"How the hell do I do that?" asked Bartholomew.
"You...you. Shit," Yardly stroked his chin, "Wait." He hooked up his bottle to the NG tube, letting the saline run into her stomach. "Try two teaspoons per quart."
"You sure?" said Bartholomew.
"...no."
"Damnit, Bones," said Sunderland.
Yardly whipped around. His eyes glistened as he said, "Not sure. That's the best I can remember."
Sunderland growled, "Bones, if she dies I'm gonna--"
Ingram said. "Get going, Bartholomew. The rest of you shut up. Just do your jobs."
Helen was entirely naked, with Holloway and Ingram cleaning her off as best as they could. Then they had Toliver and DeWitt loosely wrap two soaking blankets around her.
"Sir?" Sunderland stood close with another bucket of sea water.
Ingram sat back, letting the gunner's mate pour another bucket of cold, sea water over her body while Junior Forester worked the bilge pump handle, sending water back into the ocean.
* * * * *
Forty-five minutes later the evening was still warm. Sunderland poured on another bucket of water while the others traded off with the bilge pump. Yardly, with Helen's head cradled in his arm, dumped in his third bottle of saline: Rocky's brew they called it.
Helen coughed.
"Hey!" said Yardly.
She coughed again and gurgled, her hand rose tugging at the NG tube.
Ingram pulled her hand away but she reached again. He grabbed her wrist and held it.
Yardly said, "Helen, can you hear me?"
Helen gave an, "Uhhhgh."
"You're gonna be okay, now. You know you're with friends?"
"Uhhhgh."
"Good. I'll pull the tube, but you have to take more water--at least a quart."
"Uhhhgh."
"Tube goes back in if you don't drink."
Her head nodded slightly. "Uhhhgh."
"Okay." Carefully, Yardly eased out the tube then felt her forehead. "Seems better. Uh...here, Skipper. Do you mind?"
"Got it." Ingram scooted over and lay Helen's head in his lap while Yardly rummaged through his kit. Ingram stroked her hair as the men in 51 Boat grinned and muttered and slapped Yardly on the back. "Gonna be a hell of a doctor, someday," said Whittaker.
"Hey Bones. Can you cure the crabs, too?" said Sunderland.
"In your case Sunny, they're irreversible," said the corpsman. He pulled out a thermometer and stuck it under Helen's tongue while Ingram fussed with the blanket. At length, Yardly pulled it out, flipped on a pen light, and said, "Not bad, ninety-nine. I think we can knock off the wet soaks for the time being. Maybe let her dry off and get her something to wear."
Ingram tipped the saline bottle to Helen's mouth, pulled down her lower lip, and poured a little. He watched her swallow and grinned. "Alright, Yardly. I'm putting you in for the Congressional Medal of Honor."
"Long way to go, Skipper."
"How's that?"
Yardly whispered, "Electrolytic balance is all screwed up. We don't know if that will come back. It's fifty-fifty."
"How long?"
"Couple of days."
"Sure looks better to me," said Ingram.
"Well, for now, yeah. But what can happen with people in heat shock is that their kidneys stop working."
Ingram stared at Yardly.
Yardly said, "No kidney function, nothin' we can do. She'll die."
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
9 May, 1942
Mompog Pass
Philippines
Ingram's teeth chattered. He peered in the blackness of Mompog Pass looking for patrol boats. As the 51 Boat rolled and the Buda hummed, Ingram couldn't forget the little soaked heap laying ten feet forward fighting for her life. As a diversion, he forced himself to concentrate on the Aguilars. Quite simply, they had been wonderful. Just before Don Aguilar and Augustine Vega ventured into the garrison with Delores, they had provisioned the 51 Boat with coconuts, cooked pig and chicken, sliced dried beef, boiled fish, jackfruit, and white rice.
Doña Carmella was helping with the last of the load when Ingram, Bartholomew, and Sunderland came on the run half-carrying, half-dragging Farwell's body and carrying Helen. With the Japanese barges headed toward the reef, there was no time to talk. And it didn't take much to convince Don Aguilar the enraged Kempetai would select him and his wife for their first reprisal. Reluctantly, he and Doña Carmella agreed to move to the south side of Marinduque with Vega's relatives until things quieted down. They all knew that meant until the war was over whenever that was. But in the end, it was the right move for Aguilar, who admitted his ineptness at playing the political games fast developing in the provisional Philippine government.
