Edge of Valor (30 page)

“I'm sorry,” said Blinde.

DeWitt picked it up with, “There's no doubt you all did an outstanding job, and you have the thanks and gratitude of General MacArthur and his staff. If there was a way, he would gladly endorse your recommendations, which would include a Silver Star and maybe even another Navy Cross for you.”

“Otis, it wasn't me. Those guys put their lives on the line.”

“I know they did. And they deserve recognition. It sounds harsh, but that's the way it has to be. I wish I could say more, but you're done here, right, Colin?”

“Done,” said Blinde. He looked at Ingram, “You'll sign a security statement?”

“I said I would,” said Ingram. He didn't like the sound of it.

Blinde said, “Good. And you too, Commander Toliver?”

Toliver said, “Not on your life, cheese ball.”

Blinde said, “But—”

“What do you expect, Mr. Blinde?” said DeWitt. “He's with the Office of Naval Intelligence. His rank is full commander.”

Ingram piped up. “Yeah, congratulations, Ollie. When did that happen?”

“Six months ago. Washington, D.C.”

They looked at Blinde, who said, “Oh, all right.”

DeWitt said, “Done, then. I'll have the recorder prepare a statement for Todd to sign before he shoves off.” He stood, gathered papers, and began stuffing them in a briefcase. “I have a launch standing by to take you back to Kerama Rhetto and your ship.”

Ingram was suddenly overcome by outrage at the hypocrisy that was occurring on both sides. The Japanese had been conducting horrible acts of savagery over the years and were getting away with it; and his fellow Americans, who were protected by the flag under which they fought, had agreed to look the other way. Again the photos rushed back into his mind. What had Boring called the corpses? “Logs.”

“What?” asked DeWitt. “What logs?”

Ingram's blood boiled. The Japanese had labeled thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of helpless butchered people “logs.” They'd sewn tags to their coats, dragged them into an operating theater, and hacked open their bodies while stoic interns stood by, drawing diagrams or clicking off photos. And now, the United States was going to look the other way so it could improve its war-fighting capability. He stood and braced himself.

“You okay, Todd?” asked DeWitt.

“Tired.” He took a deep breath then leveled his eyes on DeWitt. “Okay, we're finished.” What was done was done. And apparently the Harbin activity was all over. No more human experiments. Time to get on with it. Time to get on with life. Silently, he thanked God for the chance he had been given. Far better than what had happened to the poor people in Harbin and the millions of others killed in Asia and Europe.

But he knew he'd be dreaming again. Worse dreams than the ones after his escape from Corregidor. One way or another, he would be going home soon. Helen and his baby boy would be his to have and hold. “Maybe the war really is over.”

“I beg your pardon?” said DeWitt.

“Okay, Otis. No medals. Right?”

“That's what I said, ‘no medals.' Sorry.”

“Well, then, there is one thing you can do for me.”

“What's that?”

Chapter Twenty-One

25 August 1945

Fort MacArthur Infirmary, San Pedro, California

H
elen straightened Eddie Bergen's pillow. He seemed to be doing better. He had even allowed a barber to sit him in a chair and cut his hair. Eddie's color was good, and he smiled a lot more. But he still smoked his Luckies constantly and read Donald Duck and Scrooge McDuck comics. But that was normal, she reasoned. A lot of GIs read comic books. They'd littered every Army post to which she'd been assigned. Eddie was engrossed with Huey, Dewey, and Louie in Scrooge McDuck's rocksolid treasury building with ten-foot-thick walls. The little ducks were sitting on a mountainous pile of gold coins, tossing them in the air.

Eddie ignored her as she lifted his wrist and checked his pulse: seventy-four. Not bad. She noted it on his chart and said, “Eddie, it's noon. Time to eat. You hungry?”

“Huh?”

“Eddie. Put that down before I throw it in the trash.”

Eddie set the comic aside. “Sorry, Captain. It just came in with this morning's mail.”

“You saw Dr. Raduga this morning?” Dr. Julian Raduga, the infirmary's psychiatrist, looked the part: he always wore a starched white lab coat and black bowtie. On the long side of thirty, he had pomaded brown hair and a Van Dyke beard.

Dr. Raduga's ward was growing rapidly as GIs flooded in from POW camps in the Pacific. Unattended patients could often be seen wandering the halls at three in the morning, some wearing nothing but a diaper, some weighing less than one hundred pounds, their thousand-yard stare riveting passersby. Getting an appointment with Dr. Raduga was like trying to get tickets to a Bob Hope radio show.

Eddie nodded. He'd been lucky.

“How did it go?”

“He asks stupid questions.”

“Like what?”

“Wants to know if my father beat my mother.”

“What did you tell him?”
Careful, Helen
.

“All the time. Especially when he was drunk.

Her heart went out to him. “Oh, Eddie.”

He said, “But my mom usually got me out of there. She would send me outside to Larry's room over the garage.”

“Who's Larry?”

“My uncle. Dad's brother.”

“But why didn't . . . ?”

A shadow swept across Eddie's face.

Time to stop
. Helen faked a yawn and patted her tummy. “Sorry, Eddie. My stomach's growling. How about you?”

“Yeah, okay.” He picked up Uncle Scrooge. “Peanut butter and jelly again?”

“I heard it's turkey sandwiches.”

“Really? Peachy keen.”

