Edge of Valor
Page 41
The boatswain growled, “Yessir,” and got on the PA while flipping on the running lights.
White called, “Mr. Woodruff, take the conn and make that pier over there, port side to.” He turned to his talker, “Tell Mr. Markham to pass the word for the crew to prepare to receive prisoners.”
Ingram said, “You sound like a hard-ass skipper.”
“Learned from the best.” White stood close. “You know, you look like shit.”
“I’m okay,” said Ingram.
“Yeah, still tough as nails. Come on, lay below to my cabin and hop in the rain locker. You’ll still look like shit but at least you’ll smell better.” He thumbed at a cut over Ingram’s eye and called to his OOD, “Mr. Woodruff, have the corpsman lay to the captain’s cabin on the double.”
“I said, don’t bother.”
Tubby said gently, “Go on, Todd. We can handle this.”
Ingram realized he was too tired to argue. “Okay.”
Forgive your neighbor’s injustice.
Then when you pray,
your own sins will be forgiven.
—Ecclesiasticus 28:2
Epilogue
4 December 1945
USS Maxwell (DD 525), one thousand yards off Shakhtyorsk Air Base, Sakhalin Oblast, USSR
Darkness had fallen as the Maxwell approached the pier. With the heavy overcast, there was no moon or stars. The wind had abated and there was no groundswell either. With no pitching or rolling, it seemed as if the ship was imprisoned in a black velvet chamber. Signalmen played the destroyer’s powerful searchlights up and down the dock, finding smoking junk and Russian soldiers wandering aimlessly. The wreckage was worse at the pier’s end, the end closest to where the Admiral Volshkov had lain at anchor.
On the bow, two boatswain’s mates swung a lead line as the Maxwell eased near. She gently bumped the pier and came to rest with about eight feet of water beneath the bow and ten beneath the fantail. Sailors jumped over to catch mooring lines and make them fast to bollards.
Hurry.
Tubby sent the pharmacist’s mates and the Marines over to begin recovery of the Japanese prisoners. Dazed Russians stumbled among them but were easily moved aside by the Marines. Beginning with the worst cases, the Marines first untied the Japanese from the anchor chain and made ready to carry them across. Those who could walk boarded the Maxwell on their own. American sailors helped send them to the warmth and safety of the mess deck.
Meanwhile, Ingram showered in the captain’s main cabin. His clothes were a mess, but he and Andy Markham were about the same size and a clean khaki shirt and trousers awaited him when he stepped out. Also waiting was Eddie Geer, a second-class hospital corpsman, who dressed Ingram’s cuts and bruises. Ingram hustled Geer out, knowing the Japanese would need his services more.
Keeping in mind that the few Russians left on the pier might still have some fight in them, Ingram stuffed Oleg’s PPK into a fresh duffel coat and walked on deck. Japanese soldiers were everywhere; some talking quietly in groups, some moaning, and some lying silently on stretchers. Canvas tarps covered a few from head to toe. He walked over a makeshift gangway and across to the barge and found Boland talking to Amaya.
Ingram said, “Well done, Gunny.”
Boland said matter-of-factly, “We were lucky.” He nodded out to where the cruiser had been anchored. “Those Commies couldn’t hit the broad side of a benjo ditch.”
“Apparently not. And apparently we could.”
“Never seen anything like it. That ship went up worse than anything I saw at Guadalcanal. And man, it was rainin’ shrapnel.”
“Same with us. We got a lot of hot metal. Did you know they shot torpedoes at us?”
“You’re kiddin’.”
“Three missed and one hit at the forward fire room. It was a dud. Otherwise it would have been curtains.”
Boland shook his head. “Life does things like that to you.”
“That it does.” Ingram waved to the barge. “How much longer?”
Boland said, “Actually, we have them all untied, and the ambulatory ones are across. It’s moving the wounded that’s taking the time.”
“Better make it quick. We have to get out of here.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“Aside from the fact that the Russians are most likely on their way back, the tide’s going out and we’ll be sitting on the bottom soon. The captain tells me we have about twenty more minutes, then we have to scram.”
“We can wrap it up chop, chop, Commander. Don’t worry.”
“Okay.”
“By the way, see those two guys over there?” Boland pointed to two people standing next to the ship. One rested his foot on a bollard.
Ingram barely made them out in the gloom. “Yes.”
“One is Mr. Dezhnev, and if you don’t mind my saying, I’m glad he’s on our side. He’s one hell of a shot with a 105. And he played that artillery gun crew to where they were putty in our hands.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“The other guy is a Japanese major; I think he was the garrison commander here. He was one of the first we untied.”
