Edge of Valor Read Free

Japanese mainland and the Iowa had hurled her 16-inch, 2,000-pound projectiles eight miles inland. Her target: the industrial section of Ibaraki Prefecture, where Hitachi Industries’ electronics works were concentrated.
    The Maxwell and the rest of the task force had been close enough to pump out a few rounds as well. But as they retired for the evening the destroyers readied their 5-inch guns for the kamikazes’ deadly retribution. Gun crews struck the “common” ammunition with base-detonating fuses below into the magazines and pulled up antiaircraft projectiles with proximity fuses, stocking them in theupper handling rooms for immediate use. Now they were once again at general quarters to defend against the raid that was certain to come.
    Cdr. Todd Ingram paced his bridge, tugging at the straps on his life vest. The Maxwell had made it through so far. Whether by luck or Divine intervention or skillful fighting and maneuvering, Ingram couldn’t say. After the protracted Okinawa campaign coupled with Admiral Halsey’s triumphant bombardment of the coast of Japan, he was too tired to think about it. For the past four months he’d averaged five hours of sleep a day. Along with the rest of the crew he’d lived from meal to meal and watch to watch, becoming a near automaton.
    But over the past three days a different feeling had crept over Ingram—and, perhaps by osmosis, over the crew as well. Something awesome and horrific had happened at Hiroshima. Rumors flew around the fleet. The war could be over. Expectations of surrender grew into dreams—a good night’s sleep, a week’s worth of good night’s sleep; a thick, juicy steak; plenty of beer; and course zero-nine-zero: home. But the good news didn’t come; the pressure was still on. No sleep, no beer, no steak, no homeward trek; just more kamikazes and the incessant cracking of guns and the smell of cordite and the odor of death.
    Lt. Cdr. Tubby White, the Maxwell ’s executive officer, clomped onto the bridge wearing khaki shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals. White had played guard at USC, but his well-muscled torso had grown to generous proportions since then; thus his nickname. White’s inverted belly button poked through his sweaty T-shirt. As exec, White’s general quarters station was two decks below in the combat information center (CIC), a dark, cramped space full of heat-generating electronic equipment such as radar repeaters. There was no air conditioning.
    Ingram and White had known one another since the Solomon Islands campaign of 1942–43 when they had served in the destroyer Howell . The Howell was sunk, and White went on to successfully command a PT boat in the Upper Solomons campaign and then a squadron of PT boats during General MacArthur’s return to the Philippines. The Philippines campaign was just about done. PT boats were no longer needed, and Lt. Cdr. Eldon P. White was on the market, so to speak. Ingram scooped him up in an instant.
    White walked up, waving a flimsy.
    â€œWhat is it?” snapped Ingram.
    White tucked the message behind his back. “Touchy, touchy.”
    â€œDamn it, Tubby, I don’t have time for—”
    Capt. Jerry Landa walked up and snatched the flimsy from behind White’s back. “Insubordination, Mr. White.”
    White drew up to a semblance of attention. “Sorry, Commodore.”
    Ingram turned aside, trying not to laugh. These two had been at it for years. But they were so similar. Although Tubby White was heavier than Landa, their configurations were the same: portly. But Landa, with dark wavy hair, was far more handsome and sold himself to others with a winning smile, the mainfeature being upper and lower rows of gleaming white teeth. A pencil-thin mustache on top was designed to draw in the ladies and more than adequately did its job. The son of a Brooklyn stevedore, Landa went to sea at fifteen and worked his way up, obtaining