All for the cause, p.19
All for the Cause, page 19
Although all prisoner mail was read by a staff member, at least they could hear from home. The rules also allowed them to read German newspapers they received.
A car with a red cross on the door puttered through the gates.
The Red Cross—he’d seen them here before, inspecting the 50-bed wards and watching out for the Germans’ well-being. This raised the ire of some of the guards, especially those with family members overseas.
When certain prisoners arrived with terrible mouth sores and swollen lips and jaws, dentists and doctors attended to them. Word had it that previous wardens in European holding camps had different ideas than Colonel Lobdell, and encouraged guards to beat German POWs.
The sad state of mouths came from having teeth torn out to remove gold fillings. This version of justice was understandable, considering the Luftwaffe’s relentless bombing of England all these years.
Fairness took a beating in the light of war’s brutal premise—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Stan stood staring out over acres of farm fields in the process of harvest.
Truth be told, the Filipinos, who detested the Japanese, had once fought against American soldiers. Decades ago, another war had led to the United States buying country, Puerto Rico, and Guam from Spain, but native Filipinos had revolted at having a new ruler. Naturally, a fight had resulted.
The Philippine-American war lasted three years and took a quarter of a million lives. Probably many Filipinos would have liked to yank teeth from the Americans’ mouths, too. At least in ’35, the United States allowed for them to form a commonwealth, but now, foreigners once again ravaged homeland.
“Hey! You all right, Ford? Looks like you’re a million miles away.” Hopefully, Mark entertained no idea of playing nursemaid. All the more reason to go back to the front as soon as possible.
“Yeah, just taking my morning constitutional.”
“I just heard the Marines have attacked in Peleliu. It’s such a tiny island, I’m not sure why it’s so important.”
Stan fell in with him. “Peleliu may be small, but it’s only five hundred miles east of the Philippines, and a big garrison of Japanese troops has an airfield there. As long as the enemy controls that island, they can threaten any attempt General MacArthur makes to re-take the Philippines.
“We gained control of the Marshall Islands back in February, and moved to the Marianas. It took until July to secure Saipan, and until the end of August for Tinian and Guam. In order to free the Philippines, we have to keep moving west.”
“I ought to know, but where are they, anyhow?”
A fair question. A few years ago, Stan couldn’t have pointed the islands out on a map, either. His answer, “In the South China Sea, basically between Australia and China,” satisfied Mark for now.
“So that’s why MacArthur went to Australia when the Japs invaded. I suppose I learned all of this in school, but...” He looked at his watch. “Well, it’s almost time for us to get in there.”
Just before they did, he asked, “What were we doing in the Philippines in the first place?”
This question would take a while. The history was mighty complicated, and not worth being late.
“It goes way back to the Spanish-American War at the turn of the century, and the Treaty of Paris. Maybe there’s a history book around here somewhere.
“But the long and short of it is, General MacArthur has been in the Philippines as a military advisor since ’37. He loves the country, and I’m sure he’ll keep his promise to return.”
“We’ve still got a lot of men over there, right?”
“Yeah, held prisoner. Re-taking what we lost is eating up a lot of time because the Japanese are putting up an awful defense. They believe they’re superior to the Filipinos and have a right to rule the islands.”
“This battle the Marines are fighting right now—in Pel—however you pronounce it. How long do you think it’ll take to drive the Japs out? Maybe it won’t be so hard now, since we’ve already beat them a few times?” Mark ducked through the doorway and waited for Stan.
“That’ll only make them fight harder. They see things differently than we do. They worship emperor and will fight to the death for him.”
“That’s bad news.”
“Sure is. We can count on it taking longer than we think. It always does.”
Hurrying to the outfitting room for his equipment, Stan realized his hands were shaking. Even talking about the Philippines had such a powerful effect on him—he ought to know better.
In the shadowy corner where the weapons were organized, he filled his ammunition pouch with bullets and slung his M-1 rifle over his shoulder. When he straightened, there stood Cap, easing in and out of the filmy light like a ghost.
