by Lisa Bingham
It made sense—and suddenly, he understood everything that had led up to this moment.
Tanaka’s final fury.
Being locked in their huts.
The empty camp.
He could see now how beating Petey nearly to death had probably been a way for Tanaka to purge his frustration at being relieved of his command. He probably would have seen the loss of his job as a demotion, losing face among his peers. No doubt, he’d sat seething in his office, vowing revenge on his American prisoners but knowing that such an honor had been given to the new troops moving up to the front lines. If he’d had his way, he would have shot Petey like all the others. But he hadn’t dared. Not when another unit had probably been given the order—and the honor—to execute them all. And the flyby of an American plane had probably only exacerbated matters.
But now that fresh troops had taken over the camp—troops with ammunition and experience—the Japs were going to kill them all.
Moving closer to Petey, he hauled the kid into his arms. If they were going to die, Petey was going to know that he wasn’t alone.
As if sensing his thoughts, Petey’s eyes opened. The gunfire grew closer, more intense, until he could hear the bullets smacking into the ground outside their hut.
Petey’s eyes filled with tears. “I thought we’d make it…Lieutenant.” He sobbed, then winced at the pain. Petey’s frame grew limp. “Too…late…”
“No, dammit. Don’t you die on me!”
But Petey didn’t answer. The kid grew ever smaller in his arms as outside, the screams began.
Chapter Eighteen
April 7, 1942
Rosemary had hoped that a wedding at Little Baguio might be a sign of better things to come, but with each day that passed, the situation in Bataan became every more desperate. With food supplies running desperately low, rations were cut, then cut again. Soldiers were being sent to the front with only a few hundred calories a day, barely enough to function, let alone fight. And the men who began to pour into the hospital had injuries that were more devastating than ever before. She began to see “layers” of wounds since the men were patched up by the battle medics, then sent back to the front again and again. In order to be brought to Little Baguio, their wounds had to be horrific.
Surgery took on the appearance of an assembly line, with surgeons and nurses circling the tables while soldiers, one after another, were carried in to be pieced back together. Outside the huts, they’d begun to lay the stretchers on sawhorses, lifting their patients’ feet higher than their heads, in order to ward off shock. They were running dangerously low on supplies—bandages, anesthesia, and quinine. Especially quinine. Malaria was rampant among soldiers and medical professionals alike, and the medication was so strictly rationed, that what little they were able to dispense was not enough to be effective.
By February, it was clear that things were growing desperate. Days ran one into another, until Rosemary felt that trying to slow the passing of time was like trying to push back the tide with her bare hands.
Rosemary and her nurses tried to hold onto hope. At least once a day, one of the orderlies would scale a palm tree and gaze out into the distance, hoping to see a wisp of smoke out to sea, a shape, a blip on the horizon that could signify that a convoy was on its way. They’d been promised as much by General Douglas MacArthur, their commander.
By March, their hope was beginning to wane. Then it turned to anger. What was wrong with the men in Washington? They must know the situation here in the Philippines. Didn’t they care? Why promise them relief if they had no intention of sending it?
Still, they dug in their heels and refused to think the worse. The men dubbed themselves the Battling Bastards of Bataan, and the nurses borrowed the moniker, becoming the Battling Belles—and Rosemary was proud of the nickname. When they’d begun their careers, they’d been given no weapons’ training whatsoever—they hadn’t even received instruction on wartime medicine. But now, they were as tough and battle-hardened as the men.
Even so, it was a blow to their morale and their esprit de corps when they received word that General MacArthur—Dugout Doug—had left Corregidor for Australia. He’d been spirited away in the middle of the night. It didn’t matter that he’d been ordered to withdraw and that he’d considered refusing that order. They’d been abandoned by the man in charge. While he’d maintained his command on Corregidor, they could still believe that the reinforcements might come.
Now, there was no reason to hope.
