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THREE DAYS HAD PASSED since Stan mailed his letter. News broadcasts overflowed with references to the nightmare the marines were facing in Peleliu. Every report made his jitters worse. What if we failed to take that little island?
Thousands had already died in the attempt, while those American prisoners on Bataan still awaited deliverance. In condition, every single day made a difference.
Once again, his shift had been kept overtime, and the evening report blared over the guards’ late meal. This wait was harder than slashing through the jungle—he’d even lost his appetite lately.
The way things were going in the theater, everything pointed to an invasion from the south. Would the Army even need infiltrators in the north—in Bataan?
Hearing the newscasters analyze the situation made his plate of scalloped potatoes and ham even less inviting.
On the South Pacific Island of Peleliu, a helmeted Japanese skull calls attention to a warning sign (“Danger! Move Fast”). Finally, the campaign seems to be coming to an end, but at such great loss!
The First Marine Division landed here on September 15, despite indications that the purpose of this campaign—to protect General MacArthur’s flank in the Philippines invasion—might no longer be necessary. Marine commanders expected only a few days of battle, but instead, faced bloody combat.
Complicated by coral cliffs and caves, the fighting has continued much longer than anyone perceived. Reinforcements have been sent more than once, and while a final casualty count is still forthcoming, U.S. forces have suffered thousands of losses.
In Europe, our boys prepare for a knockdown, drag-out fight along the Siegfried Line, and anxiety increases. France may have been liberated and the Allies may have crossed into German territory, but General Montgomery’s push through Holland resulted in dismal failure, plus the destruction of the British Eighth Army.
The Luftwaffe may have lost much of power, but from all appearances, the Nazis still stand determined to counter our progress into the motherland.
Needless to say, we still face plenty of challenges on the continent. We can predict victory on both fronts, but how long that winding road will stretch remains a well-obscured mystery.
With another long night to look forward to, Stan took his time walking back to the barracks. Might as well write a couple of letters before going to bed—maybe that would wear out his brain.
In light from the hallway, he spied something white on his bed. He picked up an envelope with his name and no return address. He switched on his lamp and several lines of neat, angular handwriting greeted him.
He could scarcely believe his eyes—Colonel Lobdell had answered his letter himself. Stan sank to his bed.
The reply shot hope through him. “I have received your request and would be happy to discuss these matters. Meet me in my office on October 15th at 3 p.m.”
Three days away. The next day while he surveyed prisoners playing soccer, Stan organized his appeal. The most logical route would be to join General MacArthur’s men training in Australia.
But recently Raymond had written to him about the Ninety-eighth infantry, a group of big farmer types thus far denied battle. Someone with a relative in the unit told Raymond they’d been assigned to Ranger training in New Guinea.
The news quickened Stan’s heartbeat. Surely General Kruger was fine-tuning them for clandestine work, hopefully in Bataan.
Raymond’s letter also included the first information about Ron for months. He had to chuckle at Ray’s description.
“Guess they got Ron’s number during basic, and sent him to demolition school. He’s a sapper. The last I heard, he was headed to the Seigfried Line—watch out, Hitler.”
A sapper, one of the most dangerous of all Army jobs, but ideal for scrappy kid brother. Stan closed his eyes and visualized Ron skulking through enemy territory ahead of the other GIs, scoping out the dangers and removing obstacles in way.
Last month, General Eisenhower’s three army groups had reached the German border with forces and firepower superior to the enemy’s. But gasoline and ammunition shortages, plus dug-in German troops along the Siegfried Line made for slow going.
All along the line, Hitler had ordered pillboxes, gun emplacements, tank traps, and other obstacles. These ranged the line through countryside and cities alike, often right in the heart of a city in order to stymie the Allied advance. To make matters worse, the American assault was coming during the wet season.
Nobody had to describe that to Stan, except that in Europe, the downpours would be bone chilling at this time of year. Ron would manage, but what a miserable assignment he’d landed.
The sapper blew buildings to smithereens, crawled under fortifications to set dynamite charges or fought hand-to-hand. With an absolutely necessary mission promising a high casualty rate, these soldiers were called pioneers for good reason.
Without mobility and counter-mobility operations, plus ability to fight when necessary, infantry attacks would be stymied before they started. His little brother, the child who refused to accept the word, “No,” had found his niche.
During training, Cap had described mission perfectly. “They engineer a way through by doing whatever it takes to destroy enemy strongpoints. They construct roads and bridges and impede enemy advances by laying minefields, building defense fortifications, or blowing bridges to halt enemy movement.”
