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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Thirty or forty rifles must have fired at once, the noise deafening. Then it subsided. DeWitt's voice was shaky. "They're getting ready to rush."

  Ingram said "There's gotta be a way to stop that Jap."

  DeWitt shrugged. "No grenades. How 'bout dynamite?"

  Ingram said, "...like light the sticks and throw them?"

  "I guess. Got any better ideas?" asked DeWitt.

  Amador said, "Dynamite?"

  Ingram said, "Four cases in the boat. Two are yours, remember?"

  Amador said, "Quickly. Here is what we must do."

  They nodded as Amador spoke. But then DeWitt said, "Jesus!"

  Amador said, "It's not original with me. The Moros did it, then Aguinaldo. After that--"

  "We don't have a choice." Ingram said. "Come on."

  The Japanese started firing and the foursome had to crouch low to the ground with the slugs slamming into the crane and punching holes in the upperworks like invisible jackhammers. Suddenly, the firing tapered off. Ingram took his hands off his ears, leaned over the wharf and said, "Forester, send up two cases of dynamite, primer caps, and paint thinner."

  While Sunderland and Dewitt reached for the dynamite crates, Ingram and Amador caught Socrates’ tether and drew the moaning beast right up to the treads.

  The shooting stopped just as DeWitt hoisted the dynamite crates over the ledge.

  A voice called out. "All right, Mr. Ingram. We're impressed." It was Lieutenant Tuga. "Tell you what. Throw down your weapons and we won't harm you. You'll receive fair treatment and will be housed with the prisoners across the street. Otherwise, we have two beautiful seven-point-seven-millimeter type-92 machine guns now being uncrated in your honor. They'll be ready in about three more minutes."

  Sunderland said softly, "Doubt if these jerks know how to set up a machine gun."

  A loft window just above the main doors squeaked open. "Well?" Tuga yelled as a muzzle mounted on a bipod poked out.

  Ingram hoisted a case of dynamite on Socrates’ left side and started tying it off. DeWitt did the same with a case on the right side.

  "We need more time. Stall them," rasped Amador.

  Ingram cinched down his case and stepped back. Sunderland moved up and primed the dynamite sticks.

  Ingram yelled toward the mill, "How can I be sure you won't hurt us?"

  DeWitt yanked at a hitch on the right side and said softly, "All set."

  Tuga's voice seemed offhand, even casual. "To be honest, Mr. Ingram, my boys are very angry for what you've done this evening. But I'll take care of that. You have my word we won't harm you. But if you insist on staying out there we'll chop you to pieces. Now, what is it?"

  Sunderland worked quickly with knife and fingers. Amador leaned in helping. He looked at Ingram and hissed, "More time."

  "What about my wounded?" yelled Ingram.

  "No more crap, Ingram," yelled Tuga. The machine gun in the loft window spewed out five rapid rounds with a great roar. The crane shook and rattled as bullets thumped against it. The heavy gauge glass in the operator's cabin shattered and tinkled about.

  There was a loud clack, then a curse from the hayloft.

  "Told you so," muttered Sunderland, working his fuses with deft strokes. "Dumb Nip didn't clean off all the cosmoline."

  "Hurry, before he does," urged Ingram.

  With a grunt, Sunderland twisted the end of a primer cord. "Set."

  "Ready?" asked Amador.

  "That's it," said DeWitt

  Ingram whispered, "Commence fire!"

  Sunderland, DeWitt, and Toliver opened up with their BARs. They were rewarded with a grunt inside the hayloft.

  They fired again as Ingram lead Socrates into the open, guiding him so he directly faced the mill's double doors, a hundred fifty feet away. Quickly, Ingram stepped behind the beast and lifted its tail while Amador drenched Socrates’ genitals with paint thinner. The beast moaned loudly, his eyes twitching back and forth.

  "Okay, Sunny!" said Ingram.

  Sunderland crawled over, flicked his Zippo cigarette lighter, and held the flame to the dynamite fuses. Satisfied they sputtered correctly, he picked up his BAR and started shooting again.

  Amador flicked his engraved gold Ronson and held it close to Socrates’ tail.

  The beast's rear end caught fire with a whump.

