“Well. I peeled out when he walked up to the car. Laid rubber for a half a block. How ‘bout that?”
Helen gave up wondering how Laura could afford to peel out or whatever, along with driving the thirty or so miles to San Pedro.
Laura hit the accelerator again. Helen braced against the dashboard, as the Cadillac swerved around a stake truck, with Laura yanking the gearshift down into third. The speedometer neared seventy-five, as they hit a bump, both bouncing a foot off the seat. A rational side of Helen wondered how ironic if she were killed in this fancy Cadillac convertible, on her way to dinner this Saturday night, in the relative safety of the United States, after all her near-brushes with death in the Philippines. But then her irrational side took over. Blood drained from her face and she yelled, “God! All I want is a nice meal, not the emergency ward!”
“Sorry, hon.” Laura slowed to a more reasonable speed. It was a good thing, for a moment later, the Pacific Avenue traffic light burst out of the fog. It was Red. She hit the brakes, screeching to a stop.
A motorcycle pulled up next to Laura.
“Damn,” she muttered.
Helen peered around to see a policeman wearing a broad smile.
“Ubi ignis est?” He tipped his cap, then reached out and clamped a hand on the top of Laura’s door.
“What?” said Laura.
“My name’s Bullard. Officer Bullard. And that’s Latin, Mam. I learned it right back there,” he jabbed a gloved thumb over his shoulder, “at San Pedro High School. Can’t say I remember anything else.”
“But Mr. Bullard, I don’t---“
“That’s okay, Mam. I’m not a civilian. You can call me Officer Bullard.”
“Officer Bullard.” Laura crossed her arms and looked straight ahead.
The light turned green. Cars piled up behind them, and Bullard waved them around. “Yes, Mam. And you know? That bit of Latin? Ubi ignis est? It means ‘where’s the fire?’“ Bullard turned off his engine, eased from his motorcycle, and stepped close to the Cadillac. He looked down at Laura, his head cocked.
“Fire?” Laura mustered the courage to look at Officer Bullard.
“You’re lucky that it’s foggy, Mam. I saw you two blocks back, and I coulda swore you were doin’ seventy. But then this stuff,” Officer Bullard waved a hand at the sky, “swallowed you up and I couldn’t tell for sure. May I see your driver’s license, please?”
Laura dug in her purse and handed it over.
“Will ya look at that. All the way from Beverly Hills.”
“I’m sorry, Officer Bullard. These hills are so steep and I don’t live here, as you can see. I’m just not used to---“
“-- cause if I had had a chance to clock you at seventy, you’d be on your way to jail by now. To say nothing of wasting rationed gas.” A dark moment passed as Bullard glared at Laura.
“Evening, ladies.” Bullard leaned around, smiled at Helen, and tipped his cap. Handing back Laura’s license, he waved two more cars around, then kick-started his motorcycle, and rumbled off with a flourish, disappearing into the fog.
“Bullard. Perfect name for a cop. Good looking, too.” Laura stuffed her license in her purse.
“Not bad.”
“Did you see him give me the eye?”
“Nonsense!”
“Then why did he drive off through a red light?”
Helen looked up, seeing it was true.
Laura, in a more sedate mood, followed Helen’s directions to Beacon Street where they found Shanghai Red’s. With the top down, they heard the clamor a half block away, where a discordant piano competed with the hubbub of loud voices. The only parking spot available was next to a police vehicle zone which served the station, almost next door to Shanghai Red’s. Laura pulled in and pushed a button. “Watch this.” A motor whined and the white canvas top rose from the boot and arched over into place.
“Amazing. They think of everything.”
“Evening ladies.” It was Officer Bullard, unloading two thick notebooks from his motorcycle’s saddle bags.
“Officer Bullard. How are you?” Laura said, locking the top in place.
“You’re not going in there?” Bullard jammed his hands on his hips.
“Well, I---“ Helen muttered.
Laura shrugged.
Bullard beckoned with his index finger and walked them up to one of Shanghai Red’s front windows. They peered in to see the place stuffed with men, mostly sailors. Thick, blue smoke pressed the walls and ceiling, making it nearly impossible to see to the back. “Well?” he said.
“What do you think, Laura?” asked Helen.
“I dunno.”
Helen said, “I don’t either.”
