Edge of Valor (14 page)

Radcliff faced forward and tightened his seat belt straps. “Later, Major. I have work to do.”

Ingram exited quickly.

Aside from the jiggling the main cabin was quiet. Except one could feel the tension as the plane bounced and bucked. Nevertheless, people tried to doze or read magazines. In the rear, two Japanese naval officers and a Japanese general were gathered around General Kawabe's seat. Four Marines stood in the aisles, watching closely. The conversation, although animated, seemed normal. Hammer walked up to them and soon had them in their seats and belted.

Fujimoto again sat in the front-row window seat. The aisle seat was empty, and the Marine gunnery sergeant across the aisle was fast asleep. An American interpreter, a balding Navy lieutenant with dark bags under his eyes, sat in the bulkhead-mounted jump seat just in front of Fujimoto.

Ingram nodded to the aisle seat. “May I?”

Fujimoto gestured to the seat and Ingram sat.

They turned to examine one another. Ingram marveled that he faced someone who just a week ago had been dedicated to killing him. Then it occurred to him that Fujimoto was probably thinking the same thing.

Fujimoto rattled off something in Japanese.

“He says you look tired, Commander,” said the interpreter.

Ingram forced a smile, “So do you, Lieutenant.”

The interpreter asked, “Does it show?”

“Ingram. Todd Ingram. Call me Todd.”

“Larry O'Toole.”

They shook hands. “You do look beat,” said Ingram.

“No doubt about it. We went 'til 2:30 in the morning. Not much shut-eye, I'll tell you.”

O'Toole had a legal device on his collar. Ingram asked, “You an attorney?”

“Who wants to know?” He faked a Brooklyn accent.

Ingram grinned.

“University of Notre Dame.” He held up his left hand displaying a class ring. “Class of 1937—liberal arts. Law school, class of 1940.” He pointed to Ingram's class ring. “Annapolis?”

“Class of 1937. Where'd you learn Japanese?”

“Grew up there. Tokyo. My dad worked for RCA. Lead engineer.” With a look to Fujimoto he said, “I hope he's still there.”

“You mean—”

“I went home to go to Notre Dame. Dad stayed. I have no idea what happened.”

“Your mom?”

“Died in 1933 in a car wreck.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Gets worse. Dad took up with a Japanese girl later. I don't know what happened with the two.” He bit a thumbnail.

“Everything go all right last night?” Ingram asked.

“As far as I can tell. There was a little trouble at the start with the wording of the surrender agreement—something to do with how the royal family is to be addressed; miniscule point but very tricky. I have to tell you, Colonel Mashbir is the greatest. The Japs were ready to give up at first. But Mashbir caught the error and changed it right there on the spot without permission from anybody. He just did it. And that was gutsy because the wording came directly from the State Department. Talk about playing with fire. He didn't even ask General Sutherland. The guy is amazing. The Japs agreed, and we moved on.” O'Toole loudly exhaled. “I have to tell you, I thought I knew everything, but I learned a lot.”

“So, the emperor retains control?” Ingram looked again at Fujimoto. He seemed intent on their conversation.

“Absolutely. But he's subject to the authority of the supreme commander.”

“Ahhh.”

O'Toole continued, “After that, it went okay until . . .”

“Until what?”

“Some real trouble came when we asked about the location of the POW camps. Like squeezing blood out of a rock. But it sounds like we have them now.”

The C-54 slammed into an air pocket and dropped, shaking when it hit bottom. Beverages spilled; a Marine cursed.

O'Toole turned white and mumbled, “I hate airplanes.”

Ingram felt a bit shaky himself. Neidemeier snored, and he'd not slept well last night. Air pockets didn't help. He mumbled back, “We're punching through a front. Don't worry about it.”

“I do worry about it. A buddy of mine was a Hellcat pilot who . . .”

Fujimoto slowly held up his left hand. Both Americans gaped at the ring on his third finger. “I'm a Domer, too,” he said, “although not quite Irish.”

O'Toole gasped, “I'll be damned. University of Notre Dame.” He squinted, “Class of . . .”

“Nineteen thirty-five,” said Fujimoto. “Electrical engineering.”

“Holy cow,” said O'Toole.

“And after that?” asked Ingram.

Fujimoto shrugged. “The navy, of course. My father wanted me to go to Etajima, but I got lucky and scholarshipped to Notre Dame.” Etajima was the naval academy for the Imperial Japanese Navy. “Afterward, I returned to Japan, got into the swing of things, and grew up in destroyers, so to speak. Just like you.” He fixed Ingram with a dark stare.

“You know who I am?”

“I do. I've known almost since it all happened in Nasipit. I had no idea we would meet face to face.”

Ingram felt the blood draining from his face. Cursing the circumstances as well as the weather he muttered, “Me neither.”

O'Toole asked, “You guys know each other?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Fujimoto.

“Well, if that's the case, maybe I can get some shut-eye. You clearly don't need an interpreter here.” O'Toole started unbuckling.

“Please remain with us, Lieutenant,” said Ingram. Then he looked to Fujimoto, “Look, I wish I could say I was sorry about all this. But your brother and your father were—”

Fujimoto held up a hand. “An explanation is not necessary. It was war. My father and my older brother are gone now. I have a younger brother, but I'm afraid he is lost too. I fear my country is lost as well: the fire bomb raids; your A-bombs, whatever you call them; the emperor's capitulation; mass suicides—our top officers are killing themselves as we speak. Tokyo, Kobe, Yokohama, Sasebo—so many cities devastated, to say nothing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Tens of thousands of women and children incinerated. The trouble is, I can view this like a Westerner and am therefore cursed with an understanding of both sides of the issue: my years in the States have done this to me—all that Catholic training. I hope my countrymen will forgive me, Mr. Ingram, because I love Japan deeply. And she is reeling.” Fujimoto took a deep breath, “I understand you need the mines cleared from Sagami Wan.”

