Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Turkey soup and turkey sandwiches again. Thanksgiving leftovers. He picked at his sandwich. But Helen had managed to grab a head of iceberg lettuce at Gino’s Market, a rarity. The salad made up for what was lacking in the main course.

  Then she plunked down two ice-cold bottles of Schlitz.

  “Huh? How’d you do this?” he asked, flipping off the caps.

  “Gino says hello. He saves these for his favorite customers.”

  Ingram took a swig. “Ahhhh.” Things are looking up.

  “Kitchen needs painting,” said Helen, passing a plate of sliced carrots. She dashed a small smile. “You know. Homeownership and all that. Maybe this Saturday? What do you think, Pop? Pale green? Or maybe bright yellow?”

  I have a funny feeling about this.

  “Hello? Commander Ingram?”

  He looked up. “Oh, sorry. Yeah, pale blue sounds good.”

  “I said pale green or bright yellow.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What is it, hon?” She reached and took his hand.

  “Nothing.”

  “I know. Let’s have some coffee and go listen to Red Ryder, OK?”

  “Sure.”

  Either the turkey didn’t agree with Helen or it was morning sickness at midnight. Maybe it was a little of both. She stumbled into the bathroom and upchucked. But Ingram felt queasy too, and he damn well didn’t have morning sickness.

  Water ran. She crawled back into bed and snuggled, wrapping her arms around him.

  Suddenly he no longer felt sick. He began to relax.

  “When do you go?” she asked softly.

  “Huh?”

  “When do you ship out?”

  “Well, I don’t ship out. They’re going to—say, how do you know?”

  “It’s me, Helen, remember? I know my family. And when my husband drags around with his nose on the floor and that ‘I’m screwed’ expression on his face, then I draw conclusions. Okay?”

  “Yes, okay.”

  “So spit it out.”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Oh, pretty please, Todd. Pretty please. I won’t tell anybody. Well, maybe I can share a little with Mrs. Peabody. And Dr. Raduga. And then there’s Sergeant Letenske, the base gossip, to say nothing of Martha Brubaker.” She dug at his ribs with long fingers.

  “Owww. Cut it out!” He rolled toward her. “Come here.”

  “None of that.”

  “I love your mouthwash.” He rolled all the way over, held her tight, and kissed her. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Accelerated respiration rate,” she gasped.

  “You mean breathing hard?”

  “Very good, Todd. You take good notes.”

  “I remember now. That’s what happens when two people—”

  “Sorry. None of that until I get over this.”

  “Says who?”

  “The doctor?”

  “Come on.”

  “Old wives’ tale?”

  “You mean you’re planning to vomit while we’re in the middle of it?”

  “Todd!”

  He lay back and nuzzled the nape of her neck. She smelled wonderful. Moments passed. A gust of wind rustled leaves outside the window.

  “When are you going?” she asked.

  “Sunday.”

  “How long?”

  “Mmmm, a week . . . ten days.”

  “That’s not bad. But it’s just temporary, right?”

  “Definitely TAD.”

  “And where is it?”

  “Rather not say.”

  “Japan?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Who’s going to mind the store here?”

  “Howard Endicott, TAD.”

  “They’ve thought of everything.”

  “Seems like it.” He held her close. Next thing he knew he was shaking. “God.”

  She caressed his head, “What is it? You don’t want to go?”

  “I don’t want to leave you and Jerry.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Could be.”

  “Then don’t.”

  He really didn’t want to go. He held her tenderly and kissed her again and again. Four years of people murdering people was enough. The stench would last a lifetime. And yet . . . “I think this is important.”

  “Do you have a choice?”

  He did, but he didn’t want to say.

  She rolled her back into him and they settled on their sides.

  “What,” she asked.

  “Pale yellow. That’s best. Pale yellow. No, hold on. Make it canary yellow for the morning sun. It’ll be bright, just like you.”