“See you later, Eddie.” Helen headed for the dining room thinking about Eddie's progress. He was doing well. She, on the other hand, wasn't. Two nights ago, at two in the morning, Fred had knocked a glass liberty bell off a shelf in the living room and it shattered on the floor. She'd jumped out of bed terrified, panting and shaking. It took fifteen minutes to control her breathing. Then, without thinking, she crawled under the bed. She was there ten minutes later when Jerry started crying. His diaper needed changing. She got up, changed it, and fell into bed exhausted.

A psychiatrist. A shrink. It was such a delicate subject. The last thing she wanted was someone discovering she was seeking psychiatric help. If she was going to do this, she had to do it quietly, discreetly. And she should do it now. Todd would be coming home soon. She wanted to give him a proper welcome, a sailor's welcome
—in
the bed, not curled up into a ball under it.

Last night she had swallowed her pride and called Laura West. A true friend, Laura didn't miss a beat and suggested Dr. Robert Behrman, a Beverly Hills psychiatrist who attended some of the movie colony's most famous. But Behrman charged $100 per hour, and his office was a two-hour drive up Sepulveda Boulevard. That would kill most of a day
and
her ration of gas, and it would definitely kill her bank account. Next she thumbed the Yellow Pages and found a psychiatrist in downtown Long Beach. His receptionist finally divulged that Dr. Sullivan charged $25 per hour. Still too much.

That left Dr. Raduga. She mulled the name over and over in her mind. Outside of seeing him hurrying down the hall from time to time, she hardly knew the man. She did know she needed help.

“Ooof!” Someone stepped from an exam room and bumped into her.

“Oh, Helen.” Capt. Martha Brubaker had been the floor nurse on the obstetrics floor the night Helen went into labor. Brubaker had practically delivered Jerry by the time Dr. Gaspar showed up. Brubaker stopped. “How are you doing? I don't get to see much of you, and of course, your little . . .”

“Jerry. He's a handful, Martha, and doing fine. Sleeping through the night. Misses his dad.”

“And how
is
your husband, that handsome naval captain? ‘Boom Boom?' Is that what you called him?” They stopped, Brubaker partially blocking her path. Obviously, she wanted to talk.

Play along
. Helen laughed. “Oh, no. He's not my husband. He's my husband's best friend, Captain Jeremiah Landa. We named the baby after him. Jeremiah Ingram.” She didn't add that at the time her son was born her husband was a prisoner on board a Japanese submarine en route to the submarine pens in L'Orient, France.

“How sweet. And the father is . . .”

“His name is Todd. He's fine. He's still out there, a destroyer skipper. He's like a million other guys who want to get back to their families. But it's hurry up and wait, as usual.”

“So, he's not career?”

“Oh, he's definitely career. But he's been overseas for such a long time. I'm sure the Navy will wake up and give him stateside duty.”

“Let's hope so. I—oh, hi, Mel.” Brubaker waved as Sgt. Melvin Letenske poked his head out the dining room double doors and smiled.

“Hiya, gorgeous. Got a date tonight?”

Brubaker laughed. “It's Captain Brubaker, Sergeant.”

“Well, Captain, you got anything going tonight?”

“Let me check with my husband first.”

“You're married?”

“Come on, Mel.” She waved her gold wedding band.

Letenske grinned. “He's one lucky son of a bitch.” He looked at Helen. “How about you, beautiful?”

“That's Captain Ingram, Sergeant.”

Letenske got on one knee. “Pardon me, Captain. But you look like you need company tonight.”

Helen and Brubaker exchanged glances. “Can you believe this?” said Brubaker.

“Mel, you know better than that,” said Helen.

“Well, if you change your mind, I know this neat little place over in Wilmington called Louie's. Fantastic Italian food. We could—”

“Sergeant!”

“Sorry, Captain. Can't blame me for asking.” Letenske ducked back inside and the doors swung closed.

Brubaker reached for the door handle and muttered, “That man is horny as a two-peckered goat—you first, honey.” She opened both doors and stood back for Helen to enter.

Helen stepped in and—

“Surprise!”

The room was full of staff, some in lab coats, some in operating gowns, some in uniform. A smiling Colonel Ledbetter stood before her. Letenske was at his side with a clipboard. Both wore their class A uniforms. She recognized Dr. Raduga in the back.

“Surprise!” they yelled again.

A photographer knelt before her and clicked his shutter. The bulb flashed. Helen covered her face for a moment. She felt as if she'd been given an electric shock. “What?” Frozen. She couldn't move.

“Helen, this is for you, honey,” said Brubaker.

“What?”

“Come on, dear, can't keep the colonel waiting.” She placed a hand under Helen's elbow and gently pushed.

“Let go.” She shook off Brubaker's hand.

The photographer blasted out another shot. Then he unscrewed the flashbulb and replaced it with another. “Another, okay, ladies?”

“This is all so . . .”

“Nurse Ingram,” said Colonel Ledbetter. “You're out of uniform.”

Helen turned to Brubaker, “What is this?”

Brubaker hissed, “Get on with it, honey. You've been promoted to major and you'd better respond.” She gave Helen a withering look and took a step back.

“Martha, I'm sorry,” said Helen. She walked up to Colonel Ledbetter and said, “Sorry, sir. This is too much of a surprise.”

Colonel Ledbetter was also an MD and usually a serious man. But he wore a genuine smile as he held out his hand. Sergeant Letenske passed over a citation.