He walked up to Doña Valentina and examined her for a moment, then shouted something in Japanese. Two other soldiers dragged Fito Diaz through the doorway and dumped him on the door.
"So, your lordship. Been having fun with your little spy games?" Helen was amazed at how good the man's English was.
Diaz's face was bloody and his left arm hung at a grotesque angle. Sobbing quietly, Diaz rose to his knees and looked at the white-suited man. "I am a fisherman, Lieutenant Tuga," he gurgled.
"A fisherman, we'll see." Lieutenant Tuga pointed to the beautifully crafted paneling under the staircase and spoke quietly to the soldier at the door.
"Kashikomarishita!" The soldier stepped in the foyer and with his rifle butt bashed at the paneling. Splinters flew as he grunted, thumped and smacked. Soon, he found a spot that made a hollow sound and gave four hard whacks. The paneling gave way, revealing a radio transmitter receiver and several manuals. The soldier bowed and stepped back.
Tuga stepped up, waved at the radio, and said, "Ummm, Halicrafters, I see. A nice one, too. And you're a fisherman you say?" He spoke as he pulled a pistol, a Nambu, from his waistband, sighted it at the ceiling and ran the action. "How often do you radio the fish?"
"The devil with you, Tuga," Diaz shouted, red spittle spewing before him.
"You first!" Tuga whirled and shot Diaz twice, both quick rounds going through his head.
Doña Valentina screamed and rushed for her husband. Tuga waved a hand and four grinning soldiers dragged her off to the dining room.
Through Valentina's screams Helen heard Tuga say, "And you are the nurse, Helen Durand?"
Clothing ripped, men laughed, Valentina's screams ripped at the morning's cool air.
"Nurse Durand?" Tuga said louder.
"What?" Helen looked at Tuga. "Who are you? What kind of animal are you?" Helen pointed to the dining room door. "Make them stop."
"You're lucky I don't give you to them. You're mine. We'll have our own private sessions." Tuga nodded to another soldier. Helen was led out and with the others, loaded into a stake truck. Over the next twenty minutes, everyone except Tuga took their turn. Valentina's screams became raspy, then pitiful, scratching moans.
Finally, a single shot rang out: It was quiet. The American's bodies were stripped where they lay. Next, the soldiers dumped gasoline in the house. The broken American corpses were pitched through the front door, and then the house set afire, the captives looking on in horror.
The five-truck convoy drove off into a morning that grew hot and dusty. Helen's truck bounced heavily on the dirt road and the Japanese sergeant sitting next to her let himself fall across her lap from time to time. With a broad smile, he pushed himself off by placing his hands on her thighs and letting them linger. Giving him the foulest of looks, Helen Durand scooted forward and looked back just once, seeing a tall column of smoke rise above Marinduque's thick forest.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
6 May, 1942
Malinta Tunnel, Lateral 3
Corregidor Island, Manila Bay, Philippines
Otis DeWitt cradled the field telephone and stood to one side, as generals Moore and Wainwright argued. Both looked drained. In fact, all in the command center were haggard; most hadn't slept in two days. And last night the bombardment reached a terrible peak, where it seemed a shell rattled their teeth every two seconds.
About ten-thirty it abruptly stopped. A half-hour later, the first landing craft wallowed ashore at East Point and Japanese troops poured out. The fighting was bloody, with Americans and Filipinos almost throwing them back into Manila Bay. But by morning, the counterattack fizzled and the Japanese fought their way over Water Tank Hill. Now, at nine-thirty, they stood two hundred yards from Malinta Tunnel's east end.
Inside the command bunker the air was dense and humid, condensation beaded on the walls, and all three toilets were stopped up. Even with doors closed, the place smelled like a sewer. Everything remotely classified was being burned, and smoke crowded the ceiling. To go outside and burn the stuff gave one a good chance of being killed by artillery, so they wore soaked handkerchiefs over their faces and breathed as lightly as possible.
Moore slammed his fist. Pencils and paperclips jumped on DeWitt's desk. "Damnit, Jon," he shouted. "I'm not going to have my boys chopped up like on Bataan. I say we hold."
