Images of Edgerton, Redding and the Howell’s capsizing stern section swirled through his mind. Vividly, he heard the screams of the dying. One hundred and twenty-eight of them. Todd Ingram stormed three decks back to his stateroom where he kicked the trash can; again and again. But like slamming Upton’s Dutch door, it didn’t give satisfaction. The difference was that Upton’s Dutch door was, most likely, still serviceable; the trash can lay in a crumpled heap in the corner. As he packed, he debated if he should tell Kelly or Delmonico about Landa’s refusal to use the VT shells that might have saved the Howell.
An hour later, he’d settled down and had finished packing when the quarterdeck messenger knocked. “All set, Sir. Boat just pulled up. Can I take that?” He nodded toward Ingram’s duffle.
“Thanks, I’ll be right there.”
“Yes, Sir.” The messenger threw the duffle strap around his back and with a grunt, walked off.
Ingram looked around the stateroom once, picked up his briefcase and walked toward the door.
Landa stepped in, his face dour, “Todd, before you go, I’d like to explain. You see, ---”
Ingram hauled off and socked Landa in the face. Cartilage crunched beneath his fist.
“Oooff!” Landa stumbled back, and crashed into the bulkhead. With a groan, he sank to the deck, blood running from his nose. He looked up, “Wha...?”
“Good luck to you, too, Captain Boom Boom. And why don’t you wish good luck to the 128 guys you left at the bottom of The Slot.” Ingram picked up his briefcase and grabbed the door. With an afterthought, he turned, “Write me up if you want to, you sonofabitch.” He walked out slamming the door. This time, it felt good.
PART TWO
...The race is not to the swift
or the battle to the strong,
nor does food come to the wise
or wealth to the brilliant
or favor to the learned;
but time and chance happen to them all
Ecclesiastes 9:11
* * *
...a ship doesn't have one voice, she has many.
You can hear them calling to each other out there, especially at night.
Jack Higgins,
Storm Warning
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
12 March, 1943
San Pedro, California
They call it ‘Hurricane gulch: One side is formed by Santa Catalina Island, twenty-one miles off the coast of Southern California; the other side by the Palos Verdes Peninsula. When a weather front roars down California's Coast, the wind compresses between the two land masses and squirts through the ‘gulch.' In so doing, the wind accelerates with a vengeance as it races inland, challenging those who walk the streets of San Pedro.
Especially uphill. Todd Ingram was dog tired. He'd been living in an airplane for the past four days. Even so, he was lucky to have made such a quick trip. They manifested him with twenty other officers and enlisted, Seltzer among them, on Admiral Halsey's palatial four-engined PB2Y-5 Coronado dead-heading to San Diego for installation of new command radio gear. The trip took sixty-one hours, and at each refueling stop, he tried, with no success, to call or wire Helen. At the Ford Island Naval Air Station in Hawaii, he got through to his home but the phone rang and rang.
They touched down on a sparkling San Diego Bay three hours ago. At North Island Naval Air Station, a sympathetic scheduler gave Ingram a hop in a TBF flying to the Long Beach Naval Air Station at Terminal Island. After a half hour waiting for a nonexistent cab, he loaded his duffle on a Navy Bus which took him over the ferry to San Pedro where the driver, a seaman first class simply following orders, dropped Ingram unceremoniously at the corner of Seventeenth and Gaffey.
Three blocks to Alma Street. Uphill. For a moment, Ingram couldn't figure what he wanted more; his arms around Helen or twelve hours uninterrupted sleep. Maybe a little of both. Ruefully, he smiled to himself: It will be interesting finding out. Then it hit him that he hadn't showered since Noumea. His meals had consisted basically of sandwiches made from stale bread, lukewarm coffee, and an occasional apple or candy bar. Running a hand over his face, he felt the black stubble that had grown since his last shave at Ford Island. How in the hell will she recognize me?
