“Come on, nurse, let’s boogie,” a soldier said, pulling Margie away from the wall. Three bandsmen from the officers’ club had formed an unlikely trio—trombone, harmonica, and guitar—but they could swing, so a party started.
“Thanks, but no,” Margie replied. “I’m not in the mood.” He insisted, however, so she shuffled her feet in time to the music while he spun and stomped, having a good time. She bumped into the woman behind her.
“Watch where you’re going,” the woman snapped.
Margie’s dance partner flapped his arms, catching Margie in the ribs on a cluster of dankness-induced boils that had plagued her for days. The intense pain sickened her stomach, and she slumped with her back against the wall.
Evelyn came to her. “Are you hurt?”
“A little,” she replied, bending to hold her side. “Help me get away from this suffocating crowd.”
As the Japanese moved more guns onto the peninsula, their attacks intensified, and the post-battle parade of wounded soldiers grew longer. Men covered with grime arrived at the hospital by ambulance, or in canvas slings carried by stretcher-bearers. Caught in the path of shrapnel and flying debris, their bodies were broken, lacerated, and gashed. When they were hefted onto the surgical table, their blood trickled onto the shoes of the doctors and nurses who cleaned, stitched, and cauterized the injuries.
Miss Edwards ordered additional wards opened, and mechanics welded cots together to form two-tiered bunks, and then returned to add a third. Slow to heal due to malnutrition, patients were discharged prematurely to free up beds for the newly injured. Supplies and medicines depleted at an alarming rate, and with Japanese warships blocking the harbors, hope of restocking perished.
Second verse, same as the first played in Margie’s head as she prepared another injured man for surgery.
“Just a little pinch, Roger,” she said, inserting the needle into his vein. She couldn’t keep her hands steady. She felt anxious most days; an uncomfortable nagging worry caused her hands to shake and her voice to tremble. A red light over the door blinked to signal an oncoming attack. In a second, explosions boomed, and the tunnel vibrated, causing rock silt to drift down from above like flour from a sieve, covering every surface, settling under her collar. The world went black as the lights blinked out. Unable to reach her flashlight, she called, “Medic! I need a light!”
She received no response.
“Lay real still, Roger,” she said, holding the needle in place. “It happens all the time. It’ll just be a few seconds.”
At least, she hoped so. If shells knocked out the powerhouse, it could be hours before mechanics repaired the generators. Those stuck inside the tunnels would bake in the heat. Flashlights winked on, giving Margie enough light to finish the procedure. “There, done,” she said to Roger, patting his arm.
At the sink, she wet a mask and tied it over her nose and mouth to help her breathe through the dusty air. A medic stood nearby.
She said, “Where were you? I needed a flashlight!”
“Bug off! I have my own patients to worry about.”
“You pass bedpans. Your duty is to come when I call!”
“Go soak your head, sister.”
“You’re out of line, medic!”
“Yeah! And what’re you going to do about it? We’re dead here already. Just keeping the Japs busy. We’re mouse to their cat! Don’t bellyache to me about a flashlight!” He stomped away.
The tunnel lights came on as the generators roared to life.
Margie moistened gauze under the tap and went back to her patient. She too had heard the fearmongers’ rumors that Corregidor was a diversion to keep the Japanese from attacking Australia, and would be sacrificed when no longer needed. Her country wouldn’t be so cruel . . . would it?
Waving the ever-present blue flies away from Roger’s face, she placed the moistened gauze over his mouth. “This’ll make it easier to breathe.” She checked his IV again.
“No surgery. Not during the shelling,” he mumbled through the gauze.
“It’s okay. We do it all the time. We have lots of flashlights and backup generators. You’ll be fine, I promise,” she said, administering more sedative to extinguish the fear in his eyes.
Margie felt neither clean nor refreshed after washing up in the sink. Salt scale covered her skin, and she itched. She slathered her body with lotion and dressed in stiff clothes. In the kitchen, she searched through the refrigerator for fruit juice. Finding none, she made a cup of tea. It tasted salty, so she dumped it down the drain. “Jesus, criminy,” she mumbled under her breath. Japanese shelling had knocked out the fresh-water supply four days ago.
