"Thank you, Sir," Weston said, and saluted. Everly followed suit, and then courteously waited for Weston to leave the small, frame motor pool office first.
During the short trip from Corregidor on the requisitioned thirty-five-foot Chris-Craft cabin cruiser, there'd been a pleasant breeze; but by the time they'd walked from the Mariveles pier to the motor pool, their backs and arm-pits were dark with sweat.
At the gate of the compound, a guard shack was manned by two enlisted Army Military Policemen and a captain wearing the crossed rifles of Infantry. He carefully examined the pass (actually a memorandum form, the stockpiled supplies on Corregidor having included six months' supply of printed forms), and, Weston thought, suspiciously.
"Where are you headed, Lieutenant?" he asked.
"Morong, Sir," Weston replied.
The Captain's eyebrows rose questioningly; it was clear he wanted an ex-planation.
"There was word that some stuff was cached this side of Morong when they evacuated Subic Bay," Weston said. "We thought the generator parts we're looking for could be there."
He was uncomfortable lying, and he took a quick look at the Old Breed Sergeant from the 4th Marines to see if he had any reaction to his change of destination; Sergeant Everly had heard him tell the motor officer they were headed for Orion. Morong, a small port on the South China Sea, was on the opposite side of the Bataan Peninsula.
Everly's face was expressionless.
"You've got coordinates?" the Captain asked.
Weston forced himself to smile.
" 'Two hundred paces due east from an overturned and burned ton-and-a-half,' " he said, " 'three point seven miles from Morong.' "
"There's more than one burned and overturned ton-and-a-half truck on that road," the Captain said.
"Ours not to reason why," Weston said with a smile. "Ours but to..."
"Happy hunting," the Captain said, waving them through the gate.
There was no traffic headed toward Subic Bay. Weston started walking along the side of the road, remembering when he used to hitchhike in high school and college; he could never understand then-or now-why hitchhik-ers walked along the road.
There's no way you could walk even a couple miles to where you're headed, so why walk at all? Just wait for a ride.
Everly walked behind him, keeping up with him easily, despite all the equipment he was carrying. Weston decided he would at least walk out of sight of Mariveles before talking to the sergeant. And then when they were out of sight, he decided he would walk a little farther.
He intended to order the sergeant to go back to The Rock, carrying a mean-ingless message to Major Paulson.
He had just about decided they had gone far enough-being defined as far enough away from Mariveles that if the sergeant became suspicious and said something to the MPs at the gate, he would have twenty minutes or so to find a side road and disappear down it-when the sergeant reported a truck was ap-proaching.
It was a flatbed Ford, driven by an Army corporal. The name of a Manila furniture dealer could still be read under a hastily applied coat of olive-drab paint.
A PFC riding in the cab stepped out and gave Weston his seat, and then climbed in back with Everly. The truck was loaded with bales of empty sand-bags, and the driver told him he was headed for a Philippine artillery battalion, then asked him where he was headed.
"I'm looking for a burned and rolled-over ton-and-a-half," Weston re-plied. "There's supposed to be some stuff cached nearby."
"I was up here this morning," the driver said. "There's a bunch of trucks turned over and burned. How are you going to know which one?"
"I suppose I'll have to check them all out and hope I get lucky," Weston replied.
Fifteen minutes later, on a sharp bend on a deserted stretch of road, the driver slowed and stopped, and pointed out Weston's window. The fire-blacked wheels and underside of an overturned truck were just visible thirty yards off the road, at the bottom of a ditch.
"I guess he missed the turn," the driver said. "At night, no lights, these roads are dangerous as hell."
"Might as well start here, I suppose. Thanks for the ride." The sergeant was standing by the side of the road looking at Weston by the time Weston got out of the cab.
Weston walked to the side of the road and, nearly falling, slid down into the ditch. After a moment, as if making up his mind whether or not to do so, Everly slid down after him.
Weston pretended to examine the truck, and then walked down the ditch a hundred feet or so. Everly watched him but did not follow. Weston walked back to him.
"Obviously, this isn't the truck," he said. Everly said nothing.
"I've been thinking, Sergeant," Weston said, wondering if he sounded as artificial as he felt. "We better get word to Major Paulson that chances are we aren't going to find the truck at all." Everly didn't reply.
"Tell him, of course, that I'll keep looking," Weston said. "Could I see that Thompson a minute, please, Sir?" Everly asked. It was not the response Weston expected. And without really thinking what he was doing, he unslung the submachine gun from his shoulder and handed it to Everly. Everly unslung his Springfield '03 and handed it to Weston.
"Sergeant, what are you doing?" Weston asked.
