Laura cushioned her palms under her chin and leaned on her elbows, batting her eyes and wiggling her fingers.
Helen and Ingram exchanged glances. Ingram grinned. “You ever know Laura to be tongue-tied?
“No. And I-- Oh my God.” Helen pointed at Laura’s left hand. “Is that--”
“Jerry,” peeped Laura.
“That’s swell,” said Helen. “It’s...the ring...well you know--”
“Exactly. The same ring. He sent it by mail, via a courier pouch. Then he called me last night from Hawaii. We’re engaged!” She thrust her hands in space as if singing the last bars of Oklahoma. “Again. For keeps.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Ingram. “Boom Boom Landa strikes again. This is a fine surprise.”
“He sends his best to you two. Says he’s leaving today for...wherever.” She waved a hand.
The waiter walked up and raised his eyebrows.
“The usual, thanks, Mario, “ said Laura.
Moments later the waiter produced a cut-crystal glass of ice water, a bottle of ginger ale and then walked off. “He knows me too well,” Laura muttered. Then she looked up. “There’s more.”
“What?” they both asked.
“Well, Roberta Thatcher called and they’re giving me my old job back at NBC. I start Monday.”
“Wow!” said Ingram. “Toscanini and all?”
“When he’s in town, I head for the exit,” she laughed. “No, actually, I just won’t accept any more Hollywood luncheon invitations.”
Helen reached across and squeezed Laura’s hand. “That’s great Laura. I’m proud of you. This is a wonderful surprise. Thanks for letting us share.”
“Now that I’m back, I intend to stay back.”
Helen and Todd knew what she meant. He raised his glass. “Well, here’s to the future Captain and Mrs. Landa. May you have a long and happy life together and lots of little Landas.” They clinked and sipped. “Wonder why he was in Hawaii so long?” he asked.
“Something to do with training. I guess you’ll know soon enough.”
Ingram looked around the room, seeing the place almost full. “Really jumping now. Looks like we got here just in time.”
Laura took their hands. “Thanks for being my friends, you two. And Todd, take care of yourself. Come back to us well.”
“Oh, I plan to do that. No more submarine rides.” How convincing did that sound, Ingram wondered?
The band members began taking their seats and tuning up. Laura eased out of the booth and stood. “Due on in five minutes. Dinner’s on the house. Everything. Ahhh...” She looked from side to side and said in a low voice. “Listen. We just got in a small shipment of fillet mignon this afternoon. You won’t see it on the menu. They like to save it for the movie crowd. But just say the word to Mario and he’ll fix it up for you.”
“Thanks, Laura.” Ingram stood and hugged her. “You’re very special to us, too. And congratulations again. I know you’ll be very happy together. Anything I can tell him when I get out there?”
Her eyes welled with tears. “Just tell him to come back. The both of you dumb lugs.” She turned and walked off.
Ingram sat and grabbed Helen’s hand.
“That goes double for me,” she said.
The waiter stepped up. “Are you ready to order, Sir?”
Ingram smiled. “Do you have any fillet mignon?”
The alarm clock read three twenty-seven. It was set to go off at six-thirty. Plane departure was nine-thirty. In the past, Helen and Todd never slept the night before he shipped out. Tonight was no exception. They just stayed awake and talked and made love and told little jokes. Now, Helen dozed, an arm and leg thrown over Ingram as he listened to the sounds of the night: An occasional ship’s whistle, a siren, an airplane droning overhead. The sound he loved the most was little Jerry in his crib beside them. Quietly sleeping, occasionally he stirred and smacked his lips.
Sleep well, my boy. If something happens, you’re all she’s got.
A narrow shaft of moonlight eased through the window, lighting up the room. He looked down finding her eyes wide open. “You’re spying.”
“You caught me.”
She kissed him on the chin then exhaled.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Did you know you saved my life?”
She rose on an elbow. “What?”
“When I was in the water, off Africa. That Wellington flew over and the Japs pulled the plug with me on deck. Then the water swept over me. It was cold. It was very, very lonely out there. But then the Wellington flew over again and pitched out the raft.”
She kissed him on his cheek.
