Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “When we get off the ground,” Ingram corrected.

  “Roger that,” said Radcliff.

  “How long before he tests it?”

  “Pretty soon.”

  “No kidding?” Ingram looked over to engine four. Hammer and Peoples stood on a platform, surrounded by cowling and tools. He couldn’t see their faces. Both were shirtless and muttering as they clanked and tinkered at the engine. Oil dripped everywhere.

  “I’ll let you know when we’re ready to test, Todd.”

  Ingram said, “Okay, I’m off to secure our guest.”

  “Who?”

  “Walter Boring.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “It’s why we’re here, Bucky.”

  Radcliff gave him a look that said bullshit.

  Hammer walked up. “I think we can give it a go.”

  “You sure?” said Radcliff.

  “Only way to tell is to give it a shot. Can I have a bottle?”

  “Right.” Radcliff ducked back and reappeared with a fire extinguisher.

  Peoples walked up, oil smeared all over his torso. “Try not to flood it, Bucky.”

  “Damn it, Leroy, I know how to start an engine.”

  “I wonder at times,” countered Peoples.

  A muttering Radcliff ducked from the hatchway and soon appeared at the copilot’s window, sliding it open. “Gimme a minute.” He looked down and checked switches and gauges. “Everything away from the engine?”

  Hammer said, “Everything except the cowl. And that’s right here under the wing.”

  “Okay. Clear prop!” yelled Radcliff.

  The starter motor wound up to full rpm; Radcliff engaged the propeller.

  Out of curiosity, Ingram asked, “How far does he wind it?”

  “Twelve blades should do it,” said Hammer.

  Radcliff gave a thumbs up and watched closely as the propeller slowly turned.

  Ingram tried to keep up. Twelve blades for a three-bladed propeller meant four complete revolutions before Radcliff switched on the magneto.

  The blades swung gracefully through the air. Suddenly the engine coughed. Flames gushed out the exhaust stacks. A plume of blue-black smoke followed. Then it began to catch, a few cylinders at a time. It sputtered and backfired. Then all fourteen cylinders caught and the engine roared to life.

  They grinned at one another as Radcliff ran it for a couple of minutes to smooth it out. Finally, Hammer drew a finger across his throat. Radcliff nodded and cut the engine. Radcliff barked, “Secure the cowl, Chief, and get ready to get the hell out of here.”

  “What about number three?” Hammer asked.

  “Do what you can, but I want to get out of here at a moment’s notice. Right, Todd?”

  “You bet.”

  “Okay, let’s get at it,” said Hammer. He went over to the work stand and with Peoples helping began replacing the cowl.

  Ingram called up, “Bucky, can you send Mr. Blinde to the hatch?”

  “He’s right here.” Radcliff stepped away and Blinde appeared. “Yes? What is it?”

  “Sorry to bother you,” Ingram said with exaggerated politeness. The sarcasm earned a cold stare from Blinde. “We’re going after Mr. Boring now,” he continued. “Do you wish to come?”

  “The radio. I have to stick close. Big things are happening. Can it wait a few minutes?”

  “No. I want to get out of here. What’s so big?”

  “Soviet intentions. Could affect what we’re doing here.” Blinde turned an ear toward the cockpit. “This sounds important.” He moved away.

  Major Fujimoto appeared in the doorway and climbed down, the doctor right behind. “Congratulations. What about the other engine?”

  Ingram said, “We’re going to check. But I’m told we can take off on three engines if we must.”

  “How about fuel. Do you need any?”

  Ingram shrugged. “Ask the pilot.”

  Fujimoto walked under the cockpit and called up to Radcliff.

  “Do you need fuel?”

  Radcliff said, “We could use some. Especially if we hit headwinds. Hold on. Weather report.” He moved inside.

  Fujimoto turned to Peoples, “You see, with all our aircraft gone, we have fuel we won’t be needing. What octane do you burn?”

  Peoples drawled, “Any old rotgut.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “One hundred, Major,” said Hammer.

  “We have a few barrels.”

  Peoples smiled and said, “Damn fine.”

  Fujimoto said, “What does that mean?”

