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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Shaddup, you guys,” hissed the prisoner on Ingram’s right. Just then a guard strolled by, his eyes darting among them.

  After the guard walked off, Ingram asked, “Is this as bad as it looks, Donnie?”

  “Afraid so. Some guys have it worse, though, working on the railroads in Burma. I’ve been with these guys for about six months. Before that, I was working the docks in Batavia.” He paused for a moment. “What’s it like back home?”

  “Beautiful as ever. Except the Japs bombed Hollywood.”

  Alberts looked up, his mouth open.

  Ingram flashed a grin. “Just kidding. It’s wonderful back home. We have a place in San Pedro.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah, I married this Army Nurse I met on Corregidor who--”

  A guard shouted and one of the prisoners, a short red-headed man, broke from the line, running for the edge of the pier.

  “Baumgartner. What’s he up to this time?” muttered Alberts.

  Captain Abe drew his Nambu pistol and took aim on Baumgartner. The pistol cracked and Baumgartner dropped, squirming and groaning. With blood trailing from his thigh, he clawed to within three feet of the pier’s edge until a guard ran up and kicked him in the head. Baumgartner lay quietly from a moment then groaned while the guard nonchalantly fixed a bayonet to his rifle.

  “No!” shouted the POW to Ingram’s right. He started to break ranks but others grabbed his elbows.

  “He’s not going to do it,” said Ingram.

  “Shut up, Todd,” said Alberts.

  Baumgartner rolled to his back and extended his hands. “I didn’t do anything, honest.”

  “No!” Ingram screamed, as the guard raised his rifle.

  The guard plunged the bayonet deep into the Baumgartner’s chest. Baumgartner gave a long, ululating scream, his hands spasming in space. Then he went limp. But his body twitched and convulsed, so the guard bayoneted him three more times.

  Baumgartner finally lay still and the guard yanked out his bayonet. Then he reached down and pulled an apple from Baumgartner’s pocket. Walking back, he smiled at his fellow guards and took a big, crunching bite.

  “Bastard.” Ingram had never known such rage. He turned toward the guard.

  “Todd. Shit! Don’t.” Alberts whispered loudly. “If you do anything, it’s not just your skin. They take it out on all of us.”

  “Back to work,” yelled Captain Abe.

  Morosely, the POWs returned to the task, the crates going to the I-57 while the overhead crane lifted torpedoes off. Ninety minutes later, a stack of torpedoes lay ashore where the crates had been. Two other piles of boxes and barrels had gone aboard, as well.

  Now, high in the sky, the sun had burned through, and with a shout, the POWs were herded to a large wooden water barrel, its sides glistening with condensation. Ingram had never known such exhaustion. Sweat ran from every pore, as he crowded among the POWs, grappling for one of the crude wooden ladles. Fortunately, the barrel was full and there was plenty of water. Finally, he grappled one and greedily drank in long, dripping gulps, even taking time to pour water over his head.

  Someone shouted on the I-57’s foredeck and her two diesels rumbled into life. Ingram looked over to her, thinking of the dangerous voyage ahead. In a way, he still wished he were going to France, to Europe, and an existence less harsh than here at the hands of the Japanese. But then he looked over at the POWs. Americans. Friends. Donnie Alberts. Others he would know, for sure. They would pull for one another, and he knew he owed it to them to help out as much as he could with his relative freshness.

  Two large stake trucks bumped and rattled down the pier, stopping before the prisoners. The soldiers ran around behind, dropped the tail gates and began herding them aboard. A guard spun in behind Ingram and shoved so hard, he stumbled into another prisoner waiting ready to climb aboard. “Damn you!” Ingram said.

  “Hei.” The guard stepped back and drew his bayonet.

  Captain Abe walked up. “Something wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Ingram bowed and stared at the ground. It was his I-57 training, and he felt sheepish that it came so automatically to him.

  A corner of the man’s mouth turned up. And his left eye twitched. Drawing his pistol, he said, “You are the new one, Ingram”

  “Yes.”

  “You wish to join your friend over there?” Abe’s head jerked to Baumgartner’s body, now covered with a dingy tarp. “Perhaps, you need some special training.”

