22 August 1945
Kisarazu Air Base, Chiba Prefecture, Japan
P-38. Ingram sat up. You could tell the sound of a Lockheed P-38 by the growl of the turbochargers. Louder and louder. One, two, three, four of them zipped right overhead. Rooftop level.
He’d slept on a tatami in a relatively undamaged section of the officers’ quarters. It must be late; he checked his watch: 9:37. Jeeez! He jumped up and ran to the door. The two Japanese guards who stood on either side glanced at him then looked nervously up to the windy, overcast sky. Sure enough, the planes circled around to roar in again at deck level. Four Army Air Corps P-38 Lightnings with drop tanks. In single file they blasted overhead with throttles firewalled, turbochargers whining. No sooner had they zipped over the top than he saw the silver glint of a C-54 lining up for the runway.
It was sideslipping. Radcliff. It was his signature. Or maybe it was Leroy Peoples, the Bucky Radcliff wannabe, doing the sideslipping this morning.
“They’re well escorted.” Fujimoto had slept in the room next door. He was in working greens now, ready to go. He barked an order at the guards. They bowed and moved away.
“I’ll say.” Ingram felt woozy, the aftereffects of yesterday’s adrenaline rush. A fisherman had found them and alerted the air base. An hour later, a truck bounced up and took them to Kisarazu. The rest of the delegates were taken on to Tokyo while a still soaking Ingram and Fujimoto met with the mine-group staff. Within two hours they developed a thick portfolio of charts and instructions governing the minefields in upper and lower Tokyo Bay. The plans seemed complete to Ingram. After two more hours of deliberation he nodded his approval and had copies sent off to the Third Fleet. Fujimoto dispatched them via courier to the destroyer Sagari to rendezvous with destroyers of the Third Fleet. The Sagari would lead the fleet back into Tokyo Bay—a sacrificial lamb. Following her would be eight minesweepers in line abreast, then destroyers, then cruisers, and finally the battleships. Hospital ships, troopships, and other auxiliaries would enter later, perhaps the next day.
“Sleep well, Commander?” asked Fujimoto.
“Well enough.” Ingram ran a hand through his hair. Three hours of sleep wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. The P-38s had shocked him to consciousness as well as any alarm clock. “Good to see Major Radcliff is on time.”
Kisarazu Air Base looked far worse in the light of day than it had last night. The hangars showed extensive bomb damage. The tower was barely distinguishable, just a single wall that protruded up like a decayed, broken tooth. Wrecked planes were strewn everywhere: some tail-high, a few on their backs, most a blackened mess. Thankfully, the craters in the main runway where Radcliff was now headed had been filled. Yokohama, eighteen miles to the west across Tokyo Bay, was an amorphous hulking landmass in the gloom.
Watching the C-54 touch down, Ingram asked, “Can we perhaps have some coffee or tea for them?”
“Of course. But first, take a look.” Fujimoto pointed out into Tokyo Bay, where a destroyer was headed south, out to sea. The waves were choppy; the wind was up. Water peeled off the destroyer’s graceful bow as she pulled a fifteen-knot wake. Forward, she had beautiful lines: a proud, high superstructure, raked mast, and funnels. Twisted wreckage littered the after part of the ship all the way to the fantail. “The Sagari.”
“So our instructions got aboard?”
“Ummm.”
“She’s awfully beat up. Do you think she’ll hold together long enough to get the job done?”
“Commander Watanabe is a good friend and fine seafarer. He’ll get the job done.”
“Okay.” Ingram headed for the door. “Where can I wash up?”
Fujimoto pointed toward a set of double doors. “In there. To your right.” He paused. “Commander?”
“Yes?”
“The weather out there is quite poor. It’s part of what we flew through last night. We have word that a typhoon may be headed our way. If this is the case, then the, ah, ceremony will be delayed by a few days.”
“What are you telling me?”
Fujimoto straightened. “A typhoon. We may have to wait.”
Ingram ran a hand over his stubble beard. What next? Admiral Halsey’s Third Fleet had run into two typhoons within the last eight months. Ships had been lost, men washed overboard. Boards of inquiry were under way along with time-consuming finger pointing and name-calling. Now, with the war supposedly over, Halsey would of course wait out a typhoon. “What about the weather north of here?”
“Seems all right as far as we can tell.”
The C-54 pulled into a revetment about two hundred yards away and braked, its propellers windmilling to a stop. Immediately, a dilapidated fuel truck pulled under one wing. Its engine wheezed and backfired, and black smoke gushed from the tailpipe. “You sure they have good av-gas?” Ingram asked.
