“Are they ignorant or what?” Margie spat.
“It’s just hooey for the Japanese. Don’t get tied in a knot.” Ruth Ann rotated the dial, trying to pick up another signal. After much hissing and squawking, the song “I’m Waiting for Ships That Never Came In” played. She looked at the tuner. “I’ve got Tokyo. Anyone want to listen to their propaganda?”
“It’s no worse than the real news,” Evelyn said.
Margie didn’t want to dwell on the real news. The Japanese got stronger every day, capturing one island after another in their quest to imperialize the Far East. Now they had Australia in their sights. “Shut it off!” she said. A pall hung in the air.
“I want to go to a movie,” Ruth Ann said. “A comedy. I want to laugh. And I want a bucket of popcorn, dripping in butter. Did anybody see Moon Over Miami with those two carhops?”
“Betty Grable and Carole Landis,” Gracie said. “Two gold diggers with big hearts. They have to choose between love and money. Which one would you choose, Ruth Ann, love or money?”
“Neither.” Ruth Ann didn’t give it a thought. “I’d choose a cheeseburger. I’d give my back tooth right now for a cheeseburger, medium rare, with American cheese, lettuce, tomato, a big salty dill pickle, and a pile of hot french fries. I like my fries really hot—with ketchup.”
“I’m with you, Ruth Ann,” Evelyn said. “Come on, guys, let’s go to the beach. We’ll take sandwiches. Unfortunately, our choices are carabao or carabao.”
When alone, Margie brooded. She ached for Royce. He had to be safe at Sternberg . . . didn’t he? The Japanese would be mindful of his status . . . wouldn’t they? She yearned for his touch, the smell of his skin, and the blue of his eyes. She replayed their conversations, whispering his words aloud. In dreams, she felt the scrape of his beard on her breast, the weight of his body crushing hers into the bed, and she woke writhing with ecstasy. I love you; I love us played like music in her head. As always, the tears came.
In letters, she reassured her parents that she was okay. Though she lived in a tent, she told them, she slept in a comfortable bed, and was healthy. Caring for the soldiers gratified her and kept her busy from morning until night. She mentioned that several of the doctors and nurses came from the Ann Arbor area; one of the doctors even knew Myra from the Red Cross. Wasn’t it a small world? She wrote about the beautiful, brightly colored parrots in the trees that squawked so loudly it hurt her ears. A monkey in the camp kept stealing the food. Ha, ha.
An American pilot arrived at the field hospital with a bullet in his foot. Flying through the Japanese blockade with a plane so loaded it hardly stayed aloft, he brought medical supplies and bags full of mail, including two letters for Margie. The one from her parents was postmarked early December.
Little River, Michigan
December 5, 1941
Dear Margie,
I can’t believe that Christmas is just around the corner. Two letters and a package arrived from you this week. We opened the letters right away and put the package under the Christmas tree. It is sad that you won’t be here when we open it. We are so concerned about you. The news we hear is frightening. We are relieved to know it is mostly rumor, and you feel safe at Sternberg.
Your dad is buying seed for next year’s crops. He will be putting wheat and corn in the back twenty acres. It’s hard to find laborers. He spent all day today repairing the tractor. It needs a part, and he’s having trouble finding one. He sends you his love.
Frank is studying for final exams. He is doing well in his classes, but is looking forward to a break. He’s still disappointed he’s not in the navy, but I’m glad he is home. He’s a volunteer fireman and is putting in many hours at the fire hall. It is honorable work and very much needed. Our fire and police forces are depleted with so many men gone.
I put two Christmas packages in the mail for you the first week of October, and I hope they arrive in time for the holidays. If they are held up, know that they are on the way, and that they are full of love for you. You can expect a package from the church, also. The Women’s League assembled boxes for all the young people who are on active duty. Prayers are sent your way every day.
We think of you constantly and miss you terribly. The only present we pray for this Christmas is your safe return home.
