The fifteenth of August was a day of mayhem and celebration. Shortly after lunch, Adm. William F. Halsey Jr. had sent an “all hands” message to his entire Third Fleet that the Japanese had capitulated and the war was over, effective immediately. Pandemonium erupted throughout the Keramas, with whistles blowing, signal flags two-blocked, sirens wailing, and guns of all calibers firing. The same thing happened all over the western Pacific, the celebration extending well into the evening. But lest a last-minute kamikaze attack be hurled at a relaxing Third Fleet, the prudent Halsey sent a follow-on message to his airmen:
“INVESTIGATE AND SHOOT DOWN ALL SNOOPERS—NOT
VINDICTIVELY, BUT IN A FRIENDLY SORT OF WAY.”
Todd Ingram was a veteran of Japan’s 1942 siege of Corregidor and later the Solomon and Marianas campaigns. He had seen death many times, sometimes up close. He had smelled it too, but the odor hadn’t been as oppressive as it was here in Kerama Rhetto, a veritable junkyard of twisted metal and scorched superstructures. Some ships were so badly wrecked that it was impossible to tell what class they once were, let alone make an actual identification. Through the process of triage, a few had simply been beached to be later picked apart by salvage crews.
The Maxwell was second in a nest of five destroyers secured to the Pluto, a 12,000-ton repair ship whose crew worked around the clock patching up the ships in her brood. Directly alongside the Pluto was the destroyer Richard W. North. Her topsides had been mangled when five kamikazes had attacked her simultaneously from all compass points. Without air cover, she fought valiantly, knocking down three of them. But two found their mark—one forward, one aft—the conflagration unimaginable as the kamikaze’s fuel tanks exploded and spread holocaust over the entire ship. The fires burned so hot that the 20- and 40-mm ammunition topside cooked off. Two ensigns who only six months before had been pulling fraternity stunts were the only officers to survive out of twenty-two. They brought the North in, one ensign conning from the fantail, his arm in a sling, the other down in main control in the forward engine room.
As fate would have it, the North’s after stack was the only piece of her superstructure that survived. The Maxwell, which lay second in the nest, was to be the lucky recipient. Third in the nest was the Alphir, her second 5-inch mount obliterated by a kamikaze. The Manon, fourth in line, had hit a mine. She rode on her lines all right, but the repair crew had yet to figure out if her back was broken. Last in the nest was the Riffey, victim of a collision with on oil tanker while refueling. The two smacked side-to-side in a lumpy sea, obliterating the port side of the Riffey’s bridge. Miraculously, no lives were lost, but they’d fired the Riffey’s skipper and Ingram was worried they would grab Tubby White for the spot. He was certainly qualified, although Landa refused to admit it. Ingram suspected that Landa and White enjoyed their jousting but secretly held the utmost respect for one another. Landa was career Navy while Tubby White was a Reserve who planned to transit back to civilian life as soon as possible. If White really was incompetent, Ingram thought, Landa would have long ago fired him.
The seventeenth was calm and sultry. With no wind, flags hung limply from their halyards. The celebration finally over, the crews resumed work. Blue-brown clouds of smoke from welding torches surrounded the nest, making it look as if the ships were trapped inside an Indian teepee. Worse, the odor of death hung in the air as the Pluto’s repair crews hacked at the North’s wreckage and recovered bodies, some trapped for days.
The odor got to Ingram. As long as this pall of death hung over his ship, he couldn’t eat. Yesterday morning he had been up on the Maxwell’s foredeck when the workers recovered a body from the North’s forward 5-inch gun mount. The poor sailor’s blackened chest was ripped open as if by a giant cleaver, the ribs and viscera exposed. Ingram had lain awake last night visualizing the horror at that wrecked gun mount. He knew he would never again order spare ribs in a restaurant. Wind. Please, oh, please, God, just a little wind.
At sunset the Maxwell, Riffey, Alphir, and Manon were at general quarters, obeying Halsey’s instructions for vigilance. The ghosts on board the Richard W. North stood also at their battle stations, a duty they would silently bear into eternity. The combat air patrol buzzing over Kerama Rhetto ensured the ships’ safety against unfriendly snoopers. Also helping were the 20- and 40-mm antiaircraft guns stationed on the surrounding islands.
