THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “No wonder those destroyers found us. They were tracking your damned trash bags.”

  “No. I--”

  Ishibashi hit him in the face. For the second time, Ingram thought his head would burst. But he opened an eye to see Ishibashi standing over him, his hand gnarled as he rubbed his knuckles.

  Taubman looked down. “Captain Shimada informs me that chess privileges are revoked for two weeks. What am I to do?”

  “I thought I was going ashore at Penang.” Ingram gurgled.

  “It seems the Captain has changed his mind.”

  Masako re-cuffed Ingram to the work bench, bowed, and backed toward the after berthing compartment, managing to slither through the hatch backwards. The other three officers walked forward, Ishibashi massaging his knuckles.

  Ingram lay back after they were gone, wondering if he could pull that stunt again. He had no idea a depth charging could be so horrifying. But the thought of Ishibashi and Masako beating him up, as Shimada and Taubman looked on dispassionately, enraged him. That, and the US destroyer taking a torpedo right before his eyes.

  Painfully, he rolled to his side. Just before darkness set in, he muttered, “Screw you, Fritz.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  18 June, 1944

  IJN Submarine I-57

  Strait of Malacca, enroute Penang Island

  The sea was a solid sheet of smoked glass as the I-57 ran on the surface, a long undulating wake curving off her hull. Time after time, she picked her way through minefields on her way to Georgetown, Penang’s main harbor. The Malay coast was ten kilometers to starboard. One hundred and thirty kilometers to port, Sumatra’s great verdant land-mass lay below a horizon obscured by a gray haze. The day hung heavy with humidity with no wind; the odor of guano and decaying sea-life from drying reefs filled the air. Shoals reached out to them, constricting their passage. Lobster pots and timeless fishing junks bobbed in the I-57's wake, their sails hanging limp.

  Ingram was below in the moisture-laden maneuvering room, the air so thick he could barely see across the compartment. Everything was wet, as condensation ran down the bulkheads; it was only ten in the morning, yet the temperature soared to well over a hundred degrees. The humidity, he was sure, was just as high. Blue-white bolts of electricity occasionally arced from a large bulkhead-mounted electrical cabinet standing about ten feet from Ingram. A white sign was emblazoned on the front with red-Japanese characters and a lightning bolt at the bottom. Ever since they had surfaced, the cabinet discharged temperamental blue arcs and the place smelled heavily of ozone.

  With his watchdog, Masako posted topside as a lookout while a shirtless Ingram was handcuffed to his ‘bunk’ under the workbench. Bracing his arms on a slippery deck, sweat trickled down his chest, and a make-shift bandanna was tied around his forehead, his scraggily uncut hair bunched like a carrot-top.

  Three hours later the sea detail was set, the bridge annunciator ringing stridently, as the I-57 wove her way through tight quarters. Three sailors had taken positions at the electrical switchboard in the after part of the maneuvering room, about twenty feet aft of Ingram’s perch. Two of the sailors, third class petty officer Samara and leading seaman Takada, were motormen who threw enormous levers, controlling power to the two main motors which turned the I-57's twin screws. Hovering behind them was superior petty officer Shimazaki watching a bank of electrical gauges, occasionally giving orders. Like Ingram, the three were shirtless; sweat cascaded down their torsos. In fact, the Samara and Takada wore only shorts, while Shimazaki maintained the decorum of his office by wearing oil-splattered trousers, white combination cap, and sound-powered phones. An annunciator bell would ring an order on the maneuvering board console, one of the two motormen would reach up and twirl a repeater to acknowledge receipt of the bell, then throw one of the large levers to execute the command. Shimazaki would follow up with a verbal reply on his sound powered phones. Their procedure was not unlike in the US Navy, Ingram thought. And these men were good, he noticed. Every move was calculated, exacting, thoughtfully executed. There was no extemporaneous talk as they awaited the next command. Occasionally, one would glance at Ingram, his face expressionless, then return his attention to the controls.

  Only once did the Shimazaki raise his voice. Leading Seaman Takada, the shorter of the two, threw a lever a wrong way.

  “Ahhhh!” went Shimazaki, whipping off his hat and slapping it across Takada’s back.

  Quickly, Takada re-set the lever and things settled down, the motors confidently fed power to the I-57's propellers as they crept around Penang Island’s northern approach the Georgetown docks.