With that, he started walking. The wind tugged at his dress blues as he trudged uphill. But it felt good and cooled him as he walked the steepening slope. And soon, he heard the school-ground noise of youngsters playing. He was suddenly washed over with a sense of guilt: it wasn't his privilege to hear the sweetness of that sound; the sound of peace and growth and the future of his country. Others deserved to hear this, to stand where he stood, not he: Others who lay at the bottom of The Slot.
Kids laughing. How wonderful.
He walked up to San Pedro High School and stopped at the athletic field letting his duffle drop. Through an eight-foot chain link fence, he looked out to see a number of young boys working out at hurdles, sprints, javelin, and shot-put. They wore uniform shirts and he realized it was a regular track meet. What better way to spend a Friday afternoon.
A gun barked.
Ingram jumped. Quickly, his eye caught the blue smoke puff from the starter's pistol. Easy, you're home.
Four boys sprang from the starting blocks and bent to the wind, their hair flying as they ran. One had freckles and long red hair. Two others had close-cropped dark-brown hair. The last was a blond; heavier and chunkier than the other three. Amazingly, it was this portly blond kid who led at the first turn. It must have been an important race, for many of the other events stopped, their participants turning to watch. A nearby coach working kids at the high jump, sat on his haunches, checking his stop watch from time to time. People yelled “Com' on, Blake.”
Blake must have been the heavy blond kid, for he seemed to bend forward even more and go faster. Then, the red-headed kid started to catch up at the halfway mark. But Blake held his ground, two or three feet ahead of the red-head. Soon Blake was near Ingram at the three-quarter mark, his cheeks puffing and his face red.
Suddenly, Blake tripped on something and he fell headlong, his hands splayed before him. The others ran past as Blake rose to a sitting position and stared directly at...Ingram.
“Get up!” Ingram had no idea why he said it. He just did.
“Huh?” Blake eyes were watery and blood ran down his cheek where his face had smacked the track. Both knees were scraped with purple abrasions.
“Go, damnit!”
So Blake got up and started running, his hair flying as before. Ingram was amazed. The other three were a good half a track length ahead, yet Blake ran faster. He was catching up! Quickly.
Good God. The heart in that kid.
Blake passed Ingram a second and a third time and into the bell lap for the mile. Blake ran and ran, passing the two dark-haired boys on the final back stretch. He began closing on the red-head who made a mistake just as he passed Ingram. The red-head looked behind and spotted Blake only five feet behind. He stumbled a bit and Blake drew to within two feet. What the red-head didn’t see was Blake’s purple face, giving it his all.
By this time, everyone was yelling for Blake. Ingram couldn’t help joining in, “Go Blake. Go! Come on Blake.” He laughed to himself. He hadn’t yelled so much since he’d seen Navy play Notre Dame two and a half years ago.
The red-headed kid broke the tape with Blake stumbling through a split-second later. Immediately, Blake caromed over to the pole-vault pit, teetered at the edge and fell face down into the sawdust. Two coaches ran to Blake and soon had him sitting up in the sawdust where he heaved great gulps of air. Eventually, Blake stood and started walking in ragged circles. People applauded as Blake shuffled about, his head down, hands on his hips.
Ingram drew a deep breath. There was something about Blake he wished he could put in a bottle. At the same time he felt a twinge of guilt for it was Blake, and men/boys like him, kids who could pick themselves up, that he would recruit for his ship, that he would take to into battle. He hoped he
could bring them through in one piece, to resume the track meet, the competition of civilian life, which was difficult enough.
His eyes took in the track, as boys and coaches walked about. Mothers sat in the bleachers. The wind blew, dust swirled, paper and leaves floated on the wind, little white clouds darted overhead. The scent of eucalyptus wafted about, as birds chirped in the trees, and sun and wind gave heat and life-giving air to breath. Ingram stood there on this wonderful afternoon with crystal blue skies, luxuriating in this marvel of life. Compared to the place where he just came from, this all made sense.
The coach, a withered but nimble sixty year old, walked over. “Some race, huh?”
