Road to Purgatory

by Max Allan Collins

  Wainwright removed a small notebook from a pocket and jotted down the words: “To Michael P. Satariano, Corporal United States Army, for saving my life in a strafing attack by a Japanese Zero fight on Bataan, March 10, 1942. General Jonathan M. Wainwright.”

  “Put these words under that gun,” the general said, placing the slip of paper on the small metal bedside table, “and hang that Garand over your fireplace, for your kids and grandkids to see. Promise me you’ll do it, son.”

  “…I promise. Would you…do me another favor, General?”

  “Name it.”

  “Say good-bye to Captain Wermuth for me. And tell him this is not my fault.”

  “Of course it’s not your fault,” the general began.

  But the corporal had fallen asleep, his right eye fluttering till it closed, leaving the white gauze patch to stare accusingly at General Wainwright.

  On March 17, after a harrowing journey, General MacArthur, his family and staff arrived safely in Australia by way of Mindanao. With them was the only American soldier to get off Bataan, the first Congressional Medal of Honor winner of the Second World War.

  Michael Satariano of DeKalb, Illinois.

  BOOK

  ONE

  HOME-FRONT WAR

  DeKalb and Chicago, Illinois

  Miami, Florida

  July 1942

  ONE

  Patsy Ann O’Hara, unquestionably the prettiest coed on the Northern State Teachers’ College campus, did not have a date for the Fourth of July.

  Apple-cheeked, strawberry blonde, her heart-shaped face blessed with Shirley Temple dimples, a beauty mark near her full lips, her big long-lashed dark blue eyes accented by full dark (cautiously plucked) eyebrows, her five-foot-five figure one that Lana Turner would find familiar, Patsy Ann had been a stunning beauty for so many years, she never thought about it, really, other than to carefully maintain this gift from God.

  The former homecoming queen of DeKalb Township High (class of ’38) considered herself more conscientious than vain—meticulous about her grooming, maintaining an exercise regimen, avoiding excess sweets and too much sun, her selection of clothing as exacting as a five-star chef choosing just the right ingredients for a gourmet meal (before shortages, anyway).

  Today she had selected an appropriately patriotic red-and-white-checked cotton sundress, its ruffled trim at both bodice and skirt accentuating her just-full-enough bosom and her Grable-esque gams, further set off by red-white-and-blue open-toed wedge-heeled sandals. The outfit perhaps seemed a trifle young—she was, after all, twenty-one…

  …but she wanted to look like a high school girl today, or at least invoke one, even if doing so risked occasional askance glances or even envious ridicule from females who never had looked this good, not even in high school.

  Anyway, the men would like it…though she only cared about the reaction of one specific man sure to be at the festivities today…

  None of the panting males at Northern State Teachers’ College had even bothered to ask Patsy Ann out for the Fourth. This had nothing to do with a shortage of men—fully half the enrollment was male, ranging from 4-Fs to guys waiting for Uncle Sam’s inevitable “greetings,” as well as a number who’d received deferments. They had long since stopped trying, knowing she was “taken.”

  The first several years at Northern, she’d been dating her high school boyfriend; and ever since her guy had joined the army and gone off to fight in the Philippines, Patsy Ann had been steadfastly true, a college woman wearing the high school class ring of her overseas beau. Frustrated as some of the guys at Northern might be, they admired her for this loyalty—so did even the cattiest females on campus.

  No one but Patsy Ann’s young sister—little Betty, who was a high school senior already!—knew the truth; not even Mom and Dad. No one but Betty knew that Mike had broken it off with Patsy Ann before he went away, that he had kissed her tenderly and told her not to wait for him.

  “Forget about me,” he said.

  “You can’t be serious, Michael…”

  But he was almost always serious.

  “A war’s coming,” he said. “I’m not going to put you in that position.”

  She’d felt flushed with emotion, some of it anger. “Doesn’t my opinion count in this?”

  “No,” he said.

