Bartholomew eased Forester back to the bench. "Come on, Kevin," he said. "Time for Bones to splint your arm. It may hurt." He hung a forearm around Forester's neck and nodded to Yardly.
"Okay." Yardly laid two lengths of soft wood on Forester's forearm and started wrapping.
"You're gonna be fine, Kevin," said Sunderland. "We don't need no rear guard."
As Yardly wrapped, Forester sat rigidly against the wall, trying to stuff his knuckles in his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and moaned only once.
"Damnit. We have to do something," Ingram said, watching Yardly twirl the tape.
Bartholomew pushed his cap back on his head and rested his hands on his hips. "We have a choice, Skipper? The battery is toasted which means the boat is toasted. With Japs camped in the mill, how the hell do we get out without being shot to pieces?"
DeWitt nodded solemnly. "I believe it's time to consider moving into the mountains."
In exasperation, Ingram asked, "Are you sure they're setting up a full-time garrison?" Ingram asked Amador.
Amador nodded. "That is my understanding. The crates and equipment in their convoy seem to verify that."
Ingram asked, "That means they'll have a radio?"
"Awww, Todd," said Beardsley.
"Most likely," said Amador.
Yardly spun the tape around Forester's splint.
Ingram watched for a moment then shouted, "That's it!" He threw his hands in the air.
"What the hell?" said DeWitt.
"Bones, how many of those splints do you have?" asked Ingram.
Yardly looked up and said, "A couple."
"We're going to need more than that," said Ingram. "Where did you get them?"
Yardly nodded to the corner.
Ingram walked over, stooped on his haunches, and rummaged through a wood pile. Some of the pieces seemed like ordinary shingles. "You cut splints from that?"
Yardly nodded, looking nervously up as a truck rumbled past. The ground shook again and each man seemed to draw into himself for a moment.
"Lot of Japs out there," muttered Ingram.
"I'll say," said DeWitt.
"So who's minding the store?" said Ingram.
"What are you driving at?" said DeWitt, raising himself to his feet.
Ingram stood and put his hands on his hips. "Get over here, Otis. Everybody, listen up. Here's what we're doing."
* * * * *
The rumble of trucks was now concentrated in the southeastern section of Nasipit, leaving the way clear to the wharf. Keeping in shadows, they crept through a palm grove close to the tide's meander line, their boots crunching in sand. A soft, quarter moon illuminated Ingram's watch: 10:47.
"We'll leave you here," said Amador, drawing to a halt. Amador carried a Thompson submachine gun in the crook of his arm. Carrillo and Ramirez carried Japanese rifles by shoulder straps.
"I wish I could convince you to go with us," said Ingram. "I think your country needs you as a statesman. Not as a freedom fighter."
Amador smiled, "You're being kind by not saying I'm too old."
"I didn't say that. You're educated. Your country will need you when all this is over," said Ingram.
By a tiny margin, Amador's eyes narrowed. He spat, "Education. The Hapons threw education out the window when they started this filthy war."
"But--"
"Let me ask you. Have you ever spoken with your enemy before you killed him. I mean face to face?"
Ingram thought of the Kempetai that had shot Farwell on Marinduque. And if his pistol hadn't jammed, he would have shot Ingram, too. Another image swam into his mind. Earlier this evening, a Japanese lieutenant had aimed his Nambu straight at him. "Not yet."
"When you do, you'll find many Hapons educated. They even have college degrees. Some from the United States. But let me ask you. What good is education?"
Ingram could only say, "What?"
Amador ticked off on his fingers: "Tokyo University, Harvard, Oxford, the Sorbonne, and Heidelberg. What have they all taught us to do?" He shifted his Thompson onto his right shoulder.
"Isn't that what everyone should strive for?"
Amador's gaze was hard.
Ingram sputtered. "That we can learn and..." Under the old man's stare he couldn't finish the answer originally in his mind: create a civilized forum for understanding one another and making the best of our lives in a peaceful way. Instead he looked at the horrible scabs on Beardsley's face. "We still have a lot to learn," he said.
"Especially the Hapons," said Amador. "So much for education."
Ingram drew his eyes away and sighed. Presently, he said, "Alright." He looked around, counting heads. Then he said to Amador, "Start your ruckus in about..." Ingram checked his watch, "twenty minutes. Make it ten after eleven. Otis and I'll join you back at the hut."
