Landa quickly signed and pushed the papers back.
Burked held our his hand. “Okay. The TBF will fly you to Majuro. Then it’s a PBM for Espiritu and priority travel home. And congratulations on your engagement. You’ll have plenty of time to fly back and forth.”
“Thanks.”
Burke extended a hand. “Sorry I’m in such a damned hurry. No hard feelings?”
Hell yes, you dope. “Not at all.”
“Have a good trip.” They shook. Burke gathered his papers and strode quickly into the next room.
The door clicked shut and Landa was alone. He looked around for a moment. Todd alive. My God, oh God. And I can’t tell anyone. Well, maybe Helen. But she’ll have to sweat out that he’ll be in a POW camp for the rest of the war.
Damnit! How the hell am I going to bring this off?
He realized he still had Burke’s pen. He leaned over and scribbled a note.
Dear Arleigh, thanks for the pen. Jerry
Outside, he was met by the Marine who said, “Your plane is ready, Sir. I put your gear aboard myself.”
“Thanks. Lead the way.”
It was noisy, and the wind blew on the flight deck. When they reached the TBF, Landa had to shout at the Marine to be heard. “When you going off duty?”
The Corporal glanced at his watch. “Right now, Sir. I’m done until the mid-watch.”
“Do me a favor?”
“Yes, Sir”
Landa pulled out the Parker 51 and handed it over. “Please give this to Captain Burke next time you go on watch. Okay?”
The corporal pocketed the pen. “Yes, Sir. Will do. Have a good trip.” He backed away.
The deck officer introduced Landa to a freckle-faced pilot who showed Landa a hatch beneath the TBF’s rear gun turret.
“Beer hop?” Landa asked, scrambling in.
“I wish, Captain. Right now, it’s just guard mail and movies.” He slammed the hatch. But from the look on the pilot’s face, it was obvious he couldn’t tell why Landa grinned from ear to ear.
CHAPTER EIGHT
12 June, 1944
IJN Submarine I-57
North Pacific Ocean
Ingram had to admit Masako devised a beautiful solution to keep him guarded during the night. It enabled Masako to climb into his own bunk in the after berthing compartment for a full night’s sleep. He’d parked Ingram in the maneuvering room, the next compartment forward, his leg cuffed to a pipe under the work bench. Lying or sitting on an old blanket he could either sleep or watch the motormen spin rheostats and throw enormous levers which fed electricity to the submarine’s main motors.
Most of the time he slept, unless the submarine dove or surfaced. That’s when things became intense in the maneuvering room.
One night the diving klaxon went off at around 0100, an unusual time. He later heard a destroyer had caught them on the surface, a cold, brilliant search light stabbing at the I-57’s conning tower. Soon after that, five-inch guns opened up, trying to catch her in a deadly bracket, shells pummeling the water port and starboard. Shimada jabbed the klaxon and, with his lookouts, scrambled down the conning tower hatch, as the I-57 clawed for the safety of the depths. With her ballast tanks belching great clouds of vapor, it took an agonizing 102 seconds to get the ponderous I-boat beneath the surface.
But all Ingram saw was the motormen. And that was enough. They prattled at one another in high-pitched, strident tones. Worse, their eyes darted wildly, and Ingram knew they were scared. And it was contagious, especially when he heard the destroyers moving closer. There were at least two.
One began its run in. Thrum thrum thrum thrum. Right over the top it went and he thought he heard a splash.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! The first explosion was close aboard, and like an animal, Ingram curled into the fetal position under the work bench, his hands over his ears. Gritting his teeth, he yelped involuntarily each time a depth charge went off.
The destroyers tactics were common; one held contact while the other, made a run-in, dropping depth charges.
Again they dropped, and again Ingram was thrust into a world of screeching, compressing sound. The bulkhead nest to him flexed inward, throwing him into the midships passageway, as if he’d been kicked by an elephant. Valves burst; the motormen shrieked, as a thick stream of water shot into the maneuvering room. The shrill sound of the water made it impossible to speak, let alone think.
While the motormen frantically worked on whatever had burst, Ingram cried out loud, “Oh God, I pray thee, please protect my wife and child.”
