A Pledge of Silence

by Flora J. Solomon

  A two-day ride to San Francisco, to be exact. Upon arriving, they checked into the Armand Hotel. Over the next few days they underwent the tedious business of being processed for active duty, which included a physical exam and inoculations against tropical diseases. They stood in long lines, waiting to be issued clothing, field gear, and metal identification tags stamped with their name, rank, and other relevant information. After a free day to shop and see the highlights of San Francisco, they boarded the USS Coolidge with two thousand exuberant soldiers and sailors. By that evening, they were sailing the Pacific Ocean.

  Accustomed to the wide-open fields of home, Margie found the warrens of tiny rooms in the ship’s hold claustrophobic. When she sought fresh air on deck, the blazing sun fried her light skin to blisters. As they crossed the International Date Line, suddenly Tuesday became Wednesday. What day is it? she asked herself. Where am I?

  Ryan, a sailor from Mississippi, said, “We’re going to the Philippines.”

  “How do you know? I don’t see anything but endless water and sky,” Margie said.

  “A gut feeling. I’ve got twenty bucks on it.”

  Margie rolled her eyes. These men placed bets on anything and everything to break the long days of monotony. However, Ryan won this bet, and Margie cheered when she learned of her assignment to Sternberg General Hospital in Manila, not far from the Cañacao Naval Hospital, where Evelyn worked.

  “Lucky you,” Helen said, grumbling, unhappy with her deployment to Camp John Hay, a mountainous army post and posh resort 170 miles north of Manila.

  Standing on deck with Ryan, Margie watched the sights as the Coolidge approached Luzon, the largest island in the Philippine archipelago.

  “Manila Bay is the finest harbor in the Far East,” Ryan said. He pointed to a small island standing sentinel at its mouth. “That’s Corregidor. It’s so heavily fortified, it’s called the Gibraltar of the East. The country that controls Corregidor controls the harbor. See that ship docked over there?” He waved toward the shore. “It’s a mine planter; this harbor’s full of mines.”

  Volcanic peaks rose up on both sides of the bay. They were covered with the lush, tropical trees of the Philippine rain forest, including tall mahoganies, palms, strangler figs, and mangroves, whose aerial roots made the trees appear to be growing on stilts. Wide sandy beaches connected the forests to the water’s edge. As the Coolidge sailed farther into the harbor, Ryan pointed to a landmass on the left. “You’re looking at the Bataan Peninsula. I’ve heard the jungle there’s impenetrable.” Over on the right, the compact and crowded Cavite Naval Base occupied the fingerlike projection of Sangley Point.

  Ryan identified other ships cramming the immense harbor. “That’s a destroyer. It’s fast and maneuverable. It’s used mostly as an escort ship. Over there’s a battleship. It carries the big guns.” He pointed out flat-decked aircraft carriers, hospital ships, and submarines. “Looks impressive, doesn’t it? Truth is, this fleet’s from the last war.” He shook his head.

  An army band played Sousa marches as Margie and Helen disembarked. A cloud opened up and delivered a deluge, soaking Margie’s navy-blue slim-fitting dress and matching high-heeled shoes. The rain lasted only minutes, and then the sun came out and it became steamy. She took off her white gloves and picture hat and would have liked to take off her girdle and silk stockings.

  A car waited at the end of the pier. The girls tumbled in and were chauffeured through the port area, past warehouses and fuel-storage tanks. Trolleys, bicycles, scooters, and small carts drawn by ponies no bigger than dogs jammed the narrow streets. High-wheeled wooden carts pulled by strong-backed Chinese or great lumbering oxen blocked the flow of traffic.

  The crowded streets widened as they drove past Santo Tomas, the oldest university in Asia. When the avenues broadened into palm-lined boulevards, majestic high-rise apartments, huge hospitals, museums, and modern government facilities came into view. The driver pointed out the small, elegant American embassy and the mission-style Manila Hotel overlooking both the blue waters of Manila Bay and the flower-laden promenades of Luneta Park. Margie craned her neck this way and that, trying to see everything.

