Gina furiously whacked the stick on the ground to deter approaching crows as she screamed, “Git! You dirty buggers.” Sighing, she bowed her head and pinched the bridge of her nose to stem tears. The kid was nineteen years old, if that. She straightened his bloody shirt over the bayonet wound on his chest. There were a mother and father somewhere worried about him and a pretty girlfriend named Carolyn. She went through his pockets and found a wallet that held his identification, Gerald Kent, and a plastic sleeve of family pictures that she flipped through, the tightness in her chest moving up to her throat. She put the wallet and ring into her pocket, believing his parents would want what was left of him.
She heard a growl, and every nerve in Gina’s body prickled. She looked up to see Vivian confronted by a rangy dog, snarling, his teeth bared and muzzle wet with blood. A stout stick lay near Vivian’s feet, and when she took a tiny step toward it, the dog lowered his head and growled again, deep and guttural.
Gina fumbled to pick up a rock, and when she saw the dog crouch to spring, she heaved it, missing but distracting her target. In one smooth move Vivian swooped up the stick and slammed it across the creature’s muzzle. He yelped and slunk away, but others skulked close by, and Vivian, clinging to her stick and a rock, retreated.
Beyond Vivian, a cadre of Filipinos emerged from the hills, some with wheelbarrows and shovels and others carrying crosses. As they came closer, Gina waved one over, wanting Gerald to be buried before the scavenger birds and wild dogs tore apart his young body.
Gina helped the Filipino load Gerald’s body into the wheelbarrow, noting the dead weight of it, and as they worked, she told the local man about the soldiers who had escaped into the ravine. “There may be some bodies in there too.”
“You find, I bury.” The Filipino held up four fingers. “Four days they come, and each day more die. They march with no food, no water, and when weak and fall down, they stabbed. I watch for my son marching. I told they come tomorrow and the next day and the next one after.” He bowed his head in grief. “You find, I bury,” he muttered again. “Dead men left on ground bring sickness to my village.” He carted Gerald Kent away.
Gina watched him leave, her grief pulling her down into a dark place the depth of which she’d never before known. Certainly, there would be retribution for an atrocity of this magnitude. Somehow, sometime, somewhere, someone would pay, and she itched to be there to help it happen.
She joined Vivian, who was looking into the ravine that was thick with vegetation and stank of decay. Two bodies lay facedown at the bottom with shallow water flowing around them, the backs of their shirts stained crimson. “It’s getting dark,” Gina said, hoping Vivian would suggest returning to the cottage. Instead, Vivian plunged through the waist-high foliage.
“Someone might need help,” she said. “Come on.”
They tramped along the water’s muddy edge, searching for footprints or a piece of a uniform of those who’d tried to escape snagged on a broken branch. “They came out here.” Vivian pointed to where the reeds and grasses had been crushed. The women followed the trail that zigzagged deep into the wasteland so dense it seemed to close in behind them.
“We’re going to get lost.” Gina pushed back panic.
“We’re not lost. I used to hunt with my dad. I think we’re on a deer run. If I’m right, it will lead us back to the stream. Let’s go a little farther.”
As Vivian predicted, the trail led back to the stream, where thousands of fiddler crabs and beetles scurried underfoot, and Gina’s wet shoes made sucking sounds in the black sludge. There were no further signs of the escaped prisoners.
“Maybe they’re hiding,” Vivian theorized.
“Or a local helped them escape,” Gina added, hoping it was true.
The trail dipped into a hollow. The stream narrowed to a trickle, and clumps of sawgrass and sedges thickened, their sharp blades catching Gina’s pant legs. She wanted out of this dark ravine, far away from its swarming insects, sounds of dripping water, and foul smells.
Vivian stopped abruptly. “Don’t go any farther!” She choked and coughed. Weaving on her feet, she grabbed hold of a nearby tree and fell on her knees in the muck and retched.
Gina pushed ahead to where masses of prisoners lay in scattered heaps in the scummy quagmire, their bodies covered with swarms of black flies. Wild pigs lifted their heads as she approached but then went back to their gory feasting on the human entrails strewn haphazardly around. Gina’s hand flew to cover her nose and mouth, and it was then she saw the men were tethered together, their faces, necks, and hands bound in barbed wire. Gina froze. Her knees went soft and gave out from under her.