  Socrates reared up and loosed a mighty bellow, his front feet clawing in space. Then the Carabao came to ground roaring, and galloped for the double doors. Ten feet short of the doors, he stopped and twirled, bucking and kicking his front and hind legs. Then he ran parallel to the lumber mill away from the door, still bellowing.

  Suddenly, Socrates stopped, kicked, and charged again toward the doors trailing a veil of blue-black smoke.

  "In the boat, quick," said Ingram. They crawled over the wharf as Socrates twirled another kicking revolution in slow motion.

  The Carabao, his rear end still afire, broke into a gallop. He didn't quite make the mill's entrance, but hit the doorjamb at full speed, collapsing the frame with a mighty crunch and disappearing inside with a long, mournful bellow. Shouts rang inside. A scream was cut short by a ripping crash--

  The mill erupted in an enormous explosion, throwing planks, machinery, and flame in every direction. Even from their refuge under the wharf, Ingram felt intense heat as the concussion whipped overhead, sweeping pallets and loose gear into the bay as if backhanded by a giant arm.

  Ingram climbed up the ladder.

  "Where you going?" DeWitt shouted.

  "Have to make sure," said Ingram. He peeked over the ledge seeing enormous flames roil into the sky. The mill was gone, the palm grove next to it was afire, and trucks were overturned in front as if they were toys tossed aside by a careless child.

  Ingram climbed down meeting DeWitt and Amador at the 51 Boat's gunnel. "Well?" said DeWitt.

  "Nobody could have lived through that." Ingram said.

  DeWitt grunted. "Nothing else we can do. Let's go."

  "Shove off," Ingram said, standing back.

  "Aren't you coming?" asked DeWitt.

  "Negative," said Ingram. "I'm going with Amador to spring out the people in the meat locker," His face darkened for a moment, "If it's still standing."

  DeWitt said, "Lieutenant. You are the best qualified to navigate and safely land us in Australia. Therefore, your responsibility is to your crew. Not," he nodded toward the meat locker, "to her, I'm afraid."

  Even before the words were out, Ingram knew DeWitt was right. "But..."

  Amador squeezed Ingram’s shoulder and said, "Go! We'll do our best."

  "Come on, Todd," said Toliver.

  Ingram looked around the boat. Firelight danced on the eyes of his men much as firelight had danced on the eyes of the poor souls who watched them push off that last, hideous night on Caballo Island. The difference was, the others had given up. They didn't want to go. But these men were survivors; they had earned their chance at freedom. They needed him. And yes, Otis was right, they were his responsibility.

  Ingram turned to Amador. "Can you check tonight?"

  Amador said, "Don't worry. As you can see, the Hapons have plenty to do besides bothering about what's in a meat locker. We'll get them. The important thing is for you to go. As you told me, you know too much, I'm afraid."

  "Makes sense, Todd," said DeWitt, quietly. "We do know too much."

  Ingram thought about that and decided for once, Otis was right. With a nod, he stepped in the boat. Reaching up he took both of Amador's hands and said, "Take care of yourself, Don Amador. We'll have to have another discussion about the merits of education when this is all over."

  Amador grinned. "Over cigars and Brandy?"

  "Only if you bring the Fundatore."

  "Consider it done," said Amador. "Here." He reached in his pocket and produced a thick envelope. "For my wife, would you mind?"

  Ingram stuffed it in his pocket. "Glad to do it. Would you like me to call her too?"

  Am
ador nodded.

  "What's her name?"

  With a coy smile he said, "Mariveles."

  "Mar--I'll be damned," said Ingram, remembering the night he'd delivered Helen Durand and Pablo Amador to the Wolffish. The old man had told the legend of Corregidor to them. Mariveles was the nun who had fallen in love with El Fraile.

  "Except we got together. We've been married thirty-four years and my daughter and son are with her in New Mexico."

  "But now, there's a big marsh between you."

  Amador nodded and looked in the distance for a moment. He said, "Tell her I'm fine; that I love her and miss her terribly--that this is going to take much longer than I thought. It's all in the letter." Then he whipped off his planter's hat and jammed it on Ingram's head. "Without this," he said, "the sun will drive you loco. Via con Dios!" He scrambled out of the pilings and headed for the trees.

  With a little throttle, Forester guided the 51 Boat out from under the wharf, as pistol and rifle ammunition from Amador's weapons caché cooked off.

