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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  He liked impersonating Marines better. They were close to the earth and elements. They knew how to fight. They knew how to kill. And Augustine Rivera whose father was a Chicago meat-packer had taught him about that. Growing up in Cicero had completed his education.

  Rivera could have traveled on regular orders. But people had habits of radioing ahead, with senior officers helping their people out, issuing warnings, allowing his prey to hide out.

  He’d learned the hard way.

  Do it to them before they do it to you.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  12 April, 1943

  Kotukuriana Island,

  Solomon Islands

  “...where the hell are they?” muttered Bollinger.

  “Still must have their hands full,” said Landa, referring to the mind-numbing number of Japanese aircraft that had flown down The Slot five days ago. The skies had filled ominously with the sound of Japanese aircraft engines. Hundreds, so many the noise was overwhelming. Gambino picked his way through the muck to the other side of the island to watch them fly down the Strait. Then he came back wide-eyed, reporting breathlessly that the whole damn Jap air force was on its way to Guadalcanal.

  Two hours later, the planes were back. But this time, Gambino reported that American fighters jumped them from time to time. He’d seen two Japanese planes fall from the sky, in flames, far out into the Strait.

  Landa’s mind snapped back to the present. “Don’t worry Oscar. They’ll find us.”

  Bollinger said, “Yeah, but that PBY yesterday. He has to have been looking for us. They just don’t know where we are.”

  “And they’ll try again,” said Landa.

  “Maybe the Japs hit them so hard they wiped the place out. Maybe they counter attacked, you know, re-invaded Guadalcanal,” said Bollinger.

  Landa rolled in his make-shift hammock to look at Bollinger. He was senior in rank, but he’d stepped aside to let Bollinger stay in command since it was his crew. Besides, Landa’s foot was mangled. He couldn’t walk. His ankle was swollen like a balloon and hurt like hell. Now he wondered if he’d made the right decision. “Come on, Oscar. Go read the Sunday paper and shut up, for crying out loud.”

  “Today’s Monday.”

  “Sorry, I lost track.” Landa rolled to his back, put his hands behind his head and tried not to think of his foot.

  “Let’s hope we can use the signal mirrors.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” replied Landa. Yesterday, when the dumbo flew over, they’d had their signal mirrors ready, but it was overcast. No chance to reflect sunlight at the searching rescue plane. It had been rainy off and on the entire eight days they’d been trapped here, which is one reason they hadn’t been found. Landa didn’t know which was worse, sitting here and slowly rotting or having the sun come out, with the mosquitoes eating them to death. As it was, they had leaches, bats, land crabs, stingrays and jungle grunge.

  Eight days, it may as well have been eight decades. It seemed so long ago that they’d been shot up by cannon fire from his ship. Damn, that made Landa mad. Those bastards were on his ship, eating whatever was left in his store rooms, smoking his American cigarettes, while sitting back and plopping their split-toed sandals up on his ward-room table. Shit!

  A couple of lucky shots had wiped out PT 94's starboard and center engines. And the port engine wasn’t long for the world. So rather than struggle exposed in the New Georgia Strait, Bollinger whipped his wheel and steered through the Lingutu passage, separating Mondo Mondo and Kotukuriana Islands. Belching smoke, PT-94's port engine took them southeast along the passage between Kotukuriana and the New Georgia Islands. Things went well for five hundred yards, but then the engine threw a rod, giving out entirely. With the boat holed and sinking, Bollinger had no choice but to nose into a mangrove swamp. PT-94's bottom ground on rocks and tree stumps until she lurched to a pathetic, mind-numbing halt. With Ensign Thomas’s lifeless body lying on the cockpit grating, Bollinger and Landa looked at one another, stupefied, refusing to believe the collective 4,000 horsepower that the throttles once summoned was no longer available.

  An armed Japanese barge appeared almost immediately, raking PT-94, killing one of her men and wounding another. But Bollinger’s men rallied with their fifty caliber machine guns and forty millimeter canon, driving them off. But not before a fire started. They barely had time to grab small arms, a few parcels of food, an emergency radio and dash off the boat which exploded with a great roar, the 100 octane gas sending a roiling red-black mushroom cloud up into the rain.

