A CODE FOR TOMORROW: A Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 2)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “That’s pretty good, son. You thinking of striking for radioman?” said the other passenger.

  “Wh-what?” squeaked the sailor.

  “Radioman,” the passenger’s voice was steady, cool, fetching. “Sounds like you know your stuff. And our fleet needs good radiomen. They’re hard to find.”

  “I dunno. God I--”

  “What are you striking for?”

  “Nothing, I guess...”

  “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “High school. Radio club. Uhh, you mean you understand what I said, Sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, Sir.”

  “How many words do you take?”

  “Used to do twenty.”

  “You know, a radioman worked for me once when I was a little older than you. It was on the Aaron Ward, my second destroyer, and we hit a storm coming out of Batavia. It’s shallow down there and the water’s all choppy and the ship really bounced around.”

  The kid went. “Grhffff.”

  “What?” asked the officer.

  “Yes, Sir...”

  “It was so rough we had to tie everything and almost everybody down who wasn’t on watch. Anyway, one of my sailors fell down a hatchway. It looked like he’d broken his neck and there wasn’t a doctor aboard.” The man paused and the kid no longer goosed the bell. In the meantime, the temperature felt as if it had risen ten degrees. Ingram unbuttoned his blouse.

  The man went on evenly, his voice echoing in the hot compartment. “So we needed help, and guess who saved the day?” In the faint light, he turned, and looked at Ingram, as if to size him up. Something glinted on the man’s collar tabs. In fact, a lot glinted there. But because of the low light, it was impossible to determine exactly what.

  The man tapped the sailor on the shoulder and repeated, “Guess who?”

  The kid struggled for self-control, “I dunno, uh, Sir. All I know is I don’t wanna die.”

  “Ummm.” The man paused and stroked his chin. “Well, anyway, it was my radioman who saved the day. He tapped his CW key like there was no tomorrow. We actually brought the injured boy up to the radio shack and laid him out on the deck. Then we did exactly what the doc on the beach told us to do. Lucky for us there was an English speaking doctor in Batavia. But our man, Higgins was his name, lived. And later, we found out, he did have a broken neck. He turned out okay.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Babcock, Sir.”

  “Well Babcock, what do you think about--”

  The lights went on and the elevator jerked into motion again.

  “Hey, hey,” grinned Babcock, jamming his control lever all the way to the stop.

  The passenger turned and winked at Ingram. Then both were surprised, examining one another for an extra second. They looked very much alike. The man could have been Ingram's older brother. Then Ingram realized he had two stars on his collar; a rear-admiral. Ingram stood to attention, loose belt and tie, unbuttoned coat, and everything. All he could think of to say was, “Good morning, Sir.”

  “Morning.”

  The elevator stopped and the doors clanked open, admitting a blessed cool breeze. “Seven,” chirped Babcock, as if nothing had happened.

  The Admiral nodded and stepped out. But then he drew to a stop and moved back. Ingram almost ran into him.

  The Admiral looked at the sailor squarely. “Radio School.” Imperceptibly, his eyebrows went up.

  “Uh...yes, Sir. Apply to Radio School, Sir.”

  “Good. Then, I won’t be seeing you anymore. Good luck.” The Admiral quickly merged with the crowd. He slowed and Ingram found himself walking alongside.

  The Admiral noticed him and gave a thin smile. “Never did like going up in elevators. High places bother me. Maybe that’s why I didn’t try for a pair of wings.”

  Ingram said, “You did a good job with that kid, Sir. For a moment there, I thought he was going to crackup.”

  The admiral shrugged. “Well, like they say; better to be killed attacking the enemy than to be frightened to death.”

  A gaggle of Navy and Marine officers rushed up to surround the “admiral." They smiled and guffawed at the incident and then turned to head in the entrance to a room with large double doors: 722. Just then, a lanky “army Major brushed by to join them. Excuse me.”