With love always,
Mama and Daddy
She checked the date on the letter again: December 5, 1941, three days before the Japanese bombed Clark Airfield. It had been sitting somewhere in a mailbag for over three months! A lump rose in her throat, and she wept, feeling cut off from everyone she loved and so alone. Drying her tears on the sleeve of her shirt, she opened the second letter, from Abe. This one didn’t have the usual government stamps on it.
Darwin, Australia
February 24, 1942
Dear Margie,
Hope this letter finds its way to you. A pal of mine is flying missions over Manila, and he’s tucking it in his front pocket. He said it would bring him good luck. Flying through the Japanese blockade is always a bit dicey.
I’m now stationed in Australia, just fifteen hundred miles from the Philippines, a stone’s throw from you, considering. The army needed a seasoned flier to head up a new squadron here. I was promoted to captain and joined the Forty-Ninth Pursuit Squadron on February 1. Got into trouble with the Japanese right away. Just a bullet in the leg, but it’s healing well. Can’t fly for another week, and I have too much time on my hands.
I heard about the hell you’re living through. Sad thing is, a convoy of ships with food and medicines are in Australia but can’t get out of the harbor. I was on escort to that convoy when it left for Luzon. Two days out, the Nips found us. I managed a couple of kills before my Kittyhawk was hit. I fared better than my plane. Both of us went into the drink, but I got plucked out. We were ordered to return to Australia. I was sick about it, Margie. I would have moved sea and earth to deliver those goods. MacArthur is negotiating for more escort ships and planes to help the convoys break through the blockade. Hang in there awhile longer.
I have my hands full here. Most of my guys are new graduates. They’re a competitive bunch, cocky and full of bravado, like I was once. I hate to see them change, but they will. With each mission, I experience greater dread of losing another man—there have been too many. Got so tied up by it, I had to talk to the shrink. He said it is survivor’s guilt, and it is normal. It doesn’t feel normal. This war is hell.
Been thinking a lot about you lately. Remember The Pirates of Penzance and how much fun that was? It seems like a lifetime ago, and it was, what, six years?
Did I tell you I painted your picture on the nose of my plane? I gave you this really wild red hair. You led me on many successful missions. Love you and hope to see you at home sooner rather than later.
Forever,
Abe
So they weren’t completely forgotten. Ships not so far away carried the supplies they so desperately needed. Somehow, they had to get through the blockade, because life couldn’t go on under these increasingly wretched conditions. The open-air hospital now stretched over two and a half square miles, with cots stacked three high under the trees. The injured and sick filled seven thousand beds, and still more men slept on the ground with the snakes and lizards. Common graveyards swelled with sons, husbands, and brothers buried without so much as a sheet to cover them.
Putting Abe’s letter in her pocket, she hurried to the records shack. She wanted to find the pilot; maybe he knew more about the convoy. Maybe he knew Abe. The clerk rifled through papers. “That’s Lieutenant Gilbert Zybecki. He’s in Ward Six. Took a bullet in his foot and had surgery yesterday.”
She found Lieutenant Zybecki lying on a cot with his foot elevated in a sling. From what she could tell, he was a little shorter than the average pilot, but well muscled, like a wrestler. He looked better fed than most of the men who showed up at the hospital. He was staring into the trees as Margie approached. She said, “Lieutenant Zybecki?�
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He looked her way. “Hi. Call me Gil.”
“I’m Margie Bauer. I was the anesthetist when you had your surgery.”
Gil cracked a wide smile. “My sleepy-time gal. Hey, sweetheart, you know where I can get some jungle juice?”
“Some what?”
“Raisin jack. Booze. The docs make it out of raisins and prunes.”
She knew exactly what he meant. She had downed a slug of the burning liquid herself on occasion but didn’t care to admit it. “I don’t know. I can ask. Mind if I sit down?”
He gestured. “Pull up the golden throne.”
She perched on a bamboo stool. “Thanks for bringing the mail. I got two letters.”
“My pleasure.”
“How’d you get shot? I mean, if you don’t mind talking about it.”
