WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Top Secret and Secret stuff is finished, Captain. So is most of the Confidential. Restricted is going into the boiler now. About ten more minutes should do it.”

  “Tell ‘em to hurry.” Landa said. “Todd, service and pay records?”

  “Boxed up and ready to go,” said Ingram.

  “Personal gear?”

  “Crew has packed one duffle each. Steward’s mates packed officers one duffle each.”

  “Safes?”

  “All emptied. I checked myself.”

  “Okay.” Landa took a deep breath and looked around. Imperceptibly, his shoulders sagged.

  “Captain?” Ingram asked quietly.

  “Time to fly. Everybody off the bridge,” said Landa.

  “S’cuse me, Sir.” Briley walked up to Landa.

  “What?”

  “Ship’s deck log and ensign, Sir.” Briley handed them over.

  “Yes...very well, thank you, Briley.” Landa thumbed the flag for a moment. “Now, let’s put a nickel in it, it sounds like the PTs are getting close.” In the distance, they heard the growl of engines.

  Landa waited for everyone to step down the aft companionway, then lingered for a moment. At length, he followed the others, flag and log book clutched to his chest.

  Ingram walked aft, finding the men crowded near the mangled remains of the quarterdeck. Monaghan and his corpsmen had his stretcher cases and wounded arranged, ready to go. Boxes and duffels were stacked up against the deckhouse bulkhead. Unfortunately, the engineers sleeping quarters were aft and had gone down with that section of the ship. So Ingram had made sure the men sleeping forward, shared clothing.

  Landa walked up. “Don’t set the demo charges until I give the word.”

  “Right.”

  “Who’s going to do it?”

  Ingram beckoned Delmonico over. “Louie, who sets the fuses?”

  “Hardy.” He pointed to a sailor waiting on the 01 deck above. “We’ve set the charges in the forward magazine. All he has to do is run down there and spin the dials. Kaboom! That should take care of it.”

  “Fifteen minutes?” asked Landa.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “How about setting a charge in the forward engine room?” Ingram asked.

  “Don’t think we need it. When that magazine goes, I wouldn’t want to be within a mile of this ship.”

  “Okay, let’s go with that,” said Landa.

  A PT Boat nosed up to the Howell’s port side. Even at an idle, her triple Packard V-12 supercharged engines gave a loud, deep-throated rumble. Her sailors lowered fenders as she nudged against the Howell, their two decks about the same level. Mooring lines were tossed and cleated, the boat killing her engines. The next one idled up, and moored forward while the third moored outboard of the first PT Boat. All three were minus their torpedoes. A good idea, Ingram decided, since the eighty foot boats would be taking aboard quite a load of people.

  He found Monaghan, moving about his stretcher cases. “All set, Bucky?”

  “Ready.”

  “Take them aboard this one.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Monaghan waved his men over and they began picking up stretchers.

  Ingram found Hank Kelly talking to one of his chiefs. Both wore their trademark oil-splotched khaki coveralls, with Kelly looking scarecrow thin in the moonlight. “Hank, get your people on the boat forward. Make sure to stay out of the crew’s way.”

  “Got it.”

  He stepped up to Offenbach and told him to do the same with his men in the outboard boat. The Howell’s crew needed no urging, and soon, the three PT Boats were full, including the wounded. A knot of fifteen or so anxious men were all that remained on the destroyer. Landa pumped his fist in the air and shouted to the PT skippers. “Okay, thanks. See you in Tulagi. Now shove off!”

  Gunfire broke out on the other side of Mondo Mondo Island. Tracers ripped across the sky. A forty millimeter round slammed into the main battery director, shredding the fire control antenna.

  Offenbach said, “My God,” his eyes propped wide open.

  A few rounds ricocheted off the bridge. The men quickly crouched under the 01 catwalk and covered their ears as shells zinged over.

  Offenbach sprang forward.

  “Where you headed?” Ingram grabbed his shirt and pulled him to a halt.

  “Our guys shooting at us. We gotta tell ‘em to stop.” Even as Offenbach spoke, two more forty millimeter tracers ripped into the pilot house clanging with a horrible noise. Then an enormous explosion on Mondo Mondo ripped the night with flames and debris flying in the air. “Shiiit.” Offenbach tried to jerk from Ingram’s grip.