  But she knew he didn’t mean that. She knew he was trying to get her mad at him, to help break it off…

  She’d penned a letter to him every day. He had not sent a single reply, or at least none had made it back to her. And yet month upon month, she wrote to Mike, staring at his framed senior picture, suffering in stoic, noble silence, an English lit major wholly unaware that her love of romantic literature was influencing her behavior.

  When she learned of Mike’s breathtaking heroism, and that he was coming home, Patsy Ann had gone to Pasquale’s Spaghetti House to see if Papa and Mama Satariano had an address for him. They did—their son was at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital near Washington, DC.

  When he didn’t reply to her stateside letters, either, she dismissed it—after all, Michael was recuperating, receiving therapy. And then, a few months later, the local paper was full of Papa and Mama Satariano taking the train to DC to attend the presentation by President Roosevelt of the Congressional Medal of Honor—the first of the war!

  How Patsy Ann wished she could have been there, standing next to Michael in the White House Executive Office as General Eisenhower lowered the looped ribbon with the golden star over his head…

  For several weeks Michael had toured the East Coast, making speeches (she could hardly believe that, shy as he was!) and promoting the sale of war bonds and stamps. Banquets, dinners, receptions, receiving the keys to cities, shaking hands with mayors and governors and senators…how thrilling it would have been, to be at his side. Michael, though, probably detested all of it…

  Yesterday, in Chicago, Michael had been flown into Municipal Airport and whisked away for a ticker tape parade down packed State Street. The key-to-the-city ceremony had been at city hall, with Mayor Kelly and various dignitaries lavishing praise on this “heroic native son of Illinois.”

  Michael gave a speech, his voice soft and uninflected; but even Patsy Ann, listening on the radio, would have to admit the talk was not a memorable one, sounding nothing like Michael: “There are many who speak of giving their all, but are they willing to allocate ten percent of their earnings for war bonds?”

  Still, as she curled beside the console, feeling like a school girl, heart beating like a triphammer, she cherished the sound of his voice.

  Had she done the right thing, she wondered, not going into the city? Waiting for today, for what she hoped and prayed would be just the right moment?

  Last night, she and her sister had sat in their loose-fitting man-tailored pj’s in the upstairs bedroom they still shared (Patsy Ann lived at home and had rebuffed any attempt by sororities to rush her).

  Betty, dark-haired and cute, had been painting her nails cherry red as she said, “I don’t get it, sis. I mean, I can understand him wanting to break it off before he went over there and everything.”

  Patsy Ann, seated at the dresser mirror brushing her hair, said, “I know. He was being noble. The far-far-better-thing-I-do-than-I-have-ever-done-before bit.”

  “I saw that movie,” Betty said, moving to the next toe.

  “It’s a book, too, not that you’d ever know it.”

  “You don’t have to get short. Not my fault he hasn’t called or written.”

  Patsy Ann put the brush down with a clunk. “No need to be ‘noble’ now—papers say, ’cause of his eye, he won’t see any more action. Why hasn’t he called? What’s wrong with him?”

  Betty shrugged. “Maybe it is his eye. Maybe he’s scarred and stuff, and doesn’t wanna make the woman he loves marry a freak.”

  “What an awful thing to say!…But you could be right.”

  “He’s probably home right now. At his folks’. Phone li
ne runs both ways, you know.”

  “You think I should call him?”

  “Why not? You’re a modern woman, aren’t you?”

  Patsy Ann studied her face in the mirror, as if girding herself for combat. “…I won’t do that. I won’t try to see him until tomorrow…at the Fourth. I’ll just be this, this…vision in the crowd!”

  Betty nodded. “Yeah—that should work. These soldiers are really horny when they come home.”

  “Where do you get that language?”

  Another shrug. “It’s a brave new world, sis.”

  “That’s also a book, y’know.”

  Betty frowned. “What is?”

  The first wartime Fourth of July in a quarter-century fell on a Saturday, the perfect day to set the stage for a weekend celebration of independence. The radio and papers, however, were filled with governmental caution—fireworks and large gatherings could attract air raids and saboteurs. On the East and West Coasts, celebrations had been banned in some cities.

