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

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  "Nasty looking," said Lorca, as the Catalina opened her throttles and lunged into her take-off run. Finally, she cleared the water. As the pontoons folded into her wingtips she clawed for altitude and disappeared to the north. They fell silent again, with the wave action more pronounced as they drew close to shore. No one had shot at them yet, and Ingram steered for two flag poles near the launching ramp. With no wind the flags drooped, but still, he could tell one flag was Australian, the other belonged to the United States of America.

  "Sweet," said Yardly. "I'm gonna kiss the ground under that pole."

  Lorca said, "Man, I'm right behind you."

  One hundred yards.

  Sunderland made sure his BAR was out of sight, then stood beside Yardly. "Did you know, Bones, that this is the beer capital of the world?"

  "Huh?" said Yardly.

  "That's right." They drink more beer per capita here than any place else in the world."

  Ingram rang the little bell, calling for idle.

  Fifty yards.

  "No kiddin'" said Yardly.

  Twenty-five yards.

  Sunderland said, "Pulled liberty here a couple of years ago. Best beer, best women on the planet; bar none."

  CRUNCH! Ingram ran the 51 Boat's nose into the sands of the Commonwealth of Australia.

  "Tonight's the night," yelled Bartholomew. He threw aside his crutch and flopped in sandy water with a great splash. "The beer's on me, Sunny."

  Yardly jumped out with a whoop. Forester was next, followed by Sunderland and Lorca. Like grinning five-year-olds at Christmas, DeWitt and Toliver piled up in the bow to jump off and join their shipmates, throwing sand and splashing in the waters of Doctors Gully.

  While the American airmen shuffled up and stood gawking, Ingram jumped after his shipmates falling headlong in chest-deep water with an enormous splash. He whooped and screeched like the others with the final realization he wasn't going to be killed by enemy gunfire, at least in the near future.

  A squad of heavily armed Australian soldiers ran up and fanned out, their legs splayed. A sergeant shouted, "Welcome to the Top End, blokes. Where yer from?"

  "Corregidor," yelled Sunderland.

  The sergeant waved to his squad who cocked their rifles. "You have an officer, maybe?"

  Ingram stood with sand and muddy water dripping down his face. "Me."

  The sergeant took in Ingram's torn trousers, ripped shirt, boots without soles and planters hat. "That so, Sir?"

  Ingram dumbly nodded. "Name's Ingram, lieutenant, USN. We just got in from Corregidor."

  The Australian sergeant reached up to Ingram's collar where his lieutenant's device should have been. "Lieutenant, huh?

  Where's yer bars?"

  Ingram raised his hands then flapped them to his side with a lopsided grin. "Mrs. Carrillo has one. What's left of the other is with what's left of the Jap who took it."

  "He's toast, Mr. Ingram," shouted Sunderland hitting Yardly in the back with a sandball.

  "Let's hope so," said Ingram.

  "Corregidor, you say?" said the Australian sergeant.

  "Yep."

  Corregidor fell over a month ago."

  "Don't I know it?"

  "Any ID, Sir?"

  Ingram reached in his pockets and came out with a rusty screwdriver.

  The sergeant pulled his pistol and fired a round in the air bringing the 51 Boat crew's celebration to an abrupt halt. Their stares matched the incredulous stares of the PBY airmen gathered on the concrete ramp.

  The sergeant yelled, "Now then. On yer faces, you AWOL goldbricks."

  Sunderland bellowed, "Not me, Jack. I'm going into town for a gallon of ice cold beer."

  "On yer belly, mate. Town's evacuated. No beer here." The sergeant kicked the backs of Sunderland's knees. "Down and spread before I blow a hole in yer."

  "Aww sonofabitch," moaned Sunderland, sinking in the sand.

  Someone kicked Ingram in the back. "That means you, Lieutenant."

  Beardsley wobbled to his knees then fell on his face beside Ingram. With a grin he mimicked an Aussie accent, "Right-o Bluie. Welcome to the land down undah."

  * * * * *

  After two weeks, four long plane rides and many long meals, the Army transport Tasker H. Bliss gave a deep, prolonged blast followed by three short blasts, backing from her slip in Sydney. At twilight, Ingram fingered shiny lieutenant's bars (they called them "railroad tracks") on his new, starched, khaki collar. He peeked once again through the slightly parted, watertight bulkhead door to the ship's bosun's locker in the forepeak. Great coils of line hung on the bulkheads along with shackles, pendants, and enormous cheek blocks.