The end was coming. Rosemary knew this without a doubt. As she saw the boys staggering back from the front, she knew they couldn’t hold out for long. In her estimation, it was a matter of weeks, not months. Perhaps even days.
And then what?
They had thousands of patients spread out in the cots beneath the trees. What would happen to these gravely injured men, the soldiers, the nurses? Would they all fight to the last person? Or would they be forced to surrender?
Unable to bring herself to plan that far ahead, Rosemary poured herself into her work, anything to keep from thinking about the future, anything to keep from thinking about Gilhouley at the front. He’d begun to find ingenious ways of getting word to her that he was all right. At times, she would find letters left on her bunk that had been sent through buddies passing through Little Baguio.
But she hadn’t seen him in person since the hospital had been relocated.
If there was a bright spot at all, it came through Glory Bee and John. After only a short acquaintance, Rosemary had become very fond of the couple. Glory Bee had grown to care so much for the men in her ward, that, as she’d grown stronger, she’d begun to take on some of the simpler nursing duties. Even more importantly, she’d had made it her personal mission to help with the men’s morale. Someone had found her a guitar, and most nights, she would linger in the wards singing songs—some bawdy, some sentimental—until it was late in the evening. The soldiers adored her. And as her belly grew larger and larger, the men took it upon themselves to protect her—especially when stray Japanese shells landed nearby.
“Major Dodd, a moment, please.”
Rosemary looked up from the pile of charts she’d been compiling and stood. Ironically enough, there was no tent for the wounded, but one had been erected to protect the paperwork.
Standing, she went outside to where several senior nurses surrounded their commander, Col. Nester.
The mood was grim as they gathered into a semi-circle, and Rosemary’s stomach clenched as she sensed they were not about to receive good news.
“A bus will be here in thirty minutes. We’re being evacuated.”
“A bus?” one of the women murmured in confusion. “What about the wounded?”
Col. Nester’s gaze was sad. “The nurses are being evacuated to Corregidor. The wounded are not.”
There was an immediate outcry. None of them wanted to leave. Not now. Not when the men needed them most. But Col. Nester held up a hand to stop their arguments before they could even be made.
“Our orders are coming from the highest level. We’re being sent to the hospital in the Malinta tunnels since it is believed that the lines will fail, probably in the next few weeks. We will be on that bus, ladies. Pass the word on to your women. They need to pack their things—only what they can carry in one bag—and meet at the bus in thirty minutes. No exceptions.”
Rosemary lifted a hand. “You said the nurses were being evacuated. Does that include the Filipino nurses and the civilians who’ve been helping us?”
Col. Nester sighed. “I’ll check. Right now, they aren’t slated for evacuation.”
Rosemary glanced at her watch, then hurried to the wards. Alice was the first woman she encountered. “We’re leaving. Go pack a bag. They’ll have a bus here to take us away in thirty minutes.”
Alice stared at her blankly. “What?”
“We’re being sent to Corregidor.”
“Everyone?”
“Just the nurses.”<
br />
“But—”
Rosemary held up a hand. “I know. Our arguments were made and rebuffed. We’re allowed one bag. Tell anyone you see.”
By the time Rosemary had found all the women under her command, she had only ten minutes left to pack her own things. As she ran toward the tent she shared with Alice, she closed her mind to the way her women had been forced to back away from doctors in the middle of their surgeries, patients in mid-procedure. And as the word began to spread, the eyes of the men had begun to follow them. Dear God, would she ever be able to push the image away—soldiers who watched them with a mixture of envy and despair, knowing that if the nurses were being sent away so suddenly, the end was truly drawing near.
She was fastening her bag when Lt. Cavendish ducked her head in.
“We’ve got permission to bring the Filipino nurses and a few of the civilian women who’ve been helping us in the wards.”
“Good. I’ll get Glory Bee.”
Lt. Cavendish shook her head. “We’ve been looking for her for ten minutes. She’s not in her tent.”
Rosemary felt a pang of frustration—then a rush of panic. This might be the only chance they had to get Glory Bee to relative safety before her baby was born. She was due in less than three weeks.
