27 November 1945
USS Wallace (DD 549), Long Beach Naval Station, Long Beach, California
Ingram and Toliver descended the two ladders to Ingram’s cabin on the main deck in silence. Ingram gestured to a chair, sat at his desk, and leaned back. “What are you selling, Ollie?”
“How about an all-expenses-paid trip to the Orient?”
“Last guy to try to sell me that was Ray Spruance.”
“Who won?”
“He did, but he’s an admiral. Last time I checked you were . . .”
“Yes, I know, a lowly commander.”
“So, tell me about the State Department.”
Toliver straightened. “Okay, here’s the deal. The Red Cross contacted us about Walter Boring’s personal effects. Something is missing.”
Ingram had a sinking feeling. “What?”
“A crate.”
“A crate of what?”
“Photos. Turns out there were supposed to be two crates, not just one.”
“I don’t like this.”
“Hear me out. This may work to your advantage. The Red Cross contacted the State Department. They tried the OSS, but those guys won’t even admit that it exists, so the State Department kicked it over to ONI. From there, it landed on my desk.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
Toliver evaded the question. “When does DESDIV 77.2 get under way?”
Ingram rubbed his chin. “We finish our tender availability in the next two weeks, give or take a few days. Then Christmas, then some training, and then on 1 February 1946 we leave for Operation Magic Carpet.”
“Where are you going?”
“Yokosuka, to replace DESDIV 77.1. Like them, embark as many GIs as we can, steam in formation with eight GI-filled attack transports, and bring them home. Then DESDIV 77.1 remains here for tender availability.”
“Is that it?”
“Well, yeah, then—” There was a knock at the door.
Ingram said, “Come.”
A dark-complected Navy commander in working khakis opened the door and walked in. He leaned over and made a show of plopping a stack of papers on Ingram’s desk. “Here you go.”
“How you feeling, Walt?”
“Ugly. I came in today to make sure the paperwork was done on your gun barrels. So read ’em and don’t weep.”
“Sorry, Walt. Ollie, say hello to Walt Hodges. He’s the pork chop over on the Piedmont.”
Toliver stood for a handshake, then Hodges waved him back into his chair and turned to Ingram. “That stack, my friend, is for the receipt and installation of five 5-inch 38 Mark 2 mod. 1 gun barrels. I need your signature there, there, and there.”
“We can’t accept delivery unless you have the bullets to go with them.”
“Sorry. That wasn’t in the work order. I hear you can find 5-inch ammo on discount at Louie’s gun shop on Gaffey Street. Better hurry, though; sale only lasts ’til Saturday.”
“All right, all right.” Ingram signed and handed the papers back to Hodges.
“Thanks,” Hodges said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m headed for the barn.” He held out a hand. “Don’t worry. Sally’s picking me up.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“So damned tired.”
“Still have the runs?”
“Like a fire hose. And I’m getting this cough.”
“You better see the doc.”
“First thing tomorrow morning.”
Ingram gave Hodges a closer look. Dark bags hung beneath his eyes, and he seemed to have lost weight. “Okay. See you tomorrow. Thanks for expediting the paperwork. We’d still be shooting with old barrels.”
“You’re most welcome.” Hodges shuffled out.
Ingram said, “He lives a couple of blocks from me. We take turns driving.” Then Ingram sat forward. “Come on, Ollie. Spit it out. What’s on your mind?”
Toliver didn’t beat around the bush. “We’d like to send you back to Sakhalin for a couple of days.”
Ingram felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. “Karafuto.”
“Not any more. Sakhalin.”
“Just a couple of days?”
“And the orders come from?”
“CNO.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I suspect that the State Department is pulling his chain. Somehow, somewhere, you’re famous, and they want you back in.”
“And you got stuck with telling me.”
“I’m sorry, Todd.”
“Right. What else?”
Helen was still in uniform as she whipped up dinner. Ingram was seated at their small kitchen table playing quietly with Jerry, who was strapped into his high chair. The more Helen rattled dishes, the more guilty he felt. Her belly was getting larger by the day and he hadn’t done much to make things easier.
“Cat got your tongue?” she chirped.
