Ingram felt as if he’d swallowed a bowl full of ice cubes. “He understands English.”
“A few phrases, perhaps.” Taubman said.
Shimada sat and they all followed suit, their chairs scraping.
Ingram said, “As a Korvettenkapitän, you should be to the Captain’s right.”
Taubman sighed, “Actually, it should be you sitting to his right. But Captain Shimada filled out the place cards, not I.”
Ingram said, “What do we talk about?”
“That’s up to the captain.”
Shimada looked at Ingram for a full twenty seconds, then gave a thin smile and said something to Taubman.
“With your shower and clean clothes, he says you look every bit the captain of the destroyer USS Maxwell, Commander Ingram.”
Unable to control himself, Ingram sat bolt upright.
Ishibashi raised his hand and made a sinking gesture. Matsumoto shook his head slowly.
“Are you sure? How the hell did you--”
“--Tokyo filled us in on details, Commander,” said Taubman, elaborately, spreading his napkin in his lap. “Our condolences on the loss of your ship.”
They stared at Ingram, the deep silence like a thunderclap. With great effort, Ingram composed himself. The Maxwell, gone? His mind twirled with the possibilities. Unless something catastrophic had happened, she couldn’t have sunk. The last time Ingram saw her she had plenty of fight. He looked up and traded glances with Ishibashi. Bullshit.
The spell was broken as two sailors entered, carrying a large tray with several dishes. Ceremoniously, the messmen placed bowls and plates on the table, Taubman narrating each time as new one arrived: “This is katsuboshi, a salami-shaped stick of dried bonito. And here we have zenzai beans, which are cooked using the captain’s special recipe.”
Taubman leaned over one of his plates and drew a long exaggerated breath. “Ahhh. This is a real treat,” he exchanged nods with Shimada. “We took this aboard at Georgetown. It’s tai, a traditional redfish cooked in a light lemon sauce, again prepared according to the captain’s recipe. To help round things out, there is mochitsuki or rice cakes. “ Taubman waved a palm toward the table’s center. “Last, those are a special kind of chestnut called kachi kure, or victory chestnuts.”
“I think I’ll pass on those.”
“Mind your manners, Commander.”
“Sorry.” Shut up, Todd or these guys will throw you to the sharks.
They ate in silence while the messmen poured tea. Ingram found the food very good. Doubtless, anything would have tasted good after what he’d been through, but even so, this was a meal worthy of a five star restaurant. He was just about done when Shimada turned to him and asked a question; Taubman interpreted. “Captain Shimada is interested to learn anything you can tell him about the European invasion.”
Ingram took a last bite of tai and said, “As I explained before. I have no idea about an invasion.”
“Perhaps you can reconsider, Commander. It’s important to us, since we’re headed, as you know, for the Continent. It would be nice to know what, ahhh, could or couldn’t be awaiting us. Do you understand the subtlety here?”
Ingram dabbed his lips, trying to look nonchalant. The others had finished, but he could have eaten another twenty pounds.
Ishibashi produced a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Matsumoto who accepted. With obvious reluctance, he offered one to Ingram who waved it away with a “no thanks.” Taubman did the same. Then came the lighting ritual with Ishibashi producing a shiny American Ronson lighter. Others, including the captain, lit up as well and they sat back and ceremoniously blew smoke in the air, Ishibashi looking fidgety.
Apparently, there would be no seconds, so Ingram said, “I couldn’t help you even if I knew, Martin.”
“Ah, yes. I see. We’re on our own then.”
“Afraid so.” Ingram stared, as Shimada adjusted his red-checkered scarf.
Taubman said, “You like that scarf?”
“He wears it a lot. Sort of non-reg for a ship’s captain, don’t you think?”
“Actually, Hajime Shimada is his own man. On his own ship, he doesn’t worry about idiosyncrasies.”
For some reason, Ingram thought of Jerry Landa.
“And I particularly appreciate him wearing the scarf,” Taubman continued.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I gave it to him. A Scotch House, you see, pure wool. I took some leave and travelled to Hong Kong last year and bought it from an English tailor. Well, the shop was English, the tailor Chinese,” Taubman chuckled. He looked up to Shimada, who must have figured out what they were saying, for he bowed. Taubman returned the bow. “The captain wears it on special occasions.”