“Yes. They're planning the surrender ceremony in Tokyo Bay for the last week in August. We need to get our ships in there.”

Fujimoto sat up. “Indeed. I missed that part of the meeting. The ceremony is going to be on a ship, not ashore?”

“I can think of no more appropriate place.”

Fujimoto's face grew dark. “Commodore Perry returns.”

Ingram said, “They tell me it was at Admiral Halsey's request. They've already sent for Perry's flag, the one he flew when he entered Tokyo Bay.”

Fujimoto stared for a moment. “We begin again.”

“I hope so. Maybe in the right direction this time.”

O'Toole's mouth hung open and he snored loudly.

“Poor guy has had it,” said Ingram. He shook O'Toole awake. “Larry!”

“Huh?” O'Toole sat up and smacked his lips. “Oh, sorry.”

Ingram said, “Look, go aft, grab an empty seat, and get some sleep. You'll be coming to Karafuto with us, so you need rest.”

“Garden spot of the globe.” O'Toole lowered his voice. “Let me ask you, Commander, is that trip necessary?”

“Ask General Sutherland. Now, go on aft and get some rest.”

“As you say, sir.” With a nod to Fujimoto, O'Toole stood and walked aft.

Ingram turned to Fujimoto, “We need your help in clearing those mines. Can you do this?”

“Of course. I have the charts. It should be fairly easy.”

“Can you give them to me right away?”

“Can it wait? Things are in such turmoil.”

“No, it can't. Admiral Halsey wants to send in the Third Fleet as soon as possible. We need those charts.”

Fujimoto rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you can send someone back with us to Tokyo. We'll gather the charts and send them back with him.”

“On those planes? They're wrecks.”

“That's all I can offer.”

Ingram drummed his fingers. It hadn't been Neidemeier's snoring that kept him awake last night. It was the orders Sutherland and DeWitt had given him—orders authorized by the office of the supreme commander: Gen. Douglas MacArthur. That's why he'd tossed and turned. All he wanted was to rejoin his ship and rediscover the promise of going home, of seeing Helen and Jerry and holding them close. He was tired of the threat of war, of war itself, of the dust and aftermath of war. Instead, they were sending him out among a vanquished and still-hostile enemy. He couldn't even write a letter to Helen; no mail service was available where he was going. “We'll have to think of something else.”

Chapter Nine

21 August 1945

Ie Shima Island, Okinawa Prefecture, Ryukyu Islands, Japan

T
he C-54 bucked and bounced for hours on its way to Ie Shima. American and Japanese passengers alike snatched barf bags from seat backs. It was near dusk when the C-54 crabbed its way onto final approach. The cockpit door was clipped open, and Ingram heard a resounding cheer in the cockpit as Radcliff sideslipped the C-54 to a beautiful touchdown against a twelve-knot crosswind.

After the propellers stopped windmilling, a ground crew rolled ladders up to the hatches. Ingram stood to let the Marine sergeant escort Captain Fujimoto down the aisle. Fujimoto turned once and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Orders, Captain. And if it's as you say, then it won't take long, will it? No more than a day?”

“I suppose not. But don't be surprised at what you see.” Fujimoto ducked out the hatch, joined the other delegates on the ground, and headed toward their white-painted G4M2s with the green crosses.

Ingram found Clive Neidemeier taking deep breaths on the tarmac. His face was pasty, and Ingram could swear his cheeks had a greenish tinge. “Rough trip?” he asked.

Neidemeier snapped, “You needn't patronize me, Commander.”

“What do you mean?” Ingram could hardly hide his smile.

“You know perfectly well what I mean. Those people are animals. I have never been so insulted. Torvatron indeed!”

“Sorry to hear that. Did you get sick?”

Neidemeier shook his head.

“Very good. A lot of people were puking in the main cabin.”

“I'm sure Major Radcliff and his gang were expecting the same from me. But I didn't give them the satisfaction. They—”

A young man walked up to them. “Oh, here,” said Neidemeier, “I don't think you've met Colin Blinde yet.”

Blinde stuck out a hand, “Good afternoon, Commander. I've heard so much about you.” Despite his youthful appearance Blinde's voice was deep and resonant, and his diction was clipped, efficient, like that of a lawyer addressing judge and jury in a packed courtroom.

Ingram caught a hint of aftershave as they shook. “Ummm, smells like home.”

Blinde gave a deep laugh. “Actually, I just slapped it on to overcome the smell of all that”—he waved a hand—“vomiting. The general next to me puked like there was no tomorrow.”

“Have to admit I felt a little shaky myself,” admitted Ingram.

“But then you have your sea legs.”

“Something like that. Maybe a drink of your aftershave would help smooth the waters.”

“Not this stuff.” Blinde smiled again, his teeth sure to give Landa a run for his money in a Pepsodent ad. “The people at Aqua Velva try to guard against that; they lace it with a bittering agent. It's called, uh,” he snapped his fingers, “denatonium benzoate to discourage, ah, sipping.”