  “I’ve never been so hot,” she complained. She waved her hat in front of her face, trying to create a breeze, but the sodden air refused to move. They stopped at the Army and Navy Club, where another car waited to take Helen to Camp John Hay. The two women hugged, said their good-byes, and promised to get together soon. Margie, glad to have her feet back on solid ground, purchased a Coke and looked around.

  The club was the center of social activity for military personnel in Manila, and its calendar of events included dates for poker, pinochle, bridge nights, and a lecture series covering Philippine history, culture, and points of interest. A dining room served meals, with a dance band playing through the dinner hour, proper dress required. Meeting rooms, game rooms, a gym, and a swimming pool were available, and the club hosted a sock hop every Friday. For families with children, an old-fashioned picnic with games and prizes was in the works.

  “Marr-gee,” she heard. She turned and saw Evelyn. Her blond hair was rolled back from her deeply tanned face, and the blue of her eyes dazzled. She wore a sleeveless pale blue dress that looked tailored for her tiny figure, and delicately beaded sandals graced her feet. The two women hugged as they twirled in a circle.

  A tall, elegant man dressed in a white linen suit and a Panama hat tipped over one eye accompanied Evelyn. Grabbing him by the arm, she pulled him forward. “Margie, I’d like you to meet Max Renaldo.”

  Evelyn had written to Margie about Max, who she’d met at a charity ball at the Manila Hotel. In her most recent letters, Evelyn confessed she had fallen in love with this dream of a man. At thirty-two, he was already a captain in the army and chief surgeon at Sternberg Hospital.

  Max tipped his hat, revealing black hair with a startling streak of white sweeping back from a widow’s peak. Smiling, Margie offered her hand; to her surprise, he lifted it to his full lips. His eyes, deep-set and dark, bored through her. Not knowing how to respond, she foolishly murmured, “Thank you.” Max looked amused. Feeling unsettled, she stepped away from his mesmerizing gaze.

  Evelyn said, “We’ll drive you to Sternberg, Margie. I’ve seen the nurses’ quarters and they’re really beautiful. Are you hungry? We could stop for dinner. There’s a restaurant that has this delicious noodle dish. You’ll probably want to freshen up a bit—your dress is kinda limp. Where’s your luggage? Your trunk will be delivered to the hospital later. Let Max take these suitcases.”

  Margie listened to Evelyn babble, not able to get a word in edgewise. As she gathered her few pieces of luggage together and Max loaded them into the car, she felt his hand brush across her backside. She quickly stepped back and looked at Max, whose face was hidden behind the car door. Frowning, she wondered if the unwelcome touch had been an accident.

  A few days later, Margie reported for her first day of work in the surgical unit at Sternberg. Lois, a nurse, scrubbed at the sink while humming along with the popular tune playing on the radio. She told Margie, “Wash up to your elbows. Clean towels and gowns are over there.” Her pudgy hands and ample arms were soapy, so she nodded her head at a basket, then at a cupboard. “How long have you been in Manila?”

  “Five days,” Margie said. With a surgical mask covering her face and her abundant hair stuffed under a tight-fitting cap, only the twinkle in her eyes conveyed her excitement.

  “Welcome to Sternberg Hospital. You’ll be my shadow this week. Next week, you’ll be on your own. Where’d you get your training?”

  “Walter Reed.”

  “Super. They’re sending us first-class nurse-anesthetists.” They entered the operating room. “Hey, everybody,” Lois called out. “This is Margie. Be nice to her; she’s fresh off the boat.”

  “Morning,” a nurse said. She was dressed head to toe in surgical garb.

  “Margie, meet Eunice. She’s the scrub today.”


  Margie stood to one side, watching as Eunice opened a package of sterile instruments: a dozen forceps, large and small scissors, scalpels, and an assortment of clamps and retractors. She arranged sterile towels on the Mayo stand and placed the instruments in perfect order, according to the surgeon’s preference. She slid knife blades into handles, checked the sizes of needles, and opened suture packets, unwinding and cutting strands to the proper length. When done, she covered the tray with a sterile towel.

  A corpsman wheeled the sleepy patient into the room, and Margie helped position her on the operating table, covering her with a light blanket. The woman smiled. “Thank you, dear.”

  The surgery door flew open, and Dr. Renaldo strode up to his patient.

  Margie’s eyes flickered in surprise.

