"That's probably where we'll end up. Eating Jap shrapnel made from our own scrap iron. They'll--"
"Fred, shut up," Ingram hissed through clenched teeth. Without looking up, the men fixed their eyes on the desks, as they bent paper clips to impossible contortions or bounced pencils or flipped erasers with little wooden rulers. "They can hear you, dope."
"I don't care."
Otis DeWitt stepped out. "Ingram?"
"Yes, Sir?"
The major walked up wearing a sleeveless khaki shirt; thin bony arms stuck out. An incongruous balance was jodhpurs and shiny boots. Sweat ran down his deeply tanned face and Ingram wondered what had become of his campaign hat. DeWitt looked Ingram up and down. "Your ship. Have you blown her up yet?"
"Not yet, Sir. We--"
"Damnit, Lieutenant. You had specific orders to take care of all that. Now, tell me why--"
Holloway interrupted, "Major. We lost twenty-one men today. There were other things to take care of."
"What the hell is this?" DeWitt's gaze wandered over Holloway.
"Sorry Major. This is my operations officer, Lieutenant Junior Grade Holloway."
"Tell him, Mr. Ingram, the next time he interrupts me his next operations assignment will be operating a machine gun post outside."
Holloway turned red and doubled his fists. Ingram raised his eyebrows.
DeWitt continued, "You can also tell Mr. Holloway that I lose close to fifty men a day. Now," he fixed his gaze on Ingram, "I suppose we'll have to send engineers out to blow up your ship."
"They won't find much, Major. Magazine charges will go off in about fifteen more minutes. She'll be ripped to shreds."
"Why didn't you say so?"
"Todd," said Holloway. "Tell this goldbrick--"
"Major DeWitt," said Ingram, "We need to see General Moore about our assignments."
"Yes. Follow me. Leave your mascot here." DeWitt turned and walked toward the curtains.
"Shiii--"
"Mr. Holloway! Outside. Now." Ingram barked.
The quiet was oppressive. The men. Everyone. With eyes to the wall, they kept bending paper clips or spinning erasers or flipping pencils. Holloway stared at DeWitt, then turned and walked toward the entrance to Lateral Three.
Ingram nodded and preceded DeWitt through the curtain, finding a large room. In the center was a large table with maps spread about. Paper coffee cups were scattered, and ten or so senior officers dressed like DeWitt--all were in shorts, some wore long sleeved-shirts--were gathered around the table. Two walls were taken with tote boards ranging from floor to ceiling. Ratings with sound-powered phones stood at the boards with pieces of chalk updating the data. Another wall was crammed with filing cabinets. From the fourth wall hung three enormous maps; one of Corregidor and Manila Bay, another of the Philippine Archipelago; the last was of the Western Pacific. Crumpled papers lay on the floor; folders stamped TOP SECRET spilled from filing cabinets; papers littered desktops and chairs. Of the six desks wedged between filing cabinets, four were occupied by men clacking on typewriters. Men were slumped asleep at the other two desks. Both were full colonels. Another colonel lay asleep on a plush eight-foot leather couch snoring, loudly.
There were two small, glassed-in anterooms off the main command center. Labels over the doorways indicated one was for target designation and command of Corregidor's artillery; another housed electronic controls to detonate the mines guarding the entrance to Manila Bay.
The ripe smell of human feces hit him like a blast of hot, desert air. To Ingram's right was an open doorway. It was dimly lit with three unpartitioned wall-mounted toilets: Tissue paper hung over the commodes onto a wet, unpainted concrete floor. Inside, Ingram saw a tech sergeant tucking his shirt in his trousers.
DeWitt walked over and said, "Flannigan, damnit. Keep this door shut."
Flannigan buckled his belt. "Sorry, Mr. DeWitt. It's hard to--"
DeWitt slammed the door then nodded toward another small room situated in the corner of the control room. "Come on."
They walked up to General Moore, a man with a full head of white hair and wire-rim glasses. DeWitt said, "Lieutenant Ingram, Sir."
