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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “He can see?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Okay.”

  The doctor stared at him.

  There was something else, Ingram realized. “Okay, Doc. What is it?”

  “In a word, your Mr. Toliver is despondent--dejected. You know what I mean? There’s only so much you can do for a man. After that, it’s up to him. And I think he’s ready to give up.”

  “Doc, he’s a combat veteran. A real hero. We fought Japs for six months.”

  “Sounds to me like he’s had enough. Do you think you can help?”

  Ingram rubbed his chin mulling over what he and Toliver been through in the Philippines. By comparison, Ingram had been afraid of the dark since returning to the States. He had trouble sleeping. At times, like two nights ago, he was consumed with an urge to run. Except on board ship, there was no place to run, he thought ruefully. The Doc wants me to help. But, he wondered, if I’m as screwed up as Ollie, maybe someone else should step in. A shrink perhaps. Someone who was skilled with a solid clinical approach. Otherwise, he could botch it up with Toliver more than he could help him.

  He looked up to find the doctor hadn’t blinked.

  Ingram’s mind raged over what to do. He surprised himself when he said, “I’ll try.”

  “Okay. He’s all yours. Five minutes. Good luck.

  “Prentice. Let’s get that Marine out of post-op.” The Doctor Gobbell and the pharmacist’s mate walked off.

  Ingram walked aft among a sea of bunks filled with men ripped up by the fighting. Many were asleep, some stared as he walked by. One or two cried softly. In a bizarre way, he was thankful for the ones who were dressed with head bandages. That way he didn’t have to look them in the eyes.

  It was impossible to miss Toliver’s bunk. The weights suspended around him looked as if he were poised to be catapulted over a castle wall. A bandage covered the upper part of his face and nose. But his mouth was clear. Covered with a light blanket to his waist, his arms and chest were bare and looked unharmed.

  “Ollie.”

  Toliver’s head jerked slightly.

  Ingram grabbed Toliver’s hand. “Ollie, for crying out loud.”

  Toliver shifted his head away.

  “Ollie, what happened?”

  “I pissed my pants. That’s what happened.” Toliver’s voice was surprisingly strong. And he obviously knew to whom he was speaking.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Toliver grabbed at Ingram with both hands and held tightly. “Something to knock me out. Morphine, maybe. Hurts like hell.”

  “You’ll be fine, Ollie.”

  “Please. Please.” He squeezed Ingram's hand.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Ingram reached for a stainless steel pitcher and paper cup. “How ‘bout some water?”

  “No!”

  “Huh?”

  “They put stuff in there to screw you up. Salt peter, for sure. Other stuff, too.”

  “Ollie. Come on.”

  Toliver grasped Ingram’s hand and tried to raise to his elbows. “Todd.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We took hits. Five-inch.”

  “I imagine.” Ingram visualized the Riley pulling out of formation and being mauled by the Japanese cruiser. But wouldn’t a bigger ship like that have larger caliber guns? “Just five-inch?”

  Toliver’s laugh came out a shallow gargle. “The hits were on the port side.”

  “What?” The Riley’s port side was the side away from the Japanese cruiser. The side toward the American column.

  “Two hits. Both dye loaded. One took out the wardroom; the other hit us in the aft engine room.” American warships inserted a colored dye in their ammunition so they could distinguish their shots from other ships shooting at the same time. It turned the water splash to a distinct color, so they could adjust their aim accordingly. As far as anyone knew, the Japanese didn’t dye load their ammunition.

  “Jesus.” Ingram nearly bit his tongue. He was almost afraid to ask. “Do you know what color?”

  “Yeah. Damage control team got in the wardroom. Everybody dead, all sprayed with yellow dye like...like a bunch of Easter eggs.” Toliver gargled again. He turned his bandaged face to Ingram and released his hand. “Tell me Mr. Ingram, what color is the Howell?”

  Ingram sighed. “Green.”

  “Who’s yellow?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Well, if I ever get on my feet, I’m going to find the gun boss on the ship with yellow dye-load and rip out the son-of-a-bitch’s guts with a bayonet.”

  “Ollie, I’m sorry.”

