The three P-51s that had gone ahead were buzzing the runway, three across, about fifty feet above the deck. The three in their escort above suddenly dove to join them.
“Damnation,” said Berne as Nichols Field hove into full, clear view. An enormous crowd lined the runway from one end to the other—so many people that they seemed a solid mass.
Mostly Filipinos, Ingram guessed.
The P-51s had all joined up and now buzzed Nichols Field six across. At the end of the runway they pulled up, one at a time, and banked left to turn into their downwind leg while dropping landing gear and flaps and bleeding off speed. They had timed their maneuvers to follow the C-54 and land right behind it.
They were halfway through their downwind leg when Radcliff grabbed his earphones. Thirty seconds passed before he gave a terse, “Roger.” Then he said, “The tower informs us there’s a big crowd down there, estimated in the thousands. A Jeep will meet us at the end of our roll-out and lead us to a VIP area where our, ah, passengers will embark for the Rosario Apartments.”
Radcliff looked around the cockpit, his gaze settling on Ingram. “Know anything about the Rosario Apartments?”
“Downtown,” said Ingram. “Very posh. Two blocks from the Manila Hotel.”
“Hotsy-totsy,” said Peoples.
Radcliff said, “Ah, Leroy?”
“Yeah?”
“You mind if I take it?”
“All yours, Pop.”
Radcliff grabbed his control yoke as Peoples released his. Then Peoples picked up his landing checklist. Berne and Hammer returned to their consoles as Peoples called out the list, all four making settings and barking answers.
With Radcliff flying precisely, they lined up on final. Peoples called the last item on the checklist and then said, “Wow-wee. Look at that crowd. You’d think it was county fair day.”
Radcliff looked up at Ingram and said dryly, “Don’t bother to sit and strap in Commodore. You’re all goo and jelly if I stack this thing.”
“Trust you with my life, Bucky.” Ingram stayed on his feet, peering out the cockpit, enthralled at the sight.
“Suit yourself.” Then, “Full flaps if you please, Mr. Peoples.”
“Full flaps,” said Peoples.
Radcliff chopped the throttles and eased back on the yoke. The C-54 kissed the runway with hardly a bleep.
The nosewheel settled and Hammer said, “Nice.”
Peoples said, “Hey, Skipper.”
“Yeah?”
“You were sideslipping back there.”
“What about it?”
“Well, there was no crosswind.”
“So what?”
“Why the hell can’t I sideslip?”
“Someday, when you’re skipper, you can sideslip all you want.”
“Grandstander,” muttered Peoples.
They laughed.
Chapter Six
19 August 1945
Nichols Field, Manila, Luzon Island, Philippines
Ingram followed the C-54’s aircrew out the forward hatch. Hoisting overnight bags, they hobbled down the stairway and found themselves in the midst of the enormous crowd they had seen on their approach. Angry Filipinos bumped against them and shoved their way past, some shaking their fists, others growling. There were women with babies, many dressed in simple peasant clothing. All pushed toward the C-54’s rear exit, where the Japanese delegates and their chaperones were debarking.
Neidemeier quick-stepped down the stairway and joined them.
Radcliff had to shout, “Where’s our ride?”
Neidemeier yelled back, “Don’t worry. Follow me.”
“Which way?” Radcliff yelled.
Neidemeier pointed to the wall of humanity.
“These guys don’t look too friendly,” Hammer said. Like an offensive guard, he stuck out his elbows and led the way, people bouncing away from him. As they got farther from the plane the crowd thinned.
Neidemeier guided them to a line of trucks and stopped behind an open Studebaker six-wheeler. He flipped down the tailgate and waved them inside.
“This?” gasped Radcliff.
“This is it. No exceptions,” Neidemeier said.
The truck was loaded with a half dozen beefy MPs. They stubbed out cigarettes and grudgingly gave up the forward end of the truck. Ingram, Radcliff, Peoples, Berne, and Hammer tossed up their bags and mounted the tailgate. Moving to the front, they looked over the cab. The tarp was off the top, and a breeze twirled from Manila Bay, cooling them in an otherwise humid evening.
The crowd had nearly swallowed up the Japanese delegates and their American chaperones trying to make their way toward a line of four-door Mercury staff cars painted olive drab. It was all the MPs could do to hold the crowd back.