“There were two voices. One told me to just go down, to sleep, to...to give up and stay there forever. It was very tempting. I was so damned tired of it all. Just go to sleep.”
“I don’t see you giving up. What was the other voice?”
“You.”
“Come on.”
“Loud and clear. I was about to give up, but you told me to swim to the raft. I made it, but I was so out of gas. God, it was all I could do to hang on. Again, I almost went down, but you told me how to pull the inflating ring. You even told me how to climb aboard when I was sure I didn’t have the strength. And during this time, you told me we had a child. I saw your face. You...you told me you loved me...God.”
“I do love you.”
“Mmmm.” He kissed her. “There’s something else. I’ve been a real jerk the past few days.”
“Forget it.” She hugged tight.
“I wish I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry, honey. Maybe all this fighting is getting to me. I wish I knew.”
“You could bail out, you know. Nobody would say a thing. You’ve done more than your share.”
Ingram slowly shook his head. “I’d like to, but those are my guys out there. My shipmates.” He looked into her eyes and ran a hand over her cheek and through her hair. “You’ve given me so much.”
“You too.” She kissed his hand.
“That’s just what I’m talking about.”
She rose to kiss his chin, his forehead. “Ummm. What is it you’re talking about?”
“You can give without loving, but you can’t love without giving.”
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
27 September, 1944
Noumea, New Caledonia
Ingram’s R5D landed at eight in the morning under a hot, sultry sun. Wearing dress khakis, garrison cap and lugging a bulky B4 bag, he climbed into an overloaded jeep and spent the next two hours bouncing down to the harbor on a dusty road. The fleet landing was a fifty-foot ramshackle shed where thick blue exhaust hung in the air. Launches, workboats, gigs, LCVPs, LCMs, admiral’s barges roared up to the dock, embarking and disgorging their Sailors and Marines. Ingram pushed through the tangle of hot sweaty men, looking for the Maxwell. She was out there somewhere in the middle of Petite Rade Harbor, nested with other destroyers alongside the destroyer tender Dixie. But it looked like a cockroach farm out there: radars twirled, antennae and guns bristled. Stately battlewagons and truculent carriers were surrounded by ships of all kind, including World War I era rust-streaked freighters. He took heart in the fact that traffic was not as heavy since he’d last been here, a good sign. The war had moved forward, advanced bases captured, the Allies pushing across the Pacific, closer to their objective; the most recent examples the invasion of Pelelieu and Morotai.
He also was aware that his quick heartbeat and the sweat running down the inside of his shirt just wasn’t from the sun or the oppressive humidity. Nor was it from lack of sleep or lack of a decent meal. He’d felt this way ever since he’d awakened that last grey morning in San Pedro. Helen had seen it in his eyes. Ingram covered her mouth, lest she say something like ‘don’t go,’ or ‘they can’t do this to you.’ Had she said it, he surely would have stayed. He’d done his job. He had enough medals. Let somebody else do the dirty work for a while. Let somebody else chase down Shimada, wherever he was, or tha
t bastard Taubman. Instead, he kissed her, long and deep. After walking next door and handing his infant son over to Mrs. Peabody, Helen drove him to the airport.
Now his stomach churned. His head swirled as a wave of nausea passed over him. He closed his eyes, then opened them to look upon the turquoise-blue waters of Baie de la Moselle. Twenty feet off the dock, a pelican dove for its meal as gum-chewing Sailors in dungarees milled about, laughing, elbowing each other, their sleeves rolled up, white hats pitched back on their heads. He made a mental note to ask Bucky Monaghan, Maxwell’s chief pharmacist’s mate, to prescribe belladonna the minute he stepped aboard. What else could he--
“--Sir? Captain?” someone called.
Falco, a blond, curly-haired third class boatswain’s mate stood in the stern sheets of a grey, double-ended twenty-six foot gig. Numbers on her bow stood out: DD 525.
“Yo.” Ingram hardly remembered him. Falco had joined the ship just before they shipped out from Majuro Lagoon. Shortly after that, Ingram was on his odyssey aboard the I-57 through the Indian Ocean.
Suddenly, Hank Kelly walked up, saluted, and pumped his hand. “You look great, Todd.”
A grinning Jack Wilson was right behind, his right arm in a sling.
