War Stories

by Leanna Conley

  “Yeah.” said Bob.

  “In your own mind.” said Bing.

  “The best place on earth.” said Bob.

  “So, you guys got any sweethearts to bring?” asked Bing.

  “No. Mine’s at home,” Dad answered.

  “Ah, well, I’m sure she won’t mind if you grab a dance with someone special?” smiled Bob.

  “Well, guess not.” Dad shrugged.

  “The General will kill us!”said Marty.

  “But they gotta go to the party so they can stay for our ending….” Bob turned to Bing.

  “Yeah, and what’s that?” asked Bing.

  “That’s when I set up a lucky SOB with you know who,” said Bob.

  “Hey, that’s my territory,” claimed Bing.

  “So, see you two at the Officer’s Club around eight o’clock,” said Bob.

  “That’s 2000,” said Bing.

  “Right. Thanks so much!” exclaimed Dad.

  Excited by their brush with stardom, Dad and Marty snuck into the General’s quarters to celebrate with a cognac while he was out harassing the newer recruits. They had access to every room of every officer on the base. Anytime they wanted, they snuck into General Rotgut’s quarters and raided or stocked his liquor cabinets at will, either diluting or punching up his Scotch to render whatever behavior they required of him for the day. Dad and Marty also supplied the troops with black market goods. They traded all the time—Scotch, arms, cigarettes, silks, petrol, whiskey, just about anything not bolted down. They were particularly fond of rare chocolates, the best liquors, cognac, and fine wines for themselves, a small portion of which they bestowed upon the General and his clique of officers.

  As they finished off the General’s cognac, they suddenly heard the sound of his boots as he loudly marched down the hall. Dad and Marty made their escape out the window. When they got to the ground they heard the General yelling on his phone, “Get those…g-damned tech boys to my quarters! Radio’s on the blink again!” He had barely hung up the receiver when the duo knocked at his door.

  The General opened it, somewhat shocked at the fast response. “Taylor, what’s the meaning of this?”

  “What, sir?”

  “I just called on the phone to have you report to me, and now you’re here!”

  “You mean we shouldn’t be here?” asked Dad.

  “No, you should be here.”

  “I think you’ve got some explaining to do, General.”

  “No, you’ve got some explaining to do!” roared the General.

  “Well, we don’t know why you called us, sir,” said Marty.

  “So that means you have some explaining to do, General,” said Dad.

  “Dismissed, Corporal!”screamed the General, stomping his foot so hard the floor boards rattled.

  “We’re only here ‘cuz you called us, sir.” Marty shrugged.

  “You two think you’re celebrities now, eh? Fraternizing with the stars… Who do you think you are?” he bellowed as he pushed his riding crop toward Dad’s nose.

  “Well, sir, a Corporal. You just told me.”Dad handed him a bottle of Remy Martin. “With a direct line to your liquor cabinet.”

  “What? You’re blackmailing me!” He stomped again so hard his heel caught between the wooden boards.

  “Why, no, sir, I’m just stating who I am. That’s all.”

  “I could have you thrown into Leavenworth!”The General struggled to get his heel out of the floor boards as he yelled.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir. Is that all you’ve got to say?”

  “No, sir. You see, sir, you do want to put on a good spread for our guests, right?”

  “Well…”

  “Me and Marty got you covered. Believe me. It’ll be like Sardis in that Club.”

  “No way! Only officers, Taylor! Get back to your barracks!”

  Later that day, Dad and Marty snuck back into the General’s quarters and filled his vodka bottles with Spring Clear. The General, exhausted from yelling all afternoon, retired to his chambers for a nip before the big shindig and was out cold before the party even started at the Officer’s Club.

  Two hours later, Bing and Bob left the Club, and waved to the guys standing around outside.

  “Boy, that’s the stiffest party I’ve ever gone to,”sighed Bob.

  “Beer and lame music! What kind of shindig was that?” Bing shook his head.

  “A pretty sorry one,” Bob quipped.

  “Let’s hit the local clubs.” Bing clapped his hands together, striking a dance pose.