What most amazed Ingram were the photographers. There were hundreds, it seemed, their cameras clicking, flashbulbs popping with the intensity of machine guns.
Also, there were quite a few off-duty American soldiers in the crowd, who chanted, “Banzai! Banzai!” With huge grins, they thrust both arms in the air and swept exaggerated bows toward the staff cars.
Berne muttered, “They should show respect.”
“Can you blame them?” countered Radcliff.
“Ain’t this the livin’ end,” groused Peoples. “We ride in trucks while Japs ride in limousines. I thought we won the war.”
“Quitcherbitching,” said Radcliff. “You could be back on Okinawa swatting flies.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Peoples.
“Here you get three squares and nice, clean sheets.”
“And here I get to swat mosquitoes instead of flies.”
“Leroy, I can always get another copilot,” said Radcliff.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Peoples.
The photographers pressed in closer; camera shutters clicked, flashbulbs spiked the deepening dusk. The crowd was right behind them. Like an inexorable tide they swept through the photographers and merged around the line of MPs ringing the Mercury staff cars.
“These people are really pissed off,” said Radcliff. He turned to the MP sergeant. “Aren’t you guys going to do anything?”
The sergeant sighed. “Looks like we’re going to have to, sir.” He blew a whistle, waved an arm over his head, and shouted, “Come on, ladies.” The MPs jumped down and ran forward to join the MPs at the staff cars. Others dashed past from trucks behind.
“Why can’t we am-scray?” asked Hammer.
“It’ll be soon enough,” said Neidemeier.
“Well, it better be soon or we’ll all be dog meat,” said Berne. He looked around and said, “Gotta get this for history.” He pulled a 16-mm Bell & Howell movie camera from his bag and loaded a fifty-foot roll of film. Then he wound it up, put his eye against the eyepiece, and began panning the crowd.
“You do this often?” asked Ingram. Cameras, especially movie cameras, were supposed to be illegal, but many used them anyway.
Berne said, “We go to a lot of places. You know: Guadalcanal, Tulagi, Rendova, Leyte, Okinawa. Got into Tarawa a couple of times. So I get shots of wrecked airplanes, burned-out tanks, and pillboxes. Got some natives, too. Beautiful sunsets, that sort of thing.”
“Color?”
“Yup.” He leaned over. “Keep a secret?”
Ingram snickered to himself. Why was everyone blabbing to him about keeping secrets? “Of course,” he said solemnly.
“A buddy of mine is with the 509th.”
Army Air Corps mumbo-jumbo, Ingram thought. “What’s the 509th?”
“You know, the 509th composite group: B-29s. The ones who dropped the A-bombs on Japan. Anyway, my buddy was a crew member on the Great Artiste and shot some footage with this little baby.” He tapped his camera as he panned. “The Great Artiste is a B-29; it accompanied Bock’s Car as one of the instrument planes.”
“Wow! How did it turn out?”
“The guy blabbed. They confiscated his film. Nearly threw him in the stockade. Instead he’
s in hack for three months. I was lucky to get my camera back.”
Just then Ingram spotted Captain Fujimoto. A staff car door was held open for him. He ducked his head and entered. No sooner had the Mercury’s door closed than a rotten pomegranate exploded against the window, showering the car and bystanders with red juice.
Ingram looked away and asked, “Did he see it? You know, the blast?”
Berne flicked off the switch and examined his camera as if it were a holy object. “They let me talk to him for a couple of minutes. He said he couldn’t sleep the first couple of nights. All he could see when he closed his eyes was this great pinkish flash. Then they were hit by a shock wave that tossed them around. After that, an enormous mushroom cloud boiled up above them. Amazing. They were at thirty thousand feet and this damned cloud zipped up to forty or fifty thousand feet, with weird lightning bolts flashing inside; all sorts of reds, yellows, and greens. ‘The devil’s caldron,’ he called it.”
Ingram thought of the pomegranate splattering against the staff car’s window. “I can’t imagine,” he said.
“I can’t either,” said Berne. He went back to his photographing.
