Edge of Valor (10 page)

“Voila, Leroy! You did it,” cried Radcliff. “Hey, look at that.”

The three P-51s that had gone ahead were buzzing the runway, three across, about fifty feet above the deck. The three in their escort above suddenly dove to join them.

“Damnation,” said Berne as Nichols Field hove into full, clear view. An enormous crowd lined the runway from one end to the other—so many people that they seemed a solid mass.

Mostly Filipinos, Ingram guessed.

The P-51s had all joined up and now buzzed Nichols Field six across. At the end of the runway they pulled up, one at a time, and banked left to turn into their downwind leg while dropping landing gear and flaps and bleeding off speed. They had timed their maneuvers to follow the C-54 and land right behind it.

They were halfway through their downwind leg when Radcliff grabbed his earphones. Thirty seconds passed before he gave a terse, “Roger.” Then he said, “The tower informs us there's a big crowd down there, estimated in the thousands. A Jeep will meet us at the end of our roll-out and lead us to a VIP area where our, ah, passengers will embark for the Rosario Apartments.”

Radcliff looked around the cockpit, his gaze settling on Ingram. “Know anything about the Rosario Apartments?”

“Downtown,” said Ingram. “Very posh. Two blocks from the Manila Hotel.”

“Hotsy-totsy,” said Peoples.

Radcliff said, “Ah, Leroy?”

“Yeah?”

“You mind if I take it?”

“All yours, Pop.”

Radcliff grabbed his control yoke as Peoples released his. Then Peoples picked up his landing checklist. Berne and Hammer returned to their consoles as Peoples called out the list, all four making settings and barking answers.

With Radcliff flying precisely, they lined up on final. Peoples called the last item on the checklist and then said, “Wow-wee. Look at that crowd. You'd think it was county fair day.”

Radcliff looked up at Ingram and said dryly, “Don't bother to sit and strap in Commodore. You're all goo and jelly if I stack this thing.”

“Trust you with my life, Bucky.” Ingram stayed on his feet, peering out the cockpit, enthralled at the sight.

“Suit yourself.” Then, “Full flaps if you please, Mr. Peoples.”

“Full flaps,” said Peoples.

Radcliff chopped the throttles and eased back on the yoke. The C-54 kissed the runway with hardly a bleep.

The nosewheel settled and Hammer said, “Nice.”

Peoples said, “Hey, Skipper.”

“Yeah?”

“You were sideslipping back there.”

“What about it?”

“Well, there was no crosswind.”

“So what?”

“Why the hell can't I sideslip?”

“Someday, when you're skipper, you can sideslip all you want.”

“Grandstander,” muttered Peoples.

They laughed.

Chapter Six

19 August 1945

Nichols Field, Manila, Luzon Island, Philippines

I
ngram followed the C-54's aircrew out the forward hatch. Hoisting overnight bags, they hobbled down the stairway and found themselves in the midst of the enormous crowd they had seen on their approach. Angry Filipinos bumped against them and shoved their way past, some shaking their fists, others growling. There were women with babies, many dressed in simple peasant clothing. All pushed toward the C-54's rear exit, where the Japanese delegates and their chaperones were debarking.

Neidemeier quick-stepped down the stairway and joined them.

Radcliff had to shout, “Where's our ride?”

Neidemeier yelled back, “Don't worry. Follow me.”

“Which way?” Radcliff yelled.

Neidemeier pointed to the wall of humanity.

“These guys don't look too friendly,” Hammer said. Like an offensive guard, he stuck out his elbows and led the way, people bouncing away from him. As they got farther from the plane the crowd thinned.

Neidemeier guided them to a line of trucks and stopped behind an open Studebaker six-wheeler. He flipped down the tailgate and waved them inside.

“This?” gasped Radcliff.

“This is it. No exceptions,” Neidemeier said.

The truck was loaded with a half dozen beefy MPs. They stubbed out cigarettes and grudgingly gave up the forward end of the truck. Ingram, Radcliff, Peoples, Berne, and Hammer tossed up their bags and mounted the tailgate. Moving to the front, they looked over the cab. The tarp was off the top, and a breeze twirled from Manila Bay, cooling them in an otherwise humid evening.

The crowd had nearly swallowed up the Japanese delegates and their American chaperones trying to make their way toward a line of four-door Mercury staff cars painted olive drab. It was all the MPs could do to hold the crowd back.

What most amazed Ingram were the photographers. There were hundreds, it seemed, their cameras clicking, flashbulbs popping with the intensity of machine guns.

Also, there were quite a few off-duty American soldiers in the crowd, who chanted, “Banzai! Banzai!” With huge grins, they thrust both arms in the air and swept exaggerated bows toward the staff cars.

Berne muttered, “They should show respect.”

“Can you blame them?” countered Radcliff.

“Ain't this the livin' end,” groused Peoples. “We ride in trucks while Japs ride in limousines. I thought we won the war.”

“Quitcherbitching,” said Radcliff. “You could be back on Okinawa swatting flies.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Peoples.

“Here you get three squares and nice, clean sheets.”

“And here I get to swat mosquitoes instead of flies.”

“Leroy, I can always get another copilot,” said Radcliff.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Peoples.

The photographers pressed in closer; camera shutters clicked, flashbulbs spiked the deepening dusk. The crowd was right behind them. Like an inexorable tide they swept through the photographers and merged around the line of MPs ringing the Mercury staff cars.