In spite of the living hell overhead, General Wainwright looked tall and cool, and in command. Incongruous was that his nickname was "Skinny"; a tag that followed him all the way from West Point. Especially now, he was a tall sack of bones and sinew with red blotches around his temples. His eyelids drooped and his voice seemed hoarser than usual. Yet, he was steady and self-assured. "Here's the crux, George," said Wainwright. "Hong Kong and Singapore surrendered at night. The Japs raped and shot everything in sight until--"
"That's what I'm saying, Jon," said Moore. "We can hold out. Two, three days. Maybe a week. Make 'em negotiate."
"Listen to me, damnit," yelled Wainwright. "Those surrenders were at night. The little bastards were full of saki. Jap officers couldn't control their troops. That's why I'm thinking of doing it now."
With his buttocks, DeWitt edged aside a pile of SECRET documents and sat on his desk waiting for the machine gun outpost to come back on the line. He picked up a message Wainwright had handed him and read it again:
TO: MAJOR GENERAL JONATHAN M. WAINWRIGHT
FROM: THE COMMANDER IN CHIEF
DATE: 5 MAY, 1942
YOUR DEFENDERS OF CORREGIDOR ARE LIVING SYMBOLS OF OUR WAR AIMS AND THE GUARANTEE OF VICTORY.
FDR
An anemic looking corporal, wearing a stained, olive-drab T-shirt, boots, and shorts walked up reaching for a pile of classified documents. The corporal raised his canvas burn bag and stuffed papers into it.
DeWitt moved aside noticing the corporal's face was ulcerated with running sores. Handing the man FDR’s flimsy, he said, "Here, you might as well take this one, too."
Bony fingers clawed at the message. The corporal's eyes darted over the words and he looked up with a twisted grin. "Shit, Roosevelt. If he wants to be a living symbol of our war aims, I'll gladly trade places with him." Without a glance at DeWitt, the corporal moved to the next desk to stuff more papers in his burn bag.
The corporal vanished behind a bank of filing cabinets before DeWitt could think of something with which to chastise the man. He gave a disgusted grunt and opened a drawer to prop a foot. While Wainwright talked, DeWitt listened for Hager to come back on the line. Hager was a first lieutenant they had sent to the machine gun nest for an assessment. The line was open. Occasionally he heard snapping like fire crackers. Two minutes ago he'd heard a voice shout, "They're over that rise. Try again." Then there was a hollow thump and, strangely, no machine gun fire.
DeWitt bent to knock mud off his once shiny boots. The drawer was empty but for a rogue pencil stub and paper clips. Except, deep in the back of this drawer, he spotted something in the shadows. Reaching in, he discovered a water-stained leather pouch, drew it out, and flipped it in his hand absently as he listened.
"Any news, Otis?" said Moore.
DeWitt said, "Not yet, Sir."
"Is Hager still alive?"
"Yessir. I can hear him once in a while. Gunfire sounds closer, though."
"Keep at it."
"Yessir."
Wainwright and Moore kept bickering while DeWitt flipped the pouch in the air. Suddenly, he stopped. This pouch, he remembered, was the one Mordkin had fished out of Manila Bay the night the PBY crashed. It was off the dead man. Mordkin had made a special trip to go back out there that night. After three hours of poking among wreckage, he found a sodden lump and brought it to DeWitt, who promptly threw it in his drawer to dry out. With that, he forgot about it.
Curious.
DeWitt turned it in his hand for a moment, then unzipped it and looked inside. It reeked of mildew but his eyes fixed at the top of the first page. He drew a sharp breath. The stamp of the office of N
aval intelligence--ONI--was blemished by green mildew blotches. The letterhead was ONI. It was a memo addressed to COMPHILIPPINES--stamped TOP SECRET. It was to Wainwright.
DeWitt's eyes jerked along the text. Suddenly, he felt cold. "Epperson! Good God," said DeWitt.
"What?" said General Moore.
"Nothing, Sir," said DeWitt. He sat up, rubbing his chin, and scanned the memo again. Flipping inside, he found a photograph of a grinning blondish man with long hair parted in the middle. "No!" said DeWitt.
"Otis, what the hell's wrong with you?" growled Moore.
"General. There's been a mistake," said DeWitt. "I should have--" DeWitt put a hand to his ear, hearing machine gun fire.
A whispering voice crackled on the line. "...Major, can you hear me?"
DeWitt said, "Go ahead Hager."
"The Japs landed a tank. It's fifty yards away, now," Hager's voice was choked. The thirty-caliber machine gun pounded.
