by John Grisham
His smile widened and he proudly drawled, “Aw shit, where y’all from?”
Pete and Clay exploded with laughter. Clay bent double and dropped his new rifle. Pete laughed and shook his head in disbelief. He had the image of this Filipino kid sitting around a campfire with a bunch of Americans having too much fun teaching him their brand of colorful English. Without a doubt, there were some boys from Texas or Alabama in the gang.
When the laughter passed, the kid said, “Follow me. About an hour.”
“Let’s go,” Pete said. “But not so fast.”
The kid was called a runner, one of hundreds used for communication by the guerrillas, who had almost no radios. The runners often carried written messages and orders. They knew the trails intimately and were rarely caught, but if that happened they were tortured for information and killed.
* * *
—
They climbed again for a long time as the air continued to thin. The break in the heat was welcome, but Pete and Clay struggled to keep up. As they approached the first bivouac point, the kid whistled three times, waited, heard something that Pete and Clay did not, and continued. They were on guerrilla turf now, and as safe as any American soldier could be in the Philippines. Two heavily armed Filipinos appeared from nowhere and waved them through.
They passed through a tiny barrio where the people barely noticed them. The trail led to the first camp, where more Filipino guerrillas were cooking over a small fire. There were about twenty of them, living in lean-tos and preparing for the night. At the sight of the two Americans, they stood and saluted.
Half an hour later, still climbing, they walked into a small compound hidden under a dense jungle canopy. An American in faded fatigues and fresh combat boots greeted them. Captain Darrell Barney, formerly of the Eleventh Infantry Brigade but now of the unofficial West Luzon Resistance Force. After introductions were made, Barney yelled at a row of bamboo huts and other Americans came forth. There were a lot of smiles, handshakes, backslapping, congratulations, and soon enough Pete and Clay were seated at a split-bamboo table and served rice, potatoes, and grilled pork chops, a delicacy reserved for special occasions.
As they ate, they were peppered with questions from around the table. The biggest talker was Alan DuBose from Slidell, Louisiana, and he proudly admitted that he was indeed teaching the Filipinos all manner of American slang. In all, there were six Americans, in addition to Pete and Clay, and none of the others had been on Bataan. After the surrender, they had fled to the mountains from other parts of the islands. They were far healthier, though malaria was everywhere.
The Americans had heard about the death march and they wanted the stories, all of them. For hours, Pete and Clay talked and talked, and laughed and reveled in the safety of their surroundings. For two soldiers who had seen so much, it was at times difficult to fathom the fact that they were with American soldiers who were still fighting.
Pete savored the moment, but he could not stop the flashbacks to O’Donnell. He thought about the men he knew there, many of whom would not leave alive. They were still starving while he feasted. He thought about the Boneyard, and the hundreds of starved corpses he had buried. He thought about the hellship and heard the screams of the trapped men as they went under. One moment he enjoyed the food and banter and soothing American English with its variety of accents, and the next moment he sat muted, unable to eat as another nightmare flooded his memory.
The flashbacks, nightmares, and horrors would never go away.
Late in the evening, they were led to the showers and given bars of soap. The water was lukewarm and felt marvelous. At first they wanted to shave, but every other American had a heavy beard, so they passed on the opportunity. They were given underwear and clean socks and mismatched army fatigues, though in the bush there were no established uniforms. The doctor, also an American, examined them and noted the obvious problems. He had plenty of medicines and promised them that after a couple of weeks they would be ready to fight. They were shown to a bamboo hut, their new barracks, and given real cots with blankets. In the morning, they would meet their commander and be given more guns than they could carry.
Alone in the darkness, they whispered of home, which seemed closer than ever.
Chapter 31
The West Luzon Resistance Force was under the firm command of General Bernard Granger, a British hero from World War I. Granger was about sixty, lean and tough and military to the core. He had lived in the Philippines for the past twenty years and at one time owned a large coffee plantation that the Japanese confiscated, killing two of his sons in the process and forcing him to flee to the mountains with his wife and what was left of his family. They lived in a bunker deeper in the jungle, and from there he commanded his force. His men adored him and referred to him as Lord Granger.