Ingram and Landa leaned on the bridge bulwark looking aft, watching the Pluto’s welders zap the final touches on the Maxwell’s new number two stack. Landa had returned earlier in the day, intending to get under way that evening to rejoin his squadron still at sea guarding the Iowa.
Ingram couldn’t get used to this relaxed GQ. Men were talking at their battle stations; a few even milled around the weather decks. A pall of tobacco smoke streamed up from the main battery director. At first Ingram felt rage. They’re smoking up there. He wanted to yell at them to knock it off. The war was over, but his psyche still dictated a brink-of-disaster frame of mind. It was sunset. Surely a bomb would explode or a 5-inch 38 would crack in his ear at any moment. But all was quiet.
“Todd, damn it, relax,” ordered Landa. He cuffed Ingram’s shoulder. “Drink up.” Landa had ordered coffee sent to the bridge, something unthinkable at general quarters in wartime.
“Okay, sure.” Ingram removed his battle helmet but kept his eyes on the western horizon, occasionally raising his binoculars.
“Go on, damn it. Drink!”
Ingram took a sip. Tastes good. He took another.
“What do you think?”
“Beats the hell out of the stale macaroni and cheese we had for dinner. Where’d you get it?”
“Off the tender. CO passed out a pound to each of his cans today.”
“We have enough to make some for the crew?”
Landa flashed his neon smile. “That’s what I asked. The guy was a little embarrassed. Another five pounds will come over the gangway before we sail.”
Ingram nodded. “Good. They deserve it.”
Landa watched as the welders gathered up their gear. “Umm, not a bad job. It looks straight, at least. Could use a little paint here and there.”
“We’ll get after it,” said Ingram, frowning at the smudges of greasy smoke left over from the kamikaze hit.
Landa lowered his voice. “So, you haven’t told me. What do you think?”
“About the coffee? I said it was good.”
“Come on.” Landa patted the letter stuffed in his chest pocket, just in with the afternoon mail.
“Lemme read it.”
“Negatory. Too much driveling stuff that would drive you nuts. I’m sure it’s like when Helen writes—”
“Okay, okay. You’ve finally set a wedding date?”
“Well, no, but we’re going to.”
“And now you’re getting nervous.”
Landa flushed. “Absolutely not. I just have to think about the proper time, that’s all.”
Ingram allowed a smile. “Don’t let me stop you.”
For nearly two years Landa had been dating Laura West, a gorgeous platinum blonde pianist with the NBC Symphony Orchestra’s West Coast Division. They were engaged, but the war hadn’t cooperated with wedding plans. “So, what do you think?” he asked again.
Ingram said, “Okay, I’ll tell you what I think. You are one lucky son of a gun. She’s too good for you. If I were you, I’d have tied the knot six months ago before somebody could walk in and show her what a good husband is really about.”
“I appreciate your confidence.”
“Jerry, damn it, get it going before it’s too late. Before some rich Hollywood 4-F drives up in his Cadillac with a diamond ring.”
“She already has a Cadillac.”
“But not the diamond ring.”
Landa shrugged.
“You get my gist. Quit putting it off.”
Landa rolled his eyes. “Okay. The minute we land stateside I will grab her and—”
“Excuse me
, gentlemen.” Radioman First Class Leo Pirelli sauntered up, arrogant as always. It was something about how he looked directly at his superiors and how he carried his head.
“We’re at GQ,” snapped Landa.
Pirelli didn’t miss a beat. “My apologies, Commodore.” He played at clicking his heels. “I was out for a stroll, and—”
“Whaaaat?” said Landa. “You insubordinate—”
“To deliver this to Commander Ingram,” Pirelli continued. “It’s a priority message and I knew he’d want to see it now. Sign here, please, Captain.”
Ingram signed. Pirelli gave a regal bow. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said and walked away.
