Edge of Valor by John J. Gobbell Page B

Kawabe’s seat. Four Marines stood in the aisles, watching closely. The conversation, although animated, seemed normal. Hammer walked up to them and soon had them in their seats and belted.
    Fujimoto again sat in the front-row window seat. The aisle seat was empty, and the Marine gunnery sergeant across the aisle was fast asleep. An American interpreter, a balding Navy lieutenant with dark bags under his eyes, sat in the bulkhead-mounted jump seat just in front of Fujimoto.
    Ingram nodded to the aisle seat. “May I?”
    Fujimoto gestured to the seat and Ingram sat.
    They turned to examine one another. Ingram marveled that he faced someone who just a week ago had been dedicated to killing him. Then it occurred to him that Fujimoto was probably thinking the same thing.
    Fujimoto rattled off something in Japanese.
    â€œHe says you look tired, Commander,” said the interpreter.
    Ingram forced a smile, “So do you, Lieutenant.”
    The interpreter asked, “Does it show?”
    â€œIngram. Todd Ingram. Call me Todd.”
    â€œLarry O’Toole.”
    They shook hands. “You do look beat,” said Ingram.
    â€œNo doubt about it. We went ’til 2:30 in the morning. Not much shut-eye, I’ll tell you.”
    O’Toole had a legal device on his collar. Ingram asked, “You an attorney?”
    â€œWho wants to know?” He faked a Brooklyn accent.
    Ingram grinned.
    â€œUniversity of Notre Dame.” He held up his left hand displaying a class ring. “Class of 1937—liberal arts. Law school, class of 1940.” He pointed to Ingram’s class ring. “Annapolis?”
    â€œClass of 1937. Where’d you learn Japanese?”
    â€œGrew up there. Tokyo. My dad worked for RCA. Lead engineer.” With a look to Fujimoto he said, “I hope he’s still there.”
    â€œYou mean—”
    â€œI went home to go to Notre Dame. Dad stayed. I have no idea what happened.”
    â€œYour mom?”
    â€œDied in 1933 in a car wreck.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œGets worse. Dad took up with a Japanese girl later. I don’t know what happened with the two.” He bit a thumbnail.
    â€œEverything go all right last night?” Ingram asked.
    â€œAs far as I can tell. There was a little trouble at the start with the wording of the surrender agreement—something to do with how the royal family is to be addressed; miniscule point but very tricky. I have to tell you, Colonel Mashbir is the greatest. The Japs were ready to give up at first. But Mashbir caught the error and changed it right there on the spot without permission from anybody. He just did it. And that was gutsy because the wording came directly from the State Department. Talk about playing with fire. He didn’t even ask General Sutherland. The guy is amazing. The Japs agreed, and we moved on.” O’Toole loudly exhaled. “I have to tell you, I thought I knew everything, but I learned a lot.”
    â€œSo, the emperor retains control?” Ingram looked again at Fujimoto. He seemed intent on their conversation.
    â€œAbsolutely. But he’s subject to the authority of the supreme commander.”
    â€œAhhh.”
    O’Toole continued, “After that, it went okay until . . .”
    â€œUntil what?”
    â€œSome real trouble came when we asked about the location of the POW camps. Like squeezing blood out of a rock. But it sounds like we have them now.”
    The C-54 slammed into an air pocket and dropped, shaking when it hit bottom. Beverages spilled; a Marine cursed.
    O’Toole turned white and mumbled, “I hate airplanes.”
    Ingram felt a bit shaky himself. Neidemeier snored, and he’d not slept well last night. Air pockets didn’t help. He mumbled back, “We’re punching through a front. Don’t worry about it.”
    â€œI do worry about it. A buddy of mine was a Hellcat pilot who . . .”
    Fujimoto