The bad weather eased up the following week and the first of the newly built fishing boats were able to get out to sea. The town’s morale really improved when an interisland cargo sailboat arrived with rice and salted fish, courtesy of the Moros in the north, along with two “missionaries of the one true faith,” who set up shop near the compound. Father Abriol, getting used to bamboo crutches, had returned to his quarters in the church; he stopped to talk with “the competition” every morning. By then I was staying in the erstwhile Japanese O-club as life began to return to Orotai. The menu had been much depleted but at least we did eat once a day. Rooster remained in Lingoro after telling me he thought it was his duty to help Tini and the villagers rebuild. I solemnly agreed that he was probably right about that while trying mightily to keep a straight face.
Magron and his hunter-archers had gone proudly back to their part of the island to a hero’s welcome now that the Jap menace was gone. We never saw the Negritos again; they had simply disappeared, as was their wont. I was going to miss them, especially after that display of primeval defiance in the town square. I think that spectacle had been the final straw for the Jap soldiers.
The radio and its generator arrived in town a week later from wherever it had been hidden, smelling faintly of fish oil. By then Rooster was able to walk into the town with the help of his “nurse,” the redoubtable Tini, so I drafted a message that I hoped would bring someone to Talawan to pick both us and the POWs up. We sent it out in plain English to save time and effort. By then the American Army had landed near Leyte Gulf, and there was word of a general uprising in and around Manila. It had been a long time since we’d reported in, so, as I expected, there was no acknowledgment at first. I had Rooster send it out three times more at different times of the day, in hopes that somebody might hear it, but there was still no reply. Even more frustrating was the fact that the radio would only transmit on that one frequency, so there was no way we could come up on one of the US Navy freqs.
We kept trying for two more days until the radio’s generator suddenly smoked and all its dials dropped back to the zero position. So that was that, we told ourselves, until ten days later a US Navy destroyer showed up outside the harbor at Orotai. They sent a boat into the fishing pier while the ship, guns trained in our direction, remained out of small-arms range in the harbor. A young lieutenant wearing a steel helmet and a gray life jacket over his khakis stood up once the boat tied up. He wanted to know the whereabouts of the two American pilots and some British prisoners of war who were supposed to be on this island.
Rooster and I were standing on the rickety pier, along with Father Abriol, who was sitting in a homemade wheelchair they’d fashioned out of bamboo and bicycle tires. I spoke up and told him who we were. The expression on the lieutenant’s face as he looked the two of us over said we might have a lot of explaining to do. I asked Father Abriol to send someone to the compound to start bringing out the POWs who were most able to walk. Once they began limping out of the compound the lieutenant relaxed and spoke to one of the boat’s enlisted crew, who produced a portable flashing light and began signaling the destroyer. He told us the ship was an APD, which was a destroyer that had been turned into a high-speed transport ship.
Maybe, I thought, as I watched the embarkation begin, just maybe we were finally going home.
THIRTY-FIVE
My defense counsel met me at the Makalapa headquarters main entrance. It had taken the entire week for me to get through my story because we didn’t stay in session all day. Apparently there were several other courts and boards of various kinds being held at PacFleet headquarters. Besides, my voice tired easily.
We headed past the decorations and flag stands of the formal main entrance and past the attending Marines and then walked down a long corridor leading to a back door. I’d been able to find a pair of slacks and a white shirt and tie at the Lucky Bag in the bachelor officers’ quarters, so I was a bit more presentable now. I’d had my hair cut and the beard shaved, so now my walnut-stained face, highlighted by that long white scar, was fully visible. Other officers were in the corridor, some carrying charts and others briefing folders, and all wearing worried expressions. Apparently the Philippines operation was touch and go and there’d been rumors of Jap battleships ambushing a formation of our carriers. Not surprisingly, the fleet headquarters was the virtual Grand Central Station for rumors.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” a voice said behind. “Fish: is that you?”
I turned to recognize a three-striper stopped in the corridor. It was Channing Cox, my skipper at Midway in Bombing Six. “What in God’s name happened to your face?”
He walked over and shook my hand while I stood there, speechless. “You’re alive,” he said. “We thought you went down with Hornet. Where the hell you been, Lieutenant? And what’re you doing here at Makalapa?”
My defense counsel rescued me. “He’s the subject of a court of inquiry,” he said. “He was picked up on the island of Talawan in the Philippines, along with a bunch of Brit POWs. The Navy didn’t—doesn’t—believe he is who he says he is.”
“Are you shitting me?” Commander Cox asked.
“No, sir.”
“Bobby,” he said. “Surely you’ve told them—”
I pointed to my face. The first time I’d seen it in a mirror onboard that destroyer I wouldn’t have believed it either. “I’ve spent the past week telling my story. Is there any chance…”
“Hell yes,” he said. “Is that where you’re going? To this court?”
I nodded. He handed his folders to a lieutenant commander who’d been walking with him and off we went. Within an hour my legal ordeal was over. The president of the court told me to report to the CO of the naval air station at Ford Island for reassignment. Then he said he wanted to speak to me in private. We left the courtroom and walked down to the CincPacFleet dining room and coffee mess. The stewards brought us coffee and then we sat down at one of the tables.
