Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Chief Signalman Tiny Overman was on the signal bridge rogering a flashing-light message from the Missouri, anchored six thousand yards out. Curious, Ingram walked over as Overman flipped his shutters.

  “That for us, Chief?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the sandy-haired signalman. He clacked his signal light once, acknowledging he understood a word received. Then he called it to an apprentice who stood by writing on a message pad. “Unclass,” he barked. Then he flicked his signal lantern. For a quick second Overman glanced at Ingram. “It’s gonna be a long one. And it’s addressed to you, Skipper. Go have chow. I’ll run it down as soon as we get it all.”

  Then he clacked again, calling out, “Date time group . . .”

  For me? What the hell? Overman had his hands full, so Ingram turned and went down the ladder to the wardroom. “Thanks, Chief.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  28 August 1945

  USS Maxwell (DD 525), anchored one thousand yards off Kanagawa Prefecture, Sagami Bay, Japan

  The night passed peacefully, with two destroyers patrolling outside the anchorage to bolster security. Personnel boats patrolling inside the anchorage searched for enemy swimmers, small boats, midget submarines, or any other mischief an enemy might put together. The morning dawned clear and bright, and sunlight glistened off the dew that had collected on the ships overnight.

  The water was calm and the Maxwell tugged gently at her anchor as the sun rose higher. Boilers 1 and 4 and generator 2 were on the line providing power. A condition III watch remained in effect on all ships, with radars energized along with a full bridge watch and skeleton crews in CIC, sonar, and all gunnery stations, where live rounds lay in their trays, ready to ram and fire.

  Before chow, off-watch sailors flocked to the bridge for “hour-glass liberty,” scanning with binoculars the Japanese shoreline a half-mile away. The firecontrolmen granted access to the Mark 37 gunfire control director atop the bridge, which offered a fine view. Men lined up all the way down to the main deck taking turns for a twenty-second sweep of the black sand beaches of the Japanese Riviera through the stereoscopic rangefinder. On occasion, a shouted “owwwwwieee” indicated that a sailor had managed to focus on a woman.

  Wesley Sipes was a second-class radioman who had lived in Yokohama for five years when his father was a dispatcher for American President Lines. He still remembered some of the language and bits about the countryside. With his curious tourist seated at the rangefinder, Sipes would start at Kamakura, explaining that in AD 1250 Kamakura was the fourth-largest city in the world with a population of 200,000. Rich in political history, Kamakura was perhaps best known as home to the massive thirty-eight-foot-tall bronze statue of Amida Buddha. Enclosed since it was built in 1252, it survived an earthquake and tsunami in 1923 that destroyed the surrounding temple. To this day, Sipes would tell his guest, it still sits outside, exposed to the elements. Sweeping the rangefinder from left to right, Sipes would go on to say that Kamakura was also the site of the emperor’s summer palace. More than one sailor muttered something about sending over a few 5-inch rounds for Hirohito’s wake-up call.

  In the wardroom, a well-rested Ingram joined Jerry Landa and the off-watch officers at breakfast. He listened to stale jokes as they dined on powdered eggs and milk and good toast made from bread baked by the cooks during the night.

  Landa scraped his plate with the last piece of toast, then sat back and raised the message again. “Who is Marvin Radcliff?” he asked Ingram. “And are we really invited to the surrender ceremony?” The message Ingram had received from the Missouri yesterday was an invitation from General Sutherland to attend the ceremony; it was countersigned by Brig. Gen. Otis DeWitt. Ingram and Tubby White had been so busy setting up watches and securing the ship in the anchorage that Ingram hadn’t paid much attention to the message last night.

  “Marvin?” Ingram laughed. “Let me see.”

  Landa passed it over. “Nice that you got us invited.”

  “Well, of course. This is probably one of the most momentous events of the twentieth century.”

  “I appreciate that, Todd,” Landa said. “But again, who the hell is Marvin Radcliff?”

  “It’s Bucky. Bucky Radcliff. He was the C-54 pilot.”

  “Ahhh. He sounds like my kind of guy.”

  The PA announcer crackled with, “Officers’ call, officers’ call.”