“So I’ve noticed,” muttered Ingram.
Then Taubman and Ishibashi talked animatedly. Taubman turned and asked. “Are you aware your forces invaded Guam?”
Ingram stiffened, his air casual indifference again up in smoke.
“That’s why we were out there. They interrupted our voyage to France and sent us to become part of a submarine barrier east of Guam. But there was no activity, so we were detached to proceed on our original mission. But now, it sounds like you caught us off-guard. There was a terrific Naval battle.”
Ingram couldn’t help himself. “What happened?”
With an eye to Shimada, Taubman tipped a hand from side to side. “Not sure. Results are sketchy so far. But there were many ships and airplanes involved.”
Ingram didn’t know what to say. “I see. Well, thanks for the nice lunch.” He folded his napkin before him wondering if they now planned to pound something out of him.
An uncomfortable silence settled with everyone’s gaze fixed on the white tablecloth.
Taubman broke it. “Is there anything you’d like to ask, outside of a military nature, of course?”
“I’ve been curious.”
“Yes?” said Taubman.
“Why didn’t you let me stay in Penang with my own people?”
Taubman pursed his lips and translated. After Shimada’s reply, Taubman focused on Ingram and said, “Captain Shimada’s father was a Samurai. Do you know what this means?”
“A warrior of some sort. They wear that crazy bandana with the funny writing and whack off your head.”
“That’s putting it crudely. The funny writing is Kanji ideographs, which mean, Shichi Sho Ho Koku.”
“Translation?”
“Seven lives to serve one’s country.’”
“Sort of like a cat.”
“I wouldn’t press that point with them. Captain Shimada or Mr. Ishibashi here, just might take off your head.”
“Some warrior.”
“Well, it’s more than that. They believe in the Bushido code.”
“Which is--?”
“Bushido means ‘the ways of the warrior;’ thus it’s a code of conduct for the warrior class. Captain Shimada’s legacy from his father is one of loyalty, courage, truthfulness, compassion and above all, honor. Further, a Samurai has a deep respect of life and death, the latter an element so inevitable that it completes one’s being.’
Ingram could see where this was going. He’s seen enough of the Bushido Code first hand on Corregidor. In spite of his predicament, he sat stiffly, his bile rising.
Taubman prattled on, “...with a stoic appreciation for death, a Samurai more acutely appreciates life, especially things that are transient. Take for example, one’s father or mother, precious things to us. When they are gone, they’re gone. A Samurai appreciates the transient elements of our lives more while they are here with us. And when they are gone, they are still connected.”
“To one’s ancestors.”
That earned Ingram a nod from Ishibashi.
“Precisely,” said Taubman. “Loyalty, honor are critical elements to the code. It all enhances their sense of belonging, a national purpose, so to speak.”
“Do you follow the ways of the Samurai and their Bushido code?”
“Good God, no. I am a simple Lutheran returning to Germany.”
“What does Commander Shimada have to do to become a Samurai, or,” he waved a hand at Ishibashi, “the lieutenant here?”
Taubman shook his head.
“No?”
“The Samurai class was abolished in 1868 with the Meiji restoration. A new military system was established; cities grew by leaps and bounds. At the same time, they adapted Western culture, thanks in large part to your Commodore Perry, who secured a foothold in the Japanese national psyche.” He leaned back and sipped tea. “But it is hard to let go of the old ways. Indeed, many of them have been retained.”
Ingram raised his eyebrows.
“Deeply ingrained in the Bushido Code of the Samurai are the ways of Zen Buddhism, Confucianism and Shintoism.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about--”
“Well, you’ve seen a bit of it.”
“Yes?”
Taubman nodded outside. “That shrine in the passageway. Have you really examined it?”
“All I see are a few pieces of rock and wood.”
“Those are mementos from the great Shinto Ise Grand Shrine. Emperor Temmu had established Ise as the primary cult shrine of Imperial Japan. Its main shrine is one dedicated to Amaterasu Omikami, the sun goddess.”