The next thing Ingram knew, Major Neidemeier was standing beside him. He looked around Ingram to see Berne photographing. “Say, what’s he doing with that camera? That’s not authorized.”
“Don’t worry. He’s just—”
Neidemeier waved a hand. “He should be—”
Someone yelled up to Neidemeier. “Clive, what the hell are you doing out here? Why aren’t you in Washington?”
Neidemeier shouted down, “Wanted to see it all for myself, General.”
“Well, damn it all,” the voice shouted up in a Texas twang, “git your ass back on that plane and skedaddle for the States. You’re not cleared for this.”
I know that voice. Ingram stepped to the side and looked down. There he was, Otis DeWitt, now a brigadier general with a star on his collar and aide to Lt. Gen. Richard K. Sutherland, MacArthur’s chief of staff. Ingram had met him under far worse conditions when they were trapped on Corregidor three years ago, DeWitt a major, Ingram a lieutenant. General DeWitt certainly looked healthier than during their starving days on the “Rock.” With his weather-beaten face sporting a thin mustache, he appeared to be back to his normal weight of 180 pounds on a 5-foot 8-inch frame. Otis DeWitt wore his signature cavalry campaign hat and jodhpurs. Clamped between his teeth was a long, gold cigarette holder, the same holder he’d spirited away from Corregidor, Ingram supposed. A Lucky Strike was jammed in the end. Ingram cupped his hands and yelled down. “Otis, how the hell are you?”
“Watch what you say, Commander,” whispered Neidemeier.
DeWitt jammed his fists to his hips and rocked back on his heels. “Welcome back, Commander. I needed you two days ago. Where the hell were you?”
Commander, huh? Same old Otis. “Got caught in a crap game. Sorry. Say, why don’t we go downtown to the Chi Chi Club tonight and dig up some whores?”
Neidemeier covered his eyes and shook his head.
A corner of DeWitt’s mouth turned up. “What would Helen say to that?”
“She’d kill me.”
“She should. You don’t deserve her.”
“You’re right about that, Otis. But guess what? We have a son.”
DeWitt’s craggy face softened. “I’ll be damned. Congratulations. You named him after me, of course?”
“Not a chance.” There was some commotion forward. The lead staff car began moving. “He’s named after Jerry Landa, my boss.”
DeWitt began walking forward. “Boom Boom Landa?”
“Yeah.”
“Worthless son of a bitch.” He turned and called back. “We have you bunking at the Rosario Apartments with the Japs.”
“Great. Do I get to sleep with a carbine?”
“Naw, naw, we have guards out the ying-yang. Plus, I wouldn’t trust a Navy guy with a carbine. You’d just shoot yourself in the foot.”
“I appreciate your confidence, Otis.”
“The pleasure’s all mine. Now, instead of hookers, how about dinner tonight?”
Ingram glanced at Neidemeier. The major looked on in wonder. With a wink Ingram called down, “Don’t think so, Otis. I already have a dinner date with General and Mrs. MacArthur.”
DeWitt walked quickly toward the last Mercury. With a wave over his head he called, “Not to worry. I’ll break it for you. Be ready at nineteen hundred. And wear something decent for a change.”
“So you two do know each other,” said Neidemeier dryly.
“We go a ways back.”
“Maybe you can ask him to—”
Neidemeier’s request was lost as the Filipino crowd pushed in with a mighty roar, the MPs barely holding them back. DeWitt sprinted for the Mercury, opened the door, and jumped inside just before the crowd began throwing rocks at the staff cars. The first Mercury in the line rounded a corner and sped away from the crowd as rocks caromed off its top and sides. Ingram spotted the silhouette of one of the Japanese looking stoically forward. Some Filipinos shook their fists; others spit.
The MPs jumped back into the Studebaker. The sergeant pounded the cab top and yelled, “Roll ’em, Freddie.” With a clank and a grind of its gears, the truck heaved into position as the first Army vehicle behind the Mercurys. Soon they were racing through the crowds and out of the airport. They turned onto Dewey Boulevard and headed north for downtown Manila.
The exuberance of arriving in Manila disappeared quickly. The men’s chatter stilled as the truck drove deeper into the city.
Radcliff waved at the wreckage. “The Japs fought to the last man. The dogfaces had to go in and flush ’em out, house to house.”
