"Yes," Said Ingram. "Mr.--"
"Pablo Amador. You were kind enough to take me out to rendezvous with the Wolffish."
CHAPTER FORTY
15 May, 1942
Nasipit, Mindanao
Philippines
Just before noon, a virulent front raged down the Agusan Valley, making Nasipit cringe under jagged bolts of lighting, thunder, and rain. Corregidor's survivors cowered in a corrugated tin hut behind Carrillo’s house, a simple-four room affair on the edge of town. The house had a raised foundation where pigs and chickens rooted underneath, but the hut was built over hard packed earth.
Ingram recalled Carrillo had been production manager at the lumber mill as his father had before him. Since the Japanese closed the mill and shipped the machinery back to Japan, Carrillo did odd jobs trying to make ends meet. Two of his foreman stayed on to help out. They were both ex-sergeants in the Filipino Scouts, who escaped Bataan the day before it fell.
Amador had sent them to the Kinabhangan River to bring back the 51 Boat's crew, except for Whittaker and Bartholomew who stayed behind to work on the recalcitrant Buda. Now, they were packed inside the fetid hut with Carrillo and his wife, Rosarita, serving generous portions sent over from an all-day wedding feast underway across town.
Using wooden utensils, Amador, Ingram, and DeWitt were clustered at one end of the table devouring succulent pieces of lechon--roast pig, roast chicken, and boiled fish. Helen Durand sat with them. Until today, she had been mostly on liquids, but now, Ingram noted, she attacked a fair-sized pile of rice. Yet, she had a long way to go; Whittaker's ball cap was still pulled over her face hiding the cigarette burns. Some of the sores were crusted, others were infected and ran like open blisters. Poor kid, he thought. At night, she scratched and moaned, and rolled desperately searching for sleep and escape from the constant itching and stinging. Yardley’s regimen was to dip her twice a day in salt water, and yes, paint the damn things with Methylate, making her look just like Dwight Epperson.
The rain dwindled for a moment and music drifted through the window; they looked up hearing the strains of "Aloha."
"That's live music?" Ingram asked, his spoon in midair.
Amador replied, "The real thing, fifteen pieces."
The rain eased to a drizzle and they clearly heard the song's last phrase--"...until we meet again."
It was strange hearing this rich music unencumbered by the vagaries of vacuum tubes and capacitors and static and solar flares. Helen's eyes glistened as she said it for them all. "That was beautiful."
Amador reached over, ladled more rice in her bowl, then folded his hands. "The bride and groom are fortunate to be serenaded by the 110th music division of the United States Forces in the Philippines."
"They haven't surrendered?" asked Ingram as he shoveled from a bowl containing the most unsavory looking swill. But it tasted wonderful, and he was afraid to ask what it was.
"The band is Filipinos but a lot of Americans haven't surrendered," explained Amador. "One of your own," he nodded to DeWitt, "is forming a resistance cell near Lake Lanao."
"Who's that?" asked DeWitt, stripping meat off a chicken thigh.
"Colonel Wendell Fertig," said Amador.
"Fertig!" spat DeWitt. "I know him. He's just a light colonel in the engineering corps. What the hell does he know about fighting?"
Amador said, "A lot of people are listening to him: Moros, Negritos, Magahats, Malays, your own people who refuse to surrender. His organizational skills are worth their weight in gold. Otherwise, we will do the Hapons work by killing each other off. Perhaps if you're here long enough you'll meet him. He passes through Nasipit next week when we discuss how to get things moving here in the Agusan Province."
DeWitt needed confirmation. "So you are in charge of the resistance here?"
"Ummm."
"When are you going to start resisting?" DeWitt said rather casually. Instantly, he wished he could have tied a string on the sentence and yanked it back, for Amador flashed a terrible look. "Sorry," he said.
"Carrillo, Guzman, and Ramirez are the core of my unit, here. They're brave men. Others will join us," said Amador, waving around the table. "They have much to make up for since the Hapons occupied our land in the name of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere."
DeWitt gave a cheesy smile and said, "I didn't mean anything. I was only worried we had the wrong information about who was running things down here."
