A CODE FOR TOMORROW: A Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 2)
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In medieval days, the three volleys became a superstitious custom, the gunfire’s noise intended to drive away the evil spirits as they made a panicked escaped from the hearts of the dead...
Landa and Ingram felt as strongly about tradition as the crew, but not at the compromise of a proper service. Ingram pulled out a copy of Navy Regs then he called a burial detail. He was surprised during the meeting, when Franklin, a first class bo’s’n's mate, said that he thought it was proper to run the final stitch through each corpse’s nose. As a boy, he’d heard many stories sitting at his Uncle’s knee. The man was a sail maker in the Royal Navy who had done the same thing with their dead after the Battle of Jutland. No, Ingram told them, no stitch through the nose, these brave men had been mutilated enough. And no coin in the mouth, either. But a fifty-four pound five-inch projectile was to be secured inside each shroud to ensure it sank. And yes, there would be a firing squad that would shoot three rounds just before a body was tipped into the ocean.
Boom Boom Landa’s worst fear was being torpedoed by a Japanese submarine while the Howell was hove to, pitching bodies into the ocean. So he wanted Ingram, an experienced officer, on the bridge, while Landa conducted services aft on the fantail. Also, he refused to slow to less than eight knots, and only when they tipped the dead over the side.
Let the dead bury the dead, Dezhnev had quoted. That crazy Russian wouldn’t have slowed at all. Well, today, Ingram reflected, the crew would do their best to ensure the dead were properly honored for their sacrifice to their country. Then they could crank up the turbines and return to the grim business of living.
The next morning, Ingram cleared paperwork, then had lunch and at 1325, climbed to the bridge and relieved Luther Dutton as OOD so he could stand with his division.
Ingram walked to the aft to the signal bridge and took a huge breath, glad to be away from Tulagi’s oppressive heat; reveling in the ship’s cool, twenty-seven knots of relative wind. The sea was still flat; the ship hardly rolling. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky; and the deep, blue horizon merged with water so turquoise and so clear, one could see down almost a hundred feet. The air rushing through the uptakes whistled merrily, as if the ship didn’t have a care. In seeming agreement was the Howell’s broad wake streaming from the fantail where her twin screws furiously spun, churning the water a radiant white, leaving a long foaming carpet hundreds of yards behind. With satisfaction, Ingram noted the wake was straight, meaning the helmsman in the pilot house was paying attention, keeping the ship on course.
Beside the wind and the whistling uptakes, there was another sound. Ingram looked up to see the flag of the United States, its thirteen stripes and forty-eight stars, flying from the yardarm, snapping in the breeze. He remembered now that he’d heard that sound two nights ago, during the battle, not realizing until now how much it meant to him.
From here, thirty-five feet above the water, he could see the after two-thirds of the Howell in fine detail. Her twin stacks, her dappled grey/green topsides, her gun mounts and torpedo tubes; her wrecked mount 53 and torpedo mount testaments to the bloody encounter two nights ago.
And her fantail.
He turned away and took another deep breath realizing he felt guilty. Guilty that he was so alive and that fourteen others weren’t. Damnit. It was a nice day to be buried. The chart in the pilot house said the bottom was at a little over 2,000 fathoms, 12,000 feet, over two miles; a long, cold journey to eternity.
It was about time. He checked his watch: 1330. Yes. Ingram turned and nodded to Miranda.
The short, barrel-chested coxswain, flipped on the 1MC; his metallic tones echoed throughout the ship. “Now hear this. Now hear this. All hands not on watch, lay aft to the fantail for burial detail.”
On the fantail, the crew lined up in ranks facing port, hats off, hair blowing in the breeze, as light brown stack-gas whipped over their heads. The port side life lines were undone, and neatly lined at the deck’s edge were fourteen white canvas shrouds. Blood seeped through two or three of the shrouds, running in a crimson stream to the scuppers and then over the side. The shroud furthest forward lay on a greased plank, ready to go.
Standing on a crate, Landa began his recitation, while the ship, so alive now, seemed to go faster, her bow wave sizzling down her sides. Ingram watched Landa talk, his white teeth gleaming in the sun. Then Ingram gazed at the sky, realizing that the doctor was right about Ollie. He’d simply had too much. Ingram wondered when his own time would come to go nuts. He felt as if he’d earned the right.