  Ingram held tight. “Carl. We’re on the other side of an island. They can’t shoot low enough to hit us down here. Leave ‘em be.” Ingram held tight as tracers flew and flames roiled to the accompaniment of a horrendous racket. He thought he heard screams and the stutter of a Japanese machine gun. But that was soon silenced. After five minutes, the gunfire rattled to a stop.

  Like the rest, Ingram felt sheepish, as he tentatively stepped out from beneath the 01 catwalk. And the PT boats were gone. The gunfire had been so intense, he hadn’t heard them start up and shove off.

  “Carl. Crypto machine?” Landa demanded.

  “Gone with the first boat, Sir,” said Offenbach, his face still white.

  To the south, a PT Boat’s engines wound up and drew near.

  “Okay, last boat on its way. Tell the gun mount crews to spike guns and lay aft.” Landa called up to the 01 deck, “Hardy, got a flashlight?”

  “You bet, Captain.”

  “Then do your stuff. Hurry.”

  “Sir!” Hardy ran forward into darkness.

  The gun crews had no sooner assembled when the PT Boat materialized from the gloom. A white numeral 72 was painted under her bow. Painted in white script on the side of her cockpit was the name, Little Lulu. As PT 72 throttled down, her fenders were kicked over, and she crunched to a hard landing against the Howell’s port side.

  Chief Murphy said gleefully, “Jeez, lookit that.”

  Tubby White, clad in life jacket and helmet, stood at the wheel. He killed the engines as soon as the lines were cleated, then stepped down from the bridge.

  “Hi ya, Tubby,” grinned Delmonico.

  “Lou.” Stepping to the PT Boat’s starboard rail, White jammed his hands in his pockets.

  “You okay, Tubby?” Ingram asked, as he signaled the Howell’s men to board.

  “Mr. White. Where did you learn to drive? I’ve seen better landings at the destruction derby,” said Landa.

  “My first time.” Tubby’s voice was a near whisper.

  Landa opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by rifle fire from Mondo Mondo Island.

  “Some Japs are still alive over there. How the hell do you suppose anybody could live through that?” asked Delmonico.

  “Somehow, they did, Lou. One of those bastards got our skipper.” White waved to a canvas covered body laying on the aft deck, its booted feet sticking out from underneath. White spoke through clenched teeth, “Sonofabitch drilled Tommy Kellogg right through the forehead. I...I didn’t realize it for a couple of minutes. Nobody was driving...we damn near went aground.”

  “So...now... you’re in command?” Landa gasped.

  “That’s right, Captain. I’m the Captain.” The two men locked eyes. Finally, White said, “I’m sorry about your ship, Sir. But are you ready to shove off?”

  “Waiting for Hardy to set demolition charges,” said Landa.

  Something ripped through the night sky and popped over their heads, turning nighttime into day.

  “Illumination shot!” yelled Ingram.

  “Where’s it coming from?” said Landa.

  Another shot cracked open, the bright flare dancing on its parachute, turning the area even brighter. White jumped to his cockpit and yelled, “Wind ‘em up!” The Packards had just coughed into life, when a cannon shell whistled overhead and exploded on th
e beach, raising a tall geyser of hissing water and sand.

  “Hardy!” Delmonico cupped his hands around his mouth. Seconds passed. He yelled again. No Hardy. He looked at Ingram.

  “Go!" said Ingram.

  Delmonico ran forward, disappearing into darkness.

  Another shell hit the island a hundred yards away.

  “What the hell is out there?” yelled Landa.

  White raised a pair of binoculars and looked out to sea. “Looks like a Jap can.”

  Ingram squinted to see a moonlit smudge about 7000 yards away. Just then, something flashed on its foredeck.

  WHAM! A shell landed fifty yards to port, completely drenching them.

  “Captain! Time to go!” White yelled.

  “Not yet” said Landa. “Todd, damnit get aboard.”

  “But, Sir. IBA

  “Now,” yelled Landa.

  Delmonico stumbled down the deck, caroming off bulkheads. His hand was clamped around his right shoulder and dark red blood seeped through his fingers. He lurched at Landa and collapsed into his arms.

  “Where’s Hardy?” Landa shouted.