  Oddly, the Japanese left them alone after that. It seemed strange. The enemy occupied what they called Fort Mondo Mondo leaving Landa, Bollinger and his crew holed up next door on Kotukuriana Island, living alongside the Japanese in an unsettled peace. With the boat burned out under a thick jungle canopy, there seemed no way to draw attention from rescuers. And now, their food was nearly gone, another man had died, and it was still raining.

  If only the damned emergency radio worked. The receiver was shot, but Gambino, the radar genius, was working on it. So they kept grinding the hand-cranked generator, transmitting every four hours, hoping against hope.

  Landa lay back in his hammock. Bollinger and Gambino had made it for him from jungle vines and strung it between trees so Landa could keep the weight off his foot and keep away from the land crabs. It started raining again and he held his hand over his face as water dripped though the trees. It turned to a downpour, and he tried to think of home, of New York, of Brooklyn---

  Someone yanked at his sleeve. “Huh?”

  “Bambino re-wired the receiver. Now we’re hearing something,” said Bollinger.

  “No kidding?”

  “A faint signal. Can’t tell if they hear us or not.”

  “Shit!” Gambino shouted from across the clearing.

  “What?” yelled Bollinger.

  “Connection broke. I gotta do it again.”

  Bollinger yelled from the corner of his mouth, “So what are you waiting, for, Baby face? Hurry up. I have a date Saturday night, so I’d like to get back if you don’t mind.”

  “...yes, Sir.”

  Bollinger looked at Landa. The corner of his mouth turned up.

  He’s doing better, thought Landa.

  Bollinger said, “That kid has talent. Someday he’ll put us all to shame, after he invents some new electronic whiz-bang shit and becomes a millionaire.”

  Fire raged through Landa’s swollen foot. “Ahhh...must be infected.” Both looked at the foot for a moment, then averted their glance. The pain finally subsided, but the foot kept throbbing. He didn’t know if that was good or bad. Supposing, he said to himself, the damn thing is so badly infected it’s ready to fall off. Would I feel pain? Or maybe, it’s getting better and the pain is just letting me know that--- “What?”

  “---said, ‘looks like these are yours.’“ Bollinger handed over two crumpled envelopes. “Bambino was scrounging for parts and found them in your camera case.”

  Landa remembered the mail clerk aboard the Whitney had handed him a couple of letters just before leaving. He’d forgotten all about them. “Thanks.”

  Bollinger made to walk away.

  “Oscar.”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep on grinding.”

  “Thanks, Jerry.”

  “For what?”

  “You know.” Bollinger walked off.

  The rain had let up, and there was enough afternoon light to read. One letter was an invoice from an attorney for settling Josh’s estate. The second letter was stamped AIR MAIL -- SPECIAL DELIVERY and was from, “My God, Laura.” He was amazed to see the postmark was dated March 31, just thirteen days ago

  Quickly, he ripped it open, trying to keep errant rain-drops off the paper.

  March 31, 1943

  Dear Jerry,

  Three things:

  First: I want to again thank you again for taking time from your bereavement leave to see me and try and help me when I wa
s in the dumps. Please accept my deepest apologies for my behavior. I have no excuse. It just seemed the thing to do. A violinist in our orchestra lost a son over Europe and swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. But they pumped her stomach and now, she seems back on the road. She’s divorced and her son was her life so I know how it must have hit her

  Sometimes I wonder. Was she really trying to kill herself when she did that? Or was she trying to kill it someone else? If so, who? Her son for walking out on her? Her ex-husband who left so long ago? It makes me I wonder, who was I trying to kill with all the drinking? Me? Luther, for having the temerity to get killed? Maybe it’s just as well that I don’t know.

  Second: I have a confession. Luther was my life, I’m sure, except I really didn’t know him that well. I know that now. I think most marriages must be that way; a process of glorious discovery and evolution over a long period of time. Luther and I had only known each other for thirteen months. Of that, we were married five months. Much of the time, he’d been at sea. I wish I’d known him better. Mrs. Thatcher tells me in marriage, that comes with time. And now, my time for Luther is gone. Of course, his time is now infinite and besides, he’s with God. In death, we did part. In the interim, I feel guilty and dirty. And I don’t know why. I think that is what makes me want to drink. The damn guilt --It’s a vicious circle.

