by Phil Ward
“Do my best,” Col. Randal said.
“The Japs don’t have night-fighter capability according to latest reports, sir. They do fly the occasional night bombing mission. Incoming artillery from Bataan is a regular occurrence.
“We need to make this a touch-and-go, Colonel—the less time we spend anywhere near Corregidor, the better.”
Col. Randal said, “I’m familiar with the island. We only have to cover a short distance—you don’t want to get the hell out of Dodge any faster than I do.”
The PBY landed and taxied to one of the three piers at Army Dock, located on what was called Bottomside. The Rock also had a Topside and Middleside—not much imagination expended on names on Corregidor. Malinta Tunnel was located Bottomside—not far from the piers.
An officer carrying a shaded flashlight was waiting for Col. Randal when he stepped on the dock.
“Major Mattesion, sir. I have your party assembled, standing by here ready to load. We moved everyone down out of the tunnel when your pilot radioed the plane was coming in for landing.”
“Very good,” Col. Randal said.
“The general would like a word with you,” Maj. Mattesion said.
“Jack,” Col. Randal ordered. “You and King check IDs against our manifest and load ’em as soon as the pilot gives the all-clear to come aboard. I’ll be back right after I report to General MacArthur.”
Maj. Mattesion gave a running commentary on the situation on Corregidor as they walked to Malinta Tunnel.
“The tunnel was designed to house four thousand people. However, the hospital was built on top of Topside. One of the dumber things I’ve ever seen the military do and there’s a long laundry list of really stupid things we’ve done out here in the four years I’ve been assigned to the Islands.
“The Japs bombed the hospital into rubble the first day, along with the officer’s quarters and enlisted barracks. Now we have eleven thousand people crammed into a space designed for four thousand.
“Plan Orange calls for Corregidor to hold out for six months. By then, a navy relief force is supposed to arrive from the States. Problem is, there’s little chance of holding out that long. No reports of the reinforcements being on the way have been confirmed.
“Have you any news?” Maj. Mattesion asked.
“Negative,” Col. Randal said. “I’ve been on operations behind the lines in Egypt and Libya for the last two months—not up to speed on developments in this part of the world.”
That was not exactly true. Col. Randal knew no convoy was coming. The briefing on Corregidor had been classified, so he used that as an excuse to justify his answer. In truth, he did not want to be the bearer of bad news.
Corregidor was to be left twisting in the breeze—the island fortress was lost.
It did not take a psychologist to recognize, even in the dark, that Maj. Mattesion was drowning in depression. It was common knowledge how the Japanese treated prisoners after the atrocities they committed following the surrender at Singapore.
Grisly stories were coming in every day from Bataan.
Col. Randal felt the sudden urge, akin to panic, to escape off the island right now—right this minute.
Malinta Tunnel ran for over eight hundred feet and sported high, arched ceilings bored into solid rock. Lights ran the length of the roof. The tunnel was damp and musky and smelled of unwashed people.
Men and women were crammed inside, lining the walls, milling around listlessly. Gloom permeated the air. Everyone was bored. There was nothing to do but wait—but for what?
The clock was ticking on impending disaster. Everyone knew it. Corregidor was a slow-motion nightmare in Technicolor.
Unlike Singapore, where the military and civilian population had seemed to go crazy, the troops in the tunnel were simply despondent. A palpable feeling of despair sucked the energy out of the air. Lethargic twenty-year-olds moved like eighty-year-old men.
Lateral tunnels ran off both sides of the main passageway. General Douglas MacArthur had his headquarters in the third lateral on the north side from the east entrance. Maj. Mattesion waited outside as Col. Randal went in alone.
Inside, the light was garish. A despondent lieutenant colonel sporting General Staff insignia was sitting at a desk. He pointed at an office and said, “The General is expecting you, sir.”
Col. Randal marched in, saluted. “Colonel Randal reports, sir.”
General Douglas MacArthur returned the salute with a sort of half wave. He had been a living legend during WWI, leading his troops of the 42nd Rainbow Division over the top across “No Man’s Land” armed only with a swagger stick.
