The Nugget

by P. T. Deutermann

  It took much longer than I had hoped for us to get that gun mount out of the wreckage. First we had to punch our way into the tail fuselage using bamboo sticks because the normal access tunnel back to the tail blister was embedded in the creek. Then we had to get the bloody bits and pieces of the gunner’s remains out of the way, which was a truly nauseating task. The machine gun was built into a ball-shaped cage that allowed the gunner to train, elevate, or depress the two barrels in an almost 360-degree sphere of action.

  We had no tools other than our bolos, which fortunately had heavy steel blades, capable of smashing through all the lightweight aluminum. In the end we managed to cut the entire ball cage out of the tail cone, letting it fall into the soft ground on the banks of the creek. Two belts of glistening brass-cased ammunition came with the gun assembly. We paused at frequent intervals to listen for sounds of a rescue plane or, worse, Tachibana’s men coming. The big fire was starting to burn itself out. If that towering smoke cloud dissipated, Tachibana’s men would have a hard time locating the wreckage without air support. We hoped.

  Then we had to decide what to do with our prize, which weighed a whole lot more than I’d expected. Rooster said the guns were in good order after he had carefully unloaded and then cleared both of them. The trouble was that the guns themselves were hard-mounted onto a framework within the ball cage, and we had no way to dismount them without tools, and power tools at that. Rooster estimated that the whole assembly weighed about 350 pounds. Since there were three of us, I suggested we rig a travois, roll the gun assembly onto it, and drag it away from the tail as far as we could manage, and then hide it. We could then gather up a working party back at the village and haul it somewhere where we might be able to take it apart. How, where, when were open questions, but if we could acquire a working and transportable twin-fifty it would surely be worth the effort. Each of the ammo belts carried 150 rounds, and there were incendiary tracer rounds every fifth link, just like ours. We might not even need archers.

  THIRTY

  Lingoro was a heartbreaking scene when we finally got back, hours later. It had pretty much ceased to exist. Where the houses had been was now just an expanse of dirt with 15-foot craters everywhere. All the nearby trees were down in heaps of firewood, and even the giant where we’d been hidden had had its top two-thirds blown over. Most of the people had managed to flee, but there were some, the very old or women with infants, who had not escaped. They were now reduced to bits of red spattered all over the flattened grass and bushes. Magron and some of his men were sitting in a circle where the longhouse had been, attending to Father Abriol, who’d been parked in a litter laid on the round side of a bomb crater. The village was silent, as if the very earth was still in shock at what had happened. What the bombs hadn’t flattened, the 20mm cannon fire had shredded. I didn’t see any of the villagers. We walked into the rubble and sat down with the rest of them.

  Abriol looked at us with a tragic face. He’d been weeping and still was. Magron’s face, on the other hand, was a study in cold fury. I told the padre what we’d accomplished; when Tomaldo translated that news to Magron, his old eyes gleamed with sudden murderous interest. I was surprised that this old medicine man even knew what a twin fifty was, but then, there was a lot we didn’t know about him. Rooster had to explain the significance of our newly acquired treasure to Abriol, and I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or afraid. He still looked feverish, but he’d quickly realized that the plans for attacking the Jap compound were now certainly going to proceed. Being a priest, he was still consumed with the magnitude of the human disaster all around him.

  “The Negritos know something we don’t,” I speculated. “I think it all means that the Japs are getting ready to bail. That means the prisoners, what’s left of them, are probably dead ducks. We definitely need to get those POWs out if we can before we attack the Japs in their compound.”

  After Tomaldo translated for Magron he became very agitated. We sat back and waited for their tense exchange to conclude. Tomaldo turned to us.

  “Magron wants no delay,” he said. “He wants to attack the compound tonight. If they can have that machine gun, he will use it. But this bombing must be avenged immediately. As long as Tachibana is still alive on this island, he will continue to attack the people here, who are defenseless. Those prisoners should not have surrendered. They should have fought to the death, as we are prepared to do.”

