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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Couldn’t be that. They just promoted me.”

  Sheila, the other nurse walked by. “I got Jennings’ thermometer. He’s up to 102.”

  “Jeepers!”

  “I know

  “Well, somebody has his sights on you.” Thorpe walked off.

  Wiping her eyes again, Helen grabbed scissors and slit one end of the envelope. A large sheaf of bound government mimeographed paper spilled out.

  “No.” She read it again, her eye racing across the page: Orders.

  “No!” Her voice echoed. “They can’t.”

  She put a hand to her chest and forced her breathing to slow. Then she read once again:

  FROM: Commanding Officer, Seventh Army,

  TO: Capt. Helen Z. Ingram, 712836, USA

  DATE: 6, March, 1943

  SUBJ: Orders

  INFO: Commanding Officer, Station Hospital, Fort MacArthur, San Pedro, Calif.

  Upon receipt, you are hereby detached Station Hospital, Fort MacArthur.

  You are ordered to report to Commanding Officer, 1st Medical Battalion, 1st Division, Seventh Army.

  Upon receipt, you will proceed to USAAF Base, Long Beach, Calif. NLT 12 March, 1943 and report to Commanding Officer U.S. Army Air Force Air Station, for transportation.

  Accounting data 6702211.3728 991 36/24700.331.

  By Direction

  R. T. Bacon

  “God. What is this?” She jumped from her desk and walked swiftly down the hall to the front office. A sign above the door read:

  DR. RUTHERFORD T. MOORE, COLONEL USA, COMMANDING OFFICER

  She swept past Sergeant Thorpe. “Is he in, Sergeant?”

  Thorpe looked up from his typewriter. “Yes, but---“

  Not bothering to listen, Helen ripped open the door and walked in, letting it slam behind her.

  Moore looked up, then turned back to his desk. There was a pile of personal goods. He was sorting them into a box. “A patient died last night.”

  “What?”

  “Went into cardiac arrest. We couldn’t keep him. Just thirty-two years old.” Moore stirred his fingers around the pile on his desk. “I guess I’ll have to write the letter.”

  Moore looked seventeen. Helen had yet to see a trace of a beard on this round-faced, fair complected man. Gold rimmed glasses made him look even younger and professorial. Yet, she recalled, she’d never seen him smile. His medical certificates hung proudly on the wall behind: BA and MD from the University of Minnesota. Career Army, Moore was a pathologist by training.

  “Oh, dear. I’m sorry,” said Helen.

  Moore went back to sorting the personal belongings on his desk. “I saw your orders five minutes ago.”

  “They promised.” Her breathing became rapid again and she willed it to stop.

  “Promised what?” Moore tossed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in the box. A package of condoms went into the wastebasket.

  “They promised not to...not to move me around.”

  “This is the Army.” He waved casually. “This says you have until this Friday to report to Long Beach. You want to check out now?”

  “Isn’t that kind of swift?”

  “Hell, I don’t know, Helen. Like I said, this is the Army. Why can’t you move around?”

  Moore had transferred here last month. Apparently he didn’t know. “I was on Corregidor. Then Mindanao with the resistance for six months. And I know things...”

  Moore sat back and watched her, his glasses gleaming. “What do you know?”

  “I can’t.” She couldn’t tell Moore about stealing the Japanese Type 93 torpedo manual off Mindanao. In so many ways, they had said because of that alone, her duty was limited to CONUS: Continental limits of the United States. “They won’t let me say.”

  “Have any idea where the Seventh Army is?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t either.” Moore pushed his intercom switch down: “Thorpe?”

  Gum clacked. “Yes, Sir?”

  “Call HQ and find out where Seventh Army is.” Moore clicked off. “Don’t worry, Helen. Probably better than this trash heap. Now tell me again. What’s so secret that a little old girl like you can’t tell her boss.” The last was said with a faux Southern accent.

  “You’ll have to get that from Colonel Otis DeWitt.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s General Macarthur’s aide for intelligence.”

  “How did you---?” The intercom buzzed. Moore reached over and snapped down the switch. “Yes?”

  Thorpe announced himself with clacking chewing gum. “Seventh Army, Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “HQ says it’s a new outfit formed by General Patton.”

  “Well, where the hell is it?”

