Two hundred yards.
One Hundred.
Seventy-five.
"Jesus." said Holloway as the empty barge once again swooped by.
"Whittaker! Lights!" shouted Ingram.
"Huh?" said the engineman.
Ingram dove to the electrical panel, ripped it open, and flipped on the navigation lights.
* * * * *
In the Hubuki’s pilothouse, men dropped to the deck, shrieking and screaming when Forester’s bullets tore through the Plexiglas portholes. No one was seriously hurt, but her skipper, Lieutenant Commander Katsumi Fujimoto, was in a positive rage as he extricated his five-eight, one-hundred-sixty-five-pound frame from underneath a twenty-year-old ensign who wiggled in panic. With his forehead cut by flying glass, blood ran into Fujimoto’s left eye as he rose off the deck, shouting. Trying to wipe the warm goo away, he spotted a darkened shape ahead that separated from a lighted boat close to his bow. Fujimoto screeched orders to his frustrated helmsman who, in exasperation, spun his wheel the opposite way and lined up on the dark boat fleeing to port. With great teamwork, skipper and helmsman coordinated engine orders and rudder to cleanly cut the escaping vermin in half.
* * * * *
The lean destroyer was no more than fifty yards away from the shoreboat when she lunged through the barge. In fact, the Hubuki was so close, Ingram heard her high-pitched ventilation blowers pumping breath throughout the ship. Just then, her horn sounded, and she frantically reversed engines to keep from running aground on Fortune Island.
"Up yours, Tojo," Sutherland's resonant voice echoed against the Hubuki's portside.
Ingram said, "Whittaker! Lights off."
Whittaker hit the light switch as the crackle of rifle fire echoed across to them. Gun flashes winked from the Hubuki's main deck as her men fired into what remained of the barge.
Sunderland said, "Finally found the key to the gun locker. That Jap captain's gonna rip the gun boss alive tomorrow for sure, eh, Skipper?"
An explosion roared five hundred yards astern, illuminating the Hubuki lying dead in the water, with the flaming aft section of the barge bobbing alongside. "What the hell?" said Farwell.
"Not diesel fuel," said Bartholomew. "Maybe a barrel of hi-octane gas for an airplane or something."
"Which way, Skipper?" said Forester.
"Outboard side," said Ingram. "Cut it close as you can and head south."
Five minutes later, they cruised within a hundred yards of Fortune Island's western shore where pathetic little campfires glowed dimly. It made Ingram's stomach churn. Americans were within shouting distance, but now, he was leaving them behind: People he knew, people he had laughed with, people he'd fought with. People he had called friend. Several hundred, possibly thousands of friends were there now, trapped, with little hope for a long time to come.
"Poor bastards," said Holloway, running the back of his hand over his cheek.
Forester tended his tiller as the rest watched Fortune Island recede over their port quarter. Fire on the burning barge cast dim yellows and oranges on trees, huts, and tents. But no one was visible. Perhaps, thought Ingram, everyone was curled up asleep or they were too far away to be seen. But Ingram was disgusted with himself, because deep down, he was glad he couldn't see anyone, didn't have to again look into one of those hollow faces.
* * * * *
The other destroyers held their picket line positions leaving the 51 Boat's way clear.
"Skipper?" said Forester.
"One-eight-zero, Forester," said Ingram. Then, "Farwell."
"Sir."
"Relieve Forester. Yardly. Heat some water and fix coffee."
On impulse he looked back again. But whatever it was that bothered him, it wasn't on Fortune Island. It was something besides the specter of hundreds or even thousands of helpless comrades. Ingram turned, seeing Toliver's wiry beard. He, too, stared aft toward Fortune Island, firelight dancing on his pupils.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
7 May, 1942
14 02.'08 N
121 31.'40 E
With Fortune Island a mile astern, the 51 Boat plowed, in a mounting squall, toward Mindoro Island. But Fortune's campfires kept glaring at Ingram in silent reproach. The boat rolled and yawed in troughs until, one by one, the miserable beacons drew farther away and mercifully disappeared.
Finally, they were gone.
With Farwell at the tiller and Kevin Forester curled up amidships deep in much needed sleep, the others stood watching the blackness where Fortune Island lay. Aft, near the helmsman's station, Ingram thought about how close they had come to being killed; there would be other times. He hoped they would be as lucky.