She pushed through the crowds to the exit. Outside, the air was heavy with grit and smelled of fuel. A tense crowd gathered close to the entrance, watching the sky for incoming shells. Lighting a cigarette, she inhaled deeply to smooth the edges of her discomfort. Nearby, silhouetted by the low-hanging moon, Ruth Ann tilted her head sideways, cupping her ear with her hand. Margie joined her.
“Earache?”
“Yeah. From the blasts. I used to get them a lot when I was a kid. I thought I’d outgrown it.” She swallowed and winced. “Something’s going on. Have you heard anything?”
“No. What?”
“Miss Edwards is meeting with some of the nurses.”
“About what?”
“Nobody’s talking. I have to get back. Let me know if you find out.”
Ruth Ann wove her way through the crowd as Margie watched. She drew another mouthful of smoke while contemplating the moon’s meager light, eerily illuminating the barbed-wired beachfront. It had been five months since she had slept alone in a room, lingered in a library, shopped in a store, or licked an ice-cream cone—double dip, butter pecan. Suddenly, she craved the cold confection and her mouth watered. Is civilization still out there? In a quiet reprieve from the booming guns, she overheard a whispered conversation.
“How many planes are there?”
“I heard two.”
“Who all is going?”
“Nobody knows for sure. Probably civilians and government officials. I heard some nurses are going.”
“Lucky ducks.”
The conversation ended, and Margie went back inside, not knowing what to make of what she’d heard. She retired to the women’s quarters, planning a couple of hours with a book. As she entered the lateral, she saw Evelyn stuffing clothes into a duffel. She asked, “Are you going someplace?”
Evelyn’s eyes didn’t meet Margie’s. “I was ordered not to talk to anyone.”
Margie stepped closer and whispered, “You can talk to me.”
Glancing around, Evelyn said, “Two seaplanes broke through the Japanese blockade. They brought in supplies and mail, and they’re taking out as many people as the planes will hold.”
“Who else is going?”
“Shh! I don’t know. They just told me to pack one bag and report to the dining lateral. I don’t know why me. Maybe Max. He said a general owed him a favor. He saved a baby or something. It has to be him.” She zipped the duffel. “No one else knows I’m here.”
Margie sank onto the bed. “Where are they taking you?”
“I haven’t been told.”
“I’m glad for you,” Margie tried to say, but it stuck in her throat. She stood up stiffly, conflicting emotions surging through her. Already cut off from family, she didn’t want her best friend to go too. Finding her voice, she appealed to Evelyn’s sense of duty. “What about the wounded soldiers? You can’t leave like this.”
“I can’t live like this! I feel like enough of a rat! Don’t make this any harder on me!”
Margie flushed. “What do you mean, harder on you?”
Evelyn slung the bag over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Margie, but I’m not going to pass up this chance. I’ll phone your parents. I’ll visit if I can. I wish you were coming too.” Wiping tears off her cheeks, she squeezed Margie in a hug. “I love you, kid.” Abruptly,
she turned and hurried out.
Saddened and feeling abandoned, Margie cried to her friend’s vanishing back, “Please—don’t leave me alone here!”
Who were the lucky ducks, and how did they get chosen? Miss Edwards would only say she picked the names out of a hat, but it was obvious to everyone the selection had been anything but random. Limited space on the two seaplanes meant only twenty seats allotted to the nurses. The older, sick, or injured women left, along with a few of the young, pretty ones, known to have romantic connections with military brass.
Margie stewed. She found Gracie in the wards, struggling to change the soiled linen on a third-tier bunk. She grunted as the soldier in the bunk moaned.
“Let me help,” Margie said, stepping on the lower bunk and holding the man on his side while Gracie replaced the dirty sheet with a clean one. These days, Gracie had trouble making any bunk. Her shoulder still caused her pain and made lifting out of the question.
“Clean linens are almost gone,” Gracie fretted. “There’s no water to wash them. Even if there was, who’d risk taking them outside to dry?” She balled up the sheet and added it to the heap of laundry piling up in a corner.
