Helen shook her head. “Don’t think so. I’m on call for the Fort MacArthur Infirmary and --”
“--You still working there?” Fort MacArthur was a U.S. Army artillery installation, featuring two fourteen-inch, long-range guns for the defense of Los Angeles Harbor.
“On an as-needed basis. They’re shorthanded.”
“Hell, you’re ready to pop. Who do those guys think they are?”
“I know what I’m doing. Besides, my doctor is here.”
“Well, I want to make sure that--”
She raised a hand. “There’s another problem.”
“What?”
Helen tilted her head toward the cupboard. “There was a half-bottle of bourbon in there last night.”
Landa’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I know. She went after it when I came up with the bad news.”
Helen drew a deep breath, then let it out. “Well, we’re going to have to do something.”
“Why?”
“Now it’s empty.”
Landa’s mouth dropped. “You’re kidding.”
Mrs. Peabody shook her head slowly, “Saw it in the trash can out back this morning when I came over. Floored me, I’ll tell you.”
“Jeez. She must have chug-a-lugged it.” His eyes searched Helen’s, then Mrs. Peabody’s.
His voice had raised a notch and Helen went, “Shhhh.”
“God.” Landa toyed with a fork. “I thought she licked the habit. Has she done this before?”
Helen shook her head, just as Laura clanked the phone down and walked in, her brow knit.
Landa asked, “Bad news?”
Laura sat and poured more coffee. “I...I don’t know what to say. The orchestra just received a contract to do a feature-length training film for the US Navy. Gene Kelly will be narrating and they want us to start rehearsing immediately.”
Landa sat back. “What’s that do to us?”
“Nothing and everything.” Laura rubbed her hands over her face. “I’ve been through this. The work schedules are brutal. Up at five. Home at eight. On and on until we wrap.”
“For how long?” demanded Landa.
“Three, four weeks.” She looked at him, tears welling. “Including next Saturday night.”
Landa looked at their faces and said, “But isn’t that our engagement party?”
Laura nodded and looked down.
Landa said, “Aren’t we suppose to have this enormous party with Bob Hope and Bing Crosby on stage singing to us while all of Hollywood stands around drinking champagne?”
“Well, I was planning a blow-out. Maybe not Hope and Crosby. But now--”
“We can’t do it?” asked Landa. “We can’t get engaged?”
Laura’s voice was low. “I’m not sure. I think we’re committed for Saturday, and for several weekends after. I have to wait for the schedule. Jerry, I’m sorry. This wouldn’t have happened but for--”
“--This is getting out of control,” said Landa.
“I’ll know more Monday morning. Maybe we can schedule for next Sunday--”
“--Hold on a moment.” Landa rose.
“What?”
Landa walked into the living room, rustled in his duffle bag, then came back and
kneeled before Laura. ”Honey, I deeply regret to inform you that the schedules of the Third Fleet and the Imperial Japanese Navy do not coincide with that of the NBC Symphony Orchestra. When Uncle Sam snaps his fingers, I must jump. So all I can say is that I love you, Laura West. And I want to get this done somehow, the engagement party be damned. Therefore, I ask you, Laura, in the presence of these two wonderful ladies, will you marry me?” He held out a small box. “Please?”
“Oh.” Laura took the box and opened it, finding a gleaming marquis-cut, near colorless one carat diamond in a silver setting. “God, Jerry.”
“No, it’s just me. You’re getting the raw end of that deal.”
She looked at the box. “From Shreve and Company, San Francisco. Jerry, when did you find time to do this?”
“Yes or no, damnit.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Here we go, then.” Landa took the ring from the box and with a flourish, placed it on her fourth finger.
“Oh, yes, yes.” Laura ran her arms around his neck and they kissed.
Emma Peabody smiled from across the table. “Hope and Crosby. Would have been a great party. Sure you can’t schedule them in later, Laura?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
17 June, 1944
IJN Submarine I-57
Strait of Malacca
Time passed peacefully with no more contact with the U.S. Navy. For Ingram, that meant a steady regimen of beatings, starvation and abject humiliation. As a diversion, he focused on the passage of time and their current position. This evening, he reckoned they’d been underway for ten or so days. That would make this the seventeenth or eighteenth of June. They’d been on the surface most of the time, and Ingram figured their speed of advance at about twelve knots, which meant they had traveled nearly 3,000 miles. But where, exactly?