  Third: About last night. I suppose you’re gone now so whatever happens, happens. Maybe we won’t see each other, but then again, maybe so. The rational part of me says you did the intelligent thing by walking out. On the surface it all seems right; proper for Luther’s memory. So I’ll not bore you with how I felt later. But you should have seen Larry Dunnigan. He was really angry when he found out you had left. He nearly fired Klosterman on the spot. (That man is such a fop isn’t he?)

  Forget the guilt, Jerry. It will rip you up, wherever you go. Now I’ll make you a deal. You write to me and I’ll stay off the booze. I’ll give you until tomorrow night to receive your letter. Then I get knee-walking, commode hugging drunk again. Just kidding. I’ll try, I hope you do too. Until then,

  Love

  Laura

  Landa lay back, clutching the envelope to his chest.

  Guilt.

  Landa thought, There I was, hugging and kissing Luther Dutton’s widow in some posh Long Beach hotel. What a bastard you are, Landa. But then, she is a living, caring intelligent, good looking woman, so warm, so accomplished. Just the sound of her voice gave him a tingling in the nape of his neck.

  Guilt.

  Damnit! She’s Luther’s widow, and I’m thinking like a fraternity boy on a Saturday night.

  Guilt.

  Carefully, he folded the letter and tucked it under his shirt, the driest spot he could think of. “Arrrgh” Pain shot up his leg as he rolled to his side. Then it started raining. In the day’s dimming light he watched the tiny droplets hit the water, making perfectly symmetrical little craters far out in Marovo Lagoon. It built to a cloudburst and roared. The only sign of civilization was Bollinger’s pathetic Sterno fire about ten feet away, where men huddled, taking solace more from the light than what little heat it offered.

  Guilt.

  After a while, he smiled and his foot stopped hurting. He turned his face to the sky and said, “Not guilty, your Honor.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  13 April, 1943

  Imperial Japanese Navy Eighth Air Fleet Headquarters

  Rabaul, New Britain island

  Bismarck Archipelago

  Dusk fell; the last of the planes had returned two hours ago. Still wearing dress whites, Yamamoto sat at a table in the pilot’s briefing hut beside an old friend, Vice Admiral Jisaburo Ozawa, Commander in Chief of the Imperial Third Fleet. Sitting at the end of the table was the ever-present Captain Yasuji Watanabe. Across the room sat Captain Kanji Takano, a non-smoker, keeping a respectful distance from blue clouds swirling about.

  In the waning light, the last air crew shuffled out and climbed onto a stake truck, its gears clanking sharply as it pulled away. The three senior officers scanned their notes while birds squawked and monkeys screeched outside, the night re-capturing the jungle.

  They had just finished the last of four massive air-raids and were summing up the results of Operation I: First, they had hit Tulagi in the Lower Solomons on the 7th, then New Guinea in three places; Oro Bay on the 11th; Port Moresby on the 12th; and today, Milne Bay.

  A monkey whooped in the distance, as Watanabe lit a cigarette and meticulously added up columns. At length, he coughed politely and said, “Gensui, with these four missions, the enemy has lost one cruiser, one destroyer, twenty-five transports, and 134 airplanes.”

  Takano waved a hand at Watanabe’s smoke. “It looks as if we sunk two, not one destroyer, Gensui.”

  Watanabe sighed.

  Yamamoto overlooked the intrusion and said to Ozawa, “Excellent, just excellent.”

  “Congratulations, Sir.” Watanabe bowed.

  Ozawa nodded his approval.

  “Four missions is all we can do for now. We have had these planes on loan too long. It’s time.” To Watanabe Yamamoto said, “Give the order. Send them all back.” He turned to Ozawa and said, “Thank you for your patience.”

  “An honor, Sir,” said Ozawa. Most of the planes used on Operation I had belonged to Ozawa who was reluctant to bring up the fact that fifty-one planes had not returned. The worst was the loss of his irreplaceable pilots.