General Moore waved irritably while peering into the anteroom. Ingram was surprised to see Dwight Epperson standing next to Moore. They nodded to one another, and Ingram moved alongside and stood on tiptoes to look over Moore's shoulder. Two men were inside wearing head phones; one stood and the other sat before a large electronic console where gauges and dials surrounded a large tube giving off a phosphorescent glow. "Oscilloscope?" whispered Ingram to Epperson.
"Long distance radar, dummy," Epperson whispered from the side of his mouth."
"I'll be damned!"
"PPI display. One of the newest."
Ingram nodded slowly, having no idea what a PPI display was. "What is a--"
DeWitt put a finger to his lips as the radar operator droned, "...Skunk Tare-Victor. Bearing two-six-one; range thirty-one thousand, five hundred yards. No bearing drift."
"Headed right toward us again. What's he doing?" mumbled General Moore.
"Testing?" offered Epperson. "Probing the effective range of our guns. He may try to--"
"Tell Batteries Smith and Hearn to stand by," ordered Moore. He referred to the pride of Corregidor's artillery: The twelve-inch "disappearing Naval rifles," so named because the gun barrel mechanism lowered itself below ground level to its carriage when not firing. Hearn and Smith were pointed into the South China Sea and could hurl a seven hundred-pound projectile almost thirty thousand yards: fifteen miles. The disappearing feature had provided effective cover from ground spotters in the great European land war, fought twenty-five years ago against fixed positions. But the twelve-inch rifles were defenseless against Homma's artillery, now sighted from behind their backs and worse, they were totally vulnerable to air attack.
The talker muttered in his phone then asked, "Hearn wants to know if they should load and elevate, General."
Moore rubbed his jaw. "Does plot have a solution?"
The talker spoke into his headset, then held his hand to the earpiece. "Yessir. Plot says they're ready to engage the target at maximum range."
"Right. Tell Hearn and Smith they have permission to load. Don't elevate, yet. And man the batteries with only essential personnel."
The talker relayed the instructions.
"Skunk Tare-Victor evaluated as three ships," the radarman droned into his headset. "Looks like a possible cruiser and two smaller ships, maybe destroyers. Still at two-six-one. Range thirty-one thousand yards."
Moore looked out into the room and yelled, "Where the hell is Ingram?"
DeWitt's mouth opened but Ingram said, "Right here, Sir."
Moore looked startled for a moment. "Oh, there you are, Lieutenant. Sorry about your ship. How are your men?"
"Lost twenty-one, General."
"I'm sorry." Moore shook his head. "Great job I'm doing protecting my navy. Quail and Tanager are all I have left... three river gunboats...damnit!" He paused, then said, "In here, Ingram."
Epperson and DeWitt made way, letting Ingram stand beside General Moore. The room was dark except for the green glow from the radar's cathode ray tube. A cursor, extending from the center of the tube to the edge, swept slowly around like a side view of a single plank on a Mississippi River sternwheeler. Corregidor was in the center and, on the tube's northern hemisphere, Ingram recognized the landmass shapes of Bataan, Manila Bay, Caballo, El Frail, and Carabao islands. Except for the Cavite Province's distinct shore line to the south, ground clutter confused the return from the Pico de Loro Hills above Calumpan. On the scope's left side, he spotted the three blips the radarman tracked. "What do you make of that?" General Moore asked.
Ingram raised his hands and let them fall to his sides. He'd barely heard of radar, let alone PPI, or whatever the hell Epperson swooned over. He knew a few ships had the super-secret detection devise, but nobody talked about it. A cruiser had dropped anchor last f
all with a bed-spring-like contraption twirling atop her mast. He supposed that was the antenna. And he'd heard rumors of radar directing anti-aircraft guns and searchlights here on Corregidor. But this was the first time he'd seen it. Amazing.
"...Skunk Tare-Victor twenty-nine thousand yards, bearing two-six-one. Still looks like one large and two smaller ships."
"Vanguard for an amphibious attack?" offered Ingram.
Moore snorted. "Maybe, but not tonight. They're barely within gun range of my twelve inchers. But they'll pull back soon. The question is, if they're out there four days from now, will they be able to detect the submarine rendezvous from that position?"
Ingram nodded and bent to the scope. "Any way to check the plot?"
"Impossible, Lieutenant," DeWitt chirped. "The plot room is in another lateral. This is a command center."