Manila had been declared secure just a month ago, on 5 July. Even then, many Japanese soldiers had taken to the jungles north of the city to continue the fight. Some of the buildings still smoked; wreckage was strewn everywhere; dust hung heavily; and a putrid odor enveloped the city. At times Ingram had to cover his nose with a handkerchief. He’d smelled that odor before. Clearly, the Filipinos had not recovered all of the bodies from the buildings the Japanese had wrecked in their withdrawal. People staggered about, coated with a grayish morbid powder, their faces covered with rags to keep out the dust and the stench.
Ingram had lost his appetite by the time the Studebaker pulled up before the Rosario Apartments. The staff cars were parked in a neat row, and Ingram gave a thought to going inside, grabbing one of the Japanese, and wringing his neck. But that passed as he jumped down, grabbed his bag, and walked into the lobby.
Neidemeier followed him in. “We’re bunking two to a room. The aircrews are all together, so you’re with me. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, Clive. Why don’t you sign us up? I could use a shower.”
“Right away, Commander.”
The apartment had two bedrooms with a connecting bath and shower. Ingram hadn’t had a decent shower in months; the hot water didn’t work but the cold was lukewarm. It felt wonderful, and he lingered for fifteen minutes, scrubbing every pore. He stepped out, skin tingling, as Neidemeier called, “Houseboy has your uniform. It’ll be pressed and cleaned within a half hour.”
“I hope he knows military pleats. Otis DeWitt is a stickler.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Twenty minutes later Ingram went down to the cocktail lounge to find DeWitt already there, pacing. He looked Ingram up and down and said, “Your shoes need shining . . . badly.”
“Mrs. MacArthur said she wouldn’t mind. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“And where are your campaign ribbons?”
“Back on my ship. Nobody told me I was being presented to the inspector general of the Army.”
“Two Navy Crosses and six battle stars would have impressed even General MacArthur, let alone Mrs. MacArthur.”
“Sorry. As I said, I didn’t know.”
“Come on, I have a table waiting in the dining roo
m. But first I want you to see something.” He led Ingram down a long hallway. They drew up to a set of double doors with four guards, each with a Thompson submachine gun slung over his shoulder. With a wink to Ingram, DeWitt said to one of the guards, a sergeant, “Everything okay?”
“Quiet as a two-man funeral, sir.”
“Just need to check.” DeWitt nodded to the door. The sergeant reached down and opened it a crack. DeWitt stuck in his head and then nodded to Ingram.
Ingram looked in and saw three long tables connected in a u. There were six guards inside watching over the Japanese, most of whom were now sitting back, smoking and chatting amiably. He whistled to himself. The table was set with silver and china. Three large silver platters held turkey carcasses. Serving dishes with remnants of mashed potatoes, peas, creamed spinach, turkey stuffing, and cranberry sauce were scattered about.
Ingram spotted Fujimoto sitting six feet away. Once again they locked eyes. This time, Fujimoto glanced toward the turkey carcass and then looked back to Ingram with a nod. Ingram backed away and slowly closed the door.
DeWitt had been watching. “What do you think? Thanksgiving with all the trimmings in August. Can you believe it?”
“Amazing. You’d think we’d be feeding them maggots.”
“General MacArthur, with the full concurrence of the State Department, has decided to take another approach. He wants to treat the Japanese courteously. Show them good intentions. Be decent to them.”
“Well, that’s nice, Otis. Tell that to the guys on the Bataan Death March. Or the ones we left behind on Corregidor.”
They rounded a corner and stepped into a small dining room that was about half full. “That will be dealt with,” said Dewitt. “There will be war crimes trials. Even now they have their eyes on Yamashita and Tojo.”
“Not enough, Otis. These bastards deserve every bit of—” He stopped short as a waiter approached. DeWitt announced himself, and they followed the waiter to a table in the corner. Once seated, DeWitt smoothed his mustache and asked, “First of all, tell me about Helen. Is she as beautiful as ever?”
Ingram allowed a grin. “Even more so. At least judging by the photos she sends. Our son, Jerry, is a pistol, crawling around, getting into pots and pans. A real terror, she says.”
Edge of Valor Page 6