And his fellow GIs on Fortune. His shipmates. He wondered about how close he had been to them; within shouting distance he supposed. Seeing his comrades stuffed into barges sapped his strength. In a way, Ingram supposed, he felt guilty that, out of eleven thousand he and eleven others had a chance; and, as meager as that chance was, Ingram, for the time being, was free. It made him wonder if he really shouldn't be standing among the others on Fortune right now, doing his duty by suffering and dying with them.
It seemed strange that ships on the picket line kept their stations. And he knew the Hubuki hadn't rejoined the line, which meant she was carousing nearby without navigation lights. Why the hell hadn't she raised an alarm? Why weren't all of them charging around, pouring gunfire into the night, trying to blow them out of the water, instead of sedately marching back and forth.
Holloway must have been thinking the same thing, for he wiped a hand over his face and said, "What the hell are they doing?"
Ingram said, "Not sure. You can bet she's out there."
"Bastard tried to run us down."
Ingram nodded. "Had us dead to rights and muffed it. Now, time's on our side."
Moments later, a loud WHUMP was followed by a white phosphorescent burst lighting up the night. The starshell, dangled fifteen hundred feet above the ocean's surface about a mile to port. Three more WHUMPs announced another three illuminating shots that swayed in the breeze and descended by parachute. With the wind from the west, the four eerie lights drifted toward the mainland.
"Steer two-seven-zero," said Ingram
Farwell cranked in right rudder and the 51 Boat headed away from the starshell pattern, but she slogged directly out to sea and into wind waves with her sailors clutching for handholds and cursing.
"Bartholomew!" Ingram called.
"Sir!"
"Keep a sharp lookout for that Hubuki."
While Bartholomew peered through binoculars, Ingram stooped and rolled out a chart. Otis DeWitt crawled aft and wordlessly snapped on a flashlight. They examined Luzon's Kalatayan Peninsula, where Cape Santiago jutted out, forming the western edge of Balayan Bay. With dividers, Ingram stepped off the distance to the Cape: nineteen miles.
Another pattern of four starshells rolled out further east. Ingram swallowed rapidly, his voice raspy as he said, "Cape Santiago light should be visible dead ahead. Anyone see it?"
No one spoke and Ingram bent to his chart, realizing the fifty-foot-tower's beacon had most likely been extinguished; they would have to wait 'til later for a fix. On the chart, he checked Mindoro Island twenty-six miles to the south: closer, to the southwest, lay Ambil Island, situated a mile off the eastern shore of the much larger Lubang Island. The distance was about twenty miles. Ambil looked safer than Cape Santiago or Mindoro, which was fifteen miles off Luzon's west coast. He said to Holloway, "That's it, then, Ambil Island." He turned to Farwell to give a new course.
"Lubang's full of Japs," DeWitt said, peering at him in weak light. "I imagine Ambil is, too."
In fighting seasickness, DeWitt was doing anything to keep his mind off the boat's wild slamming and the spray whipping past his face. Ingram smiled in spite of their pounding. "You sure?"
DeWitt croaked, "Up until a day ago it was my job to attend daily intelligence briefings with General Moore. Lubang's
full of Japs. But," his wiry forefinger jabbed at the Kalatayan Peninsula, "I don't think that is. The best dope we had was they were concentrated as far south as Nasugbu. From there on it's just little garrisons scattered here and there.
Holloway said, "With the Rock falling all that will change."
DeWitt grabbed a gunnel as the boat ran down the backside of a wave and slewed almost a hundred degrees to starboard.
"Shiiiit," said Farwell, pumping his tiller uselessly.
Ingram lifted the chart off the deck, just as a quartering wave tumbled over the starboard rail. Water surged around their ankles and rolled forward to slosh about amidships.
"Got anything better to do than play rubber ducky, Bucket Mouth?" howled Sunderland, yanking the bilge pump handle back and forth.
"Need somebody on the tiller who knows what the hell he's doin'," croaked Kevin Forester, throwing off a water-soaked blanket.
Junior Forester groaned, "Shitty helmsman."
"Junior, you think you're so hot, you get back here," yelled Farwell.
"Sorry, Bucket Mouth. The skipper would just pick me for top watch and dump you back to seaman deuce. I'd hate to see you cry."
"Jerk!"
"Just doin' you a favor."
Farwell was enraged, his voice gargled, "Oh yeah? How bout next time--"
"Bucket Mouth!" yelled Bartholomew.
