Edge of Valor (12 page)

Ingram said, “I thought we were through with fighting.” He pushed away his Jell-O half eaten.

“Me too,” said DeWitt. He took a last bite and said, “But maybe there's something we can do about it.”

“I hope so.”

“Well, you might be part of it. You're meeting with my boss in twenty minutes to talk it over.”

Ingram gasped, “General Sutherland?”

“The one and only. Now finish your salad. Here comes our dinner.”

Chapter Seven

20 August 1945

Rosario Apartments, Manila, Luzon Island, Philippines

T
hey walked down the hall to a door marked “Suite B.” DeWitt nodded to one of the two guards and knocked. Hearing a muffled response DeWitt stuck his head in and said something. Then he turned to Ingram. “Go on in, Todd,” he said, opening the door wider. “I'm right behind you.”

General Richard K. Sutherland sat near the end of a cloth-covered table as Filipino waiters cleared dishes from what looked like a party of six. A blue cloud hung in the room. Ingram sniffed: cigars and cigarettes. To help things along, Sutherland smoked a Lucky Strike; a near-empty pack lay close to his left hand. Ignoring Ingram and DeWitt, Sutherland flipped pages in a thick report, fully engrossed.

A side door opened and a silver-haired Filipino wearing a starched white coat and gloves entered. He reached over the chair next to Sutherland and said, “The general forgot this.” With a gold-toothed smile, he pocketed a corncob pipe and silently withdrew. DeWitt raised his eyebrows at Ingram.

Sutherland looked up. “Seats please, gentlemen. Just another minute.” He returned to his reading as Ingram and DeWitt pulled out chairs. Sutherland looked to be in his mid-fifties with sandy hair and an average build. Like General MacArthur, Sutherland was a blueblood. His father had been a U.S. senator from West Virginia. He'd sent his son to Phillips Academy and then to Yale. Sutherland's hair was mussed; dark pouches hung under his eyes. No sleep and the jungles of New Guinea can do that to you, Ingram supposed.

Sutherland had been General MacArthur's chief of staff since 1937, and that job was taking its toll. More so since President Truman had named MacArthur the supreme commander of the Allied Powers (SCAP). Accordingly, events of the time weighed on MacArthur and his staff. And this man sitting before Ingram and DeWitt was making decisions in the general's name affecting tens of millions of people. Sutherland and his staff were stuck in a near-hopeless quagmire trying
to deal at the same time with the U.S. State Department, the Japanese military, the Japanese imperial household, the transport home of tens of thousands of GIs, recovering thousands of emaciated prisoners of war, and occupying a nation of 80 million subjects loyal to Emperor Hirohito.

With a grunt, Sutherland laid down his half-finished report and checked his watch. “Damn, I'm due next door in two minutes.” He looked up. “We're meeting with the Japanese delegation tonight and then tomorrow morning. And then we send them home tomorrow afternoon.” He looked to DeWitt, “Otis, do you have that stuff on imperial Japanese protocol, traditions, and usage?”

DeWitt fired back, “It's done, sir.”

“On my desk first thing tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Sutherland fixed them both with a stare and then said to Ingram, “Always good to have the Navy around.”

Ingram said, “Glad to help out, General.”

“You'd think this was a time for celebration and thanksgiving, but it isn't, not with this.” He closed the report and tossed it aside. “You know what this says?”

Ingram and DeWitt shook their heads.

“Of course not. Pardon my rhetoric. It says that Generalissimo Josef Stalin is demanding all of Karafuto and half of Hokkaido.” He looked at Ingram. “Do you realize that Marshal A. M. Vasilievsky kicked the shit out of the Kwangtung Army?”

“That bad, sir?”

“And that Vasilievsky's three armies total about one and a half million men, most of them battle-hardened troops fresh from fighting Nazis on the European front. The Japs' ranks were decimated to bolster the Pacific war. All that remained were old men and untrained garrison troops. They had no idea about what they were up against and didn't have a chance against Vasilievsky's people.” He tapped the report with a forefinger. “The Commies outnumber the Japs three to one in men and three to one in tanks. And these are big tanks, T-34s, against the little matchboxes the Japs slap together with American scrap metal.” He looked at Ingram with tired blue-gray eyes. “Nope. The Japs didn't have a chance. The Rooskies beat them with what they learned from the Nazis: maneuver warfare.” He ticked off his fingers: “Manchuria, the Kuriles, and now Karafuto.”

Ingram stared back.
What the hell am I doing here?

Unfazed, Sutherland continued, “Our intel as of twelve hours ago states that Stalin intends to keep going south from Karafuto. It appears he will order Marshal Vasilievsky to make an amphibious invasion of Hokkaido across the La Pérouse Strait day after tomorrow.”

“Jeepers,” said Ingram.

“I wondered when you would wake up, Commander,” said Sutherland.

“You have my attention, sir.”

“Very well.” Sutherland continued, “However, it turns out we have a president with balls. He challenged Stalin—excuse me, I mean the generalissimo—reminding him that the Commies are indeed entitled to Karafuto, or Sakhalin, as they call it, in accordance with agreements reached at the Yalta Conference. The Kuriles too. Hell, the Japs took it from the Russians in 1904. Why not grab it all back? So far so good.

“But, God bless the president, he stuck to his guns and told Stalin that Hokkaido is not a matter of negotiation.” Sutherland waved a radio flimsy. “This just in. State Department informs us that Truman told Stalin to go fly a kite. That all of the home islands are to remain under the jurisdiction of the Japanese in accordance with the Potsdam Declaration. Stalin signed the dotted line. The ink isn't even dry, so Truman has him over a barrel.”

