This guy is good, I’ll give him that.
Ingram looked up to see a group of ten or so Japanese sailors leaning casually against the deck gun, looking curiously at him. A heavy set man stepped forward with a life ring and tossed. The ring sailed perfectly over Ingram’s head, the line slapping the wood to his right. All he had to do was reach out and grab.
I don’t have to take the line, do I? No I don’t. Someone else will find me. Americans. He folded his arms and shook his head. So solly.
The man who tossed the life ring called to the bridge. Quickly, a reply was barked in return.
Two men stepped to the deck’s edge and raised their rifles.
“No.” Ingram raised his hands. “You can’t--”
They opened fire, shooting holes in the boat wreckage. Dexter squealed and jumped in the water, just as rifle bullets stitched the spot where he’d been standing.
“God!. Stop. No. Stop!”
The two lowered their rifles and the heavy-set ring-throwing man gestured and yelled at him in Japanese. No translation was necessary. Get up here, now!
Ingram grabbed the line and the Japanese sailors hauled. He was soon pulled over the ballast tank where a pair of sailors climbed down, reached under his armpits and yanked. The men were strong, and Ingram found himself flopping on a wood-grated deck like a slippery fish trying to wiggle out of a tuna net.
Someone shouted again. The engine’s tempo increased and the submarine vibrated, wake surging down her narrow hull. The skipper was losing no time getting underway. Coughing and sputtering, Ingram rose to his hands and knees to see the whaleboat wreckage, stitched with dark, ugly holes, bobbing in the submarine’s wake,.
He looked up to one of the sailors. “Dexter. What’d he ever do to you?”
Another guttural shout. Shadows converged overhead, as men lifted him to his feet and shoved him forward toward a hatch.
“Get your damn paws off.”
Someone cuffed him in the head.
“Oww!”
Another man kicked him in the butt while another pointed down the hatch. Just as he started to descend, he looked up to see a man standing high in the conning tower, his hands splayed on the bulwark, studying him. Then he tipped a hand to his forehead in a casual salute.
“Hell with you Tojo.”
The man stiffened, raised his binoculars, and scanned the horizon.
CHAPTER FIVE
8 June, 1944
IJN Submarine I-57
Two hundred miles southeast of Guam
North Pacific Ocean
The temptation to go below for food, water and sleep, was overwhelming. But then it hit Ingram that the enemy lived down there. Lifting his chin to the sky, he realized freedom was fleeting, and, although alive and physically safe, he would soon be forced to enter a dark and ominous world.
Someone shoved at his back, making him stumble toward a hatch. Then a pair of hands gripped each elbow pushing him to the lip.
“Yare!” One shouted.
Ingram peered down a good fifteen feet into the faces of two sailors who looked up curiously. I’m not going down there. “Ahh!” He wrenched himself free and lunged for the submarine’s starboard side. Another step and over the side -- except -- he tripped on a pad eye.
Japanese sailors were on him instantly. Pain shot through his head, neck and back as they screamed and punched and kicked him. To Ingram, the beating seemed to go on for hours, but it only lasted five, agonizing seconds. Then they held him down, while one muttered “Baka” and tied a blindfold over his eyes. Ingram was yanked to his feet and pushed back toward the hatch.
Oh, God. They’re going to throw me down head first.
Someone grabbed his belt, another his armpits, and they guided his feet onto a ladder. They shoved, with Ingram groping for a hand-hold. Finding a rung, he hand-overhanded his way down, until he was caught by the sailors below.
Place smells like hydraulic fluid.
The blindfold had loosened on his way down the hatch and he saw a grated deck at his feet. Below deck level to his left was the gleaming bronze door of a torpedo tube. Around the tube was a myriad of pipes, valves and gauges. On all sides, he sensed the presence of men, some of them laughing. Someone grabbed Ingram and spun him around.
“Hey, hey,” he protested.
“Hei, hei,” they shouted back. Other hands spun him again, while they laughed. Someone kicked him in the rump and their laughter grew to a full-throated roar. He was shoved from man to man, the sailors in the compartment bellowing with glee.
