“Put it on, and put the bar on it,” McCoy ordered. “General Fertig wants Americans to look like officers, and he’s right.”
“That’s not all that’s coming out of the bushes,” Everly said. “Half an hour ago, a half-dozen civilians, including two female ones, showed up here.”
“What’s that?” Lewis asked, surprised.
“Americans,” Everly explained. “When the Japs started rounding up the civilians, these took off. Now they’re coming in.”
“What kind of civilians?”
“The ones we have here is ordinary civilians, you know, they worked here for Dole, or Shell Oil. But we got word by runner that some other ones, missionaries, will be here in the next day or two.”
“What’s Fertig going to do with them?” Lewis asked.
“Send them out with you when the Sunfish returns. Captain Buchanan wanted to send them back where they came from, but the General said no.”
“How are we going to get a bunch of civilians—” McCoy began, and interrupted himself. “What shape are they in, Everly?”
“Skinny, weak, but they can walk.”
“How are we going to get a half-dozen civilians from here to the beach?” McCoy asked.
No one replied.
“The General told Captain Buchanan to spread the word that we can’t handle any more civilians right now—not to bring any more here, in other words—but said we have to keep the ones we have for—what was that word, Mr. Lewis?—reasons of credibility.”
“Yeah,” Lewis said.
McCoy looked at him for amplification.
“American citizens are entitled to the protection of their government,” Lewis explained. “Right now, USFIP is the U.S. Government. Fertig can’t turn these people away. If he did, the word would quickly spread among other Americans, and thus quickly throughout the island, that USFIP can’t help people. No help, no credibility.”
“But he did order his USFIP people not to bring any more civilians here, right?” McCoy asked.
Lewis nodded.
“I wonder how many there are,” McCoy said.
“Couple of hundred, Mr. McCoy, is what I hear,” Everly said.
“My God, if several hundred civilians show up here, not only will it make it difficult, possibly impossible, to conduct our evacuation, but it can’t help but attract the attention of the Japanese,” Macklin said.
“You was in China,” Zimmerman said. “You should know that’s what Marines do, protect American civilians.”
Captain Macklin visibly did not like being spoken to in such a manner by an enlisted man. But he said nothing.
“Macklin, why don’t you go have a look at these civilians?” McCoy ordered. “Take Everly with you. Don’t tell them any more than you have to, but tell them how hard—and dangerous—it’s going to be to get them from here onto a submarine. Maybe some of them will have second thoughts. And go back where they came from.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Everly said. “But don’t get your hopes up, Mr. McCoy.”
“In any event, get their names and next of kin in the States,” McCoy said. “You know what we need. Koffler can radio it. People in the States are probably worried about these people.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Everly said.
“And speaking of the devil, the communications genius of OPERATION WINDMILL,” Lewis said, as Staff Sergeant Koffler walked into the single room of the building from the porch.
“You hear about the civilians?” Koffler asked.
“Just now.”
“Where’d the khakis come from?” Koffler asked.
“Courtesy of the U.S. Army,” McCoy said. “Everly, have you got a bar for Koffler, too?”
“Yeah,” Everly said, and reached into his pocket and came out with another silver lieutenant’s bar. He tossed it to Koffler.
“Don’t get too attached to that, Steve,” McCoy said. “It comes off when we get out of here.”
“It’ll still look good on my Officer Candidate School application,” Koffler said, unabashed. “Highest Rank Attained: First Lieutenant, U.S. Forces in the Philippines.’ ”
McCoy laughed.
“The only reason you’re a first lieutenant, very temporary, is that General Fertig decided he had better things to do with gold than make second lieutenant’s bars out of it.”
“It’ll still look good on my application,” Koffler said, and then handed McCoy a decrypted message. “I thought you would want this right away.”