  But this evening, the normally neat and orderly white painted space, was thick with tobacco smoke. Men, in a variety of uniforms, sat on blankets spread on the shiny linoleum deck. There were four groups, in circles of five to seven. Each group sat around piles of money, as if in pagan worship of some sort. The group nearest Ingram contained four marine enlisted, two Navy aviator lieutenants and Gunner's Mate First Class Kermit Sunderland. He wore a new set of immaculately pressed dress blues complete with campaign ribbons. His sleeves were rolled up and his white hat was perched on the back of his head.

  With a broad grin, Sunderland scooped in the pot--there were several twenties--and stuffed it in a bulging, brown paper bag.

  A Marine gunnery sergeant, sitting next to Sunderland, tossed cards on the blanket and spat, "Sheyyatt. Deal, Sunny."

  Sunderland raised on his knees, gathered the cards and after arranging them, thumbed the deck beside his ear. He nodded as if satisfied the cards really were all there, then took his time lighting an enormous cigar.

  "The man said 'deal,' mister," growled one of the flyboys.

  Puffing mightily, Sunderland offered a smile and said, "Okay, okay. Now this here's a game of honest poker. None of this stupid wild-card crap. It's a man's game." He took another luxurious puff and blew smoke in the general direction of the overhead exhaust duct.

  "Well? What the hell's it gonna be?" snapped the gunny.

  "We call it five-card stud; where money talks and bullshit walks. Ante up, girls." Sunderland tossed in a twenty.

  Ingram smiled, eased the bulkhead door closed, and walked aft toward the bridge. In gathering darkness, the Bliss pulled away from the dock. When Ingram reached the deck below the bridge, the ship had gained sternway, making the wake sizzle down her starboard side. Sydney was blacked out, and there wasn't much to look at, except shadows of the last land he would see for the next two and a half weeks.

  And he wouldn't be seeing Beardsley or Lorca in the foreseeable future. Both were recuperating in Sydney's Naval Hospital. DeWitt had stayed ashore, too having been assigned to MacArthur's intelligence staff in Sydney.

  The Bliss shuddered as her skipper rang up an ahead bell and shifted her rudder. She twisted a bit, gained headway, and plowed toward the submarine boom and the open ocean.

  Toliver walked up. "Evening, Skipper."

  "Ollie," said Ingram, trying to stretch. His new shoes felt a little tight, the leather soles weren't yet broken in. Like a fool, he'd already slipped twice today. "Was there really something for us?"

  "Yep. Came over with the last guardmail." In the gathering darkness, he held up two envelopes. "How are the boys?"

  "Bartholomew, Yardly, and Forester are down below watching the movie. Sunderland's in the bosun's locker, playing poker with a mixed bunch--flyboys and jarheads."

  Toliver stiffened. "We better get up there. Jeez, all that back pay."

  Ingram chuckled. "Sunderland has it under control." He explained about the paper bag.

  Toliver sighed, "You know. I have the feeling he's going to be richer than both of us if he makes it through this war."

  "Richer than you?"

  "Absolutely."

  "How?"

  "Real Estate. Can't you see him selling limited partnerships in cliffsides, swamps, and peat bogs to little old ladies?"

 
; "That's what I'm afraid of." Ingram nodded to the envelopes. "Is that what I think it is?"

  Toliver handed one to Ingram saying, "This one's for you."

  Ingram held it up to the fading light, examining the neatly typed address label. "Yep. Looks like orders."

  Toliver shook his own packet close to his ear. "Damn. You may be right. Nothing gurgles."

  "You first."

  "Okay." Papers rattled as Toliver leafed through his reconstituted service record. "Hot damn!"

  "What?"

  "Orders."

  "Where?"

  "Gun boss on new construction. A brand new can. She's the," he held a page up to capture the waning twilight, "U.S.S. Ammen DD 527. Bethlehem Steel in 'Frisco. One of the new Fletcher class cans."

  "You like that?"

  "The farther from Long Island the better." Toliver stuffed papers back in the envelope. "Uhhh. Thanks, Skipper for...not...making a big deal out of what happened on the old bird."

