Then: “Take cover!” It was a marine ground crewman, running toward them, waving his arms to direct them to a nearby trench.
The other members of the Bataan crew were already diving into sandbag bunkers on the edge of the runway. MacArthur, however, stood and watched the sky as a lone Zero flew the length of the field, spitting bullets and shells. Several zinged very near to the B-26, but the General took no notice of the flying slugs. Despite his grief—and rising anger—Ellis couldn’t bring himself to leave MacArthur’s side.
There was a moan. Gramps was alive! “Medic!” Ellis screamed. “I’ve got a wounded man here!”
Two men, one wearing a red cross armband, sprinted toward him. The one with the red cross quickly checked Gramps’s pulse. “He might make it,” the medic said, “but we’ve got to get him out of here fast.”
As the strafing fighter passed, now with a pair of Grummans on its tail, the pilot looked up and watched the dogfight. The Japs had apparently already done some bombing—smoke was rising from burning gasoline drums not far away—and now the enemy fighters had stayed behind to mix it up with the angry swarm of marine F4Fs. MacArthur was still peering upward, shading his eyes with his hand even though he wore aviator sunglasses.
Another plane swooped in to strafe, and Ellis suddenly felt a burning urgency to run, to dive for the trenches. But there was Gramps to consider. He, the medic, and the third marine carefully lifted the unconscious body out of the shattered nose under the medic’s direction. Once Gramps was free, they marched double time in the direction of a hospital tent, marked with the same red cross.
Ellis wished he were anywhere else as the Jap fighter flew low overhead. A C-47 transport plane took a direct hit and blew up. What if they hit the Bataan? he thought with sudden icy fear. They’d be stuck here.
A Wildcat began trailing smoke. It was badly hit and going down. Ellis had a momentary and fierce reaction—maybe he’s the son of a bitch who shot Gramps—but a quick surge of shame quelled his anger. Dammit, it had been an accident, and they were all here to fight the Japs. There! The strafing Zero caught fire, and then there was what looked to him like a fuel line explosion. Suddenly the fighter had only one wing and was spinning like a Miss America fire baton.
Two more medics were running toward them. One relieved Ellis, another the third marine. “Nothing more you can do,” the first medic said. “Pray, maybe.” He watched numbly as they took Gramps into the hospital tent. Ellis turned back toward MacArthur, looking heavenward, one hand still shading his eyes.
A balding marine officer was striding over the churned sand in their direction, paying no more attention to the danger than did MacArthur. As the marine officer got closer, Ellis could make out two stars. That identified him as Major General Alexander Vandegrift, commander of 1st Marine Division and top dog on the island.
Top dog until now, anyway.
Vandegrift had a bloodhound face, somewhat jowly, with sad blue eyes. He was sweaty and his uniform sleeves were rolled up. Ellis came to attention and saluted. Vandegrift ignored him and saluted MacArthur. “Welcome to the Canal, General. As you can see, we put on a little show for you today. We have to make our own entertainment out here, as you know.”
MacArthur returned the salute and gravely shook Vandegrift’s hand. “I am delighted to meet you, sir, absolutely delighted. You and your brave marines have upheld the finest traditions of the United States military on these jungle shores.”
“That’s what we do, General,” Vandegrift replied. “No matter how little we have to work with.”
“I’m sure you could whip the Japanese with a handful of toothpicks if you had to, General Vandegrift, but you must know that MacArthur will do everything in his power to see that you are properly supplied, with all the resources at his command.”
“It’s good to hear you say that, General,” replied Vandegrift. “I suspect you know more than most people how good those words can sound.” Ellis had to think for a moment before he realized Vandegrift was talking about the Philippines.
“Yes, I do,” MacArthur replied solemnly. He struck a pose of stoic self-pity. “I do indeed.”
“Now that you’ve seen the show, General MacArthur,” Vandegrift said, “can I invite you into a shelter? I have a hunch this young man’s neck is on the line if something happens to you, and with that promise of resupply I’ve got a pretty strong interest in keeping you in one piece myself.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me. The bullet or bomb with my name on it hasn’t been made yet. I’m perfectly safe.”
