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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Ingram had just finished donning his dress khakis, getting ready for dinner. Waiting for Toliver, he walked to the window and flipped open the Venetians. A cold breeze stirred scrap paper outside and pulled along mist and fog. Sometimes the damned City could be so forbidding, he thought. And this evening, it well matched his mood.

  A gray bus drew up and a Sailor stepped off. As the bus rumbled off, he buttoned his peacoat and tucked two large manila envelopes under his arm. Squaring his white hat, the Sailor stubbed out a cigarette and walked toward the front door.

  Instinctively, Ingram knew why the Sailor was here and his stomach seemed to shrivel to the size it was at Corregidor. He went to the door, propped it open, and peeked out to see steam gush from the shower over the green linoleum coved hallway. Toliver was in there singing with the verve generated by hot water on a cold evening. His perfectly executed phrases wafted into the lobby in a beautifully pitched baritone, the ‘rs’ rolled to operatic perfection:

  Aye, yi, yi, yi,

  In China they never serve Chili

  Here comes the next verse

  It’s worse than the other verse

  So Waltz me around again, Willy.

  There once was a young lady of fashion

  Who had oodles and oodles of passion

  To her lover she said,

  As they climbed into bed

  “Here’s one thing the government can’t ration!”

  He smiled as the limerick ricocheted up and down the hall for another two stanzas. He found most limericks gross and unimaginative, the themes running from adultery, to the loss of one's virginity, to hypocritic clergy. But some were brilliantly conceived. Marveling at their intricacy, Ingram felt sorry in a way that they had to be wasted in barracks and barrooms of the Pacific and Europe theaters. With a smirk, he went back to the desk, sat in a chair, propped his feet on the desk, and aimlessly picked up a manual labeled MARK 15 Torpedoes, Maintenance and Overhaul. TOP SECRET.

  Outside, he heard the shower squeak off and Toliver say, “Help you, Sailor?”

  A voice said, “Lieutenant Ingram?”

  “Right there. 112. He’s in.”

  Soon there was a knock on the doorjamb.

  “Come.”

  The Sailor pushed open the door and walked in. He was a bean-pole of about six-three weighing one hundred sixty-five pounds, but his thin frame was well masked by regulation tailor-made dress blues. He had a long, narrow face, sharp nose and freckled cheeks. His sandy hair was long and straight and parted in the middle. With thick, bushy eyebrows, his countenance was overly serious, almost cruel at first glance. But it was his light blue eyes that gave him away. They crinkled at the corners, letting one know he was all at once mischievous, perceptive, deeply serious, humorous, and intelligent.

  “Lieutenant Ingram?”

  A shadow passed over Ingram’s face. “That’s me.” He put the torpedo manual in a drawer and closed it.

  “I’m supposed to ask for ID, Sir.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Seltzer, Sir. Leonard P. Boatswain’s mate second, Sir.”

  Ingram stood and walked over to a bed and pulled a wallet from his blouse. As he reached, he saw the Sailor taking in his two rows of ribbons; among them was the Philippine Campaign ribbon with two battle stars; another was the Navy Cross.

  “Okay?” Ingram held up his ID card.

  Seltzer checked his ID, then wrote down his serial number on a separate sheet. “Chief Bradshaw has this envelope for you, Sir. But you need to sign this first.” Seltzer handed over a receipt form. Ingram signed, then Seltzer handed over the manila envelope.

  “Orders,” Ingram’s eyes were vacant. “Nine copies, I’ll bet.” He slapped the envelope on his desk. “Is there anything else?”

  Seltzer checked the other envelope. “I’m looking for a Lieutenant jay gee Toliver.”

  “Here.”

  Seltzer spun. The limerick singer stood in the doorway, a towel still wrapped still wrapped around his waist. To Seltzer, he looked very thin, almost gaunt. In fact his ribs and clavicles protruded, making him look much like magazine photographs of starving children in China.

  Seltzer grinned.

  “What’s so funny, Sailor?”

  “I enjoy your singing, Sir.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I need some ID, Sir.”

  Toliver tried tuck in his towel, “If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll--”

  “I’ll vouch, Sailor,” said Ingram.

