Luther’s plane had arrived ten hours earlier, and he was gone by the time Ingram reported to the Howell. Now Ingram would never see Luther again.
And his IOU lay at the bottom of the Kula Gulf...
Ingram rose and padded to his desk. In the corner was an eight by ten framed picture of Helen, beautiful, smiling, signed ‘all my love.’ She’d given it to him the night he caught the airplane for Hawaii. “Hi, hon.” He looked at her for a moment then forced his eyes to the safe. Rubbing a hand over his chin, he ran the combination, pulled out his wallet. Then he buttoned a shirt, stepped into his trousers and shoes, snatched his garrison cap, and headed topside.
It was a blazing moonlit night. Water swished down the starboard side, and the Howell barely rolled, following Issac and Griffith at 500 yard intervals. Ahead, Savo Island silently stuck its menacing 735 foot peak into the night. Raising his eyes to the sky, Ingram studied the stars, the Southern Cross quite clear: a million dollar view.
He thought of Luther and that crazy telephone call. The explosion flashed before him, and his stomach surged. Hold on, damnit. He stepped in shadows beneath the starboard motor whale boat, both hands desperately grasping the bulwark. It took all his will power to keep from retching. Finally, his belly decided to cooperate and he stood, looking from side-to-side, half-expecting to see someone smirking.
He took two deep breaths, wishing he could stop the sweating. After a moment, he leaned on the bulwark and gazed into the glowing phosphorescent wake, its luminescence making his face glow like a Peter Lorre horror film.
Twenty feet aft, Jerry Landa climbed through a deck hatch from the forward boiler room. Hank Kelly, wearing oil splotched engineer’s overalls, emerged after him, and the two stood talking on the main deck, the wind ruffling their hair, a shard of light occasionally bouncing off Landa’s perfect white teeth.
Ingram shook his head. Jerry Landa: A skipper’s skipper. He had an instinctive gift of leadership with a sharp sense of humor. At times however, that was off-set by an explosive temper. But Ingram had learned to deal with it and either kept his Commanding Officer out of trouble or crawled in a hole when it wasn’t safe for any one around. In a way, Ingram and Landa were cultural contrasts. Landa, from a stevedoring family, grew up in Brooklyn and went to the Merchant Marine Academy. Ingram grew up in Echo, Oregon, a small railroading town near Pendleton, and attended the Naval Academy. The unmarried Landa was flamboyant and ashore, had acquired the nickname “Boom Boom,” presumably because, when the party was at a fever pitch, he told barroom jokes mimicking the sounds of human flatus. Oddly, Landa didn’t like to be called “Boom Boom,” although he enjoyed calling others by nick-names. Ingram on the other hand was married with him and Helen living quiet lives. Their goal, after he left the Navy, was to live on her fathers avocado ranch near Ramona, California.
Ingram concentrated on the swishing water. Somnolent. Calming. He felt better. Let it go, Todd. But how to get rid of the abject cowardice he felt. It had been with him since his escape from Corregidor last May. In retrospect, it seemed like he’d been fighting himself more than fighting the Japanese. Oftentimes, he’d just felt like cutting and running. And yet, Admiral Ray Spruance had deemed it proper to personally decorate Ingram with the Navy Cross and call him a hero. Me, a real phony. If they only knew. He slapped his palms on the bulwark and tried to concentrate on the low shape of Guadalcanal as it grew above the horizon, the scent of honeysuckle taunting his nostrils.
Damnit. There’s plenty to live for. Helen’s image poured through his mind. He saw her clearly, almost as if she stood before him now. She was tall, five eight, slender with dark brown hair pulled back and tied at the neck. But it was Helen’s eyes that always drew him in: dark brown, quick, intelligent, absorbing; entirely warm and consuming.
Four months previously, the Howell had been hit by a suicide bomber on her fo’c’sle while screening the carrier Enterprise in the Battle of The Santa Cruz Islands. Landa suffered a serious lung puncture wound, and eventually recuperated in the U.S. With the others, he returned to duty aboard the Howell, just as she emerged from overhaul in Brisbane, Australia. During the overhaul, Ingram was given a special behind-the-lines assignment in Mindanao. There, he suffered cracked ribs and serious internal injuries at the hands of the Japanese, but accomplished his mission and rescued Helen Durand -- who in a way, rescued him. Later they were married and had two months of recuperation and honeymooning. Indeed, she was all he needed...