  Ingram bowed again, “I’m sorry, Sir.” He wanted to gargle with a gallon of mouthwash. He seethed that he’d called this enemy lieutenant, this demented junior officer, ‘Sir.’

  Someone shouted from the I-57’s bridge. Moments later, Lieutenant Commander Kato and Masako walked across the gangway and up to Captain Abe. The discussion went on for two or three minutes. Finally, Lieutenant Abe threw his hands up and walked away without looking back.

  The POWs were loaded into the trucks, the guards slamming the tailgates shut and climbing aboard. “What?” said Ingram. Masako materialized with his rifle, and nodded to the I-57.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Sailors aboard the I-57 singled up lines as Kato dashed back across the gangway to the submarine. Grunting and muttering, Masako pushed Ingram toward the I-57 with his rifle. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  Masako pushed harder and Ingram knew the answer.

  “Todd.” It was Donnie Alberts calling from the truck.

  Ingram looked up seeing hollow-eyed prisoners crowded around him. “Yes?”

  “My wife, Laurie, tell her I love her.”

  “How do I find her?”

  “In Ho--”

  A guard rifle-butted Alberts from behind, knocking him to the ground.

  Masako pushed, and Ingram walked across the gangway, just as riggers fixed lines to the crane hook dangling just above. As soon as Masako crossed, the crane took a strain and the gangway was lifted clear. The tug was made up on the I-57’s starboard side and she tooted twice. Taubman walked up as sailors pulled in the stern lines. “You were lucky you weren’t stuck with those poor fellows.”

  Blood oozed from under the tarp covering Baumgartner’s body. Ingram tore his eyes away to watch the POW-laden trucks rattling up the pier. “I’m not so sure.” He looked up. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Captain Shimada is curious.”

  “What?”

  “He’s curious to see if you are a warrior.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  20 June, 1944

  IJN Submarine I-57

  Strait of Malacca

  The afternoon was thick with haze as the I-57 ran on the surface at eighteen knots. Georgetown lay in her wake and her course was due west with Shimada intending to cross the Strait of Malacca and leave Rondo Island, the northernmost island off Sumatra’s northwestern tip, thirty kilometers to port. The I-57 cleared Rondo on schedule and plunged into the great channel of the Andaman Sea. Once out of the protection of Sumatra’s landmass, she was greeted by twenty to thirty foot waves and forty knot winds. The I-57 crested wave after wave, only to corkscrew her way down into stygian troughs, the submarine completely immersed. The conning tower hatch had to be closed, with the submarine’s sole source of air through the main induction, a large pipe, giving air to the engines, which rose in the after conning tower a few feet above the bridge.

  In these conditions, Shimada insisted on a bridge crew of two officers and four lookouts. But the waves were steep, and green water often swept over the bridge, requiring the men to strap themselves to the ship, lest they be swept overboard. Holding one’s breath was a survival trick and after an hour topside, they were completely exhausted and had to be relieved after desperately holding their breath and wrapping their arms and legs around the periscope shears. On the other hand, sailors below became seasick, the odor penetrating every corner of the boat, triggering more seasickness. Officers and men not on watch, lay sprawled in their bunks, moaning, h
ollow eyes staring at the overhead. With the insane pitching and rolling, their arms grasped stanchions or bunk hoists, unable to sleep.

  The next day they left the Andaman Archipelago to starboard and surged into the Indian Ocean where the waves grew to fifty feet, the winds screeching to sixty knots. The crew became worse, and Shimada apparently gave up; for at first light on the twenty-second, the I-57 dove into the Indian Ocean. Blessed peace and quiet descended as they settled to a depth of thirty meters, everyone except the watchstanders falling into a drugged sleep.

  Strangely, Ingram wasn’t as sick as the others. He put it down to his time in destroyers which did a lot of bouncing around. So his reward was to clean vomit off the decks. Today, he was in the control room. Water from the bridge cascaded through the conning tower hatch as the watch scrambled down and secured the hatch. With the I-57 safely under, Shimada set the underway watch, then ambled forward to his stateroom and drew his curtain. With that, conversation in the control room settled to a bored minimum , some watchstanders shaking their heads to stay awake.