“I have to tell you, Lieutenant: I was very impressed by your testimony. I think you deserve official recognition for what you and your radioman-gunner did there on Talawan. I urge you to write this all down before you forget it.”
“I’m not likely to ever forget it, Captain,” I said.
“Yeah, I understand that. I’m talking about details, times, places, dates if you can manage it. Write it up, then get that report to me. I think it’s important, both for the navy and your own career.”
My career, I thought. That word hadn’t crossed my mind once in the past, what, almost two years? Career?
“I have one question, which I deliberately didn’t bring up in open session.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Where is Radioman Baynes?”
“Missing,” I said, promptly, and then told my preplanned fable. “He went back to the village once the destroyer showed up. It took us two days to get the POWs out to the ship. When it was time for me to take a boat out there I sent a runner to Lingoro to get Rooster. They said he’d gone upland because of a report that a Jap patrol had been seen. The captain of the destroyer said he had to leave that morning. And, so…”
The captain looked at me. “And that’s your story, is it?”
I looked down at the table, a bit ashamed. He’d seen right through it. Captains often did that. “I think he earned it, Captain,” I said quietly. “He was never going back into a cockpit after all he’d gone through. I think he’ll do more good in that little village than he could ever do in what remains of this damned war.”
“Is that so,” he said. He finished his coffee. “Okay, I will officially take that thesis under advisement. I recommend that you make his disappearance a little more mysterious when you write up what happened there at the end.”
The look on his face was officially stern, but there was a twinkle of sympathetic humor in his eyes. He understood perfectly.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome, Lieu
tenant. Now: how’s about getting into a proper uniform, now that you’re back in the land of rules and regulations. By the way, I know a skin doctor here up at Tripler who might be able to fix that face of yours. Get up there and ask for Doctor Jack Hall. He’s really good. Unless of course you want to keep it?”
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead, Captain,” I said. “I’m still pretty tired.”
He nodded. “You did well out there, Lieutenant. Very well. Take the next week off before reporting to Ford Island. Get up to Tripler. Write up your story, and then get it back over here. You know where to find me.”
Suddenly I was at a loss for words. The tapestry of all that had happened began to parade before my eyes. The room was suddenly blurred. The captain put a hand on my shoulder. “You did good, son. You did real good. And here’s something you might not know. After what you went through, especially aboard Hornet and then Hagfish, not to mention Talawan, you’ll be officially offered the option of simply going home. You’ve done more than your share of fighting this war. We are going to win this thing. We know it, I think the Japs know it. And then, it will be time to get on with the rest of your life. Trust me when I say no one would gainsay your decision to simply go home.”
Again I didn’t know what to say, but the idea of going home had never occurred to me. He looked at his watch and said he had to go; yet another court was in the offing. I sat there for a few minutes and then went to find the shuttle back down to the BOQ at the naval base.
Interestingly, my room in the BOQ was just about identical to the one I’d stayed in waiting for the Big E to come back into port. This time, however, there was no seabag and no orders packet. At some point I’d have to go find a paymaster, a uniform shop, and an ID office to reestablish who I was. Or at least who I’d once been. In the meantime, I had some writing to do.
The only souvenir from Talawan was an ornately carved bamboo tube Magron had brought down to the pier as I was waiting for the next and last boat out to the destroyer, whose stacks were puffing with impatient steam. It was not quite four feet long and slightly curved, but it had been signed or at least marked by all sorts of people from Lingoro and Orotai. It was heavy for bamboo, but it was also almost three inches in diameter, which probably accounted for the weight. I’d carried it all the way back to Pearl like some oversized baton, much to the consternation of some of my fellow passengers.
I went over to the closet and rousted it out. I read through the signatures, touched the carved totem faces and figures, most of which I couldn’t recognize. I smelled the wood and all the sights, sounds, and memories of Talawan came flooding back. I laid it down on my bed and then noticed there was a thin green line about ten inches from one end that went all the way around. I hadn’t seen that before.
Then it hit me: Was that a seam? Was there something inside?
I picked it back up and shook it. It didn’t feel like there was anything inside, but that green line was marginally wider now. The ends of the tube had been carved into complex handles, like a rolling pin. I gave one a hard pull and by God, it popped off. Inside was a roll of what looked like saw grass leaves, wrapped so tightly I could barely pull them out, after which I raised the tube to see what slid out.
Tachibana’s great sword fell out onto the bed. I almost stopped breathing. The sword wasn’t very clean, with green stains from the leaves on the mother-of-pearl-encrusted handle. There was also a faint odor of something truly nasty rising from it. I stared at it for a moment and then grasped the handle and tried to pull the blade out of its scabbard, but it seemed to be stuck. Then it moved. When I saw why it was so sticky I quickly pushed it back in to the hilt.
Just a friendly little reminder from Magron, I thought. This is what becomes of occupiers on Talawan Island.