As Ingram read the message Landa growled. “Todd, you gotta get these people under control. First that damned exec of yours is crapping in my soup. And now that candy-ass radioman is directly insubordinate to—”
“Holy cow,” Ingram blurted. “You won’t believe this.” He handed the message to Landa:
FROM: COMMANDING OFFICER, FIFTH FLEET
TO: COMMANDER ALTON C. INGRAM, 638217, USN
DATE: 16 AUGUST 1945
SUBJ: TEMPORARY DUTY, ASSIGNMENT
INFO: COMMANDING OFFICER THIRD FLEET
COMMANDING OFFICER DET B-27
COMMANDING OFFICER SERVRON 27
COMMANDING OFFICER, DESTROYERS PACIFIC
COMMANDING OFFICER, DESRON 77
1. UPON RECEIPT, YOU ARE TEMPORARILY DETACHED USS
MAXWELL (DD 525).
2. YOU ARE TO PROCEED TO CO DETACHMENT B-27 WHEREVER
IT MAY BE TO ARRIVE NLT 172400I.
3. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS VIA COMDET B-27.
4. WHITE, ELDON P. LCDR, USNR ASSUMES TEMPORARY
COMMAND MAXWELL.
5. AUTHORIZATION: COM5 BB-27117-5AT
BY DIRECTION
C. J. MOORE
Landa’s eyes grew wide. “Jesus. This is from Spruance. What did I ever do to him?”
“Commodore, in case you didn’t notice, it’s me he’s after, not you.”
“No, I mean I get Tubby White. What did I do to deserve this?”
“You’ll get over it.” Ingram reread the message. “Surprised he still remembers me.”
Landa pursed his lips and made kissing sounds. “Yeah, please tell me sometime how you made his A list.” Adm. Raymond A. Spruance had awarded Ingram the first of his two Navy Crosses in 1942 before sending him back to the South Pacific as executive officer of the USS Howell (DD 482). Jerry Landa had been the destroyer’s CO.
“And I have until tonight to get there.” Ingram turned to his talker. “Anderson, ask combat to check the OP-Manual Annex for the location of Detachment 27-B.”
“Sir.” Anderson pushed a button and relayed the order.
Only a moment had passed when Anderson said, “Bridge, aye.” He reported, “Combat says Detachment B-27 looks sort of like a moving target. Today and tomorrow, it’s located on Ie Shima.”
Ingram called into the pilothouse to the quartermaster of the watch. “Townsend, you have the local chart up?”
“Right here, Captain.”
Ingram and Landa clumped into the pilothouse and crowded around the chart table. Ingram found Ie Shima, a bean-shaped island about three miles off the west-central coast of Okinawa. He picked up dividers and stepped off the distance. “About fifty miles north of here.”
A breathless Tubby White stepped into the pilothouse. “Todd, er, Captain. You’re not going to believe this. Oh, and here’s a copy for you, Commodore.” He handed over copies of the message they had just read.
Ingram said, “Thanks, Tubby. Pirelli just brought up a copy.”
White mopped his forehead, “One of these days I’m gonna bust him back to seaman deuce.”
Landa said, “You better do it before I do, old son.”
White ventured a look at Landa and then straightened up and faced Ingram. “Captain. The Pluto repairmen have finished gluing on the after stack. Ship is ready for sea.”
Ingram said, “So I see. Very well, Mr. White. Do we have fuel?”
“Topped off, Captain.”
“Provisions? Ammunition?”
“Done.”
“Line handlers?”
“Standing by and ready to split the nest.”
“Very well. Set the sea and anchor detail and plot a course for Ie Shima.”
“Will do, Captain,” replied Tubby White. “All we need is your permission to light off boilers three and four. Also, we have to finish passing the milk and ice cream.”
“I thought we had our allotment,” said Ingram.
White said, “Well, I spoke with the boys on the Pluto. They agreed to help us out with some extra.”
Landa asked, “Anything about coffee coming over?”
White replied, “Ah . . . er, Commodore, I traded that for the extra milk and ice cream. I figured the crew would like—”
“Shit!” said Landa, slapping his hand on the chart table. “Why didn’t you ask me first?”
“What? I didn’t know. I didn’t . . .” A sheepish White turned to Ingram. “Permission to light off boilers three and four?”
