22 August 1945
Toro Airfield, Karafuto Prefecture, Japan
Everybody was yelling. “Quiet!” shouted Radcliff.
Peoples gasped, “Did the Japs shoot at us?”
“No, that stuff came from the beach,” said Radcliff.
“Which means they have at least two more guns at the other end of the runway,” said Ingram.
They started yelling again.
“Pipe down,” said Ingram. He turned to Radcliff. “Did you see them back there?”
“Saw one son of a bitch from the corner of my eye just as we flared. He was shooting straight at us. And there must be others because they caught us on final approach.”
Ingram doubled his fists. From one war to another in one easy lesson. He turned to Berne. “Any luck with Okinawa?”
“Trying to raise ’em.”
“When they answer, tell them the Russians are shooting at us and we have one dead. And that we need help. Quick!”
“Yes, sir.” Patiently, Berne tapped his key.
“And let me know when you get an answer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gunnery Sergeant Harper burst into the cockpit. “What’s up, Commander?”
“Sergeant Harper, are you and your men ready to deploy?”
Harper said, “Yes, sir, we’re already cocked and loaded. Just those two half-tracks right now. Can’t see what’s behind us, though.”
“Are your men okay?”
“No injuries. Couple of my kids, first time in a firefight. Scared shitless.”
“Aren’t we all?” said Ingram.
“But Lieutenant O’Toole is dead.”
“We heard.” Ingram thought for a moment, shook his head. O’Toole was a good man. A good sailor. No time. Let the dead bury the dead.
“And the Jap is wounded.”
“How serious?”
Harper said, “Hit in the shoulder. Piece of shrapnel. I think we can fix him. That is, if you want. Otherwise we can just toss him out on the runway.”
“No, we’ll probably need him, especially now that Lieutenant O’Toole is dead. Please fix him up.”
“Actually, Mr. Blinde is looking after him.”
“That’s good. I need to know if the runway behind us is clear of the other half-tracks. I want to get us back to the tower and the protection of the Japanese,” said Ingram. He marveled at what he’d just uttered. Protection of the Japanese. “Do you have any grenades?”
“Enough to make life shitsville for our Commie friends out there,” said Harper. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Go right ahead.”
Harper squeezed past Ingram and craned his neck to look out the windshield. “Those are M-16s, made in the good old U S of A.”
“Brought to you by the miracle of lend-lease,” said Radcliff.
Harper rubbed his chin. “Four guys per vehicle: a driver; guy next to him looks like a radio operator or commander or both; then two gunners to operate the quad .50.”
As if they’d been listening, the gunners on the half-track on their right trained their quad .50 right at the cockpit, then raised the muzzles.
“What the hell?” said Radcliff.
The quad .50s fired. All four of them. The muzzle flashes momentarily blinded them. The bullets whizzed right over the cockpit with a thunderous noise.
“Sheeeyat,” said Peoples.
The Russian gunners grinned. One of them stood and drew a finger across this throat. Cut your engines.
“Think you can take ’em out, Ugly?”
“Okinawa just rogered our message, Mr. Ingram,” said Berne.
“Good,” said Ingram. “Keep talking to them. Make sure they know those Commies are shooting at us.”
“Roger, Commander.”
Harper said, “Yeah, we can take them out. But we better do it before they start shooting again.”
“Okay. Get ready at the hatches, port side. It may be tough debarking, so we may need a diversion.”
“I have one,” said Radcliff. He spoke for a minute.
When Radcliff finished, Ingram and Harper looked at one another. “Sounds good,” said Ingram. “Okay with you, Sergeant?”
“I say let’s give it a shot, Commander,” said Harper. A thin smile revealed tobacco-stained teeth. “Better than sittin’ here on our butts.” He nodded out the window. “But we should hop to it. Looks like Ivan is calling in his troops.”
A glance told them a man was hunched over a field radio, speaking into a microphone.
“Yeah, check that.” Radcliff nodded out the window.
A skirmish line of troops was forming near the beach, perhaps five hundred yards distant. They began walking toward the runway.
“This is getting tricky,” said Peoples.
“Let’s do it!” said Ingram. “And Gunny, tell Mr. Blinde I’ll be right there. Will thirty seconds be enough?”
Harper headed for the door. “Give me sixty. But I need ladders.”
Hammer stood. “I can fix you up. Okay, Skipper?”
Radcliff said, “Go, Chief.”
The two disappeared out the hatch.
