Cronies (Perry County)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Mickey's would be a package deal. His customers would buy their freezers, at far below retail, and agree to purchase, at fair rates, the butchered and wrapped meats desired.

  Harrisburg would be the place and politicians would be his customers. Following graduation, he would begin at one end of Front Street and sell clean to the other. If a few bought, they would convince their friends.

  Mickey smelled money and the scent was sweet. He wished Logan would come home from the Philippines. Logan could probably sell every house he tried. With Logan selling, and he finding the best animals and overseeing the butchering, they could get rich.

  Probably Logan was having too good a time to consider it, but they would make an awful strong team.

  +++

  February, 1942 - Luzon Island

  The Philippines

  An hour before, a rain shower had drenched Sergeant Dell and his three privates, but the rain had been cool and welcome. Now the humidity resettled and the four of them sweat rivulets that dripped from fingers and made reins soggy.

  The jungle trail barely allowed the mules passage, and the riders ducked and shoved aside creepers and rain soaked foliage. A private cursed with practiced ease as his animal stumbled. Dell barely noticed. Danger lay below and along the coastlines. The Japanese invaders would not yet be patrolling the island's jungled highlands.

  The Japs had moved south from their landings at Lingayen Gulf. They had the Americans pinned into the Bataan Peninsula. At least by land, no one passed through those lines. By sea? Logan was not certain.

  The American army had always patrolled Luzon's remote villages and jungle hinterlands. The patrols familiarized soldiers with the land and the flag was shown in places otherwise unvisited.

  Sergeant Dell's Spanish had become decent and he drew patrols with some regularity. His privates were new to the Philippines. Patrolling would season them.

  Logan had been east of Baguio en route to Salano when the Japanese struck Pearl Harbor. By the time he called in from Salano, his unit was in the field. Sergeant Dell was ordered to remain in place until further orders. On the 22nd of December, Japanese landed on Luzon, in force. Logan took his men into the jungle.

  Salano's radios reported the enemy's progress, but the single telephone line linking Salano to the world was quickly severed, and no orders came for Sergeant Dell's small patrol.

  Logan planned to join up. He would let the situation stabilize; then he would slide through and join the American counterattack.

  Logan's was the military solution, but within days it was clear that the Americans were withdrawing to defensible positions and breakout would not be soon.

  Within weeks it was obvious that there would be no counterattack. Japanese reinforcements were already pouring in. Logan doubted they would crack the American lines, but the noose had tightened. His plan to slip through was no longer practical.

  Though his men chafed, Logan waited. He recalled the old Panama sergeant's warning that it could be better to stay out. Impatience could place them in enemy hands.

  Japanese came to Salano. An officer armed with a long sword led a dozen men. He harangued the populace in Spanish, and Logan listened from hiding.

  The officer announced a new day of Japanese cooperation. He offered rewards for Americans not yet captured and larger payments for soldiers of the Philippine Scouts who would undoubtedly appear. The officer did not threaten, but he did mention that the Japanese army could be the people's friend or its implacable enemy. He knew Salano would choose friendship.

  Sergeant Dell did not linger to test the officer's persuasiveness. His patrol broke camp and turned north. The privates questioned, for there was nothing American to the north. Logan held his answers until they were within the foothills of Mount Pulog, a place where Japanese would never venture.

  When the riding mules were grained and rubbed down, Sergeant Dell gathered his three men and explained.

  "We've had time to look over the situation, so you know as much as I do.

  "The way I see it, the general is trapped on Bataan. I don't know of any divisions waiting to bail him out. If the navy can resupply him, he'll maybe hold out, but all of the planes we've seen have been Jap. Without air cover, the navy can't come in." Logan paused to let them mull his words.

  "So, what do we do, Sergeant? Dodge Japs in these jungles for the next six months?"

  Another said, "My skin's already rotting off, Sarge."

  Logan nodded understanding. "We've got a number of choices. I'll list 'em for you.

  "We won't consider trying to go through the Japs. We don't know anything about their organization or ways of doing. The odds on slipping by aren't reasonable.