  Ingram nearly shouted, “Otis! For crying out loud.” It was Major Otis DeWitt, who had escaped with Ingram from Corregidor. He hadn’t seen him since Australia. Outside of re-gaining some weight, DeWitt hadn’t changed much. He was still bony, not a shade over one-hundred sixty pounds. He had a craggy, lightly pockmarked face and a thin mustache that underlined a large hawkbilled nose. Even though he used cigarette holders, his teeth bore the evidence of a three-pack-a-day habit. Also, it seemed strange not to see DeWitt in his signature campaign hat and jodhpurs; he was now dressed in Army light khakis. But even with his weight-gain, dark circles punctuated DeWitt’s deep-set eyes. Working as an intelligence officer on MacArthur’s staff could do that to you, Ingram supposed.

  DeWitt spoke in his thick Texas twang, “Good to see you, Todd.” He turned to catch up with the group.

  Ingram was astonished. After twenty-nine days at sea with Otis DeWitt while fighting off starvation, the elements, the Pacific and the enemy. That was it? Major Otis DeWitt, sliding past a shipmate as if he was covered with shit and saying, ‘Good to see you, Todd?’

  Ingram called after him, “Hey Otis! Whaddya say we go get drunk tonight and pick up some women.”

  More than a few ranking passers-by gave DeWitt and Ingram cold stares. DeWitt turned and, spreading his arms in exasperation, said, “Out of time, Todd. But I’ll see you later. You’re on the program in an hour or so. 1130, I think.” He stepped to a water fountain for a drink.

  Ingram moved close to him, “Are you part of this?”

  DeWitt finished slurping. “Yes. An Army-Navy joint planning session. I’m aide to General Sutherland.” He started to walk away.

  Ingram pointed to the Admiral moving with the group of men through the double doors. “Who is that?”

  DeWitt looked Ingram up and down as if he were crazy. “Why, don’t you know? That’s Admiral Ray Spruance.”

  DeWitt pushed toward the doors to room 722 while Ingram dashed for the men’s room.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  19 August, 1942

  U. S. Federal Building

  San Francisco, California

  Ingram’s orders stated he was to be at Room 722 at 1130. To be prompt, he walked in at 1126 feeling much better. There was a small vestibule with a Marine sergeant seated behind a linoleum-topped metal desk. A sign read:

  Admittance by invitation only. Top Secret clearance required.

  The sergeant didn’t mince words. “ID, Sir?”

  Ingram handed over his card. The marine took it and compared it to a schedule on a clipboard. “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not scheduled until 1130, Sir.”

  Ingram checked his watch: 1127.

  “You’ll have to--”

  DeWitt walked in. “Okay Todd, you signed the log, yet?”

  “It seems I’m early.”

  DeWitt gave the Marine a stare as Ingram signed in. “What a shock, I didn't realize how much you looked like Spruance until I saw you side-by-side.”

  “I hope he doesn't fire me or something.”

  “I don't think so.”

  They walked toward a set of double doors. “Uhh, you are cleared for Top Secret?”

  Ingram’s security clearance paperwork had caught up with him three days ago. “That’s right. Otis, what’s your job here, anyway?”

  They walked into a large lobby where DeWitt pulled open another set of double doors. DeWitt lowered his voice, “Circus man.”

  “What?”

  “I’m the joint Army/Navy facilitator who gets to clean up all the shit after the parade goes through town.” He put a
forefinger to his lips and went, “Now...shhh.”

  Room 722 turned out to be a large, darkened auditorium. Strident voices echoed from a stage illuminated by footlights. There were ten or so flag-rank officers: Navy, Army, Army Air Corps and Marine, everyone talking at once. They were seated around a long table and like medieval sycophants, their aides sat behind them, opening briefcases and nervously shuffling papers. Collars were undone, ties loosened, coffee cups littered the table. In spite of red-illuminated NO SMOKING signs on each side of the room, they smoked cigarettes and one or two puffed cigars, an enormous blue cloud hanging overhead.

  Just then, the man at the extreme left end rapped his knuckles. “Enough!” It was Spruance.

  The silence seemed heavier than the tobacco smoke as DeWitt and Ingram tried their best to walk softly down the aisle. Even so, their movement turned a few heads. Spruance must have noticed them too, for he raised his eyebrows and squinted through the haze.

  DeWitt called out, “Errr...I have Lieutenant Ingram, Admiral. Next one on the agenda. He’s cleared.” They made the front row and DeWitt nearly shoved Ingram into a seat.

