Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Carson spotted Landa and Laura coming in through the ballroom’s massive wooden double doors. He waved a finger in the air and called out, “There they are now, ladies and gentlemen. Our bride and groom—Captain and Mrs. Jerry Landa!”

  Applause broke out as the spotlight swung over to highlight the waving couple. Landa widened his smile and the applause grew, his sailors catcalling and whistling from the darkness.

  Carson said, “Sage advice for the new groom, Captain Landa. Many a husband has learned an ironclad alibi isn’t as effective as a diamond-studded one.” The crowd laughed, sailors again whistled, and Carson waved to a set of stairs at stage left. “Right now, I’d like you to meet the commanding officer of the USS Maxwell, Lieutenant Commander Eldon P. White.”

  Again the crowd applauded, the sailors whistling and stamping their feet as White mounted the steps.

  Ingram groaned, “This is going to be a train wreck.”

  Helen took his hand. “Easy, darling.”

  Dimitri Tiomkin, who stood next to Ingram, leaned over and asked, “Train wreck?”

  Ingram explained, “Jerry Landa is Tubby’s boss. They put on a big show of hating each other. They lay off when things get serious. But things haven’t been this serious before.”

  Tiomkin smiled. “Train wreck. I like that.”

  Ingram muttered, “I hope not.”

  Tubby’s medals and gold braid glittered in the spotlight as he walked up to the microphone.

  Carson said, “What do you think, Tubby? Er, I mean Mr. White . . . er, Commander. Oh, hell. Can I just call you Tubby?”

  White deadpanned, “Of course, Mr. Carson.”

  “I don’t want to disrupt naval protocol,” Carson said.

  White looked up to him. “You’ve got about five inches and twenty-five pounds on me, so you can call me anything you want.”

  Carson grinned. “You don’t look so shabby yourself, sailor. Now tell me, any advice for Captain Landa?”

  “Well, I’d say humility is the word of the day for a new groom.”

  “Humility?”

  “Yes, I’d say to the commodore, no matter how well she treats you, always try to be humble.”

  A few chuckles rattled around the room. Carson asked, “Is he capable of that?”

  “Absolutely not.” The crowd laughed. The spotlight swung to Landa, who gave a pasty smile, then back to Carson.

  “Indeed, humility should be the order of the day, Tubby. Commodore Landa has married a very talented lady. You all know that she plays concert piano for Maestro Arturo Toscanini and the NBC Symphony Orchestra.” He waved to his left and the spotlight caught Toscanini to loud applause. When that abated, Carson went on, “But many of you may not know that Laura dabbles in popular music and is making a name for herself there as well. She would like to do a couple of numbers for you now. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Laura West Landa.”

  The stage lights went down as a single spotlight caught Laura mounting the stage. The crowd pressed in, applauding and whistling. Sailors weaved among them, their shore patrol chaperones carefully watching every move.

  She kissed Tubby on the cheek as he walked offstage, then kissed Jack Carson, who made a big show of wiping his cheek. She bowed at the audience and sat at the piano, the spotlight focusing tightly on her.

  Ingram felt a draft on the back of his neck and sensed the double doors opening behind him. With a few others he turned to see two people silhouetted in the dim foyer light. One was tall and slender—a woman in an elegant black lace floor-length dress. She was accompanied by a man in uniform.

  “. . . very happy,” Laura was saying. “Jerry and I will honeymoon in Yosemite for a couple of weeks, then he goes back to work for Uncle Sam and I go back to NBC. Lucky for me, Jerry’s next duty station is right here in Long Beach on the cruiser-destroyer staff. Did I say that right, dear?” she called.

  Landa shouted from darkness, “Good enough for government work, honey.”

  “Well, I’m glad that it’s good enough for you and all of your boys here with us today. Welcome back, sailors, and well done. How fitting for this Thanksgiving weekend. We’re honored by your presence here today.” She applauded and the crowd joined her generously.

  She pulled the mike a little closer, adjusted herself on the bench, and began playing soft background music. “Jerry and I want to thank Hernando Courtright and his marvelous staff here at the Beverly Hills Hotel. We couldn’t have been more grandly treated.”

