MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan

by Douglas Niles

  “Ain’t you coming in?” asked Andy.

  “No. I’m going to stand here as long as I can.”

  “Your funeral.” Andy put a hand on the corridor wall and started feeling his way back toward their sleeping bay.

  There was another flash of lightning and quickly thereafter the thunder. The wind picked up and the fresh air was almost as satisfying as food. Johnny crouched in the hut opening to lessen the torrent, but water still leaked on him through the thatched roof. He avoided the leaks as best he could. He didn’t own a blanket or a towel.

  The wind shifted, and suddenly he could smell cooking odors from the Japanese camp kitchen. His mouth began to salivate at the burnt smell of overheated cooking oil. Then came a hint of spice. Ginger he recognized, and soy sauce too. There was that spice that smelled like licorice, and a couple he didn’t recognize at all.

  The smell was precious, a rare gift. He breathed deeply to get every bit of it. As he breathed out slowly, he closed his eyes. The smell allowed his mind to wander, to escape briefly from his captivity, to return home. In his mind, he saw himself standing next to the McCormick warehouse in Baltimore Harbor, his home, where the scent of spice ruled the air for at least twenty feet in every direction….

  Rain lashed his face with renewed force, the shock of the cool wetness bringing Johnny out of his reverie. He was soaked, but it was a good feeling. Still, this storm might turn into a typhoon after all, he thought. The wind was so strong the rain pelted him from the side, drenching him even with the roof over his head. He could feel the dirt underneath him turning to mud.

  The smell of spice was long gone, but the water and wind were keeping the smell of shit down, and the water was clean and fresh. That was a good day at Cabanatuan.

  His bowels seemed to have calmed down. Fresh air seemed like a fine idea. Maybe Andy’s advice was right. Maybe he just needed to think differently.

  It couldn’t hurt.

  He stared into the darkness and his mind drifted back to the beginning….

  • SATURDAY, 23 AUGUST 1941 •

  MANILA, LUZON, PHILIPPINES, 1538 HOURS

  The muggy heat, noise, stink, and bustle of the capital city of the Philippines created the most exotic mélange of smells Johnny Halverson’s nose had ever encountered. There were spice scents that reminded him of the McCormick warehouse back in Baltimore, his hometown, but that was the only connection he could find to home. To him, this was a landscape as alien as anything Seaton or Crane had discovered in E. E. Smith’s Skylark novels, which were, in his opinion, the finest science fiction books ever written. The people, the food, the architecture—nothing looked the way he was used to. For several weeks, he kept expecting to wake up in his own bed, or in the hospital after his appendectomy, and find out it had all really been a dream.

  Oh, it was surreal enough to be a dream. Some of the Philippine Scouts were real regular army types, but there were other army FUBAR victims, just like Johnny. Johnny had been wired, he thought, for a job at Aberdeen Proving Grounds, where he’d worked as a co-op student during college. It was some horrible, confused mistake that got him sent here.

  They had assigned him as an artillery officer. He had worked on artillery in his Aberdeen co-op jobs, but on the research side. They figured out pretty quickly he wasn’t an actual artillery officer, and someone had the rare good sense to transfer him. He ended up in supply, where being methodical and logical was useful. Johnny, a creative thinker but not always oriented toward detail, got himself “kicked upstairs” in short order to the planning staff. He went from a single gold bar to a silver one, and was now a First Lieutenant.

  A towering stone wall, more than 350 years old, surrounded the Intramuros, the ancient inner city of Manila. Atop the wall, at No. 1 Calle Victoria, stood a large eighteenth-century house with large formal gardens: the House on the Wall, Douglas MacArthur’s military headquarters in Manila. The house was wedding cake pink, with white decorations molded onto it. The balcony railings were twists and coils of wrought iron, painted white; the topiary was elaborately carved.

  Johnny’s desk was one of three World War I-issue metal desks crammed into what appeared to have been a servant’s bedroom. The room was painted government green. There were no windows and no other ventilation. It was hot, stuffy, and after a while, it smelled. At least it was near the kitchen.

