“Hell. I write to her. And what about the letters she sends me?”
“Don’t open them. Tie them in a bundle. Don’t answer anything until you’re about ready to go home. Then, when you have orders stateside, answer Janet’s letters as fast as you can and zip on home to her.”
As Tubby thought that over, PT-72 headed down a wave. Suddenly her transom whipped to starboard and she began sliding sideways. “Whoa!” He twirled the helm to starboard just in time. The boat straightened out at the last moment, hit the flat, then began to trudge up the front of another wave.
Spray flew past and a forty-knot gust howled in their ears. Then the wind eased and Tubby said, “Wisdom, I guess, comes with the Navy Cross.”
“That’s not the Navy Cross talking. That’s Ernest Hemingway.” Ingram decided not to tell Tubby about hearing it from Landa.
“No shit?”
“No sh---Look out!”
The wave was so big Ingram lost sight of the horizon. At least forty feet he guessed.
Tubby added power, then more power. Soon, they were climbing at a forty five degree angle. In desperation, Tubby added full power.
Ingram held on. All he could see was the mountain before them and, strangely, Winston Fuller’s chalk-white face in the hatchway where he death-gripped a grabrail. PT-72 pitched over the top with Tubby chopping the power just as they slid into the trough, great sheets of water whipping into their faces.
Tubby laughed and it made Ingram angry. Angry that he was so scared; angry at Tubby’s impertinence; angry at his nonchalance about the wave. And why the hell wasn’t Tubby scared?
“What about you?” Tubby yelled.
“What about me?” Ingram sputtered. “What about that damned wave?”
“Leave the driving to me.”
“Okay.” Ingram didn’t have a choice and so far, he admitted, they were still alive.
“Now what your wife? What’s her name?”
“Helen.”
“Yeah. Helen. I’ve seen your stacks of mail. You mean to tell me you don’t read her stuff, or write to her?”
Ingram thought that one over. He yelled into a gust, “honest answer?”
“Please.”
“I devour her letters and write every damned moment I can.”
In spite of the wind and rain and wildly pitching boat, Tubby turned to Ingram. They locked eyes for a full two seconds, an eternity.
Ensign Fuller popped his head out of the hatch. “How’s it going?
Ingram and Tubby White began giggling, then laughing, louder and louder.
“What did I say?” said Fuller.
Ingram and Tubby laughed into the wind, the sound yanked from their throats and mingling with the spray.
At two in the morning, the storm abated and a pale half moon sifted through the clouds. They crept within the lee of New Georgia and soon were a mile off the coast cruising at ten knots with the engines muffled, battle stations manned.
Suddenly Fuller whooped from the chart room.
“What?” said Tubby White.
Fuller’s deep voice caromed up the hatchway, “It’s Mr. Bollinger. We have him weak, but clear, on CW.”
“Where is he?”
“Kotukuriana Island. Inside. All we do is take the Lingutu passage into Marovo Lagoon. They’re about a five hundred yards southeast.”
“So how do I get there?” asked Tubby.
“Come left about three degrees. That should put us on course for the entrance.”
“Got it.” Tubby eased his wheel.
“Also, Mr. Bollinger says to watch out,” said Fuller. “A Nip DD has been patrolling out here. And he says there may be Japs on the Mondo Mondo side of the entrance.”
Quickly Ingram and Tubby scanned the horizon with binoculars. Ingram looked at Tubby who shook his head. Then they scanned Mondo Mondo Island.
Nothing.
Tubby called down the hatch, “We can’t see anything. How about radar?”
“No contacts, Sir. Clean as a whistle.”
“There’s the entrance. What do you think?” Tubby nodded toward where little white wavelets cascaded over rocks.
“Looks clear back there. Let’s try it --- hold it.” Ingram did another one-hundred eighty degree sweep aft with his binoculars.
“What?”
Ingram scanned forward, toward Mondo Mondo. Damn! “Look. See that?”
“Yeah, there’s something.” Tubby twirled his lens knob. “Yeah, there’s a barge moored right alongside the Howell.”
“Right.” Ingram’s heart sank. “We have to do something right now.”