Always the one to suggest a new way to build a snow fort, Ron was perfect for this work. His creations boasted complicated tunnels and lasted longer than anyone else’s when the spring thaw came.
People always said he and Ron could pass for twins, they were so close in age. But Ron was such a wiry kid—he could find his way through any forest tangle, and made playing hide-and-seek a memorable challenge.
Thinking how hard it used to be to keep up with him, Stan chuckled again. No doubt, Ron had told Mom he was assigned to drive a general around.
If Raymond knew what Ron was doing, then dad did, too. He had to be proud. Ron was the son most like him. And, though Stan hated to admit it, maybe he was the one most like Mom. He could always sit still long enough to read or study, unlike Ron.
He also had shown a bent for debating, but with Ron, she knew there was no use trying to win an argument. Maybe this had something to do with how much his choices disappointed her.
Stan set Colonel Lobdell’s letter on his shelf. He’d never been as tough-minded as Ron. If Colonel Lobdell said no, what would he do?
Later, he lay in bed imagining meeting.
“I‘m as fit as when I enlisted, and my memories are still so vivid, I could lead troops straight to Camp O’Donnell or Cabanatuan, where I’ve heard the remaining prisoners from the death march have now been moved.”
He could imagine the Colonel pursing his lips. “You follow this pretty closely, eh? Tell me—do you have nightmares about your time down there?”
“At times, but they wouldn’t keep me from doing my job.”
“What was the fighting like?”
“Hand-to-hand the last months. We used whatever we could—mostly knives and bolos.”
“And you would like me to forward this request further?”
“If possible, sir.”
“How about your parents? Do they know about your plans?”
“Not yet. But I’m 22, and my father would understand.”
“I applaud your patriotism and appreciate your spirit. If I were young again, I’d feel the same way.” The Colonel would drum his fingers on his desk. “But with all you have been through, I think you’ve already done your duty.”
Sweat broke out on Stan’s forehead in spite of the building’s coolness. He made fists of his hands.
No—the conversation simply couldn’t end this way. Colonel Lobdell just had to understand.
On the 15th, Stan arrived ten minutes early and waited outside the Colonel’s office. Each tick of the clock made his mouth dryer, but he commandeered his shaking knees as the Colonel arrived right on time and ushered him in.
“Take a seat, Private.” He opened a file folder and thumbed through the pages while he spoke.
“I understand you still have buddies over there?’
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s understandable you would want to return, especially with some stories from POW camps filtering through already. I imagine we’ll hear plenty more once this is all over.”
He read for a full minute. “No wife or children?”
“No, sir.”
“You have a brother serving in Europe, I see. Oh, my. He’s a sapper.” He peered at Stan over the folder and waited. When Stan remained silent, he continued. “How is your work going here?”
“It’s fine.”
“But you prefer returning to the fight?”
“I know I could be contributing so much more, sir.”
The Colonel thumbed through his file again. “You have quite a history already—infantry and mechanic trained, expert marksman. Your unit headed to Europe, but got turned around after training in Louisiana.” He squinted at Stan.
“Did you ever meet Patton?”
“No sir, although his unit trained down there, too.”
“How about General MacArthur?”
“No, sir. But we knew he only left Bataan because the President ordered him to.”
“Indeed, he’s quite the old warrior. I heard that when someone asked what would become of his four year-old son, he replied, ‘He is a soldier’s son.’” The Colonel closed the file and laced his fingers.
“Still, I can’t imagine him boarding his family on PT boats in the middle of the night, right under the enemy’s nose.”
“It is difficult, sir.”
“So you were on Corregidor, taken prisoner and escaped, is that correct?”
Tightness strapped Stan’s chest, but he took a deep breath to ward it off. The Colonel was after more specifics than he’d reckoned.
“It was such a confusing time, sir. We never imagined a full surrender, and I doubt that General MacArthur authorized...”
He cleared his throat and began again.
“When the rumors of surrendering to the enemy multiplied, it was hard to believe. But finally we had to, and stories of the way the Japs brutalized the Filipinos ran rampant. No one trusted them in the least.
“One night, a captain who had instructed us during my training in California told me he’d decided to follow the example of some other officers. They had already made it across the bay, he said. Knowing this officer’s patriotism and wisdom, it didn’t take me long to join him.
“He was the last person I would expect to disobey orders, but what he suggested made sense. What good could we do in captivity?