“These people are really pissed off,” said Radcliff. He turned to the MP sergeant. “Aren't you guys going to do anything?”

The sergeant sighed. “Looks like we're going to have to, sir.” He blew a whistle, waved an arm over his head, and shouted, “Come on, ladies.” The MPs jumped down and ran forward to join the MPs at the staff cars. Others dashed past from trucks behind.

“Why can't we am-scray?” asked Hammer.

“It'll be soon enough,” said Neidemeier.

“Well, it better be soon or we'll all be dog meat,” said Berne. He looked around and said, “Gotta get this for history.” He pulled a 16-mm Bell & Howell movie camera from his bag and loaded a fifty-foot roll of film. Then he wound it up, put his eye against the eyepiece, and began panning the crowd.

“You do this often?” asked Ingram. Cameras, especially movie cameras, were supposed to be illegal, but many used them anyway.

Berne said, “We go to a lot of places. You know: Guadalcanal, Tulagi, Rendova, Leyte, Okinawa. Got into Tarawa a couple of times. So I get shots of wrecked airplanes, burned-out tanks, and pillboxes. Got some natives, too. Beautiful sunsets, that sort of thing.”

“Color?”

“Yup.” He leaned over. “Keep a secret?”

Ingram snickered to himself. Why was everyone blabbing to him about keeping secrets? “Of course,” he said solemnly.

“A buddy of mine is with the 509th.”

Army Air Corps mumbo-jumbo
, Ingram thought. “What's the 509th?”

“You know, the 509th composite group: B-29s. The ones who dropped the A-bombs on Japan. Anyway, my buddy was a crew member on the
Great Artiste
and shot some footage with this little baby.” He tapped his camera as he panned. “The
Great Artiste
is a B-29; it accompanied
Bock's Car
as one of the instrument planes.”

“Wow! How did it turn out?”

“The guy blabbed. They confiscated his film. Nearly threw him in the stockade. Instead he's in hack for three months. I was lucky to get my camera back.”

Just then Ingram spotted Captain Fujimoto. A staff car door was held open for him. He ducked his head and entered. No sooner had the Mercury's door closed than a rotten pomegranate exploded against the window, showering the car and bystanders with red juice.

Ingram looked away and asked, “Did he see it? You know, the blast?”

Berne flicked off the switch and examined his camera as if it were a holy object. “They let me talk to him for a couple of minutes. He said he couldn't sleep the first couple of nights. All he could see when he closed his eyes was this great pinkish flash. Then they were hit by a shock wave that tossed them around. After that, an enormous mushroom cloud boiled up above them. Amazing. They were at thirty thousand feet and this damned cloud zipped up to forty or fifty thousand feet, with weird lightning bolts flashing inside; all sorts of reds, yellows, and greens. ‘The devil's caldron,' he called it.”

Ingram thought of the pomegranate splattering against the staff car's window. “I can't imagine,” he said.

“I can't either,” said Berne. He went back to his photographing.

The next thing Ingram knew, Major Neidemeier was standing beside him. He looked around Ingram to see Berne photographing. “Say, what's he doing with that camera? That's not authorized.”

“Don't worry. He's just—”

Neidemeier waved a hand. “He should be—”

Someone yelled up to Neidemeier. “Clive, what the hell are you doing out here? Why aren't you in Washington?”

Neidemeier shouted down, “Wanted to see it all for myself, General.”

“Well, damn it all,” the voice shouted up in a Texas twang, “git your ass back on that plane and skedaddle for the States. You're not cleared for this.”

I know that voice
. Ingram stepped to the side and looked down. There he was, Otis DeWitt, now a brigadier general with a star on his collar and aide to Lt. Gen. Richard K. Sutherland, MacArthur's chief of staff. Ingram had met him under far worse conditions when they were trapped on Corregidor three years ago, DeWitt a major, Ingram a lieutenant. General DeWitt certainly looked healthier than during their starving days on the “Rock.” With his weather-beaten face sporting a thin mustache, he appeared to be back to his normal weight of 180 pounds on
a 5-foot 8-inch frame. Otis DeWitt wore his signature cavalry campaign hat and jodhpurs. Clamped between his teeth was a long, gold cigarette holder, the same holder he'd spirited away from Corregidor, Ingram supposed. A Lucky Strike was jammed in the end. Ingram cupped his hands and yelled down. “Otis, how the hell are you?”

“Watch what you say, Commander,” whispered Neidemeier.

DeWitt jammed his fists to his hips and rocked back on his heels. “Welcome back, Commander. I needed you two days ago. Where the hell were you?”

Commander, huh? Same old Otis
. “Got caught in a crap game. Sorry. Say, why don't we go downtown to the Chi Chi Club tonight and dig up some whores?”

Neidemeier covered his eyes and shook his head.

A corner of DeWitt's mouth turned up. “What would Helen say to that?”

“She'd kill me.”

“She should. You don't deserve her.”

“You're right about that, Otis. But guess what? We have a son.”

DeWitt's craggy face softened. “I'll be damned. Congratulations. You named him after me, of course?”

“Not a chance.” There was some commotion forward. The lead staff car began moving. “He's named after Jerry Landa, my boss.”

DeWitt began walking forward. “Boom Boom Landa?”

“Yeah.”

“Worthless son of a bitch.” He turned and called back. “We have you bunking at the Rosario Apartments with the Japs.”