  A shell whistled and smacked the Howell’s fo’c’sle, making the ship shake furiously.

  White jabbed his fog horn. “Captain! We must go. You’re jeopardizing this boat.”

  “Hardy?” Landa screamed in Delmonico face.

  Delmonico face was very pale. Finally, he coughed and said, “Dead. Fo’c’sle.”

  “Did he set the charges?”

  “Don’t know.” Delmonico eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out. Ingram and Offenbach caught him and pulled him aboard Little Lulu.

  “Come on, Jerry!” Ingram hollered.

  “Captain, damnit,” shouted White.

  Landa, jabbed an index finger at White. “I order you to stay here, damnit. I can’t leave until I know if those charges are set. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let my ship fall into the Jap’s hands.”

  “Bullshit!” White called forward and aft, “Take in all lines.”

  His crew needed no urging, as another shell whistled overhead and exploded on Mondo Mondo, showering them with dirt and shell fragments.

  “Last chance, Captain,” yelled White.

  “You little bastard,” Landa bellowed. “I gave you a direct order.”

  “It’s my boat, Captain. I’m responsible. I’m sorry.” White looked aft and pulled his shift quadrant aft to the astern position. PT-72's screws dug in and she started to ease away.

  Landa’s mouth dropped.

  “Carl, quick!” Ingram yelled. Desperately, they reached out and grabbed Landa by the arms, jerking him across two feet of water as the PT Boat backed away. Seeing Landa safely aboard, Tubby White added more throttle just as a shell buried itself in the Howell’s forward boiler room and exploded, sending debris high in the air. The forward stack toppled with a terrible screech.

  Ingram and Offenbach relaxed their grip on Landa, letting him gain his footing on the PT’s deck.

  “Bastards,” hissed Landa.

  “Sorry, Captain, you would have been killed,” Ingram said.

  Landa, clutching flag and logbook to his chest, wrenched his arms free and gave Ingram a long, cold stare. “Maybe that’s the way it should have been.” Then he walked aft and sat by himself on a depth charge rack.

  Tubby White, spun his helm, shifted all engines to ahead and firewalled the throttles. With a great roar, Little Lulu charged out, gained the step, and headed down The Slot; course one-one-zero degrees true.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  8 March, 1943

  U.S.S. Whitney (AD 4)

  Tulagi Harbor, Solomon Islands

  A ship’s horn blasted, jolting Ingram awake. His eyes flipped open and he groped for the bunk light switch. Turning to the bedside stand, he found his watch: eight thirty two. Except...damn...that’s eight in the evening. He’d slept over fifteen hours.

  It was a two-man stateroom, but the upper bunk was empty. With a groan, he rose and sat on the bunk’s edge, his head in his hands, stiff all over. Riding on Little Lulu had taxed his muscles,. The sea in The Slot had been up, and they’d bounced around. Ingram clutched number three torpedo tube for most of the three and a half hour trip just to keep from falling overboard.

  He’d been so tired that he had turned in as soon as Tubby dropped them off at the Whitney. Now, he smelled like a goat and he was hungry. He untied his duffle and reached for his shaving gear. Just beneath was his eight by ten framed picture of Helen. He eased it out and said, “Evening, Hon.” It was a recent shot by photographer Norman Howard of Hollywood --- a movie industry specialist recommended by Laura West -- catching Helen in just the right pose. He went to set it up on the little fold-down desk, but his hands began to shake and his skin turned clammy. Try as he might, he couldn’t control the shaking, and he couldn’t get the frame to stand upright. Finally, he stood and pushed the picture face-up against the bunk.

  No wonder the photographer Howard did so many movie stars. He’d easily found Helen’s essence: Her eyes. She could look right through you if she wanted. But here she smiled. In fact, both eyes and mouth smiled in this picture. It was as if her eyes still looked through you and held you fast to wherever you were standing.

  God. She was all he ever wanted.

  But...looking at her made the shaking worse.

  “Damnit!” Tears ran, and he felt like he was going to throw up. So he gave up and walked for the head.

  Fifteen minutes later, he returned from a long shower to find a note on his desk, Helen’s picture propped on top:

  Todd,

  Stewards have saved chow in the wardroom. After that, we’ve a meeting in Rocko’s office at 2130, Frank Ashton and Dexter Sands will be there, so bring your bullet-proof vest.