  "We could hole up in these mountains; others will. Natives will help us, but some will go with the Japs. We might join up with others and maybe harass the Japs a little, but I doubt we'd amount to much. Before long, fever would get some of us and a few would rot away. I don't like it.

  "If we can get to the sea, we can get a boat. We might get onto Bataan from the water."

  "How far is that, Sarge?"

  "Well, if we were crows, Bataan is probably less than two hundred miles from here." Men groaned.

  Logan's grin was sour. "You're right. We aren't crows and by sea the trip'll be, oh, at least three hundred miles.

  "There are other worries. The Japs'll be patrolling coastal waters and they'll have a naval cordon around the peninsula. We won't just sail in."

  After a minute, Logan went on. "I've thought it through and made my decision. It's what we're going to do, so I'd appreciate you keeping the grousing down. Don't make things harder than they have to be.

  "I'll be in charge till we run into somebody with more than three stripes. The best way is to pull together but, like it or not, this is how we're heading."

  Logan told them his plan.

  +++

  Before he could get his eyes opened, Captain James Jones felt himself lifted by his shirt-front. He got partially focused and saw a white man looking close at him. That was a relief. So far the Japs hadn't cornered him, but they could come any time.

  Jones' ratty old trading schooner lay with a stern anchor in deep water and her nose tied to a saggy dock of poles and old planks. Jones was chagrined that he had not felt his boat shift under the weight of the boarding party, but the native tuba was strong, and he had again drunk himself stupid.

  Logan Dell hauled the sodden captain erect. The man smelled like a sewer and looked as though he might have recently crawled from one. The ship's cabin smelled as bad and was littered as though violently searched. To Sergeant Dell, the slab-sided old boat was as welcome as the Queen Mary.

  Logan's patrol had come down from the mountains to the tiny copra plantation south of Vigan. It was their fourth look for a suitable boat. In other places, even the native craft were gone. When Logan saw the battered schooner he almost feared to hope. Closer looking could find the boat sunk and resting on the bottom. Or, the Japanese might already be in residence.

  If the Japs had arrived, Logan's men were in poor shape to fight. They had been on short rations far too long. One was seriously weakened with malarial-type fevers and another had lost his rifle over a mountain escarpment. Even the tough riding mules were about finished. Their ribs stood out and they regularly rested themselves whether their riders approved or not.

  Logan had reconnoitered carefully and his men lay within the jungle, Springfields ready, to give what support they could.

  Captain Jones recognized the battered campaign hat and torn wool shirt with chevrons showing. So, the army had arrived. Jones was surprised; he had thought them trapped down south somewhere.

  Logan sat the still befuddled seaman in a chair and shook him a little.

  "This ship ready to sail?"

  "Sail? Sail where?" Jones' wits were still cloudy.

  "Anywhere, damn it." Logan was tired and worried. His patience was short.

  "The crew's gone—can't sail without crew."
Jones was sure of that much.

  The Sergeant shook him again. "You're provisioned? How many crew do you need?"

  Jones found himself answering. "Provisions? For what? I need all of my crew." He thrashed futilely. "Let go of my shirt."

  Logan let go and handed him a partly filled bottle. "Drink some. Then answer up. I've no time to waste."

  Jones drank, shuddered, and put the bottle down. "You're taking us out of here." Logan ordered. "How soon can you sail?"

  Jones appeared astounded. "Sail? The crew is not here."

  "You've got a new crew. How soon?"

  "Well...." Jones peered out a porthole. "The wind's off shore. If the tide's ebbing we might...."

  Logan jerked him erect. "It's going out, so we'll go with it."

  He marched the Captain to the door and whistled sharply. Three men appeared, one partly supported by another.

  The Sergeant called, "Strip the mules and let 'em go. We're sailing now. Move it, or I'll leave you." The men moved.

  Logan turned to the Captain. "Let's get started before Japs come down on us. I've felt 'em behind us the last few days."

