What else?
He patted himself, checking for bruises and broken bones. All he came up with was a cut somewhere on his face. His right eye was swollen shut. But there was no major pain and everything seemed to work. But as he turned, his head he found his neck painful, and there was an abrasion of some sort under his chin. Then he realized his helmet was gone. Damned strap must have caught my head when it came off.
What else?
His Lifejacket seemed to be supporting him all right. He shuddered with the thought that a chamber could leak and he’d have to swim again. But then another survival session flicked through his mind. Take off your pants, tie knots at the bottoms of the legs, scoop in air and use that to stay afloat.
A wave lifted Ingham, tossing him atop a bigger wave. It crested and broke; throwing him into a trough forcing him under. Even with an eye open, it was completely black. Am I dead?
NO!
Out of breath, Ingham panicked and fought against the water. Harder. He felt his head would burst. Kicking his feet together, he shot to the surface drawing in great Lungful of air. Once he stopped wheezing, he realized it almost dark. It had been hazy at sunset; clouds were moving in, meaning it would be overcast tonight: No moon or stars.
Tonight? Here tonight? All alone? Oh, God help me.
Ingham became acutely aware of his feet. And between his feet and the bottom were about 1000 fathoms of water, give or take a few hundred, since he’d last looked at the chart. Six thousand feet straight down: That’s over a mile. I don’t want to go down there. Oh, God...I don’t want to go there. I’ve a wife and a baby, yet unborn, that I desperately want to see. There’s a life before me with a wonderful woman. Helen, I love you. I’ll come back.
There was a low roar off to his left. What? Which way is off to my left? No idea. North?
He bobbed and whipped about for a few minutes as the roaring grew louder. What the hell is it? Louder. Then he figured it out. Rain. Sweet gentle rain. The water roared as the rain pounded about him, making little glistening craters, the pattern enticing. As he studied the water, a rivulet of rain ran down his face onto his lips.
Wonderful. It tasted sweet and pure.
Raising his head to the sky, he opened his mouth wide, trying to catch as much rain water as possible. Drop by drop, the water invigorated him. But then a wave lapped over his head, and he gagged and coughed and sputtered. But the rain tasted so good that he raised his head once more, risking another dunking.
The rain ceased abruptly, and the clouds parted to reveal a full moon overhead. Unaccountably, that made Ingham smile and he raised his wrist to check his watch. With the pale light, he could barely discern the radium dial: eight twenty. Another ten hours to morning. Damnit! How do I last ten hours? What the hell do I do for ten hours? And then what do I do after that?
Helen, I love you. Stay with me, honey; stay in my heart. We’ll be together. Looking up in the sky, he could almost see Helen. Her dark near-black hair, her eyes, full of mirth, compassion and love. Simple and yet complex, he never tired of looking into Helen’s eyes. Each time he did, he always found something new. The joy about Helen was that she was an unending mystery, something always unfolded to delight him each day. He’d never get over her.
A wave slapped him in the face, making him choke and sputter. It made him realize that he hadn’t been dunked for a while and...Yes...the sky was almost completely clear overhead. The wind was calm, the waves not quite so steep. In fact, they were rolling now, the period between crests longer.
Thank you, God.
His teeth began to chatter and his hands shivered. Suddenly, his mind was seized with the thought of hypothermia. What do I do about that?
Think. The last time Ingham checked, the Maxwell’s water injection temperature was sixty-seven degrees. Not bad. Survivable, but still miserable. His hands curled up and became like claws. No! Please!
With chattering teeth, Ingham rubbed his arms and legs. But the more he did so, the more his teeth chattered.
Pain shot into his right calf, the muscles wadding up like rubber bands. Ingham dunked his head under, his fingers furiously kneading his calf.
Then he raised his head, drew a breath. With a gasp, he sucked in another breath, ducked under, and then went back to work.
The charlie horse wouldn’t go away and he grew frustrated, as he gasped and choked and wheezed, knowing he couldn’t do this much longer.
“Chee...chee...”
Ingham ducked again. In a rage, he thumped at his calf, his lungs feeling as if they would burst. Again, he raised his head, gasping, and woozy from lack of breath. Cool air washed his face and he opened his eye, seeing the moon.