"How many tanks?" yelled DeWitt.
"Tank?" Wainwright and Moore looked at DeWitt with open mouths.
The thirty-caliber stopped chattering. In the background, DeWitt heard the loader arguing with the gunner about a fouled breach. "...don't know, Sir." Hager's voice shook. "All I can see is one for now. He's--Jeez--" Something roared and the line went dead.
"Hager! Hager!" shouted DeWitt. He looked at Wainwright and Moore. Both general's faces were ashen.
"Tank, Sir," DeWitt offered. He looked around the command room. All the clerks and messengers and officers stared, their faces incredulous. It became very quiet.
Wainwright's head drooped. An artillery shell rumbled overhead, making concrete chips tinkle down. The general rubbed his face and looked at Moore. Quietly, he said, "Tanks get in the tunnels and a lot of our boys will be squashed. Is that worth holding for?"
Moore dumbly shook his head.
"Sound PONTIAC, George."
Moore knew better than to argue. "Yes, Sir."
"Got a pad, Otis?" said Wainwright, sitting heavily.
"Yes, Sir." DeWitt reached in a drawer.
Taking a deep breath, Wainwright looked at the ceiling and said, "This goes to Roosevelt. Make that to the Commander in Chief, Otis."
Everyone's eyes were fixed on Wainwright. Sitting straight up, DeWitt nodded and started writing.
Wainwright was silent for a moment, then said, "With broken heart and head bowed in sadness, but not in shame, I report to your Excellency that today I must arrange terms for the surrender of the fortified islands of Manila Bay. There is a limit of human endurance, and that limit has long since been passed. Without prospect of relief, I feel it is my duty to my country and to my gallant troops to end this useless effusion of blood and human sacrifice."
Wainwright stared at his fingernails. Across the plotting table, a burly sergeant DeWitt had known for ten years, broke down and sobbed.
Another man, the thin corporal with the ulcerated face yelled, "Shit! They ain't takin' me alive. I'm going to the--"
"Silence!" barked Wainwright, slapping a hand on DeWitt's desk. Rising to his feet, his eyes swept the room and he stared each man down. Finally, he said, "Major Drake?"
A man stood. "Yes, General?"
Wainwright's eyes continued sweeping the room. "Make arrangements to detonate the minefield."
"Yes, Sir." Drake said.
"Andrews!" he barked.
"Sir." A youngish colonel shot to his feet.
"Same goes for all ammo bunkers. Make sure they're blown. The artillery, too. You will ensure everything is well spiked. Now, go!"
"Yes, Sir!" Andrews and Drake walked out.
Shells rumbled overhead. Everyone was speechless as Wainwright sat back on a couch and put his head in his hands.
General Moore stared dumbly at the floor.
DeWitt flipped his pad shut and started for the radioroom.
"I'm not finished, Otis," said Wainwright.
"Sir?" said DeWitt, turning around.
"I'd like to add this," Wainwright said. He looked to the ceiling and dictated, almost in a gasp, "If you agree, Mr. President, please say to the nation that my troops and I have accomplished all that is humanly possible, and that we have upheld the best traditions of the United States and its Army.
"May God bless and preserve you and guide you and the nation in the effort to ultimate victory. With profound regret and with continued pride in my gallant troops, I go to meet the Japanese commander. Good-bye, Mr. President."
Wainwright looked up to DeWitt with wet, red eyes. "Got that, Major?"
"Yes, Sir," said DeWitt.
Wainwright drew a long breath and said, "George?"
"Huh?" said Moore.
"Come on, George. We have a lot to do."
"Okay, Jon."
"When was the last time we had contact with Caballo?"
"Hour ago," said Moore. "We still can't get through."
"Alright, Otis," Wainwright said. "Take the message to the radioroom. Then, I want you to shag over to Caballo and tell them we surrender, effective noon today. I guess white flags will do it for now. Detail two others to Carabao and El Fraile with the same message. I'll send teams later with the formal surrender arrangements."
"Yes, Sir."
Wainwright turned to Moore and sighed, "Let's figure out how we get in touch with the Japs without getting our heads blown off."