The three Filipinos promised Ingram they would bury Farwell in a secret location where his body could be exhumed and returned home at war’s end.
Ingram couldn’t put Doña Carmella out of his mind. Besides losing her son, she and her husband were now uprooted from their home and livelihood. Everything was gone after giving all they had for a strange, ragtag band of Americans that had crashed into their life.
Ingram realized he hadn’t truly known any Filipinos beside those in Manila or Cavite or Subic Bay: Navy towns where his ships docked. He hadn’t paid attention to those who told him Filipinos living in the provinces were gracious and friendly and would share everything they had. After meeting the Aguilars he knew it was true. And somehow, he realized Don Aguilar would even give his life, if necessary. After tonight, Ingram wondered if he could do as much.
He ran his hand over his brow, still feeling shaky, and he tried not to look at the land to starboard. To port, he picked out a gray-black shape he knew to be Maniuayan Island. He scanned the blackness for picket ships, seeing none, at least those with running lights. But darkened picket ships were another story as they had learned off Fortune Island.
* * * * *
The Forester brothers were stationed forward as lookouts, as they headed into Mompog Pass. It was only three-and-a-half-mile-wide but, Ingram reckoned it would be too late if they stumbled on a picket now; surprise would be on their side. A look at their wake told him a voracious southeast current had the 51 Boat in its grip, yanking them along at, Ingram judged, ten knots over the ground. This made it possible to quickly squirt through Mompog Pass, but unfortunately, they would be unable to reverse course if something popped up before them, such as a Japanese patrol boat.
Otis DeWitt stepped beside him and said in his twang. “How far tonight, Lieutenant?”
“Umm...good current. I’m trying for Sibuyan Island—about ninety miles...” Ingram said.
DeWitt nodded toward Yardly who sat beside Helen Durand. “The doc says she’s sleeping now. She’s had enough water.”
“Good.” After a moment Ingram told him about the Manila Tribune’s article with Wainwright’s surrender order and the admonition to surrender by May 12.
“So what if we don’t?” asked DeWitt.
“Then the Japs shoot us, I suppose.”
“Anything else new?”
“I hope not.”
Dewitt moved a little closer. “How did Farwell do?”
Ingram looked over his shoulder toward Marinduque. For a moment, he thought he saw Farwell’s face take shape in the misty headland. He wore a twisted grin and his enormous jaw clanked up and down. Then it all changed, and the quartermaster’s head lay on the small desk, one eye half-closed, the other all the way open. The transmitter sputtered and arced in the background, causing glistening hair on the back of Farwell’s head to catch fire. Farwell’s hand was still on the transmit key and—
“Lieutenant?” asked DeWitt.
Farwell’s face was gone. Strange. “I don’t think he raised anybody. He’d just started tapping the key.”
“Damn!” said DeWitt. “We were so close. Did you give it a try?”
“Jap’s bullet blew up the radio. Sparks flew and the damn thing arced all over the place. That wa
s when Rocky came in yelling for us to scram.”
DeWitt looked into the pitch black off the port side. “Sibuyan Island, you say. How about trying there?”
“No,” said Ingram easing the helm as they crested a wave and dove into a trough. He was thankful he had something to do. Steering helped erase tonight’s horror from his mind. And the engine ran better. In fact, it purred. Whittaker had worked on the Buda after all.
“No? What do you mean ‘no,’ Lieutenant? We’re sitting on top of something prejudicial to the security of the United States.” DeWitt’s resonance carried a manufactured tone of incredulous outrage.
Ingram looked back to Marinduque.
Farwell was there again, grinning.
Ingram’s voice squeaked, “Anymore flyers like today and we’ll all be hanging upside down in some butcher shop.”
DeWitt said, “I don’t think—“
“Major, damnit,” Ingram said. “I want the same thing as you. But we’re not taking unnecessary risks. We were lucky to get out of San José. And Farwell was killed doing what I was trying to avoid—involve civilians.”
“Farwell was doing his duty.”
“What about the Aguilars? And what about their neighbors? You know there will be retribution. Many will be killed indiscriminately.”
