Edge of Valor (59 page)

Chapter Forty-Seven

4 December 1945

Shakhtyorsk Air Base, Sakhalin Oblast, USSR

“C
ommander, we got trouble.” It was Boland whispering in Ingram's ear.

“Huh?” Ingram tried to straighten up, but he was cold and stiff from being wedged in between two passenger seats.

“Commies. Outside, sir, when you can.” Boland disappeared.

Ingram checked his watch: 7:42. Nearly sunrise. Gray light was already filtering through the C-54's windows.
Damn
! He had overslept. He'd wanted to be up before dawn and outside with the Marines. They must be half frozen by now.

He reached over and shook Peoples. “Leroy. Off and on.”

“Huh?”

“No time for talk. Time's a wasting.” Ingram shook off the blanket, rose, and jammed his feet into his boots. Grabbing his hat, he headed for the ladder.

He scrambled down, finding Boland waiting for him. Silently, the sergeant pointed past the M-16 and down the runway, toward the coast. In the distance a ragged line of soldiers walked toward them on the runway. More were bunched at the edges. It reminded Ingram of a suicide charge; they could have easily been mowed down. Except among the men were two M-16 half-tracks with quad .50-caliber machine guns. And behind them was a staff car.

The ladder jiggled as the cockpit crew scrambled down. Vapor escaped their mouths as they gaped down the runway. “Commies playin' chicken,” said Hammer. They looked at Ingram.

Five minutes, no more
.

“What are your orders, Commander?” Boland asked.

The realization that it was up to him hit Ingram like a bucket of ice water. He'd been faced with decisions in the heat of battle many times. But on those occasions his training and experience had taken over, telling him what to do. And if not that, then instinct. His escape from Corregidor and travel through 1,900 miles of enemy-held territory had been mostly on instinct.

But this was a new situation. What was supposed to be diplomacy could be escalating into a deadly conflict. Two sovereigns who were supposed to be at peace with one another, who were supposed to be friendly nations, were suddenly shaking their fists. And Ingram was in the middle. Friends or not, he realized that they were now standing on the soil of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and the Russians could do any damned thing with him they wanted. It made him feel naked and defenseless. And Boland was asking for instructions.

American naval officers from John Paul Jones to James Lawrence to Oliver Hazard Perry to George Dewey had made decisions under similar circumstances. Like them, he was the on-scene commander. There was no one else to turn to. He, Cdr. Alton C. Ingram, USN, had to decide. Worst of all, he might have to order one or more of these brave men to their death. How ironic. After a bitter four-year war it was peacetime. Yet here he was with a gun to his head.

His first priority: their safety. Second priority: the mission, which didn't look too promising right now, especially since the Russians had two 105-mm cannons dug in at the far end of the runway plus a seemingly inexhaustible supply of those damned M-16 half-tracks. And that was to say nothing of the Russian cruiser anchored offshore.

Back to priority one. Ingram asked, “Still have that bazooka?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Line up on the M-16 on the right and take it out when I give the word.”

“Yes, sir.” Boland raised his walkie-talkie and gave instructions.

The Russians kept advancing.

“How are your men, Sergeant?”

“Freezing their asses off. But they're okay. They have proper gear for a change; good Alpine winter stuff.”

Closer. He could hear the rumble of the half-track's engine.

“Good. After we're done with this set up a plan to rotate them so they can have chow and rest up.”

“Sounds good to me, sir.”

Just then, the half-track on the right fired a burst from the quad .50 machine gun over their heads.

“What the hell do those bastards think they're doing?” said Peoples. He, Lassiter, Hammer, and Berne took cover behind the burned-out M-16.

Ingram said, “Sergeant Boland. Commence fire; bazooka only. Take out the left half-track. But don't reveal your other positions.”

“Got it.” Boland yelled into his walkie-talkie, “Able six,
faaahrrrrr
.”

The bazooka round whooshed downfield, went straight through the halftrack's windshield. It exploded with an enormous blast. A great plume of dust, dirt, M-16 parts, and bodies twirled through the air. Some of the Soviets soldiers nearby were knocked down and lay where they fell. Others crawled slowly away, some being helped by comrades.

Ingram barked, “Line up on the second M-16 and get ready.”

Boland howled into his walkie-talkie.

The second M-16 began a turn, apparently to escape, but someone ran from the command car and blocked its path. Then he ran up to the driver's side and shouted at them, his hands on his hips.

Boland said dryly, “Now's a good time, sir, with that stupid officer standin' there in plain sight.”

“Not yet.” The quad .50s were more or less straight up in the air. “If he levels that thing at us, then I'm going to—” A familiar sound cut him off: aircraft engines. He looked behind him and saw three four-engine aircraft approaching, flying no more than thirty feet above the runway nearly wingtip to wingtip, pulling large trails of dust. They flashed overhead, making the world one of thunder and vibration. The aircraft in the center was a C-54. On either side were B-24J Liberator bombers. They blasted over the Russians and were gone.

The cockpit crew cheered and waved their arms.

“Looks like we have an air force,” muttered Boland.

“Damn! It's Bucky!” Peoples waved.

“How can you tell?” demanded Ingram.

“The sumbitch is sideslippin'.”

“Not only that.” Boland stepped out into the middle of the runway and pointed.

Ingram followed his gaze. The Soviets were in full retreat. The command car was gone, and the remaining M-16 bounced into a clump of bushes and disappeared.

In the distance, the B-24s begin to orbit the
Admiral Volshkov
at about two thousand feet while Bucky Radcliff lined up for another run down the field.

The next decision was easy. Ingram yelled. “Leroy! You and your men get on that aircraft and get out of here.”