Above, the hatch slammed shut. A klaxon sounded and compressed air hissed loudly. In moments, the submarine’s easy rolling dampened. Then she took a slight down angle.
We’re diving. Probably for the day. Too many Americans topside to run on the surface. It struck him that the US Navy had an effective anti-submarine capability. In fact, he’d been part of it aboard Maxwell. His stomach churned, as he realized he was at the other end of it now. He could end up getting depth-charged by his own countrymen. I’ll be squashed like a watermelon with my body decomposing 6,000 feet down, lying next to my enemy, Japanese sailors I don’t even know. Oh, God, please let me out of here.
An order was barked. They stopped spinning Ingram and the compartment became silent. Ingram tried to stand erect but felt woozy and stumbled, his arms grappling in space. He toppled, but a pair of hands caught him and held him straight until he regained his balance.
A voice said, “Hokay, Joe, follow me.”
Ingram’s hand was pushed onto a man’s belt and he started walking. In moments, they were at a hatchway. He reached out, feeling the opening, surprised it was circular, unlike the oval shaped hatchways of American submarines. And more difficult to crawl though. He heard voices ahead, but someone spoke harshly and they stopped talking. He was led through a narrow passage with curtain-covered doorways.
Berthing space.
One doorway was open, and through the bottom of his blindfold, Ingram saw a pair of bare legs bent beside what appeared to be a washbowl. The man gargled and spat. Yes, a washbowl.
They passed through the next hatchway and he stumbled down another narrow passageway: More berthing. Then he passed through an open area tiled in small black and white squares. Water ran in a deep sink, steam hissed, and his nostrils were tinged with the odor of garlic and fish and tea.
As before, the men were silent in the next compartment. Ominously quiet. Through the blindfold he saw many feet. Some were seated, facing banks of valves and gauges. Control room. He felt their eyes cutting into him. That’s the enemy, they were thinking. An American bastard. Let’s kill him and be done with it. He was glad to go through the next hatchway where men once again lapsed into silence. In this compartment, he was surrounded by a great warmth. He knew what it was before he saw the diesel’s foundations. These damn things are big. They weren’t running, of course, but they still radiated a beckoning heat as he passed. There were just two of them, unlike the four smaller diesels found on American submarines.
He stepped into the next compartment, where he was greeted by the whirring of electric motors. Maneuvering room.
The man before him drew up and said, “Hokay, Joe.” Placing his hands on Ingram’s shoulders, he eased him onto a bench and tied his hands with a thin leather strap.
A minute or so passed with the whirring of the submarine’s electric motors. People were in here, close by; how many, Ingram couldn’t tell. But he cheated a bit and saw, beyond his own feet, a pair of boots opposite.
A voice came from the booted man, “We’re taking off your blindfold now, Commander.”
The blindfold came off. Sitting before Ingram was a European: thin, no more than 170 pounds; blond, with an unkept beard. He wore a dark tunic bearing the Kreigsmarine emblem.
Ingram said, “You’re German.”
He nodded.
“You speak good English.”
“And French. And Japanese. And Spanish. My Italian is a bit rusty thoug
h. But I do have a gift.” He tilted his head. “Korvettenkapitän Martin Taubman, at your service. Do you perhaps speak German?”
“Sorry, none of the above. Are you a commander in submarines?”
Taubman gave a thin smile. “In your Navy, a Korvettenkapitän is a lieutenant commander. Therefore you outrank me. Yes, I am qualified in U-boats. But for now, I’m just a lowly naval attaché returning to my homeland.”
“How do you expect to get there?”
“My friend, you are aboard the I-57, a submarine of extraordinary capabilities. With her range, we could sail twice to Lorient and back.”
“Lorient? France?”
“You will not make the whole trip, unfortunately. You will be dropped in Penang, where we top off with fuel. But don’t worry. For you, the war is over.”
The submarine’s bulkheads seemed to close in on Ingram, and it suddenly grew cold and clammy. His heart sank with the realization that Penang, an island off the Malay Peninsula was a major Japanese naval base. From there, he would most likely go to a POW camp to work the roads in French Indo-China. His heart raced as he recalled hearing the survival rate there was no higher than forty percent. Thirsty. He asked. “You wouldn’t have a drink of water, would you?”
