Edge of Valor by John J. Gobbell Page A

important, they were to discuss procedures for the immediate release of all Allied prisoners in the Pacific region.
    So much for the background. Specifically, Ingram discovered, he was on this airplane to work with Captain Shiroku Fujimoto on clearing mines in Tokyo Bay, or Lower and Upper Sagami Wan. That’s the musical chairs guy sitting right out there , Ingram thought. He wondered if the man spoke English. He seemed to befollowing the chatter around him. Maybe so. At any rate, the orders said Captain Fujimoto had been assigned an interpreter, Lieutenant Nogi Tanaka, who was supposed to be among the sixteen Japanese seated back in the cabin.
    But why was the name so familiar? Fujimoto . . . Fujimoto. And what about those sixteen people back there? Army, navy, diplomatic . . . Ingram wondered how many of them knew about the atrocities he’d seen on Corregidor and the Bataan Peninsula. How many had been directly involved in the Bataan Death March? Or, more recently, the horrible stories filtering back from POW camps in the Japanese Home Islands or the ones scattered throughout Asia.
    He wondered how many men back there knew about or were directly involved in his own experience. Had they ordered the raping and pillaging in the Filipino villages whose people had safely hidden his men in the long days of their escape through the Visayans and on to Darwin, Australia? Over the years he had suppressed nightmares about those times, often taking refuge in Helen’s arms. Still, the visions flared in unguarded moments: a stretcher-bound Brian Forester bayoneted by a Japanese soldier in Mindanao; another Japanese soldier bayoneting a wounded Baumgartner on the pier in Penang. Those men had been helpless and worthy of compassion; instead, they were gutted by monsters begat by a monstrous political system.
    Ingram stood and walked aft into the main cabin. Captain Fujimoto looked up and regarded him coolly. They locked eyes for two long seconds, then Fujimoto went back to the remnants of his box lunch, the Marine gunny looking on hungrily.
    Neidemeier was perched on his jump seat across the aisle. Tucking his packet under his arm, Ingram knelt beside him and asked, “Where’s the translator?”
    â€œI see you’ve finally read your orders.”
    â€œNot all. Now where’s the translator?”
    Neidemeier sighed and nodded to a well-dressed Japanese civilian seated seven rows back. The man looked at Ingram for a moment, glanced at Neidemeier, then looked away.
    â€œThat’s him?”
    â€œNogi Tanaka. I think so. Supposed to speak fluent English, Spanish, and Tagalog.”
    â€œYou think so? Aren’t you supposed to know who these people are?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd you don’t know if this is the guy?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy the hell not?”
    â€œYou see, the Japanese were instructed to provide sixteen of their top people. But this surrender has been such an embarrassment to them that people disappeared as soon as they were appointed. They just went away. Nobody wants to take responsibility.”
    â€œThen who are all these guys?” Ingram waved around the cabin.
    â€œGood question. Whomever they could scrape up, I suppose.”
    â€œSo the roster is not accurate?”
    â€œIt was as of yesterday afternoon. The thing is, we’re not sure if these are their best people.”
    â€œSo how did you make up this list?”
    Neidemeier gave a thin smile. “Oh, no. It wasn’t me. I’m not that good. This comes straight from OSS.”
    â€œOS—what the hell is an OSS?”
    Neidemeier sighed. “You’ve been at sea too long.”
    â€œCome on.”
    â€œOSS: Office of Strategic Services. A secret government agency.” He looked furtively from side to side. “Keep a secret?”
    Ingram almost laughed. This airplane was full of people blabbing secrets. “Sure, ah . . . by the way, what’s your