Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Radcliff said, “Todd, tell that Jap to start giving me some landing instructions or I’m going get that Marine gunny up here to shove a bayonet up his—”

  Blinde said, “No need for that, Mr. Radcliff. It’s his brother, you see. They haven’t spoken in more than three years.”

  Ingram said, “I don’t give a damn about that. What I care about right now is the safety of this aircraft and the men in it.”

  “Take it easy, Mr. Ingram. You’ll get what you want. Please keep in mind that this is a matter of national security.”

  “All I care about right now, Mr. Blinde, is our security. Mr. O’Toole,” he said sharply.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Tell Captain Fujimoto in his language that he will do as we say or we’ll remove him from the cockpit.”

  “Well, I—” said O’Toole.

  At five thousand feet Radcliff leveled off and said, “You better tell him something, Lieutenant, or that Marine gunny is going to be up here making us a Jap cocktail.”

  “Hai!” Fujimoto covered his mike and said, “Gentlemen, I have it. Barometer 31.15; wind, northwest at five knots; use runway three-four. They have us in sight and advise us to stay away from the coast and the western end of the runway.”

  “There it is,” said Peoples. He pointed down. Through smoke and haze, the runway hove into sight. It was oriented on a 340–160-degree axis, the end of the runway about two hundred yards from the surf line. The tower was on the runway’s southern perimeter. To the northeast lay a green forested area. A large, jagged mountain range stood out farther north.

  “Okay, let’s try the downwind.” Radcliff eased the C-54 into a right bank and pulled the throttles back a notch. “Flaps. Gimme flaps.”

  “How much?” asked Peoples.

  “This is so screwed up,” muttered Radcliff. “Gimme fifteen degrees.”

  “Fifteen degrees? Yes, sir. I’ll put a man right on it,” said Peoples, reaching over and pulling the flap lever.

  “Cowl flaps! Come on, you guys. Mr. Blinde, I’m going to need my flight engineer. Leo, get up here!” shouted Radcliff. “Leroy, where’s the checklist? Let’s get it going.”

  Blinde rose as Peoples began calling his list. Hammer slid into his chair and chimed in with his settings as Peoples read them off.

  Soon they were down to one thousand feet, with Fujimoto, Blinde, and O’Toole gawking out the cockpit window. Radcliff gave a plaintive look to Ingram, then concentrated on flying his downwind leg.

  Ingram said, “Gentlemen, it’s too crowded in here. Could you please take a seat and buckle up for the landing?” The three shuffled out, leaving the atmosphere in the cockpit much lighter.

  Radcliff looked out his side window and saw they were well past the end of the runway. “Base leg,” he announced, easing into a left turn. “Gear down; twenty-five-degree flaps.” He increased power a bit as the flaps came further down.

  They were turning onto final approach when Berne grabbed his earphones. “Japs are shouting. This doesn’t sound right.”

  Radcliff said, “Almost committed, Todd. About twenty seconds to go or no-go.”

  “Mr. O’Toole,” yelled Ingram. “Come back up here, please.”

  “Sir?” said O’Toole.

  Ingram handed him the loose earphone. “Quick. Tell us what’s going on.”

  Two hundred feet. “Ten seconds, Todd. Still time to chicken out,” said Radcliff.

  “Holy shit!” shouted O’Toole. “He says they’re killing people in there. Russians.”

  “I need a decision, you guys,” pleaded Radcliff.

  Something rattled against the fuselage. The plane bucked. Smoke puffs ranged all around. “Flak!” shouted Peoples.

  “Too late; we’re committed,” said Radcliff.

  Ingram said to O’Toole, “Get aft and buckle up, Larry.”

  “You bet,” said O’Toole, exiting the cockpit.

  “Damn it, come on, baby,” coaxed Radcliff.

  The C-54 bucked. A horn sounded. Peoples looked out his window. “Fire! Number three! Shit. Oil pressure dropping on number four! Damn. Now it’s zero.”

  “Better cut four,” said Hammer. “Recommend fire bottle on three!”

  “Do it,” said Radcliff. He muttered, “No go-around now. Hang on for a hard landing. I need lots of rudder . . . Leroy. Help meee . . .”