FROM KFS TO MXX
FOR CAPT MCCOY
PART ONE
A- ADVANCE DATE GROCERY STORE PHASE ONE BY FIVE REPEAT FIVE DAYS
B- CONFIRM TIME AND COORDINATES WHEN DETERMINED
PART TWO
A- PREPARE TO RECEIVE THREE REPEAT THREE OSS OFFICERS WHO WILL AUGMENT REPEAT AUGMENT PRESENT OSS STAFF
PICKERING BRIG GEN
McCoy read it and then handed it to Lewis.
“What’s the delay?” Koffler asked. “They didn’t say.”
“I guess they didn’t want us to know, otherwise they would have told us,” McCoy replied. “What’s the problem, Steve? You get to wear your first john’s bar for another five days.”
“The problem is that we can’t use Site Charley,” Lewis said. “There will be Japs all over that area then.”
“So where do we go?” McCoy asked.
Lewis took his chart from its oilskin pouch, unfolded it, spread it on the floor, and then knelt beside it. It was a full minute before he replied to McCoy:
“Site George, or Site Mike or ... Site Sugar,” he said. “And the closest of those three is twenty miles further from here than Site Charley.”
“Oh, shit,” McCoy said.
Movement of any kind through the area was difficult. The temperature and humidity were high, and the terrain steep, uneven, and slippery.
Military efficiency would dictate that those making the journey carry as little individually as possible—a carbine, four fifteen-round clips, a canteen, a change of socks, and dry rations—and that communal property, the carrying of which would be shared, be limited to the absolute essentials: a radio, batteries, a small quantity of ammunition and hand grenades, and emergency medical supplies.
The decision had been made, however, for a number of reasons, to evacuate nine seriously ill and/or wounded personnel who would almost certainly die if they could not receive the attention of a general hospital.
Since they could not walk, they would have to be carried. That meant four bearers for each evacuee. Even by alternating bearers, the pace would be considerably slower than otherwise. And since carrying both a sick man and weapons would be impossible, other bearers would be required to carry the bearers’ weapons and food. The larger the party, the greater the risk of detection by the Japanese. That would mean additional bearers to carry additional ammunition and hand grenades in case of a confrontation with the Japanese.
And now there were civilians to be evacuated.
“Did you pick up on that ‘augment repeat augment’ business, Ken?” Lewis asked.
“What?” McCoy asked, having been dragged back to the present from his consideration of the ramifications of adding an unknown number of civilians in unknown physical condition to the original evacuation party.
“Did you pick up on the word ‘augment’?” Lewis asked.
“Yeah. It looks as if Macklin stays, doesn’t it?”
“You going to tell him?”
“Not now,” McCoy said. “What I’m thinking is that I’m going to let the OSS people tell him on the beach. And I don’t want anybody telling the General, either.”
“Why not?”
“He’s liable to order us to take him with us,” McCoy said. “Fertig’s got Macklin figured out by now.”
[FIVE]
Headquarters, U.S. Forces in the Philippines
Davao Oriental Province
Mindanao, Commonwealth of the Philippines
1045 Hours 26 January 1943
General Fertig looked up at them expectantly. After a very long moment, Captain McCoy saluted. A perceptible period of time after Captain McCoy raised his hand to his temple, Lieutenant Everly did likewise. General Fertig returned their salutes with a casual wave of his right hand in the general direction of his forehead.
“Am I missing something here, gentlemen?” Fertig asked. “It looked to me as if you were making up your mind whether or not you were going to offer me that hoary gesture of recognition between warriors.”
“General,” Captain McCoy said, “Marines do not salute indoors unless under arms.”
“Fascinating. I learn something every day,” Fertig said. “I take it that dagger strapped to your wrist falls in the category of ‘dagger on arm’ rather than anything else?”
“We left our carbines outside, General.”
“I was hoping to have a word with you before you left, Ken,” Fertig said. “This is as good a time as any.”
“General, that’s why we’re here,” McCoy said.
“You looked serious,” Fertig said. “OK. Let’s have it. What’s gone wrong?”
