Edge of Valor (65 page)

With the others, Ingram ducked behind the bridge bulwark as the shock wave slammed over them, pummeling their ears, their bodies, their clothes with a blast of hot air. Red-hot chunks of shrapnel clanked and fell among them, one piece glancing off Ingram's shoe and sizzling to a stop just three feet away, burning into the painted deck.
Amazing
. Ingram stood and looked at the
Admiral Volshkov
. Except she wasn't there. Only a heavy cloud of thick white smoke and churning whitecaps remained.
I'll be damned
. To his left, Ingram saw the Russian 36-foot shore boat running in circles. Nobody was at the controls. It was like a child's forgotten toy. Finally, a lone Russian sailor struggled to his feet, his silhouette barely distinguishable in the fading light.

White rose beside him. “Would you ever believe?”

“I'm as astounded as you are,” said Ingram.

“How are we going to explain this?”

“I don't know, but for now let's get to the pier, pick up our Marines and the Japanese POWs, and head out to rendezvous with those four cans. I have a feeling Ivan won't want to tangle with a group that size. One maybe, but not all five of us.”

White barked, “Boatswain's mate of the watch, turn on the running lights. And set the special sea and anchor detail.” He pointed. “We're mooring to that pier, port side to, so break out some dock lines and fenders.”

The boatswain growled, “Yessir,” and got on the PA while flipping on the running lights.

White called, “Mr. Woodruff, take the conn and make that pier over there, port side to.” He turned to his talker, “Tell Mr. Markham to pass the word for the crew to prepare to receive prisoners.”

Ingram said, “You sound like a hard-ass skipper.”

“Learned from the best.” White stood close. “You know, you look like shit.”

“I'm okay,” said Ingram.

“Yeah, still tough as nails. Come on, lay below to my cabin and hop in the rain locker. You'll still look like shit but at least you'll smell better.” He thumbed at a cut over Ingram's eye and called to his OOD, “Mr. Woodruff, have the corpsman lay to the captain's cabin on the double.”

“I said, don't bother.”

Tubby said gently, “Go on, Todd. We can handle this.”

Ingram realized he was too tired to argue. “Okay.”

        
Forgive your neighbor's injustice.

        
Then when you pray,

        
your own sins will be forgiven.

                            
—Ecclesiasticus 28:2

Epilogue

4 December 1945

USS
Maxwell
(DD 525), one thousand yards off Shakhtyorsk Air Base, Sakhalin Oblast, USSR

D
arkness had fallen as the
Maxwell
approached the pier. With the heavy overcast, there was no moon or stars. The wind had abated and there was no groundswell either. With no pitching or rolling, it seemed as if the ship was imprisoned in a black velvet chamber. Signalmen played the destroyer's powerful searchlights up and down the dock, finding smoking junk and Russian soldiers wandering aimlessly. The wreckage was worse at the pier's end, the end closest to where the
Admiral Volshkov
had lain at anchor.

On the bow, two boatswain's mates swung a lead line as the
Maxwell
eased near. She gently bumped the pier and came to rest with about eight feet of water beneath the bow and ten beneath the fantail. Sailors jumped over to catch mooring lines and make them fast to bollards.

Hurry
.

Tubby sent the pharmacist's mates and the Marines over to begin recovery of the Japanese prisoners. Dazed Russians stumbled among them but were easily moved aside by the Marines. Beginning with the worst cases, the Marines first untied the Japanese from the anchor chain and made ready to carry them across. Those who could walk boarded the
Maxwell
on their own. American sailors helped send them to the warmth and safety of the mess deck.

Meanwhile, Ingram showered in the captain's main cabin. His clothes were a mess, but he and Andy Markham were about the same size and a clean khaki shirt and trousers awaited him when he stepped out. Also waiting was Eddie Geer, a second-class hospital corpsman, who dressed Ingram's cuts and bruises. Ingram hustled Geer out, knowing the Japanese would need his services more.

Keeping in mind that the few Russians left on the pier might still have some fight in them, Ingram stuffed Oleg's PPK into a fresh duffel coat and walked on deck. Japanese soldiers were everywhere; some talking quietly in groups, some
moaning, and some lying silently on stretchers. Canvas tarps covered a few from head to toe. He walked over a makeshift gangway and across to the barge and found Boland talking to Amaya.

Ingram said, “Well done, Gunny.”

Boland said matter-of-factly, “We were lucky.” He nodded out to where the cruiser had been anchored. “Those Commies couldn't hit the broad side of a benjo ditch.”

“Apparently not. And apparently we could.”

“Never seen anything like it. That ship went up worse than anything I saw at Guadalcanal. And man, it was rainin' shrapnel.”

“Same with us. We got a lot of hot metal. Did you know they shot torpedoes at us?”

“You're kiddin'.”

“Three missed and one hit at the forward fire room. It was a dud. Otherwise it would have been curtains.”

Boland shook his head. “Life does things like that to you.”

“That it does.” Ingram waved to the barge. “How much longer?”

Boland said, “Actually, we have them all untied, and the ambulatory ones are across. It's moving the wounded that's taking the time.”

“Better make it quick. We have to get out of here.”

“What's the hurry?”

“Aside from the fact that the Russians are most likely on their way back, the tide's going out and we'll be sitting on the bottom soon. The captain tells me we have about twenty more minutes, then we have to scram.”