No.
Looking aft at the canvas shrouds, he realized it was a right he could never exercise. Those men back there had been shoved into the abyss, giving him and the rest of the Howell’s crew, a right to stand here and breath God’s clean air. He owed it to them.
Landa waved from his perch.
It was the signal. Ingram turned and ordered quietly, “All engines ahead two thirds. Make turns for eight knots.”
Wilson, relayed the order to the lee-helmsman in the pilot house. The man cranked his engineroom telegraph, it’s little bell ringing. Aft, a corresponding ‘clang, clang’ echoed through an open hatch on the main deck that lead to the forward engine room. Far below, the machinist’s mate spun his fourteen-inch throttle valve, reducing steam to the turbine. The ship slowed; the uptakes’s urgent whistle faded. The loss of blessed speed brought a rise in temperature, making the sailors sweat for the first time that day.
Ingram turned to the six lookouts he had posted atop the pilot house and called, “Okay, watch for periscopes, torpedo wakes, airplanes, anything. We don’t want to get caught napping out here. If it looks like an airplane, report it. I don’t mind a plane turning into a bird. But I do mind what you think is a seagull, turning into a Jap bomber at the last second. So if you’re not sure, say something. And keep your eyes off the fantail, look in your sectors only. Okay?”
They gulped, mumbled ‘Yessir,’ and pressed their binoculars to their eyes.
Looking aft, he knew Landa was at the part of the ceremony that went:
Unto Almighty God we commend the souls of our brothers departed, and we commit their bodies to the deep; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord, Jesus Christ; at whose coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up her dead; and the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in him shall be changed, and like unto his glorious body; according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself. Amen.
Ingram handed Briley, the thin quartermaster of the watch, a neatly typed necrology of fourteen names to be entered in the decklog. It was a list of those who were leaving the ship for the last time. Then he turned and looked aft as the first three-round volley sounded. Two men held a United States flag over the first shroud while two others, at Landa’s nod, raised the plank. The weighted shroud slipped into the sea without a sound:
...Hamer, F. P., (Jr.), 121 49 61, SN1, USN.
Quickly, a seaman re-greased the plank with a paint brush. Four men gently hoisted the second shroud on the plank, then held the flag over it. Landa nodded to the firing squad.
Bam. Bam. Bam. Vale. Vale. Vale.
They lifted the plank and the shroud plunged over the side, Ingram imagining a splash this time.
...Springer, W. W., 362 74 31, GM2 USN.
Vale. Vale. Vale.
...Ketchum, R. M., 316 37 89, TM2, USN.
Vale. Vale. Vale.
And thus were buried the fallen men of mount fifty-three and torpedo mount two--men unknown to Ingram, except that they had fought valiantly. His chest heaved and his eyes became moist. Around him, the men on watch cast a glance his way and he realized he didn’t care. He thrust his hand into his pocket, searching for a handkerchief, instead, finding Helen’s ring.
Briley, stood beside him, the list still clutched in his hand, tears running down his cheeks.
Wiping his own tears with the back of his hand, Ingram marveled that a
fter all he’d gone through at Corregidor, he still had a shred of emotion. And it made him realize the fourteen sailors who now marched on their last noble journey had, in their quiet dignity, given the men of the Howell a reason to live, to fight, to look to the future.
The last plank was tipped. Men on the fantail blew their noses and wiped their eyes as Landa uttered his closing words. Then he waved from his crate and stepped down among his men.
Ingram walked to the pilot house. “All engines ahead full. Make 270 turns for twenty-seven knots.”
The Howell’s uptakes whistled, feeding air to her four hungry boilers. Her screws dug in, making her fantail squat low in the water. The new breeze generated by her speed, swept across the destroyer’s decks, drying their sweat...and their tears.