Now his men called him “Dugout Doug.” Col. Randal understood the troops even had a derisive song by that name.
“I believe you have something for me, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir,” Col. Randal said, reaching for the envelope in the inside pocket of his faded khaki BDU jacket.
Gen. MacArthur opened the letter and read its contents silently. He looked like a Roman emperor carved in stone—or maybe God. The general was clearly exhausted or in the same state of depression as everyone else on the island.
He must know about the “Dugout Doug” moniker—that had to hurt.
Gen. MacArthur laid down the letter. “I had two principal staff officers during the time period when you served out here, Colonel. One was Lieutenant Colonel Dwight Eisenhower and the other was Lieutenant Colonel Bonner Fellers. The most trusted of the two by far was Bonner—my confidant.
“The President wrote me that he thinks so highly of Bonner’s daily communiqués from the Middle East Command that he has them delivered to the White House as soon as they arrive. George Marshall, the chief of staff, is resentful of how much weight FDR puts on them—he advised the President they were merely one officer’s observations of events and did not represent official War Department policy.
“Bonner says in this letter that you have been commanding a secret outfit—a ‘Commando’ unit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Seems rather strange to be naming an elite raiding organization after one of your former enemy’s maneuver elements,” Gen. MacArthur said, picking up the oversized corncob pipe on his desk. “But then, the British do have an unorthodox way of doing things.”
“That is a fact, sir,” Col. Randal said.
“So you’re the man who shot Smiling Jack,” Gen. MacArthur said, sticking the unlit pipe in his mouth, studying Col. Randal like a hawk.
“I used to read your patrol reports, Colonel. Read like fiction. My intelligence people said you exaggerated them. Is that why you cut off the bandit’s head and sent it to my HQ?”
“Sir . . .”
“The Huks were a great concern in those days,” Gen. MacArthur said. “As you know, they’re controlled by the Chinese Communists. I was afraid they were preparing to rise in open revolt.
“The Japanese invasion has put the Red’s timetable on hold, but back then the Huks were troubling. You were my most successful Huk hunter.”
“Sir, I had two very good NCOs,” Col. Randal said. “I just did what they told me to.”
“You strike me as a lucky officer,” Gen. MacArthur said. “When our army eventually gets organized and we launch our counteroffensive against the Japs, I can always use lucky officers—there shall be a place for you in my command, Colonel, if you ever so desire.”
“Thank you, sir,” Col. Randal said, not knowing what else to say, wondering if the general was aware that there was not going to be a relief convoy, much less a counterattack—was he misinformed or in denial?
Gen. MacArthur handed a sealed envelope across the desk. “Bonner informs me you have a personal relationship with a Lady Seaborn who has access to high-level back channels. He says she possesses the ability to make something appear on President Roosevelt’s desk in forty-eight hours. Is that true?”
“Possibly, sir,” Col. Randal said. “Lady Jane has a wide network of contacts. The President’s son, Ji
mmy, has a relationship with Raiding Forces—been on operations with us in the past.”
“I want the President to have the opportunity to read my unvarnished assessment of the military situation here,” Gen. MacArthur said. “Can I count on you and your lady to ensure that FDR receives this report via confidential courier ‘Eyes Only’—no one else to have access to the contents?”
“I can do my best, sir,” Col. Randal said.
“Thank you,” Gen. MacArthur said, “I am afraid we did not treat you as well as we should have when you were out here before, Colonel. But that is water under the bridge now.”
“Sir,” Col. Randal said, “I’ve been expressly ordered not to evacuate anyone not listed on my manifest. However, I understand your wife and boy are with you here on the Rock—I’ll be glad to escort them to safety.”
“My wife is a soldier’s wife. My son is a soldier’s son,” Gen. MacArthur said. “They will share a soldier’s fate.”
“Offer stands, General,” Col. Randal said. “Time’s short—the plane’s taking off as soon as you dismiss me.”
“A friendly heads-up, Colonel,” Gen. MacArthur said, ignoring him.