  With mop and bucket, Ingram was on hands and knees near the air manifold, while a soaked Masako, who had just been on watch topside, kept an eye him. But it was obvious the man fought sleep as he stifled a yawn and sat heavily beside the stern planesman.

  Ingram figured this was as good a time as any to figure where they were. With the bad weather, he reckoned the I-57's speed of advance was ten knots, which justified staying on the surface; if Shimada was sticking to a schedule. Otherwise, why not just dive and get below this mess? They’d offloaded all but two of the torpedoes, so it was obvious the I-57 wasn’t on an offensive patrol; meaning they weren’t looking for targets; in fact Shimada was most likely avoiding them.

  Ingram looked up seeing the nav station and Masako in one furtive glance. Masako’s eyes were closed. Ingram spotted the gyro compass just a few feet away. Everyone was absorbed with their gauges.

  Now.

  Ingram rose on his haunches and stole a glance at the compass card: Course: 250. Quickly, he went back to his scrubbing, his mind racing with what he’d just seen. Two-five-zero. If they had cleared the Malacca Straits, then they must now be cruising through the Indian Ocean, headed for the tip of South Africa. That meant they really were headed for Europe, thousands of miles away. He wondered if--

  --a foot nudged his rump. Looking up, he saw it was Masako. “What?”

  Masako grunted something at him and waved his palm up. Rise. “Benjo, benjo,” he muttered.

  Ingram sighed. Masako wanted him to go aft and clean the toilet. “Sure, I’ll put a man right on it.” Gathering bucket and rags he stood and followed Masako aft. Passing through the galley and engine room, they stepped into the maneuvering room and walked by his ‘bunk’ under the lathe. They continued past the two motormen at the main propulsion station and stepped through the hatchway leading into the after berthing compartment. Once inside, Masako checked his watch, muttered something in Japanese and nodded toward the benjo, a tiny white-painted compartment area, no more than three by three. The deck was black and white tiled, and there was an eight inch diameter hole at the forward end. Close by were indentations for one’s feet in order to take care of business. A standard stainless steel wash basin was mounted on the aft bulkhead, and two gleaming chrome handles controlled water to a shower spigot overhead. The place invariably stunk and Ingram always gagged when cleaning in here. Which reminded him, he’d just cleaned in here this morning. Why so soon?

  Masako grunted several times and finally, Ingram got the idea. Wash-down. Good. He carried the stink of the past six days on him. Taking off his clothes, he stepped into the benjo and patiently waited for Masako to blast away with a hose as he had in the past.

  Masako held out a straight razor, bar of soap, and shaving cream.

  Ingram was stunned. “On the level?”

  Masako nodded and pointed to the two shower faucets. He leaned in and turned on the basin faucet testing the water. With another grunt, he waved toward it and tapped his watch crystal. Hurry. Then he closed the door.

  Ingram quickly lathered his face with the shaving cream. The razor was pleasantly sharp, removing fifteen days growth in two minutes. Flipping on the overhead shower spigot, he luxuriating in...fresh water, he realized. Hot water! Steaming! It cascaded over his knotted hair and down his body, his first real shower for over two weeks.

  Suddenly, the door flew open. It was Masako shouting and pointing to his watch.

  “Okay, okay.”

  Masako slammed the door and Ingram quickly soaped up, rinsed, lathered, and rinsed again, his skin tingling as if he’d just rolled in fresh snow. He tried the door but it was locked. “Hey!” He knocked. Nothing happened so, enveloped in steam, he sat on his haunches and waited...

  The door crashed open. Again, it was Masako, a towel in his hand. But Ingram had fallen asleep and pitched out onto the deck. Luckily, he caught himself with an outstretched hand. Rising to his feet, he accepted the towel and dried off, while Masako leaned against the bulkhead with crossed arms. Wrapping the towel around his waist, Ingram asked, “My clothes?”

  Masako nodded forward.

  “My clothes, please.”

  Masako yelled, gesticulating to move forward. When Ingram hesitated, he doubled his fists and moved close.

  “You want me to walk around like this?” Ingram asked.

  “No, Commander that is not his intention.” Martin Taubman stepped through the hatch. “Seaman Masako merely wants you to wait at your berth until your clothes are done.”