  “That’s a very Japanese concept,” I replied. Tomaldo hesitated, not wanting to translate that. I indicated he should.

  Magron was taken aback when he finally parsed what I’d just said. Then he got really angry, but Abriol raised his right hand and began to speak to him in Tagalog. This time Tomaldo started to translate for us but Abriol gave a sight shake of his head. That’s new, I thought, until I remembered: they were speaking Tagalog, which meant that whatever Abriol was saying, we couldn’t understand it, thus saving Magron’s face, especially if Abriol was arguing with him. It soon became clear that whatever the padre was saying, Magron wasn’t having it. In an obvious case of disrespect Magron interrupted Abriol. He spoke for about a minute in short, clipped sentences. Abriol asked him a question, probably along the lines of: Are you sure? Magron grunted one final word and then got up, summoned his war party, and stomped off into the still-smoking forest. Tomaldo just stood there, eyes closed, shaking his head.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “Well, he said if you insisted on saving the English prisoners, do it yourselves. They were of no concern to him or the people of Talawan Island. He was going to punish the real enemy, the Japanese, and kill them all.”

  I sighed. Then I became aware there were villagers creeping back into the circle of craters and splintered trees that had been their village not an hour ago. None of them was speaking. They just wandered around the wreckage, being careful not to step on the bloody bits. Some of the older women began to wail softly in their anguish. Small children buried their faces into their mothers’ skirts, refusing to look. One woman gave out a hysterical shriek and threw herself down into one of the craters, which had already begun to fill with muddy water. She lifted up the blackened corpse of a toddler, holding it up in the air and screaming at the sky as if she was cursing God for letting this happen.

  Abriol turned to us. “You should leave now,” he said quietly. He told Tomaldo, whose immediate family lived in a nearby hamlet, to take us back to the lava tube. He would have to stay to say Mass and comfort these people in any way he could.

  “If Magron attacks the Japs,” I said, “the first thing they will do is order the camp guards to shoot all the prisoners.”

  “I know,” he replied. “But what can we do about that?”

  “I have no idea right now, but if you can find Rooster and me a couple of rifles and some ammo, I want to be taken to the POW camp as soon as it gets dark.”

  He began shaking his head. “No, no, no,” he said. “Those prisoners can barely get up to make it to the latrines. Even if you single-handedly wiped out all the camp guards, what then? How would you get those walking dead out of there? How would you get them to safety? Feed them? Shelter them? You’re not thinking, just like Magron is not thinking.”

  It was becoming clear that Abriol’s injuries and the shock of the village bombing had completely unnerved our heretofore warrior priest. I tried a different tack. “Magron’s going to help us,” I said.

  “Oh, yes? Since when?”

  “You get word to Magron that the Allies are going to defeat the Japanese and drive them all the way back to their home islands by killing them until they give up. After that, there will be many questions asked wherever the Japs occupied territory. Those who helped defeat the Japs will be honored. Those who helped them will be hanged. Tell Magron that his decision to abandon the POWs to their fate will end up in the second column. Tell him to think about that and then to bring many boats and men to the POW camp tomorrow night. Unless, of course, he is afraid.”

  “He
will never do that,” Abriol protested.

  “Then the two of us will give it a try,” I said. “Yes, we’ll probably fail, but we’ll go down fighting and Magron and his men will be known as the ones who ran away.”

  “I can’t tell him that,” Abriol said. “He is likely to cut my head off for saying such a thing.”

  “I can,” Tomaldo said. “And I will. The lieutenant is right. If we let those men die we will become like lepers in the eyes of all Filipinos.”

  Father Abriol wrung his hands. “Please, please, stop this insanity, the two of you. All this killing! It’s madness!”

  “It’s war, Father,” Rooster said, gently. “The Japs started all this shit because they like war. It gives them a chance to be samurais again and to die honorably. It’s our duty to help them accomplish that. I swear that’s all they’re fighting for.”