  "What? Me? You're the one who blew up that Jap on Marinduque. I owe you my life. Hell, you took care of me and Leon the whole trip."

  "It wasn't me."

  "Nonsense."

  Fading light barely revealed Toliver's smirk. "Okay. We're even." They shook.

  Toliver said, "Now you."

  Ingram unsealed his envelope finding several sets of documents. "Uh, here it is. Oh, yes!"

  "Oh yes, what?"

  "Orders to new construction, like you. She's the U.S.S. Tingey DD 539. Exec."

  "Where?"

  "Bethlehem Steel, San Francisco."

  "See you at the Top of the Mark," said Toliver, referring to the bar on the top floor of the Mark Hopkins Hotel overlooking San Francisco Bay.

  "I'll say. Better save some of your back pay for--what's this?" A brown envelope fell out. It had red strips around the edges, was heavily sealed, and marked:

  EYES ONLY LIEUTENANT ALTON C. INGRAM, USN 638217 EYES ONLY

  SECRET

  "What the hell have I done now?"

  Toliver said, "They want you to do commercials on the "Jack Armstrong Show." Good for morale. Sell lots of war bonds."

  Ingram stepped out to the rail, opened the message, and held it up to the last of the twilight. The return address said: Headquarters, Supreme Allied Commander, South West Pacific Region. "It's from Otis." He took out a handwritten note:

  Todd:

  Everything here is great. MacArthur thinks I'm a god since I was one of the last out. I have a job for life.

  If you haven't seen the newspapers, it turns out we really kicked the Jap's ass at Midway. Everything was...well...as Epperson predicted. June 4th... everything. We jumped them and sunk four Nip carriers. One of our carriers was lost, but that won't be announced to the press for a while. People here are ecstatic. Predict the Japs, now without a heavy attack carrier force, must go on the defensive.

  Wendell Fertig was through Nasipit two nights after our little party and sent a situation report. His message was terribly brief, keeping air time to a minimum, avoiding Jap radio direction finders. Most of it was for requisitioning guns and ammo to build his resistance forces. But he squeezed in three small items: First, he advised the Australian coastal authorities in Darwin to keep a sharp eye out for us. How about that? There's always some jerk who doesn't get the word. Next, Amador passed along greetings and confirmed Tuga died in the dynamite blast.

  The last item was specifically addressed to you. No one here understands it. It simply says, 'to Navy Lt. Alton C. Ingram, 638217: RAMONA.' Do you know Fertig? What does 'RAMONA' mean? Please let me know if you have a clue. MacArthur and his people are going nuts. They keep pestering me.

  Heard you have orders to a new destroyer as executive officer. Good luck. Call when you're back in Sydney.

  Best Regards,

  Otis

  "Hot damn." Ingram muttered. Helen Durand was alive! She had somehow convinced Fertig to get word out and apparently had a good chance of survival. As the Bliss met one of the Pacific's rollers, a great feeling of peace swept over him.

  "Huh?" said Toliver

  "She made it." Helen. Alive. And she had his ring.

  "Who?"

  DeWitt's message said "EYES ONLY." Ingram didn't know how much he could say.

  "Todd," said Toliver, waving his hands in Ingram's face. "Come back to the party."

  "Uh, Sorry."

  "Who are you talking about?"

  Helen's parents should at least know that their daughter was, for the time being, safe. "I've got a job to do," Ingram said.

  "We all do.

  "The Bethlehem Steel plant is in San Francisco, isn't it?"

  "That's what your orders say."

  "And that's in California, isn't it?"

  "According to my fourth-grade school teacher." Toliver was close to exasperation.

  "So is Ramona."

  "So what?"

  "I've heard it's a nice place to visit."

  "Can't beat the Top of the Mark," said Toliver.

  "I'm not so sure." Ingram tucked the documents back in the manila envelope. He'd tell Ollie later, but for the moment he wanted to savor Helen's freedom for himself. For the moment, she was safe with Fertig and had a fair chance of getting out. He'd learned submarines called with regularity in the Philippines, supplying the resistance with weapons and medicine, and taking out ill and wounded.

  They leaned on the rail just as the Tasker H. Bliss slipped through the submarine boom into the Pacific. She took on the rollers with ease, while on the bridge a deck above, the engine room telegraph bell clanged as her captain rang up all ahead standard.

  READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

  A CODE FOR TOMORROW

  THE NEXT STAND-ALONE NOVEL IN

  JOHN J. GOBBELL’S

  TODD INGRAM SERIES

  11 October, 1942

  U.S.S. Howell (DD 482)

  New Georgia Sound (The Slot)

  “Luther! For God’s sake, calm down!” Ingram shouted. “Where is he?”

  Dutton wheezed, “Two...two-eight-five, 4,500 yards.”

  In spite of the relative wind blasting his face, Ingram felt the hairs on his neck stand. Whatever it is, it’s on top of us. And it’s close. For some reason, he thought about his bladder. Now he didn’t have to go. In fact--

  Landa croaked, “Todd!”

  “What?”

  Landa pointed to starboard.

  Ingram looked. Suddenly--”My God!” Outlined by a starshell, an enormous pagoda shaped superstructure loomed before them. And it was close, steaming on a perpendicular course, the ship looked as if she would cut them in half. Even as he watched, the ship’s forward guns loosed a thundering salvo toward the American cruisers.

  Thick, cordite-laden smoke swirled around Ingram, making tears run. But he had to relay the target data to the director. He punched his talk button and rasped, “Jack! Damnit. Target. Cruiser, I’d say. Bearing two-seven-five, range four thousand. Target angle three-four-five, target speed twenty-five knots.”

  “On target and tracking!” said Wilson.

  Ingram heaved a sigh of relief. Wilson’s crew had acquired the target quickly. “Plot! Do you have a solution?”

  The wind whistled in Ingram’s headphones for a moment, then Chief Skala bellowed, “Plot solution. Target course, one-two-zero. Target speed, twenty-seven knots!”

  Rapidly, Ingram did some rough math. With the alacrity of two cheetahs after same prey, the ships closed one another at a relative speed of over forty knots.

  Quickly looking fore and aft, he checked to make sure the guns didn’t point at their superstructure. Then he stooped and yelled down to Landa. “Solution, Captain.”

  Landa, overcome by smoke, was coughing into a handkerchief. Finally, he looked up and jabbed a finger in the air, “Shoot the son-of-a-bitch!”

  “Commence fire!” barked Ingram to Wilson.

  Wilson’s order caromed through the director hatch, “Mounts one, two three, four, director control. Match pointer
s. Standby. Commence Fire!”

  The four five-inch mounts instantly belched their fifty-four pound common ammunition projectiles in a single salvo, their base detonating fuses designed to explode after punching through a ship’s interior. The combined muzzle blast hurled Ingram against the director. “Sonofabitch.” He fumbled at a hand grip, and was surprised when Seltzer grabbed him under the armpits and pulled him up in one jerk.

  “Deck’s slippery,” Ingram muttered.

  “Your secret’s safe with me, Mr. Ingram.”

  Ingram ignored it and watched two white-hot flashes erupt on the cruiser’s upperworks. Just then, the Riley opened up, the multiple ‘cracks’ from her barrels stabbing the night like lightning bolts.

  Thrusting a fist into the air, Landa shouted, “Fire for effect.”

  Ingram relayed the order to Wilson who cranked out another salvo at the cruiser which, by this time, was backlighted by starshells. Three rounds splattered into the cruiser’s superstructure. But Ingram was astounded that the Japanese cruiser, like a four hundred pound sumo wrestler, seemed to shrug them off and plow on, gunfire still spitting from her main battery.

  Landa yanked off his helmet and waved it in the air. “Yeeeehaw!” Then he called to the torpedo director on the aft end of the bridge. “Standby torpedoes.”

  A fire broke out just forward of the cruiser’s number one main gun turret. Two figures ran toward the ship’s prow, their clothes afire. Within seconds, both leaped overboard. The smoke cleared, the outline of destroyer McCalla was barely visible as she blasted out a salvo. Beyond her was the rumble of a full nine-barrel salvo from Helena’s six inch guns.

  Another Howell salvo ripped into the Japanese ship. The fire on her main deck lighted her upperworks, her lifeless deadights looking like skeleton’s eyes.

  All but one of the starshells had gone out. But it was enough to see that the cruiser heeled to starboard. “Looks like she’s turning, Captain.”