Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  He looked at DeWitt and Landa and Toliver. “I . . . son of a bitch. I don’t know what to say.”

  DeWitt said, “Well, I do, Todd.” He put a hand on Ingram’s shoulder. “You’re going home to take care of her. You’ve both had enough.”

  Stark images swirled through Ingram’s mind. He shook his head. “How about you, Otis? And you, Jerry? You guys deserve to go before me. Plus I have a ship to take care of.”

  Landa said, “No arguments, Todd. You’re going home. You have a beautiful wife and a fine young baby to look after. Thirty, sixty days and you’ll be back. In the meantime, Tubby White gets to be captain and I get to yell at him, which is the real reason you’re going. You’re a pain in the ass and I can’t intimidate you as easily as Tubby. So, you see it all works out.”

  Ingram’s head swirled. “I don’t know . . . how?”

  DeWitt stepped close and spoke in a low tone. “Keep this under your hat, Todd, but Admiral McCain is very ill. Admiral Halsey held him over for the ceremony but is sending him back to the States tonight on Admiral Nimitz’s flying boat. You’re going on that plane. Maybe you two can sing western songs together. I understand he likes that stuff.”

  “Me? I can’t carry a tune,” said Ingram.

  “I’ll teach you some farting jokes,” said Landa, the sun now cooperating and glinting off his impossibly white teeth.

  “And I’ll send along some reading material,” added Toliver.

  DeWitt handed over a manila packet. “Orders. We had them cut during the ceremony. Signed by Boom Boom here and endorsed by Admiral Halsey.”

  “It’s official,” said Landa. “How can you lose?”

  “I . . . I have stuff to pack, the ship to think of, my crew.”

  Landa said, “Your gear is being sent over from the Maxwell. You’re headed to the South Dakota to join up with Admiral McCain, and then you’re off. From there, you hop on the plane and,” he pointed east, “course zero-nine-zero.”

  DeWitt pulled out his cigarette holder, plugged in a Chesterfield, and lit up. “I think that’s Navy talk for home, Todd.”

  Landa said, “And don’t worry about the Mighty Max. Tubby and I will take good care of her.”

  Ingram sniffed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “I appreciate your confidence,” said Landa.

  Ingram blinked. It was all happening too fast. Then he remembered Landa speaking with DeWitt, Toliver, Sutherland, and Halsey. “You mean you worked this out all the way to the top.”

  “Even Halsey has heard of you,” said DeWitt. “He was happy to do it. He thinks McCain will enjoy the company.”

  Ingram gulped. “At least let me say goodbye to my guests.”

  DeWitt pointed, “Go. Be back here in five minutes. Can’t keep Admiral McCain waiting.”

  Chapter Thirty

  5 September 1945

  North Pacific Ocean, en route to North Island Naval Air Station, Coronado, California

  The ride in Admiral Nimitz’ four-engine PB2Y Coronado was comfortable but long . . . and boring. Hour after hour of droning interspersed with bouncing and bucking and strapping in and hanging on while trying to smile and look nonchalant.

  Vice Adm. John McCain had been in a special bunk and was attended by a doctor, a corpsman, and two lieutenant staffers. The doctor kept an IV drip nearby, and once, three hours outside Wake Island, they actually hooked him up for a while. By the next morning, after their takeoff from Pearl Harbor, the admiral seemed much better, his eyes twinkling.

  The weather had calmed, and Ingram walked forward to chat with the cockpit crew. Afterward, as he sauntered aft past McCain’s bunk, the admiral spoke. “How’s it going, son?”

  Ingram smiled. “Fine, Admiral.”

  “Have a seat.”

  Ingram was surprised. The admiral had slept well after the doc had given him some knockout drops. He looked to the on-duty corpsman, who gave a quick nod.

  Ingram sat in a comfortable chair facing McCain. The admiral had a great deal more color in his cheeks now than he’d had when two sailors carried him through the hatch yesterday. Skinny and short of stature to begin with, his weight had dropped to near one hundred pounds. The rumor was true. John McCain has given his all.