  He addressed his patient. “Mrs. Clark, are you comfortable?” With his head bent down, the silver streak in his dark hair fell over his right eye. “I’m going to scrub. When I come back, you’ll be sound asleep. I’ll see you in post-op.” He patted her arm. “You’ll be fine. You believe that.”

  Turning to leave, he bumped into Eunice and the Mayo stand. The sterile towel flipped up, and his elbow brushed over the instruments. He took no notice. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Get that drivel off the radio.”

  Hostile stares followed him out the door and Eunice whispered, “Arrogant SOB.” Her work contaminated by the encounter, she would have to start over, keeping her gown, gloves, and instrument tray sterile according to the rules of asepsis.

  When Dr. Renaldo returned, a nurse assisted him into a gown and gloves. His dark eyes swept the room. Margie looked down, not wanting to attract his attention.

  He palpated the patient’s abdomen to locate the mass. “Is she under, nurse?”

  Lois checked the patient’s responses. “Yes, doctor.”

  Beethoven’s Symphony no. 3 played in the background, and the surgical team fell into a rhythm, their light conversation punctuated by orders.

  “Anyone seen the Kate Hepburn movie? Retractor here.”

  “Bringing Up Baby? It’s a good laugh. I’d take Cary Grant home with me any day.”

  “Have you tried the new restaurant next door to the theater?”

  “Suction here, nurse. Come on! Hemostat. Get this bleeder!”

  “Sorry, doctor.”

  “The food’s so-so. Good desserts, though.”

  Dr. Renaldo stepped back from the table. He turned his head to the side, inhaled sharply, sneezed loudly, and snuffed wetly. “Get this mask off me.”

  A nurse untied it and threw it in the laundry.

  Dr. Renaldo wrinkled his nose and snuffed again, his bloody gloved hands unusable and held up to keep them sterile. “Come over here,” he said, jerking his head at Margie.

  She went to him, sensing no sign of recognition.

  “Turn around,” he ordered.

  Margie turned, and he wiped his nose on her shoulder, snot staining her white gown yellow.

  The surgery became quiet as she returned to her stool. Feeling small, she sat with her shoulders hunched and her arms folded in her lap, blinking back tears of humiliation.

  Margie loved most everything about her new luxurious lifestyle. Wide-open porches and deep overhangs brought ocean breezes into the nurses’ quarters. A comfortable bed and thick-cushioned chairs and tables made from native bamboo and rattan, which stood up to the heat and humidity, furnished her room. Her window overlooked a well-tended garden of orchids, gardenias, and purple bougainvillea. A mahogany ceiling fan stirred the air. A houseboy greeted her each day with a glass of juice and the newspaper and, for a small fee, did her laundry and shined her shoes. Manicures, facials, and massages were readily available after a day of tennis, golf, or sunning at the beach. Evenings might mean dressing formal for dinner and gaming at the Jai Alai Club or attending an opera at the Metropolitan Theater with one of the many available doctors.

  Because of the hot, muggy climate, work schedules were light, leaving time to explore the island. With a long weekend ahead, Margie hopped on a train for a four-hour trip north to the town of Baguio to shop in its open-air markets and to visit Helen at nearby Camp John Hay.

  Helen met her at the station, helped her settle into one of the guest rooms kept available for visiting nurses, and then showed her around the compound.

  “It’s the most picturesque scenery in the world,” Margie said. She and Helen gazed over the ridge of a lushly forested mountainside, which plunged steeply down to a still mountain lake. “You don’t get the humidity like in Manila. It’s refreshing up here.”

  “It’s pretty; I’ll give you that. But all I do is pass out quinine pills. I don’t know why I’m here. I’m putting in for a transfer. I want to go to Europe where I can be useful.”

  “Then think of this as a well-deserved vacation.”

  Helen introduced her to Hattie, the only other nurse at the camp, and Dr. Robb, a rail of a man with a friendly smile. They toured the barns where the Twenty-Sixth Cavalry Regiment’s horses were trained, feeding the handsome animals oats from the palm of their hands. They tried playing the hilly golf course, but gave it up after three miserable holes to go shopping in Baguio. The next day, they hiked along trails through trees filled with monkeys, gibbons, and rainbow-colored birds.