  An hour later, the motors whirred at a low hum, the shafts turning slowly. Backing bells were ordered on one shaft or the other, sometimes on both, telling Ingram they were approaching an anchorage or dock. It was immediately noticeable that the slower they went, the less air there was to funnel down the maneuvering room hatch, making the compartment more oppressive. Ingram’s tongue seemed thick and he sweated from head to toe. Compared to this, the Philippines were a cakewalk. Of course, Penang was about three or four degrees north latitude, he recalled, much closer to the equator than the Philippines.

  At length, the annunciator bells chimed three times, the motormen neutralized their levers, stepped back, and sat on stools, talking animatedly. Shimazaki walked forward and soon returned with a pot of tea. Ingram watched him pour, and as hot as it was, found himself licking his lips. It made him terribly hungry and he forced himself to look away.

  Something brushed his shoulder. Ingram whipped his head around, finding Shimazaki, the superior petty officer, holding out a chipped mug. “Hei,” The man said softly. He nudged Ingram’s shoulder, his face barren of expression.

  Ingram nodded and accepted the mug. “Thanks.”

  Shimazaki walked away without a word.

  Ingram sipped and, in spite of the heat, it tasted wonderful. Beside plain water, he hadn’t had anything decent to eat or drink since the evening before he was plucked from the Pacific Ocean.

  He took another sip. Then another, letting his mind wander back eighteen months to a night in San Francisco. They sat in Wong Lee’s café. Newly married, he and Helen were celebrating their escape from the Japanese-held Philippines. Wong Lee, an old friend, had given them his best private booth and they were enjoying tea. Then the waiter padded in with two steaming bowlfuls of hors d’oeuvres and--

  --his mug was knocked from his hand and went flying across the compartment, hot tea spraying over his arm. “Oww.” He looked up.

  Wearing fatigue whites, Lieutenant (j.g) Fumimaro Ishibashi stood over him, his lips pressed, his hands on his hips. Masako stood directly behind, clad also in fatigues.

  “You sonofabitch!” Ingram yelled.

  Ishibashi jerked his thumb up. Rise. At the same time, Masako bent and uncuffed his leg.

  As soon as the manacle was off, Ingram sprang into Ishibashi, wrapping his arms around his waist in an open-field tackle.

  “Ooof!” went Ishibashi.

  They fell onto a large tool cabinet, Ingram punching at the man’s face with his fists. But they were too close and his blows weren’t landing. With a loud growl, Ishibashi wiggled mightily and heaved, throwing Ingram to the side. Ingram tried to hold him down, but the man was wiry and began to slip out from under.

  A pair of hands yanked on Ingram’s shoulder, pulling him away. But not until he landed a fist on Ishibashi’s nose, making cartilage crunch. Another pair of hands fumbled an iron grip around Ingram’s throat, and he was jerked to his feet. He could hardly breathe and flailed his arms, wiggled around to find it was the tea-serving superior petty officer motorman who held him. Someone pinned his arms behind his back. A quick glance told him Masako was backed against an electrical cabinet, his eyes wide open. Everyone yelled as Ingram kicked at his captors.

  A fist drove in his stomach. But he’d tensed his muscles and turned a bit sideways to parry the blow.

  It was Ishibashi relishi
ng the moment. Blood ran freely from his nose as he stood back. His right arm was cocked, and he rubbed his right hand with his left, preparing to deliver another blow.

  The men shouted as Ingram kicked out.

  “Stop, all of you,” Someone yelled.

  Another man bellowed something in Japanese.

  Suddenly, it became quiet. Ingram was released and he stumbled, nearly falling to his knees. Grabbing a stanchion, he looked up, seeing Commander Shimada and Martin Taubman, both in dress uniform, elbowing their way through what had become a considerable crowd.

  With a sharp command from Lieutenant Commander Shigeru Kato, the ship’s executive officer, all drew to attention.

  Ishibashi glared at Ingram and wiped blood off his chin with the back of his hand. Some of it had splattered his dress white shirt.

  Kato barked another command and they lined up in a file, Ishibashi the most senior to the left, Masako the most junior to the far right.