"Very good." The three Filipinos started to move off.
Toliver stepped up. "Mr. Amador. If I don't see you again I want to say thank you." He offered his hand.
They shook warmly. "Come back to Mindanao, soon, and bring lots of guns," said Amador.
Beardsley grabbed Amador's hand, then gave him a bear hug. "How 'bout some slot machines and a few casinos after the war?" He swept an arm across the night sky. "Beautiful place. Sure beats Havana."
Amador grinned, "Leave the slots to Manila. We'll take the rest."
"Girls?" chuckled Beardsley.
"All you want," said Amador.
The rest of the crew bid their good-byes to Amador, Carrillo, and Ramirez. Amador's last good-bye was at the stretcher. Ingram had wondered about the wisdom of bringing young Forester's shrouded corpse along. But Kevin Forester had refused to budge without it, rejecting an offer of a hurry-up funeral. He wanted a proper burial at sea for his brother, so with splinted wrist, he and Yardly carried the stretcher.
Amador took off his floppy planter's hat, his silver-white mane spilling about his ears. He placed one hand on Forester's shoulder, the other where the sheet covered young Brian's forehead. He said, "My son. An old man's words are not enough to make up for your brother's sacrifice. But what your brother has done, what all of you have done in Mindanao, Corregidor, Bataan, Manila, Cebu, Marinduque, will long be remembered by the Philippine people. God bless your valor, unselfishly given in behalf of my country, and for all countries living under the boot of tyranny."
Forester wiped at his cheek. "Thanks."
Amador turned and said, "God go with you." Soon, Amador, Carrillo, and Ramirez disappeared among the palms.
In the pale light, Bartholomew watched them go and said, "Gonna be embarrassing if this doesn't work."
They moved off toward the mill. Sunderland took up the point with DeWitt as rear guard. Five minutes later they were within one hundred feet of the mill, where it was obvious the electricity was on once again; the wooden structure was lighted up like one of Beardsley's casinos. The enormous double doors stood wide open and inside, nails screeched as men pried open crates with crowbars while others pounded hammers assembling furniture.
Ingram and his men bent low and slogged along the tide line until they trudged into deep shadows. Finally, the wharf loomed directly overhead. It was so dark that when Bartholomew stopped, Ingram nearly bumped into him.
The Chief whispered, "Sunny's peeking over the top."
It seemed like hours before Sunderland materialized out of the gloom and whispered, "Two guards. That's it. They're both in front. We should be okay. Lotsa people inside, making themselves at home. Er..." Sunderland hesitated, "There's another crew on the roof setting up an antenna."
"You sure nobody's on the wharf?" asked Ingram.
"Just Socrates," said Sunderland.
Ingram turned to Forester and Yardly. "Remember, first thing you two do is dig out the oars. I want them ready to go." The oars were stored in the bilge, under food crates and other gear. Bartholomew was certain one was wedged beneath a full drum of fuel oil. The oars would be critical if his plan didn't work.
> "Okay, Skipper," said Yardly, glad to have the chance to set the stretcher down for a moment.
They were bunched at the wharf's ladder. Sunderland crawled back up, studied the mill for a moment, then said, "Now!"
Sunderland zipped over the top, followed by Bartholomew. Ingram was third, running at a crouch toward Socrates. The massive beast blinked and switched his tail, as they took temporary refuge behind an ancient steam-driven crane. After a moment, they scampered down a ladder and stood on a log piling that floated alongside the wharf. It was a big wharf, built for ocean-going ships. The top was about twelve feet above the water at high tide and was supported underneath by a forest of creosoted pilings. Tucked among a row of pilings was the 51 Boat, pitching and bucking with occasional wavelets that swept in from the sea.
They wove their way in toward the bobbing boat.
"Damnit!" Yardly cursed, as he and Forester worked the stretcher around a piling.
"Easy with my brother, you dope." growled Forester.
"Doing my best." moaned Yardly.
"Shut up, you two," hissed Ingram. He pointed up. "Sunderland. Stand guard."
"Yes, Sir," said Sunderland, picking his way back to the ladder.
Bartholomew was first to step into the 51 Boat. Ingram followed and started taking off the engine cover. As the others piled in, Bartholomew clicked on his flashlight. "Where?"
