After the Fall

by Lisa Bingham

  He nodded.

  “They might even be overrun.”

  John sighed. “That is a very real possibility.”

  “What will happen if reinforcements don’t arrive as soon as anticipated?”

  John pointed to the map. “From the rumors I’ve heard amongst the Filipinos, the Americans plan to draw back to the south, here, around Manila. If Manila is overrun, part of the American forces will evacuate across the bay to this strip of land called Bataan. It’s primarily jungle, heavily wooded, and easy to dig in for a siege. Everyone else will be sent here, to this island.”

  “Corregidor,” she said. “Our boat passed by it on the way into Manila. It was beautiful.”

  “The Americans have built a series of tunnels into the rock. It should be fairly impregnable.”

  She absorbed the information on the map for several long seconds before asking, “What about us? What do we do if the Japanese decide to head in our direction?”

  She saw by the glimmer in John’s eyes that he hadn’t expected her to catch the vulnerability of their position. They had retreated to the mountains, but there was nothing to keep the Japanese from going coast to coast, especially if the Americans retreated to the south.

  “We’ll head higher into the hills and hope that they don’t follow.”

  “And if they do?” she pressed.

  He pointed to a range of mountains. Beneath his finger she saw the words “Sierra Madres”.

  “We’re here.” He moved slightly north and east. “Esteban’s wife is from this area. That’s why they’re travelling with us. They’re hoping to link up with her relatives somewhere in this area. About here is a thick forest—mostly bamboo, vines. It’s fairly impenetrable. If need be, we’ll hide here. As a last resort, we can make our way to the eastern coast here. There might be a chance we could radio for help. Since you’re American, that could work in our favor. If not, we could try to get hold of a boat and make our way south down the chain of islands to a safer spot.”

  “Providing the Japanese haven’t moved in and set up shop there as well.”

  His head dipped in assent.

  Glory Bee curled a hand around her neck, massaging the ache that settled at the base of her skull. “In other words, if the Americans fail to defend the island, we’ll be in a great deal of danger.”

  She blinked as the red markings on the map swam in front of her. Her lungs grew tight, making it difficult to breathe.

  John sighed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told—”

  “No! No, you should have told me. I might make my living as a stripper, but unlike what most people think about me, I’m not stupid.”

  “I never said—”

  “No, but you wouldn’t have been the first to have assumed I have the brains of a gnat.” She took a deep breath and planted her hands on her hips. “I have a right to know. And frankly, I’d rather have the truth from the beginning rather than having someone blow smoke up my skirt.”

  “I would never do that to you or to anyone else in this situation.”

  As quickly as her anger had flared, it fizzled away. She eyed John with something akin to wonder, realizing that what he’d said was the truth. John had been honest with her from the moment he’d awakened her in the Wilmot plantation house.

  She couldn’t remember another man ever having been so up-front. Just as she’d told him, she’d grown accustomed to men discounting her intelligence…

  Or deciding that she should blindly obey them when they decided she should travel halfway around the world in order to avoid gossip.

  The moment the thought was formed, Glory Bee felt a pang of disloyalty. But it was true. She’d tried to talk Michael out of sending her away. She’d begged him to let her stay in the States. But he’d been adamant that she have the baby far from home where no wind of scandal could taint his career.

  Oh, he’d done his best to convince her that the arrangements were for her own good, that she was being treated to an exotic vacation…

  Nevertheless, Glory Bee had known the truth. She was being banished. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  Without really thinking about her actions, Glory Bee reached up to cup John’s cheeks in her hands. His chin was covered in dark stubble that abraded her palm and she was instantly aware of his masculinity. Her femininity. Hard to soft.

  Lifting on tiptoe, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, John Macklin.”

  He reared back as if he’d been burned. But when she would have drawn away, his fingers snapped around her wrist, holding her there, her palm against his face.

  For a moment, his eyes flared wildly, and too late, she realized that this man had been a priest. In such a capacity, he probably wasn’t used to casual kisses or even more casual caresses. Dear sweet heaven, the man might never have been kissed at all.

  Never been kissed.

  Before she could think twice, she leaned into him again, her body resting against his, her mouth brushing his once, twice, three times. He remained totally unresponsive, even though his breath suddenly rasped in his throat. But when she would have drawn away, he suddenly plunged his fingers into her hair, drawing her tightly against him, his mouth taking the initiative, tentatively at first, then more hungrily, until the two of them were tangled together, legs, hands, mouths.

  Then, abruptly, John tore himself away, backing toward the window. She could hear him struggle to right his breathing as he leaned hard against the casing.

  “I’m sorry,” he said dipping his head. “I shouldn’t be kissing any woman, let alone—”

  She quickly interrupted him, her smile wide enough to rival the Cheshire Cat’s. “Yes, John, you should. You most definitely should. You should kiss women and kiss them often.”

  Then, ignoring her own whispers of conscience at the fact that she’d been kissing someone other than Michael—and thoroughly enjoying the experience—she turned and walked out of the room.

  He waited until it was dark, until most of the hut was asleep, until he had the only shred of privacy available to a man living crammed into one spot with hundreds of other men.