  “Uh, and what clubs are those? The Coat of the Queen Mum’s Armpit Pub? And for shepherd’s pie?” Bob grimaced.

  “Well you’re the Brit, you’re supposed to like this bland stuff,” laughed Bing.

  “Hey, there they are. Our sound guys,” said Bob.

  Dad and Marty, back from making a food run, pulled up in their jeep. Marty finished slurping caviar out of a jar and began to wash it down with a bottle of champagne while Dad watched in amazement. They then climbed out to gather up their non-regulation booty—unloading bags of fruit, cheese, cognac, baguettes, wine and every French delicacy imaginable—except Edith Piaf.

  Bing shouted out, “Hey, boys!”

  “Look at that spread, I wanna go to that party!” Bob waved in their direction.

  “Come on! It’s at our place!” said Dad.

  Just then, a black limousine swung around the corner.

  “Wow, whoever said Croughton was dull? This is getting good!” exclaimed Bob.

  All mouths dropped open when the limo rolled to a stop and the beautiful Dorothy Lamour stepped out. Her full-length cashmere coat, matching black beret and Ferragamo high heels made her arrival look like the perfect Hollywood entrance—except for what happened next.

  Her red lips smiled big. She gave Bing a hug enveloping him in Chanel No. 5 perfume.

  “Dahling…where’s the party?” Dorothy stepped away from the limo, tripped and almost landed in one of the many mud holes created by military might. Bing managed to save the damsel but knocked Bob over, who rolled smack into the neighboring ditch.

  “Hey! Thanks a lot, fellas!”Bob yelled.

  Dad helped him up, “You okay?”

  As they both tried to wipe off the mud, Dad dropped a five-pound wheel of camembert on Bob’s toe. “I think I just saw the encore to your show, Bob! You almost fell again!”

  “Oh, he’s okay. He is the big cheese!”laughed Bing, “And that was the closest he’ll ever get to a foxhole!”

  “Look who’s talkin’!” Bob shook his fist at Bing.

  “Boys! Boys! Is there music?”Dorothy stepped in between the two comics. Winking at Dad and Marty, she said, “I believe I gotta dance with a guy named Bill?”

  “We couldn’t believe it!”

  She was famous, right, Dad?

  “Yes, honey. Very!”

  “Ah…oh dear…well,” said Dad.

  “That’s me! I’m Bill!” said Marty.

  “Eh, you Mooke, that’s me!”He shoved the muddy camembert into Marty’s arms. Dad stepped closer and shyly kissed her hand. “Besides, Dorothy’s my wife’s best friend’s name!”

  “Well, then, that does it!” exclaimed the star.

  So the whole gang headed back into the Officer’s Club to dance. A little later that night, Dad and Marty used their spoils and set up a great spread in the barracks. The entire camp partied with Bob Hope, Dorothy Lamour, and Bing Crosby until the wee hours of the morning. The General, out cold in his room, ended up being the only one with a hangover.

  At the party, the Hollywood star gave Dad a silk stocking as a souvenir. He wore it like an ascot for a week, and then gave it to Shorty to keep in a safe-deposit box. Years later, Dad presented it to his second wife, my mother. And I must say, to this day, Mom’s still a bit jealous of his dance with Dorothy Lamour.

  December 13, 1943

  YES! This is an historic evening. The guys got the craps tabl
e out. Shorty traded a bunch of field radios and junk for two bottles of Crown and tons of brie, camembert and salami…just like we had in the grocery store on Vine Street when I was a kid. What a party! Jesus sang the National Anthem in Spanish. No telling the wife about this one, unless I win this mint!

  Follow up! I can barely write! I won 400 bucks! The Bill Jr. Fund has started!!! In Craps We Trust!

  January 17, 1944

  Jungle rot. Jungle rot. Nine times out of ten the new guys get it. Stupid kids. I tell them to keep their boots on or else they’ll lose their feet. I had to hold down this guy today. Stupid kid.

  The Baseball Game

  The mornings were increasingly colder. I had extra blankets for Dad in the back seat…ready to cover him during our trek from the parking lot to the familiar double doors of the hospital. Today he was bundled up good.

