Edge of Valor (6 page)

“Holy cow,” Ingram blurted. “You won't believe this.” He handed the message to Landa:

       
FROM: COMMANDING OFFICER, FIFTH FLEET

       
TO: COMMANDER ALTON C. INGRAM, 638217, USN

       
DATE: 16 AUGUST 1945

       
SUBJ: TEMPORARY DUTY, ASSIGNMENT

       
INFO: COMMANDING OFFICER THIRD FLEET

       
COMMANDING OFFICER DET B-27

       
COMMANDING OFFICER SERVRON 27

       
COMMANDING OFFICER, DESTROYERS PACIFIC

       
COMMANDING OFFICER, DESRON 77

       
1. UPON RECEIPT, YOU ARE TEMPORARILY DETACHED USS

                
MAXWELL (DD 525).

       
2. YOU ARE TO PROCEED TO CO DETACHMENT B-27 WHEREVER

                
IT MAY BE TO ARRIVE NLT 172400I.

       
3. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS VIA COMDET B-27.

       
4. WHITE, ELDON P. LCDR, USNR ASSUMES TEMPORARY

                
COMMAND MAXWELL.

       
5. AUTHORIZATION: COM5 BB-27117-5AT

       
BY DIRECTION

       
C. J. MOORE

Landa's eyes grew wide. “Jesus. This is from Spruance. What did I ever do to him?”

“Commodore, in case you didn't notice, it's me he's after, not you.”

“No, I mean I get Tubby White. What did I do to deserve this?”

“You'll get over it.” Ingram reread the message. “Surprised he still remembers me.”

Landa pursed his lips and made kissing sounds. “Yeah, please tell me sometime how you made his A list.” Adm. Raymond A. Spruance had awarded Ingram the first of his two Navy Crosses in 1942 before sending him back to the South Pacific as executive officer of the USS
Howell
(DD 482). Jerry Landa had been the destroyer's CO.

“And I have until tonight to get there.” Ingram turned to his talker. “Anderson, ask combat to check the OP-Manual Annex for the location of Detachment 27-B.”

“Sir.” Anderson pushed a button and relayed the order.

Only a moment had passed when Anderson said, “Bridge, aye.” He reported, “Combat says Detachment B-27 looks sort of like a moving target. Today and tomorrow, it's located on Ie Shima.”

Ingram called into the pilothouse to the quartermaster of the watch. “Townsend, you have the local chart up?”

“Right here, Captain.”

Ingram and Landa clumped into the pilothouse and crowded around the chart table. Ingram found Ie Shima, a bean-shaped island about three miles off the west-central coast of Okinawa. He picked up dividers and stepped off the distance. “About fifty miles north of here.”

A breathless Tubby White stepped into the pilothouse. “Todd, er, Captain. You're not going to believe this. Oh, and here's a copy for you, Commodore.” He handed over copies of the message they had just read.

Ingram said, “Thanks, Tubby. Pirelli just brought up a copy.”

White mopped his forehead, “One of these days I'm gonna bust him back to seaman deuce.”

Landa said, “You better do it before I do, old son.”

White ventured a look at Landa and then straightened up and faced Ingram. “Captain. The
Pluto
repairmen have finished gluing on the after stack. Ship is ready for sea.”

Ingram said, “So I see. Very well, Mr. White. Do we have fuel?”

“Topped off, Captain.”

“Provisions? Ammunition?”

“Done.”

“Line handlers?”

“Standing by and ready to split the nest.”

“Very well. Set the sea and anchor detail and plot a course for Ie Shima.”

“Will do, Captain,” replied Tubby White. “All we need is your permission to light off boilers three and four. Also, we have to finish passing the milk and ice cream.”

“I thought we had our allotment,” said Ingram.

White said, “Well, I spoke with the boys on the
Pluto
. They agreed to help us out with some extra.”

Landa asked, “Anything about coffee coming over?”

White replied, “Ah . . . er, Commodore, I traded that for the extra milk and ice cream. I figured the crew would like—”

“Shit!” said Landa, slapping his hand on the chart table. “Why didn't you ask me first?”

“What? I didn't know. I didn't . . .” A sheepish White turned to Ingram. “Permission to light off boilers three and four?”

“Granted. Make sure you check the minefield plots for Ie Shima. Have a copy posted up here as well.” Ingram slapped Tubby White on the butt. Eager to escape, White disappeared quickly around a bulkhead.

Anderson suppressed a snicker and the other men on the bridge turned away to hide their smiles. Landa looked to the sky, fighting to hold his temper.

Ingram said, “Jerry, he obviously didn't know you had ordered the coffee. It was for the crew that he—”

“I'll kill the son of a bitch,” growled Landa.