“I’ll be damned. Thanks, Gunny.” Ingram walked over to the two men. A Navy blanket was draped around Fujimoto’s shoulders and his hands were wrapped around a steaming coffee mug.
Dezhnev recognized him first. “Welcome to the first annual Tri-Parte Conference.”
“Ed, good to see you.” He shook hands with Dezhnev. “That was a nice job back there.”
“Well . . .”
“My gunnery sergeant says you’re pretty good with a 105. And coming from a Marine, that’s high praise.”
Dezhnev gave a slight bow. “Glad to be of service.”
Ingram reached for Fujimoto’s hand. “And Major, what a wonderful surprise. They told us you were dead.”
Fujimoto still wore the eye patch, but the Fu Manchu mustache was gone. He nodded toward the barge. “I thought I was about to be, with all that metal and junk falling on us.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“I don’t think so. But big pieces splashed all around us.” He stamped his feet and worked his arms, muttering, “Circulation. Everything feels like cotton.”
“How long had you been tied up?”
“At least twelve hours.” He added, “My garrison here originally consisted of one thousand men. But there were hard battles over the past weeks. Then the Russians started toying with us, knowing that we were out of food and water. Now we are barely two hundred.”
Dezhnev looked away.
“I hope we can save those who are left,” said Fujimoto.
“We’re trying our best,” said Ingram. Then he changed the subject. “Your brother will be very pleased.”
“How is he?”
“Much better.”
“Strange,” Fujimoto said. “We were never close. Father wouldn’t permit it. Now I think we will have to be.”
Dezhnev said wistfully, “Take it from me: love your brother. I never had one and I wish I did.”
Fujimoto sighed, “I was taught to have a warrior’s spirit. Everything so . . . stoic . . . so much self-sacrifice . . . so much dedication to the emperor. And those things are not so bad. But now . . .”
“Now?” Ingram urged.
Fujimoto took a deep breath. “After tonight, I don’t know.”
“I don’t either,” said Dezhnev.
Fujimoto’s eyes glistened. “Then we are two.” He lifted his cup in a silent toast and drank.
Dezhnev looked ashore. “Hear that?”
“What?”
“T-34s. You have less than ten minutes.”
Ingram listened and heard the ominous rumble of diesel engines and the squeak of treads. “You’re right. Let’s go.” He turned to leave.
Dezhnev stood where he was.
Ingram said, “Come on.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What the hell? What are you doing?”
Dezhnev spread his hands. “I serve my country.”
Fujimoto said, “Come on, you damned fool. They will tie you to a stake and fill you full of holes before the night is out.”
“Come on, Ed,” said Ingram.
Dezhnev shook his head. “I said I serve my country.”
“Nonsense,” shouted Ingram.
They started at a six-second blast from the Maxwell’s foghorn. The echoes had barely stopped when sailors ran down the gangway and headed for the bollards, slipping off dock lines.
The tanks rumbled closer, sounding as if they were just around the corner.
Ingram yelled. “We can’t wait.”
“Go!” shouted Dezhnev.
“You’re not coming with us?” Ingram was incredulous. “They will shoot you.”
“I’m not coming. Go, you damned fool.”
“But—”
Dezhnev yelled, “Don’t worry, I’ll take my chances.”
“He needs something more than that. Give me a pistol,” said Fujimoto.
“What?” shouted Ingram.
“A pistol. Do you have a pistol?”
“No . . . yes.” Ingram reached in his duffle coat pocket and produced Oleg’s PPK.
“Fine.” Fujimoto grabbed the Walther, cocked it, and shot Dezhnev in the left arm.
“Owwww!” Dezhnev tumbled to the dock, grabbing his arm. Blood oozed between his fingers. “Chort voz’mi, eto bylo bol’no!” (Damn you, that really hurt!)
Fujimoto said, “Sorry, but you now look like an authentic casualty.”
The foghorn sounded again. Then a shout from the bridge, “Todd, damn it! I’m backing down in the next ten seconds.”
Ingram shouted back. “On our way, and kill the running lights!” He reached down to Dezhnev and took his hand. “Adios, amigo.” Taking the PPK from Fujimoto, he passed it over. “You may need this.”
Dezhnev gasped between gritted teeth, “Thanks, killjoy. Goodbye. We’ll meet again.”
“Hope so.” Ingram touched Dezhnev on the shoulder then stood and ran, Fujimoto close behind.
The sailors finished lifting the dock lines off the bollards and cast them back on board the Maxwell, then ran for the safety of the gangway. Two more people followed. The first was Major Kotoku Fujimoto of the Imperial Japanese Marines. The last was Cdr. Alton C. Ingram, U.S. Navy.