“Where is it?” asked Ingram.
“On the Isuzu River in Southern Honshu.”
“Do the rock and wood really mean something?”
“Yes. The rocks are gathered from the sea and represent the dwellings of deities. And the trees on the grounds of Ise are also sacred, especially the Cryptomeria trees. The most divine plant of Shinto however, is the sakaki, a shrub of the tea bush family.” He waved a hand toward the Passageway shrine, “thus the rocks and bits of wood.”
Ingram said, “Thus the Bushido Code.”
Taubman said, “In essence, yes.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Why am I not with my fellow prisoners in Penang?”
Taubman spoke to Shimada at length. Then he turned to Ingram and said, “He wants to see if you are a warrior. The fact that Americans freely surrender is objectionable to him, to all Samurai for that matter. They believe you should fight to the death.”
“How can I fight a submarine when I’m on a piece of flotsam with nothing but a monkey? Pretty poor odds I’d say.”
“You could have refused rescue.”
“What?”
“You could have swum away from the submarine. They would have understood. That would have been an honorable thing to--”
“--I tried, Martin, but they started shooting at me.”
Taubman waved it off and continued, “But your fight against Lieutenant Ishibashi the other day impressed the Captain. You could have been killed. Instead, you fought bravely. That’s why you are here. He wants to find out more about it. As does Lieutenant Ishibashi.”
Ingram’s eyes shifted from Shimada to Ishibashi. “To not give up. Death before dishonor?”
“Yes.”
Ingram placed his hands flatly on the wardroom table. “Tell them I’ve seen their Bushido code in action on Corregidor and on Mindanao. I’ve seen tortured civilians. I’ve seen old men bayoneted just because they were old; I’ve seen wounded Filipinos hanging by their feet from a tree branch to be slowly roasted over a low fire; I’ve seen young women gang-raped and then crucified upside down. My own wife...” Ingram pointed at Shimada. “Your esteemed countrymen tortured her nearly to death. She still has cigarette burns over most of her body. And the nightmares, they...” Ingram waved a hand in the air. “Tell them this, Herr Korvettenkapitän: If I can suffer capture and live to fight these dirty bastards again, then I’ll do it. And one of the guys at the top of my list is that sadistic sonofabitch back at the Penang docks who bayoneted Baumgartner.”
Taubman sputtered, “Commander, please. I can’t--”
Ingram rose and pointed at Ishibashi. “And tell him I’ll be glad to take him on anytime. Maybe Commander Shimada would care to shoot me first like Mr. Abe did to Baumgartner back in Penang. That’ll make it a fair fight. Now translate that, Herr Korvettenkapitän. “ He turned and walked out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
22 June, 1944
IJN Submarine I-57
Indian Ocean
Guttural shouts followed Ingram as he stomped out of the Wardroom and headed aft. Just before reaching the control room, he was thrown face down on the deck. Masako and Ishibashi were on him first, beating the hell out of him, as others poured out of the wardroom and jumped on the pile. Fortunately, it was the constricted passageway which saved him from a worse mauling. Someone shouted, he thought it was Shimada or Kato; and he recognized Taubman’s boots three feet away. He knew he was beyond pain when someone kicked him in the stomach. His mind whirled and she came to him...Helen. He reached for her but she disappeared in blackness...
It took several days for Ingram to recover and he spent it under the lathe, groaning and doubled up in pain. It hurt to breathe and he felt like he had a broken rib. Elsewhere, he had two black eyes and a broken nose. Masako brought food and water twice a day and eventually, he was able to move about. Eight days later, he was again cleaning benjos, accompanied by his watchdog Masako.
Fortunately, the seas grew calm, the days balmy. Now, out of aircraft range, the I-57 transited the Indian Ocean on the surface day and night at a flank bell doing nineteen and a half knots. It was just before noon on June 27th when Ingram finished polishing the stainless steel fixtures in the crew’s benjo in the after berthing compartment. Groaning, he rose and looked to Masako, wiping his brow. I’m finished.