“One hundred octane. Just about the last of our reserves. We’re fortunate.”
Ingram stood for a moment stroking his chin. Let Hammer figure out if the gas is good or not. “Very well. Please see that Major Radcliff and his crew have something to eat. I’ll be along shortly.”
“Of course.”
Ingram’s sleep last night had been disturbed by a lingering worry that Fujimoto would try to commit suicide. He was glad that he hadn’t. “Are you packed and ready?”
“Yes.”
“I’m pleased to see you’re still here, Captain.”
“Thank you.”
Radcliff, Peoples, and Berne were the first out. Ingram wasn’t surprised to see Colin Blinde step down the ladder next, looking dapper and Ivy League as usual. Lieutenant O’Toole brought up the rear, packing pistol, carbine, bayonet, web belt with grenades, and a wide grin.
Blinde walked up to Ingram and stuck out his hand. “Good morning, Commander. Everything go all right last night?”
Ingram was sure Blinde by now knew exactly what had happened. “Wonderful flight. They did a marvelous job.”
Blinde began another question just as Lieutenant O’Toole walked up.
Ingram said, “Well, look who’s here. The spirit of South Bend. Glad to see you, Lieutenant. You have enough protection there?”
O’Toole was not at all embarrassed. “Mister Blinde said I could carry anything I wanted.”
Peoples said, “Jarheads gave him all that.”
Blinde had brought along a squad of Marines with full field packs, radio equipment, food, and ammo. Ingram was particularly glad to see a long-range radio transceiver that would permit them to stay in touch with Okinawa and whoever else was directing the operation. All were armed with either M-1 carbines or Thompson submachine guns as well as pistols and bayonets. They fanned out around the C-54 and stood guard. Although it was quiet and nobody threatened them, they held their weapons ready, fingers on trigger guards. Two Marines stood over the refueling crew along with Flight Sergeant Hammer. The Marine squad leader was the same gunny who had accompanied Fujimoto to Manila. And now, with eyes like a rattlesnake, he instantly picked out Fujimoto and watched him from a distance.
Blinde said, “They’ll give us some comfort, don’t you think?”
“Definitely,” said Ingram. “What’s the situation up there?”
“The Japanese are just about finished in China and Manchuria, and now the Soviets are overwhelming their Fifth Army on Karafuto. The Japs still control Toro and Toyohara. But they are wavering.”
It hit Ingram. “Are we walking into a firefight?”
Blinde shook his head. “We have at least two or three days. Everything will be fine. Don’t worry. We’ll be back home tonight.” His teeth gleamed in a smile. “Restroom?”
Ingram pointed toward a doorway. “Like an indoor benjo ditch.”
“Pardon me?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
As Blinde walked off, Ingram waved the others toward a table under a lean-to beside the officers’ quarters. “Breakfast, gentlemen. Captain Fujimoto has made a spread for us.” They sat to find katsuboshi, salami-shaped sticks of dried bonito fish; miso, bean paste that tasted like cardboard; thin, watery soup; and tasteless tea.
Ingram sat with them, his eyelids feeling like sandpaper. He kept nodding off. The tension of the previous day’s flights and the shock of crash-landing in the surf and tromping ashore last night were taking a heavy toll. The ride into town and the protracted meetings with the Japanese mine-group staff further drained his reserves.
“We gonna carry you on the plane, Todd?” asked Radcliff.
Ingram’s head jerked up. He had nodded off again. “Huh?”
Radcliff focused on Ingram. “You okay?”
“Who, me? I just need a little sleep.”
“I mean, that Betty bouncing around in the surf. You sure it didn’t whip you around? Bruise or break something?”
“Bucky, I’m just tired.”
Radcliff said, “I have to admit that Jap was one smart pilot.”
Peoples chimed in, “I’d still be cleaning my underpants if it’d been me.”
Ingram said, “Thanks for reminding me. Anybody have an extra pair? My stuff went out with the Japs’ luggage.”
“We’ll work on it,” said Radcliff.
“Right,” said Ingram. “Let’s go.” He pushed up from the table. “You ready, Mr. Blinde?”
“Of course.”
Ingram looked to Fujimoto. “Captain?”
Fujimoto stood and hoisted an overnight bag. “Hai!”
Radcliff asked Ingram, “Is he armed?”
Ingram nodded to Fujimoto, who said, “Of course not. Do you wish to search me?”
Radcliff looked him up and down. “Holy smokes. He speaks perfect English.”
“Courtesy of the University of Notre Dame,” said Ingram.