The forward hatch flew open and Masako rushed in. Bending down, he unlocked Ingram’s leg cuff and gestured frantically.
“You want me forward?”
“Iko, iko.” Masako waved a hand at the forward hatch.
Ingram rose slowly, “Okay, but I don’t--”
Masako whipped off his cap and rapped it across Ingram’s butt. “Iko!”
“Right.” Ingram quickly walked for the hatch, ducked through, and headed forward with Masako’s urging. Soon they were in the control room and Ingram saw why. It was ankle deep in water. Water cascaded from a broken line overhead, where three men were gathered on a step ladder, frantically wielding wrenches. A bucket brigade was formed below them to transfer the water forward to where, Ingram supposed, the pumping was more efficient. All this, while officers and men of the control room watch sat or stood at their stations, nervously looking around, waiting for the next order. At the periscope was Shimada, on his haunches, ready to raise it from its well. Opposite him was Lieutenant Commander Shigeru Kato, the I-57’s executive officer, note pad in hand, watching Shimada’s every move.
Across the control room was Martin Taubman, wearing just trousers and a tee-shirt. Sweat ran down his chest in rivulets and his eyes darted, as men around him spun valves and flipped switches. He lurched into a corner, as a valve failed. A quarter inch column of water shrieked just past his head. Men shoved him aside, shouting, demanding tools. The main lighting system blinked on and off as men at the main fuse panel threw enormous knife switches. Two feet from Ingram, Taubman looked up from the deck, his eyes wide, jumping in their sockets.
Masako grabbed Ingram by the collar, and dragged him to the forward part of the control room to join a bucket brigade. Soon, a full bucket was in Ingram’s hand and he passed it along, water slopping over the edges.
“Ready to meet your maker?” Taubman stepped next to Ingram, bucket in hand.
“Trying to save your skin, huh Martin? Don’t work too hard, I’d hate to see you get calluses.”
“I’m afraid we’re all working for the same cause at the moment,” said Taubman. He passed another bucket and asked, “Don’t you find it ironic that you’re about to be killed by one of your own? One of your own ships? You probably know some of the men up there.”
“Probably do. And it’s fine with me if it makes you guys rot in hell.”
Taubman’s nostrils flared. “You don’t really mean that.”
“I’m as scared of dying as you are Fritz. But I guess this is as good a time as any.”
The sonar officer held a hand in the air and whipped off his earphones. Officers and men dropped to the deck, as a destroyer approached: thrum thrum thrum thrum thrum.
Shimada dropped to his haunches and wrapped his hands around a stanchion, his knuckles white. Ingram did the same as:
WHAM, WHAM, WHAM, WHAM WHAM. Lights flashed; men screamed; circuit breakers arced; the odor of vomit drifted ... the screws fading in the distance.
Taubman eyes were a picture of abject terror. For sure, Ingram knew he looked the same. But miraculously, the control room quieted, and somehow, order was restored. Incredibly, Shimada again stood at his periscope. Ingram didn’t realize they had risen to periscope depth.
Speaking rapidly, Shimada barked a series of commands.
“What is he doing?” asked Ingram.
“Shhh,” said Taubman, kneeling. Ingram kneeled beside him.
“It’s called ‘down the throat,’ something we learned from your submarine colleagues, now guests of the Government of Japan.”
A shudder ran through Ingram. What Taubman was telling him was that captured American submariners had talked under torture. “Bullshit.”
“You’re too naive, Mr. Ingram,” said Taubman. “You’re about to witness a truly amazing feat. One in which Captain Shimada is extraordinarily experienced. One which earned him the Golden Kite.”
Ingram snorted, “This, I gotta see.” Then it hit him that he could well be dead in the next minute or so. “Why don’t we just, you know, amscray. Go deep or something?”
“...Watch. He’s reversing course, backing on the starboard engine, going full ahead on the port,” whispered Taubman.
Ingram looked up to find a magnetic course repeater. It was true. The heading was changing rapidly, the helmsman calling out course changes. In turn, Shimada carefully worked his periscope handles while Kato cranked a handle on a bulkhead mounted console.
