Edge of Valor (28 page)

“Have I ever forgotten before?”

“Shit. Leroy!”

They felt more than heard three rapid thumps. Smoke puffs and foliage debris blew out of the underbrush nearby. “Japs are shootin' back,” said Radcliff.

“Well, let's not hang around to see who wins,” said Ingram.

“Right. Here we go.” Radcliff stomped on his brakes. Then he advanced the throttles on engines one and four, the outboard engines, to full power. The C-54 roared and rattled and bucked as it stood in place, the crew's eyes riveted on the rpm and manifold pressure gauges. “Tighten up, everybody,” shouted Radcliff.

Berne faced forward, locked his seat, and drew the belt snug. Ingram did the same and from the corner of his eye saw Berne pull rosary beads from his pocket. Ingram wished he knew the prayer.

Radcliff popped the brakes. An explosion slammed into the ground fifty feet to their left. Thick black smoke gushed past the windshield. “Wow!”

But the C-54 was moving. Peoples advanced the number two engine's throttle as the C-54 lumbered along. The plane rolled faster, but not before it had gobbled up a thousand feet of runway. Radcliff gradually fed in left rudder to offset the asymmetrical pull of the port-side engines.

“Forty-five,” said Peoples.

Hammer slapped a hand over his eyes, but his fingers were splayed.

“Fifty-five,” said Peoples. Fifteen hundred feet gone.

Ingram rose a bit to peer out the windshield. The M-16 was still there. Spaced on either side were two T-34 tanks. Miraculously, their turrets pointed off to the side. They were shooting at something else.

Ingram had felt terror before, and this was just as he remembered. He wanted to defecate, urinate, and vomit all at the same time. Perhaps he was thinking too much. Always before he had had something to do. Now he just had to sit and watch it happen, feeling as if he was wired to a transformer sending a thousand volts through his body.
Helen, I love you. I love Jerry. Take good care of him
. The Lord 's Prayer came to him, and he said it while watching Berne's fingers move over his rosary beads.

“Sheeeyyat, Bucky.”

“Come on, Leroy, speed, damn it!”

“Seventy-five . . . eighty . . .”

Three thousand feet gone. The M-16 and the tanks grew large in the windshield. The top hatch of the tank on the left popped open. Then the hatch on the right flipped open.

“The bastards are bailin' out,” said Peoples. Indeed, four men scampered from the top hatches, jumped to the ground, and ran away.

“Leroy!”

“Eighty-five.”

Land and runway whizzed past. They were almost on the Russian armor now.

“Ninety-five.”

“Full flaps!” yelled Radcliff.

Peoples shoved the handle and Radcliff pulled back on the control column.

The C-54 staggered into the air and mushed in surface effect. The two tanks and the M-16 whipped past below. Moments later they were over the Russian lines looking down on surprised upturned faces, tanks, trucks, and armored vehicles—hundreds of them. Then the surf. Then gray, quiet ocean. And ships, Soviet warships.

“Can you believe this?” shouted Peoples.

Hammer and Berne yelped and shot their fists over their heads.

“Quiet. Gear up, Leroy.”

“Coming up, boss. Talk to me about flaps.”

“What's our speed?”

“One oh five.”

“Jesus, we shouldn't be flying,” muttered Radcliff.

“What do you want, Bucky?” asked Peoples.

“I dunno. Milk 'em up. Try flaps thirty and pray we stay airborne. And gimme some trim, my foot's getting tired. But not too fast.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.” Peoples cranked in rudder trim to ease the pressure on Radcliff's rudder pedal.

Berne pocketed his rosary then clamped a hand over his earphones. “I'll be damned.”

“What?” said Ingram.

Berne called out. “Toro tower says, ‘Sayonara.' They're signing off now.”

“Tell them thank you,” said Radcliff.

“Hey, look at this,” Radcliff said two minutes later. “We've gained all of six hundred feet.” But their speed was holding at 135. He turned to Hammer. “Okay, Chief, give it a try.”

“Really?”

“No time like the present.”

“Yes, sir.” Hammer pushed some levers. “Here we go.” He hit the button to unfeather engine number three. “Fire in the hole.”

Peoples looked out the cockpit window. “She's rolling.”

“Hurry up, our speed's dropping,” said Radcliff.

Peoples flipped engine three's magneto to “all.” The engine caught.

“Glory, glory,” said Hammer, adjusting the throttle. “All yours, Skipper.”

“Okay, Leroy, let's reset the trim.” With all four engines running, the C-54 flew smoothly.

Radcliff said, “Jon, if we keep flying in this direction we should hit Peking about dawn tomorrow morning. What do you think we should do?”

Berne said dryly, “Well, it would be a good thing if you could fly course one-nine-one. That way, we won't be tried and executed for wasting one of the taxpayers' fine aircraft.”

“Makes sense to me. Think you can handle that, Leroy?”

“Got it, Pop.” Peoples took the control column and eased in left rudder to come to the new course.

Radcliff turned to Ingram and said loudly, “How you doin', Todd?”

Ingram shouted back, “More underwear to clean.”

They laughed.

Ingram leaned forward and said quietly to Radcliff, “That was a very nice job, Bucky.”

“Thanks. Challenging, huh?”

“So how are we doing now?”

Radcliff said, “Climbing like a homesick angel.”

Chapter Twenty

23 August 1945

Seventh Air Force Headquarters, Yontan Airfield, Okinawa Prefecture, Japan

T
he mess tent was cramped and hot. There was just one long table on a packed-dirt floor. At the insistence of Brig. Gen. Otis DeWitt the tent flaps were closed and a guard was posted outside. Two anemic fans attempted with very little success to clear the heavy cigarette smoke.