  “I love you.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  29 November 1945

  San Pedro, California

  Toliver was quick. By day’s end on 28 November he had temporary additional duty (TAD) orders cut for Ingram to report to COMFIFTHFLT on the brand-new USS Oregon City (CA 122), now moored at the Yokosuka Naval Base, Japan. Departure was scheduled for the thirtieth: Ingram was to grab a puddle-jumper at Allen Field at 9:30 a.m. for a sixty-minute flight to NAS North Island. From North Island he would fly to Pearl Harbor, Wake Island, and then on to Tachikawa Army Air Force Base in Tokyo to await further orders.

  Helen fixed spaghetti that evening, one of his favorite dinners. Helen’s secret, passed down from her mother, Kate, was a sauce heavily laced with ground round, garlic, and tomato paste. Whimsically added pinches of seasonings catapulted it into something exotic. She made garlic toast on the side and found a head of romaine at Gino’s Market for caesar salad. It was all generously complemented by San Pedro’s wine of preference: dago red. After unscrewing the top, Ingram always made a show of holding his nose while quaffing the first glass. After a great expulsion of breath he would wheeze, “Not bad stuff once you get used to it.”

  For once, dinner was quiet. They had put Jerry to bed early, and he played quietly in his crib as he drifted off to sleep.

  Ingram grabbed a towel to help with the dishes.

  “Go on,” said Helen. “Time to get moving.”

  Silently, he plopped the towel on the counter, kissed her on the neck, and shuffled into their bedroom.

  Damn it. He reached under their bed, pulled out his B-4 bag, and zipped it open. He was reaching for starched shirts when the phone rang. Helen picked it up in the kitchen. Her tone was steady, noncommittal, all business. Curious, he walked into the kitchen and found Helen bent over a notepad. “It’s okay, Sally. I’ll set it up. But let me call back to confirm. Right, just hang on. Bye.” She hung up.

  Ingram said, “Sally going into labor?”

  Helen made a couple of notes. “I wish it were that easy.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Walt. Doesn’t sound good. What was he like today?”

  “Absent.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Looked and sounded like hell. Bad chest cough and still had the runs.”

  Helen shook her head and started dialing.

  “What is it?”

  Helen said, “Hello, Sergeant Varela? It’s Major Ingram. Who’s the doctor on duty right now?” She waited and fiddled with her pen. “Dr. Chandler. Good. Is he there? Surgery? Okay, listen. I’m sending over a close family friend, Commander Walter Hodges, who needs admitting. . . . Yes, I know he’s Navy. Sergeant . . .”

  The man’s voice echoed in the earpiece.

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Yes, it’s serious. Bad diarrhea, respiratory problems, and a temperature of 102. . . . No, they tried Harbor General but they say they’re full. Plus, it’s too far away. And if my guess is right, Commander Hodges needs immediate attention. . . . You can? That’s wonderful. I’ll send them right over. It’s Commander Walter Hodges. He and his wife, Sally, live two blocks away from us and he works at TI with my husband. By the way, she’s nine months’ pregnant. . . . Yeah, have fun. Thank you, Sergeant.” Helen hung up.

  She muttered to Ingram
as she dialed. “Walt has taken a bad turn. Somebody has to see him right away. Sally! It’s Helen. Okay, they’ll take you. Go directly to the emergency entrance. Sargent Varela will check you in. And you’re in luck. Dr. Chandler is on duty tonight. He’s one of our best. He’ll take good care of you. Grab Walt’s teddy bear and get going. . . . That’s right. . . . You’re welcome. I’ll check in on you tomorrow morning. Bye.”

  “So tell me,” demanded Ingram.

  “I think it’s bad.”

  “So I gathered.”

  Helen looked up. “Sally’s really worried. Walt passed out on the way to the bathroom. Took her some time to bring him around. So now they should be on their way to the hospital.”

  “Damn. Maybe I should—”

  “Maybe you should continue packing, sailor.” She grabbed his arm and steered him to the bedroom and his gaping B-4 bag. “You have a job to do. Let us do ours. Walt’s in good hands. Dr. Chandler really is one of the best in the business.”