“Eisenhower hates Fellers—jealous because I relied more heavily on Bonner’s advice than his own.
“Ike can be vindictive. Fortunately, he’s buried somewhere in the bowels of the War Department pushing a pencil—where, most likely, the man will never be heard from again.
“Be advised,” Gen. MacArthur said, “should you two ever cross paths, Eisenhower was outraged about Smiling Jack’s severed head with its mouthful of gold teeth landing on his secretary’s desk.
“Ike never forgets a slight.”
• • •
The Catalina splashed down on the lake at Mystery Island. The passengers
were immediately transferred to the Flying Clipper. In record time, the big, luxurious flying boat was making its takeoff run on its way back to RAF Habbaniya with a lot of happy people on board.
Mission accomplished.
While everyone else celebrated, Colonel John Randal retreated to his lounge with Major the Lady Jane Seaborn.
Lady Jane asked, “How did your meeting with General MacArthur go?”
Col. Randal stretched out on one of the lounges. “The general doesn’t seem to have a grasp on the immediate situation . . . or at least want to talk about it. Most of the conversation was about what had happened in the near past before the war—it was strange.”
Col. Randal shut his eyes, wanting to relax like he always did when he was alone with Lady Jane. He could not get the men and women of Corregidor out of his mind.
The island of the doomed.
20
FIVE-SEVEN-FIVE
Colonel John Randal, Major the Lady Jane Seaborn, all the officers of
Raiding Forces and most of the men who were not on operations or training were standing on the dock waiting for a troop transport ship from the United States to land. On board the ship was the Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR) assigned to Col. Randal. Excitement was thick on the ground.
Field Marshal Claude Auchinleck was scheduled to put in an appearance with the U.S. Military Attaché. Colonel Bonner Fellers had something come up at the last minute and was unable to accompany him.
Colonel Dudley Clarke was on hand with members of the press to record the event. He intended to make maximum use of the arrival, which he was going to exploit to the fullest, portraying the PIR as the tip of the iceberg of a massive infusion of American troops into Middle East Command.
The band was standing by.
Today marked a turning point in the history of Raiding Forces. An airborne regiment is a big organization. Change was coming—the war was picking up. Excitement was in the air.
As they waited, Major Travis McCloud briefed Col. Randal on what to expect. The table of organization of a PIR called for three battalions of three companies each and a regimental staff. Officer troop strength was one colonel (Randal), four lieutenant colonels, six majors, twenty-six captains and 103 lieutenants. Enlisted troop strength was 2,029 men.
The regiment assigned to Raiding Forces was the 575th Parachute Infantry Regiment (Separate) (Special). The “Special” designation was a last minute add-on to indicate that the 575th was not intended to conduct purely conventional airborne operations.
As the ship docked, Maj. McCloud said, “Sir, the Five-Seven-Five was formed in the Panama Canal Zone. It was originally an experimental Para-Glider battalion. The regiment was carrying out jungle training and conducting patrolling operations protecting the Canal from saboteurs before it was alerted for an invasion of the Vichy French island of St. Martinique.
“When it was decided to send an airborne regiment to the Middle East, the 575th was relieved of that assignment, which was taken over by the 551 PIR.”
Lady Jane said, “What a magnificent command, John.”
Col. Randal was wondering how he was going to employ such a large combat formation—Raiding Forces had barely exceeded two hundred men all up when it was at its peak strength, prior to all the losses incurred during CRUSADER.
First to disembark was a squad of MPs, armed with stubby M-1917 12-gauge shotguns. They took up position at the foot of the gangplank. None of them were wearing parachute wings or jump boots, which indicated they were not a part of the 575th.
Then a young major with a clipped mustache led the troops off. The paratroopers had large duffel bags thrown over one shoulder and their weapons—primarily brand-new .30 cal. M1 Garand rifles—slung over the other. Most of the men looked like they had been sleeping in their clothes for the entire voyage and were recovering from hangovers; some were unshaven.
Other troops coming down the catwalk were being escorted by MPs. A few of those paratroopers were in handcuffs. Col. Randal had never seen a less military-looking formation of men.