  Ingram said, “He means we’ll take your one hundred octane, Major. Thank you. Now, where do I find Walter Boring?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  22 August 1945

  Command bunker, Toro Airfield, Karafuto Prefecture, Japan

  Major Fujimoto’s command bunker was deep in the brush, about one hundred yards south of the runway. With Sergeant Harper and three of his Marines in trail, Ingram followed Fujimoto, Doctor Osuga, and Lieutenant Nakayama as they picked their way through dense shrubs and trees. Along the way Ingram counted two tanks and a pillbox with a 37-mm cannon.

  Low branches slapped at Ingram’s face as he caught up to Fujimoto. “How is your brother?”

  “The doctor tells me he needs blood.”

  “Well, with the engine fixed we can get him back to Kisarazu and take care of that.”

  “I hope so.” Fujimoto drew up for a moment. “My brother told me about your role in the fate of my father and my brother Katsumi.” His right hand rested on his sword.

  Ingram’s hand went to the .45 hanging from his web belt. They eyed each other for a moment.

  Harper leveled his carbine. “Knock it off, Tojo.” The other Marines stood back and readied their weapons as well. Osuga and Nakayama were rooted, their eyes wide.

  Ingram waved them down. “We were on opposite sides of the table then. You would have done the same.” The sun went behind a cloud, rendering the moment darker.

  Fujimoto’s hand slipped off the sword. “Shiroku is terribly conflicted. He wants to kill you, but his Catholic education has left him in a quandary. The worst part is,” he pawed the ground with his split-toed sandal, “after your escape from death last night, he feels different toward you—an American, a sworn enemy. He feels almost . . . a kinship.”

  “We were lucky,” said Ingram. “We had a damn good pilot.” There was an awkward silence. “And you?” Ingram asked. “Where do you stand?”

  Fujimoto looked down for a moment. “He made me promise to help all I can.”

  “Thank you,” said Ingram. “Let me add that if there’s any way, you’re welcome to come back with us.”

  “And leave my men? That is one thing I will not do. Even my liberal brother understands that.”

  “What if—”

  Fujimoto barked, “Commander Ingram. Imagine your ship is mortally wounded and going down. What do you do?”

  “Last man off,” Ingram said quietly.

  “Exactly.” Fujimoto turned and walked away.

  The bunker had been carefully dug about fifteen feet below ground level; the walls and ceiling were reinforced with logs, dirt, and sandbags. Most of it consisted of a large room about twenty feet square. The floor was hardpan dirt, and off to one side were a small galley, a benjo, and two bunkrooms with curtains across the doorways. The main room had a large map table in the center, radio equipment against one wall, and a small dining table against the other wall. A wooden ladder led to a cupola atop the bunker that offered a clear view above the brush line.

  Several men in the bunker wore earphones. Fujimoto barked a question in Japanese. Three men stood, and each shook his head. Fujimoto turned to Ingram, “All quiet. I don’t like it.” He pointed to a doorway and drew aside a curtain. “In here.”

  The bunkroom was small, about seven feet by eight, with room for two bunk beds, a desk, and a locker. A number of boxes and a heavy-looking crate covered the top bu
nk. The lower bunk was rumpled and dark.

  Fujimoto barked a command. The lights went on and revealed a human shape under a blanket. It stirred and gave a low moan. Doctor Osuga knelt beside the bed and pulled the blanket back to reveal a man with gray-white hair in disarray. Heavy stubble grew around his jaw and mouth. He smacked his lips, revealing yellow teeth. His eyes fluttered and he gave a long, wailing moan. “Wasser.”

  Fujimoto uncorked a pitcher, poured a cup, and handed it to Osuga. The doctor raised it to Boring’s mouth and poured. The man tried to swallow, but a lot of water burbled out and ran down his chin. He began choking.

  Fujimoto whispered, “A seventy-year-old man. Apparently he went through several artillery barrages before he came to us. Now he can barely hear; he is severely dehydrated and frightened nearly to death. The Red Cross had no business sending him.”

  Ingram wondered what age he would have to achieve before he would be considered too old for a war zone. It seemed he’d been doing this all his life. Tired.

  Fujimoto must have caught on for he smiled for a moment. Then he said, “Doctor Osuga will give him a sedative.”

  “Can he travel?”