Vivian half dragged and half carried Gina away from the hollow, where the evil was so thick it sucked out the air. Collapsing against each other, Gina gave way to sobs that boiled up from the depths of her soul while Vivian stood dead eyed and nearly comatose. Gina held Vivian’s cold hand as they trudged along the upward path that led to the comfort of home and family.
Whiffing smoke, Gina lifted her head and sniffed. The locals burning bodies? Roving Japs torching the nearby village? The girls! Mrs. Flores! Arturo! “Can you smell it, Viv? Smoke? Let’s hurry.” She pushed to move her legs faster along the uphill trek, but each hung on her body as heavy as a fence post. More smoke thickened the air. “Got to hurry,” she mumbled under what little breath she had in her.
Gina saw flickers of fire before the women came into the clearing and witnessed the whole of their fire-consumed cottage.
“Oh my God!” Vivian screamed, clawing her way up the last hill.
Gina’s core turned ice cold, and she screeched, “Cheryl! Maggie! Leah! Isabella! Oh no. My God. No!”
Chapter 6
ESCAPING BATAAN
I watch the tunnel’s entrance for a tank or a flamethrower. Instead, a man appears—short, mustached, and bespectacled. A sword strapped to his belt drags on the ground. How dangerous can he be? I soon learn.
—Ray Thorpe, Corregidor, December 1941–May 1942
Gina kicked at the front door of the cottage until it gave way, but the resulting roiling wave of heat and smoke drove her backward. “Cheryl, Maggie, Leah!” she shrieked. “Isabella! Where are you?” Vivian crashed through the back window with the same searing outcome.
“No!” Gina screamed, preferring to die herself than lose her daughter. Turning, she saw two Japanese soldiers approaching with grins on their faces and bayonets aimed at her heart. Beyond fear and with tears streaming, she bellowed, “My little girl!” She pointed to the billowing smoke. “She’s six years old!”
The soldiers didn’t respond.
Gina made a cradle with her arms. “My baby,” she cried and pointed again to the smoke curling out the doors and windows.
Concern washed over one soldier’s face. As he jabbered with his companion, a jeep nosed out of the jungle and raced full speed toward them. One soldier shot at the vehicle and jumped into the underbrush, while the other stood big eyed and frozen. Gina cowered and covered her eyes so as not to witness the impact.
She heard a sickening thud and Theo yelling, “Get in.”
Frantic, Gina shouted, “The girls.”
“Taken care of. Hurry! Get in!”
Gina and Vivian hopped into the jeep. “How? Where?” Gina questioned, but she was thrown back by Theo’s tromping on the gas pedal. With Arturo pointing the way, Theo sped to the waterfall, where Isabella and the girls were hiding behind a stand of bamboo. They scrambled in, Cheryl and Leah on the seats with their mothers and Maggie and Isabella scrunched on the floor.
Gina had no control over the tears of relief that flowed down her face.
“Hang on tight,” Theo yelled, and Gina clung to her daughter. Off again, the passengers were bounced and jerked, but Theo didn’t slow down until they were far enough along the bumpy and twisted trails to be out of immediate danger. When the jeep stopped, Arturo passed around a canteen of water, and everyone got out to stretch their legs
.
Vivian, shaken and pale, placed her hand on Theo’s arm. “The march . . . the cruelty . . . the soldiers . . . I thought . . . oh my God, Theo, I thought you—”
Theo explained. “I was sent to Corregidor to pick up pentothal. It was supposed to be a one-day trip. I couldn’t get back and had to hire a boat. I got here this morning and found Arturo. He told me that Japs were all over the area and that Isabella had taken the girls to hide behind the waterfall.”
“Isabella,” Vivian said. “How can I ever thank you?”
“Make that ‘we,’” Gina added, reaching over to give Isabella a hug, remembering how she had coerced her maid to come to the cottage. “You’re the best, Isabella. I’m in your debt. Thank you.” She tried to smile, but not even a grin would form on her still-trembling lips. She turned to ask Theo, “When you were on Corregidor, did you see Ray?”