Taubman leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. “Are you all right, Commander?”
“Look, I’m thirsty and hungry and wet and haven’t slept for at least twenty four hours.”
“In due time. What is your name, Commander?”
“Ingram.”
“So. Ingram? Ingram who?”
“Ahh, jeez.” Realizing he wasn’t handling this well, Ingram straightened up. As he did, he noticed a man sitting to his right. It was the man who had stood in the conning tower, most likely the submarine’s captain. To Ingram’s left, was a thick-set sailor, a rifle with fixed bayonet in his hands, dressed in whites, his guide. Behind the sailor was another hatchway leading to, he guessed, another berthing compartment.
Taubman said, “Go ahead, please, Commander.”
Time to dance. “Ingram, Alton C., Commander, United States Navy. 638217.”
“Alton?”
“That’s it.”
The man to Ingram’s right cleared his throat.
Taubman waved a hand and said, “May I present, Commander Hajime Shimada of the Imperial Japanese Navy?”
Shimada stood and bowed with a grunt. He was taller than most Japanese, powerfully built, with a wide face, and intense, glistening eyes. He wore dark green trousers and a short sleeved white shirt with twin silver leaves, pinned on the collar. Curiously, a red-checkered scarf was gathered around his neck. He leaned close to Ingram, examining him, then sat, jamming his fists on wide-spread knees.
Taubman said, “And to your left is Seaman Second Class Takano Masako, your escort for the voyage.”
The man with the rifle, realizing he was being introduced, stiffened slightly and nodded.
“Takano’s responsibility is to tuck you into bed every night and make sure you are comfortable.” Taubman raised thick bushy eyebrows. “Tell me, what have you heard about the invasion?”
Ingram almost jumped. Hoping they hadn’t noticed, his mind flashed with what he knew of the upcoming operation in the Marianas: Guam and Saipan were to be invaded, he knew for sure, but not exactly when. Even so, they could torture what he knew out of him. He’d be forced to talk after they pulled all of his teeth or whatever they do. Once more, he felt clammy and his forehead broke out into a sweat. “What invasion?”
“You know. The big one.”
“Mr. Taubman, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s been on the radio. Don’t you listen to it out here?”
“We don’t get commercial radio if that’s what you mean.” That wasn’t exactly true, but they’d been so busy they hadn’t listened for the past few days.
“You don’t know?”
Ingram gave a blank stare.
“Festung Europa, Mr. Ingram. American, British and Free French forces invaded France yesterday. They landed at Normandy. And we expected it at Calais. Can you believe that?”
“Oh.” Ingram hadn’t heard. But France was so far away and he was so cold and tired and hungry, he couldn’t imagine the invasion’s enormous ramifications.
Taubman turned to Shimada and explained something to him, using the word Normandie. Shimada nodded slowly. Taubman turned back to Ingram and said, “You’re lucky it was calm topside. We may have missed you.”
“I’m not so sure.”
With a nod, Taubman continued, “Also, it was your rank that intrigued us. We were surprised to see a full commander bobbing about all by himself.”
“And a defenseless monkey which you killed. Did that make you feel good?”
Taubman shrugged. “What is your ship?” Taubman and Shimada leaned forward.
“I don’t have a ship.”
“No?”
“Not me. I’m a supply officer.”
“A what?”
“A supply officer. You know. Food and typewriters. I keep the fleet stocked in toilet paper and rubber bands. There’s a shortage back home, you know.”
Shimada grunted.
Taubman interpreted. Then he asked, “Well, then. What is a supply officer doing out here, so close to Guam?”
Good question. “My plane went down. Nobody made it out except me. You see, we were blown off course in the storm yesterday and—
The blow hit Ingram above the right kidney. The next thing he knew, he was on the deck, blinking, seeing two of everything as pain raced through his body. “God--”
Taubman leaned over and said, “Commander Shimada would like to know the name of your ship.”
“...ahh, supply officer. They don’t let me on ships.”