  Doc Shahil, one of Dad’s oncologists at The University of Michigan, was a humble man who looked official even with the inordinate number of pens in his lab coat. Extremely bright, his warm smile hid a razor-sharp mind. He shook my father’s hand and pulled me aside. His face was calm. He’d given this speech before.

  Dad waited in his chair in the lobby, weak, the sunlight hitting his camel overcoat. As the doctor spoke, I remembered Dad pacing around this same lobby only a year before, hopeful, anxious to grab dinner in town.

  “Quality of life, Leigh. That’s what you want for these two months.”

  I nodded and smiled weakly. The doctor finished by saying this would be my father’s last treatment.

  I walked back. Dad looked up but said nothing as I pushed him through the corridor to the treatment room. We spent the usual few hours sitting there; this time, however, we did little talking.

  After the long night drive home, I helped him back into his bed. He was glad to be comfortable again. I hesitated to ask him about what I had wanted to know for a long time…

  Dad, you never told me about the Pacific?You went there first?

  “Yup.”

  You never told me about it…

  “Nope.”

  Do you want to tell me about it?

  Dad started searching for the remote on his bedside table.

  That’s okay, Pop.

  “There wasn’t much to it.”

  Daddy…okay.…

  “It wasn’t all bad.”

  Dad… I mean, the Bataan Death March, the tactics they used. I saw some pictures of GIs and Filipinos piled into a truck. Most were decapitated. They shot people during the march for the heck of it, in the head—after they surrendered.

  “Yup.”

  Did you see that kind of thing?

  “Yeah, that was around.”

  I had decided not to pressure him and motioned that I was going to get some ice cream. At chemo that night, the adorable, petite, night-shift nurse, Maria, had brought him a vitamin-enriched snack, which he seemed to love only when she was around. He had a huge crush on her. Maria called him “Bayani,” which, in Filipino, means ‘hero.’When I mentioned ice cream this time, I intentionally neglected to refer to the nurse. His train of thought would have definitely wavered. As I headed out to the kitchen, he started in about, of all things, baseball.

  “We played baseball.”

  Dad, now how could you find time to do that?

  “War is like a film set. When there’s action, it’s intense. The rest of the time you spend waiting, in a foxhole or on a ship. So, there was a lot of downtime, and we liked to play ball.”

  On their way to the Philippines, Dad’s division landed on the Makin Atoll in the Gilbert chain of islands to establish a strategic air base. The resistance was light on landing, but by no means was the assignment over. They had heard rumors that there was a POW camp on the island.

  While they awaited orders, the newly minted soldiers, most around 17 years old, started playing baseball in the hot sun.

  Before long, about 30 men sat on the rocks of the lagoon, cheering for their teams, all the socks and shoes drying on the rocks. The stretch of beach gave way to a thick, dark jungle. The boys had to dry out their boots before going into the jungle or Dad said they’d get what he called “foot rot.” But when in the jungle, ironically, he said they had to keep their boots on at all times to prevent “jungle rot.” One cut on bare feet could mean weeks in the hospital.

  Second base was closest to the jungle, and a shortened center field was marked by the roots and gnarled growth of the palms. The guys carved graffiti into one of the palm trees to mark the base. In fact, they went on to carve graffiti pretty much everywhere they went:

  “Kilroy was here!”

  Or “Pinky + His Girl.”

  Dad carved “D + B forever” in a record 20 trees that afternoon. The boys still had a sense of play, untouched by the reality that awaited them in the jungle.

  “Pinky hit the ball. I caught the line drive and was throwing it to second. Mike was on base heading over to tag out Tad, who was sliding in…. It was a great game! The 27th Infantry was up 4 to zip!”

  Who was on the other team?

  “Some older guys and Major John, who we called ‘Old Man.’So, we named their team The Old Guys.”

  Dad, how old could these guys be? 30?

  “No, hell! 25! Ancient!”

  Ha, Dad.

  “We were all so young, honey. Pinky was barely 16.”

  You called him Pinky?

  “Yeah, he was really pink. Born and raised in Wisconsin. I mean he always had to wear something over his head, just to keep from burning to death. It was sweltering.”