“Sixty seconds, then we go,” Ingram shouted after them. He checked his watch, then looked at Radcliff. “Sorry about this mess, Bucky.”
Radcliff said to Peoples in a loud voice, “Let this be a lesson to you, Leroy. Never, I mean never, volunteer for anything.”
Peoples replied, “You mean we’re not getting time and a half?”
Berne said, “Would you believe we are about to shoot at our allies?”
“They shot first,” said Radcliff.
“Twenty seconds,” said Ingram.
He stood in the doorway and looked aft into the cabin. The Marines were bunched against the two port-side doors, about six to a door, portable aluminum ladders poised. He caught Harper’s eye and they exchanged a thumbs-up.
Ingram checked his watch. Time! “Go, Bucky.”
“Roger.” Radcliff reached over and advanced the two port-engine throttles. With a roar, the engines revved up and the C-54 began swinging clockwise, the port number one engine heading directly for the half-track off to their right.
“Jeeez, you were serious boss,” said Peoples.
Berne crossed himself.
“Trust me, boys,” said Radcliff.
The Russians looked up in panic as the C-54’s outboard propeller, driven by a 1,350-horse Pratt & Whitney R-2000 engine, scythed right at them. Three of the four jumped out the sides. The driver frantically kicked the starter and worked the choke.
Ingram felt a concussion off to his left. Smoke billowed from the half-track on their port side. The Marines must have exited safely. The three Russians on the runway raised their weapons and began shooting. They were cut down immediately by a burst of gunfire from under the right wing.
The driver in the other half-track got his vehicle going, but it bucked and bounced as he yanked the steering wheel to the left. The half-track stalled and the driver gave up and jumped out the door.
Berne stood and looked out the left cockpit window. “You got it, boss. We’re okay.”
The driver stood about twenty feet away watching as the propeller cleared the M-16 by no more than two feet. Then he took off toward the skirmish line.
A red flare rose from among the troops in the skirmish line. They were closer, perhaps three hundred yards.
Ingram said, “Bucky, roll for the tower and the Japs. Try to find a revetment where Hammer can do something with those two engines.”
“I had the same idea.”
“You should be safe there. Get Fujimoto to talk to the Japs.”
Radcliff looked up. “Only chance we got. I wonder if he’s okay.”
“Wait one.” Ingram ran aft, finding Fujimoto stretched out on the floor. Blood was spattered over his khaki shirt.
Blinde knelt beside him pressing a battle dressing onto his left shoulder. Ingram asked, “What do you think?”
“I think he’ll be okay. But I’m not a doctor,” said Blinde.
“Hurts like the blazes,” said Fujimoto. His face was pale, and sweat beaded his forehead. “You have morphine?”
“Not now. I need you,” said Ingram.
“Are you serious?”
“Please.”
Fujimoto grimaced. “My every waking moment is filled with favors for you.”
“Lieutenant O’Toole is dead. We’re going to try for the tower. I need you to translate and negotiate with your soldiers. Okay?”
“I’ll try.” Fujimoto tried to sit up, groaned, and lay back. “Maybe later,” he gasped.
“Thirsty?”
Fujimoto nodded.
Ingram looked across the aisle and saw Lieutenant O’Toole splayed on the floor, his gaze fixed at the ceiling. Blood ran from the back of his head.
“He was a good man,” said Fujimoto. “A Domer.”
“That he was,” agreed Ingram. He looked up, “Anybody have some water?”
Sergeant Hammer came up the aisle and handed over a canteen.
Blinde grabbed it and held it to Fujimoto’s mouth. The wounded man drank for a moment, water dribbling down his chin.
Ingram said, “You going to be all right?”
“Like I said, I’ll try. How are things going out there?”
“To tell you the truth, I think we just started World War III.”
“How nice. And this time everyone is mobilized. No time wasted.”
Ingram said, “Not this guy. I’m ready for home.”
Fujimoto closed his eyes and nodded.
Ingram turned to Blinde. “You have a weapon?”
Blinde patted a shoulder holster hidden under his jacket. “Thirty-two automatic. It was my mother’s.”
“What?”
“Pearl handle.”
Ingram snorted. “About as much stopping power as a BB gun.”
Blinde stuck his nose up a bit. “Better than nothing.”
“I hope so.” Ingram stood. “Okay, I’m off.”
Ingram and Hammer walked back to the cockpit. Ingram let Hammer past and then asked, “Runway clear?”
“As far as we can see,” said Radcliff.
“Good. Fujimoto looks all right—a little loopy, but okay. Blinde is helping him for now. I think he’ll be okay when the time comes.