  From the darkness a voice shouted, “Hot springs tonight!”

  With an up-tempo, Laura ignored it as two SPs quietly surrounded a freckle-faced sailor. The kid looked barely seventeen years old. Silently they palmed his elbows and escorted him out the double doors.

  “And to the maestro, to Roberta Thatcher, and to the entire NBC organization, my undying love. Thank you very much.” She held out her arms. Toscanini walked over, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her.

  “Easy, easy; the boss is watching.” That one came from Tubby White as the crowd laughed.

  Laura continued her soft background music, “And now . . .” She launched into “Embraceable You.”

  A delicate floral scent enveloped him. Ingram turned and looked into the eyes of a dark-haired beauty. Her hair was done in a French twist, her eyes heavily made up. Her exquisite diamond necklace gleamed and caught the light. Up close she had small creases of wisdom and courage and stamina around her eyes and mouth: late forties, maybe even into her fifties, he guessed. She smiled as if she knew him. Ingram smiled back, perplexed.

  Helen dug her fingernails into his palm.

  Laura played and sang as Toscanini moved off the stage. In a moment he was beside the woman, kissing her. He said softly, “Anoushka. I’m so happy you could come. Welcome to California.”

  Her accent was heavy—Russian, Ingram thought. “I’m so sorry we’re late, Maestro. This city is so spread out. Our cab got lost.”

  “Dear, dear Anoushka. Los Angeles is a hard town to understand, especially on a first visit. But you’re still scheduled at Warner Brothers tomorrow morning?”

  “Ummmm—audition starts at eight tomorrow morning. But where is this Burbank?”

  “Warner Brothers’ Studio is in the San Fernando Valley.”

  “Oh, I think I may be there already. We are staying at the Sportsman’s Lodge in Studio City.” She laughed. “The restaurant is delightful. You catch your own fish and they cook it for dinner. Can you believe that? A car picks me up at seven.”

  “Excellent, just excellent.” Toscanini held her hands to his chest. “Anoushka, darling. All these years. You look as beautiful as ever. I’m so glad you got through it all.”

  She exhaled. “It wasn’t easy.”

  “I saw Challenge of Darkness—a wonderful movie. You’re as beautiful in it as you are now.”

  “Maestro. Thank you. I didn’t realize it was playing here.”

  “The studio found a copy for me. They hope to do an English subtitled version and release it here.”

  “I wish they would hurry up.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “I want you to meet some good friends of mine, Dimitri and Rose Tiomkin. Dimitri, may I present Anoushka Dezhnev, just in from the Soviet Union.”

  Dezhnev? Ingram felt as if he had been electrocuted. He spun around and found himself looking into the eyes of Captain Third Rank Eduard Dezhnev.

  “You!”

  “Good to see you, Todd,” said Dezhnev with a thin smile.

  While Anoushka Dezhnev, Toscanini, and the Tiomkins babbled on about Soviet Russia and her upcoming auditions, Ingram hissed, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The program had gone smoothly, with Laura now winding up with “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” Toscanini looked at the stage. “I’m on now. You must have dinner with me, Anoushka.”

  “I’m not sure if that is possible,” she replied.

  “Of course it is. I’ll be right back. Then we can talk. No
w, please excuse me.”

  “But you haven’t met my son,” she said.

  “I’ll be right back.” Toscanini wound through the crowd, making it up to the stage just as Laura finished her song.

  The stage lights came up and Laura said, “We’ll pick it up a bit with a continental favorite: ‘The Blue Danube’ by Johann Strauss with Maestro Arturo Toscanini conducting.”

  The crowd clapped and roared as Toscanini beautifully launched his orchestra. The house lights came up a little more as the spotlight swung over to the bride and groom waltzing in the middle of the dance floor. Anyone looking closely could tell that Laura was leading her husband, but Landa did a credible job of faking his part. The guests joined in and began waltzing along with them.

  Ingram turned around, half-wishing that Dezhnev would not be there.

  He was.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your wife, Todd? She’s gorgeous.”

