Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Right. Get down to basics.”

  “Sorry, Skipper, forgot we have passengers aboard.” Peoples eased the aircraft into a gentle left turn. “By the way, sir, could you please return the flaps to the full up position?”

  Reaching for the flap lever, Radcliff said, “I’ll put a man right on it.”

  Berne, the navigator, said in a falsetto, “Lieutenant Peoples, please try to remember we’re not hauling Spam today.”

  Radcliff muttered, “Yeah, just a bunch of generals, admirals, and Japs.”

  “Yes, sir.” Peoples called over his shoulder. “Oh, Captain?”

  Berne growled, “How can I help you?”

  “Ah, sir, you got a course for us?”

  Berne said, “You sure you can handle all this at one time, Leroy?”

  “Do my best, Captain.”

  “Okay, then,” said Berne. “Steer course one-nine-three and try not to screw it up. Twelve thousand feet.”

  “Yes, sir, Captain Berne. One-nine-three, twelve thousand, and don’t screw it up. Yes, sir.” Peoples reached to set the autopilot.

  Radcliff said to Hammer, “Chief, time to give the box lunches to the Japs.”

  “Right now, sir?”

  “Might as well. And break out the orange juice, too. See that they’re comfortable. Blankets, anything they want.”

  “Well, I mean, these are Japs! Shouldn’t we—”

  “Sergeant. Orders are orders,” said Radcliff.”

  Hammer scratched his belly and stood. “What about our guys? All that brass. What do they eat?”

  “Remember, this morning we all dined on eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice, and coffee. Some of us alfresco, I might add.”

  “Al Fresco. I remember him,” said Hammer. “He was in the 229th. We used to get drunk all the—”

  Radcliff interrupted, “I repeat. The box lunches are for Japs only. And especially not that little turd Neidemeier.”

  Actually, Neidemeier is smarter than I give him credit for, thought Ingram.

  “Japs only. Nothing for the little turd. Yes, sir. Orders is orders.” Hammer walked out.

  The plane droned on with Radcliff and Peoples checking their instruments and writing in logbooks. That done, they began talking politics: Radcliff hated Truman; Peoples loved Truman. Then their talk turned to women. Radcliff loved Jane Russell; Peoples disapproved of her. Berne folded his arms on his chest, put up his feet, tipped his cap over his eyes, and dozed.

  The C-54 gained altitude and settled on course through smooth, bright blue skies. Six P-51s with long-range tanks gathered around, three on each wing.

  With a sigh, Ingram opened the envelope and began to peruse his orders. As he turned pages the name kept ringing in his mind: Fujimoto.

  Chapter Five

  19 August 1945

  One hundred miles south of Okinawa Prefecture en route to Nichols Field, Manila, Luzon Island, Philippines

  “Amazing,” said Ingram.

  “What’s that, Commodore?” called Radcliff.

  “Just damned amazing,” Ingram repeated.

  “What the hell are you reading, Esquire magazine?” asked Radcliff.

  “Orders, Bucky. Something completely unexpected.”

  “You mean the Navy is as screwed up as the Army Air Corps?”

  “Worse.”

  “So, where are you headed?”

  “Same place you are, Nichols Field.”

  “Swell. I already knew that. How bout when we get there? Say, you play poker? We need a fourth.”

  Ignoring Radcliff, Ingram tried to digest what he was reading. A State Department summary enumerated that General MacArthur had been appointed supreme commander of all forces in the Pacific. One of the general’s first demands was that the Japanese provide a delegation to meet with his staff in Manila, hence the two white planes with the green crosses at Ie Shima. The number in the delegation—sixteen—was selected because the Japanese passenger version of their G4M2 could hold only eight people. Once in Manila, they were to negotiate a surrender ceremony to be conducted on board an American ship, yet to be named, in Tokyo Bay. More important, they were to discuss procedures for the immediate release of all Allied prisoners in the Pacific region.

  So much for the background. Specifically, Ingram discovered, he was on this airplane to work with Captain Shiroku Fujimoto on clearing mines in Tokyo Bay, or Lower and Upper Sagami Wan. That’s the musical chairs guy sitting right out there, Ingram thought. He wondered if the man spoke English. He seemed to be following the chatter around him. Maybe so. At any rate, the orders said Captain Fujimoto had been assigned an interpreter, Lieutenant Nogi Tanaka, who was supposed to be among the sixteen Japanese seated back in the cabin.

