"My apologies, Captain. Please read this." DeWitt's voice was full of ice as he pulled a sheet of paper and handed it over. It was a note from Epperson:
Todd--
The bearer is Major Otis DeWitt--adjutant to General Moore. He's in overall
charge of the evacuation party, so he's important to Radtke and me. He told me he
needs help with something else, so give it your best.
Bad news for us. The sub's been delayed again until, guess what?--the 29th—
Hirohito's birthday.
Thanks,
Dwight
Ingram read it twice and looked at DeWitt. "What can I do for you?"
DeWitt nodded toward Yardly. "Was all this necessary?"
"Actually, Major, we should have been at GQ a half-hour before sunrise. But it was relatively quiet and I allowed the ship to stand at a condition three watch so others could catch up on sleep."
"I don't understand what that means."
Ingram exhaled, "What can I do for you Major?"
"It's top secret. Where can we talk?"
"What's wrong with right here?"
"Captain, I mean it." DeWitt's eyes narrowed.
"Very well. Yardly!"
"Sir?" said Yardly.
Ingram said, "The three of you lay to the quarterdeck. Stand by the phone and report here immediately if there is any indication of enemy action. You may leave the hatches open."
"Yessir." The three hospital corpsmen undogged the hatch and filed out.
Ingram sat. DeWitt took a place opposite and said conspiratorially, "Are you aware of a submarine that called here last January?"
"There have been quite a few submarines."
"Fletcher?" DeWitt said.
Captain Fletcher sat, licked his lips, and said dramatically, "This submarine brought in ammo, food, and medicine."
Ingram thought, this guy is going to shift his gaze from side to side like the nervous Neanderthal sucking on pterodactyl eggs. "You mean the gold on the Trout?"
DeWitt looked perturbed. "How the hell did you know?"
Ingram said, "January twelfth. We were the ones who guided her through the minefield. She was five thousand pounds light when she tied up. Offloading ammo and stores meant she needed more ballast. Since they couldn't give her sand she had to take bullion."
Fletcher took a deep breath, looked from side to side, and lowered his voice. "She took on two and a half tons of gold and silver bullion plus U.S. securities and currency. Now," he rubbed his hands together, "there's another half-ton that has to be removed. MacArthur kept it here in case the Japs lifted the siege and he needed something to restart the Philippine economy."
"I see. And you want to send it out on the next sub," said Ingram.
"Yes," said Fletcher.
Interesting, thought Ingram. Epperson and his crypto whiz-kid were to be mixed with nurses, MacArthur's imperial residue, a few civilians, and a thousand pounds of gold. He rubbed his chin. "What's a brick weigh?"
Fletcher said, "About seventy pounds."
Ingram started doing the math but DeWitt already had it in his head. "We have fifteen bars, Captain. That's worth close to a half million dollars."
Fletcher looked at DeWitt. "Actually $535,815, Sir."
DeWitt gave Fletcher a sour look then flicked an imaginary ash from his shirt.
"That'll buy quite a few war bonds," Ingram said.
"Actually, it belongs to the Philippine government," Fletcher drawled.
"If that's the case, what was MacArthur's plan for it?"
Fletcher's mouth opened.
"I find that insolent, Lieu..." DeWitt said.
Ingram smiled. "Relax, Major. I'm on your side."
DeWitt returned the smile, albeit a thin one.
Ingram sat forward and said, "Okay gentlemen. If you're worried about the load, I think one boat can do it all. Perhaps the people in your party wouldn't mind forming a work detail to help transfer the bricks?" Ingram's eyebrows raised, visualizing sweating, cursing, stumbling, top brass manhandling seventy-pound bricks of solid gold as ten-foot ocean swells slammed the shoreboat against the submarine.
"Very funny, Lieutenant," said Mordkin. He stood close with his arms crossed.
Ingram glanced at Epperson's message and said, "This says the pickup is delayed until next Wednesday. I'll bring my crew over about 2000 and we--"
The 1MC's loudspeaker squawked. "Captain to the bridge."
CHAPTER TEN
25 April, 1942
U.S.S. Pelican (AM 49)
Caballo Island, Manila Bay, Philippines
Ingram grabbed his hat and said, "Excuse me gentlemen." He dashed through the passageway to the main deck hearing the drone of multiple aircraft engines at high altitude.
