A Pledge of Silence (11 page)

A voice from the dark said, “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

She whirled around to see Max staggering toward her. He was rumpled and drinking from a long-necked bottle. She said, “I was just going back.” She took a step, but he blocked her way. Fear prickled at the base of her neck. “Get out of my way, Max. Royce is waiting for me.”

He hiccupped and burped. “Don’t flatter yourself. He’s talking surgery. He doesn’t even know you’re gone.”

Beyond Max, she saw only the deserted beach. She darted sideways, but he grabbed her arm in a grip she knew would leave bruises. Twisting in his hold, she yelled, “Stop it! You’re hurting me.”

“Oh, come on. Where’s that big smile you gave me while we were dancing?”

“You’re sick! Let go of me!”

Responding swiftly, he yanked her closer.

She smelled his sour breath as his whiskered chin scraped the side of her face. “Let go of me,” she hollered, pushing with her arms and jabbing at him with her knees and elbows.

He growled, “So the bitch likes it rough,” and grabbed her breast in a vise-like grip.

The pain made her whimper and Max moaned. He searched for her mouth with his slobbering tongue, but she whipped her head from side to side.

He clamped down on her ear with his teeth.

In agony, she froze.

He kissed her ear and the base of her throat and started peeling back the top of her dress.

She inhaled sharply and flailed with the hand still holding her shoes, aiming for his face, adrenalin surging. She swung hard; the sharp heel found its target.

Max staggered and fell backward, letting Margie go. He covered his face with his hand and cursed in Italian.

Margie ran through the sand toward the lights of the hotel. Shivering, she huddled in a stall in the ladies’ room, counting to 100, then to 1,000. When she felt able, she fixed her face, ear, hair, and dress as best as she could with trembling hands and damp towels.

She found Royce, and told him she was tired and not feeling well. She’d had too much to eat and drink. She wanted to leave. Tonight, she wanted to be alone in her own bed.

Holding an ice bag to soothe her burning ear, she cried tears of self-recrimination. She shouldn’t have gone to the beach alone. Hurt quickly turned to anger.
Bastard!
Unable to lie still, she paced around.
Damn bastard!
She knew the truth for sure now, and she would tell Evelyn everything. She would show Evelyn her bloody, bitten ear and then it would be good riddance, Mr. Mysterious!

Evelyn will be devastated.

Margie cried harder at the thought of hurting her friend.

She slept fitfully, rumors of invasion mingling with vivid dreams of Helen at Camp John Hay surrounded by Japs slitting throats and eating ears. She bolted upright, her heart pounding, and her stomach pitching. She threw up on the floor by the bed.

Chapter 10

Manila, December 8, 1941

Margie skimmed the headlines in the morning newspaper: Germany and Russia continued to battle over Moscow; President Roosevelt had appealed to the Emperor of Japan for peace. Putting the paper aside, she went to the buffet and selected a breakfast of cereal, fruit, and coffee. The war seemed far away. She had other things on her mind.

She had avoided Evelyn since the night of the dance and dreaded their next meeting. She rehearsed the likely conversation a hundred times in her mind, never once finding a happy ending. Max wore an eye patch, telling everyone he’d walked into a low-hanging tree branch. Serves him right, she thought as she touched her ear, still tender from his bite.

Outside the window, she saw Tildy, long-legged and panting, running across the lawn. With a small head and slicked back hair, she resembled Olive Oyl, Popeye’s lanky girlfriend. She burst through the side door screaming, “The Japs are bombing Pearl Harbor!”

The women sat like statues, stunned. Gracie, doll-faced and chubby, looked out at the sky, but there was nothing to see, not even a wisp of clouds. “Do you think they’ll come here?” She chewed on the tip of her thumbnail.

Margie heard whimpering: she turned to see Karen weeping into a napkin. She rubbed Karen’s back and leaned over to hug her. “We’ll be okay.”

Eyes glistening with tears, Karen shook her head. “My fiancé is at Pearl. He’s on the
Arizona
.”

Margie had friends in Honolulu too, and she wanted to believe them safe. She said, “He’ll be all right. Honolulu’s a fortress.”

Three night-shift nurses arrived for breakfast and a smoke before they retired. Usually a subdued group, this morning they were edgy and talkative, telling what little they knew. The bombing started at 2 a.m. Manila time. The naval station at Pearl Harbor was a disaster; fires raging, and untold casualties. Sobbing, Karen fled the room. A siren wailed. Outside, people ran about in confusion. Desperate to see Royce, Margie left her breakfast uneaten and hurried to the hospital.