“You bet,” said Ingram. “That kid really has heart.”
“I’m glad you yelled at him. Sometimes, he gives up too easy. And he doesn’t work out much. But he has lots of potential. If he does start working out, then Katy, bar the door.”
“What is it that’s in him do you suppose?”
“I think the answer is obvious.” The coach glanced at the campaign ribbons on Ingram’s blouse.
Ingram stepped back.
“You shipping out?” The coach looked at his duffle.
“Just got back.”
“Welcome home, son.” The coach looked to the top of the chain-link fence that separated them. “I wish I could shake your hand.”
“Thanks, coach.”
The coach grinned. “You know, these kids really are crazy. Guess what our football seniors did?”
“Shoot.”
“Enlisted. The whole damn bunch walked into the Navy recruiting office as a group. They start boot camp in two months. Can you beat that?”
“That’s great, coach.” Ingram wondered if the coach realized what awaited some of those kids. Then it hit him. “Say, are you the football coach, too?”
“Yep.”
“You have a great group of kids.”
A whistle blew, and the coach looked over his shoulder. “Gotta go. Look, stop by sometime. I’d like you to meet my kids.”
“Swell.”
The coach tipped a finger to his hat and walked away.
Suddenly, Ingram felt tired. It was as if the whole trip had caught up with him. He looked up the block and a half, wondering if he could make it.
Helen.
You bet I can.
Five minutes later, he turned the corner and saw his house. Is she home? He checked his watch wondering what shift she was working at the dispensary. Maybe he would have time for a shower and a nap if she worked the day shift.
He straightened his cap, walked up the little brick path and mounted the steps. He tried the doorknob. Locked, damnit. Stepping back, he looked at the place, instinctively knowing she wasn’t there. The blinds were down and the morning paper lay under one of the wicker porch chairs. He rang the doorbell and listened. Then he knocked. Nothing.
“Afternoon.” It was a mailman. He had a nose that looked as if it had been through a meat grinder: a boxer’s nose. But his eyes were lively and he wore a friendly smile. And the roadmaps in his eyes and on his cheeks belied that he killed a beer or two every afternoon. “Looking for someone?” he asked.
Ingram dropped his duffle and gave a sheepish grin. “My wife.”
“You’re Mister Ingrid?” The mailman pushed the mailbox flag down then reached inside.
“Ingram.”
“Well...” He pulled out a letter, and stroked his chin.
There was something about the mailman’s tone. “Well, what?” asked Ingram.
He seemed to make a decision. “You got ID?”
“What for?”
“‘Cause this is from Mrs. Ingrid...er Ingram to you.”
“Of course.” Ingram pulled out his wallet and produced his Navy ID card.
With a nod, the postman handed over the letter along with two others from his mailbag, both bills. “Ain’t supposed to do that, but what the heck. It gets to you quicker anyway. Right?”
“Right. Thanks.”
The mailman walked off
Ingram stuffed the letters in his pocket then reached under the potted geranium finding the key. He let himself in, expecting a joyful, overwhelming feeling. Instead, he sensed dread. He walked to the bedroom finding everything neat and picked up. Same in the living and dinning rooms. Except...in the kitchen, the refrigerator door stood open. He peered inside. Nothing. It had been turned off. Then he punched a wall switch. No electricity!
“Jesus!”
He walked in the dining room and lifted the phone, finding a dial tone. Then he dashed to the garage. It was securely locked, but yes, the Plymouth was there.
Gone. Helen is gone. Hell, he figured, they must have sent her TAD somewhere. Maybe some sort of nursing course. He went back to the dining room, pulled out the address pad and looked up the Fort MacArthur dispensary number.
“Dispensary, Sergeant Thorpe speaking.”
“Helen Ingram, please.”
Gum clacked as Thorpe replied, “Ah … whom may I say is calling?”
“Her husband. Lieutenant Commander Todd Ingram.”
“Ah sh---, er, Yes, Sir. Could you hold on, please?”