My brain tilted for a moment, and then I made a decision. The captain had been right. It was indeed time for me to just go home. Enough was enough.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Talawan Island is fictitious and not to be confused with the very real, and much larger, Palawan Island in the Philippines. This story is based in part on a true incident in the Philippines, however, when a US submarine struck a Japanese sea mine and broke in half. There were initially fourteen survivors but only a few made it to shore, where they were picked up by the local Filipino resistance group. Eventually they were captured by the Kempeitai and imprisoned in a POW camp on Palawan Island for taking part in guerilla activities. After a bombing raid by US carrier aircraft, the commandant of the camp had the four submariners pushed into a ditch, doused with gasoline, and burned alive. One of them was the son of the admiral who’d been in command of the Pacific Fleet when the Japanese attacked.
There have been many books written about the battle of Midway and for years I thought I knew what had happened out there, but I was wrong. Find and read a book called Shattered Sword, by Jonathan Parshall and Anthony Tully, for a different account, different because it’s based on Japanese primary sources.
The carrier USS Hornet was sunk at the battle of the Santa Cruz Islands. The ship was abandoned once the fires caused by Japanese bombing attacks got out of control. Their escorts managed to get almost everyone off and then left her to burn. Two Japanese destroyers came upon the burning hulk and dispatched her with torpedoes.
The Kawanishi H8K flying boats existed as described in this story. They carried a crew of 11, as well as torpedoes, bombs, and depth charges, and they bristled with 20mm cannon and .50-caliber machine guns. They could range 4,000 miles on a single mission and if the seas permitted, they could land at dusk and just float around all night to save fuel.
I chose the name Tachibana as the chief villain of this story because a Japanese army lieutenant general named Yoshio Tachibana was hanged in Guam after the surrender for war crimes against Allied POWs, including the ghastly ritual cannibalism that occurred on the island of Chichi Jima, where the Japanese beheaded captured pilots and consumed their internal organs. To the Japanese militarists, a soldier who ran up a white flag lost all of his personal honor and most of his humanity. Allied POWs under Japan’s boot were treated so miserably because, in the eyes of their captors, they had become despicable creatures for not fighting to the death as any real warrior would.
And, finally, you might think I exaggerated the ocean depths around the Philippines, but the so-called Philippine Trench is 34,580 feet deep at its deepest point, or just shy of seven miles deep. The country has some of the biggest volcanoes in the Ring of Fire, including Pinatubo, which evicted the entire American base establishment when it erupted in 1991 in the second-largest volcanic eruption of the twentieth century.
I’ve personally been to the Philippines often during my naval service, and our family has wonderful memories and connections to those amazing people. My mother and father were married in Manila when he was a young naval officer and her father was the Studebaker Automobile representative for the entire country. She had a Filipina amah during her childhood so my mother spoke a mixture of Spanish and Tagalog characteristic of Manila. My older brother was born in Manila just before the family moved to Shanghai, eight years before war broke out.
My last time in Manila was when I was assigned to the US embassy as the head of a US Navy mobile training team in 1966, teaching Philippine navy crews how to operate Swift-class gunboats. LBJ had given the Philippine government three Swift boats in return for his being able to claim that the war in Vietnam was an “Allied” endeavor. During the at-sea phase of that training we operated their three Swift boats in the waters around Corregidor, chasing pirates. The boats would come rumbling in at sundown to the Manila Yacht Club where I was billeted. They’d pick me up and we’d go out for night operations in Manila Bay. I stayed in the same club guesthouse building where my parents had honeymooned thirty-four years previously.
The pirate problem was real. They’d come out onto the waters of Manila Bay at night and pretend to be fishermen, just two men and a small light in a banca boat. Tipped off by corrupt c
ustoms officials in Manila, they’d wait for a specific cargo ship to come through, headed for the city. On signal, a dozen of these “fishermen” would light off 75HP outboards on their banca boats and swarm the ship like iron filings to a magnet. They’d climb aboard, slaughter the entire crew, and then run the ship aground and loot it. We engaged in several nighttime firefights with them; they could outrun our boats but not our radar and our lovely 81mm mortars.
One night the Philippine commander of the three-boat division, whom I was “advising,” got fed up and decided to attack the two seaside villages where most of the pirates were known to be based. They shelled the villages and the piers and then machine-gunned the whole burning shoreline, Magron style. The next day I went to see the naval attaché to inform him of the incident, and to suggest that perhaps our usefulness was at an end. The horrified ambassador quickly agreed and the next day my crew and I flew over to Saigon from Clark Air Base to join a Swift boat division based on the Long Tau (or Saigon) River. I think we saw more action on Manila Bay than we did for the next year in Vietnam.
During the Second World War the Filipinos suffered badly, both from the conquering Japanese and then the eventual battles when the Americans returned to drive them out. They were some of our staunchest allies against the Japanese invaders and the Japanese knew it. Thousands died, both in Manila at the hands of the Kempeitai, and out in the countryside and the outlying islands, but they never wavered. Our history books make it sound like they were staying fiercely loyal to America in hopes of eventual liberation. I think they were simply continuing their dogged determination to evict, one way or the other, the latest group of foreign occupiers.
The Nugget Page 30