"Major?" asked the General. "Don't we have a plot running in there?"
DeWitt paused, "Well, Sir. I--"
"Looks like they have it up, General." Epperson nodded to a wall chart where a talker plotted Xs with a grease pencil.
"That's it," said Moore, tossing DeWitt an icy glance.
Ingram squinted at the chart. "Could be, General. Your targets are about ten miles northwest of area Yoke-Yoke two. If they have one of these they might pick us up."
"Pretty sure Japs don't have radar," Moore said. "How 'bout visually?"
The talker's voice wafted around the room in a monotone, "...Skunk Tare-Victor drawing right bearing two-six-six, range opening; now thirty-thousand, five hundred yards..."
"Turned north." Moore's chest heaved. "Tell Batteries Hearn and Smith to stand down." While the talker relayed the message, Moore walked from the room with everyone in trail. "Always the same. The little bastards run straight in, then turn left at the last minute and head up the coast." He drew up to the table. "Well, Mr. Ingram? You're the leading Navy man around here, now. Would the enemy be able to detect the rendezvous if they were in that position? Should we reschedule the submarine rendezvous?"
Ingram scratched his head. "I..."
The prone colonel on the couch belched loudly and smacked his lips. "Is dinner ready, yet? I'll take the rack of lamb, please. A tall, cool San Miguel and mint sauce. You know, the green shit. Make sure there's plenty of green shit."
"Roll over and shut up, Tom," said Moore.
Epperson caught Ingram's incredulous glance and whispered, "He's Moore's G-2."
"George." The colonel opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. "You can't reschedule the pickup. That sub's enroute."
"I can radio Darwin and have them put out a recall or change of rendezvous," said Moore.
"Unlikely the sub will pick it up in time," said the colonel, interlocking his hands over his stomach, and closing his eyes.
"They come up at night to charge batteries don't they?" Moore looked at Ingram who nodded. "That must be when they clear all their radio traffic. They'll get the message."
The colonel snored slightly then muttered, "...wouldn't do it George. We need that sub to take those people out along with the damned gold. Besides we're finished, here. Not enough time for another--"
Moore spun quickly and yelled, "Get up!"
The colonel's eyes blinked open. "George. I only meant--"
"Get up!" Moore roared again.
With groans, the colonel worked his way to his feet.
"We're not giving up. Is that understood?" Moore yelled spewing saliva, his face red.
Typewriters stopped clattering; the room fell quiet as little earthquakes jiggled the command room. Even the radarman, whose ears were covered by headphones, looked up, forgetting his radar contacts designated Skunk Tare-Victor.
Moore walked in a circle waving his arms in the air. "We're not dying for nothing out here. Don't forget we owe the ones who went before us. And just as much, we owe the ones who will follow. The longer we hold," Moore's fist crashed on the map table making coffee cups jump--one toppled to spill cold, dark liquid on Luzon. "the better off for the ones who will follow. And they, likewise, will owe us. We will prevail!"
He stopped in midpace. "We will. We will."
The colonel walked up and put a hand on General Moore's shoulder. "I know George. It was only a figure of speech."
General Moore shrugged then looked at Ingram. "Well?"
Ingram peered at the wall chart of Manila Bay and said, "area Yoke-Yoke two is about ten miles from their closet point of approach tonight--that's twenty thousand yards. The shoreboat’ s silhouette is negligible; so is a sub's conning tower at that range."
Epperson said, "The moon will be full." At a glare from Ingram he spread his palms saying, "So says the nautical almanac."
Ingram said, "Dwight, I'm proud of you. Your next billet is navigator on a battleship."
"Don't push your luck."
"Okay. We'll be up-moon from them," said Ingram. "Even with that we'll be masked by the ground swell. The sub would have plenty of time to dive if we are detected. At the same time we can run for the beach."
"Okay. It's on." General Moore said, "And it's come down to this I'm afraid. You're the only one who knows the minefield well enough to get them through at night. Do you mind doing that, Ingram?"
"General, after today, I'm in the market for another seagoing command."
"Good." General Moore clamped a hand on Ingram's shoulder then walked toward the lavatory saying, "Otis. Are those damned toilets fixed?"