Hardly surprised, Stan waited. Most of the other guards left the room, but for some reason, Cap took his time this morning.
When his words finally came, he issued them with long pauses.
“Dripping water... hollows out stone, not through... force but through... perseverance.” No need to cite which ancient wise man wrote this. He knew Stan could have finished the quote for him—Ovid again.
As quickly as he appeared, Cap dissolved into a sea of dust motes, and Stan hurried out. But as he fell in with the others coming on duty, he could scarcely get his breath.
If only Cap would give me some warning... What a laugh!
He shook off the experience and manned his post. All he knew was that he had to get back over there... back to Cap and Carlos. Had to.
STANDING AT THE STOVE to stir corn cooking in a big pot went faster with the evening news in the background. Punctuated by Benny’s exclamations, “Yes!” for the positive points and “Aw, Gee!” for the negative, Twila could hardly imagine a broadcast without his commentary.
Patton’s Third Army has halted as supplies are stretched to the breaking point. If ever those of us here in the States should realize that our efforts are essential to victory in Europe, it should be now. Without supplies, even the best general with the most ardent troops cannot move forward.
In the Pacific, Japanese positions on Luzon in the Philippines have come under intense Allied aerial assault. A massive fleet of carrier-based U.S. warplanes has begun aiming brutal fire at enemy bases in the prelude to General MacArthur’s return to re-take the islands.
Meanwhile, in spite of pre-landing Naval bombardment, our Marines are meeting fierce Japanese resistance on the island of Peleliu. Enemy forces are using the rocky terrain, complete with underground caves connecting to various parts of the island, to advantage.
The U.S. Army’s Eighty-First Infantry Division managed to secure Angaur and Ulithi, also in the Palaus, relatively quickly. Now, members of the 321st and 323rd Regiments are coming to the aid of the 1st Marine Division.
Hard-pressed at a site known as Bloody Nose Ridge, the Marines will soon be joined from the west by the men of the 81st. The goal is to envelop enemy positions on all sides and eventually dislodge them completely.
And that is how things stand this evening, September 23, 1944.
Benny flew into the kitchen and slipped on the wet floor. “It’s the Army to the rescue. Bet them Marines ain’t likin’ this one bit, havin’ to ask the infantry for help. I gotta go tell Wendell, ‘cause he’s an army man, too. Can I, Mom? I’ll come right back.”
“Doesn’t Wendell listen to the news himself?”
“Yeah, but sometimes he don’t get what’s goin’ on, ya know? And he don’t have no—”
Aunt Margaret gave her pot another stir. “He doesn’t have any...”
“Doesn’t have any brother over there, neither.” Another mistake, but she let it pass. “Our guys just gotta get back there n’ get Paul outta that prison.”
At Margaret’s visible wince, Twila bite her lip. For weeks, she’d been asking how long the Navy could label a sailor “missing in action.”
“So, can I go?”
“May I. All right, go. Be back in 15 minutes.”
Benny raced out as she and Twila spooned the last of the sweet corn into jars and set them in the canner. They’d conquered this last picking in record time. Luckily, a farmer friend of the family picked it for them and left a full gunnysack on the shady side of the back porch sometime today.
The sooner they got at this laborious task, the better, so Twila started right in, and begged help from Diana and Benny when they got home from school. The three of them had every ear husked and cleaned by the time Aunt Margaret arrived.
As they cut the kernels from the ears, Benny dropped his knife so many times that she assigned him to cob duty. Hauling several heavy pails full to the shed and spreading them on screens set up on sawhorses kept him occupied.
After he went outdoors, Diana started in. “I hate doing this—there’s corn in my hair, on my face...”
“And on ours, too. But are we griping about it? Just keep cutting.”
But she couldn’t, so her complaining netted her another job, far worse, in Twila’s opinion. Cleaning up a corn canning mess was no fun at all. After she washed and dried the bowls, pans and utensils, Diana headed for the living room, but Aunt Margaret stopped her.