  Toliver started breathing in short gasps. “Actually, that wasn’t what did it. We could have survived. Weigh was coming off, and we had our rudder over to left full trying to get the hell out. Then a torpedo smacked us. Right under mount fifty-two.” Toliver released Ingram’s hand and mimed an explosion.

  “How do you know it was a torpedo?”

  “Lifted the ship up in the air. Blew off the damn bow. The biggest explosion...shit. Bigger than any torpedo I’ve ever seen or heard of. Threw me off the pilot house like a rag doll. Landed aft somewhere on the bridge, I think. Then we capsized. I dunno...next I was in the water; fire all around...I reached for a guy. All scalded. His face was a big red mass, like a beet with a mouth and...teeth...God.” Toliver pressed both hands to his head. His lips quivered.

  “Ollie.”

  “Water.”

  Ingram poured and eased the cup to Toliver’s mouth.

  He slurped, letting water dribble down his face. “Feels good.”

  Ingram checked his watch. He’d been here almost eight minutes. “Gotta go, Ollie.”

  “No!” He reached and took Ingram’s hand.

  “The Doc said I couldn’t stay more than five minutes.”

  “Screw the Doc. Don’t leave me.”

  “All right.” Ingram found a stool and sat.

  Toliver gave a long exhale. “Tell me, How’d you come out?”

  “Just fine. We were lucky.” Ingram couldn't tell him about the grisly carnage in mount fifty-three. Tomorrow morning, the Howell was due to head Noumea, about nine hundred miles to the south, where they would patch the holes and install a new barrel for mount fifty-three. Along the way, they would bury the fourteen souls who had died in mount fifty-three and the torpedo mount. This afternoon, Ingram was to plan the ceremony; he wasn't looking forward to it. Besides the men who died, it turned out the barrel was just about the only thing wrecked. Trunnion, base ring, hydraulics, even the optics were in good shape.

  They would need a new crew for the mount. A detail was in there now, scrubbing away the blood, getting it ready. Ingram planned to recommend Seltzer as mount captain. He had experience and good leadership qualities. Seltzer would take it, even jump at the chance. Others would hesitate, wondering if mount fifty-three was jinxed. Already, they were calling it the shooting coffin.

  “...Todd? You there?” Toliver's hands waved in space.

  “Yeah.”

  “I said, 'What happened to the Japs? Did we lick ‘em?'“

  “Admiral Scott says we sunk a bunch of Jap ships. Nobody knows for sure. But we did keep the Marines on Guadalcanal from being bombarded. Now, they love us.”

  “Eacchhh!” He reached for Ingram.

  “What?” Ingram took his hand.

  “Get the doc. I need something!”

  “Ollie, damnit. Hold on.”

  Toliver squeezed for a moment then let go. He gasped, “I really did piss my pants. Todd, I was so scared. Worse than on the Rock. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the night. The darkness. I couldn’t see. Everything happening at once.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “And those guys laughed at me. Called me chickenshit.”

  “What?”

  “Cause I pissed my pants.”

  “Ollie. It was dark as hell out there. How could they tell you pissed in your pants?”

  “I dunno. The captain, al
l those guys on the bridge. They were yelling,” Toliver sobbed, “I let ‘em down.”

  “No, you didn’t, Ollie. Hell, the same thing happened to me.” Ingram looked up to see the doctor, Prentice, and another pharmacist’s mate gently ease their Marine onto a bunk. Still asleep, the Marine’s mouth was open wide, his arm and chest wrapped in an enormous cast.

  “Now they’re dead,” Toliver wailed.

  The doctor watched Ingram for a moment then nodded to Prentice. The pharmacist’s mate had a little steel tray with two small white pills. With an open palm, the doctor drew a hand over his eyes, then mouthed, ‘time.’

  “Ollie. The doc’s here. So’s the shanker mechanic. Gotta go. And you’re a lucky bastard. The doc tells me you’re going stateside. San Francisco. Think of the girls.”

  “Todd, please don’t go,” Toliver sniffed.

  Ingram drew close. “Ollie. It’s okay. They have something to make you feel better. I’ll come back tomorrow.” The lie came easily. By this time tomorrow, the Howell would be on her way to Noumea.

  Toliver took a deep shaky breath and tried to wipe his nose. “Okay, sure.”