He stopped halfway up the ladder and looked back, seeing DeWitt and his men had followed him to the main deck. "Our day is about to begin, so you better shove off. I'll see you Wednesday evening."
Ignoring further formalities, Ingram bolted to the bridge and strapped on his helmet. Holloway and Toliver were looking almost straight up through their binoculars. "See 'em?" he asked, grabbing his own pair.
Holloway strained, looking toward Caballo’ s cliffs. "Nossir. They're masked behind--there!" He pointed. Vee after vee of Mitsubishi G4M2 "Betty" bombers flew into view.
Soon explosions rumbled on the island with the bomber formation receding in a lazy arc toward the northeast.
"They're plastering Caballo on command salvo." said Holloway.
Ingram shouted at Forester, "Fo’c’sle. Up anchor, on the double!" Then, he leaned into the pilot house saying, "Engine room, stand by for maximum turns."
The explosions finally died and it became quiet.
He said to Forester, "How's the anchor?"
The man blinked and said, "I just told them, Captain."
Toliver yelled, "Thirty-nine in that formation." He cocked an ear, listening to the engine's reverberation. "Altitude about ten thousand. More on the way."
"Tell 'em to slip the anchor now," Ingram barked at Forester.
"You want them to slip the anchor, Sir?"
"Do it!" Ingram yelled.
Explosions rumbled again. Ingram stood on a platform and shouted to the fo’c’sle, "Chief, slip the anchor."
"What?" Chief Bender, standing seventy-five feet away, cupped an ear.
"Slip the dammed anchor. Now!" yelled Ingram, as explosions sprinted Caballo’ s length.
As Bender dashed to the anchor-chain's brake release, Ingram ordered, "Forester! All ahead full!"
The bomb-salvo raced over the cliffs sooner than anyone expected. The cliff's face was disintegrated in a bizarre, anthracite blast pig trail and all, with tons of dirt and rock shooting directly above them. Boulders rained, tree limbs and enormous clumps of soil fell on the ship. Just then the anchor chain's bitter end whipped out of the hawse pipe and ran into the bay, while Bender and his men raced aft for cover.
Ingram leaned into the pilot house as a bomb hit the Pelican's windlass, flinging Bender, with legs still pumping, high in the air. Four more bombs raced past them into Manila Bay, their detonations deafening.
Picking himself up from the deck, Ingram looked up, seeing formations droning overhead. Then, more bombs hammered Caballo and spilled into the ocean exploding about the ship. Smoke cleared on the fo’c’sle; he looked to see if he could find Bender, but there was no bow. Twenty feet of the Pelican's forward section had disappeared--all that was left were mangled, smoking beams bent out like the end of an exploded gag cigar. Even as he watched, the Pelican started a drunken list to starboard.
Ingram stumbled into the pilot house and helped Forester struggle to his feet. "Report damage."
Forester gaped at his mouthpiece and tapped his earphones. "Line's dead, Captain."
"Keep trying. Messenger!" Staggering, he looked down seeing Quinn, their GQ messenger, sprawled on the deck, his neck bent to an obscene angle. Farwell stooped next to him, then glanced up
shaking his head.
He checked forward again, seeing the Pelican's nose lower. Aft, the screw was almost out of the water. Men poured out of the engine room hatch as he watched and, oddly, an enormous blast of air rushed up the companionway, flipping off Farwell's hat.
Holloway was at his side. "Just got word from Junior Forester. Near miss blew a hole in the messdecks’ s hull plating. Almost totally flooded down there. They can't control it. And Rocky says that weak seam opened up again in the engine room. They're taking on water, too."
The Pelican screeched, rumbled and listed farther to starboard. Ingram put out his hand to grab--he fell.
The next thing he knew Holloway had his hands under his armpits, helping him to his feet. He blinked, finding he'd tripped over a large tree branch, banging his head on a helmet-stowage rack.
"What's that doing here?" he muttered, putting his hand to his cheek and wiping off blood. Slipping on dirt clods, his right foot flew out and his hand almost landed on a green, bug-eyed lizard that twirled in panic on the blistering deck. "Damnit!" Ingram yelled and yanked off his helmet.
"Come on, Todd." said Holloway.