"Lieutenant, I'm trying to figure out what to do about you," Everly said.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm not going back to The Rock, Mr. Weston," Everly said. "I made up my mind about that a couple of days ago. If I ever got off The Rock, I wouldn't go back."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't really know. Get off Bataan somehow. Go to one of the other islands. Mindanao, probably."
Weston didn't know what to say.
"And I decided I'm going to need this more than you do," Everly added, shrugging the shoulder from which the Thompson was suspended. "Would you give me the extra magazines, please?"
"What do you think you're going to do, even if you make it to Min-danao?"
"I'm not the only one who's decided he doesn't want to surrender," Ev-erly said. "Maybe I can link up with some of the others."
"And do what?"
"I don't know. Maybe do something about the Japs, maybe try to get out of the Philippines. The only thing I know for sure is that I'm not going to find myself a prisoner."
Their eyes met.
"You sure you know what you're doing?"
"The only thing I know for sure," Everly repeated, "is that I'm not going to find myself a prisoner. I seen what the Japs do to their prisoners."
"The reason I was sending you back to The Rock," Weston said, slowly, "is that I had reached much the same conclusion."
"I figured maybe that was it when I heard you bullshit them officers," Everly said.
"I'm a pilot," Weston said. "If I can get to Australia, I can do some good. I'm not doing anybody any good here."
Everly nodded but did not reply.
"Do you have any idea how we can get from here to Mindanao?" Weston asked.
Everly shook his head slowly from side to side. "Except that we're going to need a boat," he said.
"Do you have any idea where we can get a boat?"
Everly shook his head again.
Weston smiled.
"Well, we'll think of something," he said, and held out Everly's Springfield to him. With the other hand, he prepared to take his Thompson back.
"You ever fire a Thompson much, Mr. Weston?"
"Only in Basic Officers' Course," Weston replied. "For familiariza-tion."
"I got a Thompson Expert Bar," Everly said. "Maybe I better keep it." The Expert Bar is one of the specific weapon bars (the others being pistol, rifle, et cetera) attached to the Expert Marksman's Medal.
That's not a suggestion, Weston realized, nor even a request. It is an an-nouncement that he has taken over the Thompson.
"If you think that's the smart thing to do, it's all right with me," Weston said, and handed Everly the two spare magazines Major Paulson had given him.
"The way I figure it, we're maybe nine, ten miles from Morong," Ev-erly said. "I don't think it would be smart going into Morong looking for a boat. But maybe we could find something a little out of town, maybe a mile or so. Either side of Morong. There's little coves, or whatever they're called."
"And you speak Spanish," Weston said, thinking aloud.
Everly grunted an acknowledgment.
"And I have five thousand dollars," Weston said, with a touch of enthusi-asm in his voice.
Everly quickly dispelled it.
"If we get caught by the Army snooping around, looking for a boat, we better hope your boat pass works."
"You think that's liable to happen?"
"I don't think we're the only ones trying to get away from Bataan," Ev-erly said matter-of-factly. "And what we're doing is desertion in the face of the enemy."
"Is that how you think of it?"
"That's what it is, Mr. Weston," Everly said, and then turned and started up the side of the ditch, back toward the road.
After Weston climbed up after him, Everly had something else to say:
"I think it would be a good idea, Mr. Weston, if we split your five thou-sand dollars. In case we get separated or something."
Weston didn't like the suggestion, if it was a suggestion. But he took out the envelope and counted out twenty-five hundred dollars and handed it to Ev-erly.
He found a little consolation in the thought that if Everly wanted to steal the money, all he had to do was point the Thompson at him and take it.
"Thanks," Everly said. He removed his canteens from their covers, di-vided the money into two stacks, shoved it into the canteen cases, and then, with some difficulty, replaced the canteens.
Then he started walking down the road. Weston walked after him, very much aware that he was no longer functioning as a Marine officer in command of an enlisted man. Everly had taken command. It was not a comforting thought.
On the other hand, this Old Breed China Marine seems to know what he's doing. And obviously I don't.
[TWO]
The village on the coast was at the end of a winding dirt road-not much more than a trail. It consisted of no more than fifteen crude houses surrounding a well. The houses were built on stilts, obviously as protection against surf and high tides; some were roofed with galvanized steel, others with thatch.
Weston wondered why they didn't build their houses farther away from the water.
The shoreline was mostly dirt and rocks, onto which boats could have been beached. No boats were in sight, however, and no marks were on the shoreline indicating any had been in there, not only since the last tide, but for a long time.
But Weston, his eyes following his nose, saw fish drying.
There are boats around here somewhere.
There was a cantina.