  It was far from quiet. The moans of the injured and the rattle of breathing from those who were ill warred with the constant whine of cicadas and the god-awful drunken singing coming from the barracks on the other side of the fence. But he tried to block them all out.

  One piece of paper.

  One piece of paper and the hope of a miracle.

  He carefully set the paper on his thigh, slipping the stolen pen from his pocket. The blank sheet was at once terrifying and powerful. In it lay the hope of not only making contact with the outside world, but of getting a message to the woman he loved.

  And it was at that moment that he realized that the rest of the world could hang themselves. If he had only a few lines, a few hundred words, they were for her, no one else.

  So even though his hand still trembled from the after-effects of the latest malaria attack, even though he could barely see to form the words, he began, making his script as small as possible, knowing that space was limited and there was oh, so much he needed her to know.

  Chapter Seven

  December 9, 1941

  Darkness hung low over Fort Stotsenberg when Rosemary stepped outside for the first time in hours. A glance at the watch pinned to her chest assured her that dawn was only a few minutes away.

  Sinking onto the top step, she closed her eyes and dragged air into her lungs, needing to wipe away the stench of blood and scorched flesh and fuel. But out here it wasn’t much better. The breeze was heavy with the scent of smoke. Smoke and death.

  They had long since run out of room for all of the wounded who needed attention, so makeshift beds had been fashioned on the grass. She could see her nurses moving among the wounded like fireflies in the darkness. Their bright white uniforms and gleaming pearl hose had been soiled with blood and soot and worse. But in the dim blushing light of dawn, the women still glowed like little beacons
of hope.

  Her girls had served her proud. Even the new recruits had thrown themselves into their work until finally, finally, they seemed to be gaining the upper hand on the situation.

  Just as Grimm had ordered, Rosemary had begun rotating rest periods, knowing that a mistake made out of weariness could be cataclysmic. At first, those breaks had been brief, twenty minutes every four hours. But now, they could afford to send a pair of the nurses who’d been on duty for more than twenty-four hours back to their quarters for an hour of precious sleep. If their quarters were still standing.

  Rubbing her eyes with the flats of her palms, Rosemary wondered if her own bungalow had gone up in flames. She was in one of the rows closest to the parade grounds where several shells had landed. But she didn’t have the will or the energy to look, and she certainly didn’t have the time.

  Grasping the iron railing, she hauled herself back to her feet. She felt as if each limb weighed a hundred pounds as she descended the steps and moved onto the grass.

  Alice was the first to see her approach and met her halfway. “You need to get some sleep,” she said disapprovingly. “You ordered Kowalski and Brennen back to their quarters. Don’t you think you should do the same?”

  “Not yet. There’s still so much to do.”

  “You’ve trained the girls well. Let them do their jobs. You’re no good to us if you’re staggering on your feet.”

  “Not yet. I’ve sent Wilson to the mess hall in search of coffee and sandwiches. I’ll wait until she’s back first.”

  Alice scowled, but didn’t argue.

  “Have you seen anyone from the press corps?” Rosemary asked, keeping her tone carefully bland.

  “Why? Are you hoping to get an interview?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Then why…?” Alice’s look became suddenly all-knowing. “You’re looking for Gilhouley, aren’t you?”

  When Rosemary opened her mouth to demur, Alice waved aside her response. “Don’t bother answering. I saw the pair of you leaving the dance together.” She lowered her voice to murmur, “Are the two of you…involved?”

  Rosemary hesitated before saying, “I don’t know.”

  “But you’ve been out with him. Danced with him.” She paused, lowering her voice to a murmur, “Kissed him?”

  Rosemary was too tired to lie, so she nodded.

  “Sweet day in the morning,” Alice muttered with something akin to wonder, then she laughed. “You and The Great Gilhouley. Now there’s something I never would have imagined possible. Not in a million years.”

  She broke off when Rosemary bit her lip and looked away.

  “Ah, sweetie, I’m sorry. No. I haven’t seen him. But that could be a good thing, right? If he’s not injured, then he has no reason to be at the hospital.”

  “It’s that…we arranged to meet. Hours ago.”

  Alice touched her hand. “He’s probably busy. Look at us. We haven’t had a minute to breathe.”

  Rosemary nodded. “You’re right. I just…”

  Unbidden, her gaze strayed toward the trees where row upon row of soldiers had been lain out of the way, their faces covered with canvas tarpaulins. But the impromptu shrouds were too short, leaving their feet exposed in a myriad assortment of shoes—some scuffed and worn, others polished and new.

  And some of the feet were bare and vulnerable.

  Try as she might, she couldn’t remember what Gilhouley’s shoes looked like, didn’t suppose that if he were resting beneath those trees that she could recognize him by his shoes alone.

  “Don’t think that, Rosemary,” Alice warned.

  But her words were cut short as the rumble of transports cut through the early morning air. At least six trucks barreled toward them, laden with the latest batch of injuries. Shaking off her melancholy, Rosemary rushed to greet them.

  “I want anyone who can still walk over there, on that patch of grass next to the stairs,” she said to the first medic who jumped from the rear of the vehicle. “We’ll get to them as soon as they can, but first we need to separate them from those who are critical.”