Ingram checked the drive shaft, then looked up to the underside of the wharf deck about ten feet above their heads.
He pointed to the drive shaft near the clutch coupling. "There." He looked straight up and pointed. "Ollie. The spring line should be long enough. Tie it off there."
With surgical tape, Bartholomew wrapped four of Yardley’s splints around the 12-inch drive shaft and the coupling, building it with tape and wood until it was all roughly four inches in diameter. While Bartholomew worked, Toliver stood on cross members and tied the Boat's spring line directly above them with a bowline hitch, leaving a long tail. He jerked the line twice to test it, then jumped in the boat letting the line dangle directly over the splinted drive shaft.
"Okay, Skipper," said Bartholomew.
"Sunderland?" said Ingram.
The gunners mate's whisper careened throughout the pilings. "All clear."
Bartholomew looked at Ingram. "All yours, Skipper."
"You do it, Rocky," said Ingram.
"Okay." Bartholomew grabbed the line. "How many?"
"Three turns should do it," said Ingram. "Wait 'til we're on top."
"Three it is," muttered Bartholomew, leaning over. He looked outside the boat, gauging its motion in relation to the pilings as it bobbed up and down. He looked out into the harbor, sensing a larger swell. "Hold it...hold...Now!"
Bartholomew quickly wrapped the line three times around the shaft, as the 51 boat rose on the wave. At the wave's crest, he snubbed it firmly, holding the turns around the shaft. The wave fell, causing the line to tighten around the shaft, making the shaft spin. The pistons pumped up and down in their cylinders with a resounding brrrp.
The line slacked as the boat rose on the next wave. Bartholomew eased it off. "Damnation," he giggled. "Twenty-two to one compression ratio, and it works."
"Why didn't it start, Chief?" asked DeWitt.
"It would of." He grinned. "I didn't have fuel system on."
"Quiet, damnit," said Ingram, checking his watch. "We wait for Amador." Amador had promised to fire a few rounds and toss some grenades to mask the roar of the 51 Boat's diesel when it started.
Bartholomew whispered, "Let's roll it again. Really get it loose, and heat up the cylinders. Help it to properly fire when it's time."
"Sssst!" from Sunderland. "Apsjay," he whispered.
"I better check," said Ingram. He jumped out of the boat and ran out to the piling.
Sunderland crouched on the ladder and whispered, "Two guy's strolling along the edge of the wharf having a smoke. Almost here."
Ingram pointed to the ladder, indicating he wanted to take a look.
Sunderland lowered himself and stepped aside. Ingram climbed quietly and peeked over the top, seeing two officers walk toward him. Their voices, in conversational tones, reached him and he ducked. Seeing Sunderland, he gave a thumbs up, indicating the pair would soon be past.
The boat thumped against a piling. "Arrrgh!" It was a loud roar of pain.
A lighted cigarette twirled overhead and hissed in the water directly behind Ingram. One of the Japanese grunted. A hand slapped a leather holster. Ingram instantly knew what had happened--as well as what he had to do.
A wave had slammed the 51 Boat into a piling. Someone, it sounded like DeWitt's voice, had wrapped his hand over the gunnel where the boat struck the piling. By now DeWitt's hand could well be broken.
Knowing he would suffer more than a few broken fingers, Ingram dashed up the ladder and started running toward the beach. "Arrrgh!" He mimicked, his hands flailing in air.
The officers shouted. One fired his pistol from twenty feet away. The bullet zipped past Ingram's ear. He felt the wind and instinctively stopped, turned, and raised his hands as the officers ran up.
Just then an enormous bolt of pain surged in the back of his head. Ingram blinked and passed out.
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE
21 May, 1942
Nasipit, Mindanao
Philippines
Ingram vaguely remembered his feet bumping on rough concrete and being dragged through the lumber mill's double doors. Too weak to struggle, he was dumped at the foot of a large machine, hands and feet tied.
The throbbing in the back of his head was replaced by a gagging nausea, and sweat beaded his forehead and chest. The mill was hot, the humidity intolerable. He lay there feigning unconsciousness, holding down bile while trying to get his bearings.
