by Lisa Bingham
“Find yourself a shady spot,” he said. “We’ll stay here until the heat of the day has passed, then start up with some fresh legs. Esteban knows of a village a ways down that ridge. We’ll stay there for the night.”
Glory Bee nodded, buoyed by the news. If they were going to a village, there would be a level of civilization. One of her greatest fears had been that they would camp out in the middle of the woods.
John offered her the canteen again and this time she couldn’t keep from gulping the liquid.
“We need to find you a hat.”
She gingerly touched her nose and winced at the slight stinging sensation.
“Am I turning red?”
“I’m more concerned about sunstroke. You haven’t had time to acclimate to the heat of the Philippines, let alone the sun.” He took his own field hat from his head and settled it over her brow. It fit so loosely, she felt like a child playing dress-up. “Use this until I can find you another one.”
“But don’t you need it?”
“I’ll manage until we can find you something that will work better.”
Again, a ghost of a smile toyed with the corners of his lips. But just as quickly, he looked out over the valley, and the lightness was gone, replaced by a brooding worry.
Following his gaze, Glory Bee gasped. Far below them, the fields of cogon had been set ablaze. Fueled by the hot, dry winds, a wall of flame leapt and danced. Black smoke roiled upwards to stain the azure blue sky.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why would they set the whole island ablaze?”
“To drive out anyone trying to hide.”
“Like us?”
He nodded. “And to prevent the Filipinos from forming guerrilla bands. Many of the men on the island have been trained by the American military in the past few years just for this event. Others are determined to defend their homeland.”
Which meant that it could only be a matter of time before Esteban and John might decide to join them.
John squeezed her shoulder, then stood. “Drink a little more and rest. Now more than ever, we need to reach that village by nightfall.”
• • •
A hand touched Rosemary’s shoulder and she awakened with a jolt. For several long moments, she stared at an unfamiliar wall, an unfamiliar bunk, and a rumpled set of blankets. Then Alice stepped into view and every fear, every worry, every heartache rushed back, slamming into her chest like an anvil.
“It’s 1730. I let you sleep as long as I dared. There’s a bathroom down the hall, water’s hot. You’d better take advantage of it while you can. I’m going to make sure everyone else is up and ready to go.”
Nodding, Rosemary forced her aching body into a sitting position. Then, taking clean clothes and a towel from her duffel, she stumbled to the showers, washed as quickly as she could, and dressed. A glance at her watch showed her that there would be no time for a meal.
After stowing her things, she went into the main room where her own nurses were gathered in a knot.
“All here?” she asked, her gaze scanning the women present.
“Wilson and Juarez are on their way. Emerson and Todd have already gone to the hospital,” Alice reported after checking the clipboard in her hand.
Lt. Wakely approached Rosemary and handed her a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.
“Merry Christmas, Major.”
Rosemary stared at her blankly.
“It’s Christmas Eve, don’t you remember?”
In a few hours, it will be Christmas Day.
For a moment, she was flooded with images of snow and mistletoe, a big tree in the parlor and the smells of her mother’s homemade pumpkin pies. But with a rush, reality returned, and those memories could have been from another lifetime.
“Thanks.”
As if reminding her that several meals had passed since she’d eaten, Rosemary’s stomach growled. Normally, she wouldn’t have eaten so casually in front of her staff, but since many of them were also taking advantage of the sandwiches and fruit provided, she unwrapped one corner and took a bite.
She could have wept. Peanut butter and strawberry jam. So simple, so…American. Again, she was inundated with memories of the farm and sitting at her mother’s freshly scrubbed table for lunch when she was little.
Tears pricked her eyes, but she pushed them back, refusing to become sentimental. Not now. Not when the boom, boom of artillery echoed the thudding of her own heart.
The last two nurses scurried down the staircase and Rosemary gestured to the others.
“All right, then. Let’s go.”
As they walked out of the nurse’s quarters into the hot, humid air, Rosemary realized that in the scant hours that they’d been resting, the mood on the base had deteriorated even more. Traffic was congested with troop transports, Jeeps, and ambulances. Offices were being emptied, important papers burned. Anything of military value was being stacked ready for transport.
They were still yards away from the hospital when Col. Willmington motioned for them to join her next to a long line of trucks with canvas tops.
“Major Dodd.”
As Rosemary approached, she handed her a sheaf of papers.
“Here are the new assignments. Your staff has now been divided into two groups.” She handed another set of papers to Lt. Wakely.
“Lieutenant Wakely, you’ll be escorting the women listed here to a steamer waiting at the docks. At 2030, you’ll be picked up by several cars and taken to the quay where you’ll be in charge of evacuating as many men as we can load on the ship to Corregidor.”
Vera Wakely nodded, her mouth tightening as she surveyed the names.
“Major Dodd, you and the rest of your staff will have the evening shift in the hospital. Then, at 2100 tomorrow evening, you’ll take the ferry Sea Spray, which has been commandeered to take food and medical supplies across the bay.”