  “Excuse us please, Captain?” The officers stood.

  “Of course.” Ingram nodded as they shuffled out. Tubby White had excused himself earlier and was already back on the quarterdeck.

  Landa said, “Interesting that they picked the Big Mo. I guess it’s that she’s the newest one of her class.”

  “And named for Harry Truman’s home state.”

  “Um, politics rears its ugly head. I bet they kick Halsey off his ship with MacArthur and Nimitz coming to town. There just won’t be enough room for all that brass.”

  Ingram said, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Look there,” Landa pointed. “Does that really say ‘Otis DeWitt’? That little turd is a brigadier general now?”

  “That’s right. He works for General Sutherland. What did he ever do to you?” Ingram recalled DeWitt’s description of Landa. It was obvious the two had had a run-in. Ingram didn’t want to get into the middle of whatever it was. On the other hand, he did want Landa to attend the surrender ceremony—along with Tubby White, the C-54’s cockpit crew, and Sergeant Harper and his Marines. It was his price for keeping quiet about the incident at Toro Airfield. DeWitt had put on a great sputtering act of denial but finally agreed to do his best. And he had come through.

  Landa said, “Ran into the little jerk one night in the officers’ club tent at Naha. Started getting official with me.”

  “That’s Otis.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “We took a boat ride together.”

  “Come on, Todd.”

  “All right. I met him on Corregidor. And then he ended up on the 51 boat with me.”

  “No foolin’?”

  “All the way to Australia.”

  “I’ll be damned. I can’t see it in that officious little peckerhead, but he must have something to have survived that.”

  “That’s why General Sutherland hired him. And now Otis is paying us back because of what we did for him up north. See?” Ingram pointed to the message. “He’s invited the whole C-54 crew along with Sergeant Harper and his Marines.”

  “And me.”

  “And you.”

  “But you added Tubby White.”

  “I did.”

  Landa rolled his eyes. “This must be Ingram’s revenge. First I have to be polite to Lieutenant Commander White. Then I have to say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ to Brigadier General Dewitt. This is bullshit.”

  Ingram did his best to cover a smirk.

  Taylor Jefferson, a yeoman first class, appeared at the doorway and knocked. “Excuse me, Captain. A boat pulled up with our mail about a half hour ago.”

  “Finally caught up with us?” said Landa.

  “Yes, sir. We got a ton. It’s going to take us a while to sort it all out. But there was a special delivery letter for you, Commodore.” He walked in and handed it over.

  “Thanks, Jefferson.” Landa took the envelope and said, “Son of a gun, it’s from Laura. What the hell have I done now?” He began tearing the envelope open.

  While Landa read, Ingram sipped coffee, savoring the moment. Surrender ceremony! The war really was over. No more kamikazes, no more banzai raids. No Communists from the north. The only thing to worry about today was when to refuel. They’d brought in a tanker and—

  “Holy shit!” Landa stood and walked about the wardroom.

  “Everything okay?” asked Ingram.

  “I’ll say! Get a load of this. I’m gonna be a father.”

  “That’s great!” Ingram stood and offered his hand. “Congratulations.”

  “Yeah, than
ks. Cigars come later.” He lowered the letter. “She wants to get married. Like right now.”

  “So?”

  “Yeah. I think I can work it out. Grab two or three weeks’ leave and go tie the knot. Why not? What do you think, Todd?”

  “I have a shotgun in the gun locker that says you better do it.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Landa said absently. “Maybe I can bring it off. Hey, maybe take you along too. Get your dead butt out of here for a while.”

  “Hold on, I’m taking my men home on this ship.”

  “Just a little leave, Todd, to laugh your ass off while I get married. You’ll be right back.”

  “I suppose I could.”

  Ingram headed for the door as Landa sat to finish reading his letter. “Please excuse me, Commodore, I have to go figure out how we gas up. And congratulations again.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Landa scanned the final page. “Aww, shit.”

  Ingram could have sworn Landa’s face had turned the color of the page he was reading. “What?”

  Landa looked at him.

  “Jerry, what the hell is it?”