Finally, he opened an eye, finding he was beside the lathe disguising the trap door to Amador's weapons caché. He moved just a bit to peek into a floor crack. There they were. Cases of rifles and ammunition lay below: .30 and .45 caliber, mortar rounds, grenades, even four cases of dynamite.
"Owwww." Someone kicked him. Slowly, he turned his head seeing a corporal standing over him. The man shouted, gesturing for him to roll over.
Lieutenant Tuga walked up, wearing white suit and white buckskin shoes. Up close, the Kempetai looked even taller than what Ingram remembered from the pig squashing incident: well over six feet.
"Nice nap?" Tuga squatted and fingered the insignia on Ingram's collar. "Navy lieutenant, huh? Don't you wear devices on both collars? What did you do with the other? Barter it for food, maybe?"
Ingram was astounded. Not only was Tuga familiar with U.S. Navy uniforms, his English was perfect. It was hard to imagine this was the man who had tortured Helen so horribly. He wondered how many others this creature had maimed or killed.
Tuga brushed his knuckles over Ingram's cheek. "Well?"
"Sold it to help the war effort."
Tuga chuckled. "Funny man. Scrap iron for the poor Japanese, huh? Some effort." He stared directly at Ingram. "Tell me. What do you do, Navy Lieutenant?"
"Toilet-paper man," Ingram muttered. "Hey..."
Tuga removed Ingram's collar device and dropped it in his coat pocket. "I like souvenirs. What's this, Lieutenant?" said Tuga probing Ingram's right cheek. Bracketing the sutured wound between thumb and forefinger, he squeezed.
"Ehhhagh."
"You with the submariners, Lieutenant?" Tuga squeezed a little more. "Or are you the guy who killed my platoon commander this evening?"
Hot liquid rushed down Ingram’s cheek. Pain surged over the right side of his face in white-hot sheets. He screamed, knowing he couldn't have uttered an intelligible word had he wanted.
"Lieutenant, huh? Maybe the Wolffish's exec, huh? What's this about toilet paper?" said Tuga, releasing the cheek. His hand rotated slightly as it withdrew, and Ingram saw a blue sapphire set in a gold class ring: University of California at Los Angeles - 1937. Tuga was a man educate
d at an American University. In his bitter sarcasm, Amador hadn't been far off the mark.
Ingram gasped for air and willed the pain away. Finally, he managed, "I'm a supply officer. I order things like pallet loads of toilet paper."
"Supply officer, baloney. I'll find out when--" Tuga snapped his fingers. "Hey, that nurse. She with you, maybe?"
"What nurse?"
"Helen Durand. What a sweet piece. She's looks good."
Ingram balled his fists, counting to twenty.
Tuga nodded. "That's all I need to know."
"What?"
"How'd you patch her up so well? Last time I saw her she was near dead."
Ingram kept silent; he'd blundered enough.
"No matter. I have her with your boys across the street, saving her for later. Ummm. Hot stuff. Thanks for cleaning the shit off her."
"Bastard!" Ingram couldn't' help it. An enormous wave of frustration swept over him, his worst fears confirmed. Helen was in the meat locker just sixty feet away. And this ghoul was going to do his will upon her.
Tuga leaned close and said, "Tell me Lieutenant, what's the name of your ship?"
"You got it wrong. I'm a supply--yeahhhh--"
Tuga squeezed. The wound pumped and throbbed, with Ingram fighting for consciousness.
A pail of water was dumped on him and he realized he'd passed out. He was on his stomach and blinked his eyes, watching the tall, thin Kempetai walk away. Tuga stepped across the room, up a ladder to a mezzanine level, where radio equipment was being set up.
Ingram gagged and choked for a moment, then tried to relax and control his breathing. Images swam into focus. He looked around counting, about twenty Japanese; some were shirtless sweating in the heat and humidity. Many smoked, generating a bluish cloud so thick it was hard to see across the room.
The soldiers were setting up desks, bookshelves, file cabinets, field telephones and map displays. Bunks were being assembled in a far corner with a wooden partition going up around the sleeping area.
Two sets of feet approached. From the corner of his eye, Ingram spotted Tuga's white bucks. The other pair of shoes were black and terribly scuffed. Filthy bellbottom dungarees were draped over them. The man was an American Bluejacket. "He claims to be a supply officer," said Tuga. "But he's a lieutenant. I'd lay money he's your exec."
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 49