  “Helen, I love it all. It’s so peaceful. Can you smell the cinnamon and cloves?”

  “Now that you mention it, I can.”

  “What’s that noise?”

  “Just a waterfall. They’re all over the place.” They rounded a bend, and sure enough, gushing water cascaded from a limestone cliff.

  Margie took off her shoes and dipped her toes into the water. She peered through the dense forest. “Do we dare?” she said with a mischievous smile.

  “Margie!” Helen looked around. “Well, I guess it’s okay. Most people are napping this time of day.”

  Stripping off their clothes, they waded in, skinny-dipping in the emerald pool at the base of the cascade. Floating on her back, Margie tilted her head and let the cool water flow through her hair, thinking her life had turned into a delightful fantasy.

  CHAPTER 7

  Manila, July–October 1941

  Evelyn delighted in showing Margie the sights of Manila, with its complicated overlays of Chinese, Arab, and Spanish influences. More recently, forty years of American intervention brought modernization to the flourishing, cosmopolitan downtown area. She pointed out the curvilinear forms of the art nouveau buildings in the business quarter, and the stylized geometric art deco architecture in the newer theater district.

  Parks were plentiful and luxuriant, and the avenues wide. Off the main streets, wealthy Filipinos had built large houses with brick walls, tiled roofs, and windows made from translucent shells called capiz.

  They explored the old walled city of Intramuros, built in 1571 while the Spaniards reigned. Its thick stone walls enclosed ancient barrios crowded with colonial houses, dungeons, baroque cathedrals, and museums, promising many lifetimes’ worth of intrigue to discover.

  “Chinatown is even older,” Evelyn said. “It dates back to the tenth century. How about lunch there? The restaurants have everything from soups and noodles to exquisite dinners. What sounds good to you?”

  Margie didn’t know. The menus the waiter brought were printed with strange symbols. She finally pointed to a dish of vegetables over rice that a diner at the next table was eating.

  After lunch, Evelyn purchased a pair of soft slippers and immediately put them on. Margie bought a tin of Chinese tea and a silk evening purse. Having enjoyed the day and each other’s company, they planned to make the outing a monthly excursion.

  In sharp contrast to the bustle and wealth of Manila, the countryside peasants lived in bamboo nipa huts perched on stilts next to mud wallows. Margie gaped at the new sights through the car window while on a day trip out of the city. Evelyn and Max occupied the front seat. Margie was friendly with Max for Evelyn’s sake, but she disliked his piercing g
aze and unbearable arrogance.

  Royce Sherman, a surgeon and former Texas A&M quarterback, shared the backseat with Margie. Their mutual attraction had been immediate—her long gaze, his wink in return, and then her blush. She found he was friendly and outgoing and affected a bit of a swagger, which she thought amusing—but he wasn’t a flirt. They had been sharing lunch hours over the past couple of days.

  “People live in those shanties?” she asked.

  “People and animals,” Max said. “The floors are made from split bamboo so food scraps can fall through to the pigs and chickens underneath. The water buffalo over there are called carabao. They don’t sweat, so they need those mud wallows to keep cool.”

  “Carabao pull those high-wheeled carts you see all over,” Evelyn added.

  A convoy of sixteen open buses approached from the opposite direction, each bus holding sixty-some Filipino men singing gaily. Conglomerations of suitcases, boxes, guitars, cooking pots, chickens in cages, and piglets in bags were stowed on top and underneath and lashed to the sides of the buses. Clanking, squawking, and squealing noisily, the convoy rattled along. The Filipino men waved and shouted as they passed by.

  “Look at those jokers. It’s the Philippine army,” Max said. “They’re training with bamboo guns.”

  “Bamboo guns?” Evelyn said. “They use darts dipped in poison—what is it . . . curare?”

  Max scoffed. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “It’s not absurd. In South America, the Indians hunt with blowguns made from bamboo and darts dipped in curare. I read about it in the National Geographic.”

  Max said, “Stop showing your ignorance. This isn’t South America.”

  Margie frowned, disturbed by Max’s scorn, and was surprised Evelyn allowed it. This wasn’t the Evelyn she knew, the one who took control of a relationship.