Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  The ladder jiggled as the cockpit crew scrambled down. Vapor escaped their mouths as they gaped down the runway. “Commies playin’ chicken,” said Hammer. They looked at Ingram.

  Five minutes, no more.

  “What are your orders, Commander?” Boland asked.

  The realization that it was up to him hit Ingram like a bucket of ice water. He’d been faced with decisions in the heat of battle many times. But on those occasions his training and experience had taken over, telling him what to do. And if not that, then instinct. His escape from Corregidor and travel through 1,900 miles of enemy-held territory had been mostly on instinct.

  But this was a new situation. What was supposed to be diplomacy could be escalating into a deadly conflict. Two sovereigns who were supposed to be at peace with one another, who were supposed to be friendly nations, were suddenly shaking their fists. And Ingram was in the middle. Friends or not, he realized that they were now standing on the soil of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and the Russians could do any damned thing with him they wanted. It made him feel naked and defenseless. And Boland was asking for instructions.

  American naval officers from John Paul Jones to James Lawrence to Oliver Hazard Perry to George Dewey had made decisions under similar circumstances. Like them, he was the on-scene commander. There was no one else to turn to. He, Cdr. Alton C. Ingram, USN, had to decide. Worst of all, he might have to order one or more of these brave men to their death. How ironic. After a bitter four-year war it was peacetime. Yet here he was with a gun to his head.

  His first priority: their safety. Second priority: the mission, which didn’t look too promising right now, especially since the Russians had two 105-mm cannons dug in at the far end of the runway plus a seemingly inexhaustible supply of those damned M-16 half-tracks. And that was to say nothing of the Russian cruiser anchored offshore.

  Back to priority one. Ingram asked, “Still have that bazooka?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Line up on the M-16 on the right and take it out when I give the word.”

  “Yes, sir.” Boland raised his walkie-talkie and gave instructions.

  The Russians kept advancing.

  “How are your men, Sergeant?”

  “Freezing their asses off. But they’re okay. They have proper gear for a change; good Alpine winter stuff.”

  Closer. He could hear the rumble of the half-track’s engine.

  “Good. After we’re done with this set up a plan to rotate them so they can have chow and rest up.”

  “Sounds good to me, sir.”

  Just then, the half-track on the right fired a burst from the quad .50 machine gun over their heads.

  “What the hell do those bastards think they’re doing?” said Peoples. He, Lassiter, Hammer, and Berne took cover behind the burned-out M-16.

  Ingram said, “Sergeant Boland. Commence fire; bazooka only. Take out the left half-track. But don’t reveal your other positions.”

  “Got it.” Boland yelled into his walkie-talkie, “Able six, faaahrrrrr.”

  The bazooka round whooshed downfield, went straight through the halftrack’s windshield. It exploded with an enormous blast. A great plume of dust, dirt, M-16 parts, and bodies twirled through the air. Some of the Soviets soldiers nearby were knocked down and lay where they fell. Others crawled slowly away, some being helped by comrades.

  Ingram barked, “Line up on the second M-16 and get ready.”

  Boland howled into his walkie-talkie.

  The second M-16 began a turn, apparently to escape, but someone ran from the command car and blocked its path. Then he ran up to the driver’s side and shouted at them, his hands on his hips.

  Boland said dryly, “Now’s a good time, sir, with that stupid officer standin’ there in plain sight.”

  “Not yet.” The quad .50s were more or less straight up in the air. “If he levels that thing at us, then I’m going to—” A familiar sound cut him off: aircraft engines. He looked behind him and saw three four-engine aircraft approaching, flying no more than thirty feet above the runway nearly wingtip to wingtip, pulling large trails of dust. They flashed overhead, making the world one of thunder and vibration. The aircraft in the center was a C-54. On either side were B-24J Liberator bombers. They blasted over the Russians and were gone.

  The cockpit crew cheered and waved their arms.

  “Looks like we have an air force,” muttered Boland.

  “Damn! It’s Bucky!” Peoples waved.

  “How can you tell?” demanded Ingram.

  “The sumbitch is sideslippin’.”

  “Not only that.” Boland stepped out into the middle of the runway and pointed.