Margie said, “Why are you still here? You could have left on the plane.”
Gracie went to the next bunk, checked the soldier’s temperature with the back of her hand, and offered him a drink of juice. “Why would I do that? I belong here, taking care of these guys.”
“You were shot. Your shoulder’s not fully healed. You could have gone home.”
“This is my home. I told Miss Edwards I’m staying for the duration. She gave my seat to someone else. Excuse me, Margie. I have work to do.”
Not everyone felt as altruistic as Gracie. Grumbling broke out about which nurses got to leave the island. Everyone prayed for another plane to break through the blockade. No plane arrived, but a submarine did, whisking away another twenty nurses. Again Margie wasn’t chosen and Gracie refused to go.
Miss Kermit sent for Margie. The director had aged considerably in the months Margie had known her. Given her age and health problems, she too could have left Corregidor, but like Gracie, she had chosen to stay. When Margie reported to her, Miss Kermit chatted nervously about the deteriorating living conditions, the importance of their work, the latest shortages, and her fear of running out of water—at the moment they had a thirty-day supply at best. Margie began to wonder why she had been summoned, when Miss Kermit handed her a letter delivered by the submarine.
She recognized her mother’s handwriting, and the stamped date showed it was less than a month old. She pressed the treasure to her chest, but the tears in Miss Kermit’s eyes tempered her joy.
“Just a blocked tear duct,” Miss Kermit said, dabbing away tears with a hankie. “A nuisance, is all.” She sighed so deeply that Margie could see her chest rise and fall. Finally, she said, “Miss Bauer, we’ve received some news. I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
A single light dangled overhead, casting shadows on the older woman’s face, highlighting deep furrows of sadness around her eyes and mouth. From the tone of her voice and her dour expression, Margie knew she did not want to hear what Miss Kermit had to say.
“It’s about the captured troops. The Japanese relocated over seventy thousand American forces to a prisoner-of-war camp sixty miles north of Manila.” She clenched her hands tightly together. “We’ve just confirmed that our doctors from Sternberg Hospital were part of that relocation. So many rumors have circulated about what happened, nobody knows what’s true and what’s not at this point.” She unfolded her hands and put one over her mouth, drawing another ragged breath, then let it out slowly. “Your young man, Dr. Sherman. Royce, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Royce,” Margie said. Her mouth went dry, and she couldn’t swallow.
Miss Kermit plunged on. “He was on the march north, according to a good source. When Dr. Sherman stopped to give medical assistance to a fallen soldier, he was shot by a Japanese guard.”
Margie heard a whooshing sound inside her head. “He’s wounded? He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”
Miss Kermit’s voice came from far away. “No, dear. I’m afraid not. I’m so sorry.”
No—it’s a horrible error, a cruel case of mistaken identity. Royce was at Sternberg Hospital in Manila. “Even the Japanese wouldn’t take a physician away from his dying patients, Miss Kermit; it can’t possibly be true.”
Miss Kermit bit her lower lip, tears running freely down her lined face.
Margie tried to stand, but the whooshing in her head grew to a roar. Her knees buckled, and the shadowy cave-world went black.
“Margie,” she heard as if from a great distance.
She curled into a fetal position on the bed and covered her ear with her arm to block out her surroundings.
. . . feeling Royce standing behind her, his arms encircling her, and their four hands gripping the golf club. “Arms back, like this,” he says, swinging the club to the right and over her shoulder. “Cock your wrists,” he instructs, pushing his body into hers.
She collapses, giggling. “Is this a golf lesson or an excuse to get fresh?”
“Me? Fresh?” he says, looking innocent. “The backswing’s the key to the game.”
“So you maul all your female students then,” she accuses.
He kisses the back of her neck. “Only the redheaded ones named Margie.”
The woman’s voice intruded again. “Margie.”
She pulled her knees tighter into her chest . . .
. . . feeling Royce’s arm around her as they sit on the beach and marvel at the vastness of the ocean, the endless blue sky, and their infinite love for each other. He whispers, “Bury me in the sand?”