He eventually figured it out during the trash-dumping detail. During the day, Ingram was given a basket of rags and assigned to clean machinery in the pump, main engine and maneuvering rooms where the motor-generators were housed. Oddly, he was not told to clean bilges, which is the first place any petty officer would send cheap labor. But, protesting under the Geneva Convention was useless, Ingram knew. The Japanese hadn’t ratified it, and he knew enough about Japan’s brutality from his days on Corregidor to realize he was lucky to be alive.
From the very beginning, his routine each evening, was to walk from the forward torpedo room to the after berthing compartment in the stern, gathering trash in a gunny sack. Enroute, he usually accumulated three to four gunny sacks, along with special sacks from the ship’s galley containing remnants of the day’s meal. Accompanying him, of course, was his guard, seaman second class Masako. After the pick-up in the torpedo room, they headed down the narrow passage through the officer’s berthing spaces, where Masako would halt before a little shrine. It was mounted on a bulkhead in a dog-leg in the passage way between a bulkhead and a tool locker. It was a ten by sixteen inch wooden box containing a few pieces of wood and rock. Taubman later told him the box was from the Ise Grand Shrine, built in a dense forest along the Isuzu River, in southern Honshu’s Mie Prefecture. And the box was made from white paulownia wood, a variety considered sacred in Shintoism.
Masako would bow and meditate for a full sixty seconds, while Ingram stood behind, hands clasped before him, as others shoved their way through the narrow passageway. Sometimes sailors and even officers would step beside them to bow and mediate, some praying in low tones.
Once through the boat, Ingram would stack the trash bags around the after hatch, where he was required to toss in weights, not unlike thick pancake sized plates of pig-iron. Then he hauled the trash bags up the aft hatch, out onto the after deck and threw them over the side. When he ventured on deck, Masako would draw a pistol and tightly secure a tether around Ingram’s neck, lest he jump over the side.
Most of the nights were overcast or hazy and he couldn’t see the moon or stars. Often, the massive two-cycle, ten-cylinder, double-acting diesels put out so much smoke that it was hard to see anything and, coughing and sputtering, Ingram couldn’t wait to get below. But one night, he ascended the ladder to find the seas calm under a spectacular jewel-studded sky, a gentle breeze sweeping the I-57's diesel smoke to starboard.
Ingram looked at Masako and bowed.
Masako grunted and took up what little slack there was on the tether.
Ingram smiled, spread his arms out wide and took deep breaths, his face raised to the sky. He was taking a chance and normally, Masako would boot him for being slow. But this time he didn’t, and Ingram’s eyes frantically darted about the sky as he groaned and stretched with exaggerated purpose. Where is it? He bent to touch his toes.
Masako grunted,“Iko!” Let’s go.
&
nbsp; “Okay, okay.” There! Off the starboard quarter. Polaris: the north star, low on the horizon. They were traveling southwest. Quickly, Ingram did the arithmetic. They must be headed for the Dutch East Indies! Ingram felt lightheaded and his spirit soared. For seventeen days, he hadn’t known where he was, and he’d felt like a man adrift in a galaxy. Now, his life had regained purpose, although he had no idea what he could do about it.
“Hieeeyiii,” screeched Masako.
Ingram quickly kicked the bags over the side and jumped down the ladder.
Masako followed, pulling the hatch shut, and then descended the ladder to the maneuvering room. Giving Ingram a dirtier than usual look, Masako handcuffed Ingram to a padeye beneath a work bench which supported a lathe, drill press and grinder. It was a three by five foot space and they’d given him a blanket. Once he learned to position his legs behind a generator mount, he slept quite comfortably. With that, Masako stepped aft for the berthing compartment and turned in, his duties for the day complete.