  Helen registered confusion at the Russian officer who looked dashing in his dress uniform with clanking medals and glittering brass. And he still wore the Alcatraz belt buckle. Ingram made stilted introductions. Dezhnev, the perfect gentleman, raised and kissed Helen’s hand.

  Helen smiled broadly.

  Holding his temper, Ingram said, “Excuse us, Helen.” He took Dezhnev’s elbow and steered him to the edge of the dance floor. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  Dezhnev shook himself loose. “Todd, don’t think I don’t know how to take care of myself.”

  “Well, before we figure all that out, tell me what the hell you’re doing here.”

  “Escorting my mother.”

  “Bullshit. What the hell are you doing here?” Ingram stood close, his chest almost touching Dezhnev’s. “You better come up with something, Ivan, or I’m going to have those SPs throw your ass in a paddy wagon.”

  Dezhnev plopped his hands on Ingram’s shoulders and said, “Take it easy. I’m here to save your life.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They’re trying to kill you.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I heard about it just before I left Vladivostok. But it’s out of my hands. I can’t stop it.”

  “This is bullshit. Why?”

  “I cannot say more except be careful.”

  “What nonsense.”

  Helen walked up wearing a puzzled smile.

  Dezhnev turned to her and gave an elaborate bow. “May I have this dance?”

  Helen batted her eyelashes. “I’d be honored.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  26 November 1945

  San Pedro, California

  The Plymouth wouldn’t start. The carburetor was flooded, and it was Ingram’s turn to drive. He propped up the hood and puttered with the engine. He was sharing a ride today with Cdr. Walt Hodges, the supply officer on the USS Piedmont (AD 17), a destroyer tender moored at the Long Beach Naval Station. Ingram’s ship, the USS Wallace (DD 549), was tied up in a nest beside her going through a long-awaited tender availability. Today and tomorrow were big days: they were re-gunning the ship with five new 5-inch gun barrels, the old ones having been worn out in heavy fighting over the past eight months. Thus, Hodges was not only a good friend, he also held all the cards as far as parts and services from the Piedmont.

  Sally Hodges drove up in the Hodges’ Mercury and let Walt out. With a grin and a wave, she drove away. Shaking his head at Ingram, Hodges said, “So you’ve been buying that cheap gas on Ninth Street again?”

  Ingram muttered, “I wish it were that simple. This damned carburetor needs an overhaul, and the last time I checked there’s no good mechanic within miles.”

  “Hi, Walt,” said Helen, walking out with a thermos of coffee.

  “Hi ya, sweetheart.” Hodges stepped around the car, pecked her on the cheek, and accepted the thermos. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” The Eleventh Naval District had ordered a change from summer khakis to standard blue uniforms last week, and Helen enjoyed the sight of her “two boys” together; they looked so good in blues. “How’s Sally doing?”

  Hodges rocked a hand from side to side. “Mmm, what can I say? Nine months and no action. The doc may induce labor. She’s got an appointment today.”

  “Gee, and I have all that to look forward to again.” Helen patted her belly.

  Ingram barked to Hodges, “You ready?”

  “Fire away.” Hodges got in behind the wheel. “Say when.”

  “Wait one,” muttered Ingram.

  Helen poked her head through the passenger window. “Whew! It’s hot in here already.”

  “Blues make me sweat.”

  “You and Sally should come for dinner Friday night,” said Helen, “if you’re not occupied with a new baby, of course.”

  Ingram snapped, “I heard that. You can come only if you get the car started, Walt.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Hodges jammed down the starter pedal. The engine rolled and rolled before finally sputtering into life. It backfired twice and settled into a smooth idle. “Sounds like Hirohito’s revenge.”

  “Looks like we’re having guests for dinner.” Ingram plopped down the hood and walked around to Helen. Kissing her on the cheek he said, “Don’t work too hard.”

  “I won’t, but guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Apple pie in the commissary today.”

  “Oh, man. Bring home a slice?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Ingram jumped in the passenger seat. “You drive, Walt.”

  Hodges leaned over. “A slice for me too, Helen?” He jammed the car in gear.

  “Sorry, Walt. You’re too fat. Maybe one for Sally, though.”