“No! Not here. Not now.”
“It has to be done.”
Her hands tremble and tears well as she sweeps the sand clean of seashells. When the plot is prepared, he stretches out with his arms by his sides.
She lies beside him, petting his chest, and kissing his chin. “I want to go with you.”
“You can’t. Not yet.”
She weeps quietly as she covers his body with sand. Sweat trickles from under her hat into her ears. She stops. “Do I have to go on?” she asks.
He gazes up at her. “Yes, you must,” he says matter-of-factly.
She nods, knowing it is true, but before she can resume her task, his body begins sinking, the sand sucking him under, covering his shoulders and neck, then his face, and finally, his blue eyes.
Margie’s own eyes popped open, and her fingers dug at the bedsheets. Feeling suffocated, she gasped for air. Remembering, she began screaming, her shrieks echoing off the rock walls.
By the end of April, the merciless Japanese bombardment of Corregidor stripped the once lushly gardened island of the last of its protective cover. Observation balloons, called Peeping Toms, hovered like vultures over the barren landscape, pinpointing strategic targets for Japanese bombers to obliterate.
With a gas mask belted to her waist and a lethal dose of morphine pinned in a tangle of her hair, Margie worked quickly to label morphine as aspirin and quinine as bicarbonate of soda; then she hid as many of the medicines as possible in cave-like niches behind the walls.
The din of the final assault was terrific, with booming artillery from both sides firing as rapidly as machine guns. The Japanese continued their relentless barrage from land and air until all response from Corregidor ceased. They had demolished the island’s gun emplacements, flattened the powerhouse, polluted the water supply, and severed all wire communications. Blasted to smithereens, ammunition dumps blazed like kingdom come. The Gibraltar of the East—impregnable—had become a pile of gray smoldering wreckage. US Army sound detectors picked up the rumbling engine noises of Japanese landing barges crossing the North Channel.
In the aftermath’s eerie quiet, a woeful tune drifted—a bugler playing “Taps.”
Margie thought, Our boys lowering and burning the f
lag.
Fear prevailed in the tunnel—fear of death, fear of assault, fear of being forgotten. Tildy wrote across the top of a bedsheet, “Members of the Army Nurse Corps and Civilian Women Who Were in the Malinta Tunnel When Corregidor Fell,” and the fifty-four women remaining in the tunnel signed their names. As Margie wrote her name in bold letters—“Marjorie Olivia Bauer”—she thought about her parents and their heartbreak if she didn’t survive this ordeal. Her yearning for home was so overpowering, she felt crushed by it. She sank to her knees in despair.
CHAPTER 13
Corregidor / Santo Tomas, June 1942–January 1943
As soldiers carried General Wainwright’s white flag of surrender to the Japanese, thousands of American and Filipino troops destroyed their large-caliber weapons and flooded into the Malinta Tunnel. With tears streaming down their blackened faces, they carried the wounded on their backs, or in slings, or flipped over their shoulders, and the already-overfull hospital swelled. One man laid his blood-soaked buddy at Margie’s feet. “Think he’ll make it?” he asked, his voice grave and eyelids batting.
Margie inspected the wound. “The docs will do what they can.” She tagged the man for surgery and ordered a medic to carry him to the front of the line.
Updated information came with each wave of arriving soldiers—choppy waters in the channel thwarted the Japs’ landing; the enemy still met resistance due to severed communications. But then—thousands of Japanese troops landed on the north shore of Corregidor, bringing with them tanks and flamethrowers.
As Margie attended to the injured men, some lying too still and others writhing in a hodgepodge around her, an image of a howitzer nosing into the tunnels glued itself into her mind. She blanked out the ugly vision and the mayhem a weapon that size would render by doggedly focusing on her patients, leaving no room in her awareness for fear. She heard a thud and then felt a shock wave so forceful her uniform skirt wrapped around her legs like a whip. She screamed in surprise and panic as the Japanese shell exploded inches from the hospital entrance. The tears of fear she’d been holding back gushed forth.
A Pledge of Silence Page 13
