?"
"Mountains, I suppose. Amador says that's where most Americans are.
"Are they safe up there?"
"I don't know. Amador says the Kempetai hunts them down. Almost like tracking big game. And if they come up dry, they go into a village and torture people to make them tell where the Americans are. What they do when they find them is worse than the Bataan Death March."
Bartholomew shuffled over with a large water canteen. He looked at Helen. She nodded, and he pushed it against Ingram's shoulder, "Drink up, Skipper."
"Not thirsty."
"Better try," said Helen.
Ingram took the canteen and surprised himself when he gulped more than half. Gasping, he said, "Thanks Rocky."
Bartholomew moved off saying, "Cold stew in a few minutes."
"Cold?"
"Cold," Bartholomew said over his shoulder. Apparently they were afraid of making a fire.
The water seemed to course through his system, invigorating every joint. He drank the rest of the canteen, then lay back, wondering if he could afford to stay quiet for the next day or two. He closed his eyes for a moment but something struck him. "What's wrong with those guys?"
"What do you mean?"
"They're avoiding me."
"They've been waiting for you to come to your senses."
Ingram scratched his head. "I don't understand."
"You're the only one who knows enough about navigation to make it to Australia."
Ingram pursed his lips and made a show of saying, "Ahhh, well then. The taxpayers did their best to teach me all about that."
"Otherwise, they would have shoved off without you."
Ingram raised on an elbow. "What do you mean?"
"You don't remember what happened after the plane crashed?"
"No."
She sat upright, straightened her ball cap, then fiddled with the buttons on her sleeves.
Ingram rose beside her, his eyes darting. "I...can't remember. The plane hit. We skidded into some trees. And then I woke up. Here." He paused then said, "In this building is where I next remember anything."
"Talk to Rocky about it." Something in Helen's voice made him uneasy. "Back in a moment," she said. "Have to check on Forester." She stood and walked over to where the young quartermaster striker lay on a stretcher.
Ingram said, "Chief?"
Bartholomew walked over. "Skipper?"
"What happened back there?"
"Back where?"
"The plane wreck, damnit!" Ingram said loudly. His voice echoed in the cavernous lumber mill. From across the room he felt everyone's eyes flick toward him.
Bartholomew took off his hat and brushed it against his coveralls. "Uhhh, Sir..."
"Leon!" Ingram shouted.
Beardsley's head popped up. "Yeah."
"Come here, please. You too, Ollie. We may as well have a damned officer's call. Where is Otis?"
"Out looking for a radio, Sir," said Bartholomew.
Ingram thought that one over. "How long's he been gone?"
"Since this morning," said Bartholomew as the others sat.
Ingram said to Beardsley, "I hear the gas was sabotaged."
Beardsley toyed with his lower lip, then said. "I'd say so. Otherwise, all four engines couldn't have conked out at the same time."
"Damn near made it." Ingram and Beardsley exchanged glances, sharing the feeling of glorious freedom when TILLY's wheels left the runway. "Number one was cranking fine?" he asked, referring to the engine they had cannibalized from the other B-17.
"As good as the day it was built." Beardsley kicked at the blanket pile. "Damn! We'd be sucking up Aussie beer right now. Holloway and Whittaker should be with us."
In the last of the light, he noticed Beardsley's face was still horribly puffed up. Ingram said, "How are your peepers?"
"Twenty-twenty."
"Both?"
"Well, there's still some to go in my right eye."
"Leon, it was worth the try. I'm glad you talked us into it."
Beardsley nodded.
"You get through the crash okay?"
Beardsley said, "More or less. I woke up as Ollie dragged me from the wreck."
"Ollie?"
"I was pinned. Damned control yoke was jammed in my chest." Beardsley nodded to Toliver. "Rover dragged me out. In fact, he dragged almost everyone out. Right, Chief?"
Bartholomew nodded. "Yep."
Beardsley continued, "Methodical as hell. He worked from front to back. Then the plane caught fire. Uhhh...he didn't have time for Pete and Mr. Holloway's bodies. So we thought everyone was out when we heard screaming. That's when he and Kevin dove into the fire and pulled out Brian. And that's when..."