Peoples trotted up. “Hold on. What about you and your Marines?”

“We have the Navy and those B-24s to take care of us. Now get going while the getting is good. Start that damned airplane and,” he nodded in the opposite direction, “I suggest you point it that way.”

Peoples said, “You sound like a damned pilot. Okay, Todd. Thanks.” He pumped a fist. “Let's go, boys.” While the others scrambled, he held out a hand. “Godspeed.”

Ingram said, “You too, Leroy. Now get the hell out of here.” He slapped Peoples on the butt. The Marines pulled the props through a few strokes while Peoples and his crew scrambled up. Hammer stayed behind and dashed among the landing gear, pulling safety pins and chocks. He tossed them through the hatch and followed them in. Peoples slid open his cockpit window and called, “Stand clear. We're going to kick up a hell of a lot of dust.”

Boland walked up as Ingram yelled back, “Good luck, Leroy. And thanks again.”

Peoples pulled a face. “I pale in the presence of two naval heroes.”

“Correction, sir,” growled Boland, “I'm a Marine.”

Peoples grinned, shook his head, and called back, “Whatever. Thanks for everything, Gunny. What do you think the Commies will do when we start cranking engines?”

Ingram said, “We'll check with the outposts and let you know. Safe trip home.”

“That's the easy part.”

Engines droned in the distance, and the men on the ground turned to see Radcliff's C-54 heading down the runway, much slower this time. The gear was down and the flaps were lowered, as if coming in to land. Just before the C-54 got to them, a weighted bag fell out the back cargo hatch, thumped down on the runway, and skidded to a halt seventy-five yards away. Then the C-54 flashed overhead and was once again gone, its landing gear and flaps retracting.

Boland raised his walkie-talkie. “Able three, can you recover? . . . Roger.”

A marine in a white camouflage suit ran out of the bushes, snatched up the bag, and jogged toward them.

Boland said, “Pony Express, sir.”

The Marine handed it over.

“How you feeling, son?” asked Ingram.

“Not bad, Commander. Err . . . are those Commies coming after us?”

“Not if I can help it. Actually, you guys just fired the shot heard round the world.”

“Are we in trouble, sir?”

“Not at all, son. Thanks for taking care of us.”

“You're welcome, sir.”

Boland nodded and the Marine jogged back to his post.

Ingram said, “Your men are going to have a story to tell, Gunny.”

Boland chuckled, “I can see it now. Amaya telling his grandkids, ‘Hey, I fired the shot that started World War III.'”

“Good aim.”

Hammer hollered down from the open hatch, “Watch out. Fire in the hole and clear one!” Then he hoisted up the aluminum ladder as the propeller for number one engine began to turn.

Boland led Ingram over to the runway's edge as the engine caught, backfired, erupted great quantities of blue smoke, and then finally evened out. Engines 3 and 4 started in short order, coughing and snorting.

Boland jammed the walkie-talkie to his ear as the engines rumbled. “What?” he yelled. Then, “Hold your position . . . that's affirmative . . . roger.”

Boland turned to Ingram and hollered in his ear. “That was able one.” He pointed toward the coast. “They caught a two-man team crawling up with an RPG. They had two rounds.”

Ingram yelled back, “What'd they do with them?”

“Tied 'em up. Do you want to shoot them?”

“Leave 'em there. We don't have time for prisoners. Let Ivan find 'em.”

Even with the engine noise, Boland's tone was the equivalent of an eye-roll. “Yes, sir.” He lifted his walkie-talkie and gave instructions.

Radcliff made another pass. Someone waved from the aft cargo hatch.

Ingram and Boland watched closely as Peoples gunned number one engine to pull it over the burned out M-16.

Suddenly, Boland crossed his fists. Peoples throttled back and hit the brakes.

Boland scrambled onto the wreck and turned a hand wheel. The quad .50s, which had been pointing upward, slowly lowered to zero elevation. Boland hopped out of the wreck. He and Ingram eyed number two engine and its still propeller. They looked at one another and nodded. Then they looked up to Peoples and gave a thumbs-up.

Peoples nodded and punched some power into number one engine. The C-54 rolled and began a 180-degree turn, the left wing clearing the wreck by no more than nine inches.

Halfway through the turn, Peoples started number two engine. The plane finally finished spinning and lined up on the runway, its nose dipping as Peoples braked to a stop. Methodically, the cockpit crew did magneto checks, running systematically through each engine.

Ingram yelled over the noise, “Okay, Gunny. Any more bandits out there?”

Boland did a comm check and nodded. “Looks okay, Commander,” he yelled.

“Good.” Ingram and Boland walked around opposite the pilot. Peoples slid his window back and waved. Ingram clasped two hands over his head and shook them.

In rapid succession, Peoples lowered the flaps and ran up all four engines while standing on the brakes. The air was filled with thunder as the four R-2000 engines delivered full power. Dust twirled down the runway toward the beach and the Soviet line.

Meanwhile, Bucky Radcliff lined up for another run down the airstrip.

Peoples glanced at Ingram and with two fingers to his forehead tipped a salute. He popped the C-54's brakes just as Radcliff roared over the threshold. The two planes zipped past one another in opposite directions like lumbering barnstormers at a county fair. Ingram and Boland waved as Radcliff blasted over. Fifteen seconds later, Peoples wobbled into the air, having taken up the entire runway. Ingram strained to see if Peoples had used Bucky Radcliff's flap trick to bounce into the air, but he couldn't tell.

The C-54 rose and gained speed; the wheels started retracting.

“Will you look at that,” said Ingram.

“Sir?” asked Bolan.

“Typical Leroy.”

“What's typical?”

Ingram pointed. “He's sideslipping.”