Edge of Valor (5 page)

“Mr. White? CIC? What the hell?” demanded Ingram and Landa in unison.

Anderson stood at near attention and said, “Mr. White reports thirteen guys scared shitless.”

Chapter Two

15 August 1945

USS
Maxwell
(DD 525), Kerama Rhetto, Okinawa Prefecture, Ryukyu Islands, Japan

A
dm. Raymond A. Spruance, commander of the Fifth Fleet, had ordered the capture of the Kerama Islands well before the invasion of Okinawa, not only to protect the fleet's flank, but also to provide a staging area for supplies needed in the Okinawa invasion and for ship repair. The Keramas lay only twenty miles west of Okinawa's southern tip. Ship repair became the higher priority as kamikaze after kamikaze smashed into U.S. Navy capital ships, particularly the destroyers that formed the outer picket line. Too many had been sunk while on picket duty; those that survived were sent to Kerama for temporary repairs before steaming away to Ulithi and stateside—or, in the case of some of the blackened hulks lying about, to be towed home ingloriously by seagoing tugs.

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—”