“Ummm.”
“I see. Time to feed the beast. I’ll have it up in a moment.”
“Thanks.”
Landa’s absence and his new job made Ingram’s workdays even longer. He just couldn’t manage to get home in time to help Helen. And Toliver’s bombshells today had stopped him cold: spies, death threats, orders for Japan. He didn’t know what to say.
Turkey soup and turkey sandwiches again. Thanksgiving leftovers. He picked at his sandwich. But Helen had managed to grab a head of iceberg lettuce at Gino’s Market, a rarity. The salad made up for what was lacking in the main course.
Then she plunked down two ice-cold bottles of Schlitz.
“Huh? How’d you do this?” he asked, flipping off the caps.
“Gino says hello. He saves these for his favorite customers.”
Ingram took a swig. “Ahhhh.” Things are looking up.
“Kitchen needs painting,” said Helen, passing a plate of sliced carrots. She dashed a small smile. “You know. Homeownership and all that. Maybe this Saturday? What do you think, Pop? Pale green? Or maybe bright yellow?”
I have a funny feeling about this.
“Hello? Commander Ingram?”
He looked up. “Oh, sorry. Yeah, pale blue sounds good.”
“I said pale green or bright yellow.”
“I don’t know.”
“What is it, hon?” She reached and took his hand.
“Nothing.”
“I know. Let’s have some coffee and go listen to Red Ryder, OK?”
“Sure.”
Either the turkey didn’t agree with Helen or it was morning sickness at midnight. Maybe it was a little of both. She stumbled into the bathroom and upchucked. But Ingram felt queasy too, and he damn well didn’t have morning sickness.
Water ran. She crawled back into bed and snuggled, wrapping her arms around him.
Suddenly he no longer felt sick. He began to relax.
“When do you go?” she asked softly.
“Huh?”
“When do you ship out?”
“Well, I don’t ship out. They’re going to—say, how do you know?”
“It’s me, Helen, remember? I know my family. And when my husband drags around with his nose on the floor and that ‘I’m screwed’ expression on his face, then I draw conclusions. Okay?”
“Yes, okay.”
“So spit it out.”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Oh, pretty please, Todd. Pretty please. I won’t tell anybody. Well, maybe I can share a little with Mrs. Peabody. And Dr. Raduga. And then there’s Sergeant Letenske, the base gossip, to say nothing of Martha Brubaker.” She dug at his ribs with long fingers.
“Owww. Cut it out!” He rolled toward her. “Come here.”
“None of that.”
“I love your mouthwash.” He rolled all the way over, held her tight, and kissed her. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Accelerated respiration rate,” she gasped.
“You mean breathing hard?”
“Very good, Todd. You take good notes.”
“I remember now. That’s what happens when two people—”
“Sorry. None of that until I get over this.”
“Says who?”
“The doctor?”
“Come on.”
“Old wives’ tale?”
“You mean you’re planning to vomit while we’re in the middle of it?”
“Todd!”
He lay back and nuzzled the nape of her neck. She smelled wonderful. Moments passed. A gust of wind rustled leaves outside the window.
“When are you going?” she asked.
“Sunday.”
“Mmmm, a week . . . ten days.”
“That’s not bad. But it’s just temporary, right?”
“Definitely TAD.”
“And where is it?”
“Rather not say.”
“Japan?”
“Sort of.”
“Who’s going to mind the store here?”
“Howard Endicott, TAD.”
“They’ve thought of everything.”
“Seems like it.” He held her close. Next thing he knew he was shaking. “God.”
She caressed his head, “What is it? You don’t want to go?”
“I don’t want to leave you and Jerry.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Could be.”
“Then don’t.”
He really didn’t want to go. He held her tenderly and kissed her again and again. Four years of people murdering people was enough. The stench would last a lifetime. And yet . . . “I think this is important.”
“Do you have a choice?”
He did, but he didn’t want to say.
She rolled her back into him and they settled on their sides.
“What,” she asked.
“Pale yellow. That’s best. Pale yellow. No, hold on. Make it canary yellow for the morning sun. It’ll be bright, just like you.”
“I love you.”