  McCain asked, “You play cribbage?”

  “Yes, sir. A lousy game.”

  “Well, that makes two of us. Maybe later today.”

  “I’d like that, Admiral. By the way, I’m Todd Ingram.”

  “Shit, if I didn’t know who you are you wouldn’t be on this airplane.”

  Ingram straightened a bit.

  “Ray Spruance speaks highly of you.”

  “He has been very kind to me.” Actually, Spruance hadn’t been kind at all. Exhausted and debilitated after his escape from the Philippines, Ingram had been posted to a cushy job in San Francisco. Soon afterward, Admiral Spruance presented him with his first Navy Cross in the Pope Suite of the St. Francis Hotel, then turned him around and sent him out to the Solomon Islands as executive officer of the USS Howell (DD 482).

  McCain nodded toward Ingram’s Naval Academy ring. “What class?”

  “Nineteen thirty-seven.”

  “Class standing?”

  Ingram pulled a face.

  “Come on, I ain’t gonna kick you off the plane.”

  “Forty-eight in a class of 214.”

  McCain lay back and laced his fingers behind his head. “Well, then, you don’t have a thing to worry about, son. Care to guess my class standing?”

  “Number one.”

  McCain laughed. “You are a great bullshitter. You’ll go a long way in this man’s Navy. You going to stay in?”

  “I made it this far, so yes, sir.”

  “And Jerry Landa’s your boss?”

  Again, Ingram was surprised. “Yes, sir. CO of DESRON 77.”

  McCain muttered, “Black-shoe bullshit.”

  Ingram knew what he meant. They were jousting. Aviator lingo versus surface officer lingo. Aviators wore brown shoes; surface officers wore black. “Sir?”

  “I seen you a few times alongside guzzling my fuel oil.”

  “I saw you up there, Admiral. Thanks for the drink.”

  McCain’s eyes glittered again. “Jerry Landa,” he snorted. “Tells great farting jokes. I never laughed so hard.”

  Ingram grinned.

  “Okay, here it is. I graduated 79 out of a class of 116. About as low as whale shit.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Yeah, from number seventy-nine to commander, Task Force 38. Can you believe it?” McCain was being modest. He had entered flight school at the age of fifty-two and won his wings. He rose through the ranks of naval aviators to command of all air forces in the dark days of 1942 on Guadalcanal. And he’d won. He’d beaten Yamamoto.

  “I can believe it, sir. You did a great job.”

  “And you’re pumping out even more bullshit. You’ll definitely make admiral. Maybe even CNO. When you do, I hope you throw crap on all those pinkos on Capitol Hill. Believe me, I saw plenty of ’em when I was running the Bureau of Aeronautics. They can’t find their asses with both hands.”

  Ingram wouldn’t back down. “You made a great name for yourself, Admiral.”

  “Names. You wanna know my real name?”

  “I’ll bite.”

  McCain’s eyes glittered again. “It’s Casper Clubfoot.”

  “Who?”

  “I write adventure stories under a plume de nom.”

  “Casper Clubfoot,” Ingram chuckled. “Nom de plume.”

  “Whatever.”

  “With a name like that, your books will sell like hotcakes.”

  McCain settled back. His eyes seemed to flutter.

  Time to go. Ingram rose. “Cribbage later, Admiral?”

  “You bet.” McCain focused on him. “What’s with your wife?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out, Admiral.”

  “From what I hear, she should have a Navy Cross, like you
.” He gave a phlegmy cough.

  “Coming from me personally, Admiral, I’d say that’s an understatement.”

  “It is. Some of her torpedo discoveries hit BuOrd and set them back on their asses. Really brilliant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She’s still working, right?”

  McCain was up on things. “Yes, sir. She’s an Army nurse in the psychiatric ward in Fort MacArthur, San Pedro.”

  “Get her out of the wacko ward. That’s probably what’s pulling her into it.”

  “I had the same idea myself, Admiral.” Ingram offered his hand. “Thank you, sir, and thank you for letting me tag along.”

  McCain took it. “You’re most welcome. What’s her name?”

