He had seen enough of the Japanese in China to know how they treated prisoners. You were almost better off dead than to be a prisoner of the Japs. Everly had seen with his own eyes the Japs using Chinese prisoners for bayonet practice.
The one thing Everly really couldn’t figure out was why people—especially senior noncoms and ofncers—kept talking about “The Aid.” “The Aid” could be any number of things—for example, a fleet of B-17 bombers suddenly appearing to bomb the Japs off Bataan and out of the Philippines. Or a fleet of Navy ships, carrying divisions of fully equipped soldiers from the States, to run the Japanese off Bataan and out of the Philippines. Or even a small convoy of transports, bringing food and medicine.
But people kept talking about “The Aid,” whatever it meant to them, as if it was really coming and would turn things around.
That was bullshit, pure and simple. If “The Aid”—any kind of aid—was coming, General MacArthur wouldn’t have run off to Australia the way he did three weeks before, on 10 March.
Only two things were going to happen to the men in the Philippines, Marines, soldiers, or sailors. They were going to get killed, or they were going to get captured. And getting captured was likely to be as bad as getting killed. Everly had seen people starve to death in China, too, and he didn’t think he wanted to die that way, either.
There was one other alternative: take off now, get the hell away from Corregidor and Bataan and Luzon, make your way to one of the other islands, maybe Mindanao, and take off for the hills.
That would be desertion in the face of the enemy, and the punishment for that was death or such other punishment as a court-martial may direct. There had been lectures about that.
The lectures had convinced Everly that he wasn’t the only one thinking about avoiding certain death or capture; that people had probably already taken off to do just that. Otherwise, there wouldn’t have been the lectures telling them it was not only stupid, but punishable by death or such other punishment as a court-martial may direct.
Everly had learned as a kid, even before he became a Ward Of The State, that the way to really get your teeth kicked in was to hope for something you really wanted. You usually didn’t get what you really wanted.
So he didn’t let himself think that maybe the reason the first sergeant had sent for him was so that he could serve as interpreter for some officer going off Corregidor onto Bataan. If it turned out to be for some other reason, it would be a real kick in the face.
An officer in the company CP was standing there, a young, skinny first lieutenant with a steel pot on his head, a web belt with a pistol holster hanging from it around his waist, and a Thompson .45 ACP submachine gun slung from his shoulder.
“This is Sergeant Everly, Lieutenant,” the first sergeant said.
“Major Paulson tells me you speak pretty good Spanish, Sergeant,” the Lieutenant said.
Who the hell is Major Paulson? Oh, the little guy with the bad rash, running sores all over him. With pilot’s wings. We spent two days last week on Bataan looking for parts for some kind of generator. We didn’t find any; I could have told him we wouldn’t before we left The Rock.
“Yes, Sir.”
“We really need those generator parts you and Major Paulson were looking for,” the Lieutenant said. “Do you feel up to having another look?”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“My name is Weston, Sergeant,” the Lieutenant said, putting out his hand.
“Yes, Sir,” Everly said, shaking it.
“You need anything to take with you?”
“No, Sir,” Everly said.
He had with him all he would need. He had his Springfield Model 1903 .30-06 Caliber rifle, with six extra five-round stripper clips; his Model 1911A1 .45 ACP Caliber Colt pistol, and an extra magazine with seven cartridges; two canteens of water; his compass; his first-aid pack; and a small rucksack slung over his shoulder which held two shorts, two skivvy shirts, two pairs of socks, a shirt and a pair of pants, a razor with three decent blades and one brand-new blade, two packages of Chesterfield cigarettes, and a Zippo lighter that wouldn’t work until he could find a gas tank to dip it into for fuel.
And the click-open knife the sergeant from the Pennsylvania had tried to kill him with. At the court-martial, the sergeant testified that the knife introduced into evidence didn’t belong to him, that Everly had come after him with it. When Everly was acquitted, the knife was “returned” to him. The first thing he wanted to do was throw it away; but then he decided maybe he could sell it to someone for a couple of bucks—it was a high-quality knife. But then he realized that he didn’t want to sell it, either. So he just kept it hidden in his footlocker in rolled-up skivvy shirts. Later, when he was working for Captain Banning, he started carrying it with him in his pocket, or slipped into the top of his boondockers. He never used it, not even to clean his fingernails, but he kept it sharpened. And every once in a while, he oiled it and made sure that when he slid the button, it flipped open, the way it was supposed to.
“Then why don’t we get started?” Lieutenant Weston said.
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
The first sergeant didn’t say a word; he just looked at Everly.
That old bastard is too smart to believe in The Aid, Everly thought. He knows everybody on The Rock is fucked. And he knows men, and he knows me. Which means he knows I wouldn’t be carrying my rucksack unless I was thinking about not coming back. What does that make me in his eyes? A fucking coward and disgrace to The Marine Corps? Or a lucky bastard who’s being given the chance to do something he wishes he could do himself?
Everly nodded at the first sergeant.
“Take care of yourself, Everly,” the first sergeant said.
Everly nodded again, and then followed Lieutenant Weston out of the CP.
III
[ONE]
Mariveles-Morong Highway, Luzon
Commonwealth of the Philippines
1425 Hours 1 April 1942
No vehicles were available for assignment to a lowly lieutenant and his sergeant at the motor pool at Mariveles, at the tip of the Bataan Peninsula.
“You’ll have to hitchhike,” the Army captain in charge said. “But that’s not as bad as it sounds. There’s a lot of traffic. Where are you headed?”
“Orion,” Lieutenant Weston said. Orion was one of four small towns on the Manila Bay side of the Bataan Peninsula.
“When you leave the compound, turn right,” the Captain said. “It’s about thirty-five miles. What do you expect to find in Orion?”
“Generator parts.”
“Good luck,” the Captain said, his tone clearly saying that two Marines had little chance of finding anything in Orion.
“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 armpits 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 explanation.
“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 h
ad 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 hitchhikers 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 meaningless 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 approaching.
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 sandbags, 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 replied. “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 Mindanao?”
“I’m not the only one who’s decided he doesn’t want to surrender,” Everly 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 familiarization.”
“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 announcement 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.
Did I do that because it was the logical thing to do? Or because there is something about this man that frightens me? And I didn’t want to—have the balls to—challenge him?
“The way I figure it, we’re maybe nine, ten miles from Morong,” Everly 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 enthusiasm 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,” Everly 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 thousand 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 Everly.
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, divided 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.
Behind the Lines Page 4