  “Arrrgh!” Hodges eased the clutch and drove away.

  With no wind the air was stale, and it grew hotter inside the Plymouth as they drove onto the Islander, the auto ferry connecting San Pedro to Terminal Island. With a blast of its whistle, the ferry got under way for the five-minute trip. Ingram opened the door. “Think I’m going to wash up.”

  “Mind if I sell it while you’re gone?”

  “Either that or push it over the side and charge admission.” Ingram slammed the door and walked off.

  Hodges poured coffee and rested his elbow on the window opening. Outside of the wind made by their trip across the channel there was no hint of cooling. He sipped, sat back, and took a deep breath, cocking his hat over his nose. With a twinge of envy he thought about Todd Ingram and the other “tin can sailors” on the front line with the real Navy, the destroyer Navy. He knew what they called supply officers like him: pork chops. On the other hand, the tin can sailors romped with the— “Ouch, damn it,” he yelled as a passenger walking between the rows of cars jostled his arm.

  “Sorry.” The man didn’t turn but kept on walking.

  Hodges rubbed his arm for a minute, then sipped more coffee.

  “Slide over. I’ll take it from here.” Ingram, smelling of Life Buoy soap, got behind the wheel.

  “That stuff will take your skin off.”

  “Better that than piss off the admiral. I can’t shake his hand with grease all over mine.”

  The Islander ducked behind a passing C-1 cargo ship and then made a textbook approach to the Terminal Island landing.

  Ingram said a quick prayer and kicked the starter. The engine roared into life and settled down to a smooth idle.

  “How’s Commodore Landa doing? He still married?” The wedding had taken place three days ago.

  “Last time I checked,” Ingram said. “But with Boom Boom, you never know.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  27 November 1945

  USS Wallace (DD 549), Long Beach Naval Station, Long Beach, California

  The four Fletcher-class destroyers were moored in a nest alongside the destroyer tender Piedmont (AD 17), which in turn was moored starboard side to Pier 32 at the Long Beach Naval Station. The Wallace (DD 549), flagship for Destroy
er Division 77.2, was inside the nest. Outboard of her were the destroyers Beaulieu, Cheffer, and Truax, all on cold iron, using shore-side services for power. The tired veterans of the Pacific war were finally home for well-deserved maintenance and upkeep. However, DESDIV 77.1, including the Maxwell, was still in Yokosuka, waiting to embark GIs for home.

  Ingram had relieved Howard Endicott as commodore of DESDIV 77.2 during a half-hour ceremony. Immediately afterward the squadron commodore and his wife, Captain and Mrs. Jeremiah Landa, were piped over the side to the Piedmont. They quickly stepped across to the Piedmont’s starboard side and down the gangway to the pier. Laura’s pale green Cadillac convertible waited at the foot of the gangway. The top was down and luggage filled the backseat. Amid shouts and grins, Landa started the Caddie’s big V-8 and eased out the clutch. He was also easing himself into a new life with sophisticated people and sophisticated music—something for which he knew he was completely unprepared.

  The Piedmont blasted her whistle and whooped her siren while beer cans tied to the Caddie’s rear bumper announced the Landas’ departure, next stop the Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite National Park.

  A freckle-faced young sailor had the last laugh as the car pulled away. A garish sign on the trunk boldly stated: “Hot Springs Tonight.”

  Two days later the Wallace and her sisters presented a different sight. Workboats swarmed around the four nested destroyers, delivering supplies, pumping fuel oil, and pumping out waste. Chipping crews turned to with hammers and chisels on the hulls and the upperworks, making a terrible cacophony; they scraped off old paint and brushed on red lead. When they were finished the ships would be painted in the peacetime pattern of haze-gray hull and superstructure with dark gray horizontal surfaces. Sailors carrying spare parts and assemblies from the tender stepped around the scrapers, chippers, and painters. New personnel stepped on board to present their orders to the quarterdeck. All the ships but the Cheffer were rebricking their boilers. The workers had finished refurbishing her number four boiler and were now setting safeties, the roar of six-hundred-pound steam ripping at the blue cloudless day.