“You’re not finished yet. You need to scrub the back porch, and by the time you’re done, all the corn should be boiling, so you can tackle this floor.”
“But they’re so sticky—I can’t walk without my shoes squeaking.”
“Exactly. That’s why they need to be scrubbed, and why I can guarantee it’ll take several pails of hot water and more than one rinsing.” With kernels flying in all directions and all the tracking in and out, the clean-up task topped them all, and Twila sympathized. If only Diana had kept quiet.
With everyone hard at work, Aunt Margaret adopted a cheerful mood. “We ought to have seventy quarts after tonight and be ready for winter.”
Mom was probably preserving the last pickings from the garden, too, even though the fruit cellar hadn’t fully emptied from last fall. Maybe Sharon was helping her—hopefully.
The last time Twila noticed, Aunt Margaret’s fruit cellar looked about as full. Victory gardens sounded idyllic, but led to so much work.
Chapter Twenty-seven
HOW TO PHRASE HIS REQUEST? As the long day progressed, Stan wrote his letter to Colonel Lobdell over and over in his head.
“I feel the need to return to combat because...”
“As tensions mount around the coming Philippine invasion, my heart tells me...”
“I find I can no longer remain in a job that could as easily be filled by a civilian, when...”
“As time has passed since my return from duty in the Pacific, I have been...”
Mentally, he tore up sheet after sheet of stationery. Nothing seemed to hit quite the right note for such important communication. All the while, he tamped down his urge to march into the Colonel’s office and plead his case verbally.
No, no, no. Only a letter requesting a meeting would work. But how to write it? All afternoon he noodled various approaches...where was Cap when he really needed him?
This evening, he would accomplish the feat, no matter what. His determination kept him seeking just the right words, but just as his shift was ending, all hell broke loose. Another escape? The SS prisoners revolting again? Who knew?
In the end, his shift remained on duty an extra two hours while replacements attended to whatever had gone haywire. The cook held dinner for them, and sixteen ravenous guards made quick work of it in the dining hall.
By the time he made it to his corner haven, Stan was beat. Maybe he’d take a little nap before getting to his one goal for the evening.
“Know what Rutherford B Hayes said to Alexander Graham Bell after he invented the telephone?”
“I have no idea. What?”
“’That’s an amazing invention, but who would ever want to use one of them?’ Did you realize Bell never allowed one in his work area because he thought it would distract him?”
Cap’s lackadaisical chuckle turned into a deep-throated laugh...then a cackle. His face yellowed and transformed—then hundreds of slanted eyes developed out of nowhere, and mocked Stan.
Sneering lips revealed sets of brown teeth. Gun butts smashed Stan’s shoulder and hip; enemy screams assaulted his ears.
“March... march... keep moving, G.I.!”
A thunderous roar sounded overhead. Closer, Japanese gunners aimed weapons at him. He ran through impossible jungle... faster, faster.
“Hey, buddy. Wake up.” Some guards shook him and whispered to each other. The lights were still on...he must’ve fallen asleep early.
“It’s another nightmare—I heard he fought in the Philippines.”
“Oh yeah? Must’ve been bad.”
Two concerned brows hovered over Stan and forced him to swallow down his terror. Not again...this was two nights in a row he’d disturbed his closest neighbors.
“Sorry, fellas. I... I’ll try not to let this happen...”
“It’s all right. Go back to sleep now.”
They slipped away and he sank back onto his pillow. “But it will happen again, and this stuff is getting worse. What am I going to do?”
Muttering to himself would do no good. After the others fell asleep, he started walking. But the shadowy nighttime silence brought no comfort, and menacing figures seemed to rise from the corners, or between the glass panes and window frames.
“No.” He slumped against the cold wall. “You are not losing your mind. You just need to get back over there.”
