THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  "Fred," said Ingram. "Take it easy."

  Looking at the floor, Holloway grit his teeth, then pounded withered hands on the bars. "They didn't have a chance. I wish I knew what all this means."

  "Fred, damnit!" Ingram said sharply. "What it means is that it's time to get out of here."

  Forester lunged into the room jangling a key ring in the air. He tried several. After a half-minute of cursing and scraping, he found one that twirled in the lock. The door opened and they ran past a groaning Mordkin up the stairs to the main level.

  Their running was more of a wheezing fast walk, as they carved a path through men of all ranks and uniforms. Some stood or sat by themselves, while others gathered in little groups. With slumped shoulders and hung heads, their sweaty, unshaven faces were gaunt; their bodies scarecrow thin. Some spoke in low, stilted tones, while others smoked in spite of the humidity and dust. Most just stared at the wall.

  MPs walked up and down shouting with hoarse voices, "...weapons. Weapons, please. Turn in your weapons. Here, Sailor. That goes for you. Toss that knife..."

  Every fifty feet or so, they ran past a pile of rifles, pistols, swords, bolo knifes, hand grenades, loose ammunition, and web belts. On second glance, one could pick out the odd weapon such as stilettos, ice picks, even zip guns.

  Hazy sunlight beckoned from the tunnel's mouth and they broke into a breathless jog. Suddenly, a young Army captain with a bandaged face and wild eyes moved before them on crutches and held out stick-thin arms. "Stop! Where are you going?"

  They dashed past the man with Ingram sputtering, "Where is everybody?"

  "Not sure," puffed Holloway. "Rocky was supposed to have rounded 'em all up. We were to meet up front."

  They drew up twenty feet from the entrance. Ingram looked around saying, "Well, where are they?"

  "Don't know. Should we wait?" said Holloway.

  Even with shells erupting and thick smoke curling, Ingram felt drawn to the living hell outside. Especially after his seven days in the cellblock and the constant thunder overhead. He looked at the tunnel faces. Most stared at the concrete. Some watched with doomed, forlorn eyes. Yes, freedom was outside no matter what happened.

  "Have you lined up anything?" Ingram said.

  Holloway said, "We have that shoreboat. The 51 Boat."

  "Good. Anybody guarding it?"

  "No."

  "Wonderful. How about fuel?"

  "Half a tank," said Holloway.

  "Anything else?"

  Holloway shrugged. "We just broke from our assignments. I grabbed Forester from the mortar pit and bumped into Sunderland in the main tunnel, near the command post. We really haven't had a chance to do a damn thing."

  Ingram turned to Sunderland. "All that stuff we pulled off the bird. Do you know where it is?"

  Sunderland coughed and cleared his throat. "We stashed it in a shed near the small boat landing."

  "Good," said Ingram. "Let's load up, find our boys, and get out of here."

  "Uh, Sir?" said Sunderland.

  "What?"

  "That shed took a direct hit two days ago, Sir."

  The three stared at Sunderland for a moment.

  "This isn't looking too good," said Holloway. He thought of the Pelican, wishing they hadn't been so careful planting demolition charges. Nothing was salvageable and only a portion of her mast stuck above the water on the other side of Caballo. He muttered, "No gas, no chow. No navigation gear. No nothing."

  "You want to join up with the rest of these guys and get captured?" said Ingram, nodding back in the tunnel.

  "I didn't say that, Skipper," Holloway said quickly.

  The men studied the pavement and kicked concrete chips for a minute.

  Ingram said, "Okay. I've got an idea."

  "What?" said Holloway.

  "The Pima," said Ingram.

  They stared at him.

  Ingram said, "There's a lot of work to do. Come on! Let's get down there!" He started toward the entrance.

  "Hold on there." A man stepped up and grabbed Ingram by the shoulders. Ingram shook loose and stumbled into a metal cabinet, hitting his face. He staggered away holding a throbbing cheek and it took long moments to shake the cobwebs. Finally, Ingram focused into the pallid face of Otis DeWitt.

  Holloway slipped in between them saying, "Outta the way, Major."

  DeWitt blinked and stepped back. "Wait," he said. "I want to go."

  Ingram was about shake his head when they heard a commotion deep inside the tunnel. He stepped on an ammo crate and peered into the gloom. After a moment he said, "Mordkin."