In the distance, Ingram heard the thrum, thrum, thrum of another destroyer. “This doesn’t look to good,” said Ingram, his stomach churning.
Kato turned to Ingram with an iron stare.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
The submarine’s course had reversed. The I-57 was actually heading for the destroyer. He’d heard of the ‘down the throat technique’ in the American submarine fleet. Incredibly, he now watched it play out before him. He would have shouted if he thought it would do any good. Fellow sailors, destroyermen up there, were about to die. Frantically, he looked about for a lever to pull, something to disrupt the firing solution.
Too late. Shimada barked,”Dai ikki hassha! Dai niki hassha!”
Twice, Kato hit the fire control panel with the palm of this hand, the submarine shuddering each time a torpedo left the tube. He repeated the command, “Dai ikki hassha. Dai niki hassha.”
A rating knelt close to Shimada, stopwatch raised in the air, calling the times. Suddenly, he and Shimada looked up.
WHUMP!
Shimada raised his periscope and jammed his face to the eyepiece. He shot a fist in the air. Men cheered and hooted and pounded each other on the back.
Ingram rose from his knees, an empty bucket dangling from his hand. The water was gone, he looked around, finding the other men of the bucket brigade had walked off. It was then that he saw Shimada’s eyes on him, a long, thin-lipped grin drawn across his face, the red-checked scarf tied around his neck. He took off the scarf, retied it, and then looked at Ingram again. It was the first time Ingram had seen the man smile. And then Ingram realized that he hadn’t been called forward for the bucket brigade. There were plenty of men for that. He’d been called forward to watch Shimada sink a U.S. Navy Destroyer.
“You bastard.” Ingram started after him.
Taubman stepped in front. “I wouldn’t, Commander. He’ll have you cut down in seconds,” said Taubman.
Shimada was at the periscope again, his back to Ingram. Air roared in the ballast tanks, the I-57 surfacing.
Ingram doubled his fists. “Out of my way, Fritz.”
Taubman nodded. Masako hit him in the kidneys. It took three men to drag him off. He didn’t awake until the next morning.
CHAPTER NINE
16 June, 1944
Alameda Naval Air Station,
Oakland, California
The PBM eased onto a blustery San Francisco Bay, her engines backfiring softly. White spray swirled under the amphibian’s high gull wings as she bounced on whitecaps, the water capturing her hull, arresting her speed. The pilot gunned the port engine to swing the PBM off the fairway and toward the taxi ramp at the Alameda Naval Airstation. Close to shore, six sailors waded into the forty-eight degree water, fixing beaching gear -- a series of dollies -- to the PBM’s belly. Once done, the sailors slogged clear of the hull while the PBM’s pilot goosed the twin R-2800 engines. With a roar, she taxied up a ramp and onto a concrete revetment, where she eased to a stop. Chocks were thrown against the wheels, as the propellers quit whirling.
A metal stairway rolled up to the fuselage and the hatch popped open. A two star admiral clad in dress khakis descended; in tow was his harried flag lieutenant, carrying two heavy black brief cases. Jerry Landa was next followed closely by three other captains, while a group of four commanders stood at the hatch, impatiently waiting their turn. A gust whipped at Landa and he plopped his hand on his hat, holding it in place, as he trudged toward the flight operations center.
“Captain?”
“What?” Landa turned, seeing a thin lieutenant commander hobbling toward him on a cane. “That you, Ollie?”
Oliver Toliver’s grin was wide, as he limped up to Landa, his right hand raised in a salute. “One and the same. Welcome home, sir.”
Landa returned the salute. “Thanks.”
“How was your trip?”
They shook hands and Landa ran a hand over a stubbled chin with, “Man, oh man. My ass is tired.” He checked his watch. “Damn flight took half my life. Lemme tell you: five hours from Espiritu Santu to Funa Futi. Then another five to Canton Island. We barely had time to shave and wash our faces then it’s four hours to Palmyra. And then we bounce around in a damned storm for another eight hours, grinding our way to Hawaii. And I got stuck on hard seats all the way.” Landa made a show of rubbing his rear end oblivious to other officers walking past.