“It’s a damned work party.” Tubby’s voice rose a notch. “Japs are offloading the ship’s ammo onto a barge.” His eyes were wide as he looked into Ingram’s eyes. “That’s five-inch stuff. What the hell would they want with that?”
“That’s five inch ammo, all right. Worse, it’s five-inch proximity-fuse ammo they’re offloading.”
“Shit! They’re going to haul it off and...and...copy it and shoot it back at us.” Tubby pounded a fist. “Hell! We gotta do something. Winnie. Get Tulagi on the horn. Get some airplanes up here and bomb the crap out of them.”
Ingram lay a hand on Tubby’s arm. “I don’t think so.” He pointed at the Howell. “See that?”
Tubby hunkered down behind his binoculars. “A tug?”
“Yeah. That barge will be long gone before daybreak. Planes may not find them. They could pull into shallows under trees somewhere and hide until the following night. And it’s not far to their airfields at Vila or Buin or Munda. A few hours ride. Then they fly the stuff out.”
“Aw, shit!”
“Yes. Shit.”
“Okay, then. I’ll lob a fish into them. Hell, I’ll let them have all four fish.”
“Can they run that shallow?”
“Don’t know. We can try.”
Ingram pressed, “And what happens if a torpedo hits the barge or the ship. Chances are it wont detonate the ammo.”
Tubby stared into the darkness. “There has to be something.”
“There is.”
“Well, fill me in, would you please?”
“Okay, Tubby. Here’s what we have to do.”
Augustine Rivera wished he were back in airplanes. Anything but these stinking, pounding, tooth-jarring PT boats. He’d been seasick when they pushed off into rough weather out of Tulagi. For the first time in his life, he was thankful for the intervention of a Supreme Being when the engines gave out. From what he’d overheard, he suspected that they having gas filter problems.
But PT-88s skipper, Tommy “Hubba Hubba,” Madison, a grinning, solidly built ex-USC quarterback had radioed ahead to the Russell Islands PT base. Parts were waiting on the pier. Miraculously, the engines were quickly fixed, the Marines disembarked, PT-88 underway again.
And now, they were growling up The Slot at full speed, occasionally jumping a wave, making Rivera’s stomach feel as it were a piñata ready to burst.
“How you feeling, Major?” Madison stood easily at his wheel, steering with just the index finger of his right hand.
“Like shit.”
“Well, don’t go below, You’ll loose it all.”
The PT jumped the top of a wave its engines racing as the screws came out of the water. Rivera quickly braced himself.
WHACK!
The sonofabitch is enjoying this, Rivera realized. Madison isn’t trying to steer around the waves. Swallowing his pride, he asked, “Got any Dramamine?”
“That’ll put you to sleep, Major.” Tommy Madison yelled into the chart house. “Hey Waterman. “Anything new?”
Over the engine’s throaty roar, Rivera heard, “Yeah, we just raised Tubby.”
“What’s he have to say?”
“Waiting for us. Wants us to rendezvous and do something.”
“Not one of his stunts,” said Tommy.
“Whose Tubby White?” asked Rivera.
“Football buddy.”
“Where did you guys go?”
“USC.”
“No kidding. So did I,” grinned Rivera who never went to college. He racked his brain. What the hell were they called? The Centurions? Spartans? Athenians?
“You were a Trojan?”
“Yeah, I tried out for football but they said I was too small,” said Rivera.
“I’ll be damned.” Tommy Madison yelled down the companionway, “Hey Waterman. Pass up some crackers. On the double.”
“...Sir.”
A package flew though the hatch. Madison’s hand leaped out, catching it in mid-air. “Here. Best thing for you.”
“Thanks.” Rivera laid a cracker on his tongue and forced himself to munch.
“Still can’t figure why you didn’t stay with your Marines, Sir.”
Actually, it was a blessing in disguise when the Marines disembarked. After receiving St. Clair’s message, he’d fast-talked himself aboard PT-88. But the sergeant became edgy and began asking pointed questions. Rivera was having trouble putting him off. “Reconnaissance, Lieutenant. We need information on the Jap garrison and I got stuck with the job.”
“I see. Uh. Do you mind, Major?” Madison pointed at the crackers.