“We can wrap it up chop, chop, Commander. Don't worry.”

“Okay.”

“By the way, see those two guys over there?” Boland pointed to two people standing next to the ship. One rested his foot on a bollard.

Ingram barely made them out in the gloom. “Yes.”

“One is Mr. Dezhnev, and if you don't mind my saying, I'm glad he's on our side. He's one hell of a shot with a 105. And he played that artillery gun crew to where they were putty in our hands.”

“That's good to hear.”

“The other guy is a Japanese major; I think he was the garrison commander here. He was one of the first we untied.”

“I'll be damned. Thanks, Gunny.” Ingram walked over to the two men. A Navy blanket was draped around Fujimoto's shoulders and his hands were wrapped around a steaming coffee mug.

Dezhnev recognized him first. “Welcome to the first annual Tri-Parte Conference.”

“Ed, good to see you.” He shook hands with Dezhnev. “That was a nice job back there.”

“Well . . .”

“My gunnery sergeant says you're pretty good with a 105. And coming from a Marine, that's high praise.”

Dezhnev gave a slight bow. “Glad to be of service.”

Ingram reached for Fujimoto's hand. “And Major, what a wonderful surprise. They told us you were dead.”

Fujimoto still wore the eye patch, but the Fu Manchu mustache was gone. He nodded toward the barge. “I thought I was about to be, with all that metal and junk falling on us.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“I don't think so. But big pieces splashed all around us.” He stamped his feet and worked his arms, muttering, “Circulation. Everything feels like cotton.”

“How long had you been tied up?”

“At least twelve hours.” He added, “My garrison here originally consisted of one thousand men. But there were hard battles over the past weeks. Then the Russians started toying with us, knowing that we were out of food and water. Now we are barely two hundred.”

Dezhnev looked away.

“I hope we can save those who are left,” said Fujimoto.

“We're trying our best,” said Ingram. Then he changed the subject. “Your brother will be very pleased.”

“How is he?”

“Much better.”

“Strange,” Fujimoto said. “We were never close. Father wouldn't permit it. Now I think we will have to be.”

Dezhnev said wistfully, “Take it from me: love your brother. I never had one and I wish I did.”

Fujimoto sighed, “I was taught to have a warrior's spirit. Everything so . . . stoic . . . so much self-sacrifice . . . so much dedication to the emperor. And those things are not so bad. But now . . .”

“Now?” Ingram urged.

Fujimoto took a deep breath. “After tonight, I don't know.”

“I don't either,” said Dezhnev.

Fujimoto's eyes glistened. “Then we are two.” He lifted his cup in a silent toast and drank.

Dezhnev looked ashore. “Hear that?”

“What?”

“T-34s. You have less than ten minutes.”

Ingram listened and heard the ominous rumble of diesel engines and the squeak of treads. “You're right. Let's go.” He turned to leave.

Dezhnev stood where he was.

Ingram said, “Come on.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What the hell? What are you doing?”

Dezhnev spread his hands. “I serve my country.”

Fujimoto said, “Come on, you damned fool. They will tie you to a stake and fill you full of holes before the night is out.”

“Come on, Ed,” said Ingram.

Dezhnev shook his head. “I said I serve my country.”

“Nonsense,” shouted Ingram.

They started at a six-second blast from the
Maxwell
's foghorn. The echoes had barely stopped when sailors ran down the gangway and headed for the bollards, slipping off dock lines.

The tanks rumbled closer, sounding as if they were just around the corner.

Ingram yelled. “We can't wait.”

“Go!” shouted Dezhnev.

“You're not coming with us?” Ingram was incredulous. “They
will
shoot you.”

“I'm not coming. Go, you damned fool.”

“But—”

Dezhnev yelled, “Don't worry, I'll take my chances.”

“He needs something more than that. Give me a pistol,” said Fujimoto.

“What?” shouted Ingram.

“A pistol. Do you have a pistol?”

“No . . . yes.” Ingram reached in his duffle coat pocket and produced Oleg's PPK.

“Fine.” Fujimoto grabbed the Walther, cocked it, and shot Dezhnev in the left arm.

“
Owwww
!” Dezhnev tumbled to the dock, grabbing his arm. Blood oozed between his fingers. “
Chort voz'mi, eto bylo bol'no
!” (Damn you, that really hurt!)

Fujimoto said, “Sorry, but you now look like an authentic casualty.”

The foghorn sounded again. Then a shout from the bridge, “Todd, damn it! I'm backing down in the next ten seconds.”

Ingram shouted back. “On our way, and kill the running lights!” He reached down to Dezhnev and took his hand. “Adios, amigo.” Taking the PPK from Fujimoto, he passed it over. “You may need this.”

Dezhnev gasped between gritted teeth, “Thanks, killjoy. Goodbye. We'll meet again.”

“Hope so.” Ingram touched Dezhnev on the shoulder then stood and ran, Fujimoto close behind.

The sailors finished lifting the dock lines off the bollards and cast them back on board the
Maxwell
, then ran for the safety of the gangway. Two more people followed. The first was Major Kotoku Fujimoto of the Imperial Japanese Marines. The last was Cdr. Alton C. Ingram, U.S. Navy.