  “Helen.”

  “Helen. Beautiful name. You give her our love. And come and see us in a couple of weeks. I live on Coronado. Make sure you bring her. On second thought, just send her and you stay home and play pool or something.”

  “I wouldn’t leave her alone with a brown shoe, Admiral.”

  McCain tried to laugh, but it came out as a deep rattling cough.

  “We’d love to come see you. Thank you.” He made to move off. “You’re going to be just fine, Admiral.”

  “Don’t worry, son. There are worse things than death for some people—take life, for instance.” He turned on his side and drew up the blanket.

  She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “It’s Todd.”

  “Thank God. You’re here.”

  “Almost.”

  “Where?”

  “North Island, waiting for a ride.” Briefly, he explained about his trip with Vice Admiral McCain.

  She gave a long exhale. “Your “aloha oe” made me so happy. When will you get here?”

  “Aloha oe.” He’d sent a telegram when they stopped for fuel at Pearl Harbor. “Depends on where the ride comes from. I’m logged in for space available here, but this place is like the last night on earth. Guys are pouring in from overseas, and they all want to go someplace.” Ingram had never seen so many people in one spot. Hundreds spilling out of the waiting room and into the parking lot, sitting on their duffle bags, waiting for rides to homes all over the nation. He continued, “Outside of that, I wait for the next train, which leaves in,” he checked his watch: 5:15 p.m., “a little over two hours.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Me neither.” A long pause; static crackled on the line. He asked, “You okay?”

  “I have so much to tell you.”

  “Me too. How’s Jerry?”

  “Well, I . . . ah . . .”

  Her voice. He knew that tone. She was being coy. He imagined her head on the pillow and felt a surge of desire for her. “Spit it out,” he chuckled.

  “Jeremiah and Mrs. Peabody are reading a book this evening. I believe he prefers to stay there and enhance his reading skills.”

  “Ah.” Ingram yearned to see his son, but for tonight that would be just fine. “Well, I hope she endeavors to challenge and enlarge his intellectual horizons.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s what is going on. I believe the subject of their study this evening is Donald Duck.”

  Again, that tone of voice. Deep, husky. He felt like bursting from the damned phone booth and running all the way up to San Pedro, 120 miles distant. “I—” Someone tapped on the phone booth window. It was a Marine light colonel with lots of salad on his tunic; five battle stars glittered. His face was deeply pockmarked, and his eyes were slits, as if he were sitting behind a water-cooled .30-caliber machine gun hosing down the jungle.

  “Gotta go, hon. Here’s a lovesick guy wants the phone.”

  “The hell with him.”

  “Baby, there’s ten guys in line. Six of them are Marines, and they all want to kill me.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too. Home soon.”

  “Home soon.”

  He hated it, but he hung up. Her last words sounded so desperate. He opened the accordion door. The Marine stood there, blocking his way. “Hi,” said Ingram.

  “Yeah.” Grudgingly, the machine gunner stepped aside letting Ingram escape into the smoke-filled lobby. He headed toward his B-4 bag resting against the opposite wall near the “space available” desk.

  Someone touched his elbow. “You Ingram?”

  He turned. “That’s right.”

  It was a lieutenant (jg) in greens with aviator’s wings. “Name’s Leonard Hitchcock, sir. You the one headed to Allen Field?”

  Ingram’s heart soared. “You bet.”

  “Looks like we’re in luck, Commander. They tell me this field is so loaded with aircraft that they’re flying out the excess just to make space. So they detailed me to fly a TBF up to Allen Field, which is home for me and maybe home for you too?” His eyebrows went up.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well then, not bad duty for either of us. So if you don’t mind rattling and shaking in the backseat, I think I can promise you Allen Field in a couple of hours.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “Now. There’s six of us going out. Just like a Tokyo raid or something.”

  A quick glance at Hitchcock’s blouse showed no campaign ribbons. But that meant nothing. Many veterans preferred not to wear their ribbons. Ingram wore his two Navy Crosses because he’d been ordered to do so by senior officers from Capt. Jerry Landa to Adm. Raymond Spruance.