  “Take care, pal.” Ingram stood.

  “I need light. Are there any lights?” Toliver asked.

  Ingram clicked on the reading light over Toliver’s bunk. “You see that?”

  Toliver waved his hands in front of it. “Yeah, actually I do. Just a little.”

  “Good.” Ingram grabbed Toliver’s hand, showing him how to switch the light on and off. “Okay, Ollie. Don’t forget to wax that damned Packard.”

  “Okay.” Toliver scratched at his crotch. “Burns. Feels like ants crawling around.”

  The doctor said. “Could be worse. Like two ants on the toilet seat.”

  Toliver barely moved his head. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “One got pissed off.”

  “Awww...shiiiit.” A corner of Toliver’s mouth curled up.

  The doctor gave an exaggerated nod and mouthed, ‘okay’ to Ingram.

  Ingram shook the doctor’s hand and looked down. “See ya, Ollie.”

  “Todd.”

  “What?”

  “What about Helen?”

  Ingram felt as if Toliver had thrown a spear through him. He didn’t know why. He was powerless to do anything. And yet, in a strange way, he felt closer to her out here. Not just physically, but...closer. He’d dreamt about her last night after the battle. “How did you know, Ollie?”

  “Do something.”

  Ingram raised his hands and let them flop to his sides. “Tell me. What?”

  “I don’t know. But if it were me that she loved, I’d sure do something.”

  My God. Who is helping who?

  “Hell, talk to Otis. He’s on the radio with her all the time. Didn’t he set up a code based on her graduation date?”

  “Shhhh. That’s supposed to be a military secret. Besides, he’s in Brisbane.”

  Toliver lowered his voice. “She graduated in 1937?”

  “No. That’s me. She’s 1939.”

  “You still have the ring?”

  Ingram stuck his hand in his pocket. “Right here with me. Now be quiet.”

  “Find a way to get to Otis.”

  “Ahem,” The doctor cleared his throat.

  “Take your pills, Ollie.”

  “Thanks for coming, Todd.”

  They fumbled hands and shook.

  “And Todd.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do something. Talk to Otis.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  13 October, 1942

  Tulagi Harbor

  Solomon Islands

  Seltzer stood smartly at the motor whaleboat’s tiller, shirt tucked in, hat cocked over his eyebrows. Ingram jumped in, finding the mail had caught up. Five large bags had been tossed in the passenger compartment, and he had to shove them aside to make room. With a grunt, Travillion shoved away the bow and they wove through anchored ships toward the Howell. Ingram leaned back and yelled over the diesel’s clamor, “Anything in town?”

  “Not much, really, just a bunch of GIs running around.”

  “Yeah?”

  Seltzer grinned. “The PT boat skipper who gave us the mail. Not a bad guy except he kept bumming cigarettes. Told me about a SEABEE who found a bunch of pipe lying around and ran it up to a stream. Now they have fresh water twenty-four hours a day. He showed us the place. Guys from all over lined up for showers.

  So that’s why Seltzer looks so snazzy. Dudley and Travillion, too. “Did you take one?”

  Seltzer gave a broad smile.

  Ingram grumbled to himself that he hadn’t bathed in fresh water for ten days. Just as bad, his underwear was becoming a rich shade of green, taking on its own foul form of organic personality. In the tropics, the Howell’s evaporators couldn’t provide the fresh water needed to feed the ship’s boilers, or cook, or launder clothes or bathe. Thus, the boilers rated the highest priority with officers and men taking salt water showers and washing their clothes with salt water soap.

  Seltzer stood at his tiller, shirt rippling in the breeze, clean, comfortable, while Ingram smelled like a goat. His mind lingered on what Seltzer had just described. Fresh water gurgling over him; cleansing the fumes and grit of battle. All he had to do was to tell Seltzer to turn around. He checked his watch. No. Too late. He would lose at least an hour, and he didn’t have that much time. He had to prepare for a tomorrow nobody wanted to see.

  “Sir?”

  “What?”

  Seltzer pointed. “The PT skipper said the flyboys sunk a Jap destroyer over there. Want to take a look?”

  “Sure.”