  Ingram followed his gaze. The Soviets were in full retreat. The command car was gone, and the remaining M-16 bounced into a clump of bushes and disappeared.

  In the distance, the B-24s begin to orbit the Admiral Volshkov at about two thousand feet while Bucky Radcliff lined up for another run down the field.

  The next decision was easy. Ingram yelled. “Leroy! You and your men get on that aircraft and get out of here.”

  Peoples trotted up. “Hold on. What about you and your Marines?”

  “We have the Navy and those B-24s to take care of us. Now get going while the getting is good. Start that damned airplane and,” he nodded in the opposite direction, “I suggest you point it that way.”

  Peoples said, “You sound like a damned pilot. Okay, Todd. Thanks.” He pumped a fist. “Let’s go, boys.” While the others scrambled, he held out a hand. “Godspeed.”

  Ingram said, “You too, Leroy. Now get the hell out of here.” He slapped Peoples on the butt. The Marines pulled the props through a few strokes while Peoples and his crew scrambled up. Hammer stayed behind and dashed among the landing gear, pulling safety pins and chocks. He tossed them through the hatch and followed them in. Peoples slid open his cockpit window and called, “Stand clear. We’re going to kick up a hell of a lot of dust.”

  Boland walked up as Ingram yelled back, “Good luck, Leroy. And thanks again.”

  Peoples pulled a face. “I pale in the presence of two naval heroes.”

  “Correction, sir,” growled Boland, “I’m a Marine.”

  Peoples grinned, shook his head, and called back, “Whatever. Thanks for everything, Gunny. What do you think the Commies will do when we start cranking engines?”

  Ingram said, “We’ll check with the outposts and let you know. Safe trip home.”

  “That’s the easy part.”

  Engines droned in the distance, and the men on the ground turned to see Radcliff’s C-54 heading down the runway, much slower this time. The gear was down and the flaps were lowered, as if coming in to land. Just before the C-54 got to them, a weighted bag fell out the back cargo hatch, thumped down on the runway, and skidded to a halt seventy-five yards away. Then the C-54 flashed overhead and was once again gone, its landing gear and flaps retracting.

  Boland raised his walkie-talkie. “Able three, can you recover? . . . Roger.”

  A marine in a white camouflage suit ran out of the bushes, snatched up the bag, and jogged toward them.

  Boland said, “Pony Express, sir.”

  The Marine handed it over.

  “How you feeling, son?” asked Ingram.

  “Not bad, Commander. Err . . . are those Commies coming after us?”

  “Not if I can help it. Actually, you guys just fired the shot heard round the world.”

  “Are we in trouble, sir?”

  “Not at all, son. Thanks for taking care of us.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Boland nodded and the Marine jogged back to his post.

  Ingram said, “Your men are going to have a story to tell, Gunny.”

  Boland chuckled, “I can see it now. Amaya telling his grandkids, ‘Hey, I fired the shot that started World War III.’”

  “Good aim.”

  Hammer hollered down from the open hatch, “Watch out. Fire in t
he hole and clear one!” Then he hoisted up the aluminum ladder as the propeller for number one engine began to turn.

  Boland led Ingram over to the runway’s edge as the engine caught, backfired, erupted great quantities of blue smoke, and then finally evened out. Engines 3 and 4 started in short order, coughing and snorting.

  Boland jammed the walkie-talkie to his ear as the engines rumbled. “What?” he yelled. Then, “Hold your position . . . that’s affirmative . . . roger.”

  Boland turned to Ingram and hollered in his ear. “That was able one.” He pointed toward the coast. “They caught a two-man team crawling up with an RPG. They had two rounds.”

  Ingram yelled back, “What’d they do with them?”

  “Tied ’em up. Do you want to shoot them?”

  “Leave ’em there. We don’t have time for prisoners. Let Ivan find ’em.”

  Even with the engine noise, Boland’s tone was the equivalent of an eye-roll. “Yes, sir.” He lifted his walkie-talkie and gave instructions.

  Radcliff made another pass. Someone waved from the aft cargo hatch.

  Ingram and Boland watched closely as Peoples gunned number one engine to pull it over the burned out M-16.