  As he settled in, Ingram quickly glanced around seeing light flash off the brass collar devices of twenty or so silhouettes scattered about the first five rows. Then he sat back to watch Spruance, hero of the Battle of Midway. The U.S. Navy hadn’t yet released the story because they had lost one of their own carriers. But the word had flashed around the fleet that the Japanese had lost four attack carriers. And Spruance, outnumbered in ships three to one, was the genius who had master-minded the victory. Now, he was Chief of Staff to Admiral Chester Nimitz, Commander in Chief of the Pacific Fleet (CinCPac).

  At the other end of the table sat an Army General with thin sandy hair. His coat was off, collar and tie were loosened and shirt sleeves were rolled up. His name plate read: Major General Sutherland. Besides being Otis DeWitt’s boss, Sutherland was Chief of Staff to General Douglas MacArthur in Brisbane, Australia.

  Ingram felt an oblique pang of ineptitude. Before him were some of the most powerful men in the Pacific war. And the shadowy figures scattered around him were, most likely, players like himself, summoned to deliver bits and pieces so the Admirals and Generals could assemble it all and plan their attacks against the enemy. But as a matter of pragmatics, Ingram knew that, like the others, he was really a pawn in a power-struggle between MacArthur and Nimitz; their representatives now engaged in battle up on stage.

  Two days ago, he’d received a cryptic Temporary Additional Duty (TAD) assignment signed by the Commander Twelfth Naval District. Paragraph three ordered him to attend an Army/Navy Chiefs of Staff Conference, and deliver a verbal report about his experiences fighting the Japanese in the Philippines. Paragraph four stated the time limit: FIVE MINUTES was capitalized and underlined.

  On stage Spruance nodded, then spoke to a Navy captain who stood before a large blackboard. “Go on, Carl.”

  The captain, holding a portable microphone with a long extension cord, looked up at the chart labeled SOLOMON ISLANDS. “Nothing more to add, Admiral,” The captain slapped the chart with a pointer making it sound like a rifle shot. “That’s how they did it.”

  Spruance asked, “And the Blue just let them go by? How can that be?”

  The captain replied, “Well, Sir. They needed permission to open fire. And er...” he coughed and looked at the floor, “...well, Admiral Crutchely couldn’t be reached.”

  “Why not?” demanded Spruance.

  “Yes, well, ah, he was not aboard his ship. He was in conference with Kelly Turner on the McCawley anchored in Lunga Roads.”

  “Where’s that?” asked Spruance.

  “Here, Sir.” The captain pointed to Guadalcanal and stepped off the distance from Savo Island. “Uh, I'd say about seventeen miles.”

  There was a collective gasp at the table. Someone gasped, “Good God!”

  Spruance said, “Fine time for a conference.”

  A burley Marine general, his name plate read ‘Mott,’ half-rose and pointed a finger at the Captain. “To begin with, the Navy turns tail our first night on Guadalcanal and leaves us without supplies or reinforcements to fight the Japs. Now, you go off and lose your damned fleet. What about my boys, now? Who’s going to take care of them?”

  A murmur broke out that turned into a clamor. Spruance rapped his knuckles. After it subsided, he turned to Mott. “It seems to me, John that your boys are alive today and are doing just fine. Perhaps it’s because our ships at Savo Island turned away a major Japanese invasion force. May I remind you, that when our ships went down that night, we lost many of our boys defending your boys. And if memory serves me correctly, we’re now landing your supplies.”

  The general sat and took his time lighting a cigar. “Point taken, Ray. So, what do we do now? Wait until they re-provision and chop us up?”

  Spruance drummed his fingers and pondered.

  Ingram tapped DeWitt again, this time nodding to the chart on stage. “What happened, for God’s sake?” he whispered.

  “Mmm. A battle at Savo Island.”

  “Solomons?” Ingram asked. He’d heard the First Marine Division had landed on Guadalcanal about two weeks ago. The fighting had been bloody.

  DeWitt nodded, then muttered in Ingram’s ear. “Yeah. We lost four cruisers and a destroyer to Jap torpedoes. In one night, they got away scott-free.”