  Soon they were clear and Ingram said, "Step on it, Rocky."

  Bartholomew fed in full throttle and the 51 Boat surged into Butuan Bay. They looked back, seeing a waving figure backlighted under the palms by ghostly orange flames. "Thanks for everything, Mr. Amador," they yelled. "We'll be back. We'll be back."

  Forester planted his feet and eyed his binnacle, making sure the 51 Boat was on course for Anason. Ingram looked back one last time. Amador's figure still was outlined by flames leaping from what once was his lumber mill. And as they cleared the harbor, Ingram saw to his relief that the meat locker across the street still stood, miraculously unharmed by the blast.

  * * * * *

  Two hours after clearing Nasipit, they saw just one ship. She was a lean destroyer, steaming southeast at high speed toward a diminishing blaze on Mindanao's north coast, her course taking her within three miles of the 51 Boat.

  Three hours later the moon slipped beneath a cloudless horizon and the 51 Boat hove to, rocking in a slow, rolling sea, her engine barely ticking over. The crew rose to their feet and nervously braced against one another, as their captain searched through the Book of Common Prayer--the one liberated from the Pima. With a nod, Ingram found the passages and started reading. At first, his words were jumbled and uncertain. But he took a deep breath and found a pace. His voice was clear when he read:

  ...we commend to Almighty God our brother Brian; and we commit his body to the deep; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious to him, the Lord lift up his countenance upon him and give him peace. Amen

  There was a moment of uneasy silence; Kevin Forester heaved one long, mournful wail. Then they eased the weighted, canvas-shrouded remains of Quartermaster Striker Brian T. Forester over the side. Ingram found a verse in the Hymnal and read:

  Now the laborer's task is o'er;

  Now the battle day is past;

  Now upon the farther shore

  Lands the voyager at last.

  Father, in they gracious keeping

  Leave we now thy servant sleeping.

  They stood for an uneasy moment, then Ingram took the tiller and rang the bell four times. With Bartholomew opening the throttle, the shoreboat surged toward a little village called Anason, their next stop before challenging the Surigao Straits.

  Behind them, over the 51 Boat's wake, a meteor glazed the sky. But they didn't see it

  EPILOGUE

  The function of command is rightly considered a great honor.

  But command without the means or the authority to fulfill it, is a bitter cup.

  I think that our political leaders often fail to appreciate this.

  Brigadier General Bradford G. Chynoweth,

  Commander, Central Philippine Forces,

  Upon receiving

  General Wainwright's orders to surrender, May 6, 1942

  * * * * *

  Probably the most valuable thing I learned [from World War II] was that American lads wanted to know only three things: that the job they were given to do was worthwhile, that the sacrifices they made were appreciated, and that they had a fair chance of survival.

  General James H. Doolittle

  EPILOGUE

  17 June, 1942

  Clarence Straits, Northern Territory

  Australia

  Ingram was excited. They were all excited. They’d hardly slept, and Ingram had little trouble rousing his men and shoving off at sunrise, leaving the Catholic Mission on Bathurst Island astern.

  Australia's mainland lay forty miles across the Clarence Strait. With no wind under a steel-gray sky, the crossing promised to be smooth. By comparison, the wind was up two days before, making the trip across the Arafura Sea miserable—twice, they almost capsized.

  Five hours later, they saw pall of dark, black smoke over the horizon. Father McGrath, the missionary on Bathurst Island, had warned them that Japanese medium bombers had struck Port Darwin's Stokes Hill oil-tank farm the day before.

  By ten-thirty, Australia’s low tropical coastline hove into view, with smoke rising from several fires.

  One of the reasons for shoving off at first light was to arrive early and not be trapped in a bombing raid. Father McGrath explained about terrible attacks on Darwin underway since February. With great accuracy the Japanese had sunk the four-stack destroyer U.S.S. Peary. Worse, the S.S. Neptune, a cargo ship stuffed with depth-charges, had exploded in a spectacular conflagration. Oddly, Japanese planes bombed the hospital many times, while leaving the Larrakeyah army barracks untouched. Father McGrath's opinion was that this was a mix-up: that the Japanese bombed the hospital as a preliminary to invasion, thinking they were wiping out the real army barracks.

