A Pledge of Silence (15 page)

“I’ll pray for your salvation, Tildy, as well as my own.”

Tildy rose to leave. “Save your prayers for the guys. I’ll take care of my own salvation, whatever that is.”

Margie had no wise words. This hideous environment where so much pain and death surrounded her tested her own faith. A just God wouldn’t allow this carnage, would He? Or did He have no power over evil? Was He all-seeing? If so, did He not care? Did the benevolent God she prayed to even exist?

Anti-artillery fire erupted, interrupting her deliberations. The women dove into a foxhole and hunkered under a rain of dirt.

Gracie said, “I hate these foxholes. They fill up with water.”

“And snakes,” Ruth Ann added.

Margie said, “We should bring a shovel with us.”

The ack-ack stopped. Hearing no incoming planes, they climbed out and brushed the dirt off their clothes and out of their hair. Looking up, Margie saw nothing but a dense canopy of trees.

Evelyn said, “Shrapnel went through a bed yesterday. It left a hole as big as a basketball. Luckily, no one was in it.”

“Luckily,” Margie said. Bone-weary, she wobbled on her feet. “I have to get to the surgery.”

Evelyn said, “I heard the gloves are gone. What’re you doing?”

“Repairing as many as we can. Sometimes the docs go in barehanded. Pentothal and ether are low too. We’re using more locals.”

Gracie added, “We’re dispensing quinine on an as-needed basis. That’s just criminal! What happened to those supply ships MacArthur promised?”

Evelyn scoffed, “Promises, promises. That was just a tease.”

“Some tease,” Ruth Ann said, pulling up her pant leg to reveal an ugly abrasion. “That’s from shimmying up a tree to watch for those damn ghost ships.”

“Where did you get the energy to do that?”

“It was a while ago. Back when I still had some.”

Spending as much time as she did in the confines of the surgical hut spared Margie from some harsher aspects of patient care. Her patients arrived drowsy from drugs and with the worst grit of battle scraped off. When they left, they were asleep and swaddled in clean surgical dressings. She seldom visited the wards where men, too weak to heal, lingered on cots under mosquito-laden trees.

She hurried to the soldier lying on the surgical table. Tildy prepared a tray of sterile instruments. Careful not to contaminate the field, Margie began her pre-surgical routine. Finding the soldier’s blood pressure low, his pulse fast, and respirations shallow, she consulted with the doctor before adjusting the drip on his IV and starting the anesthesia. “He looks a little yellow.”

Tildy said, “Poor guy. He crawled through the jungle for two days before someone found him.”

Dr. Corolla inspected the wound on the soldier’s thigh, swollen and oozing bloody fluid. He mumbled it didn’t look good and ordered the medic to ready an amputation tray, just in case. “Is he under, Margie?”

She checked the sedated soldier’s responses. “Yes, all set.”

Tildy slapped a scalpel into his outstretched hand and stood ready with sponges and suction.

Dr. Corolla quickly removed necrotic tissue and shredded muscle. When he probed deeper to search for shrapnel, an overpowering stink exploded. “God!” He shouted. Bubbles oozed from the wound.

“Gas!” Tildy gagged.

The medic whipped the curtain around the surgical station in a futile attempt to contain gangrenous spores.

Margie choked, then deepened the soldier’s sedation.

Dr. Corolla applied a tourniquet, located and ligated major arteries, veins, and nerves. He amputated the beyond-repair limb in hopes of controlling the spread of the gangrene. He passed the severed leg to the medic, who took it to the dump to be burned along with the bloody dressings.

A sickly sweet stench hung in the air as Dr. Corolla finished the surgery. When done, the surgical hut had to close for scouring, all instruments gathered up for resterilization. As the nurses and medics started the dreary cleaning task, Margie accompanied the patient to the gangrene ward.

Gracie was there, the only nurse who willingly worked on this fetid ward. Row after row of men lay on cots, most with stumps of arms and legs wrapped in mummy-like dressings. The odor forced Margie to breathe through her mouth. She handed Gracie the soldier’s chart. “He’s had a rough go.”

