by Dean Hughes
Wally spun and ran for the nearby brush, where the men had dug a trench. At any second, he expected shrapnel from the exploding bombs to strike his back. But he ducked under a hanging vine and dove into the ditch. Just as he landed, he heard a grunt behind him and then heard Sandy go down. He hoped the guy had only failed to duck for the vine and had fallen, but he feared the worst.
The bombs kept falling for several minutes, and shrapnel was flying overhead, cutting through the brush and palm trees. Wally didn’t raise his head to look, but it was all he could do to stay down. He just hoped Sandy was staying flat and the shrapnel was passing over him, but chances were, he was cut up and bleeding.
The attack was soon over, and even though Wally knew that Zeros often strafed the area after the bombs stopped falling, he climbed out of his ditch and crawled quickly back to the point where the vine hung over the trail. But no one was there. Other men were climbing out of the trench now, and Wally shouted, “Where’s Sandy? Did anyone see him?”
Just then Wally heard a yell from the ditch, off to the left. “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey, you guys!”
Wally ran to the ditch, dropped onto his knees, and looked down. Sandy was lying on his back, dirty but smiling. He held up both hands, each still full of cigars. “Don’t any of you guys want a cigar?” he asked.
Wally took a long breath, and then he sat down and began to laugh. Everyone else was laughing too, and it felt good. It struck Wally that he hadn’t laughed for a long time, and he found himself continuing to enjoy himself even after the joke was long over. All the other men were doing the same thing—laughing much harder than was probably called for.
The days that followed didn’t bring much more laughter. The men tried to stay in good spirits, and they settled into their new routine of waiting and hoping to survive. Gradually, however, word began to filter in that the Japanese had landed on the island, both north and south, and that the troops were pushing from both directions toward Manila. MacArthur had been training a civilian army—the Philippine Scouts—for a long time, and the men placed great hopes in them, if not in MacArthur. Those who had dealt with the general knew how pompous he was. Most took the view that he cared about very little other than furthering his own purposes. Still, the Scouts were fighting to save their own country, and though the Americans were limited in numbers and equipment, like the Filipinos, they had their backs to the wall. The talk was that the Japanese were not likely to have landed enough troops to overpower both the Filipino and American forces.
In the following week, however, the news was not good. The Scouts fought bravely at Lingayen Gulf, north of Clark Field, but their horse-mounted troops were no match for the firepower of the Japanese ships and airplanes along with heavy artillery and well-equipped ground troops. News on the radio of the valiant defense by Filipino and American soldiers was always impressive, but it invariably came with the information that those same troops had fallen farther back.
Clark Field was in the path of the attacking Japanese ground troops. Somehow, the United States had to get help to the island or the airfield would be overrun before long. The tension kept mounting—and Wally was beginning to accept fear as part of all his thoughts—but no one actually knew what was going to happen. And then, a few days before Christmas, word came that Clark Field was to be abandoned.
Wally knew his skills as supply sergeant were going to be important again. As his men fell back, he wanted to transport everything he could, even though he had few vehicles. One thing that occurred to him was that a big load of laundry had been taken to Manila before the first air attack, and those uniforms had never been returned. The men were wearing clothes that were filthy in spite of their attempts to hand wash them. He talked to his supply officer, who was able to persuade the C.O. to let Wally take a ton-and-a-half truck and drive into Manila.
Wally took Warren with him, and the two were able to make the eighty-mile trip into Manila without any difficulty. They obtained the uniforms from the laundry, even stopped at a YMCA for a wonderful, sudsy bath, followed by an ice-cream sundae, and then they headed back toward Clark.
In Manila, the people were nervous. Word had it that President Quezon and General MacArthur were getting off Luzon and heading for the little fortress island of Corregidor. The people took that as a sign that Manila was going to be left wide open for the Japanese to take. No one knew what that would mean, but panic was setting in. Some people were fleeing, but most knew nowhere to go.