  Not in the Midwest, not in a heartland city like DeKalb whose principal exports were barbed wire and hybrid corn. The city fathers scheduled fireworks along with baseball, horseshoes, and archery, with musical programs all day long. Homes were draped red, white, and blue (materials available gratis at the city recorder’s) and when the Fourth dawned warm, not humid, a trifle breezy, flags flapped all over town.

  Patsy Ann accompanied her mother, Maureen, a plump, plainer version of herself, to the parade Saturday morning; her rugged, handsome father, William, was driving the mayor and his wife—as owner of the local Buick dealership, Daddy always provided a number of vehicles.

  Every float or vehicle draped in red-white-and-blue crepe, each band blaring military marches, created a near hysterical uproar in the crowd, applause, whistles, cheers. And when a vehicle would roll by with sailors or soldiers or marines, Patsy Ann could always spot in the midst of this frenzied fun a mother or two or three weeping.

  The grand marshal of the parade was Sergeant Michael Satariano (he’d been promoted by the secretary of war at the Medal of Honor presentation). Patsy Ann had abandoned her mother to work her way to the curb, positioning herself prominently.

  Seated up on the back of the convertible, in his crisp khaki uniform, Medal of Honor around his neck, Michael wore a small frozen smile as he raised a hand in a barely discernible wave. Despite how little he gave the crowd, they gave him back plenty; occasionally he would nod, and look from one side of the packed street to the other, a shy and retiring conqueror.

  If he saw her, Patsy Ann could see no sign—not of pleasure or displeasure or even recognition. In her little red-and-white sundress, Patsy Ann had surely been noticed by every other healthy red-blooded American male here. Then, as the Buick rolled by, she could see the scarring around his left eye—not disfiguring, but there—and realized she’d picked the wrong side of the street to stand on.

  And then he was gone, and she thought, That’s all it was—his bad eye…He just didn’t see me…

  That afternoon at Huntley Park, on the south side of town, the boulder-and-concrete bandshell, its red-tiled roof bannered with welcome home, mike!, showcased various dignitaries and the guest of honor. The mayor introduced Governor Green—imagine the governor choosing DeKalb for the Fourth, over Chicago or Springfield!—who introduced “Illinois’s own Michael Satariano.”

  Pasty Ann sat between her parents in the front row—folding chairs had been provided to supplement stone benches—and they, like everyone, stood and clapped and cheered. Professional-looking photographers were snapping photos of both Michael and the crowd—later Patsy Ann learned that the Trib and the Sun-Times had sent teams, but even more exciting, so had Life and Look. On the sidelines stood another soldier, an officer.

  Michael finally raised a hand to silence the audience. His voice was firm, though not loud, and the microphone picked him up fine; anyway, you could have heard a pin drop.

  First, Mike acknowledged his parents, who stood in the front row to warmly receive applause. Both of the elder Satarianos were portly, much shorter than their son; in truth, Patsy Ann had never seen any resemblance between her boy friend and his balding, white-mustached, bulbous-nosed father Pasquale and the sweet but barrel-shaped and downright homely Sophia.

  After all the build-up, what followed was a repeat of yesterday’s unmemorable “buy bonds” pitch. Mike’s unimpassioned rendition of what was obviously a speech prepared by others undercut whatever power it might have had. Still, the crowd did not seem to notice, hanging on every word as if hearing the Gettysburg Address.

  Then after a conclusion that tepidly wished the crowd a happy Fourth, Michael’s voice rose, and Patsy sat up, recognizing a familiar edge.

  “While you’re celebrating your independence,” Michael said, “setting off firecrackers, wolfing down a hot dog, tossing back a beer…please remember, and say a prayer for, our boys on Bataan.”

  A thrill went through her: Michael meant these words; these were all his!

  “The men I fought beside don’t enjoy freedom—this very moment they’re in Japanese prison camps. Don’t forget them! Back to Bataan! Back to Bataan!”

  And the crowd was on its feet again, fists in the air, echoing him: “Back to Bataan! Back to Bataan! Back to Bataan!”