“I believe you, sir,” said Vandegrift. “But the show’s about over, anyway. The Japs can’t stay over Henderson Field very long. They’ll need to haul ass for home in a few minutes.”
“Very well, General,” said MacArthur. “Lead on.”
The General walked in a deliberate, steady pace, which drove Ellis crazy. He was ready to start running. He kept looking upward at the waning dogfight, hoping he could spot anything coming his way quickly enough to jump. True to Vandegrift’s words, the remaining Zeros were winging toward the north, pursued by buzzing Wildcats. At least six planes that Ellis saw, most of them Japs, had gone down during the brief, violent contest.
“Watch your step, sir!” the third marine warned, just in time to bring Ellis up short. With his eyes studying the sky, Ellis had wandered a little distance away from the two generals—and another step would have dumped him into a slit trench at the edge of the runway.
Embarrassed, he looked at the third marine, seeing him clearly for the first time. “Thank—” he started and then halted in shock. The man was staring up at him with a similar expression. “Pete?”
“Ellis? Damn! I didn’t recognize you with everything else going on!”
The marine sprang out of the trench, and they were hugging each other, clapping backs, shaking hands.
It was Pete Rachwalski, the third Skylark to come to the Pacific to make war.
1ST MARINE DIVISION HQ, GUADALCANAL, 1650 HOURS
“Ellis, my God! What the hell are you doing here? I mean—” Pete suddenly noticed the captain’s bars and let go of the bear hug as if he’d been shocked. The other enlisted men in the trench were looking at him curiously, and a first sergeant he didn’t know was giving him the evil eye. “Lance Corporal Peter Rachwalski, sir!” he said, coming to attention and saluting.
“Hell, Pete,” Ellis said, “it’s just me—the pesky kid brother. No need to …” Pete jerked his head slightly in the direction of the first sergeant while holding the salute, and he could see Ellis figuring it out. An officer too friendly with an enlisted man would get some informal private counseling. An enlisted man who got friendly with officers got worse.
Ellis’s voice dropped an octave. He saluted, somewhat more casually than had Pete. “As you were, Lance Corporal,” he said. “It’s great to see you, though.”
“Sir, yes, sir! It’s a pleasure to see you again, too, sir!” Pete took the risk of glancing over at the first sergeant.
The all clear signal came, and the marines in the trench got on their feet, brushing off dirt. The first sergeant came over to them. “Captain, may I help you, sir?” he asked.
“Thank you, First Sergeant. I was General MacArthur’s pilot. While I was following the General, I didn’t watch where I was putting my feet, and would have fallen into the trench if it weren’t for Corporal Rachwalski here. We knew each other Stateside, as I’m sure you could tell.”
The first sergeant thought for a second. “I see you’re with the Parachute Battalion, Corporal. They’re up on the ridge. Why are you here?”
“I’m waiting for some maps from Colonel Buckley, First Sergeant. They should be ready in an hour or so, then I’ll be heading back.” Buckley commanded the marines G-2 section, responsible for intelligence.
“All right. In the meantime, why don’t you give this army captain a tour of our jungle paradise?”
“Yes, First Sergeant.” There was no official way for Pete to say thanks, but t
he sergeant had provided a way for Pete and Ellis to catch up informally given the realities of the military caste system.
“The nickel tour sounds like a great idea,” Ellis said.
Pete first met Johnny Halverson when Johnny was sixteen and Pete barely seventeen. The Halversons had moved to Dundalk, Maryland, an industrial town that had been virtually swallowed by next-door Baltimore, when their Lancaster County farm had failed during the Depression. Pete had been born there. Johnny’s dad and Pete’s dad both got jobs with the Glenn L. Martin Company when war production began to heat up.
Pete and Johnny were both outsiders, Johnny because he was from the country and Pete—Piotr on his birth certificate—because he was Polish. Their personalities were complementary; Pete was friendly and decent and open and an all-around nice kind of guy, but he didn’t have Johnny’s urgency or passion. Pete was smart, handy, mechanically inclined where Johnny was utterly hopeless, and he could do just about anything he turned his mind to. He wasn’t brilliant at anything, but he was good at about everything.