“What for? All I want to do is speak to---“
The line went dead. Ingram drummed his fingers for forty-five seconds during which time he vowed that if the little goldbrick didn’t come on the line shortly, he was going to jump in his Plymouth, drive out to the damned dispensary and personally throttle Thorpe, whoever--
“Colonel Moore, speaking.”
What the hell? “I’m Commander Ingram looking for my wife.”
“Where are you?”
None of your damned business! “At home. I just walked in.”
“You haven’t heard?”
The dread that had been lurking in shadows jumped out at him, almost as if it were a living, fire-breathing thing, shoving a hot poker in his stomach. He tried to ignore it, but it swept over him. “Is...is she all right?”
Moore gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, no, Commander. She’s...she’s just fine.”
“May I speak to her, please?” He had to stop himself from saying damnit.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“What?”
“You see she’s been transferred.”
“Whaaaatt! To where?”
Another nervous laugh. “Oh, she’ll do fine. She has plenty of experience with these things, er as you know. She should---“
“Where, damnit!”
“Seventh Army. I put her on the plane at Long Beach just this morning. She said she’d sent you a letter.”
“What unit?”
“Combat Support Hospital, First Division, First Medical Battalion.”
Where’s that?”
“Ah, Bizerte, North Africa.”
“What?” Ingram reached and pulled Helen’s letter out of his coat pocket and slammed it on the table. Opening it, he saw Helen’s near-perfect cursive. The date was yesterday. Then he said, “North Africa. They promised, no more combat. She’s been though hell.”
“Well, Commander, you must admit, she’s in the Army. And it was so sudden. But I tried and tried.”
“Tried to do what?” Ingram demanded.
“Well, first, we spoke with the Commanding Officer of the Third Coastal Armillary Headquarters. Then he referred us to the---“
“Where is she now?”
“On her way, I suppose.”
“What route did she take?”
After an extended silence, Moore said, “You may call me, Sir.”
“Damnit! What route did she take?”
“Mr. Ingram, You’re being insubordinate.”
“Listen, you mealy little backwater sonofabitch. Tell me where she lands next.”
Colonel paused again and said, “Who is your commanding officer?”
“You’re kidding.”
“What unit are you attached to?”
“All I’m trying to do is find my wife and prevent a terrib
le injustice.”
“I asked, Mr. Ingram, ‘who is your commanding officer?’ I’m going to report you.”
“Donald Duck!” Ingram slammed the phone down.
At two in the morning, Ingram awakened on the bed, still clothed. Helen’s aroma surrounded him as he lay there. The thought that she’d slept in this bed just a few hours ago was more than he could stand. By candlelight he rose, shaved, and took a long hot shower; his third since his return. After toweling off, he climbed between the sheets, almost sorry that he did. Her scent was there, she was there, and yet she wasn’t. So near and yet Helen was gone. He re-lit the candle and read her letter again, finding no more clues than what Colonel Moore had relayed late this afternoon.
She finished with,
...I can’t think of anything else, to do, hon. I’ve got to go and between you and me, I don’t think Colonel Moore did his best to get me out of this jam. He’s striking for Brigadier and doesn’t want to shake the trees. The irony is that I’ll probably eat better. The dispensary chow is terrible. And in a sense I’ll be closer to you. Africa is closer to the Solomon Islands than California, isn’t’ it? I don’t know for sure but it’s nice to think so. Oh, I forgot to say that I called Ollie. Of course he was terribly indignant about the whole thing. He said he would put a call into Otis DeWill to see if he can get something moving from MacArthur’s end. So there’s still a chance.
I think of you forever. I know the Howell will keep you safe and bring you back to me healthy and happy. I’ll bet I get home before you, so don’t worry. My love to you again and again and again.
Many long and lingering kisses,
Helen
P.S. Say hello to Boom Boom.
P.P.S. I left Fred next door with Emma Peabody. She loves him and will take good care of him while I’m gone.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 19