“Have you seen John?”
“He was the first person we told. He’s looking for her as well.”
Rosemary swore under her breath. “She’s got to be here somewhere.”
“We’ve checked the wards, the huts, her tent…”
“The showers,” Rosemary said, already running out of the tent and rushing down the aisle of makeshift shelters that had been formed over the weeks. Turning right, then left, she headed toward the rough wooden planks that shielded the women’s bathing facilities from view. The first set of showers was empty. The second set…
Rosemary nearly didn’t see her. Glory Bee was crouched in the corner, her head down, wet hair hanging limply around her face, her arms wrapped protectively against her belly.
“Glory Bee?”
Her head reared up and Rosemary knew from her blotchy face that she’d been crying.
Moving more slowly, gently, Rosemary hurried toward her.
“Glory Bee, what’s wrong?”
The woman sobbed. “My baby…my baby…”
“Glory Bee, are you in labor?”
She nodded. “I-I think so.”
“How long have you had contractions?”
Glory Bee’s chin trembled. “Since dinner.”
So an hour. Maybe two at the most.
But then she added, “Yesterday.”
As the full import of her words sank in, Rosemary quickly grasped Glory Bee’s towel and wrapped it around her.
“Has your water broken?”
Glory Bee nodded. “And I’ve been bleeding.”
“For how long?”
“A day.” Her face crumpled. “Maybe two.”
Rosemary drew the other woman tightly against her. “Glory Bee, why didn’t you tell us?”
“I didn’t want to bother anyone. Y-you’ve all been so busy and…I thought it would…go away.”
Lt. Cavendish burst through the door. “You’ve got five minutes to be on that bus. Did you find—”
Rosemary didn’t even bother to explain. “I need a corpsman or a doctor—someone who can help me get her to one of the huts.”
“Dear God, is she—”
“Now!” Rosemary ordered abruptly when Glory Bee suddenly gripped her belly and groaned. “Breathe, Glory Bee. Breathe.”
“No! I can’t have the baby. Not now. It’s too early.”
Rosemary couldn’t help the mirthless laughter that burst from her throat. “You don’t have a choice, honey. Your baby wants to be born—in the next few minutes, I’d wager.”
Glory Bee shook her head, grabbing Rosemary’s arms as another contraction hit. “It’s too soon!”
“Some babies like to make a grand entrance by coming early.”
She heard footsteps running into the showers and turned in time to see John rushing toward them.
“Get her into one of the huts, quick!”
Lt. Cavendish burst in on his heels. “Colonel Nester wants you on the bus. She says we’re being evacuated from Mariveles to Corregidor by submarine at 0100 and everyone needs to be assembled.”
“Tell her I’ll be there. I’ll hitch a ride with an ambulance or a Jeep or something. But Glory Bee can’t make the bus ride right now, and I can’t leave her.” Rosemary knew she was treading close to disobeying orders, so after John scooped Glory Bee into his arms and hurried outside, she pulled Lt. Cavendish aside. “Please. Tell Colonel Nester that I can’t come right now. Glory Bee is showing signs of hemorrhaging.”
Lt. Cavendish nodded and ran in the direction of the main clearing while Rosemary went in the opposite direction. Once at the surgical hut, she donned a gown and cap and hurried behind the screens that had been erected.
Glory Bee lay on one of the tables. At her side, John held her hand.
“Rosemary!”
She whirled toward the door to see Lt. Cavendish gesturing to her. The woman shot her a smile. “You have permission to stay, but Colonel Nester says if you aren’t at the rendezvous point at 0100, she can’t promise that you’ll have another chance to be evacuated.”
“I’ll be there,” Rosemary said.
Lt. Cavendish backed away as Dr. Grimm filled the doorway.
“Now, what’s this I hear about a baby deciding to be born?” he asked congenially. “Major Dodd, will you give me a hand?”