He was at his desk under a canopy of camouflaged netting when Pete and Clay were ushered in and introduced. He sent his aides away, though his bodyguards stayed close. He welcomed the Americans in his high-pitched, very proper British cadence and ordered a round of tea. Pete and Clay sat in bamboo chairs and admired him from the first moment. At times his left eye was partially hidden by a crease in his smart safari hat. When he spoke he removed the stem of a corncob pipe, and when he listened he stuck it between his teeth and chewed it as if digesting every word. “I hear you survived the nastiness down on Bataan,” he said in his singsong voice. “Probably worse than we’ve heard.”
They nodded and described it for a few moments. Bataan was brutal, but O’Donnell was worse.
“And the Nips are shipping off boys to the coal mines back home, I hear,” Granger said as he poured tea in porcelain cups.
Pete described the hellship and their rescue at sea.
“We’ll get the bloody bastards eventually,” Granger said. “If they don’t get us first. I hope you realize that your odds of survival have improved, but in the end we’re all dead men.”
“Better to go down fighting,” Clay said.
“That’s the spirit. Our job is to create enough mischief to hamstring the Nips and prove that these islands are worth saving. We fear that the Allies might try to beat them without bothering with us. The high command thinks it can bypass these islands and hit Japan, and it’s entirely possible, you know? But MacArthur promised to return and that’s what keeps us going. Our Filipino boys must have something to fight for. It’s their property to begin with. Milk and sugar?”
Pete and Clay declined. They would have preferred strong coffee, but they were still thankful for the large breakfast. Granger chatted on, then abruptly stopped and looked at Pete. “So what’s the skinny on you?”
Pete went through a short bio. West Point, seven years active in the Twenty-Sixth Cavalry, then sort of a forced retirement for personal reasons. Had to save the family farm. Wife and two kids back in Mississippi. Rank of first lieutenant.
Granger’s eyes danced and never blinked as he caught and analyzed every word. “So you can ride a horse?”
“With or without a saddle,” Pete said.
“I’ve heard of the Twenty-Sixth. Expert marksman, I take it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We need snipers. Never enough snipers.”
“Give me a rifle.”
“You were at Fort Stotsenburg?”
“Yes, but only briefly before December.”
“Bloody Nips are using the base there for their Zeros and dive-bombers. Heavier stuff they moved out after Corregidor. I’d like to hit some planes on the ground but we haven’t put together a plan yet. And you?” he asked, looking at Clay.
Enlisted in 1940, Thirty-First Infantry. Mortar specialist. Rank of sergeant. A cowboy from Colorado who could also ride and shoot.
“Jolly good. I like men who want to fight. Sad to say but we have some Americans here who are simply hiding with us and want to go home. Some are mad. Some
are too sick. Some went AWOL from their units and wandered through the jungles, I suspect. They’re deadweight, to be honest, but we can’t exactly run them off. The first lesson you’ll learn is to not ask questions of the others. Everyone has a story, and the cowards never tell the truth.”
He sipped his tea and pulled out a map. “A bit about our operations. We’re here in the middle of the Zambales Mountains, really rugged terrain, as I’m sure you’ve learned. Elevation of nine thousand feet in places. We have about a thousand fighters scattered over a hundred square miles. If we dug in and hid we could last for a long time, but digging in is not in our cards. We are guerrillas and we fight dirty, never in frontal assaults, never in the open. We strike quick and disappear. The Nips raid our camps at the lower elevations and it’s very dangerous down there. You’ll find out soon enough. We’re gaining in numbers as more Filipinos run for the hills, and after a rough start we’re finally landing some punches.”
“So you don’t worry about the Japs coming here?” Pete asked.