Ingram felt himself go cold. "Go on."
"You don't remember?"
"No."
Beardsley swallowed a couple of times.
"Tell me!" shouted Ingram.
Beardsley looked at Bartholomew. "Todd, I--"
Ingram sprang at Beardsley, grabbed at his feet, missed and fell on the floor, while Beardsley jumped back.
Beardsley said, "You took a big hit on your noggin. It made you sort of loony. You were running in circles and damn near foaming at the mouth. It took three guys to hold you down."
Suddenly it came back to Ingram and his breathing came in short gasps, cold sweat stood out on his brow. In his mind he saw the plane burning. And he heard screams. "I remember. Ohhh shit." He looked over to where Junior Forester lay. "The fire. It was so damned hot. I thought it was too late to pull Forester out..."
"Easy Todd," said Beardsley. "We crashed. People go batty. I've seen it happen."
"How did we get here?" asked Ingram.
"We walked while you and Kevin rode in style."
"How's that?"
"Socrates."
"Speak English."
"The damned caribou. You don't remember riding on that logging skid?"
"Not a thing," said Ingram, reaching out to Toliver. "Ollie?"
Toliver leaned into the shadows.
Ingram said, "You've been looking out for me, just like Leon."
Toliver's face was like granite.
"You shot that Jap on Marinduque."
"It was you," said Toliver.
"All along the way you've been saving our butts, haven't you?"
"You're crazy," said Toliver.
"Come on, Skipper," said Bartholomew.
Ingram said, "I remember now. That night when--"
There was commotion near the backdoor. In twilight, a figure stepped through, supporting another. The second man was shirtless, and his legs almost dragged. Guzman closed the door quietly, while the second figure sank to the floor.
"Bones," someone gasped.
Yardly bustled over, unscrewed his canteen, and eased it to the man's mouth. The first figure spoke with Yardly, then walked toward Ingram with Amador close behind.
The silhouette of a campaign hat materialized overhead. "Welcome back," said DeWitt. "I was worried."
"Thanks, Otis. Find a radio?"
"No. But I found a radioman." DeWitt nodded over his shoulder.
"What?" said Ingram and Beardsley.
"Off a pig-boat. Japs depth-charged her, near the Surigao Straits. The poor bastard was wandering near the edge of town, half-starved; half-dehydrated. Says his shipmates are camped in the jungle, eating monkeys and lizards."
Ingram said to Amador, "Maybe we bett
er round them up?"
Amador shook his head. "Nasipit is becoming the escape capital of Mindanao. Many Americans are concentrated around here. I think that is why Tuga plans to set up headquarters here. He and his thugs can scoop up prisoners and drag them through the streets."
"Isn't he looking for you?" asked Ingram.
"With so many Americans in the hills, that has become a second priority, I hear," said Amador.
DeWitt nodded toward the man who had collapsed near the door. "What about the submariners?"
"We'll find them and look after them. For now, you're the ones we're worried about."
Ingram said, "Time to get out."
"Yes," said Amador.
Helen walked up. "You and Forester have to recuperate, first."
"I think we better head out, now," said Ingram. "Old 51's engine ready to fire, Rocky?"
Bartholomew shook his head slowly, "Still ripped up. And I think we have electrical problems."
"How long to fix her?"
Bartholomew took off his hat and scratched his head. "Couple of days, maybe. It's tough to work out there. Lotsa mosquitoes and creepys."
Amador said, "There are crocodiles in that river."
"Jeez!" said Bartholomew. He threw his hands in the air and spun a circle on the ball of his foot. "I thought you were pulling my leg," he said to Ingram.
Ingram said, "Rocky, we need to fix it, pronto."
"Is there a way to bring it here?" asked DeWitt.
Ingram turned to Amador. "That's an idea. By sea, it would be only a mile or two to the Kinabhangan River mouth?"
Amador nodded.
Ingram continued, "The best deal would be if there were someone to tow us."
Amador spoke to Carrillo in Tagalog. After a moment he said, "Hidden beneath the pier is the only boat in Nasipit. The Hapons took everything else. It's an old workboat, only four meters in length--a gasoline burning one-lunger, Manuel tells me. He used it for night fishing. I'll see if they can try tonight."
