After the Fall

by Lisa Bingham

  “You think Kilgore would recognize that kid the padre used as a messenger.”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I want to try and smuggle a letter out. Think we could do that?”

  Petey’s grin was slow and wide. “I think it’s worth a try.”

  Chapter Five

  December 8, 1941

  Rosemary padded out of Ward Two and made her way to the nurses station. After making a quick note on Pvt. Reynolds’s file, she arched her back and looked at the watch pinned to her chest. Four-thirty. It wouldn’t be long now before dawn began to blush against the horizon. And once it did, she would have only a few hours left in her shift. Then she could go home to bed and sleep away the hours until Gilhouley returned.

  The thought brought a rush of heat to her cheeks, but she patently ignored the sensation. She refused to be embarrassed, refused to second-guess herself or her actions. She was a grown woman—forty, to be exact. She wouldn’t think about the disparity in their ages or their ranks—or the fact that Gilhouley went through women like the hospital went through bandages. Like Scarlett O’Hara, she would think about that another day.

  “I’m going to go prep the surgical room for Private Adams,” she said to Lt. Kaminski who shared the night shift with her. The only surgery scheduled for the day was routine, a hernia repair. Most likely, the operation would be over within an hour or two, and beyond that, there was nothing pressing on her agenda. She might even be able to leave a little early if Alice didn’t mind taking part of her shift.

  When Neala Kaminski didn’t respond, Rosemary looked up from her chart.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Neala turned, flushing. “Sorry.” Her brow furrowed. “Any idea what’s happening on at headquarters? They’ve had their lights on for a couple of hours now.”

  Rosemary stepped to the window, lifting one of the slats from the blinds. Just as Neala had said, the squat multi-story building was the hub of activity. A half-dozen Jeeps were parked haphazardly near the door and despite blackout precautions, every light in the building was ablaze.

  “Something’s going on,” Rosemary murmured.

  A sudden clatter from the end of the hall caused Rosemary and Lt. Kaminski to whirl and offer a combined “Shh!” to the soldier who came barreling through the side door.

  But the soldier didn’t bother to temper his headlong dash. Instead, he leaned against the desk, panting, and said hurriedly, “They’re bombing Pearl Harbor.”

  The words were so alien, so nonsensical, that Rosemary couldn’t even process them.

  “What?”

  “They’re bombing Pearl Harbor.”

  Her brow creased. “Who’s…what?”

  “The Japs! The Japs are bombing Pearl Harbor. In Honolulu! They could be on their way here!”

  Leaving the women reeling with as much confusion as when he’d appeared, the soldier bolted out the way he’d come.

  The door slammed behind him, a thundering silence reverberating in its wake.

  “Do you suppose that was a joke?” Neala asked, her tone curiously hollow.

  “At four-thirty in the morning?”

  “Maybe it’s a drill.”

  Rosemary shook her head. They’d had plenty of drills in the past few months, but this…

  Unsure what to think, she said, “I’ll be in my office. I’m going to make a few calls.”

  • • •

  Gilhouley burst through the door of the control tower at Clark Field and eyed the pair of men who sat hunched at the desk rammed up against the wall of windows overlooking the runway. It was early, damned early, but he’d been summoned by a call telling him that if he wanted to see the action at the field, he’d better haul his ass over here pronto.

  The small round room was already thick with cigarette smoke and the sharp stench of sweat and nerves.

  “What’s up?” he asked as he entered the room.

  One of the men, Burt Suznovich motioned for him to take a seat in one of the battered office chairs scattered around the room. Anderson, a blue-eyed Swede from the Midwest chewed nervously on the butt of his cigar.

  “All hell’s about to break loose,” Suznovich said. A cigarette dangled from his lips. Nearly a half-inch of ash threatened to fall at any moment, but he didn’t notice. “You hear the news?”

  “What news?”