DeWitt trailed after him, "Soon, General. Engineers are jury rigging a new sewer line. Should be ready in a couple of hours."
"...tell 'em to shake a leg. Place smells like..." Moore closed the door in DeWitt's face.
Epperson said, "Todd. You gonna be able to bring this off?"
"Getting you out there?" Ingram replied.
Epperson nodded, scratching a sore. Some were healing and covered with thick scabs. His hair grew in patches.
"Stop that, damnit."
"Sorry. How you going to do it?"
"With a full moon, we'll have plenty of landmarks. What's the matter. You getting anxious?"
Epperson grabbed Ingram's forearm and drew him next to a file cabinet. "Todd, I can't afford to miss that sub."
"A lot of guys would like to go with you."
"I know. I don't mean it that way. It's just that..."
"What?" prodded Ingram.
Epperson looked from side to side and lowered his voice. "Look. I'm not yellow. You ought to know that."
"If I didn't believe you, I wouldn't be talking now."
"I'd gladly trade places with someone here to have a go with the Japs. You. Anybody."
"Dwight, I said I believe you."
"Alright. There are some things I know..."
"You told me."
"Right."
"The Japs will pound nails into your skull to make you talk."
"Wrong. They make me watch while they pound nails in your skull. Then I talk."
"Oh."
"Todd. This stuff is so hot, nobody here knows about it. Not DeWitt. Not Moore. Not even Wainwright." He raised his hand and ran a finger at a scab.
"Stop it!"
"Sorry, itches like hell. Look. Those PBYs the other night--Fowler? I'm sure Rochefort wants me out of here. If he can't get me out he'll have to order me dead."
Dead. Strange. Ingram had seen plenty of dead people in the last few hours. He rubbed a hand over his face and leaned against the cabinet washed with fatigue. Just hours ago, he'd lost his ship and he hadn't eaten today. And they hadn't posted him yet. He had no idea where he was to sleep; no clothes, nothing. DeWitt would tell him when he was ready, he supposed. Ingram looked longingly at the couch where Moore's G-2 colonel had fallen back to sleep; the man's mouth was wide open but he didn't snore. With the bright lights shining on his pallid, sweaty skin, the colonel looked...dead. "Who is Rochefort?"
"In Pearl. He's my real boss."
"What's he do. Command an aircraft carrier?"
"Uh, uh.
"
"Who do you report to here?"
"No one really. Moore, I suppose from an administrative standpoint. But he doesn't know what I do."
"What do you do?"
"Todd, damnit."
"Why does Rochefort want you dead?" Ingram asked.
"He knows that I know something big. Hell, I helped him work on it."
"In Hawaii?"
"No. From here."
"Ah. Radio intercept stuff. That means you guys collaborate or something."
Epperson looked irritated. "Todd, like I said before, don't draw too many conclusions."
"Okay."
"The Rock is going to fall soon and Rochefort can't let the Japs take me."
"Look. I'm tired. My men. They're tired. Could we come over to your tunnel?"
"I think so. How many?"
"About thirty-seven if my operations officer doesn't end up in the stockade.
"We can handle that. What's the deal with your ops officer--is that the smart-mouthed jaygee?"
"You remember?"
"Yep."
"Well, he took on DeWitt out there."
"Keep them apart. DeWitt is dangerous. And with the Rock falling, he'll be like a wounded rattlesnake. Thinks he's at the Alamo or something. Look. There's something else."
"I don't need anything else today."
"Do you still plan to make a break for it?"
Ingram said. "I've been thinking about it."
"Because if you are, I'd like to go if this submarine deal falls through."
Ingram said, "Of course. We can--"
DeWitt walked up. "I have your orders Lieutenant."
Ingram supposed he should be at attention, but he was so tired he felt as though his elbows were glued to the top of the file cabinet. He tilted his head and looked through the crook of his elbow. "Yessir?"
DeWitt gave an exasperated snort then said, "You are to augment the garrison on Caballo Island. You will take half your men and report to Captain Plummer. Your mascot is to take the other half and report to Major Lattimer over there. By the way, don't you have an executive officer?"
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 13