In the cantina were four tables, perhaps a dozen rickety chairs, and a bar onto which a metal Lucky Strike cigarette advertisement had been nailed. A shelf behind the bar held a dozen glasses and half a dozen empty Coca-Cola bottles. It was tended by a very fat Filipino woman with graying hair and bad teeth.
She eyed them suspiciously.
Weston looked at Everly, waiting for him to speak to the woman. After a moment, it became apparent that Everly was waiting for him to say something to her.
Not because I'm the officer in charge, but because he doesn't want her to know he speaks Spanish. Christ, why didn 't I think of that?
Weston gestured that he wanted something to drink.
' Wo cerveza," the woman said.
Weston knew enough Spanish to understand there was no beer.
He shrugged, hoping she would interpret this to mean he would be satis-fied with whatever she had.
"Dinero?" the old woman asked.
He reached in his pocket and laid an American five-dollar bill on the bar. She picked it up, examined it carefully, laid it back down, and walked out of the cantina through a door in the rear. In two minutes she was back with one bottle of Coca-Cola. She opened it and handed it to him. Then she picked up the five-dollar bill and stuffed it in the opening of her dress.
"It's a good thing we're not really thirsty," Everly said, and then indi-cated with a barely perceptible move of his head that Weston should look be-hind him.
A small, dark-skinned man had come into the cantina. He was barefoot, and he was wearing a loose-fitting cotton pullover shirt and baggy, ragged cuffed trousers.
"Hello, American buddies," he called from behind the bar. "I speak En-glish. How are you?"
"Hello," Weston said.
"Very bad," the Filipino said. "Goddamn very bad."
"What's very bad?"
"Fucking war," the Filipino said, walking to Weston, putting out his hand, and when Weston took it, shaking it enthusiastically. "Fucking Japons. Bullshit."
"Very bad," Weston agreed.
"Hello, buddy," the Filipino said to Everly.
Everly nodded his head.
"No fucking beer," the Filipino said. "Damn near no Coca-Cola. Fucking Japons."
"Yes," Weston agreed.
"What can I do for you?" the Filipino asked.
"Actually, we're looking for a boat."
"Ha! No fucking boats anymore. You got any money?"
"We're trying to rent a boat to take us off Bataan," Weston said.
"No fucking boats. Japons maybe twenty-five miles away. Next week they be here."
"What happened to the boats that were here?" Weston asked.
"Everybody gone. Except maybe one or two boats hidden."
"We would like to rent one of the boats that are hidden," Weston said.
"Very expensive. Very illegal. Very dangerous. Be very expensive."
"How expensive?"
"Very expensive. Thousand dollars."
"How about five hundred?" Everly said.
"Thousand dollars. No boats left. Fucking war. Fucking Japons."
"All we have is one thousand dollars," Weston said. "And we'll need money when we get to Mindanao."
The slight Filipino looked thoughtful.
"Why you want to go to Mindanao?"
"To fight the Japanese," Weston said.
"Fucking Japons no fucking good. Goddamn. I will ask. But I think man with boat will want thousand dollars."
"If you take us to Mindanao," Weston said, "I'll give you a thousand dollars. Five hundred dollars now, five hundred when we get there."
"I will ask," the Filipino said. "You stay here. Drink Coca-Cola. I will comeback."
"When I see the boat, I will give you five hundred dollars," Weston said.
"You stay here. Drink Coca-Cola," the Filipino said. "I come quick."
He left the cantina the way he had come in.
"That was too easy," Everly said softly.
Weston's temper flared.
"You have any better ideas, Sergeant?"
"Your show, Mr. Weston, but if I was you, I'd put all but the one thousand someplace he can't see it."
Weston glowered at him, which didn't seem to faze Everly at all.
"If he does come back, I wouldn't give him the five hundred until we're on the boat," Everly said.
The Filipino came back after fifteen minutes, but he didn't enter the can-tina. He stood in the door and motioned for them to follow him.
Everly gestured for Weston to go first.
The Filipino led them down a trail through the thick vegetation for a quar-ter mile, and then stopped. He pointed toward the water. After a moment, Wes-ton saw faint marks on the muddy, rocky beach which suggested that a boat had been dragged from the water. A moment later, he saw the stern of a boat peeking through the thick vegetation.
"Good fucking boat," the Filipino said. "Carry you to Mindanao. Shit, carry you to fucking Australia."
He left the trail and pushe
d his way through the vegetation toward the beach.
When they reached the boat, two other Filipinos were there. An older man was dressed like the first, and a stocky, flat-faced young woman wore a thin cotton dress and apparently nothing else.
W E B Griffin - Corp 07 - Behind the Lines Page 4