  “It’s personal, Captain. Now, please, don’t let me interfere with your fueling schedule.”

  “Jerry, can I help? I mean—”

  “Todd, seriously, it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’ll let you in on it maybe later. Now go.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. Now, please go.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ingram walked out.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  30 August 1945

  Hot Rod 384, en route to Atsugi Air Base, Japan

  Leroy Peoples was flying, so Radcliff handled the radios. “Atsugi Tower, this is Hot Rod three-eight-four, heavy for you, twenty miles out, angels ten with four souls aboard. What do you have?”

  The voice crackled in their earphones, “That you, Bucky?”

  “One and the same.”

  “I thought they fired you.” The voice belonged to Reid Callaghan, a C-54 pilot and friend of Radcliff’s who had been tapped at the last moment for flight controller duty at Atsugi.

  “No, they kept me and fired you, Reid,” said Radcliff. “What’s it like down there?”

  “Same as last time, Hot Rod. Planes everywhere. MPs strutting up and down with their chest sticking out. Brass screeching all over the place. It’s like Coney Island. But instead of New Yorkers it’s full of GIs and Japs.”

  “Japs giving you any trouble?”

  “So far they’re being pretty decent. One guy even gave me a cup of tea.”

  “Well, watch your back.”

  “You got that—”

  “Radio discipline!” A harsh voice interjected.

  Leroy Peoples turned to Radcliff and mouthed, “Who the hell was that?”

  “Damned if I know,” muttered Radcliff. This was their second run from Okinawa today. They’d been up since four this morning planning routes and landing and takeoff patterns. Hot Rod 384 was part of a massive train of C-47s and C-54s flying in the entire Eleventh Airborne Division, which was going in to occupy Atsugi Air Base and its environs. Radcliff’s plane was one of the few carrying just cargo: two disassembled Jeeps, six barrels of aviation gas, several crates of small arms, ammunition, food, and medicine. Most of the other planes carried troops.

  Callaghan announced crisply, “Hot Rod three-eight-four, wind is south-southeast at eight knots; barometer is two-niner point six; be advised major aircraft traffic this area: friendly, but lots of them. You are cleared for runway one-niner. Upon landing, stand by for special taxi instructions. Over.”

  “Understand two-niner point six, runway one-niner. Special taxi instructions upon rollout. Roger, Atsugi. Thanks, out.” Radcliff clicked off and said, “You wanna take it in, Leroy?”

  Peoples gave him a long look. “Not if you’re going to torch my ass again.”

  On the return trip to Yonatan Airfield this morning Radcliff had asked Peoples to land the plane. About ten miles out, everything was on track; the gear was down and locked, the flaps were coming down. All of a sudden Radcliff yanked out a gleaming Ronson cigarette lighter, clicked it on, and cranked up the flame. He held it close to Peoples’ face, almost under his nose.

  “Sheeeeyat! What the hell you doin’?” Peoples shouted. “Ah cain’t see.”

  Radcliff held the flame closer, “Come on, Leroy, you can do this.”

  “Ouch, shit, that hurts. Knock it off, damn it!” He tried to bat the lighter away, but he couldn’t do that and hold the control yoke at the same time. Peoples held on, yelling at Radcliff to stop and jerking his face from side to side.

  “Leroy, we’re almost there. Wing and a prayer. Come on.”

  People’s left eyebrow sizzled, but he kept the yoke in a death grip.

  With two miles to go, Radcliff pulled the lighter away.

  “Damn. What the hell are you doin’, partner?”

  “Training exercise, Leroy.”

  “Well, where the hell did you—arrrgh!”

  Radcliff had clicked the Ronson again and jammed the flame under Peoples’ nose.

  “Come on, the plane, you stupid redneck,” yelled Radcliff. “You have fifty GIs back there. Fly the damned plane.” That wasn’t true, of course. There were just the four of them deadheading back from Atsugi.

  “Arrrrgh!” shouted Peoples. He pulled up a bit with some wind shear, but then settled down. “Stop it, damn you, Radcliff. Shit, flaps thirty.”

  “Flaps thirty. Over the threshold, Leroy. Come on!”

