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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  "Damn," said Ingram.

  There was a rustle behind him. A chief's hat stood out against the blackness. Bartholomew's voice was hoarse as he whispered, "We can take 'em, Skipper."

  "We're going to have to. Get Sunny and the others," Ingram said.

  "Right here." Ingram turned hearing Sunderland's growl. His BAR was cradled in his arms. Behind, Ingram recognized the tensed silhouettes of Beardsley, Kevin Forester, Toliver, Lorca, and Manuel Carrillo.

  "Anybody else have something to shoot with?" whispered Ingram.

  Clothing rustled. Beardsley held up his nickel-plated revolver and cocked it. "Best I can do." The accent was Bogart.

  "Damn, one pistol, one BAR." Ingram whispered. "Rocky. You and Kevin go back to the boat and grab some--"

  A long, horrible scream perforated the night. They looked at the truck, seeing one of the soldiers brace a foot against Junior Forester's chest to pull his bayonet out. Just then, the other soldier plunged his bayonet deep into Forester's stomach, bringing forth another scream.

  "B-R-I-A-N," roared Kevin Forester, running toward the truck.

  "Do it, Sunny!" Ingram yelled, running after Forester.

  Sunderland quickly sidestepped, propped the BAR on an oil drum, and opened fire.

  The bullets zipped past Ingram as he and Forester ran toward the lights. There was a guttural scream. One of the soldiers spun and his rifle flew off into the dark. Another doubled up before them, the man's chest a giant red blossom.

  Ingram plowed into the Japanese lieutenant, driving a fist into his stomach. The stocky man had drawn a Nambu pistol from a shoulder holster. Ingram grabbed the man's wrist, then drew back and hit him full in the nose, feeling cartilage rupture under his knuckles. But the lieutenant was incredibly strong. Even as blood gushed from his nose, he easily parried Ingram's clumsy grasp at his throat and rose to his knees, tearing his pistol-hand free.

  An incredulous Ingram watched the lieutenant level his Nambu. But then there was a roar. The stocky officer seemed to launch into the fetid nighttime air as Sunderland pumped four BAR rounds into him on full automatic. The lieutenant's feet and legs came to rest in the headlight beams, his glistening, ruined upper half masked from sight.

  Ingram weaved to his feet. It seemed as though dead, bloody men lay everywhere.

  A sobbing Kevin Forester knelt alongside the stretcher, both arms around his brother's blood-soaked body. He pleaded, "Brian, Brian. Damnit. Come on."

  Yardly knelt beside Forester and put an arm around his shoulders. He said quietly, "He's gone, Kevin."

  Sunderland jogged up and kicked the soldier's bodies, making sure they were dead. "Got 'em all," he said.

  "It happened so fast," said a breathless DeWitt. His raised his arms and flopped them to his sides.

  "What do we do with these bodies?" said Beardsley, reloading his pistol.

  Ingram said, "Let's take them over to--"

  Just then another truck, then another roared around the corner followed by a third and a fourth and then three more.

  "Shit! Look at 'em all," said Sunderland.

  Ingram stood open-mouthed, as the trucks skidded to a halt. Their passengers jumped out among a jumble of shouts and panicked orders. One of the figures running from the third truck was tall and thin and wore a white suit: Lieutenant Tuga.

  "Nail that sonofabitch." growled Ingram.

  Beardsley said, "The pig squasher." He carefully aimed his nickel-plate and fired five rounds at Tuga, the bullets digging dirt spouts around the Kempetai as he darted behind a water tower with a group of officers.

  "Shit."

  "Try your other eye, Leon," said Ingram.

  "Sonofabitch. Lookit all the gear," said Bartholomew.

  "Psst! Check second-to-last truck," said Sunderland.

  Ingram strained to see what Sunderland was talking about. Finally, he saw it. The Japanese had jumped from their vehicles and ran swiftly for cover. But three men stood alongside one of the trucks, their hands in the air.

  "Americans," said Ingram.

  The first in line was tall with an athletic build and crew-cut blond hair. A bashed trumpet hung from his neck by a lanyard. Epperson's killer was about one hundred yards distant.

  "Jesus, that's them." Lorca's voice was hollow. "Lil' Adolph. And that's Kimble."

  "The one with the trumpet?" urged Ingram.

  Lorca swallowed several times. "Yes. Radtke. That's him."