Masako poked his head in for a cursory inspection, nodded, and checked his watch. Arriving with the split-second punctuality of the three melodic chimes on NBC radio, the odor of baked fish sifted through the compartment. Masako’s nose wiggled from side to side and he grunted for Ingram to return to the maneuvering room. It was time to be chained to the lathe so Masako could go to the mess compartment and stuff his face.
Taubman appeared on the other side of the hatch. “Good morning, Commander.” He stepped back, letting Masako and Ingram pass.
Pain ran up Ingram’s back as he bent to ease through. He straightened beside Taubman and Superior Petty Officer Kenyro Shimazaki, the sole watchstander on the control station. Ingram nodded, remembering that this was the only man aboard this ship who, by offering him tea a few days ago, had showed any compassion. He’d later learned that Ishibashi had disciplined him for it. But that didn’t stop Shimazaki from giving Ingram mugs of tea and rice cakes during his recovery from the beating.
Ingram hadn’t talked with Taubman since the day of the ‘wardroom lunch.’ “You ready to surrender, yet Martin?”
“Only if you checkmate my king, Commander. You up for a game of chess?”
“I thought you’d be at chow.”
“I’ve already eaten. And if you’re a good boy, I can arrange to have something--”
--the diving alarm, a strident combination of a high-pitched whistle and a rumbling fog horn, blasted in the compartment. The intercom over Shimazaki’s panel screeched. Shimazaki quickly reached up and yelled, “hai.” Deftly, he threw a series of long shiny levers on the control board. Actually, they were large knife-switches for shifting the electric motors to battery power, since the diesels would soon be shut down.
Once done, Shimazaki grabbed Masako and shouted a rapid command.
Masako gave a quick bow and glanced from Ingram to Taubman, his eyebrows raised.
“Go. I’ll watch him.” Taubman pointed toward the engine room.
Masako dashed off, as air roared from the ballast tanks. He barely made it through the engine room hatch when it was slammed shut. The hatch to the after berthing compartment behind Ingram crashed, shut as well, giving Ingram a closed-in feeling. The rumble of the diesels ground to a halt and the I-57 took a down angle. Quickly, Shimazaki threw the switches to disconnect the diesels from the
motor/generators. Even though he couldn’t read Japanese, Ingram could see the engine order telegraph was still set to 'all ahead flank.’ “We’re diving?”
With a nod, Taubman cocked an ear to the intercom and said tersely, “Aircraft sighted, four motor type. Possibly a Liberator.”
Shimazaki twirled a large rheostat, as Ingram checked an inclinometer mounted on the port bulkhead. The down angle was now six degrees. “What’s with Masako?”
“They’re minus a watchstander in the engine room, and they need him to help secure the diesels and rig for depth charging,” said Taubman. The angle steepened making him stumble. He reached out to grab a handrail.
The submarine groaned and creaked with the inclinometer bubble now reading twenty-one degrees. A tea mug slipped off a shelf and shattered on the deck, as an unperturbed Shimazaki checked his motor settings.
Quickly, Ingram checked a bulkhead mounted chronometer: 1627. Plenty of daylight topside and they were under attack by fellow Americans. His own countrymen. If Taubman’s information was correct, they were flying a Liberator, a big four-engine long-range bomber with plenty of speed, bombs and machine guns to make mincemeat out of the I-57.
Suddenly, Ingram couldn’t catch his breath. He wanted to race for the hatch, throw it open and scramble topside. He wanted to stand on the deck, wave and yell at the B-24 crew. With enormous self-control, he fought the impulse as the I-57 continued her plunge.
It’s too late to go out there anyway. A hell of a Samurai I’d make. Just call me chikenshit Joe. But, by God, I’ve got a baby to bounce and a wife to kiss. A lot to live for. No, I don’t want a bunch of Army Air Corps jockeys blowing me up just now.
More loose gear tumbled from shelves and lockers and shattered on the deck; shards, tools and odd bits of clothing cascaded forward and crashed into the bulkhead. The submarine shuddered, with Ingram, Taubman, and Shimazaki reaching to brace themselves on the control board.
Twin, almost simultaneous, explosions rocked the submarine. She vibrated and her down angle increased another ten degrees.
“Poor aim,” muttered Taubman.
“Too bad,” said Ingram.
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 14