  Suddenly, Boland crossed his fists. Peoples throttled back and hit the brakes.

  Boland scrambled onto the wreck and turned a hand wheel. The quad .50s, which had been pointing upward, slowly lowered to zero elevation. Boland hopped out of the wreck. He and Ingram eyed number two engine and its still propeller. They looked at one another and nodded. Then they looked up to Peoples and gave a thumbs-up.

  Peoples nodded and punched some power into number one engine. The C-54 rolled and began a 180-degree turn, the left wing clearing the wreck by no more than nine inches.

  Halfway through the turn, Peoples started number two engine. The plane finally finished spinning and lined up on the runway, its nose dipping as Peoples braked to a stop. Methodically, the cockpit crew did magneto checks, running systematically through each engine.

  Ingram yelled over the noise, “Okay, Gunny. Any more bandits out there?”

  Boland did a comm check and nodded. “Looks okay, Commander,” he yelled.

  “Good.” Ingram and Boland walked around opposite the pilot. Peoples slid his window back and waved. Ingram clasped two hands over his head and shook them.

  In rapid succession, Peoples lowered the flaps and ran up all four engines while standing on the brakes. The air was filled with thunder as the four R-2000 engines delivered full power. Dust twirled down the runway toward the beach and the Soviet line.

  Meanwhile, Bucky Radcliff lined up for another run down the airstrip.

  Peoples glanced at Ingram and with two fingers to his forehead tipped a salute. He popped the C-54’s brakes just as Radcliff roared over the threshold. The two planes zipped past one another in opposite directions like lumbering barnstormers at a county fair. Ingram and Boland waved as Radcliff blasted over. Fifteen seconds later, Peoples wobbled into the air, having taken up the entire runway. Ingram strained to see if Peoples had used Bucky Radcliff’s flap trick to bounce into the air, but he couldn’t tell.

  The C-54 rose and gained speed; the wheels started retracting.

  “Will you look at that,” said Ingram.

  “Sir?” asked Bolan.

  “Typical Leroy.”

  “What’s typical?”

  Ingram pointed. “He’s sideslipping.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  4 December 1945

  Shakhtyorsk Air Base, Sakhalin Oblast, USSR

  Ingram reached inside the bag Bucky had dropped and pulled out the message. It was scrawled on the back of an engine maintenance list:

  Todd,

  State worried with the Soviet radio jamming and no sitreps from you. In light of this, Atsugi relays from State to scrub mission and come home. Get Leroy in the air ASAP. Four destroyers en route to help. ETA tomorrow 0600.

  We’re in contact with Tubby, who stands ready to pick you up. Just wave or flash a light from the beach and he’ll send in his putt-putt. Avoid the pier to the north. Lots of activity there. Troops milling around, many being loaded on a barge.

  Better yet, try your walkie-talkie with Tubby. You might raise him if you climb to a high place—maybe the control tower.

  Getting low on gas and have to scram. B-24s too. Good luck. Bucky

  As if on cue, the two C-54s blasted down the runway, wagging their wing-tips. Radcliff’s plane was the closest, and he slid open his cockpit window and waved. Ingram waved back. The two B-24s circled lazily at the other end of the runway. Soon they all formed up, climbed, and turned to the south, the drone of their engines fading into the distance.

  Ingram jerked his attention back. He should have thought of it sooner. “Gunny!”

  “Sir!”

  “Major Radcliff thinks we can raise the Maxwell on the walkie-talkie.”

  “We’ve tried.”

  “He says go to the top of the control tower.”

  “Ummm. Might work. Still a little beyond our range, though.”

  “What do we have to lose?”

  “I’m with you, Commander.”

  “Okay. Let’s pull back and stake our perimeter around the control tower. Then send someone up and give it a shot.”

  “Yes, sir.” Boland picked up his walkie-talkie and started bawling instructions. The Marines emerged from the bushes in twos, formed up, and crept along the edge of the runway toward the base headquarters buildings. Soon they were below the wrecked control tower.

  To Ingram, it seemed too quiet. No birds, nothing. Just the Marines gathered about, gray skies, low mountains in the distance, and the burned-out hulk of the M-16 near the far end of the runway. He caught Boland’s eye.

