With some difficulty, he managed to pin The Marine Corps insignia onto the campaign hat, above the captain’s bars.
The Filipino sergeant was smiling at him.
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Would you take me to my men?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Sergeant Everly was sitting with his back against a tree, an empty plate on the ground beside him. Weston thought at first he was asleep, but as he approached, Everly pushed himself away from the tree and looked at him.
Weston gestured with his finger for Everly to join him. The other members of Weston’s Weary Would-Be Warriors who had noticed the campaign hat and Weston’s now clean-shaven face, looked at them with only mild, even listless, curiosity.
Weston thought he knew their thoughts: There’s no apparent immediate danger. We are being fed. What else could be important?
“Nice cover, Mr. Weston,” Sergeant Everly said, indicating the hat.
“General Fertig gave it to me,” Weston replied.
“I never saw a general with a beard before,” Everly said evenly.
“He’s an engineer officer who decided he didn’t want to surrender, and that he did want to make trouble for the Japanese,” Weston said, realizing as he spoke that he had decided not to tell Everly that Fertig had promoted himself to brigadier general.
Everly did not respond.
“He knows the islands, speaks Spanish,” Weston said. “This whole thing just started. There’s apparently at least two groups—of people like us—on their way here.”
Everly nodded his head and waited for Weston to continue.
“Under military law, as he is the senior officer of the line in the area, we fall under his command.”
Everly nodded again.
“He’s made me a temporary captain. He asked me if I thought you could handle a temporary commission as a lieutenant, and I told him I thought you’d make a pretty good lieutenant.”
Everly cocked his head when he heard that, and took the time to think it over.
“There were a lot of China Marines in Shanghai who’d served in Haiti, Mr. Weston,” he said. “They told me they had what they called the Constabulary down there. A lot of Marine noncoms were officers in the Constabulary. Is this something like that?”
“Something. You would be commissioned into the Army, as an officer of United States Forces in the Philippines.”
“Not in The Corps? You’re wearing The Corps insignia.”
“I don’t think General Fertig will object to my wearing The Corps insignia. Or if you or any other Marine wears it. But your commission would be in the Army.”
“Sure, Mr. Weston. Why not? I think I could handle it.”
“I’m sure you will,” Weston said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the General.”
“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Weston?”
“Certainly.”
“Is this General Fertig going to be able to do any damage to the Japs?”
“Yes,” Weston replied. “I’m sure he is.”
I’ll be damned. I really believe that.
“We don’t have doodly-shit to fight with,” Everly said. “What’s this general going to do about that?”
“Well, first we have to get organized. You and I are going to be his G-2 section. He’s got an Army radio operator whose orders are to find a radio and get in touch with General MacArthur in Australia.”
“I did a little work for Intelligence in Shanghai,” Everly said.
“You did?” Weston replied, surprise evident in his voice.
“Worked for Captain Banning, the S-2.”
Weston searched his mind for a face to go with “Captain Banning,” but failed. Yet he judged from the tone of Everly’s voice that he was being told the truth.
“Doing what?”
“Keeping an eye on the Japs. Troop strength. Locations of units. Counting artillery pieces and trucks, that kind of stuff.”
“Espionage,” Weston said without thinking.
“No. More like reconnaissance. I never took off my uniform or anything like that. I never thought I could get away with trying to pass myself off as a Jap.”
“I’m surprised,” Weston thought aloud, “that they didn’t have you working in Intelligence on The Rock.”
“I don’t think anybody but maybe the Colonel and the exec knew I ever worked for Captain Banning.”
“What about Captain Banning?” Weston asked, confused, adding, “I don’t remember seeing him on The Rock.”
“The first time we came under fire, when the Japs first landed, long before we pulled back to The Rock, Captain Banning got hit. Artillery. He took enough shrapnel so they didn’t dare move him right away. So he found himself behind the Jap lines. Then the Army started shelling where he was hiding. Didn’t hurt him much, but the concussion got his eyes. Or maybe his brain. Anyway, it made him blind. When they finally got him through the Jap lines and to the hospital on The Rock, he was in pretty bad shape. Finally, they evacuated him on one of the submarines that came to The Rock to take the gold off.”