Amador looked DeWitt in the eye. "Your information is correct." Then he turned to Helen and took her hands. "I heard what Tuga did to you. It's good to see you on the mend. The man will receive his measure, I assure you."
"When?" asked Ingram.
Amador shook his head slowly. "We must do it in such a way as to minimize retribution. The best way is to fake an accident. But that's hard these days. They investigate everything."
DeWitt said, "You mean..."
Amador nodded. "Randomly, they take ten maybe twenty of our people if one of theirs is killed. Sometimes they just do it for sport." His fists doubled. "Men, women, children. They shoot them, their bodies left to rot. We're not allowed to bury them." Amador's jaw worked. After a silence, he leaned over and took Helen's hand. "Let me know if I can help you in any way."
With a wooden skewer, Helen pushed a piece of chicken across her plate. "Thank you. How about your family?"
Amador said, "Lucky. I got them out before the war broke. They're in New Mexico. My brother has a gas station in Santa Fe." His voice dropped. "Were you at the Diaz's 'til the end?"
Helen's cap bobbed up and down. "You...heard...Doña Valentina?"
Thunder cracked and Amador grew red. "I did."
Ingram snapped his spoon in half. They looked at him. He put the halves down saying, "Why do they do that. What do vermin like--Tuga--hope to accomplish?"
Amador poured water and said, "Tuga? Unfortunately, I know the type very well. There are plenty of Filipinos just like him--ambitious, nothing gets in the way. They steal, murder, rape. Toga’s just like them: A cheap politician out to make a mark. He even claims to have Hideki Tojo's ear."
DeWitt fondled a knife. "I'd like to have Tojo's ear."
Helen coughed and pushed away her plate.
"Uh, sorry." DeWitt stood with his plate and nodded toward the Carrillo’s kitchen. "More rice anybody?" he muttered.
They shook their heads and DeWitt trudged off. Amador gave a long exhale and asked Helen, "Where do you live?"
"Ramona. That's in California," she said.
Ingram looked up. "A play. Isn't there a play or something?"
She nodded. "A passion play. It's staged nearby in Hemet."
Ingram snapped his fingers, "I remember now. It's about the Indian Girl--and what's his name?"
"Allesandro," said Helen, with the slightest of smiles.
"Oh," said Ingram. Watching her mouth turn up like that made him feel wonderful.
Amador nodded slowly and said, "I'll plan on coming to Ramona after the war." Then he fell silent and stared at the patterns he'd traced on the tablecloth; the rain drummed outside.
His eyebrows lifted and he said, "We have a passion play, also."
"Here, in Nasipit?" asked Helen.
"Marinduque." Said Amador. "Emilio Aguilar is involved. Everybody is, actually."
DeWitt returned and sat with a full plate of rice. He spooned a big mouthful and said, "You know Aguilar well?"
"An old friend," said Amador. "As one of the Marinduque dons he is responsible for the Moriones Festival."
DeWitt asked, "What's that?"
Amador traced a forefinger across the oilcloth and said, "A Holy Week pageant, actually."
"Yes?" asked Helen.
Rain thundered outside for a moment, obliterating music of the 110th. Amador's quick eyes flicked to the windows and he looked in the distance. Then he said, "It's about a Centurion."
"Roman?" Asked Ingram.
"Yes. A Roman Centurion," said Amador.
Amador seemed distracted, again. The three Americans waited patiently. At length he said, "All of Marinduque turns out. They rehearse and build sets and make costumes. Each year they change parts so everybody has a chance to play someone. Except Emilio Aguilar." He paused.
"Yes?" said DeWitt in a tone that implied, 'get on with it.'
"Emilio has played Pontius Pilate for five years running," said Amador.
Ingram nodded. Strange. Aguilar hadn't struck him as one who could act or be animated before an audience and hold their attention. He was so serious, so unlike a troubadour. Perhaps that's what war does to civilians, Ingram thought.
Amador continued, "The legend says Longinus is the one who threw the spear at Christ on the cross. Christ's blood spurted and hit Longinus in his blind eye. Instantly it healed, and he could see again. Right there, he professed faith to Jesus Christ. At that the people became angry and chased him. Longinus escaped but they caught him two days later, on Sunday, and dragged him before Pontius Pilate."
