Chapter Two

IN LATE OCTOBER SUNSHINE, Twila hurried to Rodney and Sharon’s house to watch Lilly while Sharon helped her grandma with something. In the back yard, a high maple dropped a few recalcitrant dry leaves.

Before she could knock, Sharon opened the door, and a newspaper fell to the porch floor. Front page headlines blared,

“The Los Angeles Examiner has launched a search for the typical American war worker in all of the munitions factories out in California. See these photos?”

Sharon pointed out two workers poised at Rockwell hardness testing machines. With perfect victory rolls, they formed the picture of patriotism.

“This one, Audrey Tandy, works down the line from my sis. Just think, one of them could win the title, plus an all-expense-paid trip to Chicago to compete on a higher level, not to mention a thousand dollar savings bond.”

Sharon caught her upper lip with her teeth. “A homesick girl like Nan—she’s been gone six months already, and misses us all. I can read between the lines in her letters. Anyway, the Examiner will send the winner back afterward.”

Lilly bounded up the steps and tackled Twila from behind “Guess what? My new teeth is growin’ in, and my teacher says—”

“Are growing, honey.” Sharon licked her finger and rubbed a smudge on Lilly’s nose. “Aunt Twila will give you a bath tonight—don’t fight her, all right?” She rolled her eyes. “If there ever was a tomboy, this one is it.”

Lilly grabbed Twila’s hand and pulled her toward the back fence. “I’m makin’ a fort outta corn stalks, n’ you can help me.”

Twila stooped to enter Lilly’s makeshift creation, but her imagination remained in beautiful southern California. Doing bit for the war in The Boeing Factory, did Nan and that lovely Audrey Tandy have any idea how lucky they were?

Delirium claimed Captain Burgmeier in this attack of fever. Throughout the sticky jungle night, PFC Stan Ford applied a cool, albeit filthy, handkerchief to his buddy’s forehead. Knowing the fever’s hold came and went at will, he waited while Cap spewed a trail of disconnected observations.

“Second Corps cut off... Japs took Mount Samat... we lost two entire divisions and a regiment... Sector H split... We need I Corps... replacements... rations dipped to two and a half ounces of rice per man now...

“Fresh Nips... they never run out... routed three Philippine Army divisions... enemy at Trail eight... writing’s on the wall... Colonel Doyle’s withdrawn to Pantingan River...”

Trying to follow his train of thought made Stan’s head ache. As an officer, Cap had been privy to the details of last days on Corregidor. No doubt, everything he referred to occurred, but the fever jumbled it all in the poor fellow’s head. And for some reason, he needed to repeat everything ad nauseam.

“The 33rd Pennsylvania’s isolated, enemy knows position... 31st under heavy air and artillery attack... San Vicente line...Trail 44 and Trail Two... wounded survivors... nurses out of meds.”

Cap’s monologue brought back the days of early April, 1942. In January, the Japs had already forced them to flee Manila and re-align to defend Corregidor. From there, they’d done everything humanly possible to thwart the enemy.

If only the supply ships could have made it through the Japanese blockade... If only this, if only that... Who could have imagined they’d be reduced to capitulating?

Inside the caves, soldiers suffered dengue fever, dysentery, or malaria, but the meds had run out long ago, despite a few successful airdrops. An unbearable odor permeated the area, the troops had run out of ammunition, and enemy shelling continued nonstop.

“General King... impossible choice... 78,000 men... pulled back to Binguangan River... Colonel Irwin... ditches full of dead and wounded... Wainwright beleaguered... desperate measures... retreat after retreat... General Bluemol...”

Confined on Corregidor, General Wainwright faced an impossible situation. General Sharp had been persuaded to lay down his arms, and was now attempting to convince Colonel Christie in Panay to do the same.

If even one commander refused, the enemy would resume offense and slaughter the 11,000 American soldiers on Corregidor.

Questions ran rampant—had General MacArthur agreed to this? Before he left for Australia under cover of darkness, had he approved giving up Corregidor and the southern islands they’d defended for so long?

Stan’s stomach soured. Better starve than surrender. Others shared his sentiments, and word came that many of Colonel Christie’s men had vanished into the hills. Cloistered meetings took place, and pros and cons roiled in Stan’s head.

Then, out stretching his legs, he heard someone reading. Sure enough, there was Captain Burgmeier staring out into the bay. Not reading... reciting something. Stan advanced close enough to hear.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

“Ah. I thought you’d remember. I’m leaving tonight. You’re a Yeats man—want to come?” The captain issued his invitation and faded back toward the caves.

Now, a Filipino brought a gourd of fresh water and offered to sit with Cap. “You sleep. I watch.”

Lying on a mat beside Carlos, Stan marveled at how the skeletal youth snored away in bliss. Exactly what everyone needed, but even now, Cap’s continuous commentary echoed in his head.

“Decimated... incendiaries over the Alangan line... ordered to stand down, the whole battalion...”