Tubby White wasted no time. He ordered all the Maxwell’s topside lights doused and backed the destroyer away with a two-thirds bell. Once clear of the dock, he changed to a full bell. The ship gained sternway into darkness and the protection of the night.
Ingram walked onto the bridge, finding Tubby bent over a radar repeater. It rendered a beautiful picture of a ship safely away from shore and out to sea. Tubby ordered left full rudder and a two-thirds counterclockwise twist. Once the ship lost sternway, he shifted the rudder until they were headed fair into the Sea of Japan. With that, he rang up turns for seventeen knots on a standard bell and steadied on course two-five-five.
Russians raced onto the pier and began shooting at where the destroyer had disappeared. Captain Third Rank Eduard Dezhnev stood among them, firing bursts of his PPSh submachine gun into the air.
An out-of-breath Matvie Borzakov rushed up to him. “You damned fool. Look what you’ve done.”
“I? What have I done?”
Borzakov waved toward where the Admiral Volshkov had been. “Our ship is gone, along with her captain and crew and a valuable asset. One would think you were working for the Americans.” He peered at Dezhnev. “What happened to your arm?”
Rifle shots burst all around as men fired sporadically after the ship. It was difficult to hear. “What?”
“Your arm,” Borzakov screeched. “What happened?”
“I have news for you, Matvie.”
Someone found a machine gun and began spraying bullets into the night.
“What?”
“You are right. I am working for them.”
Borzakov said, “Is this a stupid joke?”
Dezhnev added, “No joke. As for what happened to me, I found Oleg’s pistol.”
“What are you saying?”
“Here it is.” Dezhnev pulled out the PPK and shot Borzakov in the chest. Twice. The man fell to the ground, reached toward him, and then was still.
A minute later, three T-34s rumbled up to the pier. The tanks fired wildly into the night at the invisible destroyer. Although the gunners couldn’t see, one round actually zipped between the Maxwell’s stacks and hit the ocean beyond, raising a tall water column and dousing the quarterdeck. The other thirty-five or so rounds the three tanks fired missed by at least five hundred yards.
The shooting petered out, and soldiers aimlessly wandered up and down the pier; who or how many, Dezhnev didn’t know. It was too dark to make a count. Dezhnev stumbled against some oil drums and peered into the blackness. He could barely see his hand before his face. For certain, nobody would be able to describe his role here tonight. But just to be sure, he moved farther from Borzakov’s body, then threw the PPK into the water.
He looked out to sea, realizing the utter foolishness of his actions. America. Freedom. An independent, creative, and robust way of life sailed away with that ship. All he ever wanted—all any decent man ever wanted. He could have gone with them. The door was wide open. And yet, he had turned aside. A short time ago he would have jumped at the chance. But for some reason he didn’t understand he had remained behind in this hell.
Sergeant Boland had easily captured the 105’s gun crew and had left them bound and blindfolded. None of them knew of Dezhnev’s role tonight. He might just get away with it. That thought was of some comfort as the tanks secured their engines. Trucks rattled up, troops disembarked, men shouted. More tanks rumbled up. Getting organized. Soon, flashlights popped up on the beach, their beams waving in the air and on the ground, picking out a path. Cautiously, men began walking out on the pier.
They’ll be here, soon. Better to be found on the ground than on my feet.
He let himself fall against a stack of crates. As he lay there waiting to be discovered, he thought about Fujimoto. They really were two of a kind, he realized, just as Fujimoto had said. Fujimoto was as passionate about Japan, as flawed as it was with its bushido code, as Dezhnev was about Russia, the Rodina. Yet, the major had instinctively grasped what was needed in this situation. A stupid gunshot wound to carry Dezhnev through all this.
The Maxwell’s foghorn ripped at the night in a long, mournful blast; its echo rolled over what had been the coastal plain of Karafuto and was now Sakhalin.
Ingram. Dezhnev grinned. Either Ingram was giving him a Bronx cheer or he was saying goodbye. Deep down, he knew it was the latter.
Do svedaniia. Goodbye for now, old friend.
About the Author
John J. Gobbell is a former Navy lieutenant who saw duty as a destroyer weapons officer. His ship served in the South China Sea, granting him membership in the exclusive “Tonkin Gulf Yacht Club.” His thirty-plus-year career in executive recruiting included clients in the military and commercial aerospace sectors, giving him added insight into character development for his novels. Edge of Valor is the fifth of five stand-alone novels in the Todd Ingram series. Two more are planned. Altogether, he has written seven historical thrillers involving the U.S. Navy–Pacific Theater—and is currently at work on his eighth. He and his wife, Janine, live in Newport Beach, California. His website is www.JohnJGobbell.com and he can be reached at John@JohnJGobbell.com.
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