  “Got it, boss.” Peoples helped stomp in left rudder, keeping the plane from twisting to the right.

  “Fire?” asked Radcliff.

  “Working on it,” said Peoples, yanking the fire bottle lever.

  Radcliff called, “Jon, you better tell Okinawa what’s going on.”

  “Trying, Skipper,” said Berne, tapping his key.

  “Here we go. Full flaps, Leroy,” said Radcliff.

  Someone screamed aft. Blinde popped into the cockpit. “Machine gun. Mr. O’Toole is hurt.”

  “Get back there and help him,” shouted Ingram.

  “First aid kit on the port bulkhead,” called Hammer.

  They were over the runway’s threshold. “Where’s my flaps, Leroy?” asked Radcliff as he chopped the throttles.

  Peoples gasped, “Lost hydraulics. Emergency pump, Chief!”

  “Gettin’ it,” puffed Hammer. He was on his knees yanking a red handle back and forth.

  “Fire’s out, Bucky,” said Peoples.

  “That’s something.” Radcliff eased the yoke back. The C-54’s nose rose a bit and the plane floated. “We’re gonna be long.” He pleaded, “Come on, come on.”

  The plane finally stalled and bounced hard on the mains. Radcliff let it roll for a moment, eased the nosewheel down, and then tried the brakes. “Hey, they work!”

  “Thank the chief,” said Peoples.

  Hammer rose. “That’s all you get, boss. We may be losing fluid and I’d rather not pump anymore out.”

  “Come on, girl, come on,” urged Radcliff. The runway rushed past. Ingram saw burned-out aircraft, the rising sun painted on scorched wings. There were a few hangars as well, all reduced to rubble.

  “Sheeeyat,” said Peoples. “You can do this, Bucky.”

  “Please, old girl,” pleaded Radcliff.

  “Looking better, Bucky,” said Peoples.

  The C-54 slowed, and slowed some more, finally braking to a stop two hundred feet from the runway’s end.

  “Nice job, boss,” said Hammer.

  “I’ll say,” said Berne.

  Peoples said, “Bucky, you forgot something.”

  “Huh?”

  “You forgot to sideslip.”

  They all laughed.

  Berne said, “I think we took machine-gun fire back there.”

  “Don’t I know it?” said Radcliff.

  Blinde stuck his head in the cockpit and shouted, “Lieutenant O’Toole is dead, and Captain Fujimoto is wounded.”

  “What?” said Ingram. He stood looking at Blinde.

  “Hey, Todd, check this.” It was Radcliff pointing outside the cockpit.

  Ingram turned to see two half-tracks pulling up and pivoting to block their path. A red star was painted on the side of each. Each one packed a quad .50: four .50-caliber machine guns pointed right at them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  22 August 1945

  Toro Airfield, Karafuto Prefecture, Japan

  Everybody was yelling. “Quiet!” shouted Radcliff.

  Peoples gasped, “Did the Japs shoot at us?”

  “No, that stuff came from the beach,” said Radcliff.

  “Which means they have at least two more guns at the other end of the runway,” said Ingram.

  They started yelling again.

  “Pipe down,” said Ingram. He turned to Radcliff. “Did you see them back there?”

  “Saw one son of a bitch from the corner of my eye just as we flared. He was shooting straight at us. And there must be others because they caught us on final approach.”

  Ingram doubled his fists. From one war to another in one easy le
sson. He turned to Berne. “Any luck with Okinawa?”

  “Trying to raise ’em.”

  “When they answer, tell them the Russians are shooting at us and we have one dead. And that we need help. Quick!”

  “Yes, sir.” Patiently, Berne tapped his key.

  “And let me know when you get an answer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gunnery Sergeant Harper burst into the cockpit. “What’s up, Commander?”

  “Sergeant Harper, are you and your men ready to deploy?”

  Harper said, “Yes, sir, we’re already cocked and loaded. Just those two half-tracks right now. Can’t see what’s behind us, though.”

  “Are your men okay?”

  “No injuries. Couple of my kids, first time in a firefight. Scared shitless.”

  “Aren’t we all?” said Ingram.

  “But Lieutenant O’Toole is dead.”

  “We heard.” Ingram thought for a moment, shook his head. O’Toole was a good man. A good sailor. No time. Let the dead bury the dead.