He must’ve catalogued these specifics from radio messages on the sixth and seventh of April. He possessed that type of brain—perfect for his career, a professorship in literature.

His incessant focus on the surrender pulled Stan into analyzing the situation far too many times. Undoubtedly, some radioed orders never reached intended commanders. In other cases, the officers considered sick, weak men pitted against ridiculous odds and realized the generals lacked a clear picture of conditions on the ground.

So they chose to ignore orders. Ignore orders... Two years ago when he joined the Wisconsin National Guard, Stan would never have allowed for this possibility. Obedience to commanders was emphasized above all else. But he’d seen stupidity up close now, and ineptness corrupted by power.

Gradually, Cap quieted down. That Filipino must wield some native secret for inducing serenity.

Finally, an opportunity to catch a nap, but Stan’s mind refused to shut down. The unnerving jungle quiet and occasional human movements outside this nipa hut kept him on the alert.

Besides, the questions in his head demanded answers. In those commanders’ shoes, would he have obeyed, if compliance meant thousands more men would be killed?

Truth be told, General MacArthur, called to the Philippines out of retirement, had disobeyed orders by amassing the troops on Corregidor in the first place. Cap had described the Rainbow Plan that instructed MacArthur to relocate his men to the mountains on Bataan and await better-equipped reinforcements.

“That was time-honored, seek-the-highest-ground military wisdom.” Cap’s eyes glinted when he detailed this bit of recent history during one of his lucid periods. “And why did he decide to take on the Japs instead? He underestimated strength or overestimated ours.”

What if General MacArthur had obeyed and led them all to higher ground? What ifs were the topic of many a midnight chat with Cap. If only they could have one now. Cap would turn each fact inside out, and like a master debater, reduce the situation to simple terms.

Following his logic often wore Stan out enough to sleep. But just before he did, Cap would inevitably add one of his pithy quotes to tie everything up.

Which one would he choose tonight? Maybe something from the ancients—let’s see—Marcus Aurelius? “There is a dignity and proportion to be observed in performance of every act of life.”

Peeking out at his buddy was a bad idea. One glimpse of Cap sunken into a fitful sleep, too far gone to display his inherent passion for words, sucked the life out of Stan.

Myra Brunner’s weary emerald eyes glinted in September sun coming through the kitchen window.

“You look so tired lately, and Mr. Olsen’s only giving me a few hours a week at the café. Oh, I picked up the mail—you don’t have to drop by the post office anymore.”

The ceiling bulb brought out rich claret highlights in her mom’s hair, a shade darker than Twila’s. For a moment, the tight wire drawn through her lips loosened.

“No, but there’s one from Algona. That’d be Aunt Margaret, right?” Twila gestured to an envelope on the table.

“I hope it’s nothing bad about your cousin Paul, although I doubt he could write from a Japanese prison camp.”

“Yes—he joined up before Pearl Harbor, and when his ship was sunk last May, he...” Myra picked up the letter but made no attempt to open it, so Twila tipped the conversation back to Aunt Margaret. No information had shown up in her dedicated search of the house, but maybe Mom would let something slip.

“You and Margaret must’ve been close growing up, but we never see her. I wouldn’t even recognize Paul.”

In the midst of tearing open the envelope, her mom hesitated. “Close? Not really. Your grandma had a way of driving wedges between us kids.”

“What? Oh, I don’t know. Your dad says she thrived on conflict, so we always ended up at each other’s throats. That was one reason we...” She flipped through several sheets of stationery.

“Mmm... something like that.” Myra bit her lower lip. “Actually, you took so long making your appearance, we...” She studied the envelope. “Think I’ll go read this on the couch. My feet are killing me. Thanks again for cleaning up the kitchen.”

Against her better judgment, Twila tossed down her dishtowel and reached out. The letter squished between them, and Mom’s eyes glimmered when she stepped back from the hug.

“You’re so much better at words than me. I know he’s only in California, but still...”

Twila retrieved her dishtowel and tackled a wet pan. “Only a year ago a submarine opened fire on that one town—”

“Elwood, north of Santa Barbara. They were aiming at an oil refinery. Your dad’s farther north.”

“They were supposed to need him for less than a year, to get the training started. With my job and you a sophomore, we thought it made more sense to—”

“That’s right. It’s November, and you turned eighteen last month. I can hardly believe it.”

“Anybody could do my job. We just happen to live close enough to Minnesota. He’s training paratroopers—doesn’t get any more vital than that.”

“And that something is SPAM.” Her mother’s rare chuckle triggered something inside.

“After the Great War, his best buddy stayed in the service. His letter saying they needed men with weather balloon experience surprised us both.” Her sigh drifted right into Twila’s heart.

“He’s never talked about what he experienced in France, but he would do anything to defeat Hitler. We knew Rodney could handle the lumberyard, and besides, your dad was born to serve. But you know all this, don’t you?”

“Sort of, but everything happened so fast, and my head was filled with... I was so immature.”