  But why was the name so familiar? Fujimoto . . . Fujimoto. And what about those sixteen people back there? Army, navy, diplomatic . . . Ingram wondered how many of them knew about the atrocities he’d seen on Corregidor and the Bataan Peninsula. How many had been directly involved in the Bataan Death March? Or, more recently, the horrible stories filtering back from POW camps in the Japanese Home Islands or the ones scattered throughout Asia.

  He wondered how many men back there knew about or were directly involved in his own experience. Had they ordered the raping and pillaging in the Filipino villages whose people had safely hidden his men in the long days of their escape through the Visayans and on to Darwin, Australia? Over the years he had suppressed nightmares about those times, often taking refuge in Helen’s arms. Still, the visions flared in unguarded moments: a stretcher-bound Brian Forester bayoneted by a Japanese soldier in Mindanao; another Japanese soldier bayoneting a wounded Baumgartner on the pier in Penang. Those men had been helpless and worthy of compassion; instead, they were gutted by monsters begat by a monstrous political system.

  Ingram stood and walked aft into the main cabin. Captain Fujimoto looked up and regarded him coolly. They locked eyes for two long seconds, then Fujimoto went back to the remnants of his box lunch, the Marine gunny looking on hungrily.

  Neidemeier was perched on his jump seat across the aisle. Tucking his packet under his arm, Ingram knelt beside him and asked, “Where’s the translator?”

  “I see you’ve finally read your orders.”

  “Not all. Now where’s the translator?”

  Neidemeier sighed and nodded to a well-dressed Japanese civilian seated seven rows back. The man looked at Ingram for a moment, glanced at Neidemeier, then looked away.

  “That’s him?”

  “Nogi Tanaka. I think so. Supposed to speak fluent English, Spanish, and Tagalog.”

  “You think so? Aren’t you supposed to know who these people are?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t know if this is the guy?”

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “You see, the Japanese were instructed to provide sixteen of their top people. But this surrender has been such an embarrassment to them that people disappeared as soon as they were appointed. They just went away. Nobody wants to take responsibility.”

  “Then who are all these guys?” Ingram waved around the cabin.

  “Good question. Whomever they could scrape up, I suppose.”

  “So the roster is not accurate?”

  “It was as of yesterday afternoon. The thing is, we’re not sure if these are their best people.”

  “So how did you make up this list?”

  Neidemeier gave a thin smile. “Oh, no. It wasn’t me. I’m not that good. This comes straight from OSS.”

  “OS—what the hell is an OSS?”

  Neidemeier sighed. “You’ve been at sea too long.”

  “Come on.”

  “OSS: Office of Strategic Services. A secret government agency.” He looked furtively from side to side. “Keep a secret?”

  Ingram almost laughed. This airplane was full of people blabbing secrets. “Sure, ah . . . by the way, what’s your name?”

  “What?”

  “F
irst name; what do they call you?”

  “Clive.”

  “Okay, Clive. I’m Todd. And yes, I can keep a secret.”

  “See that man back there? Blond American, young looking, in a green suit?”

  Ingram craned his neck a bit and rose on his haunches. There. He spotted a very young man, a near teenager, with white-streaked blond hair that spilled across his forehead nearly to his eyebrows. He was seated next to an Air Force general, and they were engaged in an animated conversation, hands waving. “Young is an understatement. Looks like he should be fishing little red whistles out of Cracker Jack boxes.”

  “That’s Colin Blinde. Don’t let his looks fool you. A wunderkind. He graduated from Yale at the age of nineteen. And yes, he’s our OSS man. Feeds me all this stuff, which he filters from the State Department. Then I translate it into militarese.”

  “If that means he’s smart, I don’t want any part of him.”

  “He knows a lot of people in high places. He’s seated next to General Dexter, Curtis LeMay’s second in command.”

  Ingram whistled.

  “Speaking of high places,” Neidemeier nodded to the Japanese captain across the aisle. “Your Captain Fujimoto over there. Originally, we were to have a rear admiral.”