  “What?” Ingram tucked the towel.

  “Here’s a comb, commander. Complements of the Kreigsmarine. Your clothes will be done in,” Taubman check his watch, “another twenty-five minutes. Then you and I are to have lunch with the captain.” Taubman headed forward. “See you shortly.”

  “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “I may try to kill the sonofabitch. You, too.”

  “I’m sure you’ll remember your manners.” Taubman walked off.

  Ingram was amazed when, thirty minutes later, a seaman walked down the passageway with his clothes in hand, freshly washed, mended and starched. Likewise, the man handed over Ingram’s shoes, which although still damp from tramping around the Georgetown docks, had been brought back to somewhat of a luster. Ingram accepted them with a bow. Returning the bow, the sailor reached in his pocket and held out Ingram’s silver commander’s insignia.

  He was tying his shoes when Taubman walked in. Looking at him with approval he said, “Very nice, Commander. Are you ready?”

  Ingram stood. “Whose idea is this?”

  Taubman waved Masako away with the back of his hand. “Mine actually. Don’t you think it’s time for a little cultural exchange?”

  Ingram rubbed his chin. “Well, if you guys want to surrender to me, then I’ll be glad to think it over.”

  Taubman chuckled. “This is not a good attitude, Commander Ingram. Captain Shimada sincerely wants to give you a pleasant meal, officer to officer. I thought you would be agreeable to this.”

  Ingram’s jaw stuck out. “After that, it’s back to sleeping under the lathe and cleaning toilets? If that’s the case than I’d rather not.”

  “I see, Commander. And you are negotiating from a position of strength?” Taubman took a step back and jammed his hands on his hips.

  Ingram opened his mouth for a snide retort. Shut up Todd. Maybe you’ll learn something. “Okay, Herr Taubman. Lead the way.”

  “That’s better. I think you’re in for an enjoyable time.”

  Taubman knocked. After a guttural reply, he parted a red curtain and waved Ingram through. Ingram couldn’t help gaping. Except for its size, he could have been at the 'Crown Room’ of the Hotel del Coronado. The wardroom was a space perhaps six by twelve, done in deep wood paneling. Brass hardware gleamed on the cabinetry and the table was set in sparkling crystal and china. The wall to wall carpeti
ng was a deep maroon and the chairs were finished in a soft, black leather. The compartment smelled of a richly patronized restaurant, including cigars and fine wine. Wearing dress tunic with ribbons, Shimada stood at the head of the wardroom table with eight place settings. Five other officers stood with him and bowed in unison.

  Open mouthed, Ingram nudged Taubman. “What?”

  “Military protocol prevails here, Commander. Now, you may return the bow to the officers as a group, then you should bow to the Captain.”

  “You sure? I don’t want my head ripped off.” Ingram did as he was told.

  “It’s all right; now pay attention.” Taubman said, making introductions. “You’ve met, I believe, Lieutenant Commander Shigeru Kato, the ship’s executive officer.”

  Ingram had been ordered not to look anyone in the face from the earliest point of the voyage. It seemed strange now to look at their faces, their eyes. “Er, Martin, I’m not supposed to have met any of these people,” said Ingram as he bowed. He was surprised when Kato returned the gesture.

  “Forget that for now.” Taubman ranged on down the table, “...Lieutenant Keisuke Takamatsu, the First Lieutenant... Lieutenant junior grade Domei Hayashi, assistant First Lieutenant...Lieutenant Koki Matsumoto, engineering and diving officer. And here is Lieutenant junior grade Fumimaro Ishibashi, the communications officer, whom I believe you’ve met...”

  “...I believe so,” Ingram said with a bow, noticing one of Ishibashi’s eyes was black and a large bandage covered his nose.

  Taubman continued, “Everyone else is on watch. Now, you are to sit at the end of the table. I will be to your right.”

  That put Ishibashi directly to Ingram’s left. The two men glared at each other as Ingram said “I would have thought Lieutenant Ishibashi would want to do me in.”

  Taubman cleared his throat. “Ah, as a matter of fact, he has vowed to do so.”

  Ishibashi lips formed a subtle smirk.