The I-57 had decent food, as far as Ingram could tell, and everyone seemed reasonably fit. But, of course, they fed him scraps, a type of rice gruel called kaya. Once in a while the cook would ladle up an indistinguishable meat paste that tasted like cardboard. But after choking it down, he felt much better. Ablutions consisting of a quick hose-down with salt water in the after head. Predictably, his khakis quickly became splotched with grease.
What Ingram hated most was the bowing. He couldn’t get used to it. Every time an order was given, or even when someone spoke to him, he was expected to bow. In a show of zeal to get to the task, Ingram would often forget to bow. Howling triumphantly, his captors would set upon him, Lieutenant (j.g) Fumimaro Ishibashi leading the pack.
Ishibashi, the communications officer, was five-seven, slight of build, weighed close to 160 pounds and was all uncompromising sinew. With the slightest excuse, Ishibashi would punch Ingram in the stomach, or box his ears, oftentimes kicking him in the butt to round things out. Others followed to satiate their frustrations of the day, because, on this submarine, everything ran downhill. Compared to the American Navy, where Navy Regulations prohibited officers from touching enlisted men, the IJN I-57 conducted business otherwise. Senior lieutenants and on occasion, Commander Shimada himself, would boot a subordinate, an enlisted man in most cases, and it would cascade down from there; the lower the rank, the heavier the blows.
Masako was at the bottom of the chain and received kicks and shouts from a number of petty officers during any given day. That done, Masako would turn to Ingram, exacting his revenge. His gestures and grunts ascended the octaves, as he ordered Ingram to a task. Stooping to the job, Ingram grew to expect the blows, shouts, and curses that Masako rained upon him. But Masako’s beatings were not as bad as Ishibashi’s. Because of his anger, Masako’s blows were ill-timed and indiscriminate, often missing their mark. But Ishibashi’s blows were calculated. Once he hit Ingram full in the face, loosening a tooth.
Some of the crew sat back and watched with a stoic curiosity. It was almost an indifference, a complete uncaring. It mattered not that Ingram was a fellow human being, a prisoner of war. To them, Ingram was lesser than that; an animal perhaps, or an insect, eventually to be squashed or discarded.
Martin Taubman would politely stand aside when Ingram was being beaten. When it was over, Taubman’ s expression was one of, “You damn fool, can’t you remember something as simple as bowing?”
And yet, there was another side to Taubman. A grace, a charm that became more evident as time went on. No doubt there was a cultural yearning as well, both seeking a convoluted form of European companionship. Oddly, they became friends of sorts and Shimada gave permission for Ingram to play chess with Taubman. Thus, they played almost every night after the I-57 surfaced to recharge batteries; and of course, after Ingram had emptied trash.
One night, Taubman waited in shadows for Masako to disappeared aft. Then he walked over to where Ingram was shackled and held out a chess board and box of pieces. “Hmmmm?” He flipped over a bucket, pulled up to Ingram and sat. “White or black?” He thrust out two fists.
Ingram sat up, making sure his head didn’t hit the drill press. He tapped Taubman’ s left.
With a flourish, Taubman flipped open his left fist and produced a black pawn. “Too bad.”
Ingram let it go. He knew Taubman offered black pawns in both fists. The man usually wanted to play white.
They set up the board and Ingram eyed the overhead saying, “Ship’s hardly rolling, smooth out there tonight.”
Taubman opened with his king’s pawn. “Too bad you couldn’t have been up earlier. We passed Singapore at sunset. Quite beautiful.”
Ingram sat up, bumping his head on the drill press. Singapore. He didn’t realize they had gone that far west. But the idea they were near land made his heart beat quickly. He raised his eyebrows.
Taubman said, “Move, please.”
Ingram matched Taubman’ s move with his own king’s pawn.
Nodding in approval, Taubman said. “We’ve turned into the Malacca Straits, heading for Penang. Remember I told you?” He attacked with his queen’s knight.
Ingram mulled that one over. As much as he wanted off the I-57, Penang gave him an uneasy feeling.
“Georgetown docks tomorrow at eight o’clock. You’ll be on your way by nine.” Taubman looked up and steepled his fingers. “Of course you don’t have anything to pack so there should be no worries from that quarter.” He gave a short, curious laugh.
“What?”
“Something wrong?”
“I...I thought I was going to Europe...to France, you said?”