“Chee...chee...”
Ingham whipped his head around. “What is it?”
“Screeech!”
“No!”
He rose on a wave. Silhouetted atop the next wave was a small fury creature. It waved. “Chee...chee.”
“Dexter! For crying out loud.” Twenty feet away, the monkey was perched on something, all the way out of the water. A piece of dunnage of some sort. “Hold on, Dexter.” With long, powerful strokes, Ingham swam. But the Lifejacket slowed his progress. Three minutes later, he stopped to catch his breath. But he’d only halved the distance. Dexter waved with both arms, screeching and growling as Ingham put his head down and dug in.
Ingham finally pulled to within three feet of Dexter, who jumped and screeched. “Hold on. It’s okay.”
He put out his hand finding a long, smooth section of painted wood, perhaps ten feet long. At one end were weather-beaten metal letters, DD 525. It was a wrecked section of the whaleboat’s hull. Ingham reached and found the gunnel. Kicking and wiggling, he pulled himself aboard.
The section sank a bit; waves lapped over, but except for Ingram’s feet and calves, he was out of the water.
Instantly, Dexter jumped on his back screeching, and pawing at Ingram’s face. At length, Ingram flipped onto his back and looked up to the moon. Dexter calmed a bit and settled in the crook of his arm, laying his head against Ingram’s chest…
CHAPTER FOUR
8 June, 1944
North Pacific Ocean
Sleep was impossible. Waves lapped over the whaleboat wreckage constantly, rudely jolting Ingram and the monkey awake. Twice, they were swept off with Dexter clinging and screeching, as Ingram kicked and sputtered and cursed his way back aboard. But in the open air, he quickly grew cold and his teeth chattered. The water seemed warm when he was dunked, and he considered staying there, but kicking and holding onto the wreckage was too much an effort.
After midnight the ocean calmed, and he dropped off. But once again, a wave slapped him, abruptly yanking him back to consciousness. Wiping water off his brow, he glanced at his watch: 0236. It’s darkest before dawn, isn’t it? Tomorrow, they’ll pick me up for sure, eight o’clock at the latest. I’ll bet Jerry Landa has lots of planes lined up right this minute, just waiting to launch at first light.
It calmed even more, and he worked himself into a precarious spread-eagle, with Dexter shivering in his armpit. Looking up, he marveled at stars and planets which glittered across a deep velvet backdrop, framing the moon overhead. To Ingram, this view always made him feel small and insignificant. It was especially so here, tonight, when he was so vulnerable and far removed from Helen and their little house on Alma Street.
It brought to mind his escape from Corregidor, just over two years ago. He’d been skipper of the minesweeper Pelican, stuck in Manila Bay. The Japanese had captured Manila and Cavite, leaving them without access to fuel. With no chance of escape, they were relegated to an air defense role around Corregidor. A bomber raid finally sank the old bird, leaving Ingram and his crew stranded on “The Rock.” Two nights later, the Japanese mounted an amphibious attack, seizing Corregidor and the three other islands guarding the entrance to Manila Bay. Contrary to Major General Jonathan M. Wainwright’s orders to surrender, Ingram and his men decided not to give up. They’d
seen too much Japanese brutality, the Bataan Death March a horrible example. In desperation, Ingram and nine of his men jumped into a thirty-six foot launch, and made it all the way to Darwin, Australia, a miraculous voyage of over 1900 miles. Without the help of navigational aids, they lived off the land by day and were underway at night.
Ingram snorted at the irony. They’d made their way through the inner islands of the Philippine archipelago, known as the Central Visayan, exited the Surigao Straits, and sailed down the east coast of Mindanao toward the Australian sub-continent. Surigao Straits, here I am again: Ingram looked west; the Straits were about 1,300 miles away. He was in a desperate fix now and he was in a desperate fix the night they transited the Straits. He’d met Helen Duran, an Army nurse, on Corregidor and they’d fallen in love. She, too, escaped and made it to Nasipit, a coastal logging town in Mindanao. She and Ingram were set up to escape when a Japanese raiding party surprised them. Under a hail of enemy gunfire, Ingram was forced to push off with his men, leaving Helen behind.