“How about the ride from Hawaii?”
“Another eleven and a half hours bouncing on a hard seat.”
“What a grind.”
“Yeah, but it sure beats shipping home.” Landa nodded to a cart full of luggage being towed toward the operations center. “There’s my stuff.”
They started walking, Toliver puffing to keep up. Landa couldn’t help asking, “Leg giving you problems, Ollie?”
Toliver’s lips pressed white. “Hip’s getting stiff. Could be the weather. I don’t know. Arthritis, maybe. They may have to operate again.” Toliver had been seriously wounded with a broken hip as gunnery officer aboard the destroyer USS Riley (DD 542) at the Battle of Cape Esperance in October, 1942. The Riley had been blown out from under him, and he’d been shipped back to San Francisco, where a specialist at the Stanford Lane hospital nailed his hip back together. The doctors recommended that Toliver be placed on limited duty and not be ordered back to combat. You’ve done your share, Ollie, Landa thought as he took in the decorations on Toliver’s blouse: the Distinguished Service Medal, a purple heart, a combat action ribbon with three stars and a Navy unit commendation. “Hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Right now, they have me on exercises and mild pain killers. We’ll find out.” They rounded the building and he waved to a gray Plymouth sedan with black Navy lettering on the doors. “Here’s our ride.”
“Where’s the Packard?”
“Sold it. Got an Oldsmobile, hydramatic drive.”
“What is that?”
“Automatic transmission.”
“What’ll they think of next?” Landa stopped. “I don’t need wheels. I have a flight set up for Long Beach in two hours.”
Toliver gave a lopsided grin. “That was canceled. Plane didn’t show up.”
“Figures. Say, look. Can I get to a phone? I’d like to call Laura and let her know I’m back.”
“My office. As soon as we get there.”
“Thanks.”
“Tell her I’ve set up a hop for you on a bug-smasher. I sort of chartered it, so don’t worry about a specific departure time.” With a blunt nose and oversized windshield, the bug-smasher was a twin engined SNB-1 seven passenger utility plane built by Beech Aircraft. “So you’ll have plenty of time to shower and get something to eat, leaving time for us to...”
Landa nodded, “...talk. Okay, let me grab my B-4.”
The Oakland Bay bridge tunnels though Yerba Buena Island, a three hundred foot peak rising from the middle of San Francisco Bay. The official residence of the commandant of the Twel
fth Naval District was located high among pine trees on the eastern side. A road lead to a short causeway giving access to Treasure Island. In 1939 both islands were the site of the Golden Gate International Exposition. But the US Navy took it over, turning it into a ship repair and staging area. Situated at the bottom of Yerba Buena, the Expo’s two story art deco headquarters building was a convenient location for the Twelfth Naval District. The building nestled against the mountain which made it convenient to tunnel a cryptography and intelligence center directly inside. Most tunnels and rooms were finished in utilitarian cold concrete and Spartan metal furniture.
Once inside his office, Toliver quietly dialed a security code, dialed Laura’s number, then handed Landa the phone and walked out.
She picked it up on the second ring.
“Hi honey. I’m in ‘Frisco.”
“God. Jerry.”
The line was free of static. Her voice was sweet and clear and lifted him from the wartime miasma he’d been living in for the past few months. He grinned. “No. It’s just Jerry.”
“Ahhh...you’re two days early. I was just out the door for Helen’s. I made a lasagna.”
“Sounds good. Except why don’t you stay there? We’ll have the lasagna there, just you and me.”
She laughed. “There’s plenty for the four of us. Garlic bread, salad, even a bottle of dago red.”
Landa rubbed his eyes, fighting off exhaustion. “Uh...honey. Can’t we just stay there? Just you and me?”
“...Sure honey. You bet. I was being selfish. And Todd, I know, will want to be with Helen, as well.”
Landa felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. What the hell do I say? He snapped his fingers, making a decision. “Uh, on second thought, take the lasagna to Helen’s. I’ll fly into Terminal Island, catch a car and meet you there.” May as well get this over. Be good to have Laura there to help.
“Well, if it means…”
“It’s quicker, honey.”
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 8