  Burt thrust his feet out, rolling his chair toward a radio located on one of the filing cabinets in the corner. With a flick of the switch, the dial glowed red, throbbing into the gloom. After several long seconds, the tubes warmed up enough for Gilhouley to make out a familiar deep voice intoning, “…is KZRH, the voice of the Orient, keeping you abreast of the news developing here at our news desk. As we reported earlier, at 7:48 Hawaiian time, the Japanese launched a sneak attack on the naval yards of Pearl Harbor, located on the island of Oahu. Sources declare that the attack was malicious and destructive. Casualties are officially listed at 18 dead, and more than 100 injured, but it is believed that such estimates are only the beginning. Eyewitnesses are claiming that the naval yard is all but destroyed. Fires rage from wounded ships and bombed out buildings. Resources are stretched to the limit as medical personnel and fire crews struggle to cope with the aftermath…”

  Suznovich twisted the switch again, plunging the tower into an icy silence.

  “Goddamn Japs,” Anderson muttered.

  Gilhouley didn’t pretend to misunderstand the import of what he’d heard.

  “We’re next,” he said lowly.

  “Hell, yeah,” Anderson rasped. “They called up them flyboys about four in the morning and rolled their machines onto the runway thinking we’d get permission to make a retaliatory strike at Formosa. But Sternberg won’t give ‘em the go-ahead. So our pilots are sitting in the dispersal hut waiting.”

  “Do you think they’ll be sent up?”

  “Got to, whether or not it’s for a strike.” Suznovich leaned forward and the ash finally fell from his cigarette, spattering across his neatly pressed uniform, but he didn’t notice. “See, we’ve been told over and over again that the Japs wouldn’t even consider striking until late spring in ’42. That’s what all the build-up in personnel has been for the last few months. But supplies have been trickling over here slower than manpower.” He snorted in disgust, swinging to point at the runway and hangers below, the tip of his cigarette glowing blood red in the darkness. “You know what we got out there to protect us? Observation planes, rusty old bombers, and pursuit craft. We’ve got a crew of pilots waiting down in that dispersal hut—and at least half of ‘em ain’t got no machines to fly! Just last week, we got a handful of brand new P-40’s, but only a couple of ‘em are fully assembled. Even if they were, we’ve got no coolant to put in ‘em. And guns? Hell, the guns aren’t even out of their crates yet.”

  He scowled, dragging deep on his cigarette, making the tip flare angrily. “Even if we don’t strike out at the Japs, we’ve gotta get those airplanes up in the air or they’re sittin’ ducks.”

  “Hell almighty,” Gilhouley breathed. Pushing from the chair, he moved to peer out of the window at the landing field below. As the first thin rays of dawn pierced the sky, he could see the aircraft parked tip to tip like huge bulky birds, their wings clipped and ineffectual. “Why aren’t they up in the air already?”

  Suznovich stamped out the microscopic butt to his cigarette before it had a chance to burn his fingers. Even before the smoke had ceased to twine up from the ashtray, he had another one in between his lips. The flint of his Zippo grated into the pulsing silence.

  “You tell me,” he said, his voice low and rasping from too much nicotine and adrenalin. “You tell me, then we’ll both know.”

  • • •

  The phone receiver had barely rattled into place when Rosemary was on her feet and moving into the ward again.

  “Lieutenant Kaminski, I want every nurse on the base here in this hospital within the hour.” She handed her a clipboard with names and numbers. �
�Here’s a list. Notify as many as you can by phone. Apprise them of the situation.” She held Neala’s fearful gaze for several seconds. “This is not a drill. The Japanese struck Oahu early this morning and we’ve been told to expect all hell to break loose here at any moment. Lieutenant Strickland is on her way. She’ll help you make calls.”

  “What about the girls who are on leave? And the new nurses?”

  Rosemary squeezed her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to force the whirling of her brain to cease so that she could concentrate—concentrate!

  This is what all those drills were for. Remember your training.

  “Make the calls first, then draw up a list of anyone we haven’t been able to reach. With last night’s party, the rest of our staff could be anywhere. Once we have the bulk of our nurses here, we can start worrying about anyone who might be off-base. If need be, we’ll send someone to collect them. Our first priority will be prepping the wards. Ambulatory patients are to report to their posts on base. Those who can’t be moved need to be gathered together in a single room. Use Ward B. It has the fewest windows. Crowd the beds close together if necessary.”