“Yes, well, apparently Captain Shimada has changed his mind.”
Ingram felt as if he were falling down a well. “But...I...”
“Yes, I’m sorry. We won’t be able to continue our little chess games. Which reminds me. Are you going to move, Commander?”
Ingram moved his king’s bishop’s pawn one square. Penang. Shit. That’s the road to the Burma death camps.
“Ahhh. “Taubman clapped his hands. “King’s Indian defense. You amaze me Commander. Where did you learn that?”
“Move, please,” said Ingram, looking at Taubman. The man cared not one wit about how he felt.
Taubman cast an eye, his expression saying ‘we’re supposed to be having a friendly game.’ He shoved out his queen’s pawn.
Just then, Lieutenant Ishibashi stepped through the hatch. Following him was Captain Shimada.
Taubman looked up, as Shimada grunted something.
“Hei!” Taubman shot to his feet and bowed.
Shimada said something to Ishibashi. With a glance at Ingram, Ishibashi strode aft and through the hatch into the berthing compartment.
Taubman and Shimada conversed for a moment, and it seemed as if they were discussing the chess game, with Taubman picking up pieces and handing them to a nodding Shimada.
There was a sharp ‘crack!’ A long painful cry drifted from the aft berthing compartment. Ishibashi yelled, “Baka!” Another blow was delivered.
Ishibashi re-emerged through the berthing compartment hatch, followed by Masako, clad only in a loose tee shirt and loin cloth. Tears ran down his face and blood trickled from a corner of his mouth.
With a nod from Shimada, Ishibashi began talking to Masako. Soon, the lieutenant (j.g)’s questions flowed more rapidly, more staccato, with Masako darting glances at Ingram. At length he leaned over and uncuffed Ingram.
After a sharp command from Shimada, Taubman said, “Game’s over, Commander.” He quickly reached down and gathered his chess set. “Looks like you did something very stupid.”
Masako jerked Ingram to his feet.
“Hey, hey,” protested Ingram.
With an open hand, Masako slapped him twice across the face.
Ingram rolled his eyes wildly. “What is this Martin?”
Taubman stepped back. “It is a pity. We trusted you.”
&nb
sp; “Trusted me-- oooff!” Ishibashi drove a fist into Ingram’s stomach, doubling him up.
“What have I done,” Ingram cried. “What--”
With Masako holding him up, Ishibashi hit him in the eye. Ingram tried to duck the next one, and the blow glanced off. Blood ran freely from a cut on his lip and his nose. Ishibashi hit him twice more; once in the chest, the other in the throat.
Pain radiated inside Ingram’s head, making it feel as if it were going to explode. He choked on his blood, tried to swallow, then gagged . Darkness drifted in and he reached for the merciful corners of unconscious.
“Baka!” Shimada roared.
Masako released Ingram and he tumbled to the deck.
“Commander?” It was Taubman.
“Uhh...”
Water splashed in Ingram’s face. Some ran in his mouth and he spit it out with blood. He tried to open his eyes, but only one obeyed the command. Standing above him, not clearly distinguishable, were three figures.
“Not an intelligent thing to do, Commander,” said Taubman.
Ingram managed to make his mouth work. “I don’t understand,” he mumbled.
“The trash bags.”
Ingram’s heart raced. How the hell did they know?
“You haven’t been putting the weights into the trash bags.”
“Yes I have -- how can you--”
Someone stomped on Ingram’s stomach. He doubled up and lost his wind in one large ‘whoosh.’ It took several minutes to catch his breath. He still choked blood and after a while, he ran his tongue over his teeth finding miraculously they were still there.
Taubman said, “No more chess for a while, you fool. Now I have no one to play with. Come to think of it, it doesn’t matter, since you’ll be leaving us tomorrow.”
“I don’t--”
Taubman’ s voice was like a pistol shot. “One of Lieutenant Ishibashi collateral duties is to take inventory of the galley equipment. That includes trash bag weights. Why is it, Commander, that there are only two weights less than when we handed you the job over two weeks ago?”
Something clicked in Ingram’s chest. He ran a hand over his collar bone, but it seemed all right.
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 11