Vale, Vale. Vale.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
14 October, 1942
11˚07.2' S; 162˚34.2' E
Coral Sea, enroute Noumea
Ingram walked into his stateroom and drew the curtain closed. Flipping off the light, he sat at his desk in near-darkness, his head in his hands. The burial services over, they had set a condition three watch, allowing one half of the crew to turn in for the afternoon, a Friday. They were beat, with plenty of work facing them when they arrived in Noumea. Even the tireless Boom Boom Landa was asleep in his sea-cabin. Besides a new gun-barrel for mount fifty-three, and splinter shield for torpedo two, a hundred other things had popped up.
Ingram rubbed his nose with thumb and forefinger. Landa had the right idea. Stepping toward his bunk, his elbow knocked something on the deck. He flicked on the desk light. It was an envelope with a typewritten note from his yeoman clipped to it:
Lt. Ingram,
Please excuse me for not delivering this yesterday. I mis-routed it. I’m very sorry.
Sincerely
W. F. Justice, YN3
The return address was Echo, Oregon: His mother. Strange, there had been two letters in yesterday’s mail bag. Now this. Tearing it open, he found another envelope inside. His heart skipped a beat when he saw it was postmarked Ramona, California, addressed to Lieutenant Todd Ingram, % General Delivery, Echo, Oregon.
He sat back and opened it, finding three pages of onionskin written on both sides in a graceful cursive handwriting. It was dated three days after his visit to Ramona.
August 24, 1942
Dear Todd,
I want to thank you for driving all the way down here last Friday. And I don’t want you to think Frank and I took it for granted. It was a major effort for you, especially after all that you have been through. We really enjoyed meeting you and appreciate very much the risks you took. Frank showed me the War Department telegram yesterday. After your visit, my mind is a lot more at ease now than it has been for a long time. It sort of confirms things.
What I mean is, there is something you should know. I have this way. Let me give you an example. One day, about ten years ago Frank was out on Lightning, his horse, checking the groves, pulling out deadwood. Suddenly, I got a feeling. Things were not right. Then and there, I grabbed Tom and Helen and ran into the grove. We found Lightning but no Frank. I was scared. Ten minutes later, Helen found him. Lightning had bolted at a rattlesnake and pitched Frank into a ditch. He was out like a light. Some water on his face woke him but he was woozy. Tom got Lightning and it took all three of us to prop him in the saddle and keep him there. Later, I gave him ten stitches. He didn't peep. You know Marines. It must be why they call them jarheads.
Last May I sat straight up in bed. SAME FEELING. It was Helen. Something was not right. A few days later, things seemed to smooth out. That’s how I knew she was alive when you drove up.
I feel stupid saying all this. I don’t have any claims on clairvoyance. These things only happen where my family is concerned. Speaking of feelings, we had word from Tom yesterday. He's finished all his pilot training and is shipping out to England, flying B-17s. So far, my feelings about him are good. This damn war. A daughter in the Pacific, a son in Europe. What more can we give?
How is your new ship coming along? I hope things are going well for you in San Francisco; it's a beautiful City, a nice place to get over what you've been through. I didn’t have your exact address, so forgive me for sending it to Echo. Come again any time, next time we'll roast a pig. Bring a pal if you wish.
Frank sends his best. We pray for Helen and Tom, constantly. You too. Please write.
Sincerely
Kate Durand
He read the letter three times before he realized it had taken seven weeks to catch up. My God! Guilt swept over him; he should have written, even called them. But what the hell do I say?
He pulled a writing pad from his desk. Dear Kate and Frank, Thanks for your kind letter. Best to keep that pig in the pen for a little while longer because I’ve shipped out. I can’t tell you where we are but I’ve been assigned to a great ship as executive officer and...
Noumea, a large port in new Caledonia, a French province, was jammed with ships of all sizes. Had the Howell been told to anchor they would have had to use bow and stern anchors, lest she swing on the tide and foul one of the eighty or so nameless cargo ships sitting out there, waiting to off-load precious war material.