Radcliff called, “All right. Watch it out there, Todd. Looks like the bastards on the skirmish line are taking potshots at us.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Yeah, Harper and his boys are behind the half-tracks.”
Ingram turned to Berne, “Any more from Okinawa?”
“Not a peep, sir.”
“Damn it. Okay, keep trying. Gotta run, Bucky. Now get going.”
“No argument from me. Good luck.”
Ingram jumped out the port-side hatch and quickly scrambled down the ladder. Harper and six of his men knelt twenty yards away behind the empty half-track.
Two bullets grazed the concrete beside Ingram and zinged off into the distance. Radcliff goosed his engines, the roar incredible. The C-54 swung all the way around and began waddling back toward the tower.
Ingram ran up to Harper and crouched beside him. “They’re shooting at us!”
“No shit.”
“Well, come on.” Ingram leapt over the side of the half-track and got into the pointer’s seat of the quad .50. Harper followed five seconds later. “How do you work this thing,” Ingram yelled.
“Should be a foot treadle on your side. See it?” shouted Harper.
Ingram looked down. “Yeah.” He mashed it with his foot. A long burst roared out.
Bullets from the Russians began clanging against the half-track’s armor-plated sides and the armor “flaps” on the sides of the gun mount.
“Okay,” yelled Harper. “I’ll train right to left. You hose ’em down. Give it just one-to-two-second bursts. Should scare the living crap out of them.”
Harper cranked the mount to the right. Ingram peered through his sight, found his hand wheel, and dropped the gun barrels right on the skirmish line, now two hundred yards distant.
“Now!” yelled Harper.
Ingram hit the treadle. The mount roared. Dust and concrete filled the air. Bodies dropped. An arm spun away from a cloud of red mist. Harper trained a bit left. “Again!” he shouted.
Ingram fired at the Russians, now in full retreat and running frantically. Two or three dropped. The rest kept running.
Harper trained a little more left. “Give it to the bastards.”
“That’s enough,” said Ingram.
“What?” demanded Harper.
“Let’s save ammo, Sergeant. Now get over to that other half-track. See if you can start it and then follow me.”
It dawned on Harper what they had done: they were now in possession of one, possibly two, M-16 half-tracks. “Not a bad way to even the odds, Commander.”
“Not bad at all, Sergeant. Now get over there and see what you can do.”
“Yes, sir.” Harper leapt over the side and ran for the other half-track. He soon waved back. “Nine innings for this one, Commander. Electronics are all toasted.”
“Okay, let’s go. But grab some ammo off that mount, if you can.”
“Yo!” Harper passed ammo cans to four of his Marines. In sixty seconds they were running back to Ingram’s half-track and clambering on board.
Harper stayed behind to splash a five-gallon can of gasoline in the cockpit. Then he jumped out with grenade in hand and shouted, “Fire in the hole!” He pulled the pin, tossed a grenade in the damaged half-track, and ran for the other.
The explosion set off the fuel tank, and they all felt the heat of the blast. “Just to make sure the Commies don’t get it running again,” Harper said.
“Good riddance,” said Ingram.
Harper pointed to one of his men, a redheaded corporal. “Ely, think you can drive this thing?”
The corporal grinned, “Have more hours in one of these than an M-4.”
“Then get this damn thing started and follow that airplane.” He pointed to the steering wheel.
“You bet, Ugly.” The corporal jumped in the driver’s seat, hit the starter, and got the half-track going. He clanked it into gear and took off after the C-54. They soon caught up with the plane and passed it on the left side, waving to Radcliff as they went by.
Within two hundred yards of the tower Ingram noticed an irregular line of pillboxes and machine-gun nests well camouflaged with netting and brush. Further back were three artillery pieces, about 75 mm, he guessed. A few helmets bobbed up to look at him, but for the most part the defenders remained hidden behind sand berms and brush.
The half-track pulled up to the tower, a rickety three-story wooden building with all the windows shot out; Harper and his men jumped to the ground. “Fan out,” he ordered. “Uh, Commander, I’d recommend you stay here until we sort things out.”
They quickly formed a perimeter, with the C-54 taxiing into the middle. Ingram jumped from the half-track and walked over to the pilot’s window.
Radcliff slid open his cockpit window and stuck out his head. “What’s going on?”
Ingram gave a shrug and mouthed, “Wait one.”
The starboard hatch opened, the aluminum ladder dropped, and Hammer was down in an instant. Quickly, he ran under his starboard engines. He drew out a flashlight and shined it into the opened cowl flaps of number four, the outboard starboard engine.