  “An admiral was bumped by a captain?”

  “No, no. We were supposed have Admiral Onishi.”

  “Who is . . . ?”

  “Leader of the kamikaze corps.”

  “Well, where is he?”

  “Committed hara-kiri. Onishi could have done wonders for us. Instead, he slit open his stomach and his throat. Then, in direct defiance of Hirohito’s peace proclamation, our next choice, Vice Admiral Matome Ugaki, flew off.”

  “To where?”

  “Nobody knows. Ugaki was a samurai. He couldn’t bear the shame of defeat. So he strips off all emblems of his rank, climbs into the observer’s seat of a B5N, and takes off in glory on a kamikaze attack on Okinawa on the day peace was declared.”

  “What happened?”

  Neidemeier shrugged. “Don’t know. Ugaki’s plane just . . . disappeared. Conjecture is the combat air patrol got him. Trying to arrange the surrender terms has been just one crisis after another. There was a palace coup. They tried to kill Hirohito.”

  Ingram was shocked. “Who would do such a thing? I thought the emperor was sacrosanct, a god.”

  Neidemeier nodded. “It’s the army. They can’t stand the idea of surrender. If they had their wish, they’d fight to the last bullet . . . the last drop of blood.”

  “I thought the atom bomb taught them otherwise.”

  “One would think so. But they stick their heads in the sand. And they’re still all-powerful in Japan. Do you realize that they have more than a million men in the Kwangtung Army in China?”

  Ingram thought about that. “Maybe so. But they’d have to get to the home islands to fight us, wouldn’t they? And without a navy or air force for transportation . . .”

  “You have a point.”

  “And even in China they need to be supplied, don’t they?”

  “Yes. But keep in mind that the Kwangtung Army is not just an army. It’s a political system and economic machine and military organization all wrapped into one. They are almost self-sufficient. Prime Minister Tojo came out of the Kwangtung Army.”

  “Well, let ’em rot in China,” Ingram said. “Let’s return to the subject. Who staged the revolt on the emperor?”

  “Kwangtung fanatics—junior officers ranking no higher than major—who tried to kill Hirohito.” He looked back into the cabin. “But it was put down after only a few hours. They never got near him. I’ll tell you,” the major added, “these people are burning up their best and brightest even though the shooting has stopped. It’s scary. We need them.”

  “What for?”

  “Who’s going to run the country and prevent a civil war or civil riots? The emperor can’t do it by himself.”

  Ingram nodded.

  Neidemeier waved. “So what we have with us today is a patchwork quilt of Japan’s diplomatic and military staff. We pray their negotiations and commitments are binding. Otherwise, it’s back to . . . God forbid.”

  Ingram thought about all the years at war—the death and horror and fear. Neither he nor anyone else was anxious to go back on the firing line.

  Neidemeier gave a long sigh. “But we were lucky on one score.”

  Ingram’s eyebrows went up. He had to lean in as Neidemeier spoke in a near whisper. “See that general three rows down on the right hand side?”

  Ingram craned his neck to see a bemedaled Japanese general wearing a crisp uniform. His cap rested on a thin briefcase in his lap, and he sat very erect, looking straight ahead. “I see him.”

  “General Torashiro Kawabe, deputy to Imperial Army Chief of Staff General Yoshijiro Umezu, the top officer in the entire Japanese army. With Kawabe along, we may have some pulling power.”

  “Let’s hope.” As the plane droned on, Ingram suddenly understood that General MacArthur was not just going to just walk into Hirohito’s palace and take over. The peace process was not going to be easy. A lot had to happen: on both sides of the Pacific.

  Hammer walked by counting a fistful of ten-dollar bills.

  “You there,” said Neidemeier, “what’s that?”

  Hammer’s lips drew to a grin. “The Japs tipped us for their lunches. Ten bucks apiece. I have over a hundred and fifty smackers. Gonna give it to Bucky and see—”

  Neidemeier stuck out his hand. “Give it to me.”

  “But Major, the Japs are tipping us. That means . . .”

  “Please,” said Neidemeier. “It’s evidence.”

  Hammer’s fists went to his hips. “Evidence of what?”