  Abriol threw up his hands and limped away, talking to himself. Tomaldo said he’d leave immediately to find Magron; they couldn’t be that far away and his own scouts in the forest would know where they went. I told him we’d stay here until he got back, and then we’d head for the POW camp tonight to make a reconnaissance.

  That didn’t happen. Tomaldo did not come back that night. Rooster and I wondered if Magron hadn’t exercised some elder power over the youngster after he gave the old man my message. Now I was getting depressed—every time I initiated something, more Filipinos got killed. Standing there among the stinking bomb craters and grieving villagers, I began to think that maybe Rooster had been right all along about building that boat. We sure as hell weren’t doing much good for the people of Talawan Island.

  After a while, though, people from the other villages started to come in. They brought food and water and the men brought tools. The only good thing about living in a bamboo-framed hut was that even a 500-pounder would mostly blow it down. The villagers were supremely practical. They went poking through the wreckage and picking up the useable bamboo framing logs. They then began reassembling the village huts. Several teenaged boys were put to the task of filling in the craters with picks and shovels. Others were sent into the woods to get the vines they used to lash together the logs. Rooster and I helped where we could while trying not to get in their way. At one point Rooster went over to the remaining bottom half of that big hollow tree and stepped inside. He came back out a minute later with good news: those three rifles were still there. They were 1903 model Springfield bolt-action rifles, and one of the boxes contained ammo. Even they would beat a bow and arrow.

  Two hours after sunset and still no Tomaldo, so we asked for a guide through pidgin and hand signals. Two boys volunteered to take us. The British prisoners had been getting fresh fruit and a little bit of cooked rice passed through the perimeter fence on an every other day basis. We had nothing to bring them after the bombing but the news that we were going to try to spring them from the camp tomorrow night. It took an hour to get down to the camp itself, and then another half hour to choose our moment to get across the creek and up to the back fence. The prisoners had set up a watch routine, posting one man at the back fence as soon as the evening head count had been made. It was nearing midnight when we finally made contact. As it happened, this night the man posted was the same sergeant we’d spoken to on the night of first contact, Staff Sergeant Mason. We crouched in the dark next to one of the fence posts.

  I told him that things were coming to a head with Tachibana, as evidenced by the village bombing. He said they’d figured as much because the compound guards had seemed extremely nervous lately. The good news was that the POW camp garrison had been cut in half after Tachibana ordered several of them back to the compound at the port. There was only one sentry at each of the gun towers instead of three, and they were spending an awful lot of time in the tower shelter, as opposed to being out on the platforms with the guns and the lights. The prisoners had been careful to disguise their improving health by continuing to drag themselves around their huts.

  “Can they walk on their own?” I asked him.

  “If not, those who can’t will be carried by those who can,” he said. “But: the Jappos definitely have the wind up. One of our lads understands some Japanese, and he says the guards are talking about leaving Talawan and that the prisoner problem has been solved by orders from Tokyo.”

  “I think I know what that means,” I said.

  “Not too bloody hard to suss out, is it?” he said. “Tomorrow may be cutting it close.”

  “Best we can do,” I said. “But I’m hoping we’ll have some help coming tomorrow night. Boats and men to help move each of you once we get you out.”

  “You hope?”

  I explained our problem with Magron and that it might come down to just the two of us and any men I could talk into helping.

  “We’ll sort it, somehow,” he sighed. “If you can get this bloody wire cut and knock out the tower guards, we’ll make it work. They change guards at midnight, by the way.”

  The nearest tower’s spotlight came on and began one of its random sweeps of the camp yard, buildings, and fence lines. Mason melted away and so did we. It occurred to me that I had no idea how we were going to cut that heavy-gauge barbed wire.

  The men of the village were still working on erecting shelters when we got back, working by the light of makeshift torches stuck in the ground. We were surprised at the progress they’d made. The bomb craters were mostly filled in and there were several shelters already up, most consisting of four poles and the beginnings of a palm-frond roof. All the shelters were filled with sleeping forms. A small group of women were tending a fire over to one side over which hung a black kettle. We were welcomed to partake in the hot stew and it was wonderful. Rooster and I had stopped asking what was in these concoctions; when you get one meal a day you’re mostly just grateful and the local monkeys are nervous.