  “Jesus!” It slipped out. Ingram wished he could have tied a string to the word and yanked it back. DeWitt slapped a hand over his eyes and groaned. The auditorium fell silent and Ingram knew every eye was stapled to him as if he were the only beacon of light for hundreds of miles around.

  Spruance looked in Ingram’s direction. “Yes, indeed. We need His help.” Then he turned to General Mott. “No, John. The Japanese Navy is not going to chop you up. We won’t let it happen. Believe me. Now, you have a job to do and we’re here to help you do it--”

  “How can you do your job if your damned torpedoes don’t work?”

  With a nod to the audience, Spruance said sharply, “John!”

  “Okay. So even if you can fix that, what about--”

  Spruance held up a hand. “The pipeline will fill up, John, but it takes time. We'll have the ships. We'll have the men. For now, we can defend. We can supply you as well. It’s not going to be easy, but we’ll do it. Not easy for any of us, but then war is like that.” Spruance sat forward and splayed fingers across the table. “We’ll do it.”

  Sutherland spoke, “Granted that you can do that, Ray that you can defend. Then what are we doing here?” He waved a hand around the table. “I thought this was a strategy meeting.”

  Spruance replied, “Indeed it is a strategy meeting, Dick. We're here to define it for the Southwest and Central Pacific campaigns.”

  “Good. I’m sure General MacArthur will be glad to contribute.”

  Mott jabbed his cigar at Sutherland. “Contribute what, Dick?”

  “Well, anything that--”

  Spruance interrupted, “We have to agree on some things.”

  All turned their heads.

  “Right now, it seems there are three broad questions.” Spruance rubbed his chin. “The first is about logistics and how we can support the Marines on Guadalcanal and Tulagi with what they need and when they need it. The second question is related. How do we keep our lines of communication open in order to accomplish the first? Third, how do we obtain control of the air?”

  Sutherland added, “...and the sea.”

  DeWitt glanced at his watch. “Ahem.”

  Spruance looked up, stone-faced. “Perhaps there is something you would like to add, Major DeWitt?”

  DeWitt shot to his feet and stood at near-attention. “Not at all, Sir. Except that we’re ten minutes behind schedule. I see the cooks are ready. So if I may suggest, Sir, that we let them serve chow while our next speaker takes the stand. Then he can return to his regular duty assignment.” He sat and whispered to Ingram. “What do ca
ll your food servers?”

  Ingram smiled. Same old DeWitt, long on pomposity, short on substance. “Steward’s mates. Otis, didn't you learn anything about the Navy during our trip?”

  “Steward’s mates, yeah that's right. I get them mixed up with ship captains.”

  There was a collective mutter around the table. Spruance took that to be a positive. “Good idea, Major. We’ll be served here while the other gentlemen in the audience are invited to take their noon meal on the...”

  “Third floor cafeteria.” DeWitt’s Texas accent resonated about the auditorium.

  “...third floor cafeteria,” said Spruance quietly as if refining the phrase so that it could be more clearly understood.

  The lights went up and the officers about him stood, stretched and filed for the doors.

  DeWitt checked to make sure the stewards mates were properly setting up for the meal. “Okay Todd, you’re on. Sing for your dinner. Remember, just five minutes. There’s someone else right after you. Okay?”

  “Where do I stand?”

  “By the blackboard. Use the mic if you want. See you later. I have to herd the cattle.” With a wave, DeWitt followed the last of the officers out the door.

  The meal began as Ingram took the stairs to the stage and walked to the blackboard. He’d brought a clipboard and arranged his notes. Then he turned and faced his audience ready to begin the talk that he'd practiced over the past two nights.

  They shoveled from plates laden with breaded pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, and peas, only taking time to slop butter on their bread and slurp iced tea. Except, Ingram noticed, Spruance had just tomato soup, salad and a roll.

  “Ahem,” Ingram began.

  Cutlery clanked.

  “Good morning gentlemen. I’m supposed to tell you about my escape from the Philippines.”

  They kept scraping and munching. To Ingram, it seemed a contest to see who could eat the fastest. One had already finished his pork chop and motioned to a stewards mate for seconds.

  “The night after the Japs took the Rock, we jumped into a thirty-six foot P-Boat and made it to Australia.”