  “Bizerte.”

  For the second time, Helen felt as if someone had tossed her into the morgue.

  “Where’s Bizerte?” demanded Moore.

  “Tunisia, Colonel. North Africa. They’re gearing up for the invasion of Sicily.”

  Helen sank back onto her couch, picked up the phone and dialed Laura West.

  It rang ten times. Finally, the phone jiggled off the hook. “...Hello?”

  “You okay?”

  “...what time is it?”

  “Almost eight-thirty.”

  “Day or night?”

  In spite of her predicament, Helen rolled her eyes. Laura sounded lucid, a good sign. “Night. How do you feel?”

  “Like a bulldozer ran through my mouth.”

  “Did you go to work?”

  “No. I...jeez, it really is eight-thirty. I’ve been asleep ever since we talked.”

  “I promised to call back. I’m glad you took some time off.”

  Laura sighed. “I don’t know. They get hot under the collar sometimes. How’d your day go?”

  “It...it.” Helen held her breath.

  “What’d they do? Take away your movie privileges?”

  “No, damnit!” she growled.

  “What?”

  She told her.

  “But they can’t do that. Didn’t they promise you no more overseas duty?”

  “More than that. But nobody seems to want to do anything about it.”

  “Listen. I know this congressman. He’s fixed it for a couple of guys around here to go into the documentary film making corps. Navy or Army, it doesn’t matter. They start as full lieutenants or captains or whatever, even get to wear a uniform and never leave home.”

  “That may not be necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve already put a call into a friend of mine.”

  “Does he have as much clout as a congressman?”

  “I think so.” She told her about Oliver Toliver, a Naval Lieutenant junior grade now with the 12th Naval District in San Francisco. Toliver had served with Todd on the U.S.S. Pelican in Manila Bay at the war’s outbreak. The Pelican was sunk off Corregidor, and Todd, Helen, Toliver, and Otis DeWitt, made their break for freedom with six others in a thirty-six foot launch. DeWitt had since been promoted to Colonel and now worked for Colonel Charles Willoughby, Douglas MacArthur’s Intelligence Chief in Australia. She finished with, “Otis DeWitt is in a very influential position. He has the authority to rescind the orders or at least figure out who issued them. So Ollie, that’s Toliver, told me he would jump on the overseas line as soon as possible and talk to Otis.”

  “...I’d go with that. When do you have to go?”

  “Friday.”

  “Good God! Isn’t that short notice?”

  “Sometimes they do that to you.”

  “Keep your chin up, toots.”

  Laura sounded good. “Okay. You, too.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  9 March, 1943

  U.S.S. Whitney (AD 4)

  Tulagi Harbor, Solomon Islands

  Someone knocked at Ingram’s door.

  “Enter.”

  Leo Seltzer walked in wearing dress blues and clean white hat. “Morn
ing, Sir.” He rolled his hat in his hands then said, “Shipping out and I wanted to say adios.” He held out his hand and they shook.

  “What are your orders?” asked Ingram.

  “I’m over to Cactus to catch a noon C-47 for Noumea. Then it’s Stateside for leave and refresher training then...who knows? Another can, I guess.”

  “Looks like I won’t be able to pin that medal on you.” Myszynski had endorsed and forwarded bronze star recommendations for Seltzer, Early, and Katsikas.

  “Don’t mean nothin,’“ To an outsider, Seltzer’s remark might have sounded ungrateful, even insubordinate. But Ingram took it the way Seltzer meant it. Others aboard the Howell, both living and dead, had been just as heroic and deserved medals as well.

  Seltzer asked, “How ‘bout you, Sir?”

  “Prospective commanding officer training Stateside. Then I’m putting in for a twenty-one hundred.” Ingram referred to a Fletcher class destroyer like the Howell.

  “Holy smokes. Do you know where you’ll be?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, ain’t that a pip?” Seltzer rubbed his jaw. “Tell you what, Mr. Ingram. You mind if I put in for your destroyer?”

  “My honor, Leo. Wouldn’t that be something? I might have a chance to pin that medal on you yet.”

  Someone knocked. Ingram opened it finding Landa not looking much better than the day before. “Hi, Captain.”