  Johnny’s big boss, Brigadier General Charles Drake, got a servant’s bedroom office all to himself. That demonstrated the relative priority of the Quartermaster Corps in the US-AFFE hierarchy.

  His immediate boss was Captain Moore, a plump, genial, balding man with a mustache. Johnny shared his feelings of the futility of it all and was surprised at Moore’s response. “A few months ago, I would have agreed with you. While you were in transit, though, the president and the secretary of war decided to make defense of the Philippines a priority. We’re getting everything we want and need, if it just gets here on time.” General MacArthur’s USAFFE—United States Army Forces, Far East—and Philippine Scouts would soon total 120,000 men, a formidable fighting force. Johnny would be one of the planners making sure that the incoming supplies were allocated to the fighting units.

  The cloud of anger and despair that had colored every minute of Johnny’s day suddenly lifted. There was hope. He pitched himself into his work with total devotion.

  Although he was in MacArthur’s headquarters, he never saw the great man, though people talked about him all the time. Other generals were “General So-and-So,” but he quickly learned that only MacArthur was “the General,” said in the same hushed tones as “the Lord.”

  About three weeks after he started, a Filipino colonel stuck his head in to ask for directions. The House on the Wall could be a confusing place to navigate. Johnny gave him directions and then took note of his name. “You’re Colonel Bluemel, right, sir? Forty-fifth Infantry?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve just finished some allocations, and I was going to send you the copies. If you like, you can have them now.”

  The colonel picked them up and thumbed through them. “Enfields and ammunition.” He looked at Johnny with a somewhat jaundiced expression. “It would be useful if the men had shoes, blankets, and entrenching tools as well, Lieutenant. I suppose translators, though, aren’t in your department.” He took the requisitions with resignation and walked out.

  Johnny sat still for a moment, and then walked to a bank of army green file cabinets to pull out a folder of requisitions and orders. Guns, yes, uniforms all accounted for. The colonel’s battalion had everything it needed—on paper.

  On his next day off he scrounged a car and went for a drive. He had been dealing exclusively with paper—he hadn’t seen the real situation at all. It didn’t take him long to find units whose American officers spoke English, Philippine officers spoke Tagalog, and the enlisted men a hodgepodge of Bicolanian or Visayan dialects that were mutually incomprehensible. The uniforms were mostly World War I surplus and were falling apart.

  He went to see Captain Moore. “What do you think I ought to do, Captain? If it’s all bullshit and mirrors, I can get my work done real fast. But if there’s something I’m missing here, I’d like to know so I don’t screw it up.”

  Moore tamped his pipe down and took his time lighting it. “Johnny, the situation isn’t good. The question is how long before the shooting starts. If the Japs invade tomorrow, we’re fucked. If they wait a year, we may have a shot. Supplies and training will catch up to reality, and maybe that will be enough. But congratulations are in order, your little snooping action just won you admission to a secret club.”

  “What kind of club, Captain?”

  “For now, it’s the club of people who’ve figured out we have a problem and keep their mouths shut. Understand?”

  “No, sir,” Johnny replied.

  “I don’t expect you to. For now, I want you to do your job and I’ll have a few additional assignments for you. Depending on how well you do the
m and how well you keep your mouth shut, we’ll go from there. Do you understand that?”

  “Well enough to do it, Captain,” Johnny replied. “And keep my mouth shut.”

  Moore puffed on his pipe. “That’s what I want to hear. Dismissed.”

  Johnny thought he’d heard the last of the matter and was waiting for his special assignments, whatever they turned out to be.

  But evidently someone had noticed his snooping where he didn’t belong. And the report went all the way up to General Sutherland, MacArthur’s chief of staff, and suddenly Johnny found himself on the carpet in Sutherland’s office.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are, running your own goddamn unit inspections and sticking your nose into the General’s war strategy?” Sutherland’s face, red with anger, was an inch from Johnny’s. He had a thin head and his eyes were mean. He was shouting and his breath was sour. “When the General wants the opinion of some fucking little pissant lieutenant, he’ll send for you. Until then, do what you’re told and keep your mouth shut.”