“Christ!” Weston said.
“And I guess he never said anything about me to anybody,” Everly said, adding, “He was a hell of a good Marine officer.”
From you, that’s quite a compliment. I wonder what you think of me?
“I wish I knew more about Intelligence than I do,” Weston said. “What I really know is nothing. I’m an airplane driver.”
“You’ll do all right, Mr. Weston,” Everly said. “You learn fast.”
I’ll be damned. I’ve been complimented. And I don’t think Everly would say that unless he meant it.
“Come on, I’ll introduce you to the General,” Weston said.
“I never talked to a general before,” Everly said as he bent over to pick up his Thompson.
[FOUR]
Headquarters, U.S. Forces in the Philippines
Davao Oriental Province
Mindanao, Commonwealth of the Philippines
0625 Hours 9 October 1942
Breakfast in the Officers’ Mess of United States Forces in the Philippines consisted of freshly squeezed pineapple juice, fresh pineapple chunks, and bananas.
Brigadier General Wendell Fertig, sitting at the head of the table, apologized to the members of the mess for not having coffee, bread, eggs, bacon, or ham, but as soon as he acquired a G-4 (Supply) Officer, providing such necessities would be high on his list of priorities.
Present at the table were Captain James B. Weston, Second Lieutenant Percy L. Everly, and Second Lieutenant Robert Ball.
Weston noted that Everly and Ball had also acquired broad-brimmed campaign hats, onto which were pinned brass second lieutenant’s bars. And Everly’s had a USMC insignia pinned to it. Like Weston himself, Everly had obviously kept his insignia even when it made no sense at all to keep his tattered, worn-beyond-any-utility uniform.
Why is that little piece of metal so important to us? God knows, there are no impressionable blondes around to dazzle with our membership in The Corps. So why is it important to us, in these circumstances, that no one mistake us for soldiers?
Two additional officers appeared at the mess; that is to say, the porch of General Fertig’s quarters trembled as someone started up the ladderlike stairs. When they looked, two men appeared. One was dressed like General Fertig, in baggy white cotton shirt and trousers and a crude straw hat. He had a Thompson .45 caliber submachine gun slung from his shoulder.
The second was wearing a battered khaki uniform. The sleeves of his khaki shirt—onto the collar points of which were pinned the railroad tracks of a captain and the crossed flags of the Signal Corps—had been torn off above the elbows, and his khaki trousers had been torn off above the knees. He wore a pith helmet and a web belt, from which hung a .1911A1 .45 automatic in a leather holster green with mildew. He had a 1917 Enfield .30-06 rifle slung from his shoulder. He carried a rucksack—obviously heavy—in his h
and.
“Introductions are apparently in order,” he said. “Gentlemen, my chief of staff, Captain Charles Hedges. Hedges, this is Captain Weston, a Marine officer who has placed himself and his men—including Lieutenant Everly—under our command. You know Lieutenant Ball.”
Hedges wordlessly shook Weston’s and Everly’s hands.
“General, this is Captain Buchanan,” Hedges said. “Late of General Sharp’s headquarters.”
“I believe I met the Captain,” Fertig said.
“Yes, Sir,” Buchanan said. “You were a colonel at the time.”
“A lieutenant colonel, to be precise,” Fertig said, ignoring what could have been an accusation. “How are you, Buchanan?”
“Very well, Sir, thank you.”
“Can I offer you some breakfast?”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you.”
“Sergeant!” Fertig called, raising his voice. The Filipino sergeant appeared. “Will you get these gentlemen some breakfast, please?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Sit down, please, gentlemen,” Fertig said, and then looked intently at Buchanan. “You’re aware, of course, that General Sharp was ordered by General Wainwright to surrender his command to the Japanese?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Do I correctly infer by your presence here that you saw it as your duty not to enter into Japanese captivity?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you are willing to place yourself ... Are you alone, Captain?”