“The thing is, Sir, there’s a hundred things that could go wrong. The odds that we can make it to the beach without a half-dozen serious things going wrong aren’t very good.”
“When you have something unpleasant to say, say it,” Fertig said. “You think that your priority is to make it onto the Sunfish, and you can’t do that with the civilians and the wounded? I have been considering that myself, frankly.”
“Everly and I have an idea—” McCoy said, and then quickly interrupted himself. “General, we weren’t thinking about not taking the civilians and wounded with us.”
“Let’s have it,” Fertig said.
“The problem is transporting them forty-five miles from here to Site Sugar,” McCoy said. “With all the bearers, we’ll be nearly a hundred people.”
“One hundred two, if memory serves,” Fertig said. “Are we back to not taking the wounded and civilians with you?”
“No, Sir, I’m just trying to make the point that I think we have almost no chance of moving that many people, that slowly, that far, without being detected.”
“Almost no chance? If you’ve got a point, Ken, let’s have it.”
“Can I lay my map on your desk, Sir?”
“One of the things I wanted to talk to you about is that map. Could you leave it with me?”
“Absolutely. We have three. You can have two of those, and I could leave the last one with Everly on the beach.”
“OK. What is it you want to show me?”
“Here we are,” McCoy said, pointing to the map, “and here is Site Sugar.” He pointed to a spot on the coast twenty-five miles south of the promontory off which the Sunfish had first surfaced.
“If we leave in the morning, it will take us nine days to make the trip, if nothing goes wrong. Maybe eight. But nine to be safe. That’s 5 and 6 February.”
“We’ve been over this,” Fertig said.
“We can make it from here to here in a day and a half,” McCoy said, pointing to a spot on the coast five miles north of Tarragona.
“And how do you propose to get from there to Site Sugar?”
“Steal a couple of trucks,” Everly blurted.
Fertig’s eyebrows rose.
“The idea, General, is that instead of using the ninety-odd people as bearers, we use them to delay the Japs.”
“You’re getting ahead of me, McCoy,” Fertig said.
“The Japs are not sending anything out on that highway alone. They send at least three trucks, most often four. We ambush their convoy two miles out of Tarragona. Take the two best trucks, burn the others, and drive here, where the civilians will be waiting. We then drive to Site Sugar.”
“Thirty minutes after you ambush the convoy, the Japs will know about it, and start after you.”
“Every time there’s a curve in the road, we will have a guy in the bush. He fires a couple of shots at the lead truck, and then shags ass out of there. We figure the Japs will stop and send out a patrol. That’ll take fifteen minutes. They don’t find anything—our sniper is long gone—so they get back in the trucks and start after us again. Next curve, another sniper.”
“It won’t take them long to figure out what you’re doing,” Fertig said. “They won’t stop, they’ll just keep going when you shoot at them.”
“That’s what Everly said,” McCoy said. “I think our snipers can take out drivers two times out of three.”
“They’ll still come after you.”
“As long as they don’t catch us, let them come. We’ll send people to reconnoiter near Site Sugar, and find someplace where we can get rid of the trucks. With a little luck, we’ll put them in the woods where they won’t be seen, but if necessary, just burn them on the road.”
“By this time in your plan, the Japs will have reconnaissance aircraft all over the area. You’d be putting the Sunfish at grave risk.”
“The Sunfish won’t be there,” McCoy said.
“Excuse me?”
“We’ll leave for Tarragona tomorrow, ambush the convoy the next day, if we’re lucky, or the day after that, or the day after that. That way we know there will be a convoy to ambush. And then the Sunfish comes on 5 February as scheduled.”
“And where will the civilians and wounded be . . .” Fertig began. “Of course, at Site Sugar.”
“That’s the risk, General,” McCoy said. “That the Japs will find us at Site Sugar, or near Site Sugar. If the Japs find them there . . . well. But there is less risk of being discovered if we’re trying to hide twenty-five people in one place than if we’re trying to move 102 people around for days.”