  She handed the clipboard to Neala who ran toward the phone at the nurse’s station and began dialing. Kaminski’s finger was shaking so badly, she was having trouble lining it up with the corresponding holes.

  “Private Adams!”

  The soldier in question lifted himself on his elbow. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “No surgery today. Get your clothes on. I’m going to need your help.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  • • •

  The tower was still thrumming with barely submerged energy when pilots were ordered to get their birds up into the air. From his vantage point at the tower, Gilhouley watched as the men ran from the dispersal hut toward the aircraft lined up on the runway.

  “Is this precautionary? Or are the Japanese here?”

  His questions melted into the air unheard as Suznovich and Anderson donned their headsets. Within minutes, more controllers thundered up the staircase, manning their positions.

  Standing back, Gilhouley tried to make himself as invisible as possible as the men directed the controlled chaos below. The windows were soon rattling from the noise of engines rumbling to life—the deep bass of the bombers, the tremolo of the old fighters, and the roadster-like power of the new P-40’s, still unpainted, their shiny silver skins reflecting the sun’s glow as it arced over the horizon. One by one, they rolled down the tarmac, moving faster, faster, until the awkward beasts seemed to slowly rise from the asphalt, clawing their way higher and higher, gaining more speed and altitude now that they’d been freed from the earth’s grip.

  Gilhouley had to forcibly relax his hands as they curled into tight fists at his sides.

  Only when the last plane was in the air did the tension in the room ease ever so slightly.

  Suznovich exhaled in a rush. “They’re up.”

  “For how long?” Gilhouley asked.

  “’Til they’re called back or run out of fuel.” Now that the tension had eased, he reached for another cigarette. But after putting it between his lips, he forgot to light it. “Those virgin planes are the ones that need watching. They could have some gremlins that haven’t been caught yet.”

  “Any news about Pearl on your headset?”

  Suznovich held his gaze. “Nothin’ but scuttlebutt. But it sounds bad. Word is the casualties are a hundred times worse than what they’re reporting on the radio.” He rolled his shoulders as if to ease a crick. “You stickin’ around or headin’ back to Stotsenberg?”

  In a flash, Gilhouley thought about Rosemary. She would have received the news by now. No doubt she was gathering her nurses together. Just in case. Even if he were back on base, he couldn’t interfere with the demands of her command. And with his own posting to the press corps, his place was here, where he could better monitor and report on the day’s events.

  “No. I’ll stick around a little longer. See what happens.”

  “Suit yourself,” Suznovich said, then turned back to the windows. Lifting a pair of binoculars, he began to scour the skies for the first hint of danger.

  • • •

  A roar overhead startled John from a deep, dreamless sleep. He jolted to an upright position, his heart pounding. Momentarily confused by his surroundings, he squinted into the bright sunlight streaming through his window.

  When had he gone to bed? He honestly couldn’t remember. At one point, he’d been sitting on the porch with a shotgun resting in his lap. And then…

  He raked his fingers through his hair, absorbing the shagginess on top and the closely clipped sides. Inwardly, he cursed whatever had awakened him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to sleep so deeply. No dreams. No nightmares. Just the velvety blackness of unconsciousness.

  Stumbling from the bed, he narrowly avoided tripping on the pile of clothing he’d left on the floor—another unaccustomed habit. He was generally neat to a fault.

  Moving to the kitchen sink, he braced his palms on the lip of the counter and turned the taps, waiting for the water to run cold. The light streaming inside pierced straight through to his brain. And his mouth felt dry as dust. Leaning forward, he cupped his hands and drank deeply from the faucet, then stuck his whole head under the water, welcoming the chill. Straightening again, he reached for a towel as a low growl began from the west, growing in speed and volume until it reverberated through his skull like a jackhammer.

  Immediately, his body tensed at the memory, the unmistakable sound.