“No. I didn’t get past the dock. The place is being bombed to dust. Except for the guys managing the batteries on the island’s perimeter, most everyone else is holed up in the Malinta Tunnel. When the Japanese invade, and it’s inevitable, the soldiers will be taken prisoners of war. I’m sorry, Gina.”
Gina’s heart sank. There was no good alternative.
Theo addressed the others. “We need to leave. Everyone back in the jeep.”
Gina settled Cheryl on her lap. “We fooled them, didn’t we, Mama? We hid, and the bad guys couldn’t find us.”
Gina’s eyes searched her daughter’s, and she wondered how Cheryl would process today’s events. Did she even realize the danger she’d been in? “You were very brave.” She kissed Cheryl’s forehead, tasting salty sweat. “We have a long way to go. Close your eyes and rest.” She tightened her hug to encircle Cheryl in a zone of love and safety.
“Where are you taking us?” Vivian asked.
“To the Ramos Ranch. Señor Ramos will find a place where you can wait out the war.” He turned to Arturo. “How do you find your way around up here?”
Arturo shrugged. “It’s a map in my head.”
The long ride gave Gina time to ponder, and the events of the day played like a horror movie through the recesses of her rattled mind. Occasionally, her body uncontrollably twitched, and more than once a moan escaped from her throat. Time slowly passed. Cheryl slept on her chest. Vivian crooned a lullaby to Leah, Maggie and Isabella sat twisted like pretzels on the jeep’s floor, and Arturo in the front seat chain-smoked.
High in the hills of Bataan’s mountainous interior and fronting miles of grassland, they came upon a sign on a stone arch that read, RAMOS RANCH. EST. 1910. A cowboy astride a horse met the jeep at a scrolled wrought iron gate. He wore a handgun on his hip and had a rifle slung across his saddle. A large hat obscured most of his face. “What can I do for you folks,” he growled. The horse shook its shaggy head and whinnied.
Theo answered, “Good day, sir. We’re here to see Señor Ramos about renting a cabin.”
The cowboy leaned down and peered into the jeep, where the families huddled—dirty and traumatized, the little girls clinging to their mothers. Arturo’s hand shook as he lit another cigarette.
The cowboy opened the gate, and they followed him along a meandering road to a low-roofed house, where he tipped his hat and trotted away. Theo knocked on the front door, and when a maid answered, he disappeared inside.
Maggie said, “We’re homeless, aren’t we? I’ve never even thought about being homeless.” After being quiet for a minute, she mumbled, “Well, this ought to be an adventure.”
Theo returned and slid behind the wheel of the jeep. “You’ll be staying here tonight. Señor Ramos has a cabin near a barrio called Tinian. It comes with a houseboy. He’ll take you there tomorrow on horseback. I paid three months in advance for the cabin and ordered food and supplies.” He started the jeep and followed the meandering road past barns and corrals to a whitewashed outbuilding. Inside were several bunk beds, and on the end of each were a pillow and blanket.
To Gina, the surroundings hardly registered. She took Cheryl to the outhouse and helped her wash her hands and face in water from the hand pump. Cheryl asked, “Are we going back to the cottage?”
“I’m afraid not. It was on fire, honey. You didn’t see it?”
“No. Isabella made us hide in a cave behind the waterfall. I didn’t want to go in there.”
“I’m glad you were brave. Isabella did the right thing. Come—let’s go back.”
On returning, she saw Theo and Vivian standing close, he handing her money and she crying. He waved Gina over, and when she approached them, Vivian said, “Theo’s leaving in the morning.”
Gina gasped. “You can’t.”
“We need more provisions than what’s available here, warm clothing and medical supplies especially. I’ll never find my way on the back roads into the city. I’d like Isabella to go with me.”
“But, but . . . ,” Gina stammered, wondering who would unpack and organize for her. “Did you ask her? Does she want to go?”
Theo called, “Isabella, come here a minute, please.” He explained the situation.
Isabella’s eyes lit up. “I go. I help Dr. Theo.”
“I don’t c-cook,” was all Gina could think to say.
“I live with my mama. She old. She needs me.”
Gina’s mouth fell open. “You’re not coming back?”