Col. Willmington removed another set of papers from her clipboard. “Here’s the manifest list. Once you reach Bataan, I want you to make sure that everything is taken off that ferry and loaded on the waiting trucks. Don’t leave so much as a pin behind on that ship. We’re already running short on supplies and we don’t have anything to waste.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“Very well, then. Go to your assigned duties before any more air raid sirens can go off.”
Without even waiting for a salute, Col. Willmington turned and strode toward the next group of nurses heading toward the hospital.
“All right, everybody. You heard the Colonel,” Rosemary said, lifting her voice to be heard over the din of artillery and the rumble of trucks. “Lieutenant Wakely is going to read off the names on her list. If you’re called, head back to the nurses’ quarters and grab your gear.”
Rosemary noticed that Vera’s hands were trembling as she read through the roll. Although Vera had been in charge of shifts before, it was the first time she’d been asked to take such an important leadership role. But Rosemary didn’t doubt for an instant that she could handle the responsibility.
“Anderson…Call…Faberge…”
As each of the women dropped away and returned to their barracks, Rosemary offered them quick encouraging words, a hug, a shake of the hand.
“Gudmandson…Hillary…Hubbard…”
Alice joined her in offering their goodbyes until Lt. Wakely finished with, “Zimmerman!”
As the last woman hurried away, Rosemary quickly counted heads. Fifteen women were being sent to Corregidor.
Lt. Wakely paused before taking her place among them.
“Major.” she said with a salute.
Rosemary returned the gesture, then pulled Vera close with a quick hug.
“Godspeed, Lieutenant.”
“Godspeed to you, Major.”
Then, blinking away the moisture that suddenly gathered in her eyes, Lt. Wakely marched into the gathering gloom.
Rosemary stood for several minutes, watching them go, trying to push away the uneasiness
that came with her group splitting up. Except for the girls who’d arrived right before the attack, she’d worked with most of the women for years. And although her staff had swelled and waned with transfers, marriages, and girls going home, they’d never been torn apart by the violence of war. As she watched them go, Rosemary felt suddenly vulnerable. Smaller.
At her side, Alice shivered.
“Why do I suddenly feel like a goose has walked over my grave?” she whispered so that the other women wouldn’t hear.
“I don’t know,” Rosemary admitted slowly.
Alice eyed her thoughtfully. “You feel it too?”
Feel what? The helplessness? The uncertainty? The absolute certainty that she would never see these women again?
“Yeah,” Rosemary finally said. “Yeah. I feel it too.
He bent over the row of squash, hoeing at the ever-present weeds.
Even though he technically wasn’t allowed to eat the bounty he grew, he was inordinately pleased by the harvest they would have in a few weeks. He’d worried that after being forced to endure another week in the pit, the plants would have suffered. Kilgore was conscientious enough, but the other men…
Well, they were either too weak or too filled with hatred for the Japs who would eat from the garden to take much care. But he didn’t see things that way. Although he had to be careful, there were ways to smuggle some of the fruits and vegetables back into camp.
He pushed himself to his feet, wincing. His ribs hurt like a sonofabitch and he’d been pissing blood for days. But a return to the garden had been like a homecoming in many ways.
In the past, he’d never planted so much as a front lawn. He was a city boy through and through. But he was proving to have an innate knack at growing things. Lately, he’d even begun to wonder if that’s what he would do after the war. Heaven only knew, after his last bout in the pit, he didn’t want to be closed in ever again. The thought of working in an office gave him the willies.
Not for the first time, he remembered that Rosemary came from country folk. What would she think of him if he stated that he wanted to buy a little farm? Or at least a place with room for a garden? Who would have thought it? The Great Gilhouley puttering in the dirt. But then, he would do anything to have a chance to snag the fruits and vegetables straight from the source and eat his fill, instead of torturing himself by tending to produce that rarely ended up in his stomach.
“You need to take it easy,” Kilgore said, sidling up beside him. “You’ve only been out of the pit two days, and they want us to clear that patch they’ve staked out in all that cogon. If you don’t pace yourself, you’ll be passing out.
He knew Kilgore was right. He shouldn’t have even come back yet. But he was afraid that if he didn’t, he would miss seeing the boy.
If the boy ever came again.
It had been six months. Six months since he’d passed the letter to the kid.
Dammit all to hell. How much longer would they have to wait for some outside contact? They’d given up on any official help. Clearly, the American government had abandoned them and left them for dead.
But the padre…
Surely he could trust him.
“The guerrillas are taking a beating in the hills,” Kilgore said, reading his thoughts.
“How do you know?”
“Heard the guards laughing and talking about it. They said they caught one of the leaders. Beheaded him. Disemboweled him. They were bragging about it like they’d caught themselves a fish in the lake and gutted it for dinner.”
His stomach lurched. “Any specifics on who it might be?”
Kilgore shook his head. “Nope. But things sure as hell don’t seem to be getting any better.”
