Edge of Valor (33 page)

Ingram stood back and watched Landa and his staff executing their signals. It was a sweet dance he'd seen many times as Landa and his staff ordered a flag hoist to DESRON77 to comply with the formation specified on the OPORDER. The signalmen worked furiously bending flags on the starboard halyards. Soon the flags were hoisted halfway up to the dip, the “ready position,” where they crackled in the breeze. When all the destroyers acknowledged by flying the same hoist at the dip, Landa shouted, “Execute.” The signalmen yanked their halyards, ran the flags all the way up to the top, two-blocking them.

Ingram kept a close watch on Lieutenant Woodruff and the bridge watch, making sure the engine and helm orders were proper and followed exactly. He also kept a keen eye on the other ships. Screen changes could be dangerous; collisions were possible as destroyers ran for new stations like a bunch of Keystone Cops.

Now the fun began. The tin cans cracked their throttles and did what destroyers with 60,000 horses trapped in their hulls are built to do: their OODs let them out of the barn and held tight for the ride. The tin cans charged ahead of the Big Mo like Kentucky thoroughbreds. Their bows knifed the high seas, burying their noses deep in troughs, only to rise again and sprint on as water spewed off the weather decks. The
Maxwell
roared toward her number one position at twenty-two knots. At the precise moment, Woodruff cut her speed to fifteen knots, dropping the
Maxwell
perfectly on station.

The bridge watch moved with a calmness and professional sangfroid honed by countless hours of maneuvering and battle. Strange to think that as recently as nine months ago some of the
Maxwell
's crew had been enjoying civilian life as librarians, grocery clerks, and car salesmen. Lieutenant Woodruff had been in postgraduate architectural school at the University of California, Berkeley. But here they all were, executing this once difficult maneuver easily—almost enjoying the pounding the
Maxwell
took as she hurtled to her station like a crazed stallion.

The Japanese destroyer wheeled around directly before the
Maxwell
and assumed her position one thousand yards ahead. Ingram lifted his binoculars and examined the enemy ship with professional interest. It was the
Sagari
, the same ship he had seen exiting Sagari Bay five days ago. She had a raked mast, raked twin
stacks, and a clipper bow; as ordered, her guns were depressed, giving her a sad, droopy appearance. She was rusty, and her aft section was still blackened.

But appearance didn't matter. The Japanese destroyer was there to lead them through minefields to a safe anchorage in Sagami Bay. Four American naval officers were on board to make sure everything went well. Ingram gave a silent prayer. There went four brave Americans who stood among a skeleton crew who could overpower them at a moment's notice. Anything could go wrong very quickly. They were first in line and would most likely be seriously injured or even killed if the
Sagari
hit a mine. Those four men and many others today and over the next few days were accepting things on faith. Hopefully cool heads would prevail. Too many Americans had seen the enemy's morbid tricks and endured kamikaze raids and the harsh fighting in the islands across the Pacific. Indeed, American sailors were trigger-happy and looking for an excuse to squeeze their triggers at the slightest provocation.

Steady on mates, and God bless
.

By 1130 the
Maxwell
was anchored in eighteen fathoms of water one thousand yards off the coast, near Kamakura. The ship was close to the beach, the wind had dropped to a tolerable ten knots, and calm descended, the tension evaporating like ice on a Coca-Cola bottle. The boatswain's mate of the watch piped away the noon meal, his whistle echoing over the ship's PA system. Ingram and Tubby White stayed on the bridge where they'd called a condition III watch. The rest of the crew headed for chow and maybe a nap. Guards armed with M-1s were posted: two on the forepeak, two on the fantail. Two more were positioned atop the pilothouse with BARs. Ingram was headed for the ladder to the main deck when he heard the
clack, clack
of the signal light.

Chief Signalman Tiny Overman was on the signal bridge rogering a flashing-light message from the
Missouri
, anchored six thousand yards out. Curious, Ingram walked over as Overman flipped his shutters.

“That for us, Chief?”

“Yes, sir,” said the sandy-haired signalman. He clacked his signal light once, acknowledging he understood a word received. Then he called it to an apprentice who stood by writing on a message pad. “Unclass,” he barked. Then he flicked his signal lantern. For a quick second Overman glanced at Ingram. “It's gonna be a long one. And it's addressed to you, Skipper. Go have chow. I'll run it down as soon as we get it all.”

Then he clacked again, calling out, “Date time group . . .”

For me? What the hell?
Overman had his hands full, so Ingram turned and went down the ladder to the wardroom. “Thanks, Chief.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

28 August 1945

USS
Maxwell
(DD 525), anchored one thousand yards off Kanagawa Prefecture, Sagami Bay, Japan

T
he night passed peacefully, with two destroyers patrolling outside the anchorage to bolster security. Personnel boats patrolling inside the anchorage searched for enemy swimmers, small boats, midget submarines, or any other mischief an enemy might put together. The morning dawned clear and bright, and sunlight glistened off the dew that had collected on the ships overnight.