Landa walked up. “Not you, too.”
Ingram’s head spun and he nearly stuttered, “Me too, what, Skipper?”
Landa leaned beside him on the bulwark. “Down. Morale. Piss-poor. Nobody’s talking. Seeing the Barber go up like that.”
“Sometimes it gets to you.”
Landa nodded.
“I wonder...”
“What?”
“Maybe I should write a letter to Luther’s wife. You know? Better than a telegram on a Friday afternoon?”
“Good idea.”
Moments passed, then Landa said in a sharp tone, “Not on my watch, Mr. Ingram.”
“What?”
“I’ve got a ship to run. If we show any fear or hesitancy or unwillingness to jump in and do it, then the crew is going to act the same way. Everybody. OfficersBA
“I didn’t mean to--”
Landa held up a hand and cut him off. “Don’t be a sap. No, you don’t mean to. Nor does anyone else. But I’ve toured my ship. I just finished the forward boiler room with Hank Kelly. Morale down there, like everywhere else, is lower than a dachshund’s balls. We’ve lost our edge, damnit. “And to me, that means we lose next time Tojo comes calling.”
“Jerry--”
“Listen. We’ve been out of this fracas for four months, both of us wounded, and yet, here we are again, with our same ship and same crew, more or less. We have to get our arms around this thing, Todd, before it gets us.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper. Tomorrow morning, I’ll put a note in the Plan Of The Day prohibiting any display of poor morale: punishment for such offense resulting in restriction to the ship for fourteen days on rations of stale bread and water. Furthermore, I will order all officers toBA
“Todd, just shut up.”
Ingram puffed his cheeks. “Sorry.”
“You know, I did something dangerous while I was recovering.”
“What?”
“I read a book.”
“Sure.”
“Damnit. It was fiction. Hemingway.”
Ingram grinned with the realization that Landa usually read seedy detective novels.
“He has a new one, it’s called Men At War.”
“Umm.”
Landa studied Ingram to make sure he wasn’t pulling a face. Satisfied, he said, “He talks about cowardice. Basically, he says, you have to put your imagination in neutral. No looking forward, no looking back. Just neutral. Live for now and for the time of your next meal. That’s it.” Landa waved a hand in the air. “No wives or girlfriends, no civilian job, no real estate deals, no mom or dad. Nothing.”
They stood for a moment, forearms braced on the bulwark, each lost in thought. Landa was right, of course. Ingram wondered if Landa knew about his nightmares. Maybe Landa knew about his fear, his pills. Stop it! “Live for today, only,” he said.
“‘Fraid so. Tough on guys like you who are married. If you look forward to your sweetheart, you’re screwed.”
“Tougher on Luther.”
“Damnit. Will you listen to me?”
“Okay.”
“Remember John Halford?”
“Off the Bass?” John Halford was the CO off the destroyer U.S.S. Bass who, after eighteen months at sea, was sent home to teach engineering at the U.S. Naval Academy.
“That’s him. Pretty good skipper. I met him in the O Club right after we pulled into Noumea from Stateside. The Bass was just coming out of overhaul -- her aft deckhouse had been badly mauled in that Savo Island fracas. Halford was tellin
g me about it. Sounded awful, lots of gore. So I asked John, ‘How do you stand it? How do you keep your sanity in all this?’ Guess what he said?”
Ingram kept silent.
“John said that he considers himself dead. That there is nothing to look forward to. Just dead. That’s it. No imagination to fill in the blanks and drive you crazy.”
“He married?”
“Yeah.”
“Well? Did he write to his wife?”
“I think so.”
“A one sided conversation?” Ingram scratched his head. “What happened when he read her letters?”
“Never opened them. Tied them in a bundle and kept them in chronological order to read on his way home.”
“I wish I had his will-power.” Water swished down the side, the wake hissing in the night. Ingram watched it, his eyes becoming unfocused.
“Todd?” Landa waved a hand before his face.
“What?”
“I said, ‘Helen’s worth going home to, I grant you that.’”
Ingram reached for his wallet.
“I don’t want pictures now.”
“No.” Ingram pulled out a ten dollar bill, smoothed it on the bulwark, and flicked it over the side.