  "Sunderland," barked Ingram.

  "Sir?"

  "See that blond one with the crew-cut?" said Ingram.

  "The guy with the busted trumpet?" said Sunderland.

  "Yes. Kill him. Now," said Ingram.

  "What?" gasped Sunderland.

  "Sunderland," screamed DeWitt. "I order you to do it! The man's a dangerous spy."

  "...sssir." Sunderland took aim.

  The Japanese opened fire. Bullets zipped past. "Down!" yelled Ingram, jumping behind a coconut tree. He peeked around to see Radtke beckoning. Then, Lieutenant Tuga ran toward the Americans with his pistol drawn. Standing before Radtke, Tuga suddenly nodded several times.

  "Sunderland!" Ingram yelled.

  Sunderland opened up but it was too late. Tuga and Radtke ducked behind the mill. The other two prisoners were quick-stepped toward the meat locker across from the mill.

  Bending low, Ingram scampered to the Japanese lieutenant's corpse and snatched the eight-shot Nambu. Stuffing it in his belt, he pointed to the fallen Japanese soldiers. "Grab their rifles. Shoot out those headlights."

  Toliver picked up a rifle, then ran to the truck's cab and jabbed the light switch, plunging the road into darkness.

  Ingram said, "Sunderland, Toliver. Stay here and cover our retreat. Otis, let's go!" He pumped his fist up and down.

  Sunderland's BAR fired on semiautomatic fire and someone screamed from among the trucks.

  Forester bent to lift his brother in his arms.

  "Kevin. He's gone." Yardly leaned over and tugged at Forester's elbow.

  Bullets whizzed over their heads as the Japanese hesitantly returned fire, trying to figure out what they had run into.

  Forester whipped his arm away from Yardly. "Leggo, you sonofabitch," he yelled.

  Bartholomew yelled from behind a tree. "You're no good to us dead, Forester."

  Sunderland squeezed off three shots then said, "Kevin. Damnit. All I got is one more clip. Then we're up shit's creek."

  Forester sunk to his haunches and sobbed. "You guys go. I'll hold 'em off."

  Ingram dashed up and said, "I'll take this end." He lifted the stretcher.

  Forester looked up at him with an unfocused stare.

  "Come on," shouted Ingram.

  DeWitt urged from the other side of the road, "Forester, damn you. They're bound to open up with a machine gun. Maybe a mortar, anytime."

  Dark figures flitted behind the mill and disappeared in the shadows. Ingram yelled, "They're trying to flank us."

  DeWitt said, "Sunderland. Lay some rounds in there."

  Sunderland cranked off two rounds, then ran out of ammo. Quickly he rammed in a new clip and fired three more rounds. The confident burrrrp of a Type 100, eight-millimeter submachine gun was his answer. "They're going to have us boxed in," said Ingram. He glanced to the left, seeing bandy-legged figures dash among the buildings opposite the mill. "We have to move."

  Rifle shots rang out from behind the mill. A woman screamed.

  Ingram felt as though his blood had frozen. "Helen!" He looked around in panic. "Where is she?"

  "Who?" shouted DeWitt.

  "Helen. She was over there." Ingram pointed to where the submachine gun muzzle flashes had originated.

  "I don't know, but we better hustle," said DeWitt.

  Bullets zinged above their heads and cut through the trees. Now, there were muzzle flashes from the group on the left. Instinctively, Ingram ducked and opened his mouth to yell at Forester, when he spotted the body of the Japanese sergeant who had fallen near
by. A hand grenade was clipped on the man's belt. He stooped and wrenched it off the corpse and held it up. "Otis?"

  "Do it!" shouted DeWitt.

  Ingram pulled the pin, hurled the grenade and ducked.

  An explosion ripped the night, lifting the front end of the third truck off the ground. By the light flash, Ingram saw nobody was in the truck but the detonation set off its fuel tank sending flames curling into the fourth truck where he did hear shouts and screams.

  A low, resonant moan filled the night. It wasn't human, and for a moment they looked around trying to see what it was. After another moan, Ingram saw a beast kicking its hind legs. It was the carabao. Bartholomew had used it earlier to lower the fuel drum down to the boat. They had left him tethered to a bollard on the pier.

  "Socrates," said Bartholomew,.

  Ingram stood and yelled, "Come on." He looked down, "You, too, Forester." Desperately, he scanned the darkness. Helen! Where the hell are you? Last time he'd seen her, she was about fifty yards back, about to cross the road with Guzman.