  Takano said, “If I may suggest, Gensui, that we stage another raid on Tulagi. Perhaps even the Russells. The Americans have a PT base there that is---“

  “Takano!” said Yamamoto.

  All eyes snapped to Yamamoto. They were surprised to hear him speak sharply.

  “Sir!” Takano fairly sat at attention.

  “I have a job for you.”

  “You do?” A sense of hope rushed through Takano. Quickly, he added, “Sir.” After the bollix last week with the fuse off the Matukaze, he’d been completely ignored. Everyone knew Yamamoto was looking for a way to diplomatically get rid of him.

  “The Matukaze,” said Yamamoto. “I want you to board her and return to that American destroyer.”

  “Return, Sir? But weBA

  “--You don’t know for sure. Perhaps Enomoto overlooked something. Try again, damnit! I want you there this time.”

  “I, uh yes, Sir. But the Matukazeis laid up. It’s her starboard shaft. They’re waiting for aBA

  “I don’t give a damn about the Matukaze’s shaft. You go aboard her and have it fixed. Use my name, damnit. If it’s not fixed within two days then you have just one shaft to get you down there and back. Is that clear?”

  Watanabe felt almost sorry for Takano. The man’s lip quivered and a silence descended, the sound of guttural voices giving over to the penetrating screeching of New Britain’s jungle.

  “Yes, Sir,” said Takano.

  “Then go,” said Yamamoto. “Watanabe will cut your orders.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Takano walked out.

  Watanabe bit his fingernails as Ozawa looked serenely out the window.

  “Where’s Ugaki?” demanded Yamamoto.

  “Dengue fever. The doctor put him to bed,” said Watanabe.

  “Ahh.”

  “What is it Gensui?” asked Ozawa.

  “I’m about done here. I’ll be returning to Truk, soon.”

  “Yes?” said Ozawa.

  “Before I go, I’d like to tour some installations and see those lads up close.”

  “Good idea,” said Ozawa. “They would appreciate it.”

  “Where would you like to go?” asked Watanabe.

  “I’d like to see the people at Buin, Bellale, and Shortland Islands,” said Yamamoto.

  Watanabe and Ozawa exchanged glances.

  “Is there something wrong?” asked Yamamoto.

  “Do you think that’s wise, Sir?” asked Ozawa.

  Yamamoto fixed him with a gaze.

  Ozawa said, “I mean Bellale and
Shortland are at the lower tip of Bougainville, only a little over three hundred air miles from the Americans on Guadalcanal.”

  “Yes?”

  Ozawa stood his ground. “I mean, they could shoot you down, Gensui.”

  “How would they ever know I was there in the first place?”

  “Coast watchers, perhaps?”

  “Nonsense.” Yamamoto turned to Watanabe, “Schedule it for me. Make it on the eighteenth, weather permitting. I’ll return to Truk the following day.”

  “Sir, I beg you to re-consider,” Ozawa said in a tight voice..

  “I really must do this. Our boys need it.” Yamamoto clapped a hand on Ozawa’s shoulder.

  “Perhaps, Sir, if you spoke with Ugaki.” Watanabe interjected,

  “Whatever for? You just told me he’s in bed with dengue fever. He needs his rest.” Yamamoto’s eyes narrowed. “Now set up the schedule.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Watanabe.

  “I’ll be going back up the hill, now. Please send for my car.” He turned to Ozawa. “Would you care to join me for dinner?”

  “Yes, Sir. If you don’t mind, give me five minutes to finish a few details here,” said Ozawa.

  “You, too, Watanabe?”

  “Thank you, Sir. That sounds very nice.”

  “All right. But before you go, get the message out. I want them to have time to prepare. I’ll wait outside. The sunset is beautiful.” Yamamoto walked out.

  Ten seconds after Yamamoto left, Ozawa snatched off his hat and threw it against the wall, “This is asinine! Doesn’t that fool realize how dangerous that is?”

  Watanabe drew his breath in sharply at hearing the Gensui referred to as a ‘fool.’