Sutherland took a long drag. “All this from a Democrat president. I am impressed, truly I am.” Sutherland sat back and sipped coffee.

Ingram couldn't resist. “And?”

“We wait for the generalissimo's decision. In the meantime, we need you to do something for us.”

Ingram glanced at DeWitt, who rendered a noncommittal shrug.

Sutherland said, “Here it is in a nutshell. Do you know anything about Walter Boring?”

“I haven't had the pleasure,” said Ingram.

His sarcasm wasn't lost on Sutherland. “Of course not; you've been driving destroyers around the Pacific.”

“Trying to do my best, General.”

“And well you've done. Two Navy Crosses, and I was there to see Ray Spruance pin one of them on you.” That was true. With ten other men, Ingram and DeWitt had escaped the horrors of Corregidor via an open boat through the Philippine archipelago. After reaching Australia they were taken to San Francisco, where Rear Adm. Raymond A. Spruance had pinned the Navy Cross on Ingram in an impromptu ceremony in the Pope Suite of the St. Francis Hotel. At the same time Sutherland promoted Otis DeWitt to lieutenant colonel.

“Thank you, sir.”

Sutherland took a deep breath. “So we hope we have Stalin backing down and not invading Hokkaido. The fighting is winding down in Mongolia, China, the Kuriles, and Karafuto—I guess I'll have to get used to calling it Sakhalin. Even with all that, we need you for a special mission.”

Here it comes
.

“Take it easy, Commander. You'll be with us for only a couple of days. We'll have you back to your ship within a week.”

A door creaked open at the other end of the room. A balding colonel stuck his head in the door. “Okay, General?”

“Right there, Sid.” The door closed and Sutherland turned back to Ingram. “That's Sydney Mashbir, our chief translator; best in the business. I'm supposed
to be conducting the meetings, but it's Sid who understands every nuance of their lingo. He'll sit beside me and catch it if they try to snow us.”

Ingram blurted, “What will General MacArthur do?”

Sutherland gave a sly grin. “General MacArthur has retired back to his suite at the Manila Hotel, and as far as I know is watching a movie with his wife and young Arthur.”

“Oh.”

Otis DeWitt spoke quietly, “It's the imperial way, Todd.”

Ingram must have looked bewildered because Sutherland leaned over and patted his forearm. “Gamesmanship, son. The general knows it better than anyone. Even better than Emperor Hirohito. And the delegates understand it. We have a simple list of demands, and it's really not necessary for the general to be there. They would try to sidetrack him with some stupid detail, and then it gets messy.”

Ingram said, “I think I'll stick to driving destroyers.”

Sutherland chortled. “That's the spirit. Now, back to Walter Boring.” He paused for a moment and butt-lit another Lucky Strike. “Boring is a Red Cross representative who was inspecting Japanese POW facilities near Harbin, China, when the Soviets attacked suddenly. The Japs swept Boring up and carried him east just ahead of the Soviet invaders. Eventually, he ended up on Karafuto and was trapped in a pocket near Toro on the west coast where the fighting is still going on. So far, they're holding off the Russians, but it sounds like the end is near, a matter of a week or so. It's essential you get Boring and return him to us before the Soviets get him.”

Ingram sat back. “Oh, sure,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that.”

“Mr. Ingram,” barked DeWitt, “please remember where you are.”

Sutherland raised a hand, “It's okay, Otis. I don't blame him. He doesn't fully understand the connection.”

Ingram took a deep breath. “Sorry, General.”

There was a rap on the door. Mashbir stuck in his head. “All set, General.”

“Be right there, Sid.” Quietly he said to Ingram, “Otis has the details, but basically it's this. Boring has information that's prejudicial to the security of the United States, especially if it falls into the hands of the Soviets.”

“Jeepers. I thought they were our friends.”

“Don't believe all you read, Commander, especially about Communists,” said Sutherland. “Basically, you are to fly to the Toro airstrip on Karafuto and bring Walter Boring out.”

“How do I find him?”

“He's with the Japanese, under their protection.” DeWitt's twang notched up a bit. “It's like this, Todd. You fly into Toro, contact the garrison commander there, and have him hand over Boring and any documentation he may have.”

Ingram raised his eyebrows.

“Documentation?”

“Can't talk about that, Todd. Safe to say that the Japanese have assured us that this can happen. They'll be waiting for you.”

DeWitt grabbed Sutherland's pack of Lucky Strikes and plugged one into his cigarette holder.

Sutherland stood. “Please don't get up. I have to go, gentlemen. It's been a pleasure. See you tomorrow morning, Otis.” He gathered his papers, then his near-empty pack of Lucky Strikes, and said to DeWitt, “You're welcome.”

“Hell, it was my pack to begin with, General.”

They both grinned. “So it was.” Sutherland walked out.

Twirling his cigarette holder, DeWitt said, “Major Radcliff will take you there in his C-54. Colin Blinde will also go, and we'll send a squad of Marines just to help out.” With great panache, DeWitt lit his cigarette and blew a long stream of smoke.

“Blinde? He's a fop.”

“I know, I know. But he has back channels.”

“Back what?”

“Someone reliable who tips us off to stuff.”

“Oh, a spy.”

“Spies can be shot. A back channel is far more reliable and much safer than someone hiding in the bushes and snapping pictures through the window.”

“Why do you need a back channel to the Japs? Just point a gun at them.”