  Patsy Ann noticed something peculiar: the army officer was not chanting along; he stood with arms folded, wearing a sour expression. A rather handsome man, about forty, in a business suit and fedora stood next to him—smiling.

  Then Michael came down and shook thousands of hands and signed autographs, and Patsy Ann waited alone, seated on a stone bench, her parents wandering off to watch the baseball tourney.

  Almost two hours had passed before the crowd dissipated. The governor and mayor were long gone; even the proud parents, Pasquale and Sophia Satariano, had moved along. Finally only Michael and the army officer remained, who was speaking to Mike in a curt, even harsh manner, though Patsy Ann did not hear what was said.

  But she could understand Mike, as he told the officer, “I have my own ride.”

  And then Michael Satariano, with his Medal of Honor and crisp khakis, walked right over to the stone bench where she sat. The army officer, shaking his head, stalked off.

  Michael stood before her. Loomed over her. His face was expressionless; his real eye seemed as lifeless as the glass one in the scarred socket.

  Hands folded in her lap, feeling very much a little girl suited to her silly sundress, Patsy Ann trembled, on the verge of tears. What terrible thing was Michael going to say?

  “Captain’s mad at me,” Mike said, casually.

  Then he sat down next to her on the bench, slumped forward a little; his good eye was next to her. It was as if they were still in high school and he’d caught up with her between classes.

  “Why?” she managed.

  He shrugged. “You heard that phony spiel they made me give. I’ve been doin’ that all up and down the East Coast. And every time, I mention the boys on Bataan. My forgotten comrades.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  He turned to look at her, and the half-smile was so wonderfully familiar. “I’m not supposed to talk about them. We left them there to rot, and I’m not supposed to remind anybody about them…Yesterday, in Chicago?”

  “I heard you on the radio.”

  “Well, you didn’t hear all of it. The captain had warned them about me, and the broadcast engineer cut me off before I said my Bataan piece.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Newsreel guys got it, though, and the reporters. A couple of big magazines heard me today. We’ll see if they print it…Guys dying for freedom, over there, and the military muzzles somebody like me, for telling the truth.”

  “That’s just awful!”

  He shrugged. “Ah, it’s not so bad. Got its bright side.”

  “How is that possible?”

  Another half-smile. “I just got fired. I’m done. On inactive duty. No
more bond rallies; no more rubber chicken.”

  She laughed a little. “Public speaking, putting yourself on display…that must be torture for you.”

  “Well, there’s torture and then there’s torture. But I would rather be back on Bataan.” Any hint of a smile disappeared. “I really would…”

  “I…I kinda thought maybe you’d prefer being here, with me.”

  “Of course.” But he wasn’t looking at her.

  “…You feel guilty, don’t you?”

  Mike turned to her, sharply—not angry, more like…alarmed.

  She pressed on: “You’re the only American soldier who got off that island, except for General MacArthur and his brass hats, right? So you feel like you abandoned your ‘boys.’”

  The faintest smile traced his lips; warmth filled the remaining brown eye. “You always were smart.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Mike. You were brave… I read all about it. Everybody has. We need some heroes right about now.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be one.”

  “What do you want to be?”

  His eyebrows arched. “I wanna be in the backseat of one your daddy’s Buicks…with you.”

  Her lips pursed into a smile. “Well…you might get your wish. But a girl likes to be kissed, first.”

  He did not respond to this cue.

  Instead, he slumped again, his hands locked. He was staring at the grass. “You want a guy who threw you over to kiss you? Who didn’t even bother writing you back?”

  “You didn’t throw me over for a girl. You threw me over for a war…My letters—you read them?”

  “Every one.”

  “That’s all I wanted. Just you to read them.”

  He gazed at her, steadily, studying her. “You don’t have a guy?”

  “I have a guy.”

  Now he looked away. “…That’s fine. I told you not to wait.”

  “You, dumbo.”

  He took that like a punch; then he laughed—no sound came out, but it was a laugh, all right.