Johnny and Pete weren’t necessarily the kinds of guys you’d expect to become best friends, but it was like each supplied something the other lacked. Pete was content while Johnny could never sit still. Pete could make friends while Johnny was more often irritating. Johnny pushed Pete into uncharted territory, and Pete made sure Johnny was properly tethered.
Pete pointed out the highlights as they walked, though he really wanted to catch up on news from home. “Do you know anything about Johnny? And have you heard from home? We don’t get much mail out here. I haven’t heard from Sarah in months. John Ellis is eighteen months old, and I haven’t seen him since February.” Pete got married when he was nineteen to a girl named Sarah he’d met in his senior year. She got pregnant the next year and they had a boy, John Ellis, born in March 1941. He had a job in the printing plant of the Baltimore Sun, working his way up to become a typesetter and at the same time going to the University of Baltimore at night to get a teaching degree. That, too, was on hold until the war was over.
“I got a letter from my mom just a couple of weeks ago. She says she went by Sarah’s parents’ house, saw Sarah and John Ellis, and they’re both fine. John Ellis is walking and saying a few words.” He paused. “As for Johnny—still nothing. You know, his birthday was two days ago.”
“Damn. I hope he’s all right. That’s the hardest part of all this,” said Pete. “Not knowing. Not being there. Maybe never being there. Maybe letting my boy grow up without his dad …” He could feel hot tears welling up in his eyes. He turned his head away, blinked, and quickly changed the subject. “This sure is a hell of a place—and I mean that literally,” he said.
Henderson Field consisted of two runways joined to make an arrowhead shape, one runway a bit shorter than the other. A circular taxiway using the shorter runway as its diagonal was about a quarter completed. Crushed coral covered the finished runways. A line of SBD Dauntless bombers with Marine Corps insignia lined the finished portion of the circle. Toward the end of the line was an airplane graveyard, where planes too wrecked to repair were used as a supply of spare parts.
Most of the marine facilities—repair shops, quarters, mess hall—were inside the partially completed circle. A small control tower stood at the juncture of the two runways. On top of a small hill to the left of where the runway arrowhead pointed there was a shack with a Japanese-style roof. “We call that the Pagoda,” Pete said. “That’s where the pilots get briefed. There’s a cave underneath they use for radio transmissions.”
“So, what’s it been like?” asked Ellis.
“Scary. Boring. Hot. That about sums it up,” Pete said. Ellis looked so clean and freshly pressed that he obviously had no idea what the real war was like. But that was Ellis for you—the kind of guy who could fall into a pile of shit and not get dirty.
“Let me go check on my plane,” Ellis said. “I’ve got to find out whether I’m going to be able to fly the General out of here.”
Pete was amused to see the Bataan name and logo as they approached the B-26.
“It was Skylark III before MacArthur saw it,” Ellis said.
“What happened to the first two Skylarks?” Pete asked.
“The first was a Marauder like that one. It had its tail blown off at Midway and we went into the drink. I lost three men,” Ellis replied, and suddenly he looked older and more mature than Pete had ever seen. “I nearly lost one more today,” Ellis added, walking around to the nose. “One of your Cactus Air Force hotshots thought we were a Jap bomber.”
Pete noticed the shattered nose turret and the brownish stains of dried blood. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s a chance he’ll make it, the medic said. He has two kids. One’s six, the other eight.”
Pete put his hand on Ellis’s shoulder. “Damn. The second?”
“I’m in the big bomber business now. It’s a B-17 and doesn’t have a scratch on it. Too big to land on this field. I just flew this Marauder today to be Mac’s chauffeur.”
The crew chief came over, wiping his hands on a cloth. He was a big man, dirty and sweaty, and talked slowly. “Captain, my supply of Marauder parts in this here repair shop is kind of on the low side, if you get my drift,” he said. “You’re going to need a new magneto in that left engine of yours, and after that I reckon you ought to be able to get this here bird back up in the air. I have already took the liberty, sir, of radioing for that missing magneto back to Australia. Once I mentioned General MacArthur’s name they purely like to fall all over themselves saying they would have it out here pronto. Once I have it, I’ll just fit it in and tighten up a few screws, and you and the General can get about your business.”