Vivian poured them all a generous whiskey from a bottle that Theo had brought with him. Gina slugged hers down and held her glass out for a refill, hoping the burning liquid would anesthetize her brain and erase every insane memory of the last eighteen hours.
The sun was setting, and the stars were peeking through a blue-black sky. Sitting on the edge of her cot, Cheryl said, “I don’t want to stay here.”
Gina said, “It’s just for one night, honey.”
“I want to go home.”
How could she tell her child she didn’t have a home? Gina struggled to steady her voice. “The important thing is we are all together. Being together is our home wherever we are.”
“Daddy’s not here. We’re not all together.” Cheryl began to cry.
Gina reached out for Cheryl, but her daughter pulled away.
Gina lay on her bunk and pulled the pillow over her head to block out the light, the noise, and her thoughts of running a bayonet through the whole goddamn Japanese population. Her hand on her heart, she felt a seed of hate beginning to swell like a malignant cancer.
Theo, Isabella, and Arturo left before dawn. Gina stood watching in the early-morning dark with her eyes bugged open and her mind in a muddle. How could she cope when she couldn’t even think?
The single-file caravan—two families, four cowboys, and an oxcart full of food and supplies—ambled along a dusty trail through Señor Ramos’s vast pasturelands, where countless numbers of gray, hump-backed cattle grazed.
Gina hunkered in Sugar’s saddle, her eyes on the ground, her back rounded, and her shoulders taut. She needed to be alone, and she allowed Sugar to lag behind the others while she wept and pondered whether life with all its pain, with all its anguish, with all its hate and cruelty, was worth living. When a squadron of Japanese planes flew over, making Sugar skittish, Gina patted her horse’s neck and soothed her with calming words: “It’s all right. You’ll be all right.” Sugar quieted, and soon Gina’s body relaxed into the animal’s plodding rhythm. She lifted her gaze to the beauty and grand scale of the high-reaching Zambales Mountains, now backed by a golden sky.
Ray had often suggested they vacation high in the mountains. “You should experience it,” he had said. “It’s rustic and wild . . . a different way of life. Whenever I’m in the mountains, I realize how little a man needs to survive. It’s life renewing.”
“No, thanks,” she had said, declining every suggestion of a mountain vacation. “The cottage is rustic enough for me.” Now she wished Ray were by her side, seeing what she was seeing and saying, “Didn’t I tell you it was grand?”
Vivian fell back
to be with her. Worry lines had appeared on her forehead and dark patches under her eyes this morning. She turned her head slowly as if her neck were stiff.
“You ride like a pro, Viv. I haven’t figured out how to turn Sugar around yet. Are the girls okay sharing a saddle with the cowboys?”
“The cowboys have them giggling, and that’s a good thing. By the time we get to wherever we’re going, they’ll have a repertoire of trail songs.”
“Oh, lovely. Not bawdy?”
“I hope.”
Soon they entered a forested area where light dappled the ground, rainbow parrots and yellow-breasted sunbirds flitted from tree to tree, and families of long-tailed macaques, perched on high branches, threw seedpods at the caravan. The trail continued up and switched back around and then switched back again. High up now, Gina took in the long view of the mountain’s majesty and its forested endlessness. She realized its immense capacity for refuge and doubted that Ray would ever find her up here. She pushed the thought away.
Ahead ran a stream that cut a blue ribbon through acres of golden grass, and beyond that were farmers’ fields and rice terraces that stepped down the mountainside. The trail led to a barrio of a dozen nipa huts nestled in the jungle trees, a church, and a general store with a porch and several rocking chairs.
“The barrio of Tinian,” a cowboy announced as they rode through. “Mrs. Bueno at the general store will keep you supplied with the basics.” He waved at a wispy-haired old woman sitting in a rocking chair smoking a pipe. A dog beside her barked, and she quieted him with the touch of her hand. The cowboy pointed to a ribbon of clay that meandered through the farmers’ fields below. “The village of Katana is about a two-hour walk down that road. You’ll find government offices, schools, churches, and a larger market there.”
Beyond Tinian, the caravan turned onto a narrow path that wound back into the jungle, and a baritone voice of a cowboy melodically boomed, “Beee it evvver so hummmmble, there’s no-o place like . . .”
Along the Broken Bay Page 6