  Hitchcock turned and headed for a door marked Operations. Ingram followed. The young man had a swagger. And his overseas cap was punched down in front and tilted to the left, the eagle and anchor a bit green. Yes, Hitchcock had been “out there.”

  Hitchcock breezed through the check-in process, looked at the weather, and signed for his airplane in ten quick minutes. No time to call Helen. Then they walked through a door and onto the field to a waiting stake truck. Five other pilots, all in flying jumpsuits, were already on board along with their passengers: a rear admiral, three captains, and a Marine bird colonel. Ingram, a mere commander, felt their cold stares. He turned to Hitchcock and muttered, “What the hell did I do?”

  The truck started up and bounced out toward the airfield, passing row upon row of parked aircraft. Hitchcock muttered back. “They’re pissed, Commander.”

  “What for?”

  “I guess one of their buddies got bumped.”

  “What?”

  “You must have some pull Commander. And I’m not touching that. You seem like a regular guy. But I’m enrolled in Boldt Hall Law School starting next month, so I’m just leaving all this alone and concentrating on flying. Between you and me this is my last flight. They have me tucked into position six, which is okay with me. Hell, life could be worse. One of these ghouls could be ordering me to make a run on a Jap battleship, and I’ve had enough of that.” He gestured to Ingram’s medals. “You too, Commander?”

  Ingram sighed. “You’re right. This is just fine.”

  Takeoff was delayed for an hour while they waited for mechanics to install a new generator in one of the TBFs. Finally, at 7:45, they took off into a blazing red sunset over Point Loma. Hitchcock’s TBF was the last to roll, and it took five minutes to join up. Hitchcock tucked smartly into the number six position of the right echelon.

  Quiet. The TBF’s R-2600 engine vibration began lulling Ingram to sleep. But then Hitchcock’s words came back to Ingram as they droned northwest into the crimson sky: You must have some pull.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  5 September 1945

  En route to Allen Field, Terminal Island, California

  The formation droned northwest at five thousand feet through a clear and moonless sky, the air soft and smooth as velvet. The interval between the six Avengers was loose, about one hundred feet, and they flew with their running lights on, something forbidden in the war zone. Off to his left Ingram counted the running lights of five ships at sea, also forbidden until a few weeks ago. Looks like Christmas time.

  Ing
ram and Hitchcock were quiet for most of the trip, each lost in his thoughts. But their attention was soon drawn by pools of light that grew larger and larger as they flew up the coast. Laguna Beach, Newport Beach, and Huntington Beach slid beneath the Avengers’ wings like scattered diamonds. By 9:30 the ground was ablaze with a solid carpet of lights as Seal Beach became Long Beach and Terminal Island, and San Pedro beyond. To the northeast, the dazzling lights of Los Angeles beckoned.

  Ingram marveled that there were still places in the world not wrecked and darkened by day and completely lifeless at nightfall.

  “What do you think, Commander?” asked Hitchcock.

  “Todd.”

  “Well, what do you think, Todd?”

  “Where’s the flak?”

  Hitchcock laughed. “None tonight. No blackouts. No Japs. No Nazis. Nobody punching twenty-millimeter holes in your airplane. It’s hard to get used to.”

  “You married, Leonard?”

  “Leo. No, sir.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do just fine acclimating yourself to this strange land.”

  Hitchcock laughed. He cut back the TBF’s power as the formation slid into a shallow dive to the left. “About five minutes, Todd.”

  “Boldt Hall, that’s pretty good.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What kind of law, Leo?”

  “Me? Well, I’ll tell you.” Hitchcock leaned forward and flipped levers. Ingram heard a whirr and the landing gear started down. “I had sailors in my squadron getting screwed by these 4-Fs and their finance companies. They repossess cars and foreclose on houses while our guys are out there getting their asses shot off. One of my radiomen had his house taken away with his ninety-year-old mother living there. No mercy. They wouldn’t answer any letters, even one signed by the captain. These people are snakes, and I’m going after them. So I like public service to start. Maybe later, sit on the bench.”