• • •
At 2100, Hospital #1 at Little Baguio experienced something that it was not accustomed to hearing…
A newborn baby’s cry.
For a moment, all activity in the camp seemed to cease. Even the distant sound of battle was muted as the soldiers turned their attention toward that tiny, lusty wail. There, for a moment, crystalized in that ultimate symbol of life and humanity came a tangible ray of hope. So after John was assured that Glory Bee was fine, that the baby was small, but healthy, he took the tiny swaddled infant out into the last light of the day and held her up so that the men in the wards could see her.
“Gentlemen, I’d like to present Hope Rosemary Macklin.”
A cheer rose out of the jungle and John grinned. Never in his life had he felt such a mixture of rich emotions: pride, elation, relief. And love. He hadn’t thought that he could ever love anyone or anything as much as Glory Bee, but he was swiftly discovering that the human heart knew no boundaries.
“Congratulations,” a deep voice said next to him, and turning, John gaped in surprise when he found Gilhouley standing next to him.
Gilhouley grinned. “Leave it to you to upstage my surprise visit,” he said good-naturedly. He bent to stroke the baby’s cheek.
“She’s got Glory Bee’s red hair—and her eyes.”
John smiled indulgently. “I knew she would.”
Gilhouley slapped him on the arm. “But she’s got your lousy sense of timing, Macklin.”
John grew still. “So things are that bad.”
Gilhouley nodded. “The lines won’t hold.”
John looked down at his daughter’s face. “Then I’d say she has great timing.” He felt his throat tighten. “Or I might not have had a chance to see her.”
Gilhouley sighed, digging his toe into the dirt. “Then I guess I’m the one with the lousy timing. I hear the nurses pulled out of here about an hour ago.”
“Yeah,” John said. “But Rosemary’s inside with Glory Bee.”
He saw the way Gilhouley straightened, the way the abject weariness fell away beneath a surge of disbelief. “What?”
“She didn’t leave with the others. She stayed to help deliver the baby. But she needs to find a way to get to Mariveles in the next few hours.”
John saw a flash of something enter Gilhouley’s gaze, and he knew that look—knew it because he’d felt it himself.
John nodded.
“Do you think he’d perform a quick ceremony for Rosemary and me?”
“I think he could be persuaded.”
“Then you get the chaplain and I’ll get my men finding us more roomy transportation than a Jeep. We all need to be in Mariveles by nightfall.”
• • •
As she stood trembling next to Gilhouley, Rosemary could scarcely believe how life could change so drastically in the space of a few hours. She’d become a godmother, a namesake, and now she was about to become a bride.
Reaching out, she gripped Gilhouley’s hand, as much to assure herself that he was really there more than to steady herself. This time, there had been no time for primping or makeup or even a minute to run a comb through her hair, but she didn’t care. Gilhouley was here, and in a world gone mad, she had a brief moment of happiness with a man who had become more important to her than life itself.
As the priest helped them recite her vows, she couldn’t help looking at Gilhouley. She still couldn’t believe that he was actually here, in the flesh. Yes, she’d received letters—loving notes where he’d poured his heart out to her. But there had still been a part of her that had been afraid that, once they were together again, they would discover what they’d experienced had been nothing more than a wartime romance that would fizzle and fade.
If anything, the opposite was true. After being parted, their hunger, their affection, their connection had deepened until she couldn’t imagine living another moment without him.
As if sensing her thoughts, Gilhouley lifted her hand, pressing his lips to the back of her knuckles.
“Do you have rings?” the chaplain asked.
Gilhouley nodded.
Rosemary laughed, expecting to receive a band much like Glory Bee’s. Something made from cast off pieces of wire, a grenade pin, a polished piece of shrapnel. Instead, he burrowed into his pocket and removed a heavy West Point graduation ring, which he slid onto her finger. He’d wound string around the inside to make it a tighter fit, but she’d lost so much weight that it still rolled on her finger. She clasped her fingers in a fist to keep it from falling off.