Luck was with them. A berth had been reserved alongside the Vestal, an 8,100 ton former collier, converted to an oil-fired repair ship. At 2316 that night, Boom Boom Landa, the hot-rod destroyer driver, pulled in and moored starboard side to the Vestal. Flashing his phosphorescent grin, Landa rang only one backing bell, expertly positioning Howell's mount fifty-three precisely under the Vestal's port-side crane. Even before the mooring lines were doubled-up, the Vestal’s crane operator lowered his line to be secured to mount fifty-three’s pretzeled barrel, soon to be pulled straight up, like a ruptured tooth. By the time the engineering plant was secure and shifted to 'cold iron,' welders were at work, patching the holes in mount fifty-three's splinter shield. Likewise, the welders began their stroboscopic cutting and re-shaping of torpedo two's blast-shield. Guardmail sacks gushed their official paperwork and Ingram didn't turn in until two fifteen in the morning, putting in a wake-up call for seven.
After a quick breakfast the next morning, he stepped into a dreary overcast and walked to the quarter deck, where he was amazed to see mount fifty-three's new barrel in place, canvas bloomers and all. Now the gunners worked on the dicey part: Re-alignment.
It was loud on the quarter-deck. Echoing from the Vestal next door was an incessant pounding, as someone worked a steel forge deep inside her bowels. Electric grinders and pneumatic chipping hammers clacked around the decks of the Howell. Welders, looking like monsters from Flash Gordon with their bug-eyed dark goggles, created their own form of urgent cacophony, their torches buzzing, making blue ionized smoke drift up to rake ones nostrils. The urgent sounds of war were multiplied by two destroyers moored outboard of the Howell with their own clanking and grinding.
The ship’s twelve officers stood at quarters in two loose ranks of six waiting for Ingram. Another ancient seafaring tradition, the purpose of quarters was to make sure no one had been lost overboard during the night. Each day at 0800, officers and men fell into quarters, each division assembling on a certain part of the ship’s main deck. Noses were counted, and reports generated by the division chief as to who was present and who was absent, for whatever reason, whether it be sick call, or if in port, AWOL or business off the ship. During this time, the exec briefed the ship's officers at Officer's Call. The officers would then return to their divisions, receive the muster reports, then brief their men on upcoming events and work requirements.
Ingram took a moment to flip through the radio message-board and found one ordering the Howell to cast off from the Vestal and anchor out in the bay no later than 1000. As far as the Vestal was concerned, her heavy repair work was done with the replacement of mount fifty-three’s barrel. She was now ready to wean the Howell and kick her out of the slip where the destroyer could stand at anchor and resolve
her problems by shore boat just like all the Vestal’s other hard-bitten customers.
He found another message and decided to talk about this one first. He spoke in a loud voice, “Listen up. Admiral Scott sends his congratulations to the cruisers and tin cans of task group 64.2 who shot it out at Cape Esperance. He says we sank fourteen Jap ships!”
“Fourteen. Wow.” They grinned and shook hands. It was good to see them like this, especially after yesterday. Scott’s victory message, had given them a needed boost.
“It says also that, because we licked the Japs, the Army was able to land the next day their entire 164th Infantry Regiment from the Americal Division.”
“So the Marines don’t hate us anymore?” Asked Dutton.
“Everything’s swell.”
“Semper Fi, Mac.”
“Right.”
Wilson asked, “Is it okay to tell our troops?”
“Absolutely. Next. This morning we shift berths. Sea detail is at-- “
ZZZZZSHHHHHHHHHHHHHTTTT!!!
A large cloud of steam blasted from a four-inch pipe attached to the rear of the aft stack. Ingram waited while the others shook their heads in disgust. Ghoulish engineers in the after fireroom had chosen this moment to calibrate the safety valve on number four boiler. It involved running up the pressure on the boiler, then checking to see if a safety valve automatically opened to relieve the pressure. The only warning was a slight whistling---wheeeeee---in the uptakes, the blowers feeding air to the boiler as it built pressure, then the ear-splitting roar, easily heard a quarter mile away.
It stopped. Ingram tried again. “Okay. Sea-detail is at---”
ZZZZZSHHHHHHHHHHHHHTTTT!!!
Seagulls squawked and scattered, their sleep interrupted. Junior officers in the rear rank, looked at one another and grinned. In front, three department heads, all lieutenants turned and glared at Hank Kelly the Chief Engineer. Their hard stares accused Kelly of letting his ‘snipes in the after fireroom give the officers the finger.'