Off the starboard bow, a dark mountain rushed at them. The boat was in danger of falling off to port and broaching. Farwell heaved in right rudder, then steadied the tiller as the 51 Boat pitched up forty-five degrees. She climbed the peak, the wave rolled under, and the boat dived into a dark chasm, slamming into the trough.
"Jesus, Bucket Mouth," shouted Kevin Forester.
Farwell paid no attention as he concentrated on the next roller. Not caught by surprise this time, he crested the wave then weaved comfortably down the backside. After a while, he was able to make sense out of the pattern and they settled down to a controlled wallowing.
Another series of starshells dotted the sky toward Luzon. DeWitt asked, "Shouldn't we head for the coast?"
Ingram nodded to the starshells.
"Okay, how about Maricaban?" asked Holloway.
Ingram tapped the pencil eraser on his front tooth for a moment, then picked up his dividers, lay down the chart, and stepped off the distance to Maricaban Island. "Here," he said. "Southeast of Balayan Bay. About thirty-six miles. With this sea it could be a seven hour-haul. We would barely make it by sunrise. And it means we're committed to the Verde Island Passage." He looked up to DeWitt. "The Japs control all of Mindoro?"
DeWitt's campaign hat, barely outlined against the sky, nodded "yes."
"Even the west coast?" pleaded Ingram. He'd been thinking of duplicating Lieutenant John D. Bulkeley's route when the four remaining PT boats of his Motor Torpedo Squadron Three whisked General Macarthur to freedom almost two months before. Apo Island, twenty-three miles off the west central coast of Mindoro, had been Bulkeley's first stop.
DeWitt nodded and added with a thick voice, "You couldn't make Apo, tonight. And the Calavite Passage would be a deathtrap."
Ingram sighed, "We're committed to the Verde Island Passage, then."
"It's shorter," said DeWitt. "Is there moonlight tonight?"
"About two o'clock," said Ingram.
"It'll help us find a place to hide on Maricaban," said Holloway.
"You have a girlfriend on Maricaban or something?" asked DeWitt.
"As a matter of fact, her father owns a brewery there," said Holloway, looking the major in the face. "I'm dying to see her and slop up the old man's booze."
DeWitt said, "Lieutenant. If you're--"
"Come on, you two," said Ingram. Watching the last of a starshell pattern drift into the sea, he said, "Okay. We try for Maricaban. Rocky?"
"Sir!" replied Bartholomew.
"Any trace of that Hubuki?"
"Nossir."
"Very well. Major DeWitt, you and Mr. Holloway take the first watch. Mr. Holloway is watch captain. Wake Rocky and me at 0200." Looking up to Farwell, he said, "Come left to one-five-zero."
It took Farwell a minute to ease the boat around and settle on a southwesterly course. With that, she was back in troughs and staggered parallel to waves.
Ingram grabbed a blanket and wedged himself against a thwart. Everything was wet, either from the pooping wave or from spray and dew. He settled in as best he could; resolved to being miserable, knowing there would be little sleep tonight. But surprisingly, he relaxed and felt himself drifting...
* * * * *
Someone shook Ingram's shoulder. His Bulova's radium dial said: 2:30. He blinked and sat up to recognize the outline of Bartholomew's chief's hat. Whittaker was at the tiller and the engine seemed to be running well. The water seemed a little calmer, although the boat still yawed and slopped about occasionally. A few miles to the east, a dark Cape Santiago lighthouse was silhouetted by a rising quarter moon.
"Why didn't they wake me at two?" said Ingram.
"We took a vote and decided to let you sleep," said Bartholomew.
"Not again. Understand, Rocky?"
Bartholomew shrugged, "Yessir."
Ingram rose, finding another figure nearby.
"Can we talk for a moment?" It was Otis DeWitt's Texas twang.
Ingram rubbed his eyes, still miffed at not being awakened on time; Bartholomew hadn't done him any favors by not insisting. "What's up?"
"It's that fellow, Radtke," said DeWitt.
With aching joints, Ingram struggled to his knees and shoved his blanket under the seat. "The bastard really did kill Epperson."
"I believe you."
"It wasn't a damned trumpet that changed your mind."
I'll admit, that got me thinking." said DeWitt. "But it really was this." He unbuckled a pouch from his belt and handed it over. "Mordkin went out again the night that PBY crashed and recovered this. It's what that Richardson fellow must have been delivering."