The road heading back to Clark Field was already much busier, and the going was slow. Most of the traffic was heading south, and troops, both American and Filipino, were moving heavy artillery, sometimes taking up both lanes of traffic.
At one point, Wally was forced to stop. A couple of men were looking under the hood of an army truck that was stopped in the lane of traffic. Wally leaned out his truck window and yelled, “Hey, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know. We’re broke down,” a G.I. shouted back.
“Yeah, but what’s happening up ahead? Why is the artillery moving?”
“The Orange Plan,” the man yelled back. “It’s MacArthur’s emergency plan. Everyone’s supposed to head into the Bataan peninsula, west of Manila.”
“What for?”
“Combine all forces. Then hold out for reinforcements.”
Wally heard a honk behind him. He knew he had to move on, but he was confused. He looked at Warren. “He’s giving up almost the whole island. Bataan is just a little peninsula. The Japanese can hit us with everything they have.”
“The mouth of Manila Bay is south of the peninsula,” Warren said. “We’ve got ships there, and forces on Corregidor. That at least keeps Japanese ships from surrounding the peninsula.”
“What difference does that make?” Wally asked. He ran his sleeve across his sweating forehead. “They can hit the whole area from the west.”
“I guess it’s the only thing we can do.” Wally heard the fear in Warren’s voice.
“Maybe the navy is coming to get us off the island. Like Dunkirk. Maybe we’re all withdrawing, and then they’ll bring ships into Manila Bay and pick us up.”
“What ships?” Warren asked. “Where would they come from? The few ships we’ve got in the Bay couldn’t start to do anything like that.”
“Well, then, what’s going to happen, Warren? Can we hold them off?” Wally glanced outside at the palm trees, the bougainvillea vines. This island had seemed such a paradise when he had first seen it. And now it was turning into a trap.
“I don’t know, Wally,” Warren said. “I think we’re in trouble.”
Neither said anything for a time, and Wally knew that Warren was as scared as he was. “We’ve just got to take this one day at a time,” Wally finally said, but he knew he was trying to calm himself, and that no really good answer lay ahead.
“I’ve been praying a lot,” Warren said.
Wally didn’t comment. He had felt good that night, praying with Lieutenant Cluff, but he hadn’t prayed since. He still didn’t feel right about it.
When Wally and Warren finally arrived back at Clark Field, Wally had new worries. He knew he had to do what he could for his squadron. He pushed and negotiated, got some leverage through Major Teuscher, and managed to get a five-ton truck from Fort Stotsenberg. And then he went to work on the supply officer. Why leave supplies and uniforms behind for the Japanese to confiscate? The supply men saw the argument and told Wally to take anything he could get on his truck.
So Wally filled the truck to the brim and beyond. He not only got all the uniforms, socks, and underwear he could, but he also stacked in blankets and tents. He found the post exchange abandoned and unlocked, so he grabbed up boxes of toothpaste, soap, towels, shaving equipment, and anything else that looked useful. By the time he had finished loading everything on and then draping the supplies with canvas, the old truck was dangerously top heavy. But he liked the way he felt. If his squadron was going to have to hold out under a long siege, all this
stuff was going to make the men’s lives a little easier.
The P-40s were the first to clear out. They took off, bound for Bataan Field, another little dirt airstrip. Meanwhile, mechanics were stripping every spare part from the airplanes that had been damaged in the air strikes.
Finally, late in the day on Christmas Eve, the convoy got ready to roll. Wally was driving the big, over-balanced truck, which only got more top-heavy as a dozen men or so climbed on for a ride. The squadron simply didn’t have enough vehicles to transport everyone, and so men began to scrounge cars where they could. One group of men showed up looking very pleased with themselves. They were driving a big old LaSalle convertible they had confiscated somewhere.
Along with Warren, Jack Norland managed to crowd into the cab of the big truck. Soon after the convoy began to roll, the sun set, but the word passed along not to turn on any headlights. Wally was now happy to have men on top of the truck, who could serve as extra eyes to spot hazards ahead.