“No, Sir. I have eight men, Americans, with me.”
“Are you willing to place yourself and your men under my command?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Welcome to United States Forces in the Philippines,” Fertig said, leaning across the table to shake Buchanan’s hand. “After you’ve had your breakfast, we’ll have a private chat.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“In the meantime—curiosity overwhelms me—what does that bag contain? It seems unusually heavy.”
“It’s an M94, Sir,” Buchanan said. “Device, Cryptographic, M94.”
“Enlighten me,” Fertig said.
Buchanan put the bag on the table, unfastened the straps, and took from it a small metal box. On the top was a small brass plate.
SECRET
DEVICE, CRYPTOGRAPHIC, MODEL 94 SERIAL NUMBER 145
IT IS ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN TO REMOVE THIS DEVICE FROM ITS ASSIGNED CRYPTOGRAPHIC FACILITY
SECRET
“Things ... collapsed ... so quickly, Sir, that I didn’t have a chance to destroy this,” Buchanan said. “I didn’t want the Japs to have the chance to see how it works. They could have, if I had only rendered it inoperable—by shooting it up, or burning it—so I took it with me. With the idea of throwing it into the sea. If I buried it somewhere, and was subsequently captured, the Japanese are very good at interrogation....”
“This thing works?” Fertig asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Frankly, Captain, I was hoping your heavy bag was laden with twenty-dollar gold coins,” Fertig said. “But now ... this device is literally worth more to USFIP than its weight in gold. Ball, how far away are we from having an operating radio station?”
“If Sergeant Ramirez can get that generator to run on alcohol, maybe we can give it a shot this afternoon, Sir.”
“I hate to break up our festive breakfast, gentlemen,” Fertig said. “But Captain Buchanan, Lieutenant Ball, and I have some important work to do.”
[FIVE]
Headquarters, U.S. Forces in the Philippines
Davao Oriental Province
Mindanao, Commonwealth of the Philippines
1515 Hours 10 October 1942
There being no other pressing official business for them to attend to, both the G-2 of USFIP (Captain James B. Weston) and his deputy (Second Lieutenant Percy L. Everly) had spent most of the day in the USFIP Communications Center (a hastily erected lean-to two hundred yards from General Fertig’s quarters) watching the USFIP Signal Officer (Second Lieutenant Robert Ball) and his Chief Radio Operator (Sergeant Ignacio LaMadrid, Philippine Army) attempt to establish radio communication with United States Forces in Australia.
Unlike the others, Sergeant LaMadrid had no previous military service prior to joining USFIP. He was seventeen years old, and in high school when the war came. He was shocked by the defeat of American and Filipino forces by the Japanese, but even more shocked by the brutality the Japanese applied to Filipino prisoners of war—despite Japanese public announcements that Japan and the Philippines were now partners in the Greater Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere.
When he saw General Fertig’s proclamation nailed to a telephone pole near his home, he set out to join him. He thought he might be useful. When he arrived he spoke with Captain Hedges. Even though LaMadrid was among the first Filipino volunteers, Captain Hedges did not seem particularly interested in the services of a five-foot-two, one-hundred-and-twelve-pound, seventeen-year-old Filipino who admitted he had never so much as held a firearm in his hands.
And then LaMadrid suggested he might be useful fixing radios; he had been almost halfway through the International Correspondence Course in radiotelephony when the war came.
He was sworn into the Philippine Army as a private shortly thereafter, and promoted to PFC a week later, when he came to headquarters carrying a sound motion picture projector that had been hidden from the Japanese. He said he could probably make a radio transmitter from it.
Captain Hedges informed PFC LaMadrid that if he was successful, he would be a sergeant. USFIP already had a shortwave receiver. If LaMadrid could make a transmitter, and if they could come up with a generator to power both of them, they would have a radio station. That, certainly, was worth sergeant’s stripes, even if, at the moment, there were no chevrons in the supply warehouse to actually issue—for that matter, there was no supply warehouse.