“That remains to be seen,” DeWitt said peevishly.
Ingram felt the bile rising. DeWitt knew better; he was merely trying to win a point. “Do you know how many Chinese have been killed since Doolittle raided Tokyo?”
“What does that—“
“Two hundred fifty thousand, so far, Otis. All in the Chekiang Province where our fliers went down. I repeat. That’s two hundred fifty thousand Chinese men, women, and children: Civilians that the Japs slaughtered for helping less than one hundred B-25 guys.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Ingram peered over the starboard quarter toward Marinduque. No Farwell. “Epperson. It came over the wire in a fleet intelligence report. Apparently, it’s still going on. Chiang Kai-shek is raising hell with the State Department. I’m surprised you didn’t get the word.”
DeWitt fell silent.
Ingram’s voice dropped, “Don Aguilar showed up at that swimming hole. We didn’t go looking for him. But I don’t want that to happen again. We’ll have to be more careful and keep a better watch.”
“Finding Helen was a bonus.”
Ingram couldn’t argue with that. “Yes.”
After a pause DeWitt sighed, “Okay. We play it your way.” Then he said, “Bartholomew said you did some fine shooting. Sunderland, too.”
Ingram ground his teeth. Why the hell couldn’t he tell these people that he had frozen? That he couldn’t pull that damned .45 from the holster even though, as he ran the terrifying scene over in his mind again, he had had plenty of time. The Kempetai’ s Nambu jammed. And Sunderland had shot the Jap just before Bartholomew stumbled in. Maybe seeing Helen’s mutilated body had made him freeze.
Farwell.
Why the hell couldn’t he shoot? Ingram’s teeth chattered. “Listen, Otis. There’s something you should know. I—“
“Skipper? Can I make a suggestion?” Beardsley wobbled to his feet only to slip. Toliver grabbed an elbow and eased him up.
In spite of himself, Ingram felt like chuckling. Beardsley’s accent had become less Des Moines and more Chicago; an almost deliberate copy of either Bogart or Raft; he couldn’t decide which one. Quite simply the B-17 pilot was feeling better. Yardly had been changing his bandages each day and it was paying off, in spite of the tropical environment that inhibited healing.
“Shoot, Leon.”
“I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“Lieutenant.” DeWitt’s tone admonished the B-17 pilot.
“Let him talk, Otis,” said Ingram.
Beardsley reached for space. Toliver grabbed the pilot’s hand and guided it to the binnacle where he steadied himself. “Just trying to help out, Major.” He paused. “I got buddies on Mindanao. B-17 jockeys. Pursuit guys, too. There’s a half dozen emergency airstrips near the Del Monte plantation. A few in Agusan Province around Nasipit. We hook up with one of them and we fly out. Be in Australia within a week.”
DeWitt folded his arms. “Del Monte? Nonsense. Those people are in prison now.”
“Maybe so. Maybe not. Some could be in the hills. But the point is, I flew into at least two of them.”
“Flew into what, Leon?” asked Ingram.
“The airstrips!” Beardsley almost shouted. Leon sounded more like Bogart, Ingram decided. And he could tell it was with great restraint that the B-17 pilot had not added “dummy.”
Beardsley continued, “It was MacArthur’s idea. They carved airstrips out of jungle in case the Japs gained air superiority. All sorts of stuff is hidden in there. Airplanes are in sandbag revetments all covered with camouflage netting. Plans were to use them for night bombing.”
“What do you think, Lieutenant?” asked DeWitt.
Ingram said, “Those things gassed, Leon?”
The boat rocked. Beardsley’s hand slipped off the binnacle. Toliver grabbed it and placed it back on. “Thanks Ollie,” he muttered from the side of his mouth. “Full load. Ammo for all the guns. Bombs on carts ready to go.”
It seemed so easy. Turn everything over to the Army with Otis DeWitt stepping in to lead the charge, and one of Leon Beardsley’s grinning throttle jockey buddies hauling them to Australia in glory.
Beardsley slurred, “Aussieland, Todd. Think of it. Hot baths, hotter broads, steaks, all the beer you can drink. A deal you cannot turn down.”
“Shut up, Leon. Let me think.”
Beardsley made a spitting noise.