“Son of a gun. Is he Catholic?” asked Radcliff.
Fujimoto’s eyes glistened for a moment. “No, just Irish.”
Ingram and O’Toole snickered.
“Nobody likes a wise guy,” Radcliff muttered. “Nevertheless.” He eyed Ingram.
Ingram gave a slight shake of his head. No, he’s not armed.
They moved off, O’Toole and Fujimoto bringing up the rear. Ingram asked, “What’s the weather look like?”
“Bumpy,” said Radcliff.
Ingram groaned.
“We can handle it. Don’t worry. You’ll sleep like a baby. We’re out of the bad stuff.”
They walked under the C-54’s wing just as the ancient fuel truck rattled away. “They didn’t pump molasses in the fuel tanks, did they?” asked Ingram.
“Hammer checked it. It’s what it’s supposed to be. Even so, he and the jarheads watched them like hawks,” said Radcliff.
The Marine gunny spoke to Blinde for a moment, then Blinde dashed up the ladder and out of sight. The gunny walked up to Ingram. “Good morning, Commander. Mr. Blinde says you’re in charge; is that correct?”
Ingram blinked.
“Sir?” asked the gunnery sergeant.
“Well, Gunny, now that you remind me, I suppose so. My name’s Ingram, Todd Ingram. And you are . . .”
“Harper, sir, Ulysses Gaylord. And no comments about the middle name if you please, sir. But I tell you that because my initials are sort of my nickname.”
Ingram tried it out. “Ugh?”
“Actually, they call me Ugly, sir. My friends do, anyway.”
“Thanks, Gunny.”
“I always call the Navy my friends. At least I try to.”
“Likewise, Ugly. Now, are your men fed? Do you need some chow before we shove off?” He pointed to the lean-to.
“It’s okay, Commander. We have this thermos of coffee and some rats on the plane. So we’re good for now.”
“Rats? And did you say coffee?”
“The United States Marine Corps at your service, Commander, with a five-gallon thermos of America’s finest.”
Ingram smacked his lips. “That sounds better than sleep. Thanks, Ugly.”
“Glad to help the Navy, Commander.”
It was going to be one of those days. Ingram asked, “Okay, you ready to head north?”
“Say the word, sir.”
“Board your men, Gunny. We leave momentarily.”
“You want anyone to stay out here while you start up?” asked Harper.
They looked to Fujimoto.
“That won’t be necessary.” Fujimoto shouted an order and the few remaining Japanese cleared the area.
Harper said to Ingram, “They’re Japs, Commander. I don’t trust them. Lemme leave a couple of guys on the ground until we start rolling.”
O’Toole stepped close. “Sounds legitimate to me, Commander.”
“No,” Ingram said. “The guy has a million reasons to kill me, and so far he’s played it straight up. If we can’t trust him now we’ll never get this operation off the dime. Board your men, Gunny.”
“Aye, aye, Commander.” Gunnery Sergeant Harper turned, put two fingers to his lips, and whistled shrilly. “All aboard!” he shouted.
Instantly, his men picked up their gear, walked to the plane, and climbed the ladder.
At a nod from Radcliff, Hammer pulled the chocks and carried them on the C-54. Then Radcliff turned to Ingram, “All set?”
“You bet. How far is it?”
“About 950 miles.”
“We have enough gas?”
“Plenty for a round trip.”
Ingram asked, “You want me to dig up that Jap pilot to give you some pointers?”
“We can handle it, right, boys?” said Radcliff.
Peoples said, “I’m not so sure. Don’t forget the right inboard generator is crapped out.”
“Huh?” said Ingram.
Berne chimed in. “And I forgot to tell you, we lost hydraulic power about fifteen minutes out.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Ingram. He could almost smell the coffee from here. He turned and said, “After you, Captain.”
Fujimoto followed the last Marine up the ladder. Ingram went up next.
Radcliff kept it going. “That’s right. And I’d forgotten the Torvatron is on the fritz.”
“What’s a Torvatron?” asked O’Toole.
Radcliff wrapped an arm over his shoulder and pushed him to the ladder. “It’s this new hush-hush black box we use for controlling cosmic rays.”
“No kidding?” O’Toole started climbing. “Cosmic rays. Isn’t that what they have in x-ray machines?”
“Yeah. Make you glow in the dark.”
“Wow!”
“But cosmic rays make the magnetos crap out. Then there’s no spark and the engines stop.”
“Jeeez.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Should I? I mean what’s the Torvatron do?”
“Well, I can’t tell you much, but you see the frizazbitz interacts with the . . .”