Rivera handed over the package, noticing Tommy Madison was driving with both hands, steering around the waves, the boat crashing less and less.
Madison shoved three crackers in his mouth. “Fight on, Trojans.”
What the hell is he talking about? “Fight on.”
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
15 April, 1943
PT-72
Off Mondo Mondo Island
New Georgia Sound, Solomon Islands
The Higgins built PT Boat was rated in excess of forty knots. But Little Lulu had three things going against her: her three engines were sadly in need of overhaul; she carried hundreds of pounds of extra ammo and fuel; and worse, she’d been on the run so much, her bottom was covered with cancerous-looking tubers and barnacles.
Tubby White made a show of shoving the throttles against the stops. He waved a hand toward the knotmeter with a sheepish grin and yelled over the Packard’s growl, “Thirty-four knots, that’s it for poor old Lulu.” He waved to PT-88, keeping station 200 yards aft and slightly to port. Even Tommy Madison is faster than us. “And I used to beat him all the time.”
With the boat soon to engage the enemy, they were all jumpy. Ingram checked his watch. Less than three minutes to go; then they would dash past the Howell with all guns blazing. “Okay, Tubby, Give it all you got. See you in ...how long?”
“Ninety minutes?”
“Okay. Ninety minutes. Ingram checked his watch, “It’s now 1127, so let’s say at 0100.”
“Right, 0100.”
“But if I’m not there, I want you to take off. That’s an order. Okay?”
Tubby touched his helmet brim with his forefinger. “Yes, Sir.”
“Okay.” Ingram turned and walked aft.
Tubby stepped from his helm and said, “Take it, Winnie.” He followed Ingram into the gloom, finding him near the transom. “Todd, hold on.”
Ingram spun. “What?”
“Let me go with you. I mean, by yourself, this is a suicide mission.”
Ingram knew that if he talked to anyone right now he’d probably cry like a baby. So he bent over and made a show of checking the items he’d transferred from the Marine’s demolition kit. Aloud, he said, “Five TNT blocks, fifty feet of detonating cord, hmmm, let’s see, okay; one block of Composition C-4; and here’s the five blasting caps; 100 feet of time fuse and four, no five M-60 fuse lighters. Best we can do.” He sealed the water-tight pouch, then nudged it toward the port rail where it lay alongside a one-man liferaft pack. As an afterthought, he reached in another satchel, pulled out six hand grenades and tossed them in his pouch. “Insurance,” he muttered.
Tubby moved closer. “I said, ‘Let me go with you,’ damnit. You’re doing a Hari-Kari.”
“If I can’t get the Howell to blow, Tubby, it’s you who’ll do the suicide mission with Little Lulu.” Ingram looked out to sea for a moment massaging his belly, willing away the rising bile. For some reason, he’d forgotten to draw paregoric when he prepared for this mission earlier in the day. Actually, he wasn’t supposed to need any. This was to be a cake-walk. Pick up Landa and PT-94's crew, let the Marines blow up the Howell and waltz on home. But now, the specter of single-handedly facing the enemy staggered him.
His stomach surged and he gagged, turning from White to cover his mouth.
“You okay, skipper?”
“Never better.” Just then his stomach surged and he let out a tortured croak that mingled with the Packard’s roar.
“Then how ‘bout letting me go with you?”
Trying his best to look casual, Ingram made a show of cinching the .45 automatic pistol in his shoulder holster. Take my place, you idiot. I’d be glad to drive your boat. Fire raged in his belly, but he managed to hold it down. He sat on the aft torpedo mount, kicked off his boots and began lacing on a pair of sneakers. “You know, Tubby, sometimes you can’t see the forest from the cactus bushes.”
“What?”
“In case you don’t realize it, you’re captain of this vessel and you’re not going to abandon her. And damnit, you’re going to carry out your mission.”
“What I meant was---“
“---The U.S.S. Howell, a ship of the United States Navy, will be off the starboard beam in about sixty seconds. I’ll need cover so you better hop to it.”
“But you got Tommy Madison.” Tubby jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at PT-88.
“For crying out loud, Tubby. This is your boat. Act like it.”
Tubby’s shoulders sagged. He held out his hand. “Good luck.”