Landa watched it flutter into the wake, as if throwing ten dollar bills into the New Georgia Sound was the most normal thing a Sailor could do. He slapped Ingram on the back. “Buck up, Todd. Go write your letter. But remember, our chances of getting through this are good. Just don’t think about it.”
“Right.” Ingram turned to walk forward, then stopped. “What you say makes sense, Skipper. It’s hard for me to accept it, but I understand what you’re getting at.”
“Okay.”
“In a way you’re lucky, Jerry.”
“Oh?”
“No wife, No kids. Nobody to think of.”
“A perfect warrior.”
“You know what I mean.”
Landa shrugged, then nodded out to sea. “What was the ten bucks for?”
“A friend.” Ingram touched his cap. “Permission to lay below?”
Landa returned the salute. “Sleep well, Todd.”
Landa watched him go, then stared at the sea’s glassy surface. Ingram was right. He could pump out crap about getting wrapped up in loved ones. But there are times, he knew, when you have to think of yourself and survival. Not to get sidetracked with a wife. Yes, I am lucky, he thought. No wife. No family. No dog, no mortgage, no Sunday paper in front of a roaring fire while drinking freshly brewed coffee, the scent of bacon and eggs wafting from the kitchen.
There was Josh, though. Jerry Landa’s mother had died giving birth to Jerry’s younger brother. Growing up in Brooklyn, the boys were close and their father, a stevedore, raised them as best as he could, keeping the family together. Josh was clearly the smarter of the two, showing great potential. Both Landa and his father made sure the boy studied and made good grades. Landa had just graduated from the Merchant Marine Academy and was slated for sea duty when his father fell into a ship’s hold, breaking his neck, killing himself. All of Landa’s extra money went to properly raising Josh. And the kid rewarded the memory of his father and older brother by earning a scholarship to MIT. Landa was very proud, as Josh hit home runs everywhere he went, becoming a wunderkind of sorts, earning his Ph.D. in electronic engineering at age twenty. He was now with a government agency working on secret electronic stuff he couldn’t talk about.
Except there was one thing Josh leaked to his older brother when they got together a few weeks back while Landa was recuperating in San Francisco. They’d had drinks, with Josh loosening up and telling his worries over a top secret new device called the proximity fuse. That it was being rushed to the fleet too quickly, that it might be inaccurate and worse, unsafe.
Josh could never hold his booze, Landa knew. And here the kid was again, eyes red, weaving on his barstool and slurring, “...gotta tell you I’m worried ‘bout that damn thing, ‘cause yer first on the list to receive them.” He burped. “Destroyers gettum first.”
“What should I do?” Landa prodded.
“Be careful. Radar might set ‘em off. Make ‘em blow up in your gun barrels or sumthin’. Be careful. Stay with your regular time fuses until the proximity fuses are proven. You swear?”
“I swear,” Landa said to his little brother, the MIT genius.
And now, Landa thought, how neat. Unlike me, Josh doesn’t have to catch a Jap bullet. Damnit. Like Ingram, I got something to live for, too.
Landa straightened his cap and moved forward. One of his Sailors stepped aside as he mounted the ladder to his sea cabin. The ship took a roll as Landa said under his breath, “Or, maybe, to die for.”
CHAPTER FOUR
25 February, 1943
Rawlings & Sons Piano Repair, Inc.
Silver Spring, Maryland
“You going home, Josh?” Four gold stripes gleamed on Frank Ashton’s sleeve as he reached over Joshua Landa’s shoulder to jerk the blackout curtains shut.
Josh’s heart raced as he carefully nudged a gray crate further under the lab bench with a foot. “Not yet,” he croaked.
At six-two, two hundred pounds, the Navy Captain dwarfed the twenty-eight year old Josh who buttoned his coat tighter against the cold outside. Hunching his five-foot nine-inch bean-pole frame further over the lab bench, he made a show of scribbling in his journal. Can Ashton see the damned crate?
“What’s keeping you so late?”
Josh didn’t want to be kicked off this job. If he were, his exemption would be canceled and it would be straight into the Army, MIT Ph.D. notwithstanding. Show respect. He cleared his throat and said, “Just a couple of tests. Won’t be too long.”
“...well, don’t forget the drapes, Josh. We’ll sure get in Dutch if some block warden pounds on the door and finds out what we’re really doing.”