Ingram rubbed his chin. Weather permitting; they could make the 450 miles to Mindanao in six nights. Up until the fifth day, their track would be the same, until Bohol Island. There they would have to decide whether to run directly east for the Surigao Straits and the Pacific, or to head south another hundred miles for Nasipit, a harbor on the north coast of Mindanao.
Something else came to mind. Amador. He had gone to Nasipit, his hometown according to Aguilar, setting up a resistance cell. “There’s a radio in Nasipit,” Ingram said.
DeWitt exhaled loudly. “That’s it then.”
“Okay. We run for Nasipit,” Ingram said. “We’ll try to hook up with Amador and use his radio. And then dig up one of Leon’s B-17s. All we need is someone to fly it.”
“I’ve got friends all over the place, just itchin’ to take a crack at something like this,” said Beardsley.
“Where, Leon?” asked Ingram.
Beardsley swayed easily with the boat’s motion. “Just get me there, Todd. I’ll take care of it.”
Ingram and DeWitt exchanged glances, knowing there would great risk looking for a B-17 and one of Beardsley’s pilot friends. Most likely, they would reprovision and head for Australia after they made radio contact.
Dewitt said. “Six days. That gives us time.”
“Time for what?” Beardsley asked.
“Never mind,” said DeWitt.
“Huh?” said Beardsley.
“We’re in a hurry,” said Ingram.
* * * * *
"How's she doing?" Ingram bent over Helen. She lay on her side; her fist was pushed against her mouth; her knees curled up; definitely fetal.
"Okay so far," said Yardly. "Now. Go get some sleep, Skipper."
"I don't mind." Tonight, he was afraid of sleep.
"Well, I do. We need you whole. Now, go." Yardly pointed to an empty spot.
"Okay." With a sigh, Ingram crawled over and lay on a blanket. Over the past few days he had learned the trick of sleeping on hard surfaces. Even in his debilitated condition he could find enough body fat to wiggle under his ribs, hip, and other areas where bone contacted the deck. With a little finesse, he would brace his feet against the roll of the boat and sleep comfortably, having scrunched fat in the right place.
But tonigh
t, he fell into a shallow, troubled sleep as his mind spewed grotesque images of Farwell's brains splattered on the side of the radio hut. And then cigarette burns popped out all over his body; they hurt like hell, he could feel everyone and Helen grinned at him.
* * * * *
A hand mercifully tapped his shoulder, lifting him from the horror. The Buda's roar ripped into his eardrum and brought back the reality of Mompog Pass and Marinduque Island.
Sunderland crouched over him. "Sorry, Skipper. You said to wake you." He pointed ahead. "Mr. Holloway says Sibuyan is in sight."
"What time is it?"
"About four."
Ingram blinked and ran a hand over his face. The skies were clear and a bright moon had risen, although it seemed more like a thin piece of cheese than the half slice predicted by the Nautical Almanac.
Sibuyan's Mount Guitinguitin rose above the horizon like a vampire's tooth. And off the starboard bow were the headlands of Romblon Island. They were well into a flat Sibuyan Sea and making remarkable time. It must have been the current that squirted them out of Mompog Pass farther than he anticipated.
He looked aft, seeing Yardly drinking a mug of tea, sitting cross-legged next to the blanketed lump that was Helen Durand. The corpsman gave an "okay" sign with thumb and forefinger, then drew a blanket around his own shoulders to ward off the morning's dew. Further aft, Holloway stood at the tiller. They exchanged waves. A quick glance around the boat showed the rest were asleep, except for the watch section; Sunderland doubled as aft lookout and engineer. The two bow lookouts were Bartholomew and Junior Forester.
"Okay. Thanks Sunderland," Ingram said. "Wake me by five-thirty. Before, if you spot reefs or Japs." Ingram lay back trying to wiggle fat under his bones. He closed his eyes.
"Uh, Skipper?" Sunderland's voice was barely audible.
Ingram's eyes popped open.
Sunderland leaned close. "Thanks for bagging that Jap."
"What?"
"I didn't see him. I was watching the others chase that damned pig. First thing I know is that Jap's right behind me blowing up Farwell. He could have had me, too. I was wide open."
"His pistol jammed."
"Yours didn't. Thanks, Skipper."
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 36
