Edge of Valor (8 page)

Flight Sergeant Hammer stepped from the cockpit. “Sorry.” He pulled a jump seat down from the forward bulkhead and gestured to the Japanese captain. The captain nodded, sat, glanced impassively at Ingram and Neidemeier, and then looked away. The Marine gunny stood beside Ingram fidgeting.

“Hold on, Sarge,” growled Hammer. He disappeared forward.

Number two engine began turning. It caught and fired.

“Get your gear aboard okay, Major?” asked Ingram.

Neidemeier swallowed a couple of times. His face was pasty white. “What? Yes. I don't suppose . . .” He looked at the Marine gunny. He had two rows of campaign ribbons with plenty of battle stars. The gunny whistled softly and ignored him, looking at the overhead.

Ingram said, “Relax, Major. This C-54 is equipped with a Torvatron.”

“A what?” gasped Neidemeier as number one engine rolled and shuddered to life. Numbers three and four quickly followed. “Torvatron?”

“Shhhh.” Ingram put a finger to his lips. “Top secret.”

“Uh huh.” Neidemeier sat and fidgeted with the seatbelt buckle. “Never heard of it.”

“Well, they used a Torvatron to navigate the B-29s to Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Now we have one and we're safe as bugs in a rug.”

With a burst from the engines, the C-54 began rolling, braked right, and headed down the taxi strip.

“Where'd you hear that?”

Ingram nodded toward the cockpit.

“Major Radcliff?”

“Yes.”

“He shouldn't be disclosing top secret information. He could be arrested. Maybe I should—”

Hammer popped into the doorway again. “Commander Ingram?”

“Yes?”

“Major Radcliff has a spot for you in the cockpit. He tells me the Nip—er, the Japanese captain—and the gunny are to sit where you are and the major is to take the jump seat.”

Neidemeier barked, “That's ridiculous!”

Hammer said, “You wanna complain to the major, fine. He's in charge of this aircraft. You'll find him in the cockpit.”

Neidemeier unbuckled and stood. “This is quite irregular. I—”

Ingram said, “Please, Major. World War II is over. Don't start World War III.”

Neidemeier said, “I only meant—”

Ingram unsnapped and stood eye to eye with Neidemeier. He hissed, “Listen, Major. Don't make a scene. Either you get over there or I'm—”

Neidemeier held up a hand. “Okay, okay, I get it, Commander.” He nodded to the Japanese navy captain. “Do you know who that is?”

“No idea.”

Neidemeier lowered his voice, “That's Captain Shiroku Fujimoto of the Imperial Japanese Navy. He was one of their best destroyer commanders. But they don't have any more destroyers, so guess what he's doing now?”

Ingram stared at Neidemeier.
How the hell does he know all this?

Neidemeier said, “Mine defenses. Fujimoto is one of the IJN's leading mine defense experts. He's our ticket into Tokyo Bay.”

“Who the hell wants to go into Tokyo Bay?”

“All in good time, Commander.” Neidemeier gave a small grin. “All in good time. And it might become clearer when you read your orders. Now, Mr. Hammer here, as uncouth as he is, is correct. Captain Fujimoto outranks me. So, if you will excuse me . . .”

Neidemeier bowed to the Japanese navy captain, gestured to the window seat, and sat down in the jump seat.

Ingram stepped aside to allow the Japanese captain to slide by him. With a wink at Ingram the Marine sergeant took the aisle seat.

The C-54 braked to a stop at the runway's head, and the pilot began running up the engines, testing mags.

Ingram stepped into the cockpit.
Fujimoto . . . Fujimoto
. The name rang a bell. Radcliff, wearing headphones over a garrison cap, grinned and waved to a jump seat behind Peoples, the copilot. As flight engineer, Hammer sat behind Ingram at a console loaded with engine-monitoring levers and gauges. Now serious, Hammer made some small adjustments and noted them in his logbook. The navigator, Berne, was seated on the port side behind Radcliff at a small but efficient navigation table. He was bent over a chart making notes.

Radcliff said, “Welcome to the nuthouse, Commodore. Would you like a straitjacket?”

“No thanks. Just a parachute.”

“Sorry, not enough to go around. Flight crew only. Passengers suck gas. But get this. You get to watch Leroy make the takeoff. So strap in tight, close your eyes, and pucker up while I read the last rites for all souls present. I can go on the PA if you think it's necessary. After all, you outrank me and—”

Stopping in mid-sentence, Radcliff held up a hand then touched his earphones. He spoke into the mike and then nodded. “Got that, Leroy?”

“Got it, Bucky.” Peoples released the brakes. The C-54 waddled onto the runway, lined up with the center, and braked to a stop.

“Let 'er rip,” said Radcliff.

“Banzai!” Lieutenant Peoples grabbed the throttles and ran up the engines to a mighty roar. The C-54 shuddered and rattled while the four Pratt and Whitney R-2000 engines strained in their mounts, developing 1,350 horsepower each. After a few seconds Peoples popped the brakes and the C-54 began rolling. Radcliff called off the speed, “Eighty-five, ninety, ninety-five . . .”

Peoples pulled the yoke back and the C-54 eased off the runway and easily gained altitude. “Gear up,” he called. Then, “Climbing power.”

Hammer reduced the throttles a bit. The engines' urgent tone became less strident as Radcliff slapped the landing gear lever to the “up” position, then drawled to Peoples, “Come on, Leroy. Quit showing off with this side-slipping shit.”

“Huh?” Peoples face turned pink.

“Right. Get down to basics.”