  Ingram couldn’t sleep. It always happened the night before shipping out, whether he was going for one week or one year. He couldn’t get used to it. Helen couldn’t sleep either, and they lay wrapped in each other’s arms until Ingram finally drifted off at four o’clock. The alarm jolted them both awake at 6:30. They stumbled through the motions of the morning’s ablutions like robots, washing up, shaving, and dressing, then heaved an overweight B-4 bag into the Plymouth. Mrs. Peabody came over early to help with Jerry. She whipped up omelets and called them to breakfast.

  Ingram sat and was soon finished. He stood and pecked Mrs. Peabody on the cheek. “Thanks, Emma.”

  “Did you get enough?” she asked. Emma’s omelets were always good, but today it had tasted like cardboard. “That was really great.”

  “You okay?” she asked, palming his cheek.

  Ingram nodded.

  She turned to Helen. “I’m not used to goodbyes anymore.”

  Helen looked out the window and swiped at her cheek. “Foggy this morning.”

  Ingram took both of Mrs. Peabody’s hands. “Emma, I’m only going for two weeks, three weeks tops.”

  “Just make sure.” She hugged him.

  “Do my best. Save me some of your beer. And don’t drink too much.”

  She laughed and said, “Time to check on the little one.”

  Ingram went to make sure the Plymouth started while Helen phoned the hospital and tried to get through to the emergency room. Finally, she reached someone she knew. After a two-minute conversation Helen slowly hung up.

  “What?” asked Ingram.

  “No change. He’s in a private room with nurses assigned round the clock. Sally’s asleep in an alcove down the hall. I’ll check on them when I get over there.”

  He patted her belly and kissed her. “I’m going to put you in an alcove if you’re not careful. Promise?”

  “Promise.” She kissed him back.

  Talk was sparse as they headed for the ferry. There were none of the usual derisive epithets as they drove past the ramshackle wooden holding cells on Terminal Island. Six months ago they had been full of Japanese POWs in transit. Now the place looked abandoned.

  When they reached Allen Field’s main hangar, Ingram discovered that his ride was a twin-engine Beech JRB-4 “bug-smasher” training plane. The pilot was a Navy captain in a well-worn flight suit with “Pierson” embossed on the right leather patch and gold wings on the left. He stomped up and down and chewed a cigar. “You Ingram?” he demanded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re fifteen minutes late, Commander, and I have a heavy schedule.”

  “Sorry, Captain.”

  Pierson jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “So I would appreciate it if you would board the aircraft. Now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ingram yanked his B-4 bag from the Plymouth and began walking. Helen got out and followed.

  “Where you headed?” demanded Captain Pierson.

  “San Diego,” replied Ingram. “I thought you knew that.”

  “No, I mean after.”

  Helen jammed her hands on her hips. “And then Yokosuka.”

  Captain Pierson seemed to notice her for the first time. “This your wife?”

  Ingram turned. “Yes, sir.”

  “A major?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jeez, she’s a knockout.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Too bad she’s not a WAVE. Where’d you find her?”

  “Corregidor, sir.”

  Three full seconds passed as Pierson stepped up and examined Helen’s ribbons. Then he held out his hand. “An honor to meet you, Major.”

  Helen smiled as they shook. “Thank you, Captain. Likewise.”

  Pierson turned to Ingram and said, “You’re a lucky man.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Just remember one thing.”

  “What’s that, Captain?”

  He said clearly, “Love isn’t love until you give it to someone.”

  “Makes sense to me, Captain.”

  Pierson rolled the cigar in his mouth and blurted, “Well then, do it, Commander. Take all the time you want, except hurry up. And don’t forget to kiss her.” He turned and climbed through the Beech’s aft hatch.

  Ingram was the only passenger, so Pierson invited him to take the right seat. They flew at ten thousand feet on a clear but bumpy morning as the plane headed for San Diego and NAS North Island. Pierson was hilariously profane, acting more like Jerry Landa than Jerry Landa himself. In fact, it turned out they knew one another, both having been kicked out of the Mare Island Officers’ Club in 1940 when they were junior-grade lieutenants. Pierson turned the controls over to Ingram so he could use his hands and arms to punctuate his raunchy stories. He had been a dive-bomber pilot in the Yorktown (CV 5) at the Battle of Midway. He worked his way up to commander of the carrier air group in the USS Saratoga (CV 3). Now carrier pilots were being retired as ships were put into mothballs. Pierson was looking at either getting out or reverting to the permanent rank of commander if he stayed in.

