by Lisa Bingham
John reached over to clap Esteban on the back. “You don’t have to apologize for taking care of your family, Esteban. You need to do what is best for them.”
Esteban still looked glum. “You could come with us, padre.”
For a moment, John considered the idea, if only because Glory Bee might need the feminine companionship. But he soon shook his head.
“It wouldn’t be safe, Esteban. If the Japanese stumbled upon Maria’s clan, they’d most likely continue on. But if they found you harboring a couple of whites…” He gave Esteban’s shoulder one last squeeze. “I think we’ll take our chances in the woods. Hopefully, it will only be a couple of weeks.”
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Esteban’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears.
“You have been a good friend, Boss.”
“As have you, Esteban.”
Esteban jerked a thumb toward the hut that sheltered Glory Bee. “You’re sure you don’t want to send her with us?”
Something in John’s gut clenched at the idea. If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that she would have as much a chance staying safe with Esteban as with himself. But besides the danger that her presence might bring to Maria and her family, John found that he didn’t want to leave her well-being up to anyone else.
“No. I’ll take care of her.”
Esteban suddenly grinned. “You like her, boss?”
“I think she’s a nice lady,” he answered diplomatically.
“’Cause you keep saying you’re not a priest anymore,” Esteban said slyly.
“No. I’m not a priest any more. But I think she already has a fellow in her life.”
Esteban dismissed that idea with a wave of his hand. “Even if she does, he’s not here, is he?”
John laughed. “I don’t think that’s a particularly honorable sentiment, do you?”
“Hell, he ain’t here to protect her. What’s so honorable about that?”
Grinning, John hitched a thumb toward the hut behind him. “Go get some sleep. I’ll take over the watch. You and your family will want to make an early start.”
Esteban hefted himself to his feet and shuffled toward the hut. But at the doorway he paused.
“It sure is good to hear you laughin’, Boss. Maybe that girl’s got a fellow. But maybe you need her a little more than he does.”
Before John could think of a suitable reply, Esteban disappeared into the hut, leaving John to wrestle with his own manner of temptation.
• • •
The night was inky black as Gilhouley and his men carefully made their way to the spot where they’d hidden the car. As Kilgore and Berman rushed to remove it from its hiding place amid the trees, Gilhouley and Baptiste crept to the same lookout point where they’d checked on the progress of the Japanese, not so long ago.
Grabbing the binoculars, Gilhouley tried to make out something—anything—in the darkness that could help him see the progress of the Japanese. But other than the fields that had been set ablaze, it was too dark to make an assessment.
He handed the field glasses to Baptiste.
“Judging by the fires, I’d say they’ve made it as far as—”
Without warning, the valley below glittered with light and heat, firecracker sparks and flashbulb pops. Then several beats later came the sound of machine gun and mortar fire.
“Poor bastards,” Baptiste said.
Gilhouley watched for a moment, a rock seeming to lodge in his throat. Then he said, “Let’s get going. They’re heading in the direction of the bridge, and I don’t want to be caught behind enemy lines.”
They ran back to the car, helping to push it out of the brush onto the road.
“Keep your eyes peeled. If you see anything—anything at all that could be a Japanese patrol—you give the alert.” He turned to Kilgore. “Be prepared to maneuver if you have to.”
Kilgore nodded.
He motioned to Berman and Baptiste who would be taking the spot in the rumble seat again. “I want you wearing the packs with the radio equipment in case we have to abandon the car and head for the hills. I’ll be damned if I’ll leave it to the Japanese.” He met each man’s gaze. “Double check your weapons, then let’s go.”
Within seconds, the men had all piled back into their previous positions. Kilgore gunned the engine.
“You’ll be running without lights, Kilgore, so take it easy. But get us the hell out of here as quick as you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
The car jolted, rocks spewing from beneath the back tires as Kilgore punched the accelerator. Then they were barreling down the mountain, gravity adding as much to their speed as fuel.
“Shit, Kilgore, can you even see what you’re doing?” Petey called from the back seat.
“We’re still on the road, aren’t we?”
As if to refute him, the tires skidded off the rutted path into a patch of scrub, tree limbs and vines smacked the hood of the car as Kilgore adjusted his course.
Gilhouley glanced over his shoulder through the rear window to make sure that Baptiste and Berman were still in their places. He grinned when he saw that they’d hunkered low against the rear window, swearing.
The car bounced and bucked, squeaking and groaning at the unaccustomed speed and hard ride, threatening to come apart at the seams. But as they skidded down the last final turns, it looked like they would be able to make it. The bridge loomed ahead of them, a strip of lighter gray in a black, black night.
But then, when only a few dozen yards separated them from their goal, the darkness erupted in gunfire.
Kilgore swore, slamming on the brakes and wrenching the wheel to one side so that the car skidded into a half-circle. Then, gunning the engine again, he turned wide through the brush, jouncing his way back to the road while Baptiste and Berman returned fire.
“Who the hell’s shooting at us? The Americans or the Japanese?” Petey shouted as he twisted in his seat and returned fire through the window.
Distant shouts from the opposite side of the bridge peppered the air.
