A Pledge of Silence

by Flora J. Solomon

  Twin-engine C-47s waited on Dewey Boulevard, Manila’s main thoroughfare. Hearing bombs in the distance and gunfire nearby, the women hastened to board. Over the roar of the engines, the pilot yelled, “Everyone up front! We’re overloaded and need to lighten the tail.” Sniper fire crackled as they taxied down the middle of the road. The pilot held the brakes while pushing the throttle forward, forcing the rear of the plane off the ground. They skimmed over the treetops, and the women cheered the captain’s skill before taking their seats and settling in for the trip.

  As the plane gained altitude, Margie gazed earthward, where she could see the full extent of the devastation of once-beautiful Manila. The curvilinear buildings in the business district and the geometric architecture of the theater district—gone. The parks, wide avenues, and palatial homes with tiled roofs and translucent shells for windows—also gone, replaced by piles of gray rubble that stretched for miles in all directions. Columns of black smoke marked areas where battles still raged. Leaning into the window, she saw Japanese artillery on the rooftops of buildings surrounding Santo Tomas, and the reality of the danger that still remained to those left behind burst her euphoric bubble. Shaken, she willed herself back into the safety of numbness.

  They flew southeast to Leyte, another Philippine island. From her bird’s-eye perspective, Margie saw an immense harbor crowded with hundreds of US ships. From an airstrip near the shoreline, bombers and fighter planes landed and took off, one after another.

  Their C-47 landed smoothly amid the bustle. After disembarking, the nurses underwent evaluations at a nearby army hospital. The doctors recorded every detail of their depleted condition, admitting several of them for inpatient care.

  Margie suffered from malnutrition and malaria. Because she had so little muscle tone and no fat left to support her internal organs, her abdomen was tender when palpated, and her bladder control weak. The doctor jotted notes about her achy joints and a few loose teeth. As the physical exam progressed, he noted bruising around her vagina and a tear in the perineum.

  “What happened here?” he asked.

  Knowing this question was sure to be asked, she had concocted a plausible answer. “I fell during the liberation. The ground was slippery and I lost my footing. I landed hard on a rock. It’s better now. It doesn’t burn anymore when I pee.”

  The doctor frowned. “The injuries are characteristic of—”

  “Nothing like that happened. It was just a fall!”

  He didn’t press her further, but made more notes on her chart.

  A Captain Riker interviewed her as part of his project to amass data for future war-crime tribunals. Stories came spewing out like a flood, one incident triggering the memory of another—hundreds of details. What a relief, to finally have the freedom to express her rage at Japanese cruelties and petty sadisms!

  The captain nodded frequently and scribbled furiously. At the end of the hours-long interview, he said, “We’re asking everyone coming out of the prison camps not to talk about any of this. I have a paper for you to sign saying you’ll comply. You know how it is. Stories tend to grow; little things get magnified. It’s best to keep silent. Just go about your life, get married, have your babies, be a pretty lady again.” He shoved the paper and a pen toward her.

  She read the title: Publicity in Connections with Escaped, Liberated, or Repatriated Prisoners of War to Include Evaders of Capture in Enemy Occupied Territory and Internees in Neutral Countries.

  She couldn’t comprehend it, and she was hungry again. Thinking about lunch, she signed the paper, certain she’d never want to talk about what she had been through.

  After that initial outpouring of fury, Margie began to unwind. Housed in a quiet annex near the beach, she slept in a bed with a mattress and crisp sheets, and soaked in a bathtub, luxuries she had all but forgotten. She was offered more food than she could eat in a lifetime, and every meal seemed like a banquet. She sunbathed on Leyte’s white-sand beaches and swam in the ocean, letting whitecaps wash over her. The base hosted beer parties, Ping-Pong tournaments, and poker games; Frank Sinatra songs played in the bars, and Fred Astaire movies ran at the theaters. Margie found herself obsessed with any news of home, whether from the radio, magazines, or newspapers. She learned about the rationing of food, shoes, and gasoline; of children placed in day care, and mothers working in jobs outside the home; and of other stateside oddities, like the once copper pennies being stamped out of steel.