  Whirling, he ran to the door, wrenching it open as a plane roared past the house, then another and another, flying so low that he couldn’t mistake the red balls painted on the underside of the wings, the helmeted pilots.

  What the hell?

  He flattened himself against the wall as another plane raced past. This time, the pilot offered a mocking salute.

  Not again. Not again.

  But even as the words reverberated in his brain, John knew that, this time, he couldn’t ignore his instincts to run.

  As quickly as they’d come, the planes disappeared from sight. But John wasn’t foolish enough to think that a flyby had been their only aim.

  Racing into the house, he feverishly donned his clothing. Then he reached for the shotgun propped against the wall by the door. As if the touch of the stock were a talisman, he suddenly remembered everything from the night before. How he’d stayed up for an hour, two. And the longer he’d sat in the darkness, staring up at the inky shape of the Big House, the more foolish he felt. What did he think was about to happen? A raid on the house? The vandalism to the radio had probably been caused by kids who had too much time on their hands or a worker jealous of the Wilmot’s possessions. Railing at his hyper-vigilance, he’d finally gone inside, downed a couple of shots of whiskey to help him sleep. And after that…

  Well, he didn’t remember what had happened after that. He’d never had a head for alcohol. Didn’t even drink beer. So it hadn’t taken much for him to fall asleep, evidently.

  But now, as he ran toward the road and the fields, he cursed himself for not listening to his gut.

  Dust rose in puffs from below his boots as he raced full-speed to the ramshackle outbuildings used for plantation business. Already, he saw a crowd of men huddled together, their hands shading their eyes as they watched line upon line of distant planes hovering on the horizon like flocks of birds.

  “Hey, boss!” Esteban, a burly Filipino shouted from the ramp leading up to the equipment barn. “’Bout time you got here.”

  The others turned to face him as well.

  Esteban lumbered toward him. “We be next, you think?”

  “Next?” John echoed in confusion.

  “You didn’t hear the radio? The Japs…they bomb Honolulu.”

  The other men began talking—some in English, some Spanish, some Tagalog—their voices jumbling incomprehensibly. John held
up a hand.

  “Honolulu?”

  “A place called Pearl Harbor. An Americano naval base. They’re saying it’s bad. Real bad.”

  The men turned to John, but it was Esteban who spoke.

  “What we gonna do, boss? We goin’ out in d’ fields?”

  John was under no illusions that it was work that preoccupied their attention. For months, the Philippines had seethed with rumors of a possible assault from the Japanese. It was only logical that an attack would eventually occur. With invasions into China and Manchuria, then French Indo-China, the Philippines were bound to fall in their sites as well. But the Americans had been stockpiling men and materiel for months and it was hoped that with that inherent threat, the Japanese would be deterred.

  It would seem that such hopes were futile.

  John squinted up at the sky. To the south, he saw a swarm of specks in the sky and wondered fatalistically if it was a flock of birds or something far more sinister.

  “Lock everything up as tight as you can. Secure the machinery in the sheds.” He glanced at the watch strapped to his wrist. It was just past noon. “The priorities right now are your families. If this is an invasion, the Japanese will probably land north of here and march straight through to Manila. We’re right in their path. Do whatever you can to protect your loved ones. As for me, I’ll…”

  He suddenly broke off, turning around to stare at the house, at the single open window with its fluttering lace curtain. In a flash, he remembered the broken radio and the absence of Kako and Miyoki, both of whom were from Tokyo. Could they have been acting as informants for the invading army?

  “What’s wrong, boss?”

  He opened his mouth to tell Esteban of his suspicions, then thought better of it. Right now, none of that was important. What mattered was getting everyone to safety. “Wilmot’s guest arrived last night,” he said instead.

  “What y’ gonna do?”

  John grimaced and then said, “Wilmot’s got a summer place up in the Sierra Madres. I’ll take her there. The Americans will probably have to wait for reinforcements, but they’ll drive the Japanese out within a couple of weeks. She’ll be safe there until the fighting is over. As soon as the area is clear again, we’ll be back. If any of you want to come with us, meet at the Big House in an hour.”