“That sure as hell doesn’t sound like English to me,” Kilgore ground out, his hands fighting to maintain control as the car now headed back up the mountain from where they’d come.
“Anybody hurt?” Gilhouley barked as the sound of gunfire faded.
When no one responded, Gilhouley relaxed infinitesimally. But then, just when he thought they had a chance of escaping, Kilgore slammed his fist against the wheel.
“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!”
Gilhouley twisted from looking out the back window to staring at Kilgore.
Still wrestling with the wheel, Kilgore pointed ahead of them. “They must have fucking hit the fucking radiator!”
Gilhouley heard the telltale hiss. Vapor was pouring from the front of the car and the Model A began to shudder. Since the vehicle had already been running hot, Gilhouley knew that it was only a matter of minutes before the motor failed.
“Take it as far as you can, Kilgore. That patrol will be heading after us and we’ll need as much of an advantage as we can get.”
They jounced and shimmied for about five miles before the steep incline and the loss of water from the radiator was more than the little car could handle. As it shuddered into its death throes, Gilhouley motioned for Kilgore to pull off the road next to a shallow ravine.
“Grab your gear,” he said as the car rolled to a stop.
The men climbed out, quickly strapping on packs and grasping the ammunition canister they’d brought with them.
Petey kicked at the tire, then began to wrestle with the lid to the gas tank.
“What the hell, Petey?” Kilgore demanded.
After finally managing to wrestle it free, Petey whirled, throwing the lid deep into the trees. “I’ll be damned if I’ll leave it for the Japs to patch up and use,” he grumbled as he scooped up a handful of dirt and pebbles and poured it into the tank, repeating the process twice more. “I’d set it ablaze if it wouldn’t g
ive away our position.”
“Put it in neutral, Kilgore. We’ll roll it into the ravine. Hopefully, they won’t find it there until daybreak.”
The men braced themselves against the car, heaving until it began to roll down the slope, picking up speed. The Model A careened into the underbrush. At the last minute, one of the front tires butted onto a rock and the car tipped. Then, in slow motion, still rolling down the hill, it fell sideways and skidded to an ungainly stop.
For several long seconds, Gilhouley and his men stood looking down at the car, knowing that it had been their last chance for an easy getaway.
Shaking himself loose from such thoughts, Gilhouley grabbed his rifle.
“Let’s go.”
“Which way?”
“The Japs will probably expect us to head north, sticking close to the road.” He pointed east. “So we’re going that way. Straight up the slope.”
“Lieutenant, come quick!”
He barely glanced up as Petey ran into the hut. Instead, he bent low over Kilgore, spooning the rice water gruel—what passed for a meal lately—into the other man’s mouth. The quinine they’d been smuggled was gone and Kilgore’s body was wracked with fever. Clenching his jaw shut, the man tried to turn his head away, but he forced a little of the liquid into his mouth.
“What is it?”
“A plane!”
“So what, Petey?” Mickleson complained from the corner of the hut.
Petey grinned. “You’ll wanna see this one. Hurry!”
He almost didn’t go. His body ached and his gut was twisted with dysentery. But distractions were few and Petey was more worked up than usual.
The low growl of a plane grew near again and Petey waved at them. “Come on!”
It took more effort than he possessed to rise to his feet, but he finally managed to stagger toward the doorway. Clinging to the lintel, he peered out into the hot, searing sky.
At first he didn’t see what had Petey all worked up. The last thing he needed was a Jap Zero deciding to strafe the camp—or the garden. Don’t let them tear up the garden. But as he squeezed his eyes shut against a white-hot sun and the waving heat, he caught the speck in the sky that became a bird, then a plane. And then, as it swooped low, he felt a sense of déjà vu as he remembered standing next to the control tower at Clark Field. He remembered the tinsel falling from the sky, only to explode when it hit the ground, then the blood red circles painted on the wings.
But this time, as the plane screamed past and the sunlight glinted off its wings, it wasn’t a circle he saw but a star.
“Shit, almighty, it’s one of ours,” he managed to rasp before the familiar glitter of bombs being released caused him to throw Petey to the ground. As the explosions rocked the camp, radiating from the strike zone barely a half-mile away, he added, “And they don’t know it’s us.”
Chapter Eleven
December 25, 1941
Rosemary was the last of the nurses to climb up the gangplank to the ferry.
“Everyone aboard?” she asked Alice, who waited at the top.
“Everyone, everything…this boat has been loaded so full, I’m afraid it will sink before we even get away from the dock.”
Rosemary grimaced. “Don’t say that out loud. It’s bad enough that everyone’s thinking it.”
“Here’s your vest.”
Rosemary glanced at her clipboard and made a final tick on her list, then set her things down on a crate to accept the life vest that Alice extended to her.
“And your Christmas dinner,” Alice said, handing her a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.
One of Rosemary’s brows rose questioningly.
“According to the cooks, before the Japanese arrived, they’d had an elaborate meal planned with all the trimmings: mashed potatoes, turkey, stuffing, pies, rolls.” She shrugged. “They’re handing out cold sandwiches instead. At least they spread a little cranberry jelly on the bread.”
As Rosemary unwrapped the offering and took a bite, Alice shivered, despite the heat.