  As her own nurses rushed to join her, Rosemary lowered the tailgate, then began helping the more mobile men to the ground. “Over there, please. Over there. We’ll get to you as soon as we can.”

  Soldiers from the surrounding area swarmed around the trucks, helping to unload makeshift stretchers made from tarps, ladders, even doors that had been removed from their hinges.

  “This one needs to be taken inside. Take him straight to the operating room. This one can wait a little, but I still want him inside.”

  She was so intent on giving orders, that when a man jumped from one of the last trucks and staggered toward her, she nearly didn’t recognize him.

  “You! Over by the…”

  Her words died in her throat as he straightened, and suddenly she recognized him—not by his face, which was so smeared with oil and dirt he appeared like a shadow in the dimness—but by the square cast of his shoulders, the familiar narrowness of his hips.

  “Gilhouley?” she breathed. “Riley?”

  His clothes were covered in blood, and he must have sensed the panic that washed over her because he said quickly, “It isn’t mine.”

  But before he could offer more of an explanation, Lt. Wakely appeared on the steps.

  “Major Dodd! Dr. Grimm needs you in the operating room. Now.”

  Pointing a finger at Gilhouley, Rosemary said. “I want you in the hall outside my office. Lieutenant Strickland will find you a spot. You wait there until I can get to you, understand?”

  Then, unable to even wait to hear his response, she hurried back into the hospital.

  • • •

  After falling asleep earlier that evening, Glory Bee found it nearly impossible to settle back down again. So after tossing restlessly in bed, she gave up trying and rolled into a sitting position. She’d left the lamp burning low, so she twisted the wick until a warm glow flowed into the corners of the room.

  She couldn’t account for her restlessness, an itchy, inexplicable need for…

  For what?

  John?

  Raking her fingers through her hair, she shook her head in disgust. Had she really stooped so low that she couldn’t even remain faithful to the man whose baby she carried?

  Sighing, she stood, crossing to a narrow bookcase on the far wall. Maybe if she could find something to read she could…

  A scream suddenly split the darkness and Glory Bee rushed toward the staircase, staring down into the dark abyss at the bottom. But even as her foot stood poised over the top tread, she hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest, her pulse knocking so loudly she could hear it in her ears.

  Dear God, had the Japanese managed to sneak up on them in the middle of the night?

  Another cry split the darkness and she flattened herself against the wall, taking one step then another. Slowly, she crept down the narrow stairs, wishing that she had a weapon. The moans came again, followed by two barking shouts that sounded like, “Back! Back!”

  Once in the kitchen, there was enough moonlight stealing in through the windows for Glory Bee to see the shape of the counters and the huge wood burning range. Spying an empty coffee can that held spoons and utensils, she slid a large wooden rolling pin free, wincing at the faint clink of cutlery. Immediately, she froze, but there wasn’t a response from the other room, so she tiptoed forward until she could peer around the corner into the sitting room.

  Here, the picture window offered even more light. A silver puddle of moonlight illuminated the center of the room and rimmed the shape of the desk with the radio and the tufted sofa where she’d fallen asleep earlier.

  John’s voice slid into the darkness again. He mumbled lowly under his breath before shouting, “Mary Francis! Let her go! Mother of God, are you animals?”

  Creeping forward toward the bedroom, she relaxed infinitesimally when she realized that there were no intruders in the room. John was havin
g a nightmare.

  Setting the rolling pin on the sideboard, she hurried toward him. The covers were tangled about his waist and above them, his chest and face gleamed with sweat.

  “Blast,” she whispered softly to herself, grasping the matches left at his bedside. As soon as a flame appeared, she touched it to the hurricane lamp on the nightstand and replaced the chimney. Then she sat on the side of the bed and said softly, “John? John! You’re having a bad dream.”

  His hands dug into the sheets, twisting them violently as he wrestled with an unknown demon. Not sure what to do, she gingerly reached forward with two fingers, poking him in the shoulder.

  Before she even knew what had occurred, John flung her onto the floor, straddling her thighs and leaning over to press his forearm against her throat.

  “John!”

  His eyes suddenly blinked open and he shuddered, gazing around him uncomprehendingly. Then, in a rush, he took in the room, his bed, before his gaze finally met hers.

  “Shit,” he rasped, springing away so that he sat with his back braced against the wall, knees up, his chest heaving as he sought to catch his breath.

  Slowly, Glory Bee eased into a sitting position, one hand rubbing her neck.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  He was so horrified by the idea that she hastened to reassure him. “No. Just startled me.”

  “Sorry.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair and swore again, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Even in the dim light of the lamp, she could see the pulse knocking at his neck.

  “You were having a bad dream,” she whispered.

  He wiped a hand over his face.

  “I’m sorry I woke you so suddenly. I didn’t know what else to do.” She folded her legs in front of her and rested her elbows on her knees, willing to stay until he’d calmed down, sensing that he needed something to divert him from the aftereffects of his dream.

  “I’m not surprised that you had nightmares tonight,” she said. “Not really.”

  His brows lifted in an unspoken question.

  “With all that’s happened, it’s bound to cause…bad memories to surface.”