“Major Everard Beauchamp reports, suh.”
Col. Randal returned the salute, never taking his eyes off the troops streaming down the gangplank.
“Suh, the Five-Seven-Five has arrived.”
Col. Randal did not make any response. He knew what he was looking at. Every slacker, goof-off and eight ball in Airborne Command at Ft. Benning had been reassigned to the 575th PIR prior to its deployment.
It appeared jump-qualified prisoners had been released from the brig to join the regiment.
Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy said, “Hot damn!”
The bandleader was so mesmerized by the sight, he never gave the signal to play.
The last stragglers came down the gangplank, being pushed by a follow-up squad of shotgun-toting MPs. As the policeman took the handcuffs off one burly paratrooper, he turned around and chased the MP back up the gangway.
There were a lot fewer jumpers present than the 2,029 called for in the table of organization and equipment (TO&E) and nowhere near the number of officers allocated when 575th was all ashore.
FM Auchinleck was a soldier’s soldier. He realized what had happened. The Field Marshal chose to forgo a welcoming speech. He decided the wisest course of action was to return to Grey Pillars and let Col. Randal sort it out.
Even Col. Clarke was flummoxed—he was not about to plant photos of these tramps in uniform in newspapers around the world.
As the troops were climbing on to trucks for the ride to RFHQ, Col. Randal said, “OK, Major Beauchamp—let’s hear it.”
“Suh,” Maj. Beauchamp said, “what you have here is the 2nd Battalion, 575th Parachute Infantry Regiment. Not all these men are original members, Colonel. We had substitutions made at Ft. Benning prior to deployment—a lot of our best men were transferred out. Replacements transferred in.
We’re four-hundred-thirteen officers and men all up.”
Col. Randal asked, “Where’s the other two battalions?”
“There are no other battalions, suh,” Maj. Beauchamp said.
“There never was.”
• • •
Major Everar
d Beauchamp called a formation as soon as the troops unloaded from the trucks outside the gates at RFHQ. Colonel John Randal, Major the Lady Jane Seaborn and Maj. Beauchamp made a leisurely walk-through inspection. It was possible to smell alcohol on the breath of a large number of the men. More than a few were surly, unkempt, exuding resentment—those who were not seemed embarrassed to be standing the formation with the rest.
Maj. Beauchamp was mortified.
However, Col. Randal and Lady Jane did not seem to pay any attention to the bad attitudes, lack of shaves or slovenly jump suits—which took a lot of fun out of it for the U.S. Paratroopers. What’s the point of being rebellious if no one notices?
Lady Jane was a real attention-getter. Even the most unkempt troopers with the biggest chips on their shoulders were wondering about her. Inside the compound, the men could see the Royal Marines and Clipper Girls sunning around the Olympic-sized swimming pool outside RFHQ.
Not what the Five-Seven-Five expected.
The men had erected their regimental sign—a big square of canvas with large red letters painted on it from their Panama Canal Zone days before being transferred to Ft. Benning prior to deployment to Egypt.
575th PARACHUTE INFANTRY REGIMENT
JUNGLE RANGERS
The sign seemed silly, considering it was planted in sand with desert as a backdrop as far as the eye could see.
Col. Randal took out his 9mm. P-35 Browning High Power. Without a word, he took aim at the sign and commenced fire, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM. . . . . Then he calmly changed magazines and repeated a second string of shots.
“Major Beauchamp,” Col. Randal ordered the startled commander of the Five-Seven-Five.
“Yes, suh.”
“Have your officers fall out. Captain Slater will show them to their quarters. Sergeant Major Mikkalis will march the regiment to its barracks. Once they arrive, place your battalion on alert for a combat jump tonight. Then report to my office.”
“Yes, suh,” Maj. Beauchamp said, with a slight catch in his voice. A combat jump the first night the regiment arrived in Egypt was beyond anything he had anticipated in his wildest imagination. Training drops took longer to prepare for than the regiment was being given to get ready for a combat mission tonight.