  DeWitt said, "Look. I'll take care of him. What's important is that you were right about Radtke. I have to go with you. He must be stopped."

  Stripped of pomposity, DeWitt seemed comical standing before them with a plaintive expression. Ingram opened his mouth to speak, but just then an aerial bomb smacked just below the entrance, sending smoke twirling around them. At length, he croaked out, "Where is Radtke?"

  "Made it aboard the submarine as far as I know." DeWitt patted the pouch now jammed in his belt. "That's why I'm here."

  Shouts echoed from Mordkin's direction. The commotion grew, and Ingram peered seeing the Stockade Captain was closer. And he had two MPs in tow. All three brandished .45s. Mordkin's face lighted up when he picked out Ingram. "Stop! Those men are deserters." he yelled.

  Ingram jumped off the ammo case shaking his head. "Where the hell does he think we're going to desert to? Mexico City? Can't you reason with him?"

  DeWitt said, "Certainly." He stood on the crate and thrust both hands in the air. "Captain Mordkin," he shouted. "I order you to--"

  From twenty feet away, Mordkin fired his .45. The shot zipped over DeWitt's shoulder and spent itself in the ceiling; the booming echo rang in their ears.

  Mordkin shrieked, "Everybody! On the floor, now!"

  All within fifty feet hit the deck. Still standing, Ingram and the others were easy targets.

  "Raise your hands," shouted Mordkin.

  "That Sonofabitch gone loony," growled DeWitt. "Captain," he yelled, "You are subject to my orders. I'm--"

  A series of rounds landed near the entrance, knocking them to the ground. Quickly, an enormous dust cloud swirled over them.

  "Now!" barked Ingram. As one, they rose and charged into the murk, not seeing two feet before them until well outside the tunnel. They burst from smoke and falling dirt and stones. Ingram took the lead, running toward a concrete stairway with a rusted iron railing and long treads that wound toward the beach.

  They ran as fast as their emaciated bodies could stumble. They had scrambled a quarter of the way down when a twin-engine Betty bomber roared over at treetop level. A salvo of eight 250-kilogram bombs whistled toward them. Ingram sprang off the stairway into a shell crater.

  He tumbled in just as the stick of bombs raced over the hill. The concussion knocked Ingram across the crater where he balled up clutching his hands over his head. Dirt, concrete chunks, pieces of metal, and sticks of jagged tree limbs cascaded around him.

  Ingram rose, choking. And he realized he couldn't hear. DeWitt and Holloway moved close, with DeWitt opening and closing his mouth while rapidly slapping a palm against his ear; Ingram realized the man was shouting and most likely couldn't hear either.

  They looked at one another dully then weaved to their feet. Ingram shook his head to regain his vision, then checked the tunnel but it was still engulfed in smoke. Mordkin and his MPs hadn't followed.

  He nodded toward the landing, and they bumped and stumbled their way down the steps, gaining the beach five minutes later. Staggering around barbed wire and shell craters, they fell into an abandoned machine gun pit. After staring at Holloway's back for five minutes, Ingram realized the shelling had stopped and the droning of airplane engines receded. He also realized he could hear again and looked up to see a formation of twelve Bettys heading north over Bataan.

  What struck him was that there were no explosions. Wis
ps of smoke drifted among them and he blinked, trying to remember the last time his world wasn't filled with thumping, shrieking explosions. There were no massive air-compressing concussions; no ground-lifting, ear-splitting eruptions; no incredulous screams of the dying. Instead, there was silence, sweet silence.

  "What the hell?" said Holloway. Sunderland stood and spun slowly with his arms straight out. Soon they all rose with grins, realizing the bombardment had really stopped. At first, it seemed stifling as if imaginary bindings had been cast loose. But they were unsure of which direction to tread. To the best of Ingram's recollection, it was the first time in weeks a single minute had elapsed without a shell detonating nearby.

  He looked toward Corregidor seeing what looked like a bedsheet waving on Topside. Another flew over Monkey Point. Even so, explosions rained along the three-mile-long Rock with thick smoke engulfing much of the west end. "Why do the Japs keep shooting? Our white flags are out." Ingram said.

  DeWitt put his hands on his hips. "The surrender's not well coordinated. See that?" He pointed to the west end. "Some guys are still holding out. Looks like hand-to-hand fighting."