“Granted. Make sure you check the minefield plots for Ie Shima. Have a copy posted up here as well.” Ingram slapped Tubby White on the butt. Eager to escape, White disappeared quickly around a bulkhead.
Anderson suppressed a snicker and the other men on the bridge turned away to hide their smiles. Landa looked to the sky, fighting to hold his temper.
Ingram said, “Jerry, he obviously didn’t know you had ordered the coffee. It was for the crew that he—”
“I’ll kill the son of a bitch,” growled Landa.
“Well, you’ll be dropping me ashore at Ie Shima, so I won’t be around to see the bloodbath. Of course, by that time Tubby White will be the skipper, and if you do kill him, you’ll be up on charges of mutiny.”
“The fat little bastard.”
Ingram faked a yawn.
“What the hell does Spruance—or Halsey, for that matter—want with you?”
A gentle breeze wafted through the nested ships, taking with it, at last, the odor of death. It was nearly twilight and a quarter moon climbed above the horizon. Ingram sniffed at the zephyr. Thank you. He shook his head with the realization that he looked forward to getting off the Maxwell. That made him feel guilty. But now, maybe, the nightmares would go away. “I wish I knew.”
Chapter Three
18 August 1945
Ie Shima Island, Okinawa Prefecture, Ryukyu Islands, Japan
Ie Shima was flat except for Mount Gusuku, a craggy two-hundred-foot peak that dominated the eastern end of the island. An airfield ran diagonally across the island’s center. At one time the five-mile-long island’s rich soil had been tranquil farmland. But the fighting for Ie Shima had been as bitter and protracted as it had been for the rest of Okinawa. Bomb and artillery craters pockmarked the once meticulously tilled fields and the white sand beaches.
Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Ernie Pyle had been killed on Ie Shima the previous April. A war correspondent for the Washington Daily News, Pyle was already famous for his reports from the African and European campaigns. He was perhaps more famous—at least among the troops—for promoting the “Pyle Bill” in Congress, which awarded an extra ten dollars per month to infantrymen in combat. A victim of a tumultuous marriage and combat fatigue, Ernie Pyle was wedded to his job. With “his” beloved troops, Pyle moved to the Pacific theater when the Nazi regime collapsed. While touring Ie Shima by Jeep with a colonel and two others he was killed by a Japanese machine gunner. Still in his helmet, Pyle was buried with honors in the military cemetery between an infantry private and a combat engineer. He was the only civilian in World War II to be awarded the Purple Heart.
Ingram stepped off the shore boat near midnight and reported to a thin and balding major named Neidemeier in a deep bunker near the airfield. The bunker was full of squealing electronic machines that reminded him of a Bela Lugosi movie.
Tired and half asleep, he paid scant attention as Neidemeier brusquely stamped paperwork, handed it to Ingram, and told him to stand by for orders at any moment. Then Neidemeier waved him off to a Jeep that took him to block A-355, a four-man tent somewhere out in the night.
Ingram barely managed to get the bedding laid out before collapsing into his cot as the tent’s three other occupants snored peacefully. Not even the rumble of R-2800 engines being tested kept him awake. He slept soundly—and dreamlessly—until three o’clock the next afternoon, and then went in search of a late lunch. Along the way he discovered that the tents were grouped around an airfield. On one side was a huge boneyard of wrecked Japanese airplanes of all sizes. A few American planes were sprinkled among them. The other side consisted of a polyglot of American fighters and bombers squeezed into revetments. Quite a few transport aircraft were parked on the tarmac before a rickety control tower. Nearby, large tents housed operating personnel, a hospital, and a chow hall. Soldiers, sailors, and Marines were bivouacked there in four-man tents, including the one Ingram occupied in block A-355.
Fortunately, the chow line was open. He wolfed down meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and string beans. Then he found his way back to his cot and . . .
Ingram awoke to find a shadow looming above him. Someone—a nondescript private—was shaking him. “Zero six forty-five, Commander.”
“Huh?”
He received no answer. The man was gone. Ingram lapsed back into sleep.
Edge of Valor Page 3