  Johnny wanted to defend himself, but it was obvious that Sutherland had no interest in listening. “Yes, sir,” he said, keeping his eyes rigidly forward. He hoped he wasn’t trembling.

  Sutherland leaned forward. Johnny desperately wanted to back away but dared not. “Who else have you told about this?”

  “No one, sir!” Johnny blurted.

  “You’re lying, you fucking little weasel!” snarled Sutherland. “I know your kind! I’ll bet you’ve been spreading latrine rumors all over Manila. I’m going to court-martial your ass for this, goddammit!”

  “I’ve only spoken with you, sir,” Johnny said desperately. “Nobody else. I swear, sir!”

  “Not your roommate? Not some cheap hooker? Not even your own captain? Come on, Halberton,” Johnny didn’t dare correct the mistake in his last name. The shouting began again. “Who else did you tell?”

  Sutherland’s tirade lasted a good twenty minutes, but it felt like days. Johnny had flop sweat stains under his arms and was trembling when he finally got out of there, not knowing whether Sutherland was going to court-martial him. He headed straight for Captain Moore.

  “Tore you a new asshole, did he?” the captain remarked. “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Nothing? Not even my name?”

  “You said to keep my mouth shut, Captain.”

  “Yeah, but he knows damn well you talked to me. Don’t lie when you know you’re going to be caught. Now he thinks you’re lying about everything.”

  Johnny was too wrung out to care about military discipline. “I kept my mouth shut. So tell me about the fucking secret club.”

  Moore obliged. It seemed there was a small, informal task force that was slowly stockpiling materiél on the Bataan Peninsula across the bay from Manila, operating with General Drake’s tacit approval. MacArthur had ordered that the primary supply dumps be placed close to the landing beaches, so that they would be available to the troops who would defend against the landing. The problem was, there were very few troops available to fight on those beaches, which ranged all around the huge island of Luzon. If the Japs landed and broke through the beach defenses—the defenses that still existed mainly on paper—American and Filipino forces would have to withdraw into Bataan under a long-standing plan. The terrain there was rugged, good for defense, and the troops could hold out along a defensive line at the base of the peninsula. But they would need food, fuel, and ammunition dumps on the peninsula if they were to have any hope of holding out. By dint of his curiosity, Johnny had become the newest member of this conspiracy.

  December 7 came on a Sunday, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. There were flowers everywhere, and everyone of consequence in Manila was dressed up and parading in the Intramuros. The air around the spice merchants in Manila’s large open-air market smelled like the McCormick warehouse, only more intense. The spice mixture was different, but Johnny didn’t know enough about spices to name them.

  In the evening, he had a few beers with a friend he’d made, David Hansen, who’d been sent to the Philippines as a dive-bomber pilot with the 27th Bombardment Group (Light). A number of pilots from the 27th had arrived in November. The only problem was that their planes, A-24 dive-bombers, were still aboard ships somewhere in the middle of the Pacific.

  He got back to the BOQ about midnight.

  Seven time zones and one International Date Line away, six Japanese aircraft carriers under the command of Admiral Chuichi Nagumo were just starting to launch the first wave of 181 planes against the U.S. naval base at Pearl Harbor.

  • MONDAY, 8 DECEMBER 1941 •

  BACHELOR OFFICERS’ QUARTERS, HO USAFFE, MANILA,

  PHILIPPINES, 0500 HOURS

  “Attention!” The sergeant’s bellow penetrated doors and walls with ease. “All leaves are canceled. All officers are required to report immediately to their duty stations!” Sleepy voices began pestering the sergeant for details. The sergeant was not forthcoming, but it didn’t take long for the latrine telegraph to pass the word. The Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor. Some men thought it was a joke—how could those nearsighted, comical little people carry out a sneak attack across the biggest ocean in the world?

  Johnny, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, knew that it was true.

  The House on the Wall was a chaotic mess. Captain Moore was already there, gathering up files. “Your buddy Sutherland needs the current logistics status, pronto!” he ordered.