  Landa still looked like hell. “Rocko wants to see us. Oh. Hello, Seltzer. Where you headed?”

  “Headed Stateside, Captain. Well, goodbye.” He shook their hands then left. Landa said, “Rocko wants to see us again.” They headed up two flights, knocked, and walked in Commodore Myszynski’s office, finding him near a porthole, puffing his cigar and flipping through a file. He waved them to the leather couch and muttered, “Something’s come to my attention.”

  Landa said nothing.

  “Sir?” said Ingram.

  Myszynski shifted his gaze to Ingram and raised his eyebrows, as of to say, what the hell are you doing here?

  Something was happening that Ingram didn’t understand. But he decided to press ahead, figuring he would be soon excused anyway. He blurted, “I thought I had orders Stateside, Commodore.”

  “Yes. Your PCO training will be aboard the U.S.S. Hitchcock.”

  “The Hitchcock?” asked Landa.

  “One and the same,” said Myszynski.

  “What?” Ingram looked from one to the other.

  “Rust bucket,” Landa said. “She sits on coffee grounds at dockside.”

  “A rust bucket she may be, but Roland De Reuter will give Todd a fair shake,” said Myszynski.

  Landa nodded. “That’s true. Old Roland is one of the best. He’ll make a skipper out of you.”

  Ingram said, “I’ve already been a skipper.”

  “Not in the tin-can Navy. Here.” Myszynski shoved a brown packet to Ingram and then checked his watch. “Your orders. A C-47 leaves Cactus at noon. Be on it. You’re booked all the way through Stateside via air. Check my yeoman across the passageway. He’ll fix you up with travel orders.”

  Ingram asked, “Where is the Hitchcock, Sir.?”

  “Long Beach. You’ll see your wife.”

  Helen! My God! Waves of joy flooded through him. It suddenly occurred that he wasn’t going to be killed or maimed or terribly wounded. A great weight had been lifted off his chest. There would be a time of peace and quiet; Helen had suddenly surged into his life. “So much for Hemingway.”

  Landa nodded somberly. “You can start reading your mail, now.”

  “What the hell are you talking about,” demanded Myszynski.

  “My God!” The thought raced in Ingram’s mind, how the hell do I let her know I’m on my way? I wonder if---.

  “--Mr. Ingram? Hello?” Myszynski waved a hand.

  Ingram smiled. “That’s great news. Thank you, Sir.”

  Myszynski shifted his gaze. “Guess what, Jerry?”

  Landa stared into space.

  “Damnit! Are you still feeling sorry for yourself or do I have to check you into the loonie ward?”

  That did something to Landa. He shifted his stance, his eyes darting quickly to Ingram. “Sorry, Rocko. What is it?” Landa raised a corner of his mouth and forced his tone to be more resonate.

  Myszynski steepled his fingers. “Dexter Sands sent me a message this morning. He’s requested you for his staff.”

  Landa sat up.

  “You have any idea why he would want to do this?” Myszynski said.

  Landa shook his head.

  “You might as well hear this, Todd,” Myszynski said. “But what I’m about to say goes no further than that bulkhead. Got it?”

  Landa and Ingram nodded.

  “Dexter Sands is not a forgiving soul. He plays favorites. And his staff has been with him a long time. Like a fraternity, they’re tighter than a drum. Now, you, Commander Boom Boom Landa, have managed to ascend directly to the number one position on Dexter’s shit list. First, you rig rat guards between your ships. Then, you embarrass him on the TBS. Then you mouth him in front of me, Ashton and your exec, which probably sealed your fate. He’d like nothing better than to get you over on the Sioux Falls and turn his people loose on you. They’d put you in a straight jacket and tie it shut with double bowline hitches. Then Dexter would shove you down a toilet, like,” Myszynski snapped his fingers, “that.”

  “He wants to make an example of you in front of destroyer people, my people. He resents our independence. I can’t let him do that to us.”

  “I didn’t realize that, Commodore.”

  “Get used to the fact that you’re on the ten most wanted list.”

  “Maybe I can make up for it.”

  “How?”

  “I have an idea.”

  Myszynski slumped at his desk and puffed until his face disappeared in a cloud of smoke. “Balls.”

  “Commodore, may I?”

  “Okay, shoot.” Myszynski folded his arms.