The cool plaster eased the heat roaring through him, and a puzzle piece slipped into place. He’d socialized with Twila lately as if he were a free man; as if he had a right to chart his course. He’d even mentioned going to law school.
What had he been thinking? How could he have forgotten Cap and Carlos? They might never be free again, along with so many other GIs.
The cool hallway brought a shiver, but he relished the discomfort. He had it way too easy here, fed and coddled as if the armistice were already signed. Dinner ran a little late, and he’d eaten as though he’d been suffering want.
Everything around this place was a distraction. He’d let Twila distract him, too. His goal shone as clear as the moon over the harvested Iowa fields in the distance. He must seek that goal; must do something to reach it.
It was now or never. Back in his cubbyhole, he grabbed his flashlight. Then he took some paper and a pen back to the hallway, sank against the wall and wrote his letter requesting a meeting with Colonel Lobdell.
Straightforward phrases, honest words—the unvarnished truth. Without re-reading it, he addressed and sealed the envelope, walked down the hallway and slipped it into the inter-office slot.
He returned to bed satisfied that he’d done what he could. Yet one burning question taunted him: would the Colonel understand?
“BENNY, WHY AREN’T YOU in bed?” Twila shuffled down to the living room, where her cousin sat bunched up in the corner of the sofa with his arms around his legs.
“Can’t sleep.”
“Neither can I. What’s keeping you awake?”
“I can’t help believin’ Paul’s already dead.” He buried his face in the quilt he’d wrapped around himself. His eyes widened as he glanced up the stairs. “If Mom heard me say that, she’d kill me.”
Twila wrapped her bathrobe tighter, grabbed an afghan, and joined him. “Why do you think he couldn’t still be alive?”
“The Japs’re so mean—if he did swim to shore and ended up in a prison camp, he wouldn’t be able to stand bein’ cooped up like that. He woulda tried to escape, and the Japs woulda killed him.”
“You really think he would have tried to escape, even if lots of other GIs were there with him?”
“Yeah. It’d be like when he was runnin’ passes for the football team, or gettin’ the ball to the basket in basketball. He just wouldn’t settle for makin’ a play halfway, y’know?”
“I do know—at least sort of. I wasn’t a great player, but it was hard to let anybody get by me with the ball.”
“You were a guard?”
“Yep.”
“What a lousy deal. You never got to shoot!”
“True, but I kept the other team’s forwards from scoring. Sometimes, I was able to stop a really good player’s shot. That always made me feel good, and in a way, my part had the same effect as if I’d scored.”
“Hmm. Paul played good defense, too, but scoring was what he did best. Girls’ rules woulda driven him crazy.”
“I imagine so. But Dad always told me, “If your forwards don’t get the ball, they can’t shoot, so your job is to steal it whenever you can. A stolen ball takes the chance to score from the opposition and gives it to your forwards.”
“Makes sense. Workin’ behind the scenes. That’s what I hafta do, y’know.” He peered up the stairs again. “Mom don’t know it, but me and Wendell—” He slapped his hand over his mouth.
“What did you do?”
“Oh, just hauled more stuff to the garage.”
“Every action we take helps, even if we think it’s insignificant. That’s what Dad wrote me when I felt like I couldn’t do much for the war effort.”
“Maybe someday I’ll meet your dad, when he comes back.” Benny’s eyes lighted for the first time tonight. “That reminds me of them Japanese balloons. My teacher said—”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you hear? The Japs launched more’n 6,000 hydrogen balloons on westerly winds—toward us! You didn’t know that?”
“No, tell me more.”
“Only 300 made it, but one detonated out in Oregon.”
“Wow—did it hurt anybody?”
“Yeah. A woman and five kids. Killed ‘em.”
“Benny!”
“It’s true. They was out for a picnic or somethin’.” His eyes flashed fire. “I hate them blasted Japs! Maybe Stan was right—they’ll never quit. Wendell’s dad told us they’ve got a new operation now, called Operation Sho-Go. Have you heard about it?”
