by Lisa Bingham
But whenever Kilgore returned, he would retrieve the letter, put it in his pocket until the next day. And the next. And the next.
Until Kilgore had run afoul of Tanaka. This time, it was Kilgore who was sent to the pit. He’d been eating food from the garden. For that, he’d been beaten so severely that he’d been unconscious for three days now.
Volunteering to take Kilgore’s place, he’d begun his own daily trip to the garden. As far as work details went, it was better than most. But the sun was scorching and water breaks were few. Even so, there was some satisfaction to digging his hands into the earth and watching things grow. There was a rhythm to each day as seeds were planted, watered, tilled, and harvested that helped to soothe his soul and make him think he could last a little longer. Best of all, when the guards weren’t looking, it was possible to sneak some of the smaller fruits and vegetables into their pockets or shirts to be eaten during their midday break.
The days soon faded to weeks. His spot in the garden detail remained permanent—even after Kilgore recovered enough to stagger out to his duties. Then, one morning, when he least expected it, Kilgore tugged on his pant leg.
“There’s the kid.”
“What?”
“There’s the kid that gave me the quinine.”
The boy hung back, hiding in the trees.
He started to rise, but the kid quickly shook his head, holding up a hand.
The guards. The guards were closely watching their captives.
The boy backed into the foliage and disappeared, leaving him wondering if he should celebrate or cry.
Chapter Eight
December 23, 1941
The days spent at Wilmot’s lodge began to take on a surreal quality for John Macklin. Each morning, as soon as he’d dressed, he would make a series of calls to several plantation owners around the island. Then he would add the information he’d gathered to the map. In time, the red marks grew more pronounced, the x’s of air raids joined by arrows that showed amphibious landings.
Usually, Glory Bee would join him as he finished his calls, her wide eyes studying the gathering swarms of red. To her credit, she rarely needed an explanation. He could see by the worry darkening her gaze that she knew their situation was growing more perilous each day. Even if she hadn’t, when the wind was right, John knew that she’d caught the hint of smoke in the breeze.
It would be so easy to pretend that things weren’t so bad, if only for Glory Bee’s sake, John thought. With a little imagination, he could convince her that the boom of artillery was really thunder. But each time a swarm of planes appeared in the sky, the sudden pallor of her skin would give little credence to the lie. They both knew that the Japanese had begun their march. They could only pray that they wouldn’t decide to head this far east.
“Bee! Bee!”
John turned from where he’d been studying the valley below with a pair of field glasses. He hid a smile when Esteban’s youngest son, Luis, toddled toward Glory Bee.
In the past few days, the children had become Glory Bee’s constant companion. They were fascinated by her pale skin and fire-red hair. She was uncomfortable in their presence at first, but after several days, she’d begun to treat them with resigned acceptance—although she still tended to talk to them as if they were mini-adults.
Grasping his rifle from where he’d propped it against a tree, he slung the strap over his shoulder, then collected the rod and reel that he’d taken from the shed behind the lodge.
As soon as Glory Bee saw that he meant to move away from the house, she sidled up beside him.
“Where are you going?”
John saw no reason to lie, even though he sensed Glory Bee’s intent.
“Fishing. There’s a stream a couple of miles down the slope. I thought I’d catch something for dinner.”
“Can I come with you?”
He opened his mouth to refuse. The last thing he needed was more time spent in this woman’s company. But she looked so hopeful, that he knew he couldn’t disappoint her.
“Very well.”
She fell into step beside him, and once again he was struck by how small she was. She might have curves in all the right places, but she was no bigger than a mite.
“Thank you,” she breathed as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Getting a bit much for you? The kids?”
She rolled her eyes. “Being a woman, I’m supposed to be endowed with all these…maternal instincts.”
He would have laughed at the statement, but she was curiously serious. More so than she needed to be.
“I suppose there’s something wrong with me,” she sighed, biting her lip.
Her chin wobbled and John was flummoxed. He couldn’t imagine why she was so worried about the way she interacted with Esteban’s children.
“Maybe you need practice.”
Her brows lifted curiously. “You think so?”
“Sure. I’d say you don’t give yourself enough credit. Esteban’s little ones have always been a handful.” He added encouragingly. “Luis has taken a shine to you.”
He loved the way that she gave him a one-sided, rueful smile.
“I haven’t decided if that’s a blessing or a curse.”
This time, it was John’s turn to laugh. “You really are something, do you know that Glory Bee?”
She grimaced. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“A very, very good thing.”
Too late, John realized that they’d come to a stop in the middle of the path, and that he’d turned to face her. Of its own volition, his hand lifted to cup her cheek. Her skin was so soft, so smooth, so velvety—and he had only to touch her for warmth to travel from that point of contact through his whole body. The suddenness of the effect astounded him.
“Don’t.”
The word that escaped her lips was a mere puff of sound. But contrary to what she’d said, her eyes grew dark and she took a tiny step forward.