  “Thank, you, Sir. Could you sign here Mr. Toliver? And write in your serial number too, please?”

  Juggling towel and ink pen, Toliver leaned over and signed the receipt form. As he did, Seltzer noticed Toliver’s blouse hanging from a coat tree on the other side of the room. He also had the Philippine campaign ribbon with two battle stars.

  Ingram caught him staring. “Any questions, Sailor?”

  “Corregidor, huh?” said Seltzer.

  “That’s right.”

  “I was on the Houston.” The heavy cruiser U.S.S. Houston had gone down during a point-blank-range slug-fest with the Japanese on the night of February 28, 1942. “Shrapnel hit me in the butt. Million dollar wound. They dumped me in Tjilatjap with some others a week before she was lost. We were among the last to be airlifted to Darwin before the Japs invaded.”

  “Rough.” Toliver tossed his envelope on the desk and grabbed another towel.

  Ingram stared at Seltzer.

  Seltzer gulped. “The chief said I should wait until you opened the envelope, Sir.”

  “Very well.” Ingram wrinkled his brow and unsealed the flap.

  FROM: Commanding Officer, Bethlehem Shipbuilding Company

  TO: LT. Alton C. Ingram, 638217, USN

  DATE: 15, September, 1942

  SUBJ: Orders

  INFO: Commanding Officer, Twelfth Naval District

  Commanding Officer, U.S. Naval Station, Treasure Island

  Commanding Officer, U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)

  1. Upon receipt, you are detached as program manager, U.S.S. Tingey (DD 539).

  2. You are ordered to proceed to port in which U.S.S. Howell (DD 482) may be.

  3. Upon receipt, You will proceed to San Francisco and report to the Commanding Officer U.S. Naval Station, Treasure Island, for transportation.

  4. Accounting data 1701453.2218 060 22/31600.110.

  By Direction

  P. J. Hoenig

  Ingram sat back, ran his hands over his face then looked over to Toliver, who had just opened his envelope. “Spruance was true to his word. He sent me to a can. The Howell.”

  Toliver looked in the distance, not aware his towel had dropped to the floor.

  “What gives, Ollie?”

  “I’ll be a son-of-bitch.”

  “What?”

  “They’re sending me to the Riley.” He turned to Ingram. “I thought they’d put us on the same ship.”

  “I guess the Riley knows quality when they see it.”

  “Damn.”

  “Don’t look now, but you’re out of uniform, Ollie.”

  Slowly, Toliver picked up the towel and wrapped it around his waist.

  Both looked to Seltzer as if to say, if there's nothing else, then get your butt out of here.

  Seltzer stammered, "They are both new destroyers. Fletcher class."

  Ingram nodded. Toliver turned to his dresser and opened a drawer.

  Seltzer said, “I’m shipping out too, Sir. Uh, the Howell, with you, Mr. Ingram. The chief wanted me to tell you that.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Noumea. Both of them.” Noumea was the major naval base for the Allies on New Caledonia, a French territory, about 900 miles southeast of Guadalcanal.

  Toliver groaned and sat. “Noumea, About as close to the shit as you can get without smelling it. Ow, damnit!” He'd stuck himself pinning his jg bars on a starched khaki shirt.

  “Get dressed, and let’s go eat, Ollie.”

 
“Right.”

  Looking up, Ingram asked, “What’s your name again, Sailor?”

  “Seltzer, Sir. Bo’s’n second.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Rapid City.”

  Ingram laced his fingers behind his head. “The Houston was a damn good ship. Where was your battle station?”

  “Gun captain. Five inch mount, Sir.”

  Not bad. “Any torpedo experience?”

  “Used to be a trainer, but I like the five inch better.”

  “Well, I look forward to serving with you, Seltzer.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” “After a silence, Seltzer said, “Well, I guess I better get going.” He walked out.

  Ingram scanned his orders again, as Toliver leaned over the dresser, fussing with socks. “I’ll wait outside, Ollie.”

  “Be there in a minute.”

  Grabbing his coat and combination cap, Ingram walked out and down the hall.

  Hurry.