  “And the Jap is wounded.”

  “How serious?”

  Harper said, “Hit in the shoulder. Piece of shrapnel. I think we can fix him. That is, if you want. Otherwise we can just toss him out on the runway.”

  “No, we’ll probably need him, especially now that Lieutenant O’Toole is dead. Please fix him up.”

  “Actually, Mr. Blinde is looking after him.”

  “That’s good. I need to know if the runway behind us is clear of the other half-tracks. I want to get us back to the tower and the protection of the Japanese,” said Ingram. He marveled at what he’d just uttered. Protection of the Japanese. “Do you have any grenades?”

  “Enough to make life shitsville for our Commie friends out there,” said Harper. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Harper squeezed past Ingram and craned his neck to look out the windshield. “Those are M-16s, made in the good old U S of A.”

  “Brought to you by the miracle of lend-lease,” said Radcliff.

  Harper rubbed his chin. “Four guys per vehicle: a driver; guy next to him looks like a radio operator or commander or both; then two gunners to operate the quad .50.”

  As if they’d been listening, the gunners on the half-track on their right trained their quad .50 right at the cockpit, then raised the muzzles.

  “What the hell?” said Radcliff.

  The quad .50s fired. All four of them. The muzzle flashes momentarily blinded them. The bullets whizzed right over the cockpit with a thunderous noise.

  “Sheeeyat,” said Peoples.

  The Russian gunners grinned. One of them stood and drew a finger across this throat. Cut your engines.

  “Think you can take ’em out, Ugly?”

  “Okinawa just rogered our message, Mr. Ingram,” said Berne.

  “Good,” said Ingram. “Keep talking to them. Make sure they know those Commies are shooting at us.”

  “Roger, Commander.”

  Harper said, “Yeah, we can take them out. But we better do it before they start shooting again.”

  “Okay. Get ready at the hatches, port side. It may be tough debarking, so we may need a diversion.”

  “I have one,” said Radcliff. He spoke for a minute.

  When Radcliff finished, Ingram and Harper looked at one another. “Sounds good,” said Ingram. “Okay with you, Sergeant?”

  “I say let’s give it a shot, Commander,” said Harper. A thin smile revealed tobacco-stained teeth. “Better than sittin’ here on our butts.” He nodded out the window. “But we should hop to it. Looks like Ivan is calling in his troops.”

  A glance told them a man was hunched over a field radio, speaking into a microphone.

  “Yeah, check that.” Radcliff nodded out the window.

  A skirmish line of troops was forming near the beach, perhaps five hundred yards distant. They began walking toward the runway.

  “This is getting tricky,” said Peoples.

  “Let’s do it!” said Ingram. “And Gunny, tell Mr. Blinde I’ll be right there. Will thirty seconds be enough?”

  Harper headed for the door. “Give me sixty. But I need ladders.”

  Hammer stood. “I can fix you up. Okay, Skipper?”

  Radcliff said, “Go, Chief.”

  The two disappeared out the hatch.

  “Sixty seconds, then we go,” Ingram shouted after them. He checked his watch, then looked at Radcliff. “Sorry about this mess, Bucky.”

  Radcliff said to Peoples in a loud voice, “Let this be a lesson to you, Leroy. Never, I mean never, volunteer for anything.”

  Peoples replied, “You mean we’re not getting time and a half?”

  Berne said, “Would you believe we are about to shoot at our allies?”

  “They shot first,” said Radcliff.

  “Twenty seconds,” said Ingram.

  He stood in the doorway and looked aft into the cabin. The Marines were bunched against the two port-side doors, about six to a door, portable aluminum ladders poised. He caught Harper’s eye and they exchanged a thumbs-up.

  Ingram checked his watch. Time! “Go, Bucky.”

  “Roger.” Radcliff reached over and advanced the two port-engine throttles. With a roar, the engines revved up and the C-54 began swinging clockwise, the port number one engine heading directly for the half-track off to their right.

  “Jeeez, you were serious boss,” said Peoples.

  Berne crossed himself.

  “Trust me, boys,” said Radcliff.

  The Russians looked up in panic as the C-54’s outboard propeller, driven by a 1,350-horse Pratt & Whitney R-2000 engine, scythed right at them. Three of the four jumped out the sides. The driver frantically kicked the starter and worked the choke.