Fertig stood up suddenly and left the room. He came back a moment later with a bottle of Famous Grouse and three glasses. He put everything on his desk and started, carefully, to pour the whiskey.
“I have an interest in getting the wounded and the civilians to Pearl Harbor that is not entirely altruistic,” he said as he poured. “There will be a certain interest on the part of the press in these American civilians snatched from the claws of the Japanese, and in the brave men grievously wounded fighting the Japanese against terrible odds. Once these people get out, it will not be nearly as easy for certain people to pretend United States Forces in the Philippines does not exist.”
He walked to the door, raised his voice, and called, “Sergeant!”
His Filipino sergeant appeared almost immediately.
“Please pass the word that an officer’s call will be conducted here immediately,” he said.
“Yes, Sir.”
He walked back to the drinks and handed McCoy and Everly a glass, then picked up his own.
“Before the others join us,” he said, “I think we should raise a glass to your successful evacuation. For the first time, I’m beginning to think we can get away with it.”
[SIX]
Headquarters, U.S. Forces in the Philippines
Davao Oriental Province
Mindanao, Commonwealth of the Philippines
1305 Hours 26 January 1943
Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, took a U.S. Rifle, Caliber .30-06, Model 1903, from Lieutenant Percy L. Everly, USFIP, held down the catch, and removed the bolt. He put his thumb into the action, raised the muzzle to his eye, and then turned his body until the rays of the sun reflected off his thumbnail and illuminated the interior of the barrel.
“It’s pitted,” he announced.
“We’ve been a little short on bore cleaner around here, Mr. McCoy,” Everly said.
McCoy examined the bolt.
“What have you been oiling these with, coconut oil?”
“Motor oil,” Everly said.
“They’re all like this?”
&n
bsp; Everly nodded.
“That’s it, unless you want to try doing this with a carbine.”
“No. We’ve got to try for headshots, and I don’t want to try headshots with a carbine,” McCoy said. “I can’t believe we didn’t think to bring bore cleaner and oil with us.”
Everly shrugged, and then McCoy had a second thought.
“But there’s something,” he said. “You see that thing that holds the sling in the carbine stock? It’s an oiler.”
“No shit?” Everly asked, impressed.
“Give me that,” McCoy said, pointing to a carbine. Gunny Zimmerman handed it to him. McCoy loosened the web sling where it passed through a slot in the stock and took out a two-inch-round metal tube. He unscrewed the top and pulled it off. A metal rod, flattened at the end, was attached to the top. A drop of light-brown oil dropped off.
“Lube oil,” he announced.
“I’ll be damned,” Everly said, impressed.
“Let’s get the motor oil, or whatever the hell this gunk is, off the bolts,” McCoy said. “And at least lube them right.”
With a practiced skill, he began to disassemble the bolt. He looked up and saw the others watching him—Lieutenant Chambers Lewis, USN; Captain Robert B. Macklin, USMC; Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman, USMC; two former 4th Marines PFCs (now 2nd Lieutenants, USFIP), Oscar Wendlington and Charles O. Pierce; First Lieutenant Claudio Alvarez, late of the Philippine Scouts; and Master Sergeant Fernando Lamar, late of the 26th Cavalry.
“This isn’t a goddamn demonstration,” he said. “You know how to take a bolt apart. Or should.”
The others turned to the other Springfields and began to remove their bolts. They had three battered, intended-for-weapons-cleaning toothbrushes between them—McCoy’s, Zimmerman’s, and Everly’s—and in a few minutes the bolts had been cleaned of the thickened motor oil and lubricated with a thin coat of the finer gun oil from the carbine oiler.
Zimmerman was finished first. He replaced the bolt in his Springfield and worked the action a half-dozen times, finally nodding with satisfaction.
Behind the Lines Page 54