"Dwight said his name was Fowler. Knew him in San Francisco."
"Whatever. Here. Take a look." He covered a flashlight, snapped it on, and handed over a stained leather pouch.
Cocking an eye at DeWitt, Ingram unzipped the pouch. Inside, the papers were moldy and stuck together. He found an ID photo and pulled it out.
"The real Walter Radtke," said DeWitt.
"Nice of everybody to let me and Dwight know," Ingram said caustically. "Who is the fellow that killed Dwight?"
"Have no idea."
"A spy?"
"I imagine."
"Damnit," said Ingram. "Dwight didn't have a chance. The sonofabitch shot him in the stomach. You ever seen a guy shot in the stomach, Major?"
DeWitt's eyes flinched just enough to let Ingram know this man was one who had always finagled staff jobs hiding behind the stars of the men he served. Unlike his fellow officers in the field, Otis DeWitt had escaped the onerous responsibility of ordering men to die, a task all great military leaders ultimately face in their careers. As a "tunnel rat," Otis DeWitt had eluded the horror of Corregidor until the very last days. He had not personally witnessed the consequences of what his superiors had ordered men to do.
Ingram said. "There was a lot of pain. Dwight's last moments were not easy."
DeWitt nodded dumbly toward the pouch. Ingram stared at him for a moment then reached in, finding a folded flimsy paper that crackled when he pulled it out:
TOP SECRET
04200355Z
FM: COM OP-20-G HYPO
TO: COM PHILIPPINES
INFO: A. CINPACFLT
B. ONI
BT
1. EPPERSON, D. J., LT. USN, 476225; RADTKE, W. A., CT2 USN, 1187526
EXPOSED INFO EXTREMELY SENSITIVE TO U.S. STRATEGIC INTERESTS.
2. IF TAKEN PRISONER, SUCH INFO COULD FALL TO ENEMY VIA TORTURE
RESULTING IN GRAVE CONSEQUENCES TO U.S.
3. IF CORREGIDOR SURRENDERS, EPPERSON AND RADTKE ARE NOT,
&
nbsp; REPEAT, NOT TO BE TAKEN PRISONER.
4. PRIORITIES ARE:
A) EVACUATION, US FORCES ONLY. PREFER SS, AIR, SURFACE OK.
B) LIQUIDATION
5. SANCTUARY WITH LOCAL RESISTANCE GROUPS NOT AUTHORIZED.
6. ADTAKE.
BT
"To Wainwright?"
"Yes. COMPHILIPPINES."
Ingram read it then said, "Anything else?"
DeWitt dug out the ID photo of a grinning man with hair parted in the middle. The photo was labeled: RADTKE, W. A., BU2, USN, 1187526.
Ingram looked at the mildewed photo and whistled softly. "The real Walter Radtke. A bugler off the North Carolina. I wonder where he is now."
"Dead, probably."
"Poor bastard. He played with Ziggy Ellman."
"I know. Here. What's this?" DeWitt dug out a section of damp foolscap that had collapsed to a loose wad. He straightened it out finding a pencil had scribbled: "Dwight, is this what you wanted?--Ben."
"Damn," said Ingram. "Dwight must have smelled a rat."
"'Ben' must be Richardson or Fowler or whoever he was," said DeWitt.
"I suppose so," said Ingram. He read the message again. "Look at this." He mouthed the passage, "'Liquidate' if...if they weren't evacuated by sub or airplane. Jesus! 'Liquidate.' As if Dwight was a Trotyskyite or something. Who the hell was supposed to do the 'liquidating?'"
DeWitt shook his head
"Fowler, you think?"
"Maybe. Did you have a chance to talk to Epperson about Fowler?"
"Buddies. They chased women in 'Frisco."
DeWitt nodded. "So he was doing Epperson a favor."
"But then Fowler carried a .25-caliber pistol with a silencer."
"I see."
"And a stiletto strapped inside his thigh."
"Nasty."
"Some favor. He was probably sent here to liquidate both Radtke and Dwight no matter what." Ingram noticed "ADTAKE" (advise action taken) in item six of the message. "Did you reply to this?"
"No. The pouch came to us soaked. General Moore suggested we lay it aside to dry out. It ended up in a desk drawer and by the next day, well, it was forgotten because of all the crap that was going on. Hell, our crypto section even forgot to log it in."
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 27