  “What about you, black shoe? What’s going to happen to you?” Pierson sat back and lit another cigar as the bug-smasher hurtled through headwinds.

  Ingram struggled with the yoke, overcorrecting as the plane jiggled around, its altitude wandering up and down by two hundred or three hundred feet. “Staying in, Captain.”

  “Why?”

  “What else do you know how to do?”

  “You don’t think I’d be good at selling insurance?”

  Ingram laughed, and Pierson nodded. “You too?”

  “That’s it. That’s why I’m staying in. I’d be a lousy insurance salesman.”

  “Here.” Pierson flipped switches on the autopilot. “You’re headed for Yuma instead of North Island.”

  “Sorry, Captain.” Ingram let go as the autopilot took over and corrected the plane’s altitude and course. The ride became much smoother. “Amazing,” he said.

  “Make a man out of you yet.”

  Ingram shrugged. “Too much water under my keel to become a zoomie now, Captain.”

  “Halsey did it; McCain did it. And they were in their fifties.”

  “That was peacetime.”

  Pierson’s eyes flashed over Ingram’s ribbons and his two Navy Crosses. “Yeah, we’ve all done some of that.”

  They landed half an hour late. A driver with a Jeep waited to take Ingram to the departure area for the overseas flights. He checked in with the airman there, a redheaded third-class gum chewer who told him boarding was immediate. “I would advise you to step on it, sir.” He nodded outside to an R5D with its port inboard propeller turning over.

  “Thanks.” Ingram grabbed his bag and turned to rush out.

  “Oh, sir, this is for you,” the airman handed over an envelope with Ingram’s name scrawled on the outside.

  Ingram grabbed it and quickly walked out the door. Men were gathered about the plane, a Navy ver
sion of the C-54, pulling chocks, handing up landing gear safety pins, and making ready to pull away the stairway. Ingram was barely inside when a beefy chief petty officer closed the hatch. After securing the hatch the CPO locked it and then squeezed past Ingram heading for the cockpit. “Welcome aboard, sir. You Commander Ingram?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Make yourself at home, Commander.” He waved at an empty cabin. “Take any seat; make sure you buckle up, sir. Coffee’s up as soon as we take off.” He disappeared into the cockpit and closed the door behind him.

  The R5D thumped and thudded toward the runway. After stopping and locking the brakes, they ran the plane’s engines and then waddled onto the active runway for takeoff. The pilot firewalled the throttles and lifted off with barely half the runway gone.

  Point Loma flashed beneath, and the R5D eased into a southwesterly course and climbed. Ingram took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and settled back. As he folded the jacket something rustled in the pocket. The envelope. It was a telegram from Helen. He opened it and read:

  WALT HODGES DIED AT 9:02 THIS AM STOP NOBODY KNOWS WHY STOP HIS BODY KEPT FOR AUTOPSY STOP SALLY HOLDING UP WELL BUT NEEDS LOVE AND ATTENTION STOP ALL MY LOVE AND ATTENTION TO YOU FOR A GOOD TRIP AND SAFE RETURN STOP XOXOXO HELEN

  PART THREE

  In the dark, men break into houses,

  but by day they shut themselves in;

  they want nothing to do with the light.

  For all of them, deep darkness is their morning;

  they make friends with the terrors of darkness.

  —Job 24:16–17

  Chapter Forty-Two

  29 November 1945

  SS Marshal K. V. Polochev, Berth 48, Port of Los Angeles, California

  It was nearly one in the morning and activity on the Marshal K. V. Polochev was frantic. She was under orders to clear Berth 48 by 5 a.m. to make way for a Matson Lines cargo ship due from Maui at 6 a.m. Although she was only three years old, the Polochev looked much older. She was rust streaked, and the low overcast and mist made it look worse as dew dripped from every line, bulkhead, and overhead. Everything on her rust-caked deck was slippery and dangerous. Already, two forklifts had skidded and tipped over, spilling their loads; one of the drivers was seriously injured.