  “The Howell. I think we can salvage her.”

  “Balls.”

  “No, Sir. Basically, she’s sound all the way back to her aft fireroom. If we send an ATF up there, she can be towed to Noumea, Australia maybe, even the States, where she can be mated to a new stern section. Look,” Landa leaned forward, “I talked to Hank Kelly about it at breakfast. What we need to do is make sure she’s secured. All watertight doors shut, the whole works. And then pick our time and send in the tug.”

  “What about the shell she took from the Jap destroyer?”

  “Blew her stack off but Hank doesn’t think it penetrated the boileroom. Even if it did, we still have a sound hull. So they replace two boilers. So what?”

  Myszynski rubbed his chin.

  “Look, Commodore. You want me to hang around here and scrub toilets? Okay. Count paper clips? Okay. But how about a real job? How ‘bout letting me save the Howell? I know every bolt and nut in that ship and I can set up a salvage operation, chop-chop. It won’t take much. Just the ATF when we’re ready.”

  To Ingram, Landa’s voice sounded plaintive; almost as if he were pleading for his life before a hanging judge. He talked fast and his words ran together.

  Ingram caught a glance from Myszynski, both realizing Landa was trying to save a part of his soul in addition to saving the ship.

  “Not a bad idea. Let me think about it. But there is another matter I just discovered.” Myszynski leaned back in his chair peering directly at Landa.

  “Sir?” asked Landa.

  At length, Myszynski said, “Mr. Ingram. That’ll be all. You better go pack and catch your airplane.” A dark shadow crossed over Myszynski’s face. Ingram knew he wasn’t wanted.

  “Yes, Sir. See you Jerry. Good luck.” Ingram rose and shook hands with the two then headed for the door.

  “Hot in here. Clip the door open would you please?” said Myszynski, fanning himself.

  “Yes, Sir.” Ingram walked out, clipping the
office door open. A breeze wafted around him as he stepped in the passageway, cooling the office and pushing cigar smoke out the portholes. The yeoman’s office was directly across. It was a Dutch door with a note pasted to the shelf. ‘Back in five minutes.’

  Head call, figured Ingram as he leaned against the bulkhead. The breeze became a bit stronger, cooling him. He sniffed at the clean, salty air, thinking of Helen.

  “...what gives you the right to go against squadron doctrine?” said Myszynski.

  “...I don’t understand, Sir,” replied Landa.

  Myszynski’s voice rose a notch. “Bullshit. A week ago, I sent the squadron specific written orders to use VT ammo. You refused to acknowledge it. Why couldn’t you put your personal feelings aside, whatever the hell they are, and fire VT ammo like I told you? And don’t tell me it’s because Ashton is a jerk. I already know that. That’s not the point. That ammo works, damnit!”

  “Damnit Rocko. It’s top secret. I could go to the brig.”

  “Nothing top secret about losing a ship and 128 men, is there? Look, the Griffith scored hits, and so did Dexter Sands’ boys. They shot down Japs. Isn’t that proof enough? That’s why Dexter wants your ass. I think he believes you were criminally negligent. And I’m not far behind him.”

  “Yes, but you see, my brotherBA

  “Let me ask you. How many Japs did you shoot down?”

  Silence.

  “Well, Commander?” Myszynski’s voice was icy.

  “...one for sure.”

  “Pardon me, Sir.” It was Upton, Myszynski’s short, pudgy, redheaded yeoman. He stepped in front of Ingram, unlocked the Dutch door and walked in his office. “Can I help you, Mr. Ingram?”

  “...you could have easily bagged three or four. Maybe the one that got you--”

  Ingram cleared his throat. “Travel orders.”

  “--Shit,” Landa yelled back. “I didn’t know it then. And you still don’t know for sure.”

  It was impossible not to hear. Avoiding Ingram’s glance, Upton grabbed a manila envelope and handed it to him. “We have you booked on the noon plane out of Cactus.”

  “Right.” Ingram couldn’t get away fast enough. His bile rose as he walked out, slamming the little Dutch door behind him. Myszynski’s voice trailed as he raced down the ladder, “...the point is Commander. You disobeyed orders. Tell me why I shouldn’t write you up for gross negligence and insubordination.”