  Johnny, still dazed, stomach in turmoil, started working. He wanted to ask whether Sutherland wanted the real data or the bullshit, but figured by now it didn’t matter. It took him about forty-five minutes to put it together. He gathered up his files and trailed after Moore in the direction of Sutherland’s office.

  The narrow hallways, sized for a household, not a military staff, were crowded with people in frantic Brownian motion. A major bumped into Johnny and sent his papers flying, and kept moving without apology. “Johnny, watch what the hell you’re doing,” complained Moore. He didn’t bother to help as Johnny went down on his hands and knees to gather the papers.

  By the time Johnny managed to corral them all, there were footprints clearly showing on several pages. At least Sutherland will kill me before the Japs can, he thought.

  A sergeant-clerk guarded the anteroom. There were sofas, but neither Moore nor Johnny sat on them.

  There were loud voices coming from Sutherland’s office, which controlled access to MacArthur’s. One was Sutherland’s. The other Johnny didn’t recognize, but Moore did. “That’s Brereton—he’s the air commander,” he whispered. Both men shamelessly eavesdropped, though with the level of shouting it would have been hard not to do so.

  “We’re not going to make the first overt act!” shouted Sutherland.

  “What the hell do you call Pearl Harbor?” Brereton shouted back. “A fucking church social? This is a goddamn war, in case you haven’t noticed!”

  “This is the way the General wants it. You are not to commit any overt act, do you understand? Do nothing until the General says so. I will call you with orders when and if the General sees fit to issue them.”

  “Goddamn it, I want to see the General and I want to see him now.”

  “You don’t give orders in this office, I do. And I’m giving you an order right now. Go back to Clark Field and await orders. Get your planes ready for a mission, but do not, I repeat, do not take any further steps without hearing from this office.”

  “I’m not going to take this from you. I demand to see the General!”

  “Take one more step toward that door, Brereton, and I’ll have the MPs throw you out of this building on your ass!”

  The door opened and an angry two-star with a slightly receding hairline and glasses strode out into the corridor where Johnny and Captain Moore were waiting. “For Chris-sake, Sutherland, this is wrong and you know it,” Brereton yelled.

  “Wait for orders, goddamn
it! I’ll call you the second I know something,” Sutherland retorted.

  Brereton slammed the door shut. He didn’t look at the men waiting outside.

  The sergeant waited a moment and then buzzed. “General Drake’s people with the logistics information, sir,” he said through the intercom. The sergeant motioned to Moore to go in.

  Moore knocked on the door and opened it. “General Drake asked us to bring the logistics documents to you, sir.”

  Sutherland, face red, eyes narrow, sweaty, looked up at Moore. “Bring them here.” He opened the folder. Johnny thought he looked tired, even though the day had barely begun.

  Sutherland looked at the first few sheets of paper with a dull expression. “That will be all,” he said.

  Gratefully, Johnny and the captain turned to go, but suddenly Sutherland spoke. “What the hell is this?” His voice was deceptively calm.

  Johnny turned around. Sure enough, Sutherland was holding a page that contained a big footprint right in the middle of it.

  “What do you mean bringing me a file with papers that have been stepped on?” Sutherland’s voice grew in fury with every word. His eyes were locked on Johnny’s like a snake on a rabbit.

  Captain Moore interjected, “Ah, General, I’m afraid that was my decision. Lieutenant Halverson here got bumped in the hall, and I made the call that you’d rather have these papers right now and have us get you a clean set in a few minutes rather than wait until we can get you that clean set. We’ll have a clean set ready for you in no time at all, General. No time at all.”

  Sutherland’s eyes stayed fixed on Johnny. “So you ‘dropped the papers in the hall,’ did you?” he said. “That seems to be typical for your performance around here. Nosing where you don’t belong, questioning the judgment of your superior officers, everything but doing the job you’re supposed to do! You little chickenshit, how dare you—” He stopped.

  The door to the inner office had opened and MacArthur himself was moving toward them. The General didn’t look like the image in his pictures. He was old, much older than Johnny realized. His skin was ashen. His eyes were unfocused, his gait halting. He looked as if he’d gotten up from a sickbed.