A generator had come into being when another Filipino sergeant—this one an actual soldier—managed to make an engine designed to run on gasoline run on alcohol. The alcohol was produced from pineapples and coconuts in a still constructed from salvaged automobile parts.
The transmitter worked. Proof came via the receiver. That was good enough for the Chief of Staff USFIP to make good on the promised promotion to sergeant, with actual chevrons to follow later.
How well the transmitter worked was another question, and after almost twenty-four hours of transmitting for three minutes on the hour without a reply, it became a disturbing one.
A message had been encoded with the Model 94 Cryptographic Device. This was then transmitted in five-character blocks, after the address sent in the clear:MFS FOR US FORCES AUSTRALIA
MFS FOR US FORCES AUSTRALIA
ACNOW BRTSS DXSYT QRSHJ ERASH
POFTP QOPOQ CHTFS SDHST ALITS
CGHRZ QMSGL QROTZ VABCG LSTYE
ACNOW BRTSS DXSYT QRSHJ ERASH
POFTP QOPOQ CHTFS SDHST ALITS
CGHRZ QMSGL QROTX VABCG LSTYE
MFS STANDING BY FOR US FORCES AUSTRALIA
MFS STANDING BY FOR US FORCES AUSTRALIA
The message was tapped out on a radiotelegraph key from Sergeant LaMadrid’s International Correspondence Corps Lesson Materials as many times as possible within a three-minute period. Three considerations had determined that length of time. One was the possibility that the Japanese would hear the message and, by a process known as triangulation, locate the transmitter. The second was that the supply of alcohol for the transmitter was in short supply. The third was that if its alcohol fuel damaged the generator, there was no spare.
When there was no reply all day, it seemed logical to assume that despite Sergeant LaMadrid’s best efforts, he had been unable to jury-rig a transmitter that would reach the three thousand—plus miles to Australia.
[SIX]
Signal Section
Office of the Military Governor for Mindanao
Cagayan de Oro, Misamis-Oriental Province
Mindanao, Commonwe
alth of the Philippines
1600 Hours 10 October 1942
When Captain Matsuo Saikaku marched into his office, Lieutenant Hideyori rose from behind his desk, placed his hands, fingers extended and together, against the seam of his khaki trousers, and bowed from the waist.
Hideyori’s office formerly belonged to the General Manager of the Mindanao branch office of the Mackay Telephone & Telegraph Company. As he stood up, a large wall clock bearing the Mackay logotype began to strike the hour.
“I understand you have intercepted some kind of radio message?” Saikaku demanded after he had returned the bow.
“Yes, Sir.”
Saikaku impatiently put out his hand. Hideyori handed him a sheet of paper.
MFS FOR US FORCES AUSTRALIA
MFS FOR US FORCES AUSTRALIA
ACNOW BRTSS DXSYT QRSHJ ERASH
POFTP QOPOQ CHTFS SDHST ALITS
CGHRZ QMSGL QROTZ VABCG LSTYE
ACNOW BRTSS DXSYT QRSHJ ERASH
POFTP QOPOQ CHTFS SDHST ALITS
CGHRZ QMSGL QROTX VABCG LSTYE
MFS STANDING BY FOR US FORCES AUSTRALIA
MFS STANDING BY FOR US FORCES AUSTRALIA
“That message is being transmitted hourly, Sir, in the twenty-meter band,” Hideyori said.
“For how many hours?”
“The first message we intercepted was at ten o’clock this morning, Sir. They send the message repeatedly, for a period of three minutes.”
“Do you know from where?”
“No, Sir.”
“I was led to believe, Hideyori, that it is within the capability of competent signals people to locate the site of a transmitter by a process known as triangulation. Have I been misinformed?”
“No, Sir.”
“Has this triangulation detection process begun?”
“No, Sir. There is some difficulty with two of the trucks, Sir.”
“What sort of difficulty?”
“Mechanical difficulty, Sir.”
“I really didn’t think it would be spiritual difficulty, Hideyori.”
Behind the Lines Page 10