The water was calm and the
Maxwell
tugged gently at her anchor as the sun rose higher. Boilers 1 and 4 and generator 2 were on the line providing power. A condition III watch remained in effect on all ships, with radars energized along with a full bridge watch and skeleton crews in CIC, sonar, and all gunnery stations, where live rounds lay in their trays, ready to ram and fire.

Before chow, off-watch sailors flocked to the bridge for “hour-glass liberty,” scanning with binoculars the Japanese shoreline a half-mile away. The firecontrolmen granted access to the Mark 37 gunfire control director atop the bridge, which offered a fine view. Men lined up all the way down to the main deck taking turns for a twenty-second sweep of the black sand beaches of the Japanese Riviera through the stereoscopic rangefinder. On occasion, a shouted “owwwwwieee” indicated that a sailor had managed to focus on a woman.

Wesley Sipes was a second-class radioman who had lived in Yokohama for five years when his father was a dispatcher for American President Lines. He still remembered some of the language and bits about the countryside. With his curious tourist seated at the rangefinder, Sipes would start at Kamakura, explaining that in
AD
1250 Kamakura was the fourth-largest city in the world with a population of 200,000. Rich in political history, Kamakura was perhaps best known as home to the massive thirty-eight-foot-tall bronze statue of Amida Buddha. Enclosed since it was built in 1252, it survived an earthquake and tsunami in 1923 that destroyed the surrounding temple. To this day, Sipes would tell his
guest, it still sits outside, exposed to the elements. Sweeping the rangefinder from left to right, Sipes would go on to say that Kamakura was also the site of the emperor's summer palace. More than one sailor muttered something about sending over a few 5-inch rounds for Hirohito's wake-up call.

In the wardroom, a well-rested Ingram joined Jerry Landa and the off-watch officers at breakfast. He listened to stale jokes as they dined on powdered eggs and milk and good toast made from bread baked by the cooks during the night.

Landa scraped his plate with the last piece of toast, then sat back and raised the message again. “Who is Marvin Radcliff?” he asked Ingram. “And are we really invited to the surrender ceremony?” The message Ingram had received from the
Missouri
yesterday was an invitation from General Sutherland to attend the ceremony; it was countersigned by Brig. Gen. Otis DeWitt. Ingram and Tubby White had been so busy setting up watches and securing the ship in the anchorage that Ingram hadn't paid much attention to the message last night.

“Marvin?” Ingram laughed. “Let me see.”

Landa passed it over. “Nice that you got us invited.”

“Well, of course. This is probably one of the most momentous events of the twentieth century.”

“I appreciate that, Todd,” Landa said. “But again, who the hell is Marvin Radcliff?”

“It's Bucky. Bucky Radcliff. He was the C-54 pilot.”

“Ahhh. He sounds like my kind of guy.”

The PA announcer crackled with, “Officers' call, officers' call.”

“Excuse us please, Captain?” The officers stood.

“Of course.” Ingram nodded as they shuffled out. Tubby White had excused himself earlier and was already back on the quarterdeck.

Landa said, “Interesting that they picked the Big Mo. I guess it's that she's the newest one of her class.”

“And named for Harry Truman's home state.”

“Um, politics rears its ugly head. I bet they kick Halsey off his ship with MacArthur and Nimitz coming to town. There just won't be enough room for all that brass.”

Ingram said, “I wouldn't be surprised.”

“Look there,” Landa pointed. “Does that really say ‘Otis DeWitt'? That little turd is a brigadier general now?”

“That's right. He works for General Sutherland. What did he ever do to you?” Ingram recalled DeWitt's description of Landa. It was obvious the two had had a run-in. Ingram didn't want to get into the middle of whatever it was. On the other hand, he did want Landa to attend the surrender ceremony—along with Tubby White, the C-54's cockpit crew, and Sergeant Harper and his Marines. It was his price for keeping quiet about the incident at Toro Airfield. DeWitt had put on a great sputtering act of denial but finally agreed to do his best. And he had come through.

Landa said, “Ran into the little jerk one night in the officers' club tent at Naha. Started getting official with me.”

“That's Otis.”

“How well do you know him?”

“We took a boat ride together.”

“Come on, Todd.”

“All right. I met him on Corregidor. And then he ended up on the
51
boat with me.”

“No foolin'?”

“All the way to Australia.”

“I'll be damned. I can't see it in that officious little peckerhead, but he must have something to have survived that.”

“That's why General Sutherland hired him. And now Otis is paying us back because of what we did for him up north. See?” Ingram pointed to the message. “He's invited the whole C-54 crew along with Sergeant Harper and his Marines.”

“And me.”

“And you.”

“But you added Tubby White.”

“I did.”

Landa rolled his eyes. “This must be Ingram's revenge. First I have to be polite to Lieutenant Commander White. Then I have to say ‘yes, sir' and ‘no, sir' to Brigadier General Dewitt. This is bullshit.”

Ingram did his best to cover a smirk.

Taylor Jefferson, a yeoman first class, appeared at the doorway and knocked. “Excuse me, Captain. A boat pulled up with our mail about a half hour ago.”

“Finally caught up with us?” said Landa.