"Thanks. Beats lugging tools and parts through the jungle," said Ingram. "Ollie. You and Rocky take--let's see--Sunderland and Kevin Forester. Maybe that'll help get his mind off Junior."
Amador said, "I'll send Ramirez to show the way."
"Shove off after dinner." Ingram turned to Amador and nodded. "Thank them for their help."
"It's our pleasure," said Amador. "That's why we're here. The sooner you escape, the sooner you come back and kill Hapons."
"I hope so," said Ingram.
DeWitt cleared his throat. "About the radio..."
"Looks like we'll have another day or so to look for one, Otis," said Ingram. "While we're on the subject, do you think we should take your refugee along?"
DeWitt and Bartholomew exchanged shrugs.
"Okay," said Ingram. "If he wants, he's in. I'll talk to him after he's had something to eat. What his rate and name?"
"Second class named Lokko or something like that."
"He just might be our ticket, Otis, if we come up with a busted set. Maybe he could fix it. Don't you think?" said Ingram.
The day's-end fatigue uncovered DeWitt's twang. He said, "Don't know. Guy's kind of bonkers. Shell-shock. Maybe."
"What's with the radios, Sir?" asked Bartholomew.
"Just calling for help, Rocky. Our big problem may be fuel. I'd like to scare up another barrel. And we have to figure out how to ease it down from the pier."
"I can rig a set of falls. Maybe use Socrates?" said Bartholomew.
"Alright." It felt good to be getting organized. Ingram felt hunger pangs in spite of pain throbbing in his head and neck. Gingerly, he turned to Bartholomew. "Is that stew really cold?"
"As last week's cat shit," said Bartholomew. "You ready?"
Bartholomew's metaphor was much too vivid. "Just water for now. I think I'll rest."
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
21 May, 1942
Nasipit, Mindanao
Philippines
They towed the 51 Boat from the Kinabhangan River and moored her among rotted pilings under the lumber mill's wharf. Bartholomew, Toliver, and the elder Forester puttered with the diesel, but missed Whittaker's touch and grumbled and cursed at one another. After two days, Leon Beardsley rolled up his sleeves, and pitched in using some of the mill's remaining ancient machinery and reconditioned parts. Finally it was done, and they stood around as Bartholomew thumbed the start button. The Buda caught immediately, giving a confident rumble.
Meanwhile, Ingram ate and caught up on sleep while Otis DeWitt, dodging Japanese patrols, moved furtively around the Agusan Province looking for a radio.
At the end of the third day, Ingram's head and neck aches were almost gone and Helen removed his bandages, except the one over the cheek. Everyone was relieved to see Junior Forester sit up, drink water, and nibble at solid foods.
On the other hand, DeWitt's stray radioman was still in a daze. He ate and drank, but ran a fever and slept most of the time; so Ingram decided to hold off speaking to him for the time being.
Late that afternoon, Pablo Amador brought word the Japanese were moving into the mill in a day or two with plans to convert it to a regional headquarters. With that, Ingram gave orders to push off soon after dark.
* * * * *
The late afternoon was finally cooling off and the Carrillos surprised them with a going-away feast. Sitting on the hard-packed dirt floor the whole 51 Boat crew was jammed in the corrugated tin hut behind the Carrillo’s home,. First, Mrs. Carrillo served a half-dozen roast chickens--split in half, stuffed with yam slices and skewered together. Then came boiled fish and jackfruit cooked in coconut milk with large roasted seeds as big as nuts. Next were roasted Cassava roots to serve as a bread beside white rice, rough cracked corn, and ripe avocados the size of grapefruit. To drink, Amador produced a bottle of Fundatore brandy and a bottle of Chinese rice wine. Carrillo rustled up ten bottles of native tuba, a coconut-based beer, four unchilled bottles of San Miguel beer, and two bottles of Coca-Cola, equally warm.
It was quiet as they ate and drank their fill by the light of four candles. With panache, Carrillo reached in a pocket and pulled out a Bearing cigar, offering it to Sunderland.