It was Masako, Ingram noticed, who kicked him in the side. Luckily, Ingram squirmed a bit and the blow went off course, the sole grazing his hip. Still it hurt. And Ingram made sure he screamed loud enough to make it sound good.
“If you are a supply officer, Commander, then why were you bobbing on a piece of wreckage marked ‘DD 525?’”
Another good question. “I ran into it in the middle of the night. I -- ouch!”
Takano grabbed Ingram’s bindings, yanking him to his feet. Quickly, Takano patted Ingram down, finding only a pocket knife and a fountain pen in his shirt pocket. He handed the items to Shimada who turned them over in his hands, then stuffed them in his pocket. Looking up at Ingram, he grunted at Takano. The stout sailor leaned down, yanked Ingram’s watch off his wrist and handed it to Shimada who examined that, as well.
Ingram said, “Enjoying yourself, Captain?”
Shimada must have caught the insolence in Ingram’s voice because he barked at Takano. The sailor backhanded Ingram across the face. And then again.
Ingram felt a warm trickle, as Takano once again was at him, this time grabbing his left hand and twisting his Naval Academy ring off. He handed it to Shimada who examined if for a brief moment. Then he passed it over to Taubman.
Taubman held the ring close to his eye and asked, “There is an inscription: ACI - 1937. What does it mean?”
“Alton C. Ingram. I graduated from the Naval Academy in 1937.”
Taubman said softly, “Beautiful. Simply beautiful.” He tossed it in the air and caught it. “Good weight. Good setting; yellow gold. And a special stone, no?”
“My parents had it made especially for me as a graduation gift.”
“Some gift. Semi-precious stone. A star sapphire, hmmm, corn-flower blue. Two carats, I’d say.”
“You know your stuff.”
“Where did they get this?”
“My uncle; he’s a jeweler.” That was a lie. Miriam, his first wife had given it to him. She could afford it. Rather, her father could. And that’s what led to their breakup.
Taubman pursed his lips and turned the ring over, while holding it close to his eye. “The cabochon. You’ve scratched it. You should be more careful.�
��
“Life is rough.”
Taubman shrugged. He leaned over and spoke softly to Shimada. Shimada nodded and Taubman said, “I have been ordered to keep this safe for you. I hope you don’t mind. Otherwise, there may be more dents in the setting.” he smiled. “We can’t have that, can we?”
“Like the dents in my watch?”
Taubman said, “Our Captain will look after that. And you should know that he doesn’t tolerate insolence. Commander Shimada is esteemed among submariners. He holds Japan’s highest honor, the Order of the Golden Kite. Like you, he graduated from Japan’s Naval Academy at Etajima. But in 1935.”
Shimada spoke at length.
Taubman nodded, then said to Ingram, “Here are the Captain’s instructions, Commander. He will tolerate no insolence or slaking off.” He held the ring up to the light and slid it onto his fourth finger. His eyebrows knit as he worked it on his finger. It was too loose. He tried every finger finding it would fit only on his thumb. “In return for your life, you will scrub toilets and bilges, no questions asked. Your wages will be the ship’s garbage. After arrival in Penang, you’ll be interned with other POWs in the area. Above all, you are to keep your eyes to yourself and ask no questions. Do you agree?” Taubman took the ring off his thumb and dropped it in his pocket.
Ingram straightened and glared at Shimada.
Five dark seconds passed, the whirr of the main motors echoing through the compartment.
Suddenly, Ingram was floored by a blow to his head. It happened so fast he didn’t see it coming. When his eyes opened, he saw Takano’s split-toed sandals right before his eyes. It was hard to draw a breath and he realized this man was an expert in delivering pain.
Taubman said softly. “As I said, the war, for you, is over Commander. Why wreck your body? You’re going to need it.”
Ingram gasped, “Okay.”
Taubman reported to Shimada who grunted. Adjusting his scarf, he stood, and walked out. When he was gone, Taubman leaned over and said quietly, “You are fortunate, Commander. Don’t fight it. You’ll be treated well. From time to time I’ll be able to sneak something to you. All right?”
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 5