  Doctor Osuga said, “Hai.” Then he dug into his black bag and pulled out a syringe. In a moment it was prepared, and he jabbed it into Boring’s arm.

  The man’s eyes popped open at the pain.

  Ingram leaned close, finding the man’s breath horrid. “Mr. Boring?”

  The old man’s eyelids fluttered and then opened. He focused on Ingram and studied him for a moment. “Ja, ja. Amerikaner?”

  “Yes, I am an American naval officer. We’re taking you home.”

  “Home?” He croaked.

  The odor was terrible. Ingram had to draw back. “To America; to Switzerland.”

  Boring let out a long sigh and then said in clear English. “Make sure you bring the crate.” He pointed to the bunk above him.

  “What’s in it?”

  Boring waved to Fujimoto and Osuga. “Send them away.”

  “Why?”

  He nodded. “It’s very important. Please.”

  “Very well.” Ingram turned to Fujimoto. “Would you two leave us alone for a moment?”

  Fujimoto looked at Osuga. They shrugged and backed out.

  Ingram leaned close, trying not to breathe. “They’re gone. What is it?”

  Boring gasped, smacked his lips, and then spoke. “In Harbin, I found irrefutable evidence of Japan’s vast biological and chemical warfare program.”

  “What?” Ingram drew a breath and with great willpower held his bile. This was a surprise. He hadn’t heard the Japanese were conducting this kind of research. The Germans, yes; the horrifying data were leaking out after their capitulation three months ago.

  “Since the mid-1930s they have been experimenting on live prisoners. Chinese, Koreans, Manchurians; even Americans, British, and Australians—anybody they could lay their hands on. Thousands of them taken from death camps scattered from here to Singapore. They deliberately infected them with viruses or bacteria, watched them die, and then hacked open their bodies to see the results. Sometimes they hacked open the bodies of live prisoners. No anesthetic, no regard for pain.”

  Ingram sat back and drew a deep breath. Overwhelmed, he shook his head.

  “Do you want proof?”

  Tired. “I suppose so.”

  He pointed his chin at the bunk above. “Look up there. In that crate . . .” He wheezed for a moment then went on. “Those are what I was able to grab as the Japanese ran before the Russians. It cost me dearly, but I got them. As much as I could. My hosts,” he waved outside the room, “think these are Red Cross records.” Boring’s voice was fading.

  Once again Ingram held his breath and leaned close.

  Boring wheezed, “The ones who died were frozen in freezers or left outside in the dead of winter. Stacked like cords of wood. Each one was categorized and numbered. They called them ‘logs.’ At their leisure, they brought a ‘log’ inside for study and analysis.”

  Boring gave a long, rasping cough and said, “They tried to cover all this up. Burned the buildings, burned the bodies in gasoline-fed fires. But the Russian attack was so swift they couldn’t get it all done. Give them to Mr. Blinde. Make them . . . pay . . . make . . . them . . .” Osuga’s sedative must have begun working, for Boring’s head dropped to the pillow and his eyes closed.

  There was a knock outside. “Commander?”

  “One moment.” Ingram stood and took down the wooden crate. It was relatively small and the lid was loose. He pried it open and found hundreds of photographs bound with rubber bands. He grabbed a stack labeled 17 June 1943 and slipped off the band. He managed to get through the first five of what must have been twenty photographs. Of those five, he knew they would occupy his dreams for the rest of his life. Some bodies were headless. Others had severed limbs. Many of the torsos were neatly sliced open. One decapitated man’s shirt had a corporal’s stripes; a faded USAAF was printed over the pocket. One photo showed a stack of bodies neatly arranged like a cord of wood, just as Boring had said. Logs. Snow was scattered over the top of them and on the ground.

  “Commander!” The rap was insistent.

  Ingram ripped open the curtain to find Sergeant Harper. “What?” he said sharply.

  Harper blinked, then said, “Things are popping out there. Mr. Blinde and Mr. Radcliff recommend we take off now.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “We hear mechanized stuff near the beach at the west end of the runway. I figure they’ll dump artillery in here and then send in tanks.”

  “Okay. Get your men to lift this man on a litter and put him aboard. And make sure you take this.” He pointed to the crate and boxes on the top bunk.