Gracie glanced through the chart, adjusted the drip on the IV and checked his vital signs. “I’ll keep a close eye on him. What’s his name?” She looked at his wrist band then jiggled his shoulder. “Arnie, can you wake up? Your surgery’s over. You’re in recovery now. Can you open your eyes?”

“It might take a while. He’s under pretty deep,” Margie said. She nodded to a group of men lying in the sun with their grotesquely swollen and putrid-smelling limbs exposed. “What’s going on with them?”

“It’s a new treatment. It’s amazing. We debride the wounds, then douse them with hydrogen peroxide. They’re tented with mosquito netting and left open to the air and the sun. Some of them heal up real nice.”

Real nice? Margie had her doubts. As she left the ward, she heard a delirious soldier pleading, “Just get the leg off me, doc! Take it off! I want it off!”

Chapter 12

Bataan, February – April 1942

Mid-February brought a reprieve. While the Japanese reprovisioned their forces, the numbers of wounded soldiers delivered to the field hospital decreased to a trickle. Medical care fell into a routine of patient baths in the river or bed; meals, though never enough to eat; medications, when available; cigarettes for comfort; gossip for boredom; and chitchat to chase away the blues. Proliferating rumors raised hopes or festered fears. Everyone battled rats that ate their clothes, monkeys who stole their food, and iguanas that crawled into their beds. For the first time in a long while, the medical staff had some free time.

So they slept. After restoring their tired bodies, they searched for diversion. In Miss Kermit’s shack, the nurses listened to “The Voice of Freedom” on the radio. They heard how superbly the Philippine Islands were holding up against the Japanese.

“Are they ignorant or what?” Margie spat.

“It’s just hooey for the Japanese. Don’t get tied in a knot.” Ruth Ann rotated the dial, trying to pick up another signal. After much hissing and squawking, the song “I’m Waiting for Ships that Never Came In” played. She looked at the tuner. “I’ve got Tokyo. Anyone want to listen to their propaganda?”

“It’s no worse than the real news,” Evelyn said.

Margie didn’t want to dwell on the real news. The Japanese got stronger every day, capturing one island after another in their quest to imperialize the Far East. Now they had Australia in their sights. “Shut it off!” she said. A pall hung in the air.

“I want to go to a movie,” Ruth Ann said. “A comedy. I want to laugh. And I want a bucket of popcorn, dripping in butter. Did anybody see
Moon Over Miami
with those two carhops?”

“Betty Grable and Carole Landis,” Gracie said. “Two gold diggers with big hearts. They have to choose between love and money. Which one would you choose, Ruth Ann, love or money?”

“Neither.” Ruth Ann didn’t give it a thought. “I’d choose a cheeseburger. I’d give my back tooth right now for a cheeseburger, medium rare with American cheese, lettuce, tomato, a big salty dill pickle, and a pile of hot French fries. I like my fries really hot—with catsup.”

“I’m with you, Ruth Ann,” Evelyn said. “Come on guys, let’s go to the beach. We’ll take sandwiches. Unfortunately, our choices are carabao or carabao.”

When alone, Margie brooded. She ached for Royce. He had to be safe at Sternberg … didn’t he? The Japanese would be mindful of his status … wouldn’t they? She yearned for his touch, the smell of his skin, and the blue of his eyes. She replayed their conversations, whispering his words aloud. In dreams, she felt the scrape of his beard on her breast, the weight of his body crushing hers into the bed, and she woke writhing with ecstasy.
I love you; I love us
played like music in her head. As always, the tears came.

In letters, she reassured her parents that she was okay. Though she lived in a tent, she told them, she slept in a comfortable bed, and was healthy. Caring for the soldiers gratified her and kept her busy from morning until night. She mentioned that several of the doctors and nurses came from the Ann Arbor area; one of the doctors even knew Myra from the Red Cross. Wasn’t it a small world? She wrote about the beautiful-to-look-at brightly colored parrots in the trees who squawked so loudly it hurt her ears. A monkey in the camp kept stealing the food. Ha, ha.