  Jerry

  Kelly and Offenbach wandered in just as Ingram and Landa sat. All rubbed sleep from their eyes and made little conversation as they wolfed their meal. The steak was tough and tasted like something between dried liver and genuine cowhide, but the potatoes, peas and Jell-O salad were wonderful.

  Ingram was reaching for apple pie when Landa walked in and tugged on his shirt. “Time to go.”

  Ingram stood to find Landa’s eyes hollow and dark. “You look like hell, Jerry. Have you slept?”

  “Got pills from the doc. So I put in a few hours.”

  “How about chow?”

  “Maybe later. Come on.”

  “Why don’t you have someBA

  Landa turned abruptly and walked out.

  Ingram followed. “What is it, Jerry?” Landa was quick-pacing and it was hard to keep up.

  “Puking, damnit. Can’t keep anything down.”

  “What did the Doc say about that?”

  Landa didn’t answer as they clanged up a companionway to the 02 deck, finding a door marked:

  THEODORE R. MYSZYNSKI. CAPTAIN, USN

  COMMODORE DESRON 12

  Landa hesitated, then knocked.

  Myszynski’s voice rumbled with “Enter.”

  Inside, they found Myszynski behind his desk, an unlighted cigar stub jammed in his mouth. Two portholes and a door to the 02 deck were open, while two rubber-bladed fans buzzed mightily, trying unsuccessfully to scour the dank, heat-laded humidity from the compartment. Moonlight filtered in from the outside, the only other light a sixty watt bulb on Myszynski’s desk lamp.

  Sitting to Myszynski’s right was a thin, hawknosed, balding figure. The light was so dim, it was impossible to read his expression, but what Ingram did see were the twin gold stars of a rear admiral pinned on his collar. On the desk’s other side was Frank Ashton.

  Waving a hand to the two-star, Myszynski said, “Here. Say hello to Admiral Sands. I believe you’ve met Frank Ashton.”

  For a moment, it was the battle of the smiles as Ashton and Landa tried to out-grin each other while the others shook hands.

  Ingram and Landa sat on a couch opposite the desk and Myszynski began, “Thanks for co
ming up on such short notice. Here,” He passed over a clipboard. “My yeoman set up a roster for your crew. Can you sign it, please?”

  Landa did so and handed back the clipboard.

  Myszynski gave him a copy, then sat back and asked, “How are your boys doing, Jerry?”

  The roster rattled in Landa’s hand. After a deep breath he said, “Okay, as far as I know. My wounded are being well taken care of, and the rest are either sleeping it off or chowing down.”

  Myszynski picked up a box of cigars, opened, and offered it. Everyone declined, leaving Myszynski to select one of his own. He stripped the cellophane, and ran the cigar between thick lips, wetting it down.

  Without looking up, Landa said, “I would like to have memorial services for the boys I left behind. And of course, for the ones down in the freezer.” Absently, he began tearing off tiny pieces of the roster, letting them flutter to the deck.

  Myszynski clipped the end of his cigar. “All set. Tomorrow morning, 0830.” He pulled out a gold Ronson and lit his cigar, blue smoke swirling around his desk.

  “Thank you ,Sir,” Landa nodded.

  “We’ve met before, Commander Landa.” Sands fanned smoke from his face.

  “Sir?” Landa said.

  “Aren’t you the one they call ‘Boom Boom.’“

  “Not to my face, Sir. I try to discourage it.”

  “I see. Well, my ship is the Sioux Falls. You nested to our port side last, hmmmm. September or October, I’ve forgotten, when was it?”

  Landa’s looked around Myszynski’s office. With just the one light bulb, his eyes looked like dying embers on a charcoal fire. And the more Ingram tried to peer into them, the less he could see. At the same time, Landa looked gaunt, unwashed. And he smelled of sweat.

  “Yes, Sir,” Landa said. “ Uhhh, last September, we’d just pulled in from Noumea.”

  There was an edge to Dexter Sands’ voice that dug at Ingram. At the same time, Landa was poised almost like a rattlesnake making him think of Don’t Tread On Me. More pieces of paper fluttered to the deck as Landa absently twisted them off the crew roster.