“I don’t mind at all. It’s not the first bullet I’ve taken. It’s a hazard of the job. I was patrolling the forward areas. Windy that day. So rough the air shot me up nine hundred feet, then dropped me down eight hundred. Ever been on a roller coaster? You know that stomach feeling? Then, I ran into this hive of Zeros. I counted six. Shit! Pardon my French. They dart around like hummingbirds. All you can do is loop and try to stay out of their sights.”
Margie nodded. “I’ve seen them in action.”
“I peeled away to the right at 190 knots—uh, that’s 220 miles per hour. I was descending five thousand feet per minute. You can’t keep that up for more than a few seconds. The plane starts vibrating. Those Zeros couldn’t keep up. See, their controls get heavy at high speeds. They don’t roll well to the right. I know. I’ve watched enough of them. I got one in my sights—just long enough. Bam! I saw smoke. I’m pretty sure that bastard’s history.” Gil paused, reliving the moment. “Then something knocked out my rudder and got me in the foot. I think it was our AA. It probably saved my life.”
“Getting hit by antiaircraft fire saved your life? Is that ironic, or what?” Margie said.
“Yeah. A real knee-slapper.”
She inspected the wrapped appendage for bleeding and felt his uncovered toes, checking for warmth. “Looks like your foot’s going to be all right.”
“It has to. I have to get back to my unit.”
“Are many of you here? Pilots, I mean. I thought most of the planes were destroyed.”
“Right. F-U-B-A-R.” He pronounced each letter slowly and with disgust. “Now we’re the Bamboo Fleet. Mostly reconnaissance. All fifteen of us.”
“Fifteen is all? Not great odds.”
“No, but we’re cunning fools.”
She had no doubts about that. Pilots had nerves of steel, or at least pretended they did. “I have a friend who’s a pilot. He’s in Australia right now. I was wondering if you might know him. His name’s Abe Carson.”
“Abe Carson. Never heard of him. Sorry, can’t help you.”
“You did, though. You brought me his letter. He got shot down while escorting a convoy from Australia. He lost his plane, but he’s okay. By the way, do you know anything about a supply convoy?”
“I heard about it.”
“Do you think they’ll get through?”
“Not a chance in a thousand. It doesn’t have the backup, and we’re pretty low priority over here. The big guns are going after Hitler. Hey! Find me some of that jungle juice, will you?”
Margie stood to leave. “I’ll do that.”
“You’re a doll. Margie, is it? Soon as I get back in the air, I’ll bring you a treat. What do you want? A lipstick?”
She laughed. “I’d kill for a bottle of shampoo.”
“Shampoo. You got it.”
Margie never got her shampoo, nor did she ever see Gil again, but the message he left her with played in her head: We’re pretty low priority over here.
Gathered together in Miss Kermit’s shack, Margie and her friends listened to President Roosevelt’s Fireside Chat, straining to hear his words through the static. He spoke of aid provided to China and the importance of Australia, New Zealand, and the Dutch Indies. He talked about munitions sent to the British, the Russians, and the Mediterranean countries to help them fight off the Nazis.
Speaking of the Philippines, Roosevelt restated his long-held strategy of winning by attrition—how, with the United States’ greater resources, it could ultimately out-build and overwhelm Japan on sea, on land, and in the air. He pointed out the difficulty of defending the Philippines since the enemy had the islands surrounded with its superior air and naval power. He mentioned the vast Pacific Ocean that complicated sending substantial reinforcements.
Just days after the broadcast—with soldiers dressed in rags and barely holding their positions; with rations down to one meal per day; with malaria, dysentery, and nutritional edema reaching epidemic proportions; and with medical supplies depleted—General MacArthur fled the dangerous battleground of the Philippines to the relative safety of Australia.
Feeling abandoned by their country as well as their supreme commander, the troops fought on, because there was nothing else they could do. A journalist caught their mood in a ditty:
We’re the Battling Bastards of Bataan,
No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam,
No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces,
No pills, no planes, no artillery pieces,
And nobody gives a damn!