  Ingram said, “It’s okay, Hammer. Give it to Bucky.”

  “Yes, sir.” A relieved Hammer quickly stepped through the cockpit door.

  Major Neidemeier gave Ingram a fierce look.

  Ingram said, “Forget it, Clive.”

  Neidemeier sputtered, “That’s insubordination.”

  “Forget it. It’ll be something for these guys to tell their grandkids.”

  Neidemeier snorted. “I’ll bet they spend it on women.”

  “Women? Where, Clive? Manila? Tokyo? Those cities are wrecked. They’ll probably lose it in a poker game.” A moment passed as Neidemeier gained control of himself. Ingram flipped to the last page of his orders. “I’ll be damned.”

  “What?”

  He pointed to the signature line.

  “Yes, Otis DeWitt. He works for General Sutherland.”

  “Now I know who sucked me into all this.”

  “You know him?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I see he’s a brigadier now.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Ingram chuckled. “Otis DeWitt a brigadier general? What’s this world coming to?”

  Neidemeier said, “A little advice. Don’t trifle with General DeWitt. He’ll scour you.”

  “He’s a pussycat.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  The day continued clear, and Berne gave the crew a course to fly over the South China Sea down Luzon’s west coast. The landscape below them was dotted with extinct volcanoes, and the terrain looked verdant and tropical. By late afternoon they had dropped to five thousand feet and arrived at the entrance to Manila Bay, an enormous natural harbor thirty miles across. Three of the P-51s accelerated ahead while the other three climbed and took station five hundred feet above the C-54. Ingram stood just behind Radcliff; Berne and Hammer were there too, all peering out the cockpit window.

  Peoples was back at the controls. He popped the C-54 out of autopilot and banked left. Soon they flew right over Corregidor and into Manila Bay.

  Ingram watched the tadpole-shaped island slide under the left wing. He hadn’t been here since 1942. Unlike the Bataan Peninsula to the north and the Pico de Loro Hills to the south, Corregidor was brown and barren, d
evoid of greenery, a victim of the two-month Japanese round-the-clock artillery barrage prior to the invasion. Memories flooded: his ship, the minesweeper Pelican, had been bombed and sunk in a cove at nearby Caballo Island. Several of his men had died there. He and the remainder of his crew had taken refuge with 11,000 GIs and Filipino Scouts on Corregidor, a 3-mile-long island able to accommodate only 4,000. Many were escapees from Bataan and were terribly wounded. Ingram watched many die.

  Corregidor did hold one bright spot in his memory. He had met Helen on Corregidor. He wondered what it was like now in the Malinta Tunnel’s hospital lateral where she had worked so hard to save soldiers, amputating arms and legs without anesthetic as artillery shells thundered overhead. During the last two months before being evacuated by submarine she had worked in that putrid atmosphere with scant supplies, limited equipment, and almost no food or sleep.

  Radcliff seemed to understand. “Been there, Commander?”

  “Yes, I have,” Ingram said softly.

  “Yeah.” Radcliff waved a hand toward Manila, almost hidden beneath haze. Smoke rose from the hills to the left. He said to Peoples, “What do you think, Leroy? Can you find Nichols Field in all that goop?”

  “Do my best, Bucky. The chart says ten miles south of town.” Peoples looked a bit nervous, sitting forward, his back erect.

  Radcliff keyed his mike, held up a hand as he checked in with the tower. “We’re cleared to land. Altimeter 29.62. Runway two-four.”

  They set their altimeters, then Peoples said, “Roger runway two-four.”

  “That’s it. Come a little bit more right and have at it, my man. And get us down to two thousand feet.” Radcliff looked up at Ingram and winked.

  “Roger, Skipper.”

  “And try not to screw it up, Leroy,” said Berne.

  “Shut up, Jon,” said Peoples.

  Berne crowded in. “Hey, you can’t—”

  Radcliff turned around and, giving Berne a cold look, chopped a hand across his throat.

  Berne nodded and stepped back.

  “Cavite.” Ingram picked out the Cavite naval station off to the right. Ahead, a long runway appeared out of the dust.

  “Voila, Leroy! You did it,” cried Radcliff. “Hey, look at that.”