  She sent a wire to her parents. She loved them, she wrote. She would be home soon. She would phone as soon as she reached San Francisco.

  The flight away from the Philippines continued across the Pacific, stopping to refuel on the island of Saipan. Margie brushed the wrinkles from her new uniform and put on her too-big hat. Glancing out the plane window, she saw a crowd on the tarmac. She nudged Ruth Ann. “Bigwigs must be flying in.”

  As the nurses emerged from the aircraft, the crowd gave a rousing cheer. Puzzled by the fuss, Margie forced a smile and waved shyly. She stood at attention as a band played “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  A reception followed, with tables laden with food and favors. Margie ate a hamburger with mustard and onion, slurped down a Coke, and enjoyed a slice of a chocolate sheet cake, which was emblazoned with the message “Welcome Home to the Good Old USA.” The few women stationed at this obscure airbase donated their own lotions and cosmetics for gift bags as a small tribute to the nurses. Rubbing lotion on her painfully dry hands, Margie said to a woman who worked there, “Much better. Thank you!”

  Shortly, though, she started feeling ill from too much rich food, and the friendly commotion wearied her.

  Unable to shake her dark mood, she wandered away from the crowd to stroll the fields where parked planes sat silently in long rows. She meandered in and around the aircraft, looking closely at wingspans, tires, and tail fins. Abe sprang to mind, how proud he had been of his shiny new pilot’s wings, and how handsome he looked in his uniform. Now all she had left of him were the letters tucked away in a pocket of her duffel bag and the pilot’s ring waiting for her at home. Her thoughts went out to his parents, who had lost their only son and a possible passel of redheaded grandchildren, had the war not intervened.

  She peeked through an open warehouse door. The thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of boxes of food and supplies stacked from floor to ceiling amazed her. What she wouldn’t have given for one of those boxes just ten days ago! Hearing her name called, she spun around.

  “Long time no see,” Evelyn said, striding toward her with outstretched arms.

  Margie shook her head in confusion, but she couldn’t mistake those cornflower-blue eyes as belonging to anyone other than her old roommate. Crossing her arms protectively, Margie took a step back. “What are you doing here?”

  Evelyn stopped short, dropping her arms to her sides. “I’m stationed here. I went back to school and retrained. I’m a flight nurse now.” She touched the gold flight nurse’s wings pinned to her uniform collar.

  Margie stared in curiosity at Evelyn’s wings. Flight nurse? She’d never heard of one.

  “There’s a small group of us. We fly out at daybreak and circle over the islands. When our fighters clear the sky of Jap planes, we land to pick up the wounded and bring them here to the base hospital.”

  Evelyn’s shiny hair, clear skin, and trim figure testified to her good health. Margie hugged herself tighter, hiding her nonexistent bosom. “You’re looking good, but that was always your strong suit, wasn’t it?”

  Evelyn swiped at tears. “Please don’t be angry with me. You would have left Corregidor too if you could have. You know it. I did talk to your parents. I told them where you were and that it was hard to get mail out. They were relieved to hear you were okay.”

  “Thank you,” Margie said.

  “Did you see Max? I heard he was with the liberation forces.”

  Margie felt blood rush to her face. “What makes you think that? I didn’t see him.”

&
nbsp; “Oh, well, you know rumors. I was just hoping. Our contact’s been spotty. I heard about Royce. I’m so sorry. It must have torn you apart. I wish I could have been there for you.”

  “Why? We’re at war. People die! Especially the good ones, like Royce and my friend Helen. She starved to death just before liberation. Have you ever seen anyone starve, Evelyn?” Margie’s voice tightened. “First, she wasted away to nothing. Just before she died, her heart got too weak to function and her body swelled. Her lungs filled with fluid, and she gurgled when she breathed—”

  “Stop it!” Shock registered on Evelyn’s face. “I’ve seen my share of death! I’m sorry about Royce and your friend. I’m sorry you spent almost three years as a prisoner, but I’m not to blame!”

  A deep aversion for this woman with an affinity for dangerous men welled up inside Margie. Her mouth twitched with suppressed emotion, and her fingers flexed as if preparing for attack. She stepped forward.