Josh flipped switches on an oscilloscope, then turned on a speaker and said, “No, Sir, mustn’t tip the Nazis. We just fix pianos. That’s all we do here. Old man Rawlings has been dead for years, but that’s okay. His wastrel sons preserved his ears in formaldehyde. Perfect pitch, that’s their secret. Here, listen to this. High ‘C.’“ He ran the gain up, making the speaker screech.
Ashton covered his ears until Josh turned off the audio. “You really shouldn’t be here alone.”
Josh spun and faced Ashton, his hands jammed on his hips, his feet spread.
“I worry about you,” Ashton said, jabbing Josh’s shoulder.
“You tell us we’re in a race against time. You tell us to produce. You say we’re wasteful. You tell usBA
“Josh. Hey, I’m on your side.” Ashton offered his signature easy smile.
“...can I help it if my partner is home with pneumonia? The damn job finally got to him. How can I go home when you throw all these impossible deadlines at me?”
“I just don’t want you getting overtired. And look,” Ashton swept a hand across the laboratory, “everyone is gone.”
“All I do is test glass. When do I get to test the fuse?”
“You’re not ready. In due time. But not now.”
“But you won’t listen to my theory.”
“Which one is it now?”
“Radar interference.” Damnit. Josh wished he hadn’t lost his temper. Casually, he reached over and closed his journal.
“Radar interference is not your bailiwick.” Ashton paused for a moment, then said, “Say, have you been doing anything on your own?” His eyes dropped to Josh’s journal.
Josh gave a crooked grin. “No, sir.’“ He threw a mock salute. “Just glass. Twenty, thirty, fifty thousand ‘Gs.’ we have it in all sizes. Then crunch, crunch, crunch. Do you realize, Captain, how many little kids can’t decorate their Christmas trees with light bulbs because of all the glass we’re crunching up?”
Ashton thought about that. It was true. The demand for hardened glass vacuum tubes had virtually wiped out any remaining civilian glass supplies for the rest
of the war. He pat Josh on the shoulder. “Go on home, Josh. Relax. You need it.”
Josh pointed toward the stairwell. “I’m not alone. Gordon’s downstairs.”
“Gordon is not a scientist.” Ashton said, referring to the civilian security guard in the downstairs lobby. “And you know the rules. I want people working in pairs, never alone. You must have backup.” Ashton studied the workbench. Metal boxes, wires, tools of all sizes and shapes, beakers and bench vices absorbed every square inch. He wondered, how can Josh get anything done?
Josh tried again. “If I’m right, we’ll save money in the long run, lots of it.”
Ashton pointed to a sign over the doorway which read:
I DON’T WANT ANY DAMN FOOL IN THIS LABORATORY TO SAVE MONEY. I ONLY WANT HIM TO SAVE TIME.
Merle Tuve, the lab director had authored the sign. Josh knew what it said and, without looking, shrugged, “All I’m trying to do isBA
“You have to walk before you can run, kid. Give it a while. We’ll get you going on the whiz-bang stuff soon enough.”
“Okay.” Josh heaved a sigh, knowing he couldn’t fight it. Technically the blue-blooded Ashton was Josh’s boss. His Naval lineage went back to his great grandfather, who stood alongside Farragut in the Civil War’s Battle of Mobile Bay. Administratively, Josh’s real boss was Herb Randall at the Carnegie Institute’s Department of Terrestrial Magnetism. Like Josh Landa, Randall was one of the new wunderkinds in military electronics. Both of their doctoral studies were in radar, a field that was explored up to 1936, then cast aside as a luxury. But after war broke out in Europe, the science was resurrected, primarily by the British, who used radar to defend England against the Nazi Luftwaffe in the Battle of Britain.
By the luck of the draw, Josh had missed being assigned to Randall’s staff, now housed in a likewise surreptitious building over on Georgia Avenue, the sign on that building announcing USED CARS. There, Randall rubbed elbows with the lions of the physical sciences: Merle Tuve, Richard Roberts, or even the oft-visiting Vannevar Bush, Chairman of the National Defense Research Committee and President Roosevelt’s personal scientific appointee. Also, on Georgia Avenue was Navy Commander Deke Parsons, who Josh admired, especially when compared to this spit-wad standing next to him.
WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3) Page 4