  Jones bristled, "Who do you think you are, Sergeant? I'm a civilian; you can't order me around."

  Logan gave the man his full attention. "I figure this boat is yours. If you don't get us out of here—right now—I'll burn you to the waterline. You got that?"

  Jones got it.

  Sergeant Dell asked, "If you're ration short, we'll slaughter the mules. Tell me now."

  Jones was sullen. "I've beans and rice. There's canned goods."

  Logan nodded, watching his men struggle along the dock.

  "Soon as they're aboard, we'll sail. Get your plan together and we'll help."

  "Where are we going? I have to know that much.'

  Logan watched him carefully in answering.

  "Australia, Skipper. That's where we're going."

  The man's eyes bugged but Logan didn't let up. "We're going wide, way out to sea, clear of Jap shipping. Then you can set a course for Australia."

  "We can't sail to Australia. That's thousands of miles. This boat is old. Island hopping is one thing, but crossing oceans, another."

  Logan interrupted, "Look, Captain, we can argue later if you want, but that's where we're going. Now do what you've got to and don't waste my time or yours milling around.

  "We're sailing or you're sinking and that's final." He stepped around the Captain and went to help his men.

  Jones stood for a minute, thinking about his 30/30 Winchester that might or might not fire after years of neglect. Then he considered the immensity of the voyage ahead ... islands to dodge, seas to cross ... shorthanded, with an inexperienced crew, in an old bucket as worn down as its Captain. Jones felt long-jaded senses starting to tingle. Why, with a little luck....

  A rifle shot, sounding muffled and futile in the oppressive heat, startled him from his calculating. At the bow of the ship a soldier looked stupidly at his rifle, as though disbelieving, and the tough sergeant was on the deck clutching a leg.

  The private said, "My God, Sarge ... it just went off." ’

  Logan gripped his calf, squeezing the pain away. The bullet had ripped him good. Missed the bones, maybe, but it hurt too much to look. He ground his teeth both in pain and aggravation. For the instant he wished to kill the careless soldier.

  The worst of the pain turned to numbness, and Logan got his leg bared. A clean hole in and out. He wiggled his foot and felt around. Everything worked but he was bleeding hard. His men knelt alongside, the guilty man exclaiming until Logan told him to shut up.

  Logan unsnapped his first aid kit and peeled open the dressing. He wrapped the bandage as tightly as he could and clawed himself erect.

  A mean and deep ache was developing but he couldn't give it time. The Captain stood slackjawed and blank looking. The privates appeared stunned, as though they had given up and were willing to surrender.

  Logan got them going. His orders lashed them into motion. Dock lines were freed and the schooner fell back on her stern anchor.

  Captain Jones took command and the big hook was winched free of the bottom. The ship drifted with the tide and wind while the two able privates and Jones struggled with the massive mainsail.

  Pawls creaked and the vast canvas rose. The schooner weather-cocked into the wind and drifted away from the land.

  Sheets were hauled and the wheel laid over; the schooner picked up way. Logan held the wheel as directed, and Jones and the soldiers fought a foresail aloft.

  A jib flew and was sheeted in. Beneath his hands, the ship came to life, and through the savage ache of his wound, Logan Dell's hopes began their own tender blossoming.

  +++

  April 1942 - Brisbane, Australia

  The Captain swiveled his chair so that he could face his superior.

  "Here's one for you, Major." He whistled in genuine amazement.

  "A Buck Sergeant up on Luzon got hold of a sailboat and made it into port north of here. Brought out his three man patrol and their gear—even their mule saddles."

  The Major was interested. "Good story. Send it over to the correspondents. We need some good news around here."

  He hesitated, "Nothing sour involved, is there? Man couldn't be a phony or a deserter? We don't want bad publicity."

  The Captain rustled through the sheets. "Nope, Logan Dell, Buck Sergeant, Infantry, old army. He was out on routine patrol when the Japs landed, and he couldn't get in."

  The Major had leaned forward, listening intently. Almost softly he asked, "Would that be Logan Dell out of New Bloomfield, Pennsylvania?"

