Dan leaned his head against the wall of the foxhole, his last reserves of strength giving out. He tried to catch his breath, but the phosphoric odor of smoke burned his nose and throat. Fear rumbled in his stomach at the thought of the battle bearing down. He’d heard rumors of Japanese bayonets and samurai swords.
Dan must have drifted to sleep, because when he awoke Gabe had returned, and the morning sun now hung bright in the sky.
“Morning, sleepyhead. Looks like that quinine’s doing some good. I think you have malaria.”
“Medicine?” Dan rubbed his eyes, and the haziness from earlier that morning dissipated.
“Don’t you remember? I begged some off one of the other guys in a nearby foxhole. He didn’t want to give it up, but I told him if our best flier was down, all of us would be in trouble.”
“I’m not much of a flier without a plane, and I’m afraid to see if the one we have left is still in one piece.”
“Here.” Gabe handed Dan a small cloth bag. Dan opened it to discover something that looked like oyster crackers mixed with small balls of white sugar. He tossed a handful into his mouth.
“Where’d you find this?” It was sweet to his tongue, and he hungrily tilted the bag to his lips, shaking more into his mouth.
“I found it on a dead Jap. Must’ve been his rations. Also found some sticks that looked like resin. It was solidified fish soup. I mixed it with water and ate that while you slept.”
Dan held out the bag to Gabe. “Want some?”
“Nah, you go ahead. I’m good.”
In less than a minute, the contents of the bag were gone. Dan turned it inside out and licked the remaining crumbs, then sat back with a smile. It hadn’t filled his stomach, but it gave him the boost he needed.
He watched Gabe clean his rifle with a piece of oiled gauze. The scent of oil permeated the dugout.
“Stupid thing keeps jamming on me. These dang weapons must have belonged to the Confederate army.” Gabe worked the gauze, plunging it up and down the barrel of the gun. “Our other weapons aren’t much better. The grenades are old and damp. Only one out of the last three worked. From what I hear down the line, the antiaircraft shells are so ancient their timers have worn out. They fly into the air and then just fall back. One guy was killed when it exploded right above his head. Boy, am I sick of this. I’m sick of praying and not seeing any hope.”
Dan closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the dugout wall. “Me too. But what if our saviors are pulling into the harbor as we speak? I bet MacArthur’s message was just a hoax to catch the Japs unaware. Maybe he’s rounding up the best battleships and planes to rescue us.”
“Yeah, right.”
Despite their sarcasm Dan knew they had to keep faith. The alternative was unthinkable.
He remembered his short interview with a war correspondent, Frank something, after the bombing in Subic Bay. Frank had shared a poem that spread through the units like wildfire:
We are the Battling Bastards of Bataan,
No Mama, no Papa, no Uncle Sam!
No Aunts, no Uncles, no Cousins, no Nieces,
No Planes, no Pills, no Artillery Pieces!
And nobody gives a Damn!
Yet Dan had to have hope that someone still cared. That his mother still prayed, and Libby still loved him. He had to cling to that.
Two lines of men made their way through the darkness, each one putting his hands on the guy in front of him. Their pace quickened as the booming behind them increased. They’d been given the orders to retreat. It was no use trying to hold back the Japs. No use sacrificing more men for a lost cause.
Dan panted, still feeling weak from the malaria. He squeezed Gabe’s shoulder. “Hold up. I need to catch my breath.”
Immediately the group of twenty men halted—Filipino soldiers, infantrymen, and a few remaining pilots. Men that only a few months ago were strangers now had an odd bond of understanding between them.
Dan glanced back over his shoulder. Flashes of artillery fire splashed in the inky sky.
They’d found a dry riverbed and decided to follow it. Dan was pleased with the decision, because he knew it led them toward the last plane, his plane, hidden under a pile of brush near one of their abandoned airfields.
He held his side where a sharp pain cramped up and felt like a fool for stopping their retreat. Who was he kidding? Even if the plane were still flyable, he was in no condition to take it up.