Ingram walked over, finding it quieter on this side with both engines shut down. “What do you think?”
Hammer whipped off his cap and said, “If I was a bettin’ man I’d say there’s a chance with this one. Simply because we lost oil pressure, which means an oil leak. Can’t tell, though, until I get the cowl off both of these and have a look-see.”
“Uh, Hammer, what if you get just one running? Can we still get out of here?”
“Pretty sure we can take off on three engines.”
“How about only two engines?”
“Not a chance.”
“Oh.”
“I’m hoping we can at least fix number four. That way we won’t have too much torque from the port side.”
Ingram pointed off to the right. “Is that a revetment over there?”
“Looked like it from the cockpit, but there’s a lot of junk in there. Could be stuff from burned-out aircraft.”
Berne walked up, a perplexed look on his face.
“What is it, Jon?”
He held up a notepad and flipped pages. “This from Okinawa, sir.” He read aloud, “‘Remain steadfast. Trying to send another C-54 but requires permission from USSR consulate. Under no circumstances are you to fire on USSR troops. Remember primary goal is to secure Boring.’ It’s signed ‘Neidemeier for Flannigan.’”
“Flannigan? Who’s Flannigan?”
“Ask him,” said Berne. He nodded to Blinde, who was climbing down the ladder.
Ingram waited for Blinde to walk up and then demanded, “Who is this Flannigan guy?”
“My boss in Washington, D.C.” Blinde stared at him. “He’s not going to be happy about what happened back there. We’ve really stirred up a hornet’s nest.”
Ingram stood close. “Mr. Blinde, I don’t have the time or the inclination for games. Those sons of bitches killed one of mine and wounded another. They shot at us on final approach, which could have resulted in a crash, probably fatal to us all. And they have seriously damaged this aircraft.”
“You don’t understand. Someone was supposed to—”
“Supposed to what?”
“Meet us. Welcome us. Someone from the Red Army.”
“Fine, Mr. Blinde. Just fine.” Ingram waved around him. “Take a look at what’s happened here. Instead of meeting us as you promised, your Russian friends fired on us, which could have killed us all, including your dead little ass. As a result, I’d say those people are not our friends. And since this whole snafu is my responsibility, I’m going to take every precaution, which includes killing more Communists if that’s what’s required. So, not that it matters, I ask again: Who is this Flannigan guy?”
“OSS.”
Ingram whipped off his hat. “What the hell is a Washington, D.C., bureaucrat doing screwing around with a firefight eight thousand miles away?”
“The war is over, Commander Ingram. That’s when the bureaucrats are supposed to take over,” said Blinde.
“Well, look around you, Mr. Blinde. I’d say the war isn’t over. In fact, peace hasn’t even been declared. So in the meantime, I’ll take my orders from General MacArthur, the supreme commander out here. Not from some Washington bureaucrat.”
“What I meant was—”
“Now I want you back on that aircraft and tending to Captain Fujimoto. Is that clear?” Ingram stood close. “And don’t get any ideas about having Captain Berne send messages. I decide what goes out and what doesn’t.”
Berne moved up. So did Harper and Hammer. Blinde looked at them and then said, “As you wish.” He walked back and boarded the C-54.
Ingram turned to Berne. “Jon, send a message back to Okinawa that I intend to carry out my mission while protecting my people and my equipment to the best of my ability. If that means killing Communists, then that’s what I’ll do. Send a copy of that to MacArthur’s headquarters and CinCPac in Guam.”
“Todd?” Radcliff stood in the doorway. “What gives?”
Ingram yelled up. “Head for that revetment, Bucky. The Marines will clear it out for you. Then Hammer can get to work.”
“Roger.” Radcliff disappeared inside.
Ingram motioned to Harper.
“Sir?”
“Gunny, send four of your men over to that revetment and have them clear out the junk as best they can. For the time being, this aircraft is our only ticket home, so I’d like to set up a perimeter to protect it while Hammer tries to fix one or both engines.”
“What about the Japs, sir?”
“Speak of the devil.” Ingram waved toward the tower.
Four Japanese soldiers emerged from a low berm. Walking in front were two officers with holstered pistols, one of them wearing a sword. Behind were two soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders.
The officer with the sword walked up to Ingram. “Commander Ingram?”
“That’s right.”
“I am Major Kotoku Fujimoto, Imperial Japanese Marines. Is my brother aboard that airplane?”