  A wide-eyed Kevin Forester lay over his brother's wrecked corpse, protecting it with outstretched arms, the fire's orange-red light dancing on his face. With a whimper, he looked up dumbly to Ingram.

  Ingram couldn't distinguish Forester's low moans from those of the carabao. But he picked up an end of the stretcher and dragged it toward the furiously beckoning DeWitt.

  Another explosion tore through the night. Socrates bellowed again as the second truck, a captured American six wheeler, rose and flipped on its back like a moribund dung beetle.

  The blast knocked Ingram over. "Ammo truck," Ingram rasped, picking himself up. The buildings around them were ablaze. One of them, a dry, wooden contraption whose sign announced a ship's chandlery collapsed to the earth. Small caliber bullets aboard the ammo truck cooked off, making the Japanese scamper.

  "Now's our chance," said DeWitt hoarsely.

  Amador stood to run, but the Japanese fire suddenly resumed, more deadly than before. He dropped behind a tree and shouted, "Wait! Luis Guzman. The Hapons captured him."

  A barrage of gunfire stitched the dirt about them. "Move! Now!" ordered DeWitt.

  "That means they have Helen," Amador said.

  Ingram stood numbly, refusing to let the realization sink in.

  "We gotta go," said DeWitt.

  Amador needed no urging as rifle fire raked the tree limb just above his head. He whipped off his planter's hat, stooped over, and rushed past DeWitt into darkness.

  Ingram froze and looked toward the mill. It was too dark. He couldn't see movement. He'd taken a couple of steps in that direction, when he heard a plaintive voice behind. "Okay, Mr. Ingram."

  He looked back. Forester stood at his end of the stretcher, waiting patiently for Ingram to help carry his brother.

  "Todd, damnit! Get moving!" shouted DeWitt.

  Beardsley, Toliver, and Sunderland ran. A fusillade of bullets followed as they melted into the darkness.

  "Now!" DeWitt quickly fired three rounds from his rifle.

  "Helen!" Ingram shouted.

  "Mr. Ingram?" Forester tugged from his end, tears running down his cheeks.

  Socrates gave another long, mournful howl, while Ingram picked up the stretcher's end. With the convoy burning, he and Forester ran into darkness.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  21 May, 1942

  Nasipit, Mindanao

  Philippines

  Trucks rumbled through Nasipit, shaking the ground as they clattered past the Carrillo’s hut. One stopped down the road. Shouts tore the night, then the soldiers reboarded, and the truck drove off.

  "Sonsabits damn angry," said Carrillo. He lifted the burlap curtain and peered into darkness.

  "Little bastards just about outflanked us," said Sunderland, standing next to him.

  "Safe here," said Carrillo. "Not so with Luis."

  Amador sat on a bench and said, "Pray the Hapons didn't take him alive."

  He looked nervously up at Beardsley and Ingram. The two stood in the middle of the dirt floor like eleventh graders staring each other down in the schoolyard. Ingram's hands were on his hips. His cheek bandage had been torn away, and the wound, although well sutured, still suppurated. Beardsley's arms were crossed over his chest, his face puffy and inflamed.

  "Who the hell was supposed to watch her?" Ingram demanded.

  Beardsley said, "Take it easy, hothead. It was you who ran after Forester like Jack Armstrong with his pants on fire."

  Forester jumped up and stepped before Beardsley. "That was my brother the Japs bayoneted you piece of--"

  "Shut up, Kevin," hissed Bartholomew. "There's enough crap going on here." He grabbed Forester by the elbows and yanked him to a bench.

  Beardsley grunted and sat.

  Ingram counted to ten then said, "What was I supposed to do?" He tilted his head toward Forester. "He ran right at them."

  Amador's eyes swept from Beardsley to Ingram. "Gentlemen, please. Arguing is not going to bring either one of them back."

  "I say let's go after them." said Ingram.

  "You mean an assault?" said Amador.

  Ingram nodded. "Tonight."

  Amador sighed, "Not tonight. There must be two hundred Hapons out there. We don't have a prayer of getting organized. And our guns and ammunition are still under the floor of the mill."

  Ingram leaned against the wall and absently massaged his temples.

  Amador moved over. "What's wrong?"

  "She's right back in Tuga's lap."