Amador took a deep breath and looked at them. "Longinus did not renounce his faith in Jesus Christ. Pilate sentenced him to death and he was beheaded."
"This is in the Bible?" asked Helen.
Amador shook his head. "Just a legend. It originated back in the 1500s. But for centuries, people have come to enjoy the Moriones Festival."
Amador's eyes darted between them. He said quietly, "After the Hapons occupied Marinduque, the people thought about canceling the festival, but decided to continue at the last minute. Tuga and his filth came on the last day--Easter Sunday. It was their first experience with them. They ignored Tuga. He felt snubbed and became angry."
Amador spread his palms. "In the Hapon culture they can't stand to lose face. So at the beheading scene, Tuga pulled a thirteen-year-old girl from the crowd and carried out a real execution."
Ingram shook his head slowly.
"Aguilar didn't tell you?" asked Amador.
"Not that," said Ingram.
"It was their daughter," Amador said.
Helen covered her mouth, making a choking sound.
Ingram said, "My God. He only spoke of his son."
"It's too much pain for him." Amador’s voice rumbled, "What is wrong with simple poor people working together to sing, paint masks, recite a play, laugh a little, and praise God?" Amador's eyes were almost like embers and his upper lip curled over his teeth.
Instinctively, Helen drew close to Ingram.
Amador's narrow frame quivered as his bony finger pointed in the general direction of north. Spittle flew from his mouth as his voice rose to an uncharacteristic roar, "What's wrong with those Hapon bastards? Why must they stick their fat little hands in everything around them?"
He took a deep breath and then said, "Hapons congratulate themselves for their swift metamorphosis from a feudal society to the twentieth century. Yet giving them Western culture is like giving a thirteen-year-old thug a priceless Stradivarius. He smashes it in rage because he won't bother learning to play it. And to save face, he shoots his neighbors because they do know how to play it."
Rain pounded. Ingram twirled one of the spoon halves.
Amador drew a deep breath and exhaled. "Do you know what the Chinese say about this?"
"No."
"It's one of their proverbs. 'He who strikes the first blow, loses the quarrel.'"
"Somebody should tell the Japs it's not so bad to lose face once in a while." It was Toliver, who had been quietly listening.
Surprised, they looked at him.
Toliver said, "I mean, can't they learn to laugh at themselves? Isn't that what all this is about?"
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
15 May, 1942
Nasipit, Mindanao
Philippine Islands
The rain let up and ex-Filipino Scouts Guzman and Ramirez dashed out the door carrying a crock of boiled fish to the two engineers working on the 51 Boat on the Kinabhangan River .
Beardsley scooted over while smacking his lips on a juicy chunk of lechon. He nodded toward the door, "They're wasting their time, Todd. Don't need the boat anymore. May as well give it to Amador and his boys." He popped the last chunk of lechon in his mouth. "Damn. That stuff is good."
Carrillo joined them, giving Beardsley a chart of northern Mindanao. Beardsley unrolled it and rapped it with the back of his knuckles. Wiping grease off his lips, he said, "Good chow, Manuel. Thanks."
"Si." Carrillo nodded.
Beardsley continued, "There are three airfields. Two of them are near here, the other close to Esperanza.
"Which side of the river?" asked Amador,
"East side, about four-or five-miles southeast of town. We flew in and out of that one," he pointed, "for two weeks straight. There were camouflaged revetments under tall trees for about ten B-17s."
Ingram asked, "When was that, Leon?"
"Uhh...last August," said Beardsley.
DeWitt snorted, "That's nine months ago. Who's to say the planes are still there?"
Beardsley said somewhat sullenly. "They're there, I say. And I heard they were still there as of two months ago"
Ingram looked away.
DeWitt clicked his teeth as the strains of "Danny Boy" drifted from the wedding feast.
"I'm not shitting you," Beardsley said plaintively.
"Lieutenant," snapped DeWitt.
"Sorry, Sir," said Beardsley.
Ingram raised his eyebrows to Amador and Carrillo.