An American pilot arrived at the field hospital with a bullet in his foot. Flying through the Japanese blockade with a plane so loaded it hardly stayed aloft, he brought medical supplies and bags full of mail, including two letters for Margie. The one from her parents was post-marked early December.

Little River, Michigan

December 5, 1941

Dear Margie,

I can’t believe that Christmas is just around the corner. Two letters and a package arrived from you this week. We opened the letters right away and put the package under the Christmas tree. It is sad that you won’t be here when we open it. We are so concerned about you. The news we hear is frightening. We are relieved to know it is mostly rumor, and you feel safe at Sternberg.

Your dad is buying seed for next year’s crops. He will be putting wheat and corn in the back 20 acres. It’s hard to find laborers. He spent all day today repairing the tractor. It needs a part, and he’s having trouble finding one. He sends you his love.

Frank is studying for final exams. He is doing well in his classes, but is looking forward to a break. He’s still disappointed he’s not in navy, but I’m glad he is home. He’s a volunteer fireman and is putting in many hours at the fire hall. It is honorable work and very much needed. Our fire and police forces are depleted with so many men gone.

I put two Christmas packages in the mail for you the first week of October, and I hope they arrive in time for the holidays. If they are held up, know that they are on the way, and that they are full of love for you. You can expect a package from the church, also. The women’s league assembled boxes for all the young people who are on active duty. Prayers are sent your way every day.

We think of you constantly and miss you terribly. The only present we pray for this Christmas is your safe return home.

With love always,

Mama and Daddy

She checked the date on the letter again: December 5, 1941, three days before the Japanese bombed Clark Airfield. It had been sitting somewhere in a mailbag for over three months! A lump rose in her throat, and she wept, feeling cut off from everyone she loved and so alone. Drying her tears on the sleeve of her shirt, she opened the second letter, from Abe. This one didn’t have the usual government stamps on it.

Darwin, Australia

February 24, 1942

Dear Margie,

Hope this letter finds its way to you. A pal of mine is flying missions over Manila, and he’s tucking it in his front pocket. He said it would bring him good luck. Flying through the Japanese blockade is always a bit sporty.

I’m now stationed in Australia, just 1,500 miles from the Philippines, a stone’s throw from you, considering. The army needed a seasoned flier to head up a new squadron here. I was promoted to captain and joined the 49th Pursuit Squadron on February 1
^st
. Got into trouble with the Japanese right away. Just a bullet in the leg, but it’s healing well. Can’t fly for another week, and I have too much time on my hands.

I heard about the hell you’re living though. Sad thing is, a convoy of ships with food and medicines are in Australia, but can’t get out of the harbor. I was on escort to that convoy when it left for Luzon. Two days out, the Nips found us. I managed a couple of kills before my Kittyhawk was hit. I fared better than my plane. Both of us went into the drink, but I got plucked out. We were ordered to return to Australia. I was sick about it, Margie. I would have moved sea and earth to deliver those goods. MacArthur is negotiating for more escort ships and planes to help the convoys break through the blockade. Hang in there a while longer.

I have my hands full here. Most of my guys are new graduates. They’re a competitive bunch, cocky and full of bravado, like I was once. I hate to see them change, but they will. With each mission, I experience greater dread of losing another man—there have been too many. Got so tied up by it, I had to talk to the shrink. He said it is survivor’s guilt, and it is normal. It doesn’t feel normal. This war is hell.

Been thinking a lot about you lately. Remember the Pirates of Penzance and how much fun that was? It seems like a lifetime ago, and it was, what, six years?

Did I tell you I painted your picture on the nose of my plane? I gave you this really wild red hair. You led me on many successful missions. Love you and hope to see you at home sooner rather than later.

Forever,

Abe

So they weren’t completely forgotten. Ships not so far away carried the supplies they so desperately needed. Somehow, they had to get through the blockade, because life couldn’t go on under these increasingly wretched conditions. The open-air hospital now stretched over two-and-a-half square miles, with cots stacked three high under the trees. The injured and sick filled 7,000 beds, and still more men slept on the ground with the snakes and lizards. Common graveyards swelled with someone’s sons, husbands, and brothers, buried without so much as a sheet to cover them.