  He gagged as wave after wave of nausea cascaded through his belly. Quickstepping into the lavatory, he tossed his coat and cap on the counter and dashed into the stall. Falling to his knees, he let it go in a single, gushing burst.

  It took at least two minutes to gain a semblance of control and another three to overcome the dizziness. After washing his hands and face he patted his cheeks trying to return color to his face.

  “God.” He leaned against the counter, no longer caring, letting the pictures, clear in every gruesome detail, swarm through his mind. The hell with it. It was as if a gigantic box had sprung open in his head, spewing image after image of the tortured and maimed men he had known, those without hope of rescue, or food or medicine, without hope of another day of life, as their own life oozed onto the merciless, hot steel decks of dying ships. It was worse for those ashore on Corregidor, where they either were ripped apart by artillery, or went crazy in dust-choked tunnels.

  Holding his head in his hands, Ingram marveled at how long he’d kept the images at bay, even in his sleep. Maybe it’s time to see the Doc, he wondered. At least get some pills. Maybe he should see the Chaplin. Maybe--

  Get hold! Ingram leaned over the sink and, once more, splashed water on his face.

  “...Skipper?” Toliver’s voice echoed outside.

  “In a minute, Ollie.”

  “I’ll be at the car...” Toliver let the front door slam behind him.

  Who was Spruance’s aide? Falkenberg. He’d said, Don’t worry. It’ll probably be convoy duty or something. Very boring. Your Corregidor days are over, Lieutenant.

  Bullshit. Those guys out there in the Solomons are dog meat.

  Ingram put on his blouse and buttoned up. Here’s hoping you’re right, Captain Falkenberg. Here’s hoping the U.S.S. Howell has a very, very boring cruise schedule.

  He was astonished when his hand came out of his pocket with her ring. Turning it in his hands, he saw the inscription HZD-1939 inside the band. The ring was small, definitely a woman's size. Yet, it fit neatly on his forth finger. He was finally gaining weight and knew that in a few weeks it would hardly fit his little finger. He missed her terribly and felt guilty for not being there. And with this vomiting business he felt worse knowing he didn't want to be there, to help Helen and Pablo. Would he take a bullet for her? For Don Pablo Amador? Instinctively, he knew Amador would take one for him. He almost had last May in Nasipit.

  Helen.

  Hers was one of the images he had held back, especially after he'd been to Ramona and met Kate and Frank. Damnit! He felt like such a hypocrite. Sitting in San Francisco, slopping up chocolate ice cream and getting fat, while Helen dodged Jap bullets.

  A horn tooted lightly outside.

  “On my way, old chum...” he murmured.

  Ingram walked out into the brisk evening where Toliver’s four-door Packard convertible waited, the engine running. He jumped in, finding the heater on. It felt good.

  Toliver started out and shifted smoothly through the gears saying, “You okay?”

  “Never better.”

  “What sounds good tonight?”

  “Actually, I’d rather--”

  “Hey.” They passed a Sailor who had just exited the administration building. In the rear view mirror, Toliver saw him stick his thumb out. “That’s our boy. What’s his name?” He slowed to a stop and backed up.

  “Seltzer.” Ingram cranked the window down as Toliver drew to a stop.

  “Give you a lift, Sailor?” Toliver shouted, as Seltzer drew abreast of the car.

  Wind ruffled Seltzer’s pea coat. His freckled cheeks were bright red as he leaned in. “Yes, Sir. Thank you.” He jumped in the back seat and sat in the middle like a reigning potentate.

  Toliver started out again. “Where to?”

  “EM club, Sir. Nice car, Sir. Cadillac?”

  “Packard. You have your liberty pass?”

  “Matter of fact, I do, Sir.”

  “Well then, why don’t you let us treat an old Asiatic Sailor to dinner.”

  After his recent bout, Ingram wasn’t hungry. But he was glad Toliver had offered.

  “Wow. That’s keen, Sir. Thanks,” said Seltzer.

  “Ever tried Mexican food, Seltzer? I know this little place down in San Jose,” said Toliver.

  “No, I haven’t, but I’ll eat anything that won’t crawl off the plate.”

  Ingram thought about the kid sitting in back. They were to be shipmates. Perhaps for a long time. He wondered how they would get along. “Good thing you remembered your liberty pass.”