Suddenly the ground shook and the stones in the river began to roll, tumbling over their booted feet.
“The Japs!” José held his helmet tight to his head.
“Not Japs. An earthquake!” Paulo, the young Filipino, made the sign of the cross and fell to his knees. “God has come to our rescue!”
Dan’s heart pounded, and he wondered if such a thing were possible.
The tremor grew in intensity, and José joined Paulo on the ground. The rest followed suit. Dan didn’t know if it was the force of the quake or Paulo’s words that brought them to their knees.
When the trembling stopped, the fighting too ceased for a brief moment. Except for the excited chattering of monkeys in the trees, the night air was silent.
The rocks from the riverbed cut into Dan’s knees, and he wondered what it all meant.
Paulo pulled rosary beads from his pocket and rubbed them between his fingers. “Do you know? Today is Good Friday. Easter is in two days. All those years ago—the ground shook then too.”
They pondered Paulo’s words, then somberly rose from the ground and continued on in silence. This time, Dan and Paulo led the way.
The men again stumbled through the darkness side by side. And although Dan noted he stood at least six inches taller than Paulo, he somehow didn’t feel as big as the man walking beside him.
They walked along the roadway, their 1918 mess tins and canteens clanking at their sides. Dan’s legs felt like rubber stilts, shaky and detached from him, as if those two thin sticks were not his own. His dirty shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat.
He felt disassociated with their movement somehow, as if he wasn’t really part of this. The real Dan Lukens was back in Hawaii, tossing a football on the beach, training new pilots, and going out to dinner with his girl.
Sometime during the morning, word had come that they’d surrendered. Major General King had thrown in the towel, not wanting to sacrifice any more lives. The word had come down the line that they were to walk to a staging center at Mariveles.
Others had joined their small group, and as they trudged along, Paulo shared how the Israelites had been led through the wilderness by a pillar of fire. But for this group of haggard pilgrims, the only guide was a narrow road and the sun reflecting off the green crest of the Mariveles Mountains, beating down on them with sweltering intensity.
Yet staring at that mountain was far better than taking note of what littered the roadway. There lay American soldiers, some just boys, their bodies cast aside like refuse. Some still alive, but just barely.
During the months of training, surrender to the enemy had been discussed, yet no one believed it would happen. One fought to win, not to give up. Rich and poor, officers and reserves, old men and those straight out of high school—they were all identical now.
Dan couldn’t help but be drawn to a young soldier who lay on the side of the road with a wound to his stomach. It looked as if he’d been bandaged, then left to fend for himself. Dan paused, lowering himself to the ground beside the lad.
“I’m afraid to die.” The soldier’s tears streaked the dirt on his bloodless, white face. His lips trembled. “I’m too young to die. My legs feel cold,” he wheezed.
“It’s okay, kid. Who says you’re going to die? I’m right here with you.” But the boy didn’t seem to hear him. One last breath shuddered from his body, and Dan’s fingers closed the sightless eyes.
He stood and continued on, feeling as if he, too, had died inside. “Things like this shouldn’t happen. That guy should
have been home, finishing high school. He should be attending the prom and worrying if Betty Sue likes him as much as he likes her.” Dan’s words piled up, weighing on his chest. “He shouldn’t be dying on some godforsaken island halfway around the world.”
Gabe placed an arm around Dan’s shoulder as they walked. “I agree. It’s a horrible way to die. Alone, without those who love you the best.”
Dan wiped at his eyes and noted the smell of gasoline on his hands. He’d done it. As soon as the word of surrender came, he’d spilled the fuel from his P-40 on the ground and lit it himself. They’d been ordered to destroy everything they left behind. There was no way they were going to let the Japs use their supplies. And if the last P-40 were to be destroyed, he would do it himself.
He wrapped his arms around his aching stomach, lowered his head, and let the tears fall. Not only for the boy, but for everything he’d lost that morning, including his ability to fly.