“You know that song, with Big Crosby…I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas?”
Rosemary nodded. Holiday Inn was one of her favorite movies.
“The nurses at Sternberg have begun calling this our Black Christmas.”
Alice stood silently for a few minutes while Rosemary finished her sandwich. Then, as if the scene of the docks was too much for her, she backed away and returned to sit with the other women.
Rosemary didn’t follow immediately. Instead, she leaned against the railing of the ferry as it pulled into the choppy waters of the bay. They were running without lights, guided only by instruments, she presumed, since the water was thick and inky, the sky only a shade lighter. There was little moonlight tonight, but there was no need for it. The fires caused by the approaching Japanese army had cast a ruddy false twilight that was so bright, a few of her nurses had used the glow to read the inventory lists they’d been given at the dock.
The ferry vibrated ominously as it moved away from its moorings, but Rosemary’s attention wasn’t on the water they would navigate. Instead, she continued to watch the receding sight of Manila with its shattered docks and decimated skyline.
Was this what it was like to watch the death of a city? Despite blackout conditions, she could see the docks teeming with refugees screaming for help.
The noise rose up around the pier, nearly drowning out the sound of the air raid sirens and the distant drone of planes. The ferry was already loaded past what it had been designed to handle, and the old wood creaked ominously as it headed out toward the open waters of the bay.
The air raid sirens sounded again, their whooping wail one of the most mournful noises in the world.
“Major, we’ve had a warning of planes headed this way. You really should go below deck.”
She turned to find a seaman eyeing her with concern. But when she thought of being trapped below deck should they be hit…
“I…I’d rather stay up here, if you don’t mind.”
He opened his mouth as if to argue, then changed his mind. Obviously, she wasn’t the first to refuse the offer.
“Then you’d better take this.” He handed her his helmet. “I can get another one below deck.”
“Thanks.”
She jammed the helmet over her head, fastening the chinstrap. Then she stood hugging her life vest as the ferry inched away from land at a snail’s pace.
How many days had it been since Gilhouley had brought her here? Since they’d boarded Napoli’s seaplane and toured the island? Was he out there, somewhere in the darkness, trying frantically to help with the evacuation? Or was he at the front lines fighting against the Japanese?
Both scenarios caused her stomach to wrench so violently that, heedless of who might see her, she bent over the rail and purged herself of the sandwich that she’d only just eaten. Then, realizing that it would be torture to stand here and listen to the waves of noise coming from Manila, she resolutely turned her back and moved toward the little clump of nurses huddled in a knot near a pallet of beans.
“Are you all right?” Alice asked as Rosemary sank down beside them, resting her back against the bags.
“Just a little seasick.”
But both of them knew that she was lying.
“He’ll be all right,” Alice murmured, briefly squeezing her hand. “You never know. He might be on Bataan waiting for you.”
Rosemary prayed that Alice was right. She honestly didn’t know how she would get through the next few weeks if she didn’t have the hope that Gilhouley was out there, somewhere, thinking about her.
• • •
Dawn was streaking the sky when the ferry docked at a rough wooden pier.
Bataan.
Rosemary knew little about the area, even though she’d lived in the Philippines for years. It was a nearly uninhabited peninsula of swamps and jungles, a ripe breeding ground for malaria, and apparently, the best place on the island to dig in
and wait for reinforcements.
Rousing her nurses. Rosemary ordered them to gather their things and follow her as she descended the gangplank to the sandy beach beyond.
“Set your things there, next to those bushes. As soon as the transport trucks arrive, we’ll begin unloading the medical supplies.” She reached for the clipboard that Alice held toward her. “To help make this as efficient as possible, I’ll be dividing you into teams. Each team will be responsible for a section of the ferry. Make sure that you get everything, absolutely everything. Once the item has been unloaded from the boat and placed on a transport truck, you will cross it off the list and make a note of the vehicle number at the side. Once you’ve finished, bring your lists to me for a final check. Any questions?”
The women shook their heads.
The low drone of engines wove through the stillness, and Rosemary glanced toward the road that led up to the beach. It was little more than wheel ruts etched into the foliage. But as the noise grew louder and louder, she realized that the noise wasn’t coming from the lane, but from overhead.
“Take cover!” she shouted as a half-dozen planes beelined toward them.
As she threw herself onto the sand, puffs of dirt kicked up inches away from her. The phut-phut-phut of machine gun fire followed a half second later as the Zeros roared over the beach, strafing the sand.
Sailors and soldiers who had already begun to unload the ferry dived for the water as the planes swooped overhead, banked, then returned.
“Into the trees! Into the trees!”
Scrambling to her feet, Rosemary helped to pull her nurses to their feet, pushing them into the cover of the trees. As another Zero zoomed above her, she dived in after them, then rolled when sand spit at her from the spray of bullets.
A bomb exploded mere yards away, the blast throwing them to the ground again as dirt and debris pelted them like searing hailstones.
Looping her arms over her head to protect herself, Rosemary pressed her face into the moist foliage, panting against the waves of heat and noise, the smells of cordite and smoke. Already, she could hear the cries of the injured from the beach screaming for help.