As the convoy passed through the little town of Angeles, Wally said good-bye to Chicken Charlie’s. “Carefree” was a word he had used but never thought much about, but now he already missed those days when he could wander into town, eat a chicken, and act rowdy with his friends. He wondered whether he would ever be able to do something like that again.
When the convoy reached another town, San Fernando, a little place Wally had passed through many times on his way into Manila, the trucks pulled to a stop by the city square. Word passed down the line that this would be a rest stop.
Wally didn’t get out of the truck. He leaned forward and rested his head on the steering wheel. But about then bells began to ring in a church tower somewhere.
“Midnight,” Warren said. “It’s Christmas.”
Wally pretended not to hear—pretended he was asleep. He couldn’t have said a word. He pictured his home, his living room, and a memory—just an image—came to mind. Dad had been holding one of his Christmas meetings, and Bobbi had gotten up and walked to the piano. Wally saw it all—entirely—and was able to scan the walls, see everything as though he were sitting in the room again. He saw the old piano, and Bobbi in her blue dress with the gold buttons. He saw the front window, a panel of stained glass along the top, and the yellowish light in the room. He remembered the wallpaper, the shelf in the corner. And he saw the girls and Gene sitting on the floor, Mother in her chair—and Dad.
Wally remembered how much he had hated those meetings, how tough he had been on his father. It all seemed so strange now to think he could have felt that way.
What time was it there? What did his family know about what was happening to him? When would he see them again? When would he be home for another Christmas?
Wally tried to drift away. He just wanted to sleep and not think, but the image was in his head, and he couldn’t get rid of it. There was his dad, sitting in his big chair, holding his Bible in front of him, his reading glasses perched on his nose. Wally knew better than to think of the words—or his father’s voice—but phrases came back to him anyway: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” Wally heard it like a hymn, with that full, strong voice, and he ached to be home.
Chapter 34
The Thomases tried to make the best of Christmas morning. A heavy snow had fallen the night before, which would have been wonderful most years, but it didn’t help much today. Everyone wanted to be cheery for the sake of the girls, but LaRue was twelve now, and Beverly ten, and even though they expressed some excitement about their presents, they felt the gloom as much as the others. Every day in the newspapers there were new reports of Japanese submarines spotted off the coast of California, and each of the major West Coast cities had taken a turn at public panic when real or imagined Japanese airplanes had been sighted. The whole nation was still waiting and wondering whether the Japanese would attack the continent. Roosevelt was talking about higher taxes and great sacrifices, with shortages of almost all goods, and young men all across the country were signing up “for the duration plus six months.” Worst of all, wherever the Japanese had attacked, they were winning deadly, decisive victories, and reports from the Philippines were not good.
After the presents were opened, whatever fun the family had been able to generate died quickly, and the room fell silent. The year before, President Thomas had been worried about Wally’s behavior. This year, obviously, he was worried about his life.
He waited until the girls were carrying their things upstairs, and then he said to Bobbi and Alex, “I don’t like what I’m reading about Wally’s situation. Our troops just keep falling back.”
“I know,” Alex said. “I’ve been following the news every day.” Actually, he knew even more than he wanted to say. That week he had talked to a high official in the Boeing company in Seattle—a company Alex had some contracts with. The man had predicted that the United States could not throw its full power against Germany and Japan at the same time. The weapons weren’t ready, but even more, there simply weren’t enough troops. This next year would see huge growth in the numbers, but all those people would have to be trained.
“I’m in touch with people in Washington,” the man had said, “and I’m hearing a lot of ‘Europe first’ talk. One man—and I’ve got to say that he’s very highly placed—told me the Philippines would have to be sacrificed.”
“Sacrificed? What does that mean?” Alex had asked.
“You tell me. Those boys over there don’t have a chance.”