"Wow. Thanks," said Sunderland, with a broad smile. He accepted the cigar and then ran it under his nose. "Ummm, a Bearing alright," he said reverently, stuffing it in his breast pocket.
Carrillo said, "No, no, no," then spat quick phrases of Tagalog to Amador.
"What?" said Sunderland.
Amador chuckled and said, "He says you must light up now, Señor. For good luck."
Sunderland looked up to Carrillo.
Carrillo nodded and beamed.
"Okay." Sunderland pulled the Bearing out and rattled at the cellophane wrapper. Soon, he had it stripped. Then he bit the cigar's end and spit it out with Amador flicking on a gold Ronson lighter.
They all watched as Sunderland took a long, luxurious puff. "Ahhhh." He sat back and nodded and grinned to the beaming Carrillo. "Thanks, Señor Carrillo."
Otis DeWitt watched the last of the sun's golden rays catch rich, blue smoke swirling around the ceiling. "Damn, there are times I wished I smoked cigars. May I?" He reached.
"This one would knock you on your ass, Major," Sunderland said with a smile. People twittered around the table.
DeWitt smiled too. "I suppose." He leaned back, nudged his stomach with a fist, and muffled a small belch. "What do you say, Todd? Time to saddle up."
Ingram said to Carrillo, "What about our hostess?"
Carrillo shrugged.
Amador said, "She was happy to do it. We all are."
Ingram said to Carrillo, "We would like to thank your wife for all her trouble."
"Yes?" Carrillo said, looking at Amador.
"Please. Could you bring her in here?" said Ingram.
Amador explained in Tagalog. With a vigorous nod, Carrillo got up, and moments later returned with his wife, Rosarita, who bore a confused look. Carrillo put his arm around
her, and they stood rather nervously before the table.
DeWitt muttered and stood saying, "I outrank everybody so I guess it's up to me." He made a small speech in his best twang and ended with, "Thank you Mr. Amador, Mr. and Mrs. Carrillo, and Mr. Ramirez and Mr. Guzman, and all the wonderful people of Nasipit for your hope, your prayers, your hospitality, and this wonderful banquet. And you can be sure we'll be back soon to help you nail these bast-- er, jerks."
Amador interpreted, and Rosarita, wearing a large smock that concealed her considerable bulk, bowed graciously.
"Ah, come on." Beardsley rose to his feet and stood beside DeWitt. He began singing in a decent baritone, "Good Night Irene." As he bellowed the familiar phrases, veins stood out on his traumatized face like sinuous, red tributaries. Soon, they all joined in. Rosarita, with a gold-toothed smile, grinned and nodded and twirled.
Ingram, feeling he had to do something, unpinned one of his lieutenant devices from his collar and, with a deep bow, walked up and pinned it on Rosarita’ s collar. He topped it off with a kiss to her forehead as the others bellowed the last bars.
The song was over. Anything more seemed inappropriate, so they stood for a moment, hearing only the shrill nighttime chirp of cicadas outside.
With a final bow, Rosarita walked out with tears streaking her cheeks. They got up, but she was back in two minutes with mounds of leftovers packed in wax paper and camote leafs. Toliver, Bartholomew, Sunderland, and Kevin Forester accepted them, and with the two Filipino scouts, filed out to finish preparations aboard the 51 Boat.
Except for Sunderland's cigar smoke, the room was nearly empty. DeWitt sat across from his stray sailor. Ingram moved over and sat next to him. He had terrible sun blisters on his lips and cheeks. His long hair was slicked straight back, his eyes drooped, and he had several nick marks where he'd shaved with an old razor. In spite of his condition his stature was lean and powerful.
With a nod to DeWitt, Ingram said, "How you feeling Sailor?"
The man munched a piece of jackfruit and said, "...feels good to eat real chow."
Ingram held out a hand. "My name's Lieutenant Ingram. This is Major DeWitt."
The sailor studied Ingram's hand for a moment. Then, almost as if a light bulb clicked on, he nodded, grinned and shook. He said slowly, "...Lorca...uh...Dominic."
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 45