DeWitt leaned back and blew a smoke ring. “He was in good shape when you found him?”

Ingram yawned again. Two hours' sleep hadn't made a dent in his exhaustion. “I'd say no. He looked like death warmed over, and he sounded like it too.”

“What did he say?” asked Neidemeier.

“He was incoherent,” said Ingram.

“Are you sure?” Neidemeier pressed.

Ingram looked around the table at Otis DeWitt, Clive Neidemeier, and Colin Blinde, the latter gushing Aqua Velva from every pore. Bucky Radcliff kept nodding off, his head propped on his fist.

Almost all of the other men in the tent were as tired as he was. On their arrival at Kisarazu they had sent Captain Fujimoto to a hospital and transferred their cargo to a new C-54 flown in by a replacement crew. Then they bucked and bounced through headwinds back to Okinawa, not arriving until 5:30 in the morning. DeWitt had called an 11 a.m. meeting in spite of everyone's exhaustion—everyone except Clive Neidemeier, who, with eight solid hours of rack time, bored in like a pit bull.

“Commander, please, this is important,” pleaded Neidemeier.

“Don't you think I know that, Clive? I've told you everything I can.”

“But none of this makes sense,” replied Neidemeier. “How did Walter Boring die?”

“Captain Dezhnev shot him in the head?” said Ingram.

Radcliff snickered. Otis DeWitt groaned, and Blinde's eyes popped wide open.

Neidemeier's face grew red. “This is no time for trifling.”

DeWitt waved him down. “It's okay, Clive. Commander Ingram is just joking. Right, Commander?” He blew another smoke ring.

Ingram said, “Yes, Clive, I was joking. Dezhnev stabbed him in the chest.”

Neidemeier sat back and rolled his eyes. “All right, have your fun. But please keep in mind this is an official inquiry.” He nodded to a staff sergeant taking notes in a corner. “You should be more—”

“Actually, Todd,” DeWitt broke in, “I'm wondering why you keep mentioning Captain Dezhnev. Do we speak of our old friend?”

Ingram nodded. “One and the same. Eduard Dezhnev. Our San Francisco buddy.”

“Small world,” said DeWitt.

“Bullshit,” said Ingram, looking at Blinde.

Blinde's eyes popped open. “Ahh, yes. We knew about Commander Ingram's friendship with Dezhnev. That's why we asked for him.” DeWitt gave a broad grin, a rarity. “Friendship?”

Blinde replied, “Well, that's what it sounded like to us. But the FBI wouldn't let us have Dezhnev's file. We weren't aware of difficulties following your initial meetings.”

Radcliff mumbled, “I wouldn't trust the son of a bitch as far as I could throw him.”

Neidemeier said, “Major, could you stay with us long enough to make sense out of what happened?”

“Doing my best, Major Fingermeier,” said Radcliff.

“Neidemeier.”

“Ummmm.”

Again DeWitt had to wave Neidemeier down. “How is Ed?” he asked Ingram. “Same old regular guy?”

The tent flap rustled and a man walked in. He was Navy, a full commander's oak leaves on his collar. Tall, lanky, and tow-headed, he was—

“Ollie!” Ingram jumped up to greet his old friend Oliver Toliver III.

They shook hands and then hugged, slapping backs. “What the hell are you doing here?” asked Ingram.

“Plane was late.” Toliver reached over to Otis DeWitt. “General? Good to see you again.”

DeWitt rose and likewise bear-hugged Toliver. “You're a sight, sonny boy. You look great. Heard you got yourself shot up, but I sure as hell can't tell.”

Toliver gave a wan smile. “It still grabs me once in a while. And the trip out here! That damned plane bounced and jumped all over the Pacific.” He nodded toward Radcliff. “I don't see how you guys do it.” He pulled out a chair and sat heavily.

DeWitt introduced the others to Toliver and sketched out their past connection. In May 1942 the Yale-educated Toliver had served as Ingram's gunnery officer in the minesweeper USS
Pelican
(AM 49) at Corregidor. Without fuel and unable to move, the
Pelican
was sunk from under them in Manila Bay. With ten of the
Pelican
's crew, Ingram, DeWitt, and Toliver managed to escape Corregidor in a 36-foot launch the night the Japanese invaded the island. They made it through the Philippine archipelago and all the way to Darwin, Australia, a remarkable voyage of 1,900 miles.

The following October, Toliver was back in action as gunnery officer on the destroyer USS
Riley
(DD 542). But the
Riley
was blown out from under him by a Japanese type 93 torpedo at the Battle of Cape Esperance. Toliver's hip was broken in the explosion, and he was shipped back to San Francisco. A specialist at the Stanford Lane Hospital nailed it back together. But Toliver was still cursed with frequent pain and a distinct limp. The doctors recommended Toliver be placed on limited duty and not return to combat. He'd served on the Twelfth Naval District staff in San Francisco as a gunnery liaison officer before signing up for the regular Navy and joining the Office of Naval Intelligence.

Which was ironic. Toliver was wealthy. His father was Conrad Toliver, a founding partner in the Manhattan law firm of McNeil, Lawton, and Toliver, which served as corporate counsel to six of the thirty firms constituting the Dow Jones Industrial Average. Conrad fully expected his son to finish law school and join him in the firm. He dreamed of showing off his young son as a World War II poster boy who would strut around the firm's richly appointed offices in full uniform, his medals clanking. And beautiful medals they were. Ollie had been awarded the Distinguished Service Medal, a Purple Heart, an Asia-Pacific Campaign medal with three stars, and a Navy unit commendation. It would have been so good for business. Conrad was very unhappy when he discovered his son had shipped over to the regular Navy.