  “Can do, Commander. And there’s one more thing.”

  Ingram looked down at Boring. “Yes?”

  Harper leaned out and whistled up his men. Then he came back in. “We got word a Russian Jeep pulled up to the tower under a white flag. It carries a Russian officer. Sounds like a Russian navy commander. And he’s asking for you.”

  “What? For me directly?”

  “He asked for Todd Ingram.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  21 August 1945

  1627 South Alma Street, San Pedro, California

  A screech split the darkness. Helen bolted upright, her heart pounding. After a moment she realized it was only Fred, her lanky gray tabby cat, harassing Bubbles, her obese ten-year-old Russian Blue longhair. It was a game they played. Fred would roll on his back and try to wrap his arms around Bubbles’ neck. Bubbles would spurn Fred’s advances with a growl, a screech, and a swat of her paw. Fred loved it and did it again and again until Bubbles tired of it and simply ignored him. Bubbles had been a present from Laura West, who had unwillingly inherited the twenty-pound cat from Henry Shackleton, a down-on-his-luck French horn player who moved away to take a job with the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra.

  Helen reached for the clock: 10:15. She’d been asleep for only an hour. Jerry stirred in his crib. Then he smacked his lips and cooed for a moment. All right. Sleep tight, my love. With a sigh, she whipped back the covers, stepped into her slippers, and grabbed her robe. Moonlight spilled into the living room, but the bedroom was dark. As she fumbled for the wall switch something whipped against her ankle.

  “What?” She spun, disoriented. The room felt wrong. Nothing was where it should be. She pitched through the door to the living room and fell on the hardwood floor. “Damn it!” The furry thing rubbed against her ankle again: Fred. Then he strolled up to her face. They touched noses. Helen reached out and petted him. “I love you, too, you little schmuck.” Fred had the temerity to purr.

  Helen sat up and took stock. Nothing broken.

  Bubbles lay under the piano bench, brilliantly lit by moonlight as if by a single spotlight in an opera house. She blinked and rolled onto her back, barely visible feet protruding from her corpulent body.

&n
bsp; “It’s wartime, Bubbles. How can you be so fat?” Helen braced herself to rise.

  Bubbles blinked and purred. Then she rolled upright, worked herself to her feet, and waddled toward her feeding dish, her ample tummy swaying from side to side as she disappeared into the darkness. “Don’t eat too much,” Helen called after her.

  Bubbles looked back, but all Helen could see were two large orange-yellow eyes.

  Bam! She threw herself against the living room wall. Those yellow eyes tracked her, watching every move, every twitch, as Helen felt her way toward the bedroom. She found only empty space. “Noooo.”

  Suddenly Eddie Bergen leered at her, his face a twisted grimace as he crawled from the turret of his burning tank. But the fire was too much. Eddie screamed, and his face turned to wax dripping off a blackened skull. Eddie writhed horribly and sank back into the M-4. The tank lurched and bounced as ammunition cooked off inside.

  Then Eddie was under his bed, sucking his thumb. The doctor and honor guard had to lure him out with comic books so they could give him a medal.

  Helen crawled into the bedroom on hands and knees. But she couldn’t get up; wouldn’t get up. Her mind whirled. There he was, standing before her, wearing his white seersucker suit. Lieutenant Tuga, a cigarette carelessly clasped between a thumb and forefinger. Desperately, she ran a hand over faded burn marks, her arms, her feet; miraculously, the ones on her face had almost disappeared.

  The memories had been harder and harder to suppress. The Kempetai, the Japanese Gestapo: Tuga and Watanabe on Marinduque Island. Watanabe looking over Tuga’s shoulder, their expressions detached, uncaring. Tuga pushed the glowing cigarette against her skin. It sizzled; the pain incredible.

  Sometimes Tuga would blow on the cigarette butt, making it hotter before pushing it into her skin again.

  She screamed.

  The baby screamed.

  It burned everywhere: the palms of her hands, her breasts, the balls of her feet; everywhere nerves were concentrated.

  Little Jerry was screeching. His wailing told her that he was terrified. Helen came back to herself at last. She rose, picked him up, and held him close. “I’m sorry, baby. My fault. Go back to sleep.”