"Where's Ollie?"
Holloway shook his head.
Ingram had to squint momentarily to capture a focus. Finally, he struggled to his feet and shouted, "Anything on the forward magazines?"
"Flooded," grunted Holloway heaving the branch overboard.
They looked aft, hearing a long ululating scream.
"Okay," shouted Ingram. "We'll abandon. Take the port side and start yelling."
"Right." Holloway trotted through the pilot house.
Ingram ran aft to the signal bridge, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, "Abandon ship."
Within seconds, men started jumping. The Pelican tipped further to starboard. It hit Ingram, we only have seconds. She’s going fast.
He yelled at the radioman to destroy their confidential material. Then, his eye caught fifteen or so men in the starboard motor whaleboat. The bow floated free in the water, but the stern was still suspended; the aft davit falls hadn't fully paid out. A shirtless sailor in the stern sheets frantically hacked at the thick lines with a knife, even as men piled in quickly overloading it.
Ingram saw the trouble: Someone had carelessly released the aft davit line near a cleat, where it had caught and snagged. He leaned over to yell at the men in the boat, when Toliver walked by the davit.
"Ollie!" yelled Ingram.
Toliver's gait was like one strolling down Fifth Avenue on a Sunday afternoon. Men ran past, a few bumping into him, as he sauntered with his hands in his pockets.
"Mr. Toliver!" Ingram tried again.
Toliver slowed and looked around as the Pelican lurched farther to starboard. Finally, he blinked and looked up.
Ingram pointed to the aft davit. "Ease the boat falls. It's snagged on that cleat."
Toliver stared.
"Do it! Quick."
"Huh?" Toliver's mouth fell open.
"Uncleat the boat falls, Ollie!" Ingram shouted as Pelican's roll increased.
"Captain. Time to go." It was Farwell. "I got the log books."
"Wait." Ingram yelled.
The Pelican was listed almost to forty degrees. Storage lockers burst open. Their contents spewed into screaming men as they clung to the starboard rail. A fifty-five-gallon drum of hydraulic oil fluid broke from its lashings and tumbled over a screaming man fifteen feet from where Toliver stood.
Ingram tried again. "Ollie!"
Water swirled around Toliver's ankles. Suddenly, he bent to the deck, took off his shoes, and methodically tied the laces of one to the other making sure he used square knots. After hanging the pair around his neck, Toliver dove over the side and stroked for safety, while the Pelican rolled suddenly to a perilous angle.
"Let's get down there," Ingram yelled to Farwell.
As the Pelican started her capsize, the wooden whaleboat floated momentarily, while men frantically tried to knock away the davit hook. Too late, the ship kept rolling with the after davit smashing through the whale boat's aft section. Three shrieking sailors were crushed as the rest leaped out of the way.
Ingram poised on the signal flag locker with Farwell ready to jump. But the Pelican lurched and thumped. With another metallic screech, it became quiet.
A sea gull squawked. Groans punctuated the morning air. Ingram looked at Farwell and said, "Bottom." He reached to brace his hand on the bulwark, seeing the Pelican had settled at a near fifty-degree list. A quick glance fore and aft told him bow and stern were below the surface. Only the minesweeper's superstructure remained above water.
Ingram and Farwell stepped off the flag locker and wobbled to find a foothold, half on the bulwark, half on the deck. "Get them back aboard," Ingram shouted.
Farwell nodded at the three bodies floating among the men who flailed in the water near the smashed whaleboat. "With respect, Sir. I'm going to kill that yellow sonofabitch."
"Who?" Ingram said.
"Toliver," Farwell spat. "All the stupid bastard had to do was uncleat the falls and let the boat go. Because of him, those guys died!"
"That's enough," barked Ingram, waving his sailors back to what remained of the Pelican. He looked Farwell in the eye. "I'll deal with Mr. Toliver. Do you understand?"
Farwell's nostrils flared. He glared for a moment, then looked down. "Yessir."
A thoroughly soaked Holloway scrambled up to the bridge. "Did you see what Ollie did?"
"Forget it. Help me get everyone aboard."
To their surprise, the 51 Boat returned and cruised among the survivors with the ashen-faced DeWitt, Mordkin, and Fletcher pulling in dead and wounded. Eventually, they lay alongside. DeWitt stood beside his cox'n and cupped his hands over his mouth. His twang rippled across the water, "You all want us to take your casualties ashore, Captain?"