Ingram grabbed his left hand. “Jack, glad to see you’re on the mend.”
Wilson said, “The quack tells me full mobility in two weeks.”
Falco handed the B4 bag down to the gig, then climbed in.
Kelly threw out a palm. “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”
It was an old joke. But Ingram was glad to hear it as he waited patiently for everyone else to scramble aboard according to tradition.
The lines were cast off and Falco rang four bells for full speed. The wind on his cheek, the boat rocking under his feet did something to him. The water seemed bluer, the ships brighter, the humidity tolerable. He turned to Kelly, “Everything shipshape?”
“Not bad, Captain,” said Kelly. “But we do have a little business as soon as you step aboard.”
“Certainly. What is it?” The thought of immersing himself in his ship made him feel even better.
“Captain’s mast,” said Kelly.
“What? Can’t we put that off a little while?”
“No, sir. We gotta do it now.”
“Who is it and what the hell is he up for?”
“You, Captain. You’ve been AWOL for three and a half months.”
The Dixie stood anchored near the harbor entrance. The destroyers Milford, Wallace, Cluster and L.T. Smith were nested to her starboard side. Falco swung his tiller and the gig swung under the Dixie’s tall transom, revealing another four destroyers nested to port. The Morgan J. Thomas was moored inboard followed by the Striff, and Geiler. Ingram blinked when he saw the fantail of the outboard ship: Maxwell. The last time he’d seen her, it was from this very perspective; sailing away from him, afire; reeling like a punch-drunk boxer; guns blazing, Jap Zeros buzzing all around.
The boat was silent as Ingram took it in. He turned to Kelly. “How many did we lose, Hank?” He’d read the battle damage reports, but he wanted to hear it from his executive officer.
“Thirty-seven dead, twenty-five wounded, eight seriously. Two of them are Stateside in a special burn unit. Clock didn’t make it.”
“I remember that. Saw him just before I went over the side.” Ingram rubbed his chin. “How did you keep her afloat?”
“It wasn’t easy. Luckily we had full engineering capability. Even the forward fire mains stayed intact. But I’ll tell you, for the first half hour or so, I thought the ammo was going up and us with her. It was a hell of a fire.”
“Damage?”
“Direct hit on Mount 52. Must have been a small bomb with a contact fuse. It didn’t penetrate. Otherwise none of us would be standing here talking. But shit, who needs a bigger bomb?”“
“I’ll say.”
“So Mount 52 was wiped out. The handling room too. Bridge had more holes than Swiss cheese.”
“What about the men in the wardroom and CIC?”
“I yelled, ‘clear the space’ and we lit out with flames licking our ass. Nobody hurt, thank God. Also, officer’s country on the second deck was burned out and flooded. That’s pretty much it.”
“We ready for sea?”
“In all respects, except for the Mark 6 Stable Element.”
“What happened?”
“Bastards in the shipyard cannibalized it. Their excuse that the ship was to be scrapped. Then I put a stop to it. That was after they disassembled the thing and took most of it." The Mark 6 Stable element was a steamer-trunk-sized device that calculated the ship’s roll, pitch and yaw and sent correcting signals to the directors and five inch gun mounts. “So we can’t shoot. And that’s not good because we’re supposed to get underway tomorrow, join up with the USS Franklin and task force 58.”
“Well, let’s figure out something. I want us to be ready, stable element or not.”
“Good luck. Until then, our guns will be punching holes in the waves,” said Kelly.
“Anything else?”
“Well,” Kelly faced outboard and stepped away from the others. He beckoned Ingram.
“What?”
“Something’s been bothering me.”
“Spit it out.”
“We could have gone back for you.” Kelly’s eyes glittered. “Shit, Skipper. I was so mesmerized with keeping the plant going and putting out the fire, I plumb lost track of you. I gotta tell you, I haven’t slept well since. The happiest day of my life was when I got the message you were alive. Even then, I’ve felt pretty shitty about this. I should have--”
“--Hank!”
“Yessir?”
“Command of the ship had passed to you. Your first responsibility was to save your ship and her crew.”