  Peoples jerked his head back and forth away from the lighter.

  Radcliff followed every move, sometimes singeing more eyebrow.

  “Ughhhh!” Peoples grabbed the throttles and eased them back.

  The C-54 settled beautifully on its mains. Radcliff pulled the Ronson away and shut it off as Peoples put the nosewheel down.

  “Nice,” said Radcliff. “Right boys?”

  “Outstanding,” said Hammer.

  “Very good,” said Berne.

  They gave a thumbs up to Radcliff.

  “Assholes,” Peoples muttered on the rollout. He moped and pouted while they reloaded and gassed the plane. Five minutes before takeoff on the second trip the crew learned that Hot Rod 384 would be flying into Atsugi right behind Gen. Douglas MacArthur’s plane, the Bataan, a specially converted C-54 made to look like an ordinary cargo plane. Hot Rod 384 was to maintain a strict two-minute distance from the Bataan all the way to Atsugi. Radcliff assigned the takeoff to a now muted Leroy Peoples. Exactly 120 seconds after the Bataan took off, Radcliff said, “Go!” Peoples took off and held the proper interval all the way to Atsugi.

  Now, as they descended into their pattern, Radcliff glanced over his shoulder at Hammer and Berne. Both nodded vigorously. He turned to Peoples. “Leroy, I have news for you.”

  “What?” he snarled.

  “Why, Lieutenant Peoples, whatever happened to that cheerful, ‘Yes, sir. What’s that, sir?’”

  “Stick it.”

  Hammer and Berne laughed.

  “Okay, Leroy. No more games. It’s all over. You passed your aircraft commander qualifications. You’re now fully qualified for the left seat.”

  “No shit?”

  “I mean it. You did well. You’re the ninth guy I’ve done this with. Seven passed. Two panicked and I couldn’t pass them.” He held out his hand. “But you did the best of all of them.”

  They shook. Peoples grinned and said, “Thanks, boss. You mean I’ll get my own airplane?”

  “Gear coming down,” announced Radcliff. “Yeah, sooner rather than later. Look at all this. One C-54 nonstop into Japan every two minutes. And everywhere else we have occupation forces. But be careful, Mr. Aircraft Commander. You might soon be flying your own C-54 with a snot-nosed right-seater to lead to the potty every five minutes, but right now you’re two minutes behind the Big Cheese, so don’t screw it up.”

  “No cigarette lighter?”

  “That’s all done. You
passed the test.”

  “Can I do a sideslip?”

  Radcliff ran a hand over his face to cover his grin. “Leroy, it’s your airplane. You can sideslip all you want.”

  “My airplane?”

  “All yours, Leroy. Congratulations.”

  Peoples sat erect and broke into song, “Amaaaazing grace, how sweet the sound . . .”

  Hammer made a show of plugging his ears. Berne slapped a hand over his eyes.

  Peoples continued loudly and horribly off-key, “that saved a wretch, like meeeeee . . .” Holding the note, he sang, “. . . flaps thirty, pleeez . . .”

  “Flaps thirty,” grunted Radcliff.

  The threshold flashed beneath. Peoples shrieked at the top of his lungs, “Ah once was lost, but now am found . . .” He pulled back the throttles and eased back on the yoke.

  Radcliff fought an impulse to clamp his hands over his ears.

  First Lt. Leroy Peoples painted Hot Rod 384 onto runway one-niner and then, with the nosewheel settling, finished, “Was blind, but now ah see.”

  Guy is a natural, thought Radcliff.

  Reid Callaghan broke into the concert with, “Hot Rod three-eight-four.”

  In a voice that could shatter glass, Peoples started on the second verse. “T’was Grace that taught . . .”

  Radcliff barked, “Leroy!”

  “Yes, sir?” Peoples asked innocently. He continued humming.

  “Three-eight-four,” Radcliff said. He made a show of clicking off and whispered, “You forgot to sideslip.”

  “Damnation!”

  “Hot Rod three-eight-four, turn left next taxiway. Follow the guy on the bicycle to the tower. Taxi up and stop behind C-54 Bataan. Over.”