  With hope in his voice, Amador said, "Perhaps he'll just send her to Santo Tomas."

  "I don't think she'll accept this again. I think she'll kill herself."

  "You shouldn't think that," Amador said. "Tuga has his hands full. He'll send her away."

  "In a pig's eye. She's his late-night entertainment."

  "We don't know if she's captured for sure," Amador said.

  "Don't we?"

  Amador shrugged.

  "Well, I'm not going to stand by and--"

  "You about finished?" Otis DeWitt's nasal twang was truculent.

  "What?" barked Ingram.

  "Radtke, damnit. What do we do about the sonofabitch?" growled DeWitt.

  "That the guy you wanted me to cut down?" asked Sunderland.

  Ingram nodded. He'd forgotten all about Radtke. "Major DeWitt was correct when he said the man is a dangerous spy."

  "What'd he do? He don't look like a Jap." said Sunderland.

  "We can't tell you," said Ingram.

  Toliver's voice cut through the darkness. "Todd. Where would we be if you and Major DeWitt weren't looking for a radio?" Everyone turned to look at him. "Where would we be if you hadn't found it necessary to stop at Nasipit?"

  DeWitt said, "Mr. Toliver. We have stated over and over that--"

  "Would we be through the Surigao Straits by now?" Toliver softly interrupted. "Maybe halfway down Mindanao's east coast?"

  All eyes snapped to Ingram. A minute passed. Ingram said. "Most likely."

  "Then why are we still here?" Toliver's voice rang like a courtroom barrister.

  Ingram said, "We're here because Leon's B-17 deal seemed like a much better alternate to transiting the Surigao Straits and a fifteen hundred mile voyage through enemy waters."

  Toliver stood. "And if you hadn't needed a radio nor were chasing this spy, would you have taken up Beardsley's offer?"

  Ingram stammered, "Most likely not. But on the other hand, had the B-17 been flyable, we--"

  "In other words we'd be halfway to the Dutch East Indies by now," said Toliver staring at DeWitt.

  The major averted his eyes to the floor.

  "That's right," said Ingram.

  Toliver said, "Skipper. I don't question what you believe your duty is, but I think we have a right to know. After all, some of us have already given their lives."

  "Starting with Bucket Mouth," said Sunderland.

  Their eyes bored into Ingram.


  Ingram said, "Okay--"

  "Lieutenant?" said DeWitt, his voice filled with menace. "I forbid you to--

  "Shut up," Ingram shouted. "I'm in charge here and next time you interrupt me I'm going to throw you to the Japs. Understood?"

  DeWitt spun on his heel, walked to the far wall, and leaned there glowering.

  Ingram took a deep breath. "You might already know about this guy. His name is Walter Radtke. But that's probably an alias. He worked in the Intercept Tunnel in Monkey Point."

  "Crypto Whiz?" asked Toliver.

  "That's right. He murdered Dwight Epperson, a classmate of mine, who was his boss."

  "That the guy with all the scalp sores who came out to the ship one night?" asked Bartholomew.

  "That's him," said Ingram.

  "I see. And this Radtke is trying to sell something he learned at Monkey Point to the Japs," said Toliver.

  "That's what we're up against," said Ingram.

  DeWitt said from the corner, "The information is so grave that it will cost us the war, if the enemy finds out."

  Sunderland whistled, "So we really have to kill the sonofabitch?"

  Ingram said, "The sooner the better. But someone has to warn our people, too."

  "Won't have to if we pump him full of lead," said Beardsley.

  "Leon, he may have already talked," said Ingram.

  Toliver said, "It's too soon for the Japs to have got their radio up and running. Maybe we can still do something."

  "That's why you been looking for a radio all this time?" asked Bartholomew.

  Ingram nodded.

  Forester moaned, sitting with his head in his hands.

  "He going to be okay?" Ingram asked.

  Yardly replied, "Sprained wrist. I'm going to wrap a splint." He mouthed to Ingram, "He's too upset to notice pain."

  Forester moaned again. He jerked from Yardly and stood. His eyes were red and tears ran down his cheeks. "Look, Sunny, Chief. You guys head for the mountains. I'll blow away your spy and catch up later."

  Bartholomew said, "Kevin, time's past for heroes."

  "But you won't make it." Forester balled his good fist and smacked the wall making it rattle. "I can keep the Japs off you. I'm the key. You should..."