Free Edge of Valor by John J. Gobbell Page A

splattering against the staff car’s window. “I can’t imagine,” he said.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œDon’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.”
    â€œWell, 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 ona 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?”
    â€œWatch 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?”
    â€œShe’d kill me.”
    â€œShe should. You don’t deserve her.”
    â€œYou’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?”
    â€œNot 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?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWorthless son of a bitch.” He turned and called back. “We have you bunking at the Rosario Apartments with the Japs.”
    â€œGreat. Do I get to sleep with a carbine?”
    â€œNaw, naw, we have guards out the ying-yang. Plus, I wouldn’t trust a Navy guy with a carbine. You’d just shoot yourself in the foot.”
    â€œI appreciate your confidence, Otis.”
    â€œThe pleasure’s all mine. Now, instead of hookers, how about dinner tonight?”
    Ingram glanced at Neidemeier. The major looked on in wonder. With a wink Ingram called down, “Don’t think so, Otis. I already have a dinner date with General and Mrs. MacArthur.”
    DeWitt walked quickly toward the last Mercury. With a wave over his head he called, “Not to worry. I’ll break it for you. Be ready at nineteen hundred. And wear something decent for a change.”
    â€œSo you two do know each other,” said Neidemeier dryly.
    â€œWe go a ways back.”
    â€œMaybe you can ask him to—”
    Neidemeier’s request was lost as the Filipino crowd pushed in with a mighty roar, the MPs barely holding them back. DeWitt