“Give ‘em everything you got, Captain.” Ingram shook.
“You do the same, Todd, and come back to us. We’ll be waiting. Okay?”
“Okay. 0100.”
“0100.” Tubby clapped Ingram on the shoulder and walked forward.
Ingram turned to the 40 millimeter gun-crew and asked the pointer, “I need someone to toss my gear when I jump.”
“You bet, Sir.” The trainer nodded to a loader. “Hey Blake. Throw that stuff over when the Commander takes his dive.” The tone of his voice said, ‘this son-of-a-bitch is crazy but we gotta do what he sez.’ Then gun trainer hunkered down to his sight, working his hand wheel, training the gun a bit forward.
A thin, barechested sailor, wearing just boots and a helmet, emerged from behind the mount, clutching a clip of 40 millimeter ammunition. He was a wide-eyed seaman apprentice, no more than nineteen years of age. “Sir?”
“I go as soon as the shooting starts.” In spite of the warm night, Ingram’s teeth chattered.
“Yes, Sir.”
Twenty seconds later, they curved around a spit of land, and the Howell’s ghostly hulk hove into view, no more than 500 yards distant.
The talker yelled, “Commence fire!”
Forward, the twin fifty calibers began chattering, joined by the foredeck-mounted twenty millimeter canon. Seconds later, the 40 millimeter pointer hit his foot treadle and the gun roared into the darkness. Aft, PT-88's guns opened up, flashes spitting from their barrels.
Ingram shouted over the din, “Ever volunteer for anything, son?”
Blake shook his head.
“Me neither. So let this be a lesson to you.” He jumped into the night.
Ingram was still churning and tumbling underwater when PT-88 roared past. He didn’t see a dark figure jump off her transom.
The wake tore at him and he held his breath, flipping over and over. Finally, the water smoothed a bit. He clawed for the surface, gasping for air, the water still frothing as Little Lulu blazed away at the Howell. The two bundles bobbed less than ten feet away. He grabbed their straps and swam for the beach, a hundred yards distant. Soon, he felt the gentle swell of the surf and knew he was about to touch bottom. A last glance to his left proved that Lit
tle Lulu had disappeared into the night and by now, was most likely slowing for the Lingutu Passage.
Suddenly, an eerie feeling washed over Ingram. He looked to his right. “What the hell?”
To the northwest, a Japanese destroyer glided around the cape, slowly, deliberately, with very little way on.
“Oh, God, no.”
Knife drawn, Rivera tread water just five yards behind his prey. He turned and ducked holding his position underwater for thirty full seconds. Finally, he rose, poking just the top of his head above water.
Shit! Ingram had already made it ashore and into the jungle. Rivera had intended to take Ingram on the swim in and then simply run down the beach and swim out to PT-88, now laying off the Lingutu Passage, covering PT-72's rescue efforts. But all that damned tumbling in PT-88s wake had cost him precious seconds. And then Ingram had suddenly turned around, nearly spotting him. Now the tables were turned. Ingram could see him more easily from shore.
Wait.
Rivera tread water for five minutes with just his face out. Exasperated and out of options, he dog paddled for some rocks, pulling his .45 from his shoulder holster as he rose from the water. His training took over. What would I do if I were Ingram. St. Clair hadn’t said so but with all this, the guy could be a Jap spy. But then, Rivera hesitated. Could Ingram really be a Jap spy? A look at the Howell and a look at the Japanese destroyer slowly approaching seemed to be a rendezvous of some sort. Maybe. But the more he thought about it, the more he came up with riddles rather than answers.
Augustine Rivera crawled over some rocks, and found Ingram’s footsteps, leading directly to the Howell. Is he really here to talk to Japs? Better find out. Better put a stop to this shit.
Rivera started walking.
With PT-88 cruising in figure eight’s outside, Tubby took Little Lulu straight in the Lingutu Channel at ten knots, Fuller calling radar ranges and bearings. A minute later, they turned left into Morovo Lagoon. Almost at once, a thin beam of light winked at them from just off the port bow. “Gotta be them,” said Tubby. He called to his crew, “Keep a sharp eye, you guys. Winnie. Get up here.”
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 36