  The sergeant shrugged then called softly, “Villari, you and Amaya go topside and try to raise the Maxwell . . . er, what’s her call-sign, sir?”

  “Crackerjack,” said Ingram.

  “Got it, Villari?”

  “Crackerjack. Got it, Gunny.” With his M-1 in one hand and the five-and-a-half-pound walkie-talkie in the other, Villari made a careful ascent up creaky steps with Amaya close behind. Seconds after they disappeared inside, the bushes rustled across the field as if whisked by a strong wind and NKVD soldiers poured onto the runway. In a matter of seconds there were twenty, thirty, then a hundred, at least. They wore long overcoats and fur caps, and most were armed with PPSh submachine guns.

  Quickly the Marines ran their bolts to chamber rounds in their rifles.

  Ingram called, “Sergeant, have them stand down.”

  “Sheeyat,” muttered Boland. His .45 was out, and he’d likewise run the action with a loud clack.

  “Sergeant Boland. There are well over a hundred Russians around us. No use all of us getting killed. Our time will come. Have your men stand down. Now.”

  “Bastards,” muttered Boland. He slowly holstered his .45 and then said, “All right, ladies. Form up. Two ranks. Dress right. Now!”

  They looked at him in disbelief.

  “I said now, damn it!”

  The Marines formed two ranks as ordered. Boland called them to attention and right shoulder arms. Standing before his squad, he did an about face, saluted Ingram, and barked, “All present and accounted for, sir.” He winked, both knowing two were still up in the control tower.

  A group of Soviet soldiers gathered beneath the tower and yelled up. Villari didn’t respond. One of the soldiers fired a burst into the tower’s floorboards. Still no response.

  Ingram said bitterly, “Get him down, Gunny. If he’s still alive.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Boland cupped his hands and yelled up, “Game’s up, Villari. Get on down here.”

  Nothing. The soldier aimed his weapon again.

  “Villari, damn it,” yelled Boland.

  “All right, all right, Gunny.” A shadow flicked across the gaping floorboards, and Villari clumped down the stairs. As soon as he gained the ground, three Soviet sold
iers grabbed his rifle and walkie-talkie and shoved him roughly toward the command bunker. Villari winked and gave a barely visible thumbs-up as he passed.

  Amaya is still up there. And maybe still alive. And Villari had just indicated that he’d made contact with the Maxwell. Brave men. The Russians were going to chop them to pieces. And maybe that burst got Amaya. He just didn’t know. Villari hadn’t let on.

  “Knock it off.” Villari must not have liked the way he was being pushed. He turned and shoved the Russian behind him.

  The soldier backhanded Villari, who drove a fist into the soldier’s face. Blood spurted from the Russian’s nose and he fell to his knees howling in pain. The other Russians fell upon Villari and began beating and kicking him. Soon the Marine was doubled up. But they kept kicking. The other Marines broke ranks and charged into the Soviets. With a heathen growl, Boland charged into the mess.

  Ingram ran after Boland and jumped on the back of an enormous Russian who was about to whack Boland on the head with the stock of his PPSh. The man growled and tried to peel Ingram off with the swipe of a powerful arm. But Ingram wasn’t finished. He hung on and bit down hard on the man’s ear. The Russian screamed. He pulled out a pistol, a 7.62-mm Nagant, and began blindly firing over his shoulder. Ingram ducked, pushing the pistol away each time it blasted, bullets screaming past his nose and ear. He knew he couldn’t hang on much longer. Someone else wrapped his arms around Ingram’s waist and tugged mightily. Another pounded his back and kidneys. Ingram kicked backward at him.

  A command car roared up and ground to a stop. Someone fired a submachine-gun burst in the air. The fighting subsided. One by one the Marines were hauled to their feet and pushed into a group. Ingram let go of the monster’s ear and fell to the ground. Teeth bared, the man turned and raised an enormous boot to stomp him. But he stopped at a shout from the command car.

  “Prekratite seychazhe!” (Stop this at once!)

  Ingram was roughly hauled up and shoved beside Sergeant Boland, both men wheezing and out of breath. Boland had the beginnings of a magnificent black eye.