  The Captain checked, "Sure is. You know this soldier?"

  The senior officer leaned back and laughed aloud.

  "Yeah, Captain, I know him. Didn't know he was in the army, but we knew each other as boys."

  The Major blew his breath forcefully. "Logan Dell! He'd be one who could dodge the Jap army and get clean away."

  He leaned across, "Let me have that record. I'll handle this myself."

  "You going to transfer him into intelligence, Major? Sounds as though he might be our kind of man."

  "Nope, I'll just give him a hand up. Unless Logan's changed, he shouldn't be wasted as a Buck Sergeant. We need heroes right now, and we need infantry leaders. I'll walk down to AG and see what they think.

  "Where is Dell now?"

  "In barracks around here, I suppose, Major. It doesn't say."

  "Well, find out. We'll need to know."

  "Sir, Sergeant Dell, reporting as ordered." Logan cracked off his best salute and held the position of attention.

  The Adjutant General Major Logan was reporting to took a careful look before ordering, "At Ease." He felt a twinge of envy. The Sergeant was a combat veteran, wounded in action.

  Everybody wanted that, he supposed. A small wound that did not disable, a body leaned and fit, tanned to leather, and a future that looked bright—even if the Sergeant didn't know it yet.

  The Major sighed. "You have friends in high places, Sergeant?"

  Logan appeared surprised. "No, Sir. None known to me."

  The Major sighed again. "Well, something is working for you."

  He shuffled papers, aligning them neatly before looking again at the Sergeant.

  "You've got orders, Dell. You are going to the states on the first available transportation. That will be by air, probably within the next day or two.

  "Guess you're going to sell war bonds or give speeches, Dell. How does that sound?"

  Logan wasn't sure. Going home would be nice, but he didn't plan on being sidetracked with a war on.

  Before he could answer, the Major got down to business.

  "Sergeant Dell, you are to be given a field commission as a Second Lieutenant, Infantry. The ceremony will be conducted at 1400 hours today by Colonel Grigsby, in his office. Be there!

  "Following your commissioning, Brigadier General Gold will award you the Silver Star medal and the Purple
Heart for your escape and your wound. That will be at 1600 hours, at Post Headquarters."

  Logan's jaw was sagging.

  The Major shook his head. "In the meantime, Sergeant, get the chevrons off your blouse."

  The officer grinned. "Welcome aboard, Lieutenant. Seeing I have to get out all the paperwork, you'll owe me a drink at the club this evening.

  "Oh, yes. Here's a memo for you from Intelligence." He passed across a sealed envelope.

  "Maybe they want to see you for more critiquing."

  Outside. Logan had to sit down. His heart was pounding and his hands shook as though fevered. He had gone in hoping he wasn't in deep trouble for fleeing the Philippines and he came out ... Lieutenant Dell!

  God, he had never hoped to be an officer. A senior noncom, someday, but—a Lieutenant? What a war.

  Wait till old Mickey heard. He'd probably not be astonished. Mick thought his pal could do anything, but he would be as proud and pleased as Logan himself.

  Logan imagined himself walking Bloomfield and other towns, being saluted by enlisted men. Whew, what a step up.

  He remembered the memo and opened it carefully. The note said only:

  You always were hard to lick, Dell.

  Congratulations, buddy.

  I'll try to see you before you go.

  Jim Hanson

  Major, Intelligence

  +++

  1942 - Harrisburg

  Mickey finished his last delivery a half hour before train time. It had been a profitable day. Bills and a few checks swelled his wallet. Although most of it would go to the farmers who raised his cattle, there would be some left over.

  Meat was in short supply, and meatless Friday was no longer only a Catholic fish day. Eating meat on Wednesday or Friday approached being unpatriotic, almost as though you were taking food from a fighting man's mouth. But, shortages raised prices. To keep their freezers stocked, wealthy customers willingly paid under the table, well above federal price controls, Mickey tried to be reasonable about it, but he was making almost as much money as if he had gone into a defense plant.