“I do need to use the powder room.”
Bullard said, “Well you could use ours...come to think of it, I wouldn’t recommend that you use ours...”
Helen said, “Okay, let’s freshen up here, then head to Olsen’s.”
“Good idea. Olsen’s, a great place.” said Bullard. “I’ll wait right here for you.”
“Thanks, officer.” Laura flashed Bullard a broad smile.
“It’s Jim,” he said.
Helen rolled her eyes as if saying, Oh, it’s Jim now.
Bullard opened the door and stood conspicuously in the entrance. After surveying the room, he stepped aside and said, “Looks okay for now. If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m coming in. The bathroom’s all the way in back and down a hall.”
“Okay,” said Helen.
Laura and Helen walked in, the smoke almost knocking them over. The piano plinked a nameless tune as they elbowed through a crowd of Merchant Marine and U.S. Navy sailors. Uniforms from allied Navies brushed against them while across the room, Helen recognized some Army artillery officers from Ft. MacArthur. Seated at the end of the bar were four Marines who nursed beers, their faces bored.
They squeezed their way to the back and found a hall lighted by a forty watt bulb. Following smudged signs, they passed a small kitchen and discovered the ladies room. Once yellow, it had faded to brown, the only ventilation an open window that gave on an alley. Oddly, the wall separating the men’s and women’s rest room was not complete to the ceiling. There was a foot of empty space that consisted of a tight wire mesh, leaving the occupants of the ladies room to hear sounds of drunken men going about their functions.
Trying to ignore the noise next door, Helen said, “Did I tell you about my burglar?”
“What? No.”
“It was last Sunday night. After we talked.”
“You’re kidding.”
Quickly, Helen told her.
“What did the cops say?”
“Actually, they were rather perfunctory. Walked around, couldn’t find anything, then stood looking at me, scratching their heads. Then this one cop begins lecturing me on keeping my windows locked. He found one window with a defective lock. So I had it replaced.”
“You should have called Officer Bullard.” They both laughed, as Laura dabbed on lipstick.
Suddenly, the ladies room resonated with flushing toilets and loud, exaggerated groans from the other side. Someone wheezed as blue, cigar smoke shot through the wire mesh screen. “Air raid!” One of them called. Another giggled so much that he ended up gasping for breath.
“Jerks,” Laura said.
The men having had their fun, banged open the door and caromed down the hallway to the bar. Their voices drifted away and it soon became quiet. But they heard a sink running and someone humming.
“Almost done, hon?” Laura said quietly.
Helen grabbed a paper towel to dry her hands.
The men’s room door crashed open and someone shuffled in. “Sorry.” It was a high-pitched male voice, that sounded as if he’d barely reached puberty. He said, “Hey! Shorty.”
The other said, “Earle! How the hell are you? Say. Are you AWOL? I thought you was headed for the Barber.”
Helen’s head jerked up. The Barber. In a recent letter
, Todd had told her Luther Dutton was riding the Barber. She cast a sidelong glance at Laura, who put on final touches of her lipstick, oblivious to the reference to her husband’s ship.
A stall door crashed open and shut, the bolt clanging home. A belt buckle jangled. “Nope. I’m legal. Say, what are you doing here in Pedro?”
“Off to Lighthouse Street to find a cathouse. So what’s with you? You AWOL or not?”
“Well, my plane had engine trouble on the way to Pearl. Took a week to fix it, then they sent the plane on, but get this: without me. They held me for three days...”
Dropping her lipstick in her purse, Laura tapped Helen on the elbow. “Stinks in here. See you outside, hon.” She walked out.
Helen barely noticed, intent on the conversation next door.
“Yeah? How about that?” It was Shorty’s voice.
“Turns out the damn Barber is gone, Shorty. Chief on CinCPac staff told me a Jap bomb got her magazine. Blew up without a trace. Everybody blasted to smithereens. Nobody got out.”
“Jeepers.”
“Man, am I lucky. And get this. I got orders to the Dixie here in Long Beach. Whoever snafued that plane’s engine saved my life. I’d buy the poor bastard a drink if I knew who he was.”
“That’s awful about the Barber. Say, you wanna hit that cathouse with me?”
“Sure.”
Feeling as if someone had kicked her in the stomach, Helen staggered for the door.