The corridors buzzed with unusual activity. The charge nurse answered incessantly ringing telephones. Bedridden patients jangled call bells, imploring doctors and nurses for information. Knots of ambulatory patients in gowns and slippers congregated in tight groups, conferring in hushed voices. Margie zigzagged her way through hallways jammed with anxious people, linen carts, and aides trying to deliver breakfast trays. She stepped through the surgical unit’s double doors where it was quieter. She saw Royce standing at a sink, scrubbing from fingertips to elbows with a stiff, soapy brush.

She needed his hug, but checked her impulse. “Hey,” she said, mimicking the Texas greeting he often used. “Trouble’s brewing.”

Royce spoke, his voice tight and muffled by his surgical mask. “What’ve you heard?”

“Just what the night nurses said. Pearl Harbor’s in flames. You think the Japanese will bomb Manila?”

Worried blue eyes peered over the mask. “Let’s pray not. Sure hope the air corps is ready.” He rinsed his hands and arms under running water and turned the tap off with his elbow. “I’ll be done here in a couple hours. Where are you going to be?”

“Room two. Hernia. Should I cancel our tee-time?”

“Not yet. Business as usual until we hear otherwise.” With arms held up and away from his body, he gave her a wink before backing into the surgery.

Margie rolled her gas machine into Room 2, readied an instrument tray with her anesthesia supplies, and found a stool to sit on. A corpsman wheeled in the patient and transferred him to the surgical table. A nurse draped him with layers of sterile sheets. Groggy from the sedative given earlier, the patient grinned when he saw Margie. “Sweetheart, I’m feeling good,” he slurred.

Margie lowered the gas mask. “Bye, bye, baby. You’re off to dreamland.”

“Tell the Doc to make this quick. Nips are—”

He lost consciousness before he finished his sentence. The surgeon started the routine surgical procedure, and for the next 60 minutes, Margie focused on keeping her patient anesthetized at the level desired by the physician.

While Margie attended to business, Japanese bombers roared into the Philippines and flattened Camp John Hay, the mountain retreat 200 miles north of Manila where Helen worked, leaving it ablaze and choked with smoke. Flying in great V-formations, they journeyed south to their primary targets, Fort Stotsenberg and Clark Airfield. With less resistance than they could have hoped for, the Japanese bombed and strafed the aircraft parked wing-tip to wing-tip, reducing the bulk of the United States Far East Air Corps to a plume of greasy smoke and piles of black, burning rubble.

By the time Margie left the hospital, the beauty of her surroundings, the blue sky, the manicured lawns, and gardens abundant with exotic flowers could not mask the nervous energy of a tense population. People stampeded stores, stocking up on food and supplies. At the post office and every bank, lines spilled out the doors and wound down the streets.

Margie’s plans for an afternoon golf date changed when Miss Kermit called a mandatory meeting for all nurses. A short, boxy woman with salt-and-pepper hair and dark-brown eyes, kind and knowledgeable, the director had earned the affection of her staff and the respect of the doctors. Margie edged her way into the room of restless women and found a chair next to Karen.

She squeezed Karen’s arm. “Are you okay?”

Karen nodded, but her red-rimmed eyes and tightly held body told a different story.

“Girls,” Miss Kermit yelled out over the chatter. “Girls, quiet down. I have some important things to say.”

The room quieted as they gave her their attention.

“The Japanese are bombing military installations in northern Luzon. Camp John Hay, Fort Stotsenberg, and Clark Airfield are reporting casualties.”

The room hummed with agitation. Margie feared for Helen at Camp John Hay. She leaned forward, straining to hear more.

“Girls, settle down, please. We must use this time to prepare for whatever lies ahead. Expect unusual activity. Workers are hanging blackout curtains inside. Outside, they’re sandbagging around the hospital and digging foxholes in some areas.”

“What? Sandbagging?”

“Foxholes?”

“Please settle down, girls. This work is just a precaution. At the end of this meeting, you will be issued a gas mask and shown how to use it. There is the slimmest chance the Japanese could use chemical warfare, so we must be prepared. I know it’s upsetting, but again, this is just a precautionary measure.”

The women fell silent. Margie’s mouth went dry.

“All ambulatory patients will be discharged. Those who are confined to their beds will need extra assurance they are safe. We may get very busy later. For those nurses on duty, make sure your units are well stocked with supplies. For those not on duty, eat well and get some rest. You will need your strength