  Ingram felt a concussion off to his left. Smoke billowed from the half-track on their port side. The Marines must have exited safely. The three Russians on the runway raised their weapons and began shooting. They were cut down immediately by a burst of gunfire from under the right wing.

  The driver in the other half-track got his vehicle going, but it bucked and bounced as he yanked the steering wheel to the left. The half-track stalled and the driver gave up and jumped out the door.

  Berne stood and looked out the left cockpit window. “You got it, boss. We’re okay.”

  The driver stood about twenty feet away watching as the propeller cleared the M-16 by no more than two feet. Then he took off toward the skirmish line.

  A red flare rose from among the troops in the skirmish line. They were closer, perhaps three hundred yards.

  Ingram said, “Bucky, roll for the tower and the Japs. Try to find a revetment where Hammer can do something with those two engines.”

  “I had the same idea.”

  “You should be safe there. Get Fujimoto to talk to the Japs.”

  Radcliff looked up. “Only chance we got. I wonder if he’s okay.”

  “Wait one.” Ingram ran aft, finding Fujimoto stretched out on the floor. Blood was spattered over his khaki shirt.

  Blinde knelt beside him pressing a battle dressing onto his left shoulder. Ingram asked, “What do you think?”

  “I think he’ll be okay. But I’m not a doctor,” said Blinde.

  “Hurts like the blazes,” said Fujimoto. His face was pale, and sweat beaded his forehead. “You have morphine?”

  “Not now. I need you,” said Ingram.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Please.”

  Fujimoto grimaced. “My every waking moment is filled with favors for you.”

  “Lieutenant O’Toole is dead. We’re going to try for the tower. I need you to translate and negotiate with your soldiers. Okay?”

  “I’ll try.” Fujimoto tried to sit up, groaned, and lay back. “Maybe later,” he gasped.

  “Thirsty?”

  Fujimoto nodded.

  Ingram looked across the aisle and saw Lieutenant O’Toole splayed on the floor,
his gaze fixed at the ceiling. Blood ran from the back of his head.

  “He was a good man,” said Fujimoto. “A Domer.”

  “That he was,” agreed Ingram. He looked up, “Anybody have some water?”

  Sergeant Hammer came up the aisle and handed over a canteen.

  Blinde grabbed it and held it to Fujimoto’s mouth. The wounded man drank for a moment, water dribbling down his chin.

  Ingram said, “You going to be all right?”

  “Like I said, I’ll try. How are things going out there?”

  “To tell you the truth, I think we just started World War III.”

  “How nice. And this time everyone is mobilized. No time wasted.”

  Ingram said, “Not this guy. I’m ready for home.”

  Fujimoto closed his eyes and nodded.

  Ingram turned to Blinde. “You have a weapon?”

  Blinde patted a shoulder holster hidden under his jacket. “Thirty-two automatic. It was my mother’s.”

  “What?”

  “Pearl handle.”

  Ingram snorted. “About as much stopping power as a BB gun.”

  Blinde stuck his nose up a bit. “Better than nothing.”

  “I hope so.” Ingram stood. “Okay, I’m off.”

  Ingram and Hammer walked back to the cockpit. Ingram let Hammer past and then asked, “Runway clear?”

  “As far as we can see,” said Radcliff.

  “Good. Fujimoto looks all right—a little loopy, but okay. Blinde is helping him for now. I think he’ll be okay when the time comes.

  Radcliff called, “All right. Watch it out there, Todd. Looks like the bastards on the skirmish line are taking potshots at us.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Yeah, Harper and his boys are behind the half-tracks.”

  Ingram turned to Berne, “Any more from Okinawa?”

  “Not a peep, sir.”

  “Damn it. Okay, keep trying. Gotta run, Bucky. Now get going.”

  “No argument from me. Good luck.”

  Ingram jumped out the port-side hatch and quickly scrambled down the ladder. Harper and six of his men knelt twenty yards away behind the empty half-track.

  Two bullets grazed the concrete beside Ingram and zinged off into the distance. Radcliff goosed his engines, the roar incredible. The C-54 swung all the way around and began waddling back toward the tower.