Ellis nodded. “Thank you, chief. I’ll let the General know.” He turned to Pete. “I guess the General will be with Vandegrift. But I’d like to check on Gramps first.”
“Follow me,” Pete said.
Gramps was still in serious condition, but the doc seemed fairly confident he’d pull through, and doctors were notorious pessimists. He wouldn’t be flying back on the Bataan, though. His next stop would be a field hospital, and the way things looked, his war was over. At least he was alive.
“You don’t know what a relief that is,” said Ellis to Pete. “I can’t imagine anything worse than losing men I’m responsible for. Thank God he isn’t dead.” He stood silently for a minute. “Let’s find the General, okay?”
“Which one?” asked Pete.
“In the southwest Pacific, there’s only one who doesn’t need a name,” replied Ellis with a grin.
Pete thought it was funny thinking of little Ellis flying General MacArthur around the Pacific.
MacArthur and Vandegrift were in the command center near the Pagoda, a sandbag-walled dugout with a low roof of palm logs. Pete followed Ellis inside, saluted, and tried to be invisible.
“Ah, Ellis,” greeted the General, his pipe stem clenched in his teeth. “Sounds like we’ll be here at least until the morrow.”
“Yes, sir. A new magneto is on its way, and according to the crew chief, that should do it.”
“He knows what he’s doing,” Vandegrift interjected. “He’s worked miracles keeping these Cactus Air Force planes flying.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” MacArthur said breezily. “In the meantime, MacArthur plans to visit the marines holding the perimeter against the Japanese. Care to come along?”
Vandegrift looked exasperated. “General, as I’ve said, that’s an active trouble zone. I don’t want to divert men to protect you that I need to protect all of us against the Japanese.”
“My dear Vandegrift, MacArthur has seen the elephant on more than one occasion. You will find he is no stranger in a combat zone, nor will you need to delegate troops for his protection.”
“Under protest, General.”
“So noted, Vandegrift. Now, who can point me in the direction of the front?”
“Well, Lance Corporal… uh …”
&nbs
p; “Rachwalski, sir.”
“… yes, that’s right, he’s with the 1st Parachute Battalion, and they’re up at the ridge where we expect Japanese to come whenever they come. Now, refresh my memory as to why you’ve come here, Lance Corporal.”
Vandegrift clearly didn’t have the faintest idea who Pete was, but that was more than okay. “Sir, Major Miller sent me to pick up some maps from Colonel Buckley.”
“And are those maps ready?”
“I was told to come back in two hours. It’s about ten minutes shy of that, sir. I can check right now if the General wishes.”
“Do that. In the meantime, I think I’ll reinforce the position by a couple of platoons. You won’t mind some company on the walk, will you, General?”
“I would feel more than safe under the protection of this corporal, General, but if you feel you want to reinforce the position in any event, we might as well all march together.” It was clear to Pete that MacArthur was humoring Vandegrift. Vandegrift, by the expression on his face, realized it too.
After they left the tent, Pete winced and lowered his voice. “Ellis, the ridge isn’t the place for someone acting like a goddamn tourist. We’re expecting a Japanese attack. That ridge is the easiest terrain to traverse, so it’s most likely the Japs will come through there. It could get nasty.”
“Shit. That means I’d better ask if I can go along, too.”
“Ellis, it’s dangerous. I’ve been living here for a month. You haven’t. Stay behind.”
“If the General’s going, then I think I have to,” Ellis said. “If I go back carrying his body, they’ll have my balls for breakfast.”
It was clear General Vandegrift didn’t want to take chances with his VIP. He sent a reinforced platoon as MacArthur’s escort, with Pete as guide, and Ellis as a supernumerary.
Pete looked Ellis over. “Want a rifle?”
“I’ve got a .45 on board the Bataan. I don’t normally need to carry it, but I’ll fetch it. I’m qualified with the pistol. I’m not with a rifle.”
“Get the .45, then, and draw a couple of extra clips from the armorer.
MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan Page 11