Ingram cupped his hands to his mouth. "How many?"
Fletcher stumbled among them, counted, and said something to DeWitt. "Four dead. Nine need medical attention," Dewitt shouted.
"Hold on for a moment." Ingram looked aft finding Yardly bent over a man on the 01 level.
The hospital corpsman caught his eye saying, "Fifteen dead at least, Captain. I have seven wounded I'd like to send over."
"Very well, do it," said Ingram, hearing a distant drone. He looked up seeing another formation of Betty’s wheel toward Caballo and straighten out for their bomb run.
Holloway said, "Shit, here we go again."
Ingram leaned over the rail and shouted to the 51 Boat. "Major, can you take seven more to the hospital?"
DeWitt stared at the formation. "Alright, but hurry it up."
"Sheeyat," spat Holloway.
"Shut up, Fred," said Ingram through clenched teeth. He cupped his hands and called, "Chop, chop, Major. And please send the boat back."
DeWitt scratched his head. "What the hell for?"
Ingram did his best to stifle his anger. "As you can see, Major, our whaleboat has been reduced to kindling. We need a means to take our men ashore."
"Oh."
"I'll send a boat crew with you."
"Okay."
The 51 Boat bobbed alongside as explosions rumbled on Caballo. The Bettys had salvoed, but this time their load fell at Caballo’ s eastern end. DeWitt, Mordkin and Fletcher, their uniforms splotched with blood, worked among the Pelican's hospital corpsmen to help the wounded and arrange the dead. Soon, the transfer was complete, and Forester and Whittaker jumped aboard.
With a whine of its gear box, the 51 Boat backed away. DeWitt yelled, "Can we still do business, Lieutenant?"
"Do what?" Ingram yelled back.
"Wednesday night."
Their wardroom discussion seemed like years ago. Ingram had no idea where he'd be by next Wednesday. "Hell...I don't know...I guess so."
"We're depending on you, Captain," DeWitt shouted.
"Alright. Don't forget to send the boat back."
"We will. And
make sure you destroy this hulk before sunset. Leave nothing for the Japs."
"Will do."
The 51 Boat twirled and roared on its way to Corregidor.
"Fred," Ingram said. "Find Sunderland and get him up here. Toliver, too. And get someone to take a muster."
"Aye aye, Sir." Holloway eased down the canted companionway while Ingram hobbled forward to look in the pilot house.
Soon, a soaked and breathless gunner's mate first, class Kermit Sunderland stumbled up. "Captain?" he said, wiping water off his face.
Ingram said, "Sunderland, the Japanese will be able to salvage this ship if we don't blow it up. Are the demo charges in place?"
"As far as I know, Sir."
"Are the ones in the magazines still there?"
"Yes, Sir. I checked those day before yesterday."
"How do we get to them?"
"Forester's a qualified diver. He could set the timers."
"Very well. Tell him--"
They stepped aside to let Yardly and his corpsmen carry Quinn's body aft. Toliver and Holloway, having reached the bridge, stepped aside to let them pass.
"--to get ready. We'll set the charges as soon as everyone is off."
"How much time, Sir?"
"Four hours. Have you seen Bartholomew?"
"Down there." He nodded toward the main deck.
"Send him up." After a beckoning nod to Toliver, Ingram turned to the pilot house hatch. With the ship at a fifty-degree list, he had to hoist himself up, finding the once well-arranged orderliness of the ship's navigation center strewn with junk on the starboard bulkhead.
Farwell crashed about, throwing tools, flashlights, and cushions into a heavy duffle bag.
"Navigation gear, too, Farwell."
"Sir?"
"Sextants, all three of them. Nautical Almanac, chronometers, sight reduction tables, charts, dividers, pencils, pads, binoculars. Anything else you can think of."
Farwell gave a blank stare. "You're..."
"Do it. Get someone to help you. Take as much as you possibly can."
"Yes, Sir." Farwell scrambled out, making sure he brushed roughly against Toliver.
"Come on in," said Ingram.
Grunting and wheezing, Toliver wiggled in, pushed aside Farwell's duffle, and flopped against the bulkhead.
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 11