  Tad, Mike, Pinky, and ‘Old Man’ John were Dad’s buddies. They only served in the Pacific with him. And I only heard them mentioned in this one story. Word has it Tad fought on Okinawa with John, while Mike and Pinky went to Iwo Jima. Dad never heard from them after the spring of 1944.

  “So, Tad starts sliding to second. He hits base and starts screaming.”

  Oh, Dad.

  “Yeah, his foot went right into a wooden spike.”

  They had that stuff out there?

  “Yeah, about 10 pointed sticks woven in and out of the thick ground so when you tried to get the stake out, you got stuck by more of them.”

  Whoa.

  “We got to Tad, and, thank God, it only scraped him. And then we heard another noise.”

  I held my breath.

  “We got our guns out and everyone hit the sand. It was quiet for two minutes. Then, we saw something move behind the palms. Pinky started firing his machine gun. We all started blasting the jungle.”

  Oh, man.

  “After about two rounds, we ceased fire. Whatever was moving wasn’t anymore.”

  Dad, was it a Japanese guy?

  “Well, yeah, honey.” My Dad sat up quick, as if on a mission. “So, what’s for dessert? Can we get Maria over here?”

  No, Dad! You’ve gotta finish…

  “I need a Nutty Buddy.”

  Dad…

  “Okay… Okay…We went to check it out.”

  In that booby trap?

  “Honey, we had to go in sometime. That’s what taking the island was about.”

  Yes, Dad.

  “We searched for mines, pillboxes and booby traps …”

  What? What’s a pillbox?

  “It’s a trench covered with a wooden box built a foot or so above ground. The Japanese climbed in the trench and set their machine guns up in a slit from inside the box so they weren’t visible.”

  Mines, pillboxes, and booby traps. They did all that?

  “Yeah. They had all kinds of stuff, some new, some ancient.”

  Man. Total Mr. Miyagi. Did you guys ever have traps for them?

  “Well, we did some stuff, later on…”

  Like?

  “We used to string wires across a road, just high enough to nail a German tank commander sitting on the top of the tank.”

  Nail him?

  “Yup.”

  You mean cut him.

  “His nec
k, mainly.”

  You cut heads off?

  “That wasn’t until Europe, really. Anyway, our main goal was to take the island and establish an airport, but we had heard that there may be a POW camp where Americans were being held.”

  Who was that guy, Dad? A prisoner?

  “I told you.”

  Dad, really?

  He paused.

  “We came up on a man on the ground. He was so covered in blood, we didn’t know who it was. When I wiped his face, it was pretty clear he was a Jap.”

  Dad.

  “Yeah, my first one.”

  Wow.

  “Tad was going to…hurt him… but the guys decided to take him prisoner. Plus, he’d know more about the POW camp than we would.”

  So, he was your prisoner.

  “Yup.”

  Then did you go and find the POWs?

  “Not then. It was almost dusk. We went back to our beach camp for the night.”

  Stumbling and bloody, the terrified man walked with them to the beach. Dad, it turned out, was the one who had convinced the guys they were better off keeping him alive. After Dad freed his hands and gave him some water, the prisoner handed my father a ceremonial cloth belt from around his waist. Dad took it, perplexed, thinking it was some kind of offering or sign of appreciation for saving his life.

  Fascinated by the idea of this belt, I later did some research and discovered it was called a senninbari (belt of a thousand stitches). It was made for a Japanese warrior by the man’s mother, sister, or wife. The woman would stand near their local temple, train station, or shop and ask any female passerby to sew in a French stitch. The stitches were usually arranged in multiple rows but might also be placed in patterns creating images of flags, patriotic slogans and tigers. Symbolically, tigers were popular as they were known to be able to roam far away from home and then return safely. The most common slogan was bu-un cho-kyu for “eternal good luck in war.”

  That night Dad was on watch. Actually, he and the prisoner watched each other. The Japanese soldier’s name was Hikari, which means “light” in Japanese.

  While sitting on the coral rocks, his gun at his side, my father gave him back his senninbari—and showed him the St. Christopher pin on his jacket. Hikari nodded with acknowledgement.