But later, he’d parachuted in, and rescued her. In the process, he was wounded, but the resistance grabbed them and they escaped to the verdant, rain-drenched mountains above Nasipit. Under the noses of Japanese search parties, they married, and Helen nursed him back to health. A month later, they were extracted by submarine. Ingram took comfort that Helen had been in far greater danger compared to now. She’d waited months for rescue. He only had to wait another, he checked his watch -- 0346 -- another four to five hours before someone plucked him from the water.
He lay back dreaming of the island not too far away where he’d married Helen. Ingram looked down at the shivering little creature curled in his armpit, brown fur matted to his body. “Not too far, huh Dexter?”
Dexter groaned, curled his hands under his chin, and tried to squeeze closer.
What if they don’t come tomorrow, he thought. Impossible. They have to; that’s all there is to it. But maybe not. What then? He smacked his lips and it made him realize he was thirsty.
What if no one shows up and I’m out here for days, weeks? With nothing to eat?
He looked down at the unsuspecting Dexter and shivered with the realization that he’d really have to be desperate to eat monkey meat. How hungry must one be to do something like that? No, can’t happen. Besides, Bucky Monaghan had taken an interest in Dexter and drew a few books on natural primates. Dexter, an adult male macaque, weighed about forty pounds. Monkey meat, Monaghan explained to Kelly and Ingram, was extremely tough, which helped nullify a groundswell among the chiefs who considered barbecuing Dexter after a particularly bad rampage. But Monaghan also discovered Dexter was most likely from the Philippines. Monkeys didn’t exist in the Solomons. Ingram looked down again. “You from Mindanao, Dexter? You know the place where Helen and I were married?”
He’d be in great shape if they drifted to Mindanao. The east coast was sprinkled with little villages; the natives were some of the finest people Ingram had ever met. There was one village in particular, he remembered; an idyllic little hamlet in Langa Bay, just north of Port Lamont. The water was very clear that day. Ingram closed his eyes, seeing the bay’s white sand glitter through a turquoise brilliance. The 51 Boat, a thirty-six foot launch, had easily sidestepped dazzling coral heads and worked though the reef. Inside, they cruised over a long, boomerang-shaped lagoon. Hundreds of brightly colored fish, each seeming a different size, shape, and variety, darted beneath the launch, as they headed for a rickety dock. After mooring, they found the dock empty, the locals hiding in their nipa huts. Once Ingram and his men convinced them they weren’t Japanese, Filipinos emerged in large numbers, pouring from their huts and the jungle, laughing, jumping up and down and talking all at once. Most of the men had worked at the Port Lamont lumber mill until it was devastated by the Japanese. Three months previously, the enemy loaded the mill equipment on a barge and hauled it off to their homeland.
The locals guided Ingram and his men though thick overgrowth to a pristine pond, a pearl-white beach at one end. About four feet deep, it was fed by waterfall carrying fresh water down from the mountains. Ingram and his men luxuriated in the fresh water, scrubbing them clean and washing their clothes. Then they filled their water cans, while their hosts piled wild papaya, comate, jackfruit cooked in coconut milk and roast chicken in their launch. They even added a half full bottle of Fundatore brandy. Then they convinced Ingram that the launch needed work to make the voyage in the open ocean. Using surplus mahogany they worked furiously, decking over two thirds of the 51 Boat, so she would shed the waters of the Philippine Sea when digging her nose into a trough. They finished in two days. Fearing Japanese reprisals, Ingram shoved off for the Pacific and Morotai, their first landfall in the Indies.
The Filipinos were great people. He hoped to return after the war and thank them properly. “Huh?” Ingram’s head snapped up. He’d been sleeping. For how long he didn’t know. His watch read: 0520. Daylight soon. As was his morning practice, he wound the watch. He looked up to see the moon had journeyed to the western horizon. The sky seemed a bit lighter, and he could distinguish more of the wreckage upon which he was adrift.