Gabe’s jaw was also tight with emotion. The men around Dan spoke in hushed tones. Weak, tired, unsure about this next step, they tried to convince themselves that captivity would be better. At least they’d have food.
The road that wound along the foothills of the Bataan Mountains was also scattered with Jap souvenirs that had been thrown out. Money, guns, scarves with Japanese lettering—anything that they could be accused of taking from a dead soldier. Or anything else the Japs would want for themselves.
Dan glanced at his wristwatch. It had been his great-grandfather’s, passed down from father to son for generations. He’d received it after his first year at UCLA.
He hurriedly pulled it from his wrist, then cocked his arm back as far as possible and chucked it into the trees lining the roadway.
Gabe turned to him with a single eyebrow raised.
“I won’t let some Jap have it.”
Gabe removed his wristwatch and did the same. Many of the others joined in.
Dan’s chest ached as he realized that the watch had been the last connection with his family. In fact, only one small memento from home remained. He pulled his leather wallet from his pocket and slid out the photo inside. Libby smiled at him with twinkling eyes, wearing her flight suit. Her hair was tucked up in a pilot’s cap, with dark curls poking out, framing her face. There were other photos he’d been forced to leave behind, but this was his favorite. The joy in her eyes as she stood beside her plane was unmistakable.
Dan caressed the image with his thumb, then tucked it into the lining of the metal helmet that Paulo had insisted he wear.
“You’ll need it,” the Filipino soldier had said, placing the helmet upon his head and buckling the strap tight. “To protect from the sun.”
As long as Dan had this photo, he had hope.
High-pitched yelling caught Dan’s attention even before the sound of the jeeps. Up the roadway, the line of men slowed as a Japanese tank rolled around the corner. Armed infantrymen rode on the outside. Dan didn’t know what he expected Japanese soldiers to look like, but their olive green uniforms were tattered. Their caps had a little star above the bill, and flaps hung over their ears and the back of their necks. They looked nearly as thin as those marching—yet the razor-sharp bayonets in their hands reminded everyone who was in charge.
One officer, in a pristine uniform, stood inside the tank. He regarded them over the turret, his lips curling upward in a smile.
Dan leaned in close to Gabe. “Don’t look a Jap officer in the eye. At best it’s impolite. At worst, a direct challenge.”
More Japanese followed in a truck behind the tank. An interpreter’s voice barked instructions in English through a loudspeaker.
“Attention! All American personnel are ordered to report at the airfield at Mariveles. I repeat, proceed immediately to the runway at Mariveles and await further orders!”
Gabe leaned close. “Where did they think we were headed? Out for an afternoon stroll?”
As they trudged on, a soldier on Dan’s right panicked. “They’ll kill us all!” His eyes were wild. “We need to run now while we still have the chance!” He turned, his stick legs barely able to carry him. Two others joined him, taking long strides into the jungle.
Suddenly, the sound of a half dozen machine guns erupted. Dan covered his head and threw himself to the ground. He pressed his face into the dirt road. Once the chaos quieted, he dared to open his eyes only to find one of the soldiers hung up on the roots of an acadia tree not far from the roadway. Dan couldn’t see the other two, but he assumed they’d also been mowed down. The officer in the tank began shouting in Japanese.
“Get up. Now. Hurry.” Dan lifted himself off the ground. “We need to get moving before they decide to use us for target practice too.” Dan reached down and helped Gabe to his feet. Then he turned and helped a few other soldiers.
“I don’t understand.” The young soldier’s whole body trembled. “When we were on the front lines, Japanese aircraft flew overhead blaring promises that they’d stick to the Geneva Convention. They said if we surrendered we’d be back home in a few months.”
“Yeah,” said another soldier who stood even taller than Dan. “It’s part of their Bushido code—no needless bloodshed.”
Dan placed a hand on each shoulder, glancing between the two. “I’ve talked Bushido, with a Japanese guy, in fact. Things have changed. The new soldiers are taking what they want from the code and throwing out the rest. In fact, my friend told me that for a Japanese to surrender is to create a great dishonor. His family must forget him completely.”