“Well, you'll be dropping me ashore at Ie Shima, so I won't be around to see the bloodbath. Of course, by that time Tubby White will be the skipper, and if you do kill him, you'll be up on charges of mutiny.”

“The fat little bastard.”

Ingram faked a yawn.

“What the hell does Spruance—or Halsey, for that matter—want with you?”

A gentle breeze wafted through the nested ships, taking with it, at last, the odor of death. It was nearly twilight and a quarter moon climbed above the horizon. Ingram sniffed at the zephyr.
Thank you
. He shook his head with the realization that he looked forward to getting off the
Maxwell
. That made him feel guilty. But now, maybe, the nightmares would go away. “I wish I knew.”

Chapter Three

18 August 1945

Ie Shima Island, Okinawa Prefecture, Ryukyu Islands, Japan

I
e Shima was flat except for Mount Gusuku, a craggy two-hundred-foot peak that dominated the eastern end of the island. An airfield ran diagonally across the island's center. At one time the five-mile-long island's rich soil had been tranquil farmland. But the fighting for Ie Shima had been as bitter and protracted as it had been for the rest of Okinawa. Bomb and artillery craters pockmarked the once meticulously tilled fields and the white sand beaches.

Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Ernie Pyle had been killed on Ie Shima the previous April. A war correspondent for the
Washington Daily News
, Pyle was already famous for his reports from the African and European campaigns. He was perhaps more famous—at least among the troops—for promoting the “Pyle Bill” in Congress, which awarded an extra ten dollars per month to infantrymen in combat. A victim of a tumultuous marriage and combat fatigue, Ernie Pyle was wedded to his job. With “his” beloved troops, Pyle moved to the Pacific theater when the Nazi regime collapsed. While touring Ie Shima by Jeep with a colonel and two others he was killed by a Japanese machine gunner. Still in his helmet, Pyle was buried with honors in the military cemetery between an infantry private and a combat engineer. He was the only civilian in World War II to be awarded the Purple Heart.

Ingram stepped off the shore boat near midnight and reported to a thin and balding major named Neidemeier in a deep bunker near the airfield. The bunker was full of squealing electronic machines that reminded him of a Bela Lugosi movie. Tired and half asleep, he paid scant attention as Neidemeier brusquely stamped paperwork, handed it to Ingram, and told him to stand by for orders at
any moment. Then Neidemeier waved him off to a Jeep that took him to block A-355, a four-man tent somewhere out in the night.

Ingram barely managed to get the bedding laid out before collapsing into his cot as the tent's three other occupants snored peacefully. Not even the rumble of R-2800 engines being tested kept him awake. He slept soundly—and dreamlessly—until three o'clock the next afternoon, and then went in search of a late lunch. Along the way he discovered that the tents were grouped around an airfield. On one side was a huge boneyard of wrecked Japanese airplanes of all sizes. A few American planes were sprinkled among them. The other side consisted of a polyglot of American fighters and bombers squeezed into revetments. Quite a few transport aircraft were parked on the tarmac before a rickety control tower. Nearby, large tents housed operating personnel, a hospital, and a chow hall. Soldiers, sailors, and Marines were bivouacked there in four-man tents, including the one Ingram occupied in block A-355.

Fortunately, the chow line was open. He wolfed down meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and string beans. Then he found his way back to his cot and . . .

Ingram awoke to find a shadow looming above him. Someone—a nondescript private—was shaking him. “Zero six forty-five, Commander.”

“Huh?”

He received no answer. The man was gone. Ingram lapsed back into sleep.

“Rise and shine, Commander.” This time it was a major, one of two Army Air Corps throttle jockeys sharing his tent, shaking Ingram's shoulder. He wore a khaki flight suit. “Hi there. I'm Bucky Radcliff. Come on, Commodore, off and on. Today's the big day.”

Ingram rubbed his eyes and sat on the edge of his cot. After two nights of solid sleep he felt better. “What's so big about it?”

Radcliff didn't tell him. “Chow at oh seven hundred. Japs at eight.”

Ingram stood and stretched. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Radcliff grabbed his shaving gear and walked toward the tent flap. “You know Major Neidemeier?”

“No. Well, yes, but . . .”

“Better go see him, Commander. I think he's going to tell you that we're going to be seeing a lot of each other.” Radcliff walked out.

Ingram dressed, quickly shaved, and walked to the mess tent, where he feasted on scrambled eggs, juice, toast, and coffee. Then he walked over to Neidemeier's bunker. With daylight, he saw that it sprouted antennae of all sizes and was guarded by soldiers with submachine guns. He showed his ID and was admitted to the space with the squealing machines. A bank of radios stood
against one wall. Four teletype machines clattered in a corner. IBM punch card and collating machines ground away on the opposite wall. It was hot, and people buzzed about a collection of old metal and wooden desks, waving papers in the air. They wore shorts and T-shirts with no rank or insignia devices.