They looked at one another and shrugged. Amador said, "Maybe so, maybe not. I remember a lot of air activity then, and this damned jungle is so thick you can just about hide New York City."
"There. See?" said Beardsley triumphantly.
"Lieutenant!" barked DeWitt. "Just hold on."
"Yessir," Beardsley said, picking at a piece of bread.
The rain slackened completely and "Moonglow" wafted through. Ingram said to Amador, "That night, as you boarded the Wolffish, didn't you say there was a radio here?"
Amador shook his head. "No more. Hapons took it when they stripped the mill. But there's a receiver, I think, in Gingoog."
Ingram tried to hide his disappointment. "How...do you communicate?" he asked.
"Runner. Tom-tom. We're still getting organized." Like Corregidor, Mindanao had fallen nine days before and the Japanese were in the process of consolidating their conquests. "A submarine called last week near Dipalog, I hear. Maybe they dropped off a radio."
Ingram said, "Too far." Dipalog was almost two hundred miles west. It would take too much time and besides, it was Moro country. Even the Japanese were afraid to go in there.
Lighting flashed and thunder rocked the valley, bringing a new torrent of rain to crash on the hut. Amador almost had to shout. "You need a transmitter?"
"Yes," said Ingram.
"I sense urgency in your tone."
"We need a transmitter," Ingram repeated.
Amador leaned forward. "But--"
Beardsley said, "Todd, those B-17s have great radios. I get you up to twenty, hell, thirty thousand feet and you can call anybody you like: MacArthur, Roosevelt, Hitler. Anybody."
"Thanks, Leon. Give me some time to think it over." Ingram exchanged glances with DeWitt, thankful for Beardsley's interruption. They didn't want Amador to know too much.
Sustained conversation was difficult so they fell silent and picked at the remains of their meal. Finally, Ingram said loudly, "Carrillo seemed to know we were coming. Were you expecting us?"
Amador nodded. "Emilio sent a messenger on the inter-island steamer saying you may be coming here. One of my coast watchers saw you head into the Kinabhangan River early this morning.
"Not a bad system." said Ingram.
"Believe it or not, this rudimentary technology works," Amador agreed.. Beardsley said. "Todd, about those planes..."
"You don't give up, do you Leon?" said
Ingram.
"Uh, Uh." Beardsley laid the map in Ingram's lap and pointed. "I'll try the Esperanza field first."
"What?" said Ingram almost incredulously.
"Yeah, me. I can see fine. It should be about...here. The closest. How 'bout letting me have Sunderland and a rifle. We'll zip out there and back. Shouldn't take any more than a day, while you guys sit here and stuff your faces. If the planes are still there, it won't take long to check one over. Chances are I can fly us out; maybe tomorrow night. Next day for sure."
Ingram said, "Otis?"
The rain thumped harder and ran into the little hut. For a moment, DeWitt studied a puddle of muddy water growing in the dirt between his feet. At length he said, "Might as well try it. That's one of the reasons we're here."
Ingram said to Amador, "Where are the Japs bivouacked?"
Amador rubbed his chin and replied, "There's a large garrison in Butuun, some in Buenavista. That's where your Kempetai friend is staying."
"Roadblocks?" said Ingram.
"Hmm, yes," said Amador. "I know of a route to Esperanza that...wait a moment." He leaned forward and spoke to Carrillo in a rapid burst of Tagalog. At last he sat back and said, "There are roadblocks, at least three on the route to Esperanza."
Beardsley said, "How far?"
"Twenty-five miles or so."
"Hell, we'll hack our way through the forest," said Beardsley.
Amador opened his mouth, but Ingram said, "You wouldn't get two hundred yards."
Beardsley flushed, making his scars become angry red tributaries. He grabbed Ingram's sleeve. "Todd, damnit. This is our ticket out of here. We keep island-hopping and the Japs are going to catch our asses and roast us over a slow fire like--" he waved a forefinger at the window, "--like whatchamacallit's son."
Ingram shook Beardsley's hand loose. "Try going to Esperanza and you'll be the one dangling headfirst over a slow fire."
"Well, at least I'll go out doing something I'm trained to do."
THE LAST LIEUTENANT: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 1) Page 40