“Sorry, Skipper, forgot we have passengers aboard.” Peoples eased the aircraft into a gentle left turn. “By the way, sir, could you please return the flaps to the full up position?”

Reaching for the flap lever, Radcliff said, “I'll put a man right on it.”

Berne, the navigator, said in a falsetto, “Lieutenant Peoples, please try to remember we're not hauling Spam today.”

Radcliff muttered, “Yeah, just a bunch of generals, admirals, and Japs.”

“Yes, sir.” Peoples called over his shoulder. “Oh, Captain?”

Berne growled, “How can I help you?”

“Ah, sir, you got a course for us?”

Berne said, “You sure you can handle all this at one time, Leroy?”

“Do my best, Captain.”

“Okay, then,” said Berne. “Steer course one-nine-three and try not to screw it up. Twelve thousand feet.”

“Yes, sir, Captain Berne. One-nine-three, twelve thousand, and don't screw it up. Yes, sir.” Peoples reached to set the autopilot.

Radcliff said to Hammer, “Chief, time to give the box lunches to the Japs.”

“Right now, sir?”

“Might as well. And break out the orange juice, too. See that they're comfortable. Blankets, anything they want.”

“Well, I mean, these are Japs! Shouldn't we—”

“Sergeant. Orders are orders,” said Radcliff.”

Hammer scratched his belly and stood. “What about our guys? All that brass. What do they eat?”

“Remember, this morning we all dined on eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice, and coffee. Some of us alfresco, I might add.”

“Al Fresco. I remember him,” said Hammer. “He was in the 229th. We used to get drunk all the—”

Radcliff interrupted, “I repeat. The box lunches are for Japs only. And especially not that little turd Neidemeier.”

Actually, Neidemeier is smarter than I give him credit for
, thought Ingram.

“Japs only. Nothing for the little turd. Yes, sir. Orders is orders.” Hammer walked out.

The plane droned on with Radcliff and Peoples checking their instruments and writing in logbooks. That done, they began talking politics: Radcliff hated Truman; Peoples loved Truman. Then their talk turned to women. Radcliff loved Jane Russell; Peoples disapproved of her. Berne folded his arms on his chest, put up his feet, tipped his cap over his eyes, and dozed.

The C-54 gained altitude and settled on course through smooth, bright blue skies. Six P-51s with long-range tanks gathered around, three on each wing.

With a sigh, Ingram opened the envelope and began to peruse his orders. As he turned pages the name kept ringing in his mind:
Fujimoto
.

Chapter Five

19 August 1945

One hundred miles south of Okinawa Prefecture en route to Nichols Field, Manila, Luzon Island, Philippines

“A
mazing,” said Ingram.

“What's that, Commodore?” called Radcliff.

“Just damned amazing,” Ingram repeated.

“What the hell are you reading,
Esquire
magazine?” asked Radcliff.

“Orders, Bucky. Something completely unexpected.”

“You mean the Navy is as screwed up as the Army Air Corps?”

“Worse.”

“So, where are you headed?”

“Same place you are, Nichols Field.”

“Swell. I already knew that. How bout when we get there? Say, you play poker? We need a fourth.”

Ignoring Radcliff, Ingram tried to digest what he was reading. A State Department summary enumerated that General MacArthur had been appointed supreme commander of all forces in the Pacific. One of the general's first demands was that the Japanese provide a delegation to meet with his staff in Manila, hence the two white planes with the green crosses at Ie Shima. The number in the delegation—sixteen—was selected because the Japanese passenger version of their G4M2 could hold only eight people. Once in Manila, they were to negotiate a surrender ceremony to be conducted on board an American ship, yet to be named, in Tokyo Bay. More important, they were to discuss procedures for the immediate release of all Allied prisoners in the Pacific region.

So much for the background. Specifically, Ingram discovered, he was on this airplane to work with Captain Shiroku Fujimoto on clearing mines in Tokyo Bay, or Lower and Upper Sagami Wan.
That's the musical chairs guy sitting right out there
, Ingram thought. He wondered if the man spoke English. He seemed to be
following the chatter around him. Maybe so. At any rate, the orders said Captain Fujimoto had been assigned an interpreter, Lieutenant Nogi Tanaka, who was supposed to be among the sixteen Japanese seated back in the cabin.

But why was the name so familiar?
Fujimoto . . . Fujimoto. And what about those sixteen people back there? Army, navy, diplomatic . . .
Ingram wondered how many of them knew about the atrocities he'd seen on Corregidor and the Bataan Peninsula. How many had been directly involved in the Bataan Death March? Or, more recently, the horrible stories filtering back from POW camps in the Japanese Home Islands or the ones scattered throughout Asia.

He wondered how many men back there knew about or were directly involved in his own experience. Had they ordered the raping and pillaging in the Filipino villages whose people had safely hidden his men in the long days of their escape through the Visayans and on to Darwin, Australia? Over the years he had suppressed nightmares about those times, often taking refuge in Helen's arms. Still, the visions flared in unguarded moments: a stretcher-bound Brian Forester bayoneted by a Japanese soldier in Mindanao; another Japanese soldier bayoneting a wounded Baumgartner on the pier in Penang. Those men had been helpless and worthy of compassion; instead, they were gutted by monsters begat by a monstrous political system.

Ingram stood and walked aft into the main cabin. Captain Fujimoto looked up and regarded him coolly. They locked eyes for two long seconds, then Fujimoto went back to the remnants of his box lunch, the Marine gunny looking on hungrily.

Neidemeier was perched on his jump seat across the aisle. Tucking his packet under his arm, Ingram knelt beside him and asked, “Where's the translator?”