“Like he’s dead?” José glanced back over his shoulder at the tanks that continued down the road.
“No, more like he never existed.”
“I believe it.” The tall soldier nodded. “We captured some enemy soldiers on the front lines. And when the Japs broke through, we thought they’d be happy to get their men back.” The shuffling of their feet on the road accented the man’s words.
“What happened?” Dan studied the man’s face, realizing how quickly strangers became friends under circumstances like these.
The man lowered his voice. “Those sake-crazed Nips marched their own soldiers into a clearing, offered each a cigarette, then shot them. Not only that, but they left them there, unburied.”
“They’re nothing more than animals.” Gabe stumbled, then reached a hand to Dan.
Dan reached over and righted him. “Actually, that’s what they think of us. And if that’s how they treated their own, what do you think we can expect?”
Just then, a single Jap stepped out from behind a tree with cigarette in hand. He leaned back against the trunk, watching them pass.
Dan watched as Gabe clenched his fist, then scanned the road both before and behind them. “Doesn’t that guy realize there is only one of him and a lot of us? We could rush him if we want, strangle him with our bare hands.”
“I guarantee there’s more than one of him.” Dan refused to look at the Jap, but he was certain he saw movement in the brush to the man’s immediate left.
The Jap soldier whistled, and as they glanced over, he waved and smiled.
Then he approached Dan. “Nem?”
“Pardon?”
“Nem. Nem!” He pushed a finger into Dan’s chest.
“Dan. Daniel Lukens.”
“No worries, Daniel Lukens.” He spoke in English. “Japan treats prisoners well. You may even see our country in cherry blossom time, a beautiful sight!” Then he fell back, letting them pass.
“Japan? Did you hear that? They’re taking us to Japan?” Gabe hissed under his breath. “Maybe those guys had the right idea. We can slip off this road and take off for Corregidor. Or maybe we can see how long we can survive in the jungle. Surely it’s better than giving up so easily.”
“If we were healthy and fit, I’d consider it.” Dan lowered his gaze.
As if knowing the nature of their discussion, the Jap soldier fell in behind their group, his rifle pointing at their backs. “You walk so proud, you Americ
ans. Show me that you understand that we are now in control of your lives.”
Dan lifted his arms in the air in surrender; yet it was an outward sign only. They maybe had control of his freedom, but they would not take his soul.
Nineteen
BATAAN FALLS AFTER EPIC STRUGGLE
Bataan, Bay of Bengal, Burma—these were names that spelled bad news last week.
The magnificent stand of the American-Filipino army on Bataan was broken. Smashing through Gen. Jonathan M. Wainwright’s left flank, the vastly stronger Japanese troops swarmed over the peninsula and threw a sack around some 36,853 heroes who had held them at bay for three months and six days.
From a numerical standpoint it was “the most severe reverse ever suffered by an American force in a single engagement with a foreign foe.”
But Bataan also was one of the most glorious pages in America’s military history, a symbol of courage and fighting skill against impossible odds, and a portent of the fury that is to strike Japan one day when the tide of battle turns.
Edward T. Folliard, Staff Writer
Excerpt from the Washington Post, April 12, 1942
Dan sucked in a mouthful of dusty air and wiped a filthy hand across his forehead. As they trudged along, their group caught up with other stragglers. Comrades carried injured men, blood-soaked rags covering their wounds. Dan could smell the gangrene of sores as they passed.
Yet even those considered to be in the best health were thin and haggard. Their olive fatigues hung on emaciated frames. Thin, sore-covered legs moved forward, ever forward, afraid to stop. Worried eyes glanced behind, anticipating the enemy at any moment.
Dan kept pace with his friends, thankful for their companionship, even though conversation had been dropped along the way.
As they moved forward, in step with some and passing others, Dan thought he recognized the walk of one husky soldier. The man ran his hand down the back of his neck and glanced over his shoulder, as if feeling Dan’s gaze.
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