By the end of March, General Homma’s reinforced and well-fed army slammed through the country with renewed vengeance, reopening the floodgates of wounded. Bombs pelted the hospital, killing scores of injured men, as they lay incapacitated on their cots, as well as the workers attending them. Fear and anger levels rose. Margie remained stoic, working to calm her patients’ nightmares while struggling to come to terms with her own.
The soldier occupying the operating table resembled a kid she’d known in high school. What was his name? He was a whiz at math.
Miss Kermit approached her. “Miss Bauer, the medics will take over here. Go to your quarters and pack what you can carry in your hands. Meet me in front of the records shack in thirty minutes.”
Margie balked. She cradled the man’s chin to keep his airway open. “Thirty minutes? I can’t leave him like this.”
“Thirty minutes, Miss Bauer. I kept you here as long as I could.” Miss Kermit continued through the room, gathering her girls.
Margie transferred her sedated patient to a medic, giving him a five-minute tutorial on anesthesiology. Fighting tears, she apologized to the surgeon. She removed her gown and pitched it in the laundry hamper, then dashed to the nurses’ quarters. It rumbled with confusion as the women stuffed their belongings in duffels or pillowcases. “Does anybody know what’s going on?” she asked.
Evelyn said, “The Nips broke through the front line this morning. They’re evacuating the women.”
“Just the women? What about the men? I left one on the table!” Margie protested. She grabbed her stomach and bent over with a cramp, her dysentery a constant plague.
In a high-pitched voice, Gracie protested, “We can’t abandon them! We can’t leave them on the ground! I’m not going!”
Evelyn retrieved Gracie’s duffel. “Pack, Gracie! On the double! There’s no choice.”
Gracie sat on her cot, her arms crossed defiantly across her chest, her expression determined.
“Come on, Gracie,” Margie said, tugging at her arm, but Gracie resisted. Giving up, Margie hefted her own duffel and sprinted out the door, with Evelyn at her heels.
“I feel like a dirty dog leaving like this,” Evelyn mumbled, and Margie agreed.
A bus was parked in front of the records shack, its engine running and tailpipe spewing exhaust. Margie tossed her bag in the back, then climbed aboard.
Miss Kermit said, “Girls, we’re going to Mariveles. A boat is waiting to take us to Corregidor, where it’s safer.” She took count. “Thirty-four. Who’s missing?”
“Gracie Hall,” Margie said, and Miss Kermit sent soldiers to fetch her.
Wh
ile they waited, an explosion shook the ground, filling the sky with white lights and curls of black smoke. Margie peered through the mud-plastered window, looking for Nip bombers. She couldn’t see any.
After Gracie got hustled onto the bus, the driver jumped into his seat. “We’re out of here!” he yelled as he cranked the gears and got up to speed.
The bus made its way down a road jammed with dazed soldiers retreating from the front and with local men and women sitting on oxen, riding bicycles, and pulling cumbersome carts filled with old folks and children. Everyone sought escape from the oncoming enemy. The going was achingly slow, and soon forward movement stopped altogether. The bus driver stepped out of the vehicle to confer with a soldier. He came back with the news. The army was destroying ammunition dumps and had closed the road until the job was done. The bus sat idle while the hours ticked away. Periodically, a blast filled the sky with the most amazing fireworks that turned the atmosphere purple green.
The constant rumble from the north heightened the refugees’ fear. Filipino men banged on the bus, demanding rides for their wives, children, and aging parents. Hunkering down in her seat, feeling guilt and pity, Margie avoided looking at the panicked faces with their open, yelling mouths. How secure was the bus door?
The door buckled. Ruth Ann leaped up and shouldered the driver’s Springfield bolt-action rifle. Aiming it at the intruders, she hollered, “One more step and you’re dog meat!”
Reluctantly the men backed away.
Shortly after that incident, the bus pulled forward.
The women arrived at Mariveles in the inky early-morning hours. Nearing the waterfront, the bus sputtered to a stop, out of gas. The driver kicked the tire and looked as if he might break down and cry. “The docks are two miles ahead,” he said.
A Pledge of Silence Page 11