DeWitt sat for a moment formatting Wainwright's message for transmission. He started to walk for the radioroom, but stopped and retreated to his desk. He stooped and snatched the pouch from his drawer, ensuring no one watched him. All had returned to burning papers and gathering personal articles. Stuffing the pouch in his pocket, Major Otis DeWitt took a long look around Malinta Tunnel's command bunker. Wainwright and Moore were over in a corner bent over a chart. Unaccountably, he swallowed a couple of times and his eyes welled with tears. He loved "Skinny" Wainwright. And he loved George Moore, too. Both had been avuncular, close to being like fathers. He had played poker with them on hot summer evenings and had swilled too many beers with them on the golf course.
Unaccountably, Otis DeWitt knew he wouldn't be seeing generals Wainwright and Moore for a long while. Maybe never. He was leaving Malinta Tunnel for the last time.
CHAPTER TWENTY
6 May, 1942
Baker Cellblock, Fort Hughes Stockade
Caballo Island, Manila Bay, Philippines
Hands folded under his head, Ingram lay on his back in dank, semidarkness listening to the shelling. A damp handkerchief was stretched over his mouth, but even with that, putrid dust seeped so that he breathed in shallow gasps. Rivulets of sweat soaked his shirt and trousers and occasionally, his body spasmed as a shell landed overhead, shaking the cellblock and making powdered concrete and loose dirt sprinkle down.
A corporal had brought water and canned salmon twice a day, the mixture tasting like slurried cardboard. But once, Ingram had been given hot tea: It felt wonderful on his throat. Bunk rest had helped, the bombardment notwithstanding. His facial bruises didn't hurt as much and the throbbing in his cheek had subsided. Trouble was, his Bulova watch had wound down during one of his catnaps and he'd lost track of the time and even what day it was.
Now, the bombardment seemed different. Its rhythm was deliberate, spaced. Each shell seemed thoughtfully positioned and more powerful than the last. Like rolling thunder, the intensity cycled up and down Caballo Island like a sine wave peaking every ten minutes.
Winding his watch, he reckoned they were in the cycle's seventh minute and due for another pasting overhead, when an iron door grated loudly outside. Men shouted, then another iron door clanked and rattled. The yelling became louder. Lights snapped on and a bony Fred Holloway stumbled into the cellblock.
His eyes were savage as he scanned the cells. "Skipper!" he yelled.
Ingram jumped up and grabbed the bars. "Over here."
Holloway ran up, his face flush.
Mordkin followed closely behind saying, "You can't do this
. I don't have authorization to release him yet.
"Forget it. We're surrendering," Holloway yelled over his shoulder. "Where's the key?"
Mordkin waved a .45 and cocked it. "Step back you sonofabitch."
"Look out!" yelled Ingram.
As Holloway spun, Junior Forester piled through the door and, with feet churning, jumped on Mordkin's back, knocking the pistol aside. Sunderland charged in, hitting the stockade captain in the side of his head with a beefy fist. Mordkin groaned and sank to the floor unconscious.
Holloway rattled the bars. "Where the hell are the keys?"
Ingram pointed to Mordkin. "In his pocket."
While Sunderland and Forester bent to search Mordkin, Ingram asked, "What time is it?"
"Almost 1530," Holloway answered.
Ingram shook his head, thoroughly confused. "What day?"
Holloway covered his ears, the bombardment near the ten-minute intensity peak. "Jesus. Sounds like a damned freight train in here. It's Thursday, May sixth. Todd, are you alright?"
"I think so. What's going on?"
"No keys," shouted Sunderland, looking up from Mordkin's body.
Ingram pointed toward the door, "Try the cabinets. Isn't there a desk of some kind out there?"
Sunderland and Forester dashed out the door. Holloway turned and said, "Japs made an amphibious assault on Corregidor's east end about midnight last night. By this morning they'd taken over half the Rock. Then, a couple of hours ago, white flags popped out over Topside and Monkey point."
Holloway took a deep breath. "Big snafu in HQ here. We lost radio contact with the Rock. Nobody knows what's going on. Just before noon, the brass decided to surrender and ran white flags up, too. It was quiet for a while but the damned Japs started shelling and bombing again! During the lull a bunch of guys ran for the tunnel entrance for fresh air." With wide eyes, Holloway spread his arms. "Wham! Direct hit. Everybody dead. Forty dumb, happy guys just standing around breathing fresh air and thinking their war was over. You should see--"
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 20