  Seltzer swung his tiller and they soon cruised to a quite cove. He backed the engine and stopped. Bracing their hands on the gunwale, they peered down. Tulagi and Guadalcanal were volcanic in origin with steep beaches quickly dropping off to deep water. Without the sediment, one could easily see a hundred feet in any direction. Directly below, in perhaps forty feet of water, a Japanese destroyer lay on her side, the detritus of war scattered about. Sporting a graceful clipper bow and raked superstructure, she looked to be perhaps four hundred feet long and was dark grey on top, her bottom a dull anti-foulant red. With no signs of human life, she had obviously died a hard, violent death. Her hull was riddled with holes and gashes; her stern mauled, one propeller gone, the shaft dangling at an obscene angle. One of her raked stacks was shredded, as if hit by a giant claw. The other stack had fallen off and lay nearby in white dazzling sand where schools of brightly colored fish swam in one end and out the other. As if still hemorrhaging, large oval globs of fuel oil lazed from her ruptured tanks and climbed to the surface to spread into large blossoms of glistening brown scum.

  Seltzer found his voice. “Blew the shit out of her.”

  “Lookit them tarpeders,” Travillion whispered.

  Several torpedoes, having fallen off when the ship capsized, were scattered on the bottom.

  Ingram sat back, shocked, completely disbelieving what he’d seen. Again, he leaned over the gunwale to stare. The Japanese torpedoes were enormous, far bigger than the Howell’s torpedoes. For a moment a shaft of sunlight bounced off one, highlighting its copper-colored warhead. To Ingram, it looked like dried blood.

  They drifted two or three minutes, staring at the wreck, the only sounds those of the boat’s idling engine and a gull squawking overhead as it flew in lazy circles.

  Those torpedoes. That’s what got the Riley, he realized, a cold wave running through his veins. What had Ollie said? ‘The blast lifted the ship out of the water.’

  Dudley whistled, “Can you believe all the junk down there? I betcha a brass dealer would make a mint.”

  After another minute of gawking, Ingram nodded to Seltzer, ‘we better scram.’

  Seltzer rang up full speed. “We got torpedoes like that, Mr. Ingram?”

  Ingram didn’t know what to say. “Wish I knew.”

  Early the next morning,
the Howell weighed anchor, pulled alongside an oiler, topped off with fuel, and cleared Tulagi Harbor by nine a.m.. With 60,000 horsepower at his command, Commander Jeremiah ‘Boom Boom’ Landa ordered all four boilers and two generators on the line and told his officer of the deck to ring up all ahead full and make turns for twenty-five knots. There was no wind, and a late morning haze hung on the eastern horizon as the sleek destroyer stood into the Sealark Channel. Flying fish lead their way, soaring inches above the flat, glossy sea, as the Howell steamed easterly, dragging a smoldering white wake. At 1122, Marapa Island, at Guadalcanal’s east end, lay off their starboard beam. Landa ordered his OOD to increase speed to twenty-seven knots, and to come right to head south into the Coral Sea. Steering a zigzag course around a base leg of one-five-eight true, Landa planned to arrive in Noumea late the next evening.

  Rich seafaring traditions have been handed down through the centuries, the passage of time blotting original intent. Many of these traditions descend from Greek and Roman mythology, and today, are universal to sailors of all languages and culture. For example, the Roman practice of placing coins in the mouths of a corpse just before burial was for payment to Charon, the ancient boatman, who transported the newly departed across the river Styx to Hades, the land of the dead. For seafarers, a logical follow-on was placing a coin of the realm face-up under the butt of a mast when it was first stepped into position on the ship. This ensured that Charon would be paid in advance for transporting all hands across the River Styx in case their ship met with disaster and went down at sea.

  Another tradition is for the sailmaker to take the last stitch through the nose of the deceased when closing a canvas shroud around the body.

  Yet another tradition handed down is firing a volley of three shots just before the deceased is to be interred. This stems from ancient Rome's belief that the numeral three, had magic qualities. At their funerals, Romans cast earth into the sepulcher three times. Three times, relatives and friends called out the name of the dead as they departed the tomb for forever. And three times they mourned in their native Latin, vale, vale, vale---farewell, farewell, farewell.