“We worry about everything. We pack light, always ready to pull back at the slightest danger. We can’t fight them one on one. We have almost no artillery, save for a few mortars and light cannons, goodies we stole from the enemy. We have plenty of rifles, pistols, and machine guns, but no trucks or carriers. We’re foot soldiers, with the advantage of the terrain. Our biggest problem is communication. We have a few old radios, nothing portable, and can’t use them because the Nips are always listening. So we rely on runners to coordinate things. We have no contact with MacArthur, though he knows we’re here and fighting. To answer your question, we are relatively safe here, but always in danger. The Nips would bomb us from the air if they could see us. Come along and I’ll show you our goodies.”
Granger sprang to his feet, grabbed his walking stick, and took off. He rattled something in Tagalog to his guards and they sprinted in front of him. Others followed as they left the camp and started up a narrow trail. As they walked Granger said, “The Twenty-Sixth, quite an outfit. Don’t suppose you know Edwin Ramsey?”
“He was my commander,” Pete said proudly.
“You don’t say. Bloody good soldier. He refused to surrender and headed for the hills. He’s about a hundred miles from here and organizing like mad. Rumor is that he has over five thousand men in Central Luzon and plenty of contacts in Manila.”
They turned a corner and two sentries pulled back a wall of vines and roots. They entered a cave. “Get the torches,” Granger barked and two guards lit the way. The cave became a cavern, an open room with stalactites dripping water from above. Candles were lit along the walls and the scope of the armory came into focus.
Granger never stopped talking. “Supplies left behind by the Yanks and taken from the Nips. I’d like to think we have a bullet for every one of the bloody bastards.”
There were pallets of ammunition. Crates of rifles. Stockpiles of canned food and water. Thick bags of rice. Barrels of gasoline. Stacks of boxes holding supplies that were not identified.
Granger said, “Down the hall in another room we have two tons of dynamite and TNT. Don’t suppose you have any experience with explosives.”
“No,” Pete said. Clay shook his head.
“Too bad. We are in dire need of a good bomb boy. Last one blew himself up. A Filipino, and a damned fine one. But one will come along. Seen enough?”
Before they answered, he whirled around. The tour was over. Pete and Clay were shocked at the stash of supplies, but also greatly comforted by it. They followed Granger out of the cave and began their descent. They stopped at an overlook and took in a stunning vista of waves of mountains that went on forever.
The general said, “The Nips won’t get this far, really. They’re afraid to. And they know that we are forced to come down for the fight. So we do. Questions?”
Clay asked, “When do we fight?”
Granger laughed and said, “I like that. Sick and malnourished but ready for battle. A week or so. Give the doctors some time to fatten you up and you’ll soon see all the blood you want.”
* * *
—
For the next two days, Pete and Clay lay about in luxury, napping and eating and drinking all the water they could hold. The doctors plied them with pills and vitamins. When they were finally bored, they were outfitted with rifles and pistols and taken to a firing range for a round of practice. A Filipino veteran named Camacho was assigned to them, and he taught them the ways of the jungle: how to build a small fire to cook, always at night because the smoke could not be seen; how to build a lean-to out of vines and shrub to sleep under in the rain; how to pack a rucksack with only the essentials; how to keep their guns and ammo dry; how to handle an angry cobra, and a hungry python as well; how to do a hundred essentials that might one day save their lives.
On the third day, Pete was summoned to Lord Granger’s post for tea and cards. They sat at a game board and chatted, with the general doing the bulk of the talking. “Ever play cribbage?” he asked as he pulled out a deck of cards.
“Sure. I played it at Fort Riley.”