  A look of fright crossed Evelyn’s face, and she backed away.

  A jeep drove up beside them. “All aboard,” the driver called.

  Margie climbed in, and the jeep sped away toward the waiting C-47. She felt strange, her head aching, her stomach sour, and her heart pounding.

  Boarding the plane, she took a seat by the window and spread a blanket over her lap. A vision of Max licking her ear intruded into her thoughts. She remembered him saying, “When you see your little friend . . .” She remembered the rape, and when she and Gracie prayed over Helen’s body while the church bells pealed . . . then, she remembered nothing until the arrival of the relief nurses from the States.

  Still cold, she pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Her mind searched for a memory it couldn’t retrieve. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, feeling the nicotine calm her anxiety. She chain-smoked and focused on the journey home.

  They left Saipan, bound for Hawaii. Before landing in Honolulu, Boots had the women up in the aisles learning the hula. “The hands tell the story,” she said in a singsong voice. “Watch my hands. See the wave of the ocean and the rise of the sun? Okay, keep the hips going too. Come on. Think swivel hips. Think of those boys out there. No! No! Not bump and grind, girls! We’re supposed to be beautiful. Think beautiful and graceful.”

  “Give it up, Boots,” Gracie said with a giggle. “It’s hopeless. I didn’t know you were a dancer.”

  “Just a wannabe. I wanted to go into the theater, but my dad didn’t think it was a proper thing for his little girl to do. If he only knew.”

  Seven hours after leaving Hawaii on February 24, 1945, the women arrived at Hamilton Field in San Francisco, California, the United States of America. They deplaned to a cheering crowd while a military brass band blared the national anthem. The nurses saluted the Stars and Stripes as it snapped in a brisk breeze. Some knelt and kissed the ground, and most cried freely flowing tears of joy. A brigadier general delivered a welcome-home speech, extolling their sacrifices and dubbing them the “Angels of Bataan and Corregidor.” They all got promoted one grade and were awarded Presidential Unit Citations for heroism and Bronze Stars with two oak-leaf clusters for bravery. San Francisco’s silver-haired mayor preened for the cameras, and pictures of the event made front-page news.

  A horde of reporters surrounded Margie. A flashbulb popped, causing her vision to waver. One asked her if she could have her heart’s desire, what would it be?

  “A haircut,” she replied without hesitation.

  She got her haircut, as well as a manicure, a facial, and a large advance on the back pay the government owed her. Giddy from all the attention, she bought diamond teardrop earrings to complement her new hairdo, lacy underwear, stylish shoes, and a large bottle of Jergens hand lotion—because it smelled like her favorite candy. She purchased perfumes for her mother and Frank’s wife, Irene, and a leather wallet for her dad. The gifts precipitated a tingle of anticipation that left her feeling vaguely anxious.

  In her hotel room later, she hung up the phone on yet another reporter. She said to Ruth Ann, “It’s like they think we’re celebrities or something. He wanted to know my favorite lipstick color. Who could possibly care?”

  Ruth Ann said, “Have you been asked the question yet?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It comes disguised. One sleaze asked me to tell him my worst memory. I could have named a hundred, but none of them would have been what he wanted to hear.”

  “Like were we violated, ruined, molested, despoiled, raped, and disgraced?”

  “They want all the details.”

  Margie called home. As she waited for the call to Little River to go through, she pictured the setting: Dad dressed in his favorite blue cable-knit sweater, smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper; Mama wrapped in one afghan and knitting another. At this time of night, the radio would be playing music. She heard a click, then a “Hello?” Her mother’s voice.

  The long-distance operator interrupted, first speaking to Margie’s mother, then directly to Margie herself, saying, “You’re connected. Go ahead.”

  She couldn’t control the quaver in her voice. “Mama? It’s Margie.”

  There was silence from the other end of the line.

  “Can you hear me, Mama? It’s me, Margie. I’m in San Francisco.”

  “Margie! Oh, my dear! Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’m on leave. I’ll be home soon. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in San Francisco. Is Daddy there? Can you put him on too?”