  Ingram checked the sun's angle, judging the time to be about four o'clock. "Let's go!"

  They rose and walked a few paces for the dock. Suddenly, Sunderland raised his hand. "Back," he urged in a raspy whisper.

  They jumped into an empty machine gun nest, watching a long, narrow launch, flying a Japanese naval ensign, round the pier and tie up. Four Japanese officers, wearing swords, got out and walked toward them, stopping at the bottom of the stairway, not thirty feet from their refuge.

  "There," whispered Holloway.

  A tight-lipped sergeant, carrying a white flag tied to a bamboo stick, walked down the steps and drew up to the officers. Soon, the GI was joined by a U.S. Army colonel, two majors, and a captain.

  Ingram pointed to the army captain and whispered, "Isn't that Plummer?"

  Sunderland nodded, recognizing men he'd served with in Caballo's mortar pits. "And La Follette's carrying the flag."

  Junior Forester, on his haunches, stumbled and put his hand out to brace himself. His knuckles grazed a half-empty ammunition case which fell over, spilling thirty-caliber shells. The bright brass rounds clanked and tinkled, and another ammo box toppled on Forester's hand, cutting it. "Ouch," he yelped.

  Japanese and American officers swiveled their heads in their direction.

  "Sorry." Forester sheepishly bit his hand.

  "You stupid dodo. If we die, I'm gonna kill you," Sunderland whispered savagely. Then, realizing what he'd said, his face turned crimson.

  Ingram counted to two hundred, then peeked over the berm. La Follette, Plummer, and his party walked up the steps. At the launch, the Japanese climbed in, took in their lines, and shoved off.

  "Let's not push our luck," Ingram said.

  They dashed for the docks and jumped in the 51 Boat. Sunderland hit the starting switch and the engine cranked and cranked. "Com' on, com' on.”

  But La Follette didn’t’ get in the boat.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Bartholomew.

  “It’s time.” Ingram grabbed the tiller and nodded to Forester who untied the lines and threw them in. “Let’s go,” barked Ingram.

  Instead, Forester backed away, standing on the dock.

  The 51 Boat drifted farther from the dock. "Get in," yelled Ingram.

  "Have to find my brother, Sir," said Forester, jabbing his thumb at the hill. He whipped off his white hat and nervously fumbled with it.

  Ingram rubbed his chin. "Right. Dig up as many of the rest as you can, too. We'll be back after sunset. Right here."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Down!" yelled Holloway.

  They dropped, as a sleek, low-wing Japanese Zero curved around, leveled at about fifty feet, and headed toward them. Its two fuselage-mounted 7.7-inch machine guns and twin wing mounted twenty millimeter cannons sputtered, raising ten-foot water spouts. The bullets smashed into the pier, tearing great sections of wood chunks and shredded metal.

  The plane roared over at deck level, but miraculously, the 51 Boat was unscathed. Ingram rose, finding Sunderland's thumb still on the starter switch, with an ominous, black greasy cloud slithering from the exhaust pipe. Forester scrambled to his feet, slapping his white hat against his thigh. He jammed it over his head yelling, "Bastard."

  "Forester!" Ingram shouted.

  "Sir."

  "Make sure you find Whittaker. Yardly, too. Now, get going."

  "Yessir." Junior Forester ran up the hill to Fort Hughes.

  Suddenly, the engine sputtered and burst into life. Ingram grabbed the tiller as Sunderland slammed the boat into gear. With water boiling under her transom, the 51 Boat charged out of Caballo Island harbor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  6 May, 1942

  Abwehr (German Military Intelligence) Headquarters

  Berlin, Germany

  Rain roared down in sheets as the staff car pulled in front of 74-76 Tirpitzhufer, a four story stucco building. The driver jumped out and immediately yanked the rear door open. Admiral Karl Dönitz, wearing his white cap and navy blue great coat, shrugged off his orderly's umbrella and dashed up the steps into the building. Quickly he gained the top floor and burst into Admiral Wilhelm Canaris' office unannounced. "Leave us," he yelled at Colonel Hans Oster, a cavalry officer and Canaris' chief assistant.

  Oster, with tunic unbuttoned, walked halfway to the double doors. His palms spread, the young colonel turned on his heel and looked at his boss, the head of all German armed forces intelligence.