She had no idea how she made it outside, only that she was on the sidewalk, slumped against the Cadillac, Laura’s arm around her. “Helen? Helen? What the hell?” She fanned Helen’s face.
“Who was it, lady?” Bullard stepped close, his breath smelling of chewing gum. “Just point him out.”
“What? No.” Helen looked up. “I...I’m all right.” She stood straight and looked into Laura’s eyes. They were laced with mirth and mischief. Laura, the concert pianist from Beverly Hills out on the town in her snazzy Cadillac, without a worry, on a Saturday night. Blew up without a trace, the kid had said.
But then her mind raced. The kid could be wrong. This happens all the time, she reminded herself. Wrong ships. Wrong locations. People’s names mixed up. Bodies with the wrong ID tags; she’d seen that plenty of times in Corregidor’s tunnels. Helen took a deep breath. Yes. It must have been a, “...mistake,” she blurted.
“What?” said Laura and Bullard at the same time.
“...a mistake. Thought I saw somebody back there I knew on Corregidor,” Helen lied, “But it’s impossible. He’s gone...” She pressed her fingers to her temples.
“You were on Corregidor?” asked Bullard.
She gave a sleight nod.
“I’ll be damned.”
Laura gave Helen a little hug. “It’s okay, hon. I imagine that stuff stays with you a while.”
“I’m fine now.”
“Look, maybe you don’t want to have dinner. I could...”
“No. Let’s go. It’s what I need.” Helen took a deep breath.
“You sure?”
“You bet.” Helen opened her door and stepped in.
“Keen.” Laura walked around to the driver’s side.
“Don’t you worry about the fog, Mam. I’ll escort you there myself.” Bullard threw a leg over his motorcycle and kicked it into life. Leaning down to Helen he said, “Corregidor, huh?”
The Harley’s engine roared, obliterating Bullard’s voice. But Helen knew what he’d said and managed a smile and a nod. She only hoped she could keep it up for the evening.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
6 March, 1943
U.S.S. Whitney (AD 4)
Tulagi Harbor, Solomon Islands
Captain Theodore R. “Rocko” Myszynski, Commodore of Destroyer Squadron Twelve (DESRON12) shook his thick, bald head. His eyes darted one way, then another, as Japanese twin engine “Betty” bombers zipped overhead, explosions reverberating around Tulagi Harbor. Myszynski cursed softly as a shockwave gnawed at the destroyer tender. Sitting alone in the spacious wardrom, his face was distorted by red night-lights. Deep, crimson shadows ranged across his skull; dark thick stubble on his lower jaw made him look like Lucifer’s messenger. A bomb crashed nearby, making Myszynski wish even more he was on tonight’s raid up the slot. But he’d been ordered to a conference with Major General Alexander Patch over on Guadalcanal tomorrow, and there was no getting out of it. With a scowl, he glanced at the bulkhead-mounted clock: 0325. Rocko lit his cigar stub, poured a cup of coffee, and sat again, trying to relax.
As usual, the harbor was blacked out. Myszynski cocked an ear, trying to pick out how many Betty’s were out there.
Crumpf.
Half dozen he reckoned, each lobbing 500 kg bombs at anything looking like a target. Then he smirked. No secondary explosions from that one. Must have missed. But once in a while, the planes would find something, their victim burning and lighting the place up, illuminating a lot of targets. But the anti-aircraft fire was effective tonight, keeping them at bay.
Bomb flashes brightened the wardroom like a neon sign flicking on and off. Myszynski got up and pulled the blackout curtains over a porthole, then looked around sheepishly. The rest of the ship was at general quarters, yet Myszynski, with nothing to do in flagplot, had wandered off to the wardroom, looking for coffee.
“Damnit!” A mosquito landed on Myszynski’s ear. He slapped at it, the concussion making his ear ring. He was so full of bug bites, he wondered if his face would be recognizable in another six months, when he was due to be rotated home. In a low voice, he mimicked an idiot, “Duh, Gloria? Do ya recognize me? I used to be your husband. Now, I”m a rolling, bug-bitten blob of suntanned protoplasm.”
Crumpf, Crumpf. That didn’t sound close either. Better luck next time, Tojo.