“A few hours later, we found a skiff and took off from Corregidor. By then, the rumors had proven true—General Wainwright had surrendered, and the enemy was about to herd our unit to a camp.”
“You weren’t discovered?”
“We were, but both of us knew how to swim, and there were others escaping, too. I guess the enemy gave up on us and went after somebody else. Once we hit land, we made for the hills.”
“You must have trusted this captain without question.”
Stan rubbed his hands together. “Yes. Back in California, he’d shared packages from his family with us. He was an ROTC instructor on his campus. He’d almost earned a full professorship.”
“Is that right?” Colonel Lobdell put his elbows on his desk as though he had all the time in the world.
“We knew there were natives hostile to the enemy up in the hills, and after two days of scrabbling through the jungle, we picked up another American. A few days later, we found some guerillas—or they found us, and from then on, we did what we could to harass the Japs.”
“Mmm...” The Colonel shook his head. “Our men held captive over there; do you have any information about them?”
A lump the size of a thick steak threatened, so Stan cleared his throat. “We saw some of them, sir, on the way up the mountain, or what was left of them. We happened to cross the trail they were climbing.
“They were in terrible condition. We witnessed Japanese officers beating and shooting men too weak to stand upright.” He cleared his throat again. “Some had already died on the trail—we found bodies.
“Cabanatuan is about a hundred miles north of Manila. The distance and elevation would test anyone, but these men were already sick and malnourished.”
Colonel Lobdell arched an eyebrow.
“Later, we found out that General Wainwright, General King and other officers were taken to Tarlac prison camp, but by August, Filipino scouts told us that had been emptied. Word had it they boarded a Jap ship. More recently, I’ve heard that the O’Donnell prisoners were being transferred to Cabanatuan.”
Colonel Lobdell rubbed his forehead. When he looked up, his eyes glinted, but he said nothing. People passed in the hall, and voices came from another office. When he spoke, his voice had lowered.
“So you actually witnessed our men being marched toward the camps?”
“We did, sir. We were lost at the time, but once we found some guerilla fighters who knew the country better, they helped us draw maps and we figured out where we’d been.”
“How long was it until you were wounded?”
“About ten months, sir.”
“You managed that long in the jungle? Impressive. But then you were wounded, and someone saved your leg?”
“Yes, sir—the concoctions the natives gave me were revolting, but they must have worked.” Even the memory made Stan wince. “As for getting me off the island, there are lots of little coves, so our forces were still making clandestine runs in and out after the surrender.”
“A PT boat hauled you to a hospital ship?”
“Sir, I was in no shape to notice details. I do recall a submarine being involved, and some of the coves are narrow and deep enough to handle one.”
“So you recuperated aboard ship, and then in a hospital?”
“Yes, sir. After a couple of surgeries.”
“It’s your knee, correct?”
“My left one.”
“I assume you spent some time at home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you came here, and now you want to go back.”
“That’s right.”
“I can understand.” The Colonel crossed over to the window. “My hat is off to you for your bravery in the line of duty.”
Heat razed Stan’s neck and face. If only the Colonel knew his cowardice in other areas.
“For the record, I know a couple of those captive officers personally. What a shame. Such a waste.”
The clock marked a minute... more. Colonel Lobdell kept staring outside. Finally, he turned and scrutinized Stan.
“Well, then.” He returned to his desk and scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Take this to our doctors and be sure to explain about your injury—surgeries, everything. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for your demise.”
They locked eyes for a long moment.
“In the meantime, I’ll make some connections. As soon as I get the medical go-ahead, we’ll start the paperwork. I appreciate your intensity, Private Ford. From what we’re hearing, the invasion will begin in the next few months.”
Quelling his urge to lurch from his chair and shout, “Hurray!” Stan stayed in place. Nothing like a show of emotion to change the Colonel’s mind.
Colonel Lobdell still took his time. “If the Army does call you back in, I’d like you to do one thing, if it’s possible.”
“Sir? Of course...”
“I’d like to know how it goes for you. By the time you return, we might have closed up this camp, and I’ll be back home in Nebraska. But I’m pretty sure your quest will keep me up nights. Would you drop me a line and tell me about your mission?”
“Why, yes. I—”
“Here. I’ll write down our address, just in case.”
He scribbled for half a minute and handed Stan another note.
“Keep in mind that I have no idea if unfilled slots exist. This is a complicated business, and I imagine General Krueger, down in New Guinea, has his fingers in every single decision.”
He saluted and offered his hand. “Good luck, son. I’ll let you know as soon as I get word.”