“Bloody good. I have a round each afternoon at three with tea. Relaxes the soul.” He shuffled as he talked and dealt the cards. “Two nights ago the Nips raided an advance post a good ways down the mountain, one that was well defended. They surprised us with a large unit. There was a nasty fight; we lost. They were looking for Bobby Lippman, a tough major from Brooklyn, and they found him, along with two other Americans. The Filipinos in the unit were either killed in battle or beheaded on the spot. That’s a favorite of the Nips, whack off the heads and leave them lying near the bodies to frighten the neighbors. Anyway, Lippman and the other Americans were taken to a prison in Manila to have a chat with some of the Nips’ toughest interrogators. I’m told that some of these officers speak the King’s English better than most Brits. Lippman’s in for a nasty time. They’ll whip him and burn him for a few days, they have a variety of methods, and if he talks we could feel it here. If he doesn’t, and I doubt he will, then they’ll have a little ceremony for him that involves one of those long swords you’ve seen. It’s a war, Banning, and as you’ve seen there are many ways to kill.”
“I thought there were bivouacs and rings of sentries at each post,” Pete said. “How did they pull a surprise?”
“We’ll never know. Their favorite trick is to bribe a local, some Filipino who needs money or rice and is willing to sell information. As the Nips close the noose, we’re starting to see less food. In some villages the peasants are skipping meals. The Nips know how to bribe. We have many posts in these mountains. Sometimes we stay in them, sometimes we don’t, but they’re our safe houses. If we’re in for the night, or perhaps a week, the locals usually find out. It’s rather easy to find a Nip and sell the intel. Are you ready for combat?”
“Damned right I am.”
“The doctor says you’re in reasonably good shape. Hell, we’re all underweight and sick with something, but you and Clay look especially gaunt. Suppose you’ve seen the worst of it.”
“We’re fine and we’re bored. Give us an assignment.”
“The two of you will go with DuBose, a squad of about ten. Camacho will always be with you, and he’s the best. You’ll leave in the middle of the night, hike three or four hours, have a look. It’s part recon, part assault. If Lippman is talking under duress we should know it by what the Nips do and where they go. After a couple of days on the trails, you’ll hook up with another unit, some of our boys from another mountain. They’ve borrowed a bomb maker who’ll string some wires and such. The target is a convoy. Should be an easy job and you’ll get to shoot some Nips. Jolly good fun.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Assuming all goes well, the bomb maker is willing to spend some time with you boys and teach you how to play with TNT. Listen and learn.”
As Pete shuffled an
d dealt, Granger reloaded his pipe with tobacco, and managed to do so without missing a word. “Poor Lippman. All of us vow that we’ll not be taken alive. It’s a far better thing to put a bullet in one’s head than let the Nips have their way. But it’s not always that easy. Men are often wounded first and unable to shoot themselves. Sometimes they’re asleep and surprised. And often, Banning, I think that we become so adept at survival that we believe we can survive anything, so we drop our guns, raise our hands, and are led away. Usually, I suppose, within hours there is an awful feeling of regret. You ever come close to ending it all?”
“Many times,” Pete said. “The thirst and hunger drove us all crazy, along with the constant killing. I thought that if I could only go to sleep, then I would pass on the bit about waking up. But we survived. We’re surviving now. I plan to get home, General.”
“Attaboy. But don’t let the Nips take you alive, hear me?”
“Don’t worry.”
Chapter 32
They left camp shortly after midnight, ten guerrillas in all, following two runners who could find the trails in their sleep. Six Filipinos and four Americans, all heavily armed and loaded with backpacks full of tinned food, canned water, blankets, tarps, and all the ammo they could carry. Mercifully, all movements were downward. The first lesson Pete and Clay learned was to concentrate on the boots of the man in front of them. Looking around was fruitless because there was nothing to see in the blackness. A missed step could cause a stumble and a fall and an uncertain landing.
For the first hour nothing was said. As they approached the first barrio, a lookout greeted them. In an unknown dialect, he informed Camacho that all was well. They had not seen the enemy in days. The squad circled around the huts and kept moving. There was no lookout at the second barrio and not a sound from the settlement. After three hours the ground leveled and they stopped at an advance post, four shelters built into the bush and empty. They rested for half an hour and snacked on sardines and water. DuBose drifted over and asked quietly, “Y’all doin’ all right?”