There was no wind, and except for long, undulating rollers, the water was almost flat, glassy, the stars reflecting clearly. God, Helen, I miss you. Please let them find me today. I can still make that plane in Noumea. It leaves in five-no-four days, now. Three days of flying and I’ll be with Helen. Please, God. Let it happen. Let it happen.
A wavelet lapped at the side of the wreckage, once again drenching his trousers. He sat quickly and looked around. Definitely getting lighter.
Dexter fell onto the cold wood and growled a couple of times, giving Ingram a dirty look.
“Good morning.”
Dexter’s eyes darted up to him, then looked out to sea and gave a long screech.
“What do you want? Breakfast in bed?”
Dexter screeched again, jumped up and down and spun in circles, looking out to sea then back at Ingram.
“Eggs Benedict? Yessir. I’ll put a man right on it.”
Dexter was staring.
“What is it?” Ingram followed his gaze.
A periscope.
“Oh, my God!”
It was unmistakable. A long, black, glistening shape, cut a soft wake toward him. Perhaps a hundred yards distant, it headed right for them. At the top, the periscope’s glistening black lens was fixed on him, he knew.
Ingram stood and waved his arms. “Come on you guys, Pull the plug or blow the toilet or whatever you do, and put that wonderful, glorious, tub on the surface.” The wreckage wobbled and he slipped, fell on his rump and tumbled into the water, taking Dexter with him.
“Damn!” Sputtering and coughing, Ingram scampered back aboard the wreckage and blinked water from his eyes. Fifty yards away, the periscope arrowed past the wreckage at no more than two knots, its lens still fixed on Ingram. Just as it passed, another periscope rose, stubbier, its lens training around the compass. Meanwhile, the first periscope kept its lens fixed on Ingram.
He exaggerated his lips with, “It’s okay guys. No honorable sons of Nippon around here.” Sweeping his arms across the sky, he yelled. “NO JAPS. ALL CLEAR.”
The first periscope went down, then the other disappeared. The Philippine Sea became calm and flat and very quiet. Dexter moaned, sat on his haunches, and put a hand over his eyes.
“Maybe you scared them, Dexter. You know. It’s against Navy regs to have a monkey aboard. On the Maxwell, we were lenient. Maybe this guy is an Admiral’s son or something and is striking for CNO. You know, a by-the-book type.”
Minutes passed with Ingram searching the horizon, his demeanor turning sour. The stars were gone and it had grown light, the ocean an iron, flat grey. And no submarine.
Dexter spun and screeched, looking directly behind.
The periscope came from same direction where they’d had originally seen it, but it was much further away, perhaps five hundred yards, this time.
The other periscope rose and both grew taller and taller. Patting Dexter’s back, Ingram said, “She’s coming up.”
Air rose in great bubbles, as the submarine’s bow and conning tower pierced the surface, heading right for them.
Ingram stood and waved his arms, yelling, “All right, you beautiful sewer pipe. I take back everything I said about submariners.” Dexter stood beside him, jumping up and down, squealing. He did a perfect back-flip, landed on his feet but skidded off the wreckage and into the water. Ingram laughed and bent to help him aboard. When he looked up again, the submarine was fully surfaced. Her diesels coughed into life, exhaust pouring from both sides in a light blue plume of smoke.
Dexter slipped again, and once again, Ingram bent to pull him from the water. “Don’t make a habit of this. There’s hot chow and fresh water aboard that pig boat. So we can’t wear out our welcome.”
The submarine drew closer, perhaps a hundred yards now. Men were on her foredeck, one poised with a life ring. The others, he saw had weapons. Someone leaned out of the bridge, perhaps her skipper, as he conned his ship for the pick-up.
Fifty yards.
He could see their faces now. “My God.”
The monkey looked up to him, a question on his face.
“Japs.”
Indeed, the submarine’s lines were not of the US Navy’s fleet type. Long and narrow, her faired conning tower had deadlights that made the submarine looked like Lucifer personified . Her configuration was one he recognized as a Japanese I-class submarine. Black and rust-streaked, water lapped from her bow as the submarine eased closer. Smoke poured from her exhaust as she backed down and stopped, just ten yards away.
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 4