  “My Houston training, Sir.” He gave a long sigh. “She was a wonderful ship, I’ll tell you.”

  “Your first ship?” asked Ingram

  “Yessir.”

  Toliver examined Seltzer in the rear-view mirror. “They taught you well, huh?”

  “We started out with three basic rules, Sir. After that, everything was easy.”

  “Oh?”

  They stopped for the Marine sentry at the Main Gate. After checking tags, the Marine saluted. Toliver returned it and started up again. “Go ahead.”

  “Pardon?” said Seltzer.

  “Your three basic rules.”

  “Uhhh, yes Sir.” Drawing a deep breath, Seltzer said, “Keep your eyes, ears, and bowels open, your mouth shut and nine copies of your orders at all times.” They'd all heard it, with Toliver joining in on the last phrase.

  After the obligatory chuckle Toliver said, “If they give you any trouble on the Howell, Seltzer, you just come on over to the Riley.”

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

  Toliver said softly, “You sure you're okay, Skipper? We don't have to go out.”

  Their orders were immediate, allowing no time for leave. Ingram and Toliver were detached from Mare Island and were ordered to report for transportation to the South West Pacific. Period. End of Stateside séance. End of rest and recreation. Tonight would be one of their last dinners in the U.S..

  “Never better, Ollie.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  22 September, 1942

  Wong Lee’s Cafe

  San Francisco, California

  The plates were cleared, and they sipped the remains of their second bottle of wine. It was quiet, their feigned levity running stale. Toliver had called for a cab and Dezhnev, their host for the evening, asked, “What time is your plane, Ollie?”

  “Midnight,” Toliver exhaled and looked at his watch. “Two and a half hours to go. “He’d been manifested on a lumbering four engine PB2Y amphibian, taking off at midnight for Pearl Harbor. Ingram was due out the next day, DeWitt the day after that, when he would accompany General Sutherland back to Brisbane.

  “I hate night take-offs,” While at Corregidor, Toliver had heard of PBYs slamming into war flotsam during their take off run and water-looping.

  DeWitt pointed toward the front door, “My God, Ollie. This is San Francisco Bay. You won’t find any crap floating out there.”

  A forced smile crawled across Toliver’s
face. “I know.” He signaled to Suzy who came to the table. He whispered in her ear. With a nod, she walked away.

  All knew what was on Toliver’s mind, and it wasn’t night take-offs. He was returning to the war zone. Ingram was too, with DeWitt not far behind. Four days ago a farewell dinner had seemed a good idea. But now, quite simply, the hour was nearly upon them and their demeanor was morose.

  The booths had all been taken, so they were seated at a table in the room’s center this Tuesday evening. “ pall seemed to hang over the booths, anyway, and Ingram was glad to be among people. For some reason, most diners were male. Most were in uniform, and it seemed there was a lot of forced cheerfulness throughout. Their conversations were somber and, instead of guzzling cocktails, they merely sipped, their brows furrowed. The bar was full but even in there, the spontaneity of the other night was gone.

  That’s it. There is no music. Maybe it’s the piano player’s night off.

  Surprisingly, Ingram ate all his meal: roast duck in plum sauce, the house specialty. But it was with a detached sense, almost as if he were someone else, looking over his own shoulder and watching himself chew, wondering if it tasted good. It was the Belladonna, he supposed, that made him feel this way. The shipyard doctor, a white-haired man named Hawks, who played poker all night, had prescribed it for him. Indeed, it had blocked the terrible vomiting he’d had last week. He slept better at night and the nightmares weren’t as bad although he was drowsy in the daytime and he had a dry mouth. Yesterday, Toliver had discovered his little bottle of Belladonna tablets and gave him a great razzing. But Ingram grinned and shrugged it off.

  For a moment Ingram closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, trying to lock in that universal odor common to restaurants the world over: polished wood, worn leather, ladies’ fragrance and good food. He opened his eyes matching the aroma to the people and decor around him; an attempt to somehow center himself on this one single place on earth; to somehow freeze this crowd and create a picture he could call up at will. A picture that would carry him through whatever was to happen out in the Pacific.