Mosquito bites or not, he missed Gloria and the kids. Jennifer his daughter, was seventeen and beautiful now. Young John was turning thirteen. He wondered if—
“Mind if I join you, Commodore?” Frank Ashton stood above him, cup and saucer in hand, wearing tee shirt, khaki trousers and shower sandals. Like Myszynski, the red lights gave Ashton’s face a demonic cast.
“Please.” Myszynski waved a hand at the chair opposite.
“How long does this go on?” Ashton sounded a bit nervous as he sat.
“Two or three hours, Frank. Every night for the last two months that I can remember.”
“God.” Ashton sipped and dabbed a napkin at his lips.
“Damnit!” Myszynski slapped his left ear. “Think I’d rather have the air raids than these damned mosquitoes. I’ll tell you. I---“
“Commodore?” A messenger stepped in.
“Yes?”
The messenger, a nineteen year old radioman third class wearing dungarees and helmet, walked over and handed Myszynski a clip board and pencil. Myszynski signed, took his message and handed back the clipboard.
“Thank you, Sir.” The messenger walked out.
Myszynski felt Ashton’s eyes on him as he read the message. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered.
“Yes?” Ashton ventured.
“Damnit! Griffith. Howell and Isaacs have been chasing a Jap sub twenty miles west of the Russells for the past two and half hours. Don’t know if they got it, but they dropped,” Myszynski slapped the flimsy with the back of his hand, “...thirty depth charges. Then the Griffith had an engineering casualty. Tom Kilpatrick says they lost lube oil to the starboard shaft. Had to lock it before she wiped a bearing. Now she’s headed back here on one screw at twelve knots. Shit!” Myszynski’s cigar stub rolled back and forth across his mouth. “Tom sent Isaacs and Howell on ahead: Jerry Landa is in command. Well, Landa can take care of things, I suppose.”
A shadow crossed Ashton’s face. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Sure. Go tell the Japs to hang around Vila Harbor for another hour.”
“What?”
CRUMPFF! Light slashed through the wardroom curtains. The 8,325 ton Whitney shuddered. Ashton�
�s eyes jerked toward the sound of water cascading close aboard.
“It’s okay, Frank. You don’t hear the one that gets you.”
Ashton gave a thin smile and lifted his coffee cup. But his fingers shook and he put it back on the saucer. Then he grabbed the cup with both hands and drank. “Besides the sub contact, think your boys will get anymore business tonight?”
“That’s what they’re up there for. Business. Halsey told us to ‘push the Japs around,’ so we’re pushing them around. What worries me now is that with this delay, Isaacs and Howell may be stuck up The Slot at daylight with a bunch of Jap Zeros running around. At first light they should be better than halfway home. ‘Cause last time they caught us in the Vella Gulf with our pants down when we lost the Barber.” He flicked his cigar ash toward an ashtray.
Crumpf! As if on cue, a bomb hit.
The invader’s engines disappeared to the Northwest. Myszynski glanced after them. “So long, Tojo.” He sat up in his chair and squared his eyes on Ashton, “How do you figure? Two weeks ago, they’d send one or two planes. Now we get a half dozen every night. Is that because you’re in town, Frank?”
The all-clear sounded outside and Ashton tried a laugh. “I don’t think they know me, Rocko.”
Myszynski shifted gears. “Your proximity fuses may get a work out after all.”
“How’s that?”
“Take tonight’s raid for example. We’re hitting two airfields up there in the Western Solomons. Bob Briscoe has four cans bombarding the Munda airstrip about now. But the real show is with Dexter Sands. He’s got the light cruisers Sioux Falls, Santa Monica, King City, and three cans. They run up The Slot, then cut down Kula Gulf to smack the Vila Stanmore airstrip on Kolombangara, in about,” he checked his watch, “thirty minutes from now. Icing on the cake is that a dumbo report came in an hour ago saying there were two Jap cans anchored in there.” A dumbo was a PBY twin engine amphibian used in the Solomons for night reconnaissance and ship harassment. “We planned this raid, figuring anybody trapped in Vila Harbor is going to up-anchor and am-scray west out the Blackett Strait.”
“And that’s where we had the little bastards. Because Griffith, Isaacs and Howell were supposed to run north through Ferguson Passage, to blockade the West end of the Blackett Strait and shut the door on anything that tries to escape from Vila.” Myszynski bashed a fist on the table. Cups jumped.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 10