  With his hands behind his back, Shimada walked down the line of sailors and finally drew up before Ishibashi. The man’s head dipped as Shimada quietly talked. Ishibashi sniffed and raised a hand to wipe blood, but Shimada batted the hand away, speaking rapidly.

  With a final glance at Ingram, Shimada walked out, followed by Kata and Ishibashi. Then the rest of the men walked out, leaving only Taubman, Masako, and the three motormen who had returned to their console to write in logbooks. Why am I still alive? Ingram thought in amazement. Due to be disembarked in Penang, it was his last day on this ship and now he wondered if it was the last day of his life.

  Masako walked up and pointed toward the hatch leading topside. “Iko!” He grunted, let’s go.

  “What the hell?” Relief poured through him. He had felt certain that he’d be executed.

  Taubman said, “This whole incident was so unnecessary, Commander. All they wanted was to escort you topside to join your friends.” Taubman folded his arms and leaned casually against the recalcitrant electrical cabinet.

  Ingram walked past Taubman hoping he would get zapped with 10,000 volts. “Shocking.”

  “Yah?”

  He climbed the ladder and muttered under his breath, “Screw you, Fritz.”

  Masako waited topside as Ingram crawled through the hatch. Even though it was gloomy, it was the first time he’d had seen the full light of day since he’d been captured. Moored forward of the I-57 was a large sea-going tug, while aft, a rust-streaked cargo ship, that looked as if she’d been salvaged from the ocean’s bottom, brooded in her berth, her decks swarming with workers and swinging cargo booms. Outboard of her was a fuel-barge with two black hoses snaking over the cargo ship’s bulwarks. Ingram was amazed at how Shimada had squeezed the I-57 in here. Ships and work boats were crowded around, the docks piled high with crates, pallets, and barrels. An ancient steam engine chuffed down the pier and lumbered past, its heat reaching out to stifle him. The engine pushed three greasy-black tank cars with a flat car tacked on the front, carrying an ack-ack battery, its cannon raised to the sky, soldiers winding the training and elevation wheels. The air carried an odor universal to harbors worldwide: that mixture of creosote, decaying fish and human refuse.

  A Mutuki class destroyer was moored to another dock 100 meters off to the right. In front of the Mutuki was a gracefully raked Takao class heavy cruiser. Except this Takao didn’t look too good. She listed heavily to port and her after turret was blackened, one gun barrel raised to the sky at an obscene angle.

  With all its intensity, Penang looked quite commercial except for the ack-ack battery on the train and, of course, the cruiser and destroyer across the way.

  A warm drop or two fell on Ingram’s face and he looked up, seeing a roiling sky overcast, threatening rain. As if in confirmation, thunder rumbled in the distance, as dockyard workers walked among puddles, waiting for a gangway to be lifted into place by an overhead crane.

  With a grunt, Masako shoved Ingram’s back.

  “Okay, okay.” Ingram walked forward and edged past the conning tower, as Commander Shimada and Lieutenant Commander Kato looked down upon him. Lieutenant Ishibashi was nowhere to be seen.

  A dozen sailors were gathered around the torpedo hatch. Working a block and tackle, they drew out a massive type 93 torpedo. Another lay on the deck, its main body a gleaming black, the warhead an iridescent copper. Just then, the fuel barge that had been alongside the cargo ship, slid alongside the I-57, her crew tossing up messenger lines for fuel hoses. With its diesel engine growling, a crane lowered an anchor on the I-57’s foredeck next to a considerable amount of chain. Ingram ran that through his mind. American submarines don’t carry anchors in wartime. Too much of a chance of the anchor or the chain breaking loose and rattling during a depth charge attack: easily detected on sonar.

  Masako pushed Ingram over the gangway and onto the pier toward a stack of crates, cartons, and burlap sacks piled ten feet high. Seated around the piles in shadows were men he hadn’t noticed. Their clothes were far worse than rags. Some wore crude straw hats. Some were without shirts while others had no shoes. By comparison, Ingram’s oil soaked working khakis looked like he’d just stepped from Brooks Brothers. Their skin was a dark brown, but there was something familiar about them as Ingram stepped closer. Damn. These are POWs, Americans.

  A soldier stepped before the men and blew a whistle. Universally grumbling, the men rose. One was on a cane, Ingram noticed, and grimaced as he got up. A Japanese soldier walk up to him and hit him with a rifle butt, knocking off a crude straw hat.