  During the voyage, Ingram worried not as much about his navigation--that was almost flawless--as he did about whether or not Lieutenant Tuga perished in the lumber mill. He and DeWitt had many times discussed the fate of the U.S. Fleet at Midway if Tuga had somehow escaped the lumber mill and broadcast a warning.

  There. My God. Land

  Soon, they closed to within three miles of Australia's lush, green coastline. The bluffs were visible now in great detail and Ingram realized Darwin was, most likely, dotted with coastal defenses and flak emplacements. The 51 Boat was close to her destination, but the reality was, after voyaging by night through nineteen hundred miles of Japanese-infested waters, a trigger-happy Australian kid could blow them sky-high.

  That low-roofed tin structure on the hill nestled under trees; his mind raced as he imagined Aussie gunners twirling the handles on a three-inch mount, yearning for the slightest provocation to shoot at something--anything.

  Curious, he mused. Maybe the guns were over there on the headland. Houses and church steeples stood out now, but he was sure each structure concealed nervous gunners itching to take it out on someone. Who cared if it was just a little thirty-six-foot boat with seven emaciated Americans?

  After clearing the Surigao Straits, the 51 Boat had skipped down Mindanao's east coast, working her way south toward the Dutch East Indies. Bucking the Molucca Sea, she touched on Morotai and Halmahera; then south to New Guinea and Ceram; down Yamdena's east side, into the Arafura Sea, the roughest part of their passage. Ingram navigated them into the Apsley Straits between Bathurst and Melville islands, where they had been greeted by Father McGrath the night before.

  Father McGrath shrugged when Ingram asked for news about a Japanese invasion of Midway. But he did warn them to look as unhostile as possible when approaching Darwin the next day. No one on the mainland doubted a Japanese invasion was imminent, fully aware that Australia was the next esteemed candidate nominated for membership in the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.

  So late at night, they fashioned a Stars and Stripes from an old piece of canvas. And now it fluttered from the flagstaff aft. But, Ingram wondered, would the Aussies see it in time? Or would a nineteen-year-old, ex-sheep herd
er yank his trigger, hosing them down with high explosive rounds.

  With smoke still roiling from the Stokes Hill tank farm, Ingram opted not to go into Darwin's main harbor because of the boom defense ships. They would also be itching for a fight so, from two miles out, he shifted course to his left and headed for the seaplane launching ramp; an area known as Doctor's Gully. The pristine resort had been converted to an amphib base with two "Black Cat" PBY's squatting on a concrete ramp.

  The men had been trying to act nonchalant, but as they closed the coast, pretense was cast aside and they stood and savored the odor of the Australian continent, reveling in the fact that finally, they were free: that they would soon tread on soil without fear of enemy soldiers or dive-bombers or artillery or banzai charges or ghoulish, sexually-depraved thought police.

  Ingram's eyes roamed over the black PBYs again. Paint was chipped off the leading edges, making the aluminum gleam underneath, giving them a grizzled appearance. He realized he hadn't seen one setting so peacefully in broad daylight for over seven months: a lifetime. "Those PBYs are American," he said to Toliver.

  "How can anything so ratty look so beautiful." Toliver said.

  Ingram grinned then said, "Hey, Yardly. Take Old Glory forward and hold her high, where they can see her."

  "Yes, Sir." Yardly untied the makeshift flag from the aft flagstaff and took it to the bow where he held it over his head.

  Closer to shore, oil slicks littered the surface and Ingram weaved his way through, unable to avoid the heavy stench. Then the 51 Boat plowed through a patch of smoke from the burning tank farm. Bartholomew waved a hand at the carnage and said, "Peeeoww. Worse than Cavite." To them, nothing would ever match the horror of Cavite, but still they solemnly nodded in agreement, as if the chief were right.

  Leon Beardsley hobbled to his feet, leaned on his crutch, and pointed, "Getting ready to launch." Even as he spoke, a PBY's port propeller rolled, then spun into life, with a backward blast of oily, black smoke. The starboard engine caught; then the high-wing, dull black, amphibian waddled to the ramp. Almost ducklike, she coasted down the concrete, hitting the water with a splash, where she taxied to a fairway marked with bouncing red buoys.