  Canaris smiled, saying, "It's alright, Hans." He turned to Dönitz. "Do you care for anything, Karl? Schnapps, perhaps?"

  Dönitz, wearing dress blue uniform, strode to the window, took off his hat and greatcoat, pitched them on a small leather couch, and stood watching sheets of rain cascade down the glass. Through pounding rain, mist, and glistening green leaves of chestnut trees, Dönitz barely made out the oily sheen of the nearby Landwehr Canal.

  He was Germany's Chief Flag Officer of U-boats, with the title of Befehlshaber der U-boote or, for short--BdU. Now, BdU stood with his back to them, his hands in his pockets. The humid and stuffy office was made more so by books, reports, magazines, and papers stacked everywhere.

  Canaris shrugged. Oster gave a slight bow and backed out, pulling the doors closed silently.

  Canaris rubbed deep-set eyes, threw a pencil on his desk, and leaned back. He cursed his luck, for the years had taught him Dönitz was given to moods: The lean and balding admiral would decide where he wanted to sit when he was ready to talk. So Dönitz fumed; Canaris' wooden armchair squeaked as he rocked and waited. At length, he gave up and tried to get things going. "Nice weather you bring from Kiel, Karl. Next time you drop by be sure to bring a case of--"

  Dönitz whirled and pointed at the closed door. He hissed, "You'd better muzzle that little clown of yours, Wilhelm."

  Canaris' eyebrows went up.

  "I just came from Himmler."

  "Yes?"

  "Colonel Oster does a wonderful goosestep imitation of the führer, Wilhelm. But it's not funny. There is serious innuendo all over the place about him."

  "Yes?"

  "Damnit, Wilhelm. Don't patronize me. You could get sucked into it, too. The little bastard will drag you down." Dönitz's voice was barely audible.

  Canaris had heard every syllable. The World War I U-boat veterans glared at one another. Finally, Canaris looked away and said, "Himmler should go back to what he does best. Pig farming."

  Dönitz patrolled the Abwehr office, kicking aside boots, packages, and magazines that lay in his path. "Himmler wants to set you up. His goal is to have all military intelligence units under him. And Oster, if he keeps shooting off his mouth, will be the perfect excuse to pop your balloon."

  Canaris' spine stiffened. He was a rival to Himmler, and this had been brewing for a long time. He could no longer depend on his old submarine friend
for help. Dönitz, a consummate politician, enjoyed an impeccable reputation for strong loyalty to Hitler.

  Without looking, Dönitz knew Canaries’ reaction. They'd discussed this before. "That's right, Wilhelm. Himmler. He put a proposal through Bormann, who endorsed it."

  Canaris steepled his fingers and rocked in this chair. In spite of the heavy, knit white sweater, dark wool slacks, slippers, and the fire Oster had laid, he suddenly felt cold. "Directly to Hitler?"

  "Yes." With thumb and forefinger, Dönitz lifted the front page of the Völkischer Beobachter which neatly camouflaged a half-full crystal decanter of schnapps. Searching for a glass, he stooped to look under the couch. "He's thinking of putting your precious little Abwehr under Heydrich."

  Canaris couldn't help himself. "Another pig." He pulled open a drawer and handed Dönitz a glass. "Thanks for the tip. Now, what brings you to Berlin?"

  Dönitz took the glass and said, "I want you to promise--"

  "Karl, I--"

  "Promise, damnit, to be careful. And to shut your little Colonel Oster up. Otherwise, Himmler will do it for you. You should consider transferring the little bastard Russia maybe."

  They listened to rain gush down window panes.

  "Alright," said Canaris.

  BdU nodded and poured. He plunked the decanter precariously near the edge of Canaris’ monte verde desk, then, with a forearm, swept a stack of books off the leather couch and sat. "They sent me to Rostok for an on-site report."

  "And?"

  Dönitz swirled his schnapps, then sipped. "It's as bad as they said. Worse. Thousands dead. Bodies everywhere. The place stinks. You can't see. Smoke. Soot. Rubble. Seventy percent of the city burned to a crisp. The Tommys must have flown two, three hundred planes. They dropped incendiaries into the fire, time and time again."

  Canaris looked out the window. "The docks?"