  The man yelled in agony but stayed up as the soldier, now satisfied, walked away. With a stick-thin arm, the POW bent to pick up his hat but he couldn’t reach it as Japanese soldier’s screamed orders for the men to form ranks.

  “Donnie?” Ingram said softly. Ignoring Masako, he walked over to the man on the cane. “Donnie?” Ingram called. The man was tow-headed and thin, his collar bones bulging through his skin. He looked up as Ingram called. “Donnie. For cryin’ out loud.” Now Ingram was sure. It was Donnie Alberts, a classmate from the Naval Academy, a year senior to him. A track star from Hollywood High School, Donnie’s nickname was ‘Easy Don.’

  Recognition flashed over Alberts face as Ingram approached. But he turned away.

  Ingram picked up Albert’s hat. “Donnie, you sap. It’s me, Todd.” He reached around and handed the hat to Alberts.

  “Fer Crissake Ingram, shut up. You never could do things right. Trying to get me killed?” Alberts jammed on the hat and hobbled over to the group of men, now lined up before fifteen or so Army guards.

  Ingram called after Alberts. “Donnie, all I wanted to do was to--”

  Something exploded in Ingram’s back. The next thing he knew he was laying on his side, pain cascading up and down his spine. He looked up to see a Japanese soldier leaning over and yelling down at him.

  “Huh?”

  The man bent closer and yelled louder, jerking his thumb over to the group of POWs. He also caught Masako in his vision about ten feet away, looking entirely helpless. “Give me a minute.” Ingram settled back to see if he could move properly.

  The guard muttered something and drew his bayonet and mounted it to his rifle.

  “Ahhhh.” Ingram rose, pain shooting up into his neck, and stumbled over to the group of POWs where he fell in beside Alberts.

  Two soldiers dragged a pair of crates before the POWs. A Japanese Army officer waited until the soldiers jammed the crates together then finally stepped up. He wore a sword, and with his hands on his hips, slowly turned from side to side, looking over his prisoners. The guards withdrew to stand at attention with the others. Looking entirely out of place in his whites, Masako fell in beside them.

  The officer rubbed his hands together. “I see someone new has joined us from the Imperial submarine I-57.” The man looked at Ingram. “Welcome to camp 642. Your presence is most honored here. I am Captain Abe.” The man paused.

  Alberts said in a bare whisper, “Ingram, bow, you st
upid bastard.”

  Stunned that the man’s English was so good, Ingram gave a deep bow.

  “Very good.” Abe turned to the POWs. “And now, it is time to load the submarine. It must be done quickly and efficiently. Any pilferage or damage to goods will be quickly dealt with. We must finish in,” he raised a wrist to check his watch, “exactly two hours. So line up over there and get moving.” Captain Abe stepped down.

  The guards began shouting and shoving the prisoners into a line which extended across the pier, over the gangway and onto the I-57’s foredeck at the hatch. The men alternately faced each other and crates soon came down the line. Ingram didn’t recognize anyone else, and their uniforms were so bedraggled, he couldn’t tell what branch of the service they were in.

  Five minutes passed with Ingram settling to a routine, passing food crates and boxes. Apples, bananas, tangerines, oranges came down the line along with canned goods. After a while, Alberts muttered in a low voice, “Welcome aboard, Todd. What brings you to us?”

  Ingram gave a quick recount of being blown off the bridge of his ship, noting more than a few ears cocked his way. Then he asked,” How ‘bout you Donnie? Last I heard, you were on the Houston.” The cruiser USS Houston (CA 30) stumbled on a major Japanese amphibious force invading Java on the night of February 28, 1942, and after having sunk at least four transports, was sunk by the Japanese covering force.

  Albert’s eyes momentarily fixed on Ingram. “With her to the end. After she went down, we swam ashore and tried to hook up with the natives. Found some, but they started hacking us up. Remember Jerry Jenks?”

  Ingram brightened at the thought. Jenks was another Naval Academy classmate in Ingram’s class. “Yeah.”

  “Damned native split his head open with a machete.”

  “Sonofabitch.”

  “Shhhh!.” They passed crates for a moment. Then Alberts continued, “Those Java bastards don’t like us. Four hundred years of Dutch rule and they hate white people. They’re glad to have Japs.”