  We asked after Father Abriol; they took us to that giant tree trunk and led us inside. He still looked to be in bad shape. The women tending to him were speaking in hushed tones. When he heard us come in he turned his face toward us.

  “Infection, I’m afraid,” he said in a feverish voice. “It’s my leg.”

  Rooster and I examined his leg and then looked at each other. The proud flesh and the noxious smell when we removed the bandages told the story, even if neither of us had ever seen it: gangrene. The swelling and toxic colors had reached the middle of his shin. If he was going to live, the leg beneath the knee would have to come off. We stepped back outside. By then Abriol had drifted back to sleep.

  “What the hell are we gonna do, Boss?” Rooster whispered.

  At that moment a file of men entered the village, led by none other than Magron, followed by Tomaldo and what I’d begun to think of as the archers. Magron approached me and signaled for Tomaldo to translate.

  “You are right and I was wrong,” he announced.

  I knew immediately that this was yet another occasion for “save face” strategy, so I improvised. “I am honored that you are here, and we need your help. First of all for Father Abriol.”

  He didn’t expect that news and hurried into the tree sanctuary. He came back out in less than a minute and began issuing orders. His people ran to get some of the torches to build a fire near the tree trunk. Magron pulled out his bolo and a tiny black stone and began to sharpen it.

  “Magron will cut off the leg,” Tomaldo said. “Then he will seal the cut with hot steel. He has done this before.”

  Magron was watching us to see our reaction. I bowed to him and then told Tomaldo that we agreed, this was the best thing. Magron gave some more orders which sent some of the old women hustling this time. They returned with a cup fashioned from bamboo, which Magron took into the sanctuary. Then he came out and handed his bolo to one of the women who carefully placed the blade in the wood fire, turning it periodically to heat it evenly. Rooster asked me if we should back out. I said: no. A Filipino is going to amputate a white man’s leg; we should stay to show our approval.


  The women brought Father Abriol out of the tree base on a crude litter and set him down on the ground next to the fire. A small crowd had gathered by now, and several of them were praying. Abriol was clearly out of it. His lips were moving but with no discernible sound. Magron directed one of the women to place a bamboo log high under Abriol’s thigh. As soon as it was in place he pulled the red-hot bolo from the fire and cut Abriol’s right leg off just above the knee with one powerful chop. He then pressed the glowing blade against the stump and cauterized the big artery and any other bleeders in a horrific cloud of bloody steam. Abriol’s whole body went rigid and then his head lolled to one side as the smell of burning meat filled the air. Rooster and I finally remembered to breathe. One of the women carried the diseased leg out into the forest. Others moved in with ointments, crushed herbs, and clean cloth to cover the burn. Rooster grabbed my arm.

  “Boss,” he said in a trembling voice.

  “If he survives that shock, he’ll live,” I said, quietly. “Magron knows what he’s doing and so do those women.”

  Magron heard me say his name and turned to look our way. I nodded vigorously, signaling: good, very good. Tomaldo translated and Magron acknowledged. The women carried Abriol back into the tree shelter, while Tomaldo, Magron, and I walked over to a downed tree trunk and sat down to talk about tomorrow. Obviously Tomaldo had managed to change the old man’s mind about a preemptive attack. How, I didn’t know, but I thanked him privately.

  THIRTY-ONE

  By sunset of the next day we were about to put our plan into motion until a runner from Orotai trotted into the village with news. Tachibana had sent squads of soldiers into the town to go house to house in search of food—and hostages. There were now between twenty and thirty women and children being held inside the Jap compound and the town itself was being patrolled. Our informant had no news of the POW camp but he did tell us that those four Negritos were waiting outside the village for permission to come in and talk. Magron sent him back out into the forest to bring them in. Tomaldo and Magron sat down with them while Rooster and I went to check on Abriol.