John knew that he should back away—run away. He hardly knew this woman, and yet, she’d managed to crash her way through barriers that had taken him a lifetime to erect. And he honestly didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t repair his defenses as soon as possible. His whole sense of worth relied on denial and sacrifice. Yet, here she stood, ready to pin a lie to everything he’d once thought would make him happy.
“You’re a dangerous woman, Glory Bee.”
He didn’t realize that he’d spoken the words aloud until her lips parted, and she took another step, so that they stood toe to toe, with an electric awareness thrumming between them. This close, John could smell the sweet fragrance of her hair and the faint scent of roses. Dear God, how did she manage to smell like roses in the middle of this mess?
“I think you’re the dangerous one, John,” she murmured, her own gaze painting a path of fire over his skin, from his eyes, to his chest, and lower, before lifting again to zero in on his lips. “I can’t do this, you know.”
He grimaced. “I know. It isn’t the right time.”
“Or place.”
“Or—”
Suddenly, he couldn’t bear the temptation any longer and his control snapped. Bending, he savagely took her lips with his own, crashing into her, taking her, sweeping his tongue into her mouth to taste her one more time.
Her hands slid around his waist and she pressed herself to him, the softness of her breasts flattening against his chest. His own hands swept around her hips, pulling her tightly against him, against that part of him that wanted her, needed her.
He shuddered, kissing her again and again, allowing himself to drown in the storm of sensation that she inspired.
Dear sweet heaven above. He’d never known that he could feel this way. Yes, he’d fought against the temptations of the flesh. His vows of celibacy had not been taken lightly—nor had they been easy to maintain. Even after leaving the priesthood, he’d battled with his own basic, human needs. But he’d never given into them. Not before
now. Partly because everyone at the plantation knew that he’d been a priest, and he thought that they secretly hoped he would return to his earlier vocation. But even more than that, he’d been too embarrassed, thinking that any woman who might join him in lovemaking would find his inexperience laughable.
But with Glory Bee, he didn’t think. He surrendered to the insanity of it all, allowing his body to revel in emotions and sensations that he’d never thought possible.
Lifting his head, he stared down at her in wonder—meeting her own bewildered gaze. Then, as if the storm had passed, when he kissed her again, it was with more tenderness. While one arm stayed around her waist, the other hand swept over her back, her hips, taking in her womanly shape, before straying up, up, to cup her breast.
She shuddered against him and he quickly altered his course. But before he could stray too far, she took his wrist, guiding him back to her taut, straining nipple. Then, to his infinite amazement, her fingers shifted to the buttons of her blouse, slowly releasing them, before guiding his hand inside, beneath her brassiere.
He shivered as he touched the softness of her breast, flesh to flesh. Such incredible, incredible softness, and then the hard nub of her nipple rubbing against the sensitive hollow of his palm.
Their kisses became even slower, filled with an aching need that radiated between them.
And yet…
And yet…
Pulling away, John rested his forehead against her own, struggling to drag air into his starved lungs. The need of the moment warred with years of discipline and dogma nearly crushing him beneath their weight.
As if sensing the change in his mood and its cause, Glory Bee didn’t demur when he moved his hand back to the safety of her waist. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held him. Tightly.
His pulse was rushing through his ears with such noise and fury that he thought, but couldn’t be sure, that she gentled him like a startled child. “Shh. Shh. It’s all right.”
Then, when he was calmer, and his heart thudded dully in his chest, she drew back. Turning away, she fastened the buttons to her blouse, then bent and retrieved the fishing equipment that he’d dropped onto the ground.
After that, she looked at him from beneath her lashes for several long moments. There was no recrimination, no annoyance, just a gentle understanding. He could drown in those deep blue eyes.
“Come on,” she said softly, taking his hand and turning back in the direction of the lodge. “It might be better for both of us if we have beans for dinner again tonight.”
• • •
Gilhouley stepped into Col. Ross’ office and snapped to attention, offering a quick salute.
The older man wearily returned the gesture, then said, “At ease, Lieutenant.”
As Gilhouley settled into the more informal pose, Col. Ross shuffled through several folders on his desk. Then he leaned back, wearily scrubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands.
Gilhouley was shocked by the man’s appearance. In the space of a few days, Col. Ross had grown haggard and gray. Dark circles carved hollows beneath his eyes and his normally pristine office was a study in chaos. Evidently, the rumors that Stotsenberg could be evacuated soon had some credence, because file drawers were open, their contents disgorged onto the floor in haphazard piles. On his way indoors, Gilhouley had seen Ross’s aides tending to huge smoking oil drums filled with papers.
“I’ve got a special assignment for you, Gilhouley.”
“Sir?” Gilhouley couldn’t keep the confusion from his tone. He would have thought that the last thing Ross needed at the moment was someone to write a press release.
Ross pulled one of the folders closer and rifled through the pages. “Says here that you spent some time in the Aleutians.”
Shit. Hopefully, it didn’t say why he’d spent time in the Aleutians.
“Yes, sir.”
“It also states that you have a talent for radio communication.”
Gilhouley felt heat rise into his cheeks. His “talent for radio communications” had not been strictly official and he’d received a reprimand for his unauthorized use of the Army’s equipment to order beer, hotdogs, and fireworks for an impromptu Independence Day party for the rest of the schmucks in his barracks. But since he wasn’t sure how in-depth the report might be, Gilhouley decided it might be best not to comment.
Ross leaned back in his chair again, causing the spring at its base to offer a weary whine.
“How the hell did you end up in the press corps?” Ross asked bluntly.
Gilhouley shrugged. “I was told that my…communication skills were above average.” Which meant he’d said the wrong thing to the wrong officer. “So when I was transferred to the Philippines, I was sent to the press corps.” The colonel behind his transfer had probably thought it would be a further demotion. But Gilhouley had liked the assignment. Liked it a lot.
Ross made a huffing noise. “That means you can string a sentence together—which, I might add, is more than most of my aides can do.”
“I suppose so, sir.”
Inhaling sharply, the colonel straightened again. “Well, you’re about to be reassigned.”
Gilhouley nodded. Most of the non-essential personnel were being absorbed into the infantry as quickly as they could be supplied, so he wasn’t at all surprised by the information.
“What I’m going to ask you to do will be strictly voluntary. But it’s a job that will draw on your special skills.” He slapped Gilhouley’s folder shut and stood, rounding the desk. “Quite frankly, I need someone who’s a goddamned idiot, and I think you’ll fill the bill. You’ll be drawing upon your ability to communicate, but even more importantly, your talents for larceny and quick thinking.”
Gilhouley shifted uncomfortably. “Sir?”
“I’m organizing a few select teams of men to take some supplies into the hills. It won’t be long before the Japs will be knocking at our back door. Before that happens, we intend to hide radio equipment in various spots around the island. A few of the radios will be buried until later, even more will be distributed to key Filipinos that are already mounting guerrilla offensives against the Japs. Unfortunately, most of those locations will soon be behind enemy lines, so we need to act swiftly. I’d like you to lead one of those groups of men.”
Gilhouley was surprised that he’d even be considered for such a mission. His training was solid, but it had been years since he’d done anything but man a typewriter.
“Any questions?”
Gilhouley shook his head. Even with the colonel’s brief explanation, he didn’t need anything else spelled out to him. It was obvious that the colonel thought their positions would be overrun. Soon. Weeks from now, these radio stations might be the only means of gathering intelligence until reinforcements from the States could come. These missions could prove vital when it came time to push the Japanese back off the island.
But Gilhouley also wasn’t stupid. In order to make the information they gathered as valuable as possible, they would have to move deep into what already was, or soon would be, enemy territory. If they were caught, they would be killed.
Gilhouley felt a moment’s hesitation. Not because of the job that needed to be done or the dangers involved. No, his only twinge of resistance came from whom he would be leaving behind.
Rosemary.
But then, even as his body was sufficed with the memory of their stolen moments together in her office, his body pounding into hers, he knew that he couldn’t refuse Col. Ross’s offer. If there was any chance in hell of driving the Japs off the Philippines, he had to do it. Because the alternative—the thought of Rosemary becoming a prisoner to those animals—was unthinkable.
“Will I be allowed to pick my own team?” Gilhouley asked.
“That’s up to you. We’re sending out squads of five. But this is a need-to-know operation.”
“When do you want us to go?”
• • •
If Rosemary h
ad dared to hope that the Japanese meant to bomb the Philippines and then leave—as it appeared they’d been content to do with Hawaii—she was soon disappointed. Day after day, the planes returned. Sometimes the Zeroes were seen in the distance, and at other times, the sirens would sound and the women would be sent to the nearest shelters.
She always felt like a coward when they were forced to head for the basements or the outer trenches. Most of their patients weren’t allowed the same luxury. At best, they could only crawl beneath their cots. And after one particular day, when the nurses had been sent to the trenches a half-dozen times, it became apparent that trying to maintain the uniform of crisp white hose, white dress and cap, was pure folly.
Speaking to the quartermaster, she arranged for the girls to receive two sets of the same one-piece coveralls that the pilots wore. But as she handed out the new “combat” uniforms, as the girls had dubbed them, they soon realized that the only size available was a forty-four long.
So the women donned their coveralls, rolled up the sleeves and cuffs, belted the waists, and slogged away at their jobs during their shifts, then spent their few precious off-duty hours with needles and thread, sewing feverishly in the hopes of making their new clothes look a little less like clown suits.
Rosemary secretly found the coveralls liberating. So many of their duties had expanded to include jobs once delegated to doctors and orderlies. The one-piece garments were more practical, if a little hot. Soon, she insisted that their shoes be replaced with the men’s hardier boots as well, since it was clear that luck was not going to turn in their favor any time soon. The Japanese had begun their amphibious landings. First, in the far north. Then, barely four days after the first attack, at Legaspi and Albay in southern Luzon.
Less than two weeks after the first attack, Rosemary received the order to begin transporting the wounded south to Manila. With the invasion force advancing toward them, medical personnel would either be moved to Corregidor or the Bataan Peninsula where the troops would hunker down and wait for reinforcements from America to relieve them.