Alex didn’t want to tell his family any of that. He wanted to believe that the man was mistaken. But Alex saw nothing, heard nothing, that gave him much hope.
“I keep telling myself that maybe Wally needs an experience like this,” President Thomas said. “Maybe it’s the one thing that will humble him.” He hesitated for a few seconds and then added, “But I wish I had done things a little differently with Wally. It got to the point where he and I couldn’t talk to each other—and that was my fault as much as it was his.”
Bobbi said, “Dad, he was just trying to grow up. It was a hard time. You two will get along fine when he gets back.”
That only introduced the other question. Dad looked toward Bobbi, but his eyes seemed distant, and he didn’t say anything.
“We need to have our Christmas meeting, Dad,” Bobbi said.
Alex saw his dad’s eyes move away from Bobbi’s. “Maybe we shouldn’t have a meeting,” he said quietly. “Wally never liked my preaching.”
“I’ll bet he’d love to hear you right now.”
“Well, let’s just read the Christmas story from the Bible. I think he did like that part.”
Once Mom could get away from the kitchen, and Gene could be hunted down, the family gathered as they had done for so many years. Dad asked Alex if he would read the verses in Luke, but everyone protested. They wanted Dad to do it, and he did. But when he was finished, everyone was struggling.
Gene ducked his head. When Mom put her arm around his shoulders, he said, “What’s going to happen to Wally? Why won’t anybody around here tell me the truth?”
Gene had come into his own in the past year. He was sixteen and pimply and a little awkward looking, but he was beginning to show what a fine athlete he was going to be, and it was almost as though he felt some need to take over for Wally as the family comedian. Everyone knew he had a stronger sense of connection to Wally than Alex did. He was always the one to bring up childhood memories, or to tell stories about things he and Wally had done together.
No one answered Gene for a time, but Alex thought it only right that all of them, even the girls, were prepared for the possibilities. “It doesn’t look good,” he said. “Our soldiers don’t have the weapons or the numbers of troops they need to hold off the Japanese. And there’s no way to send in reinforcements.”
“Why can’t they all just come home?” LaRue asked.
“We don’t have the ships to get the soldiers off the island,” Alex answered.
; “Will the Japs shoot Wally?” Beverly asked.
No one said anything for a time. No one even looked at Beverly. Then, finally, Mom said, “We hope not, Bev.” But tears had begun to run down Mom’s cheeks.
Alex looked around the room. The full truth of the situation was finally out in the open, and Alex saw nothing but fear in everyone’s eyes.
***
Wally drove the truck all night. The convoy moved slowly in the dark, and once the trucks left the Manila road and headed onto a dirt road into the Bataan peninsula, the going got rough. Wally strained to see, without headlights, and there were times when he was afraid he would turn the truck on its side. It was still dark when the C.O. halted the convoy and passed the word down the line for everyone to find a spot in a bamboo thicket and get a little rest.
Wally and Warren and Jack each grabbed a blanket and dropped in the first spot they could find. Wally had a little more trouble falling asleep than the other two, but he drifted off after a time. It was nine o’clock before someone came by and said, “The cooks have breakfast ready.”
Wally was still very tired, but he got up and carried his blanket back to the truck. Then he and his friends walked along the road to a place where the cooks had managed to pull a few things out of the back of the mess truck. Breakfast was coffee and bread and jam, except that the bread tasted more of gasoline than of jam.
Wally had fallen into the habit of drinking coffee with his breakfast, but he turned it down this morning, even though he was left with nothing else to drink. He had always felt a certain nagging guilt when he broke the Word of Wisdom, and right now he didn’t want to be carrying any extra burdens.
“Merry Christmas,” Warren said.
He didn’t seem to mean it ironically, but Wally felt it that way. “I don’t think Santa found us last night,” he said.
“The Japs probably shot him down,” Jack said, but no one laughed.
“The word is, we’re not moving again until night,” Warren said. “We’d be too easy to attack in the day.”