Falco rang a backing bell and with a roar of the little four cylinder engine, brought the gig to a stop alongside the Maxwell. Ingram slapped her hull plates and said, “And I’d say you did that rather admirably, don’t you?”
“I just wanted to get it off my chest. Look. I’m sorry. I wish I could have done a better job--”
“--Damnit, Hank. Why are you--”
The 1 MC squealed and the quarterdeck bell rang with ding-ding, ding-ding. The boatswain’s mate of the watch announced, “Maxwell, arriving.”
Ingram grabbed the jacob’s ladder and looked up. “Holy cow.” The whole crew, turned out in whites, manned the rail at attention. He snapped, “Is this your idea of a joke?”
Kelly shrugged.
As Ingram stepped aboard, he couldn’t help but notice a little furry shape, high in the shrouds, near the radar antennae. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
The boatswain’s pipe sounded and four side boys snapped to attention. Ingram gained the deck, saluted the flag on the fantail and then saluted the officer of the deck. It was Tony Duquette, wearing tailored dress khakis. Some things never change. This kid still looks like he stepped from an Esquire ad. “Permission to come aboard, Sir?”
Duquette gave a snappy salute. “Granted. Welcome back, Captain.” He waved toward the fantail. “Sir, if you don’t mind?”
Ingram turned to Kelly, his eyebrows raised.
Kelly said, “It was Rocko’s idea. He’s back there waiting to pin a medal on you. So buck up, Sailor, and mind your manners.”
Damnit! Ingram wanted to slip aboard the Maxwell quietly. “Lead the way, Lieutenant,” he said to Duquette.
Duquette steered a path to the fantail. Along the way, Ingram checked the men standing at the rail and was surprised at the faces he didn’t recognize: replacements for the ones who didn’t make it.
“Ten hut!” Men in ranks were gathered among the 40 millimeter gun tubs and depth charge racks on the fantail. Dais and microphone were situated just under mount 55's gun barrel. The Maxwell’s officers was lined up before the dais. They all looked familiar except for two new ensigns and a j.g. In ranks port and starboard, were the captains an
d executive officers of the Milford, Wallace, Smith, Thomas, Cluster, Striff and Geiler.
Play the game. At the dais was Rear Admiral Theodore R. Myszynski, newly selected commander of Destroyer Forces, South Pacific. Ingram hadn’t seen the thick-necked fire-plug shaped Myszynski since he’d been selected for Rear Admiral and bumped upstairs. The admiral looked fit. His face wasn’t as drawn compared to those horrible days a year ago at Guadalcanal when he was Squadron Commander of Destroyer Squadron Twelve.
Standing at stiff attention beside Myszynski was Jerry Landa, staring in the distance, his face expressionless. And, Ingram did a double take, on Landa’s left was Lieutenant Commander Oliver Toliver, leaning on a cane. “I’ll be damned.” He fought the impulse to walk over and shake Ollie’s hand.
“Is there a problem, Commander?” asked Myszynski.
Ingram drew to attention and saluted. “No, sir.”
“Well then, we can begin.” Myszynski pumped his fist once and a band standing on the Dixie’s 03 level struck up the Star Spangled Banner.
When it was over Myszynski said, “Mr. Kelly, if you please?”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Hank Kelly stood on the dais and pulled a notepad from his pocket: “Attention to orders.” The loudspeaker squeaked horribly and Kelly, after glaring at the Sailor at the controlling sound console on the deck, began, “ Whereas, Commander Alton C. Ingram, commanding officer of the USS Maxwell (DD 525) on the evening of 7 June, 1944, was thrown into the water after a particularly vicious attack by Japanese dive bombers...”
Ingram stood before Myszynski as Kelly droned on. After a while, Myszynski’s eyes twinkled and he whispered, “Seems like I’m throwing a medal around your neck as often as that monkey craps, Mr. Ingram.” Myszynski nodded toward the mast.
Ingram looked over Myszynski’s shoulder seeing that Dexter was still up in the rigging. “From now on, I’ll stay out of trouble Admiral. Promise.”
“See that you do.”
Ingram tried to catch Landa’s eye to say hello. But Landa just stood at stiff attention, feet planted to the deck, eyes fixed in the distance, lips pressed tightly together.
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 33