He stood for a moment, panting, trying to get air in his system without jarring his ribs. But even as the despair threatened to wash over him, he pushed it away. As long as there was a chance, a miniscule chance, that Rosemary would know he was alive…
He still had a shred of hope.
Chapter Ten
Gilhouley lifted his hand, motioning for his men to stop as he neared the rendezvous point. Issuing a signal, he sent Baptiste and Petey wide to circle the clearing while Berman and Kilgore waited behind, the heavy packs of radio equipment strapped to their backs.
Glancing down at his watch, Gilhouley noted that they’d made good time. They were right where they needed to be.
So where the hell was Santo Tomas?
The barely imperceptible rustling of foliage signaled the arrival of his men.
“Anything?” he murmured.
“Not a thing,” Baptiste said with a shake of his head. He dragged his hat from his head and swiped at his brow. “On the way back, I looked for broken vines, bent grass, anything that might give a hint that someone has been here. Nothing.”
Gilhouley swore under his breath again. “Dammit all to hell. Where’s Santo Tomas?”
He glanced at the watch strapped to his wrist. The second hand made a jerky sweep around the dial, a none-too-subtle reminder of the need for haste.
“Tell Kilgore to break out the radio and get in touch with home base. Apprise them of the situation and ask for new instructions. Baptiste and I will scout up the slope a ways and see if we can get a better look around.”
Petey nodded and jogged back to the men with the packs.
Motioning for Baptiste to follow him, they skirted the tree line, heading farther up the trail. After about two hundred yards, Baptiste pointed to an outcrop of rocks jutting out of the forest.
“How about there?”
Nodding, Gilhouley led the way, grasping at vines and roots, scaling the steep slope, then flattening himself against one of the boulders. Taking the binoculars from his pack, he scoured the surrounding hillside, looking for the slightest hint of smoke from a cook fire, movement, swaying grass—anything to signal that Santo Tomas was in the area.
He handed the binoculars to Petey. “You see anything?”
Baptiste took his time, so Gilhouley uncapped his canteen and took a quick drink. Damn, it was hot. Even this late in the day, the heat was unrelenting.
“Shit, I don’t see any sign of ‘em,” Baptiste said, handing back the binoculars.
“Let’s get out of here.”
The trip back down the slope was more hazardous. Gilhouley found it hard to find footholds in the dry, dusty earth, and he ended up skidding the last dozen yards to the bottom. Baptiste, who was close behind him, fared no better. But they didn’t even bother to brush themselves off. Instead, senses prickling, they hurried back to the other men.
As soon as he caught sight of Kilgore, Gilhouley knew the news wasn’t good.
“What’s up?”
Kilgore glanced at Berman, who nodded for him to speak.
“Santo Tomas’ body was found about an hour ago. Those sick bastards beheaded him, then nailed his body to a tree about five miles north of Clark Field. We are to maintain control of the equipment and get the hell out of Dodge.”
Baptiste crossed himself, then let out a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush.
Gilhouley heaved a frustrated sigh. “Why the hell didn’t they let us know sooner?” But before anyone could scramble for an answer, he waved them away. They’d been told to limit radio contact to a minimum. And just because Santo Tomas was dead, that didn’t mean that some of his men couldn’t have showed up at the rendezvous point.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Uh, Lieutenant, there’s one more thing.”
He was almost afraid to ask.
“Manila is being evacuated. MacArthur wants all military personnel out of the city by New Year’s Eve. Therefore, we are to head straight to Bataan.”
Bataan. Even if the roads were passable, they would run out of fuel miles before they got there—which meant a good thirty, forty miles by foot. And he had no doubts that if the Americans were retreating that quickly, that meant that most of Luzon was crawling with the Japanese.
His men didn’t even bother to respond. They knew as well as he did that the likelihood of making it to the bridge before the enemy’s arrival was nothing short of a Hail Mary pass. And if they were caught by the Japanese…
Well, Santo Tomas’s body had been left as a warning. Who knew what they’d do to a group of American soldiers?
• • •
Glory Bee had thought that the journey down the slope would have been easier than going up, but her leg muscles were screaming by the time they made their way into the valley below. Despite the use of John’s hat, her head was soon pounding and no amount of water could slake her thirst.
As they left the scrub and moved into the denser trees, she welcomed the lengthening shadows that at least gave her protection from the sun’s heat. As a natural redhead, she’d always been prone to burning and her skin felt as if it were on fire.
It soon became apparent that while she had been expecting a small, rural town, the village they were moving toward was little more than a congregation of bamboo huts that circled around a shared well. But her disappointment was tempered by the promise of water. If it had been Glory Bee’s lead, she would have rushed forward. Their canteens had been drained long ago, and Glory Bee’s thirst rivaled only that of the children who whimpered at the need for food and rest.
But yards away from the village, John held up a hand and motioned for everyone to be still.
It was then that Glory Bee became aware of the silence.
Gesturing for everyone to stay where they were, John and Esteban grasped their rifles in front of them and began to move slowly toward the huts.