  The connection echoed, then buzzed and crackled.

  “. . . neighbors,” Margie heard.

  “I couldn’t hear you. Is Daddy there? Can you put him on?”

  “I’m sorry, dear. He’s at a neighbor’s. How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” she repeated. “I’m flying to Chicago tomorrow, then taking the train on Friday to Ann Arbor. I’ll arrive there about six o’clock in the evening. Can Daddy pick me up?”

  Mama hesitated. “Of course, dear.”

  Margie heard a screech. “Is that a baby crying?”

  “Yes, that’s Billy. Frank and Irene had a baby.”

  “Frank has a baby?”

  “Yes. He’s almost a year old. Would you like to say hello to Irene?”

  So Margie talked to the sister-in-law she had yet to meet in person. Irene sounded young and hesitant. She said Billy had just started to walk and was cranky this evening because he was cutting teeth.

  Margie commiserated. A silence stretched between them. She finally said, “Well, there’s a line to use the phone here. Tell Daddy I love him and I’m sorry I missed him.”

  “Would you like to talk to your mother again? Wait, she went to the bathroom. I’m sorry. She’s a little upset. It’s been a hard time for us, you know.”

  Unsettled, Margie hung up the phone. The call was disjointed and confusing, and where was her dad? It had not gone as she expected.

  CHAPTER 17

  San Francisco / Little River, February 1945

  While waiting for her flight to Chicago, Margie watched as soldiers and sailors jostled through San Francisco’s airport. Thin and fit, the men conveyed a maturity in their faces that was beyond their obvious youth. Some swaggered past with an air of anticipation, carrying gift bags in addition to their duffels. They rushed to catch connecting flights, trains, buses, or taxis. Others walked more slowly, their expressions impassive; they were headed toward troopships anchored in the harbor and uncertain futures.

  Waiting with Margie, Tildy kept busy by knitting a scarf. As her fingers flew and the needles clicked, she said, “Did we ever look like that?” She nodded at a woman wearing a tailored coat and veiled hat, with three equally well-dressed children trailing behind her. “Bet she’s never pissed in a hole.”

  “Or missed a meal,” Margie added as she eyed the handsome coat. “Can’t believe I’m hungry again.” She unwrapped a muffin she’d bought earlier at the airport’s ca
fé. “Don’t look now, but . . .” She inclined her head to the right.

  A soldier and his young lady kissed without regard to others watching, their eyes closed and bodies pressed together. The indulgent crowd parted to walk around them.

  Tildy smiled. “Who’s picking you up?”

  “My dad. In Ann Arbor. How about you?”

  “My brother. He got discharged after he lost his arm a couple of years ago. He must be doing all right. Mom says he can drive. That muffin smells good. I’m going to get one.”

  Tildy left for the café, and Margie continued people watching. A familiar voice caught her ear, deep and resonant with a slow Texas drawl. Royce! Her body snapped to attention, her head whipping left and right as she searched the milling crowd for the face that went with that beloved voice. In an instant, she felt herself bumping along in the back of a truck, feeling the concussive boom, boom, booms as demolition crews ignited stores of ammunition. Eye-dazzling fireworks lit up the sky. In the distance, Japanese bombs blasted. “Royce, I love you!” she shouted over the din, watching him recede through blurry tears. She stretched out her hand.

  A few concerned passersby slowed to observe the wild-eyed woman playing out a scene only she could see. Tildy hurried over and talked Margie back to the present.

  She was still shaky when they boarded their flight. “I could smell the gunpowder, Tildy, and Royce was there, just like . . .”

  She didn’t finish—just like our last minutes together.

  Margie spent the night in Chicago in a room on the twenty-third floor of the Carlton Hotel. The bellhop opened the curtains before he switched on the lights so she could see the majestic view of Lake Michigan. He left her with a small bag of salted peanuts and a bucket of ice cubes.

  Excited about seeing her parents tomorrow, Margie phoned home again.

  Mama said, “Oh, my dear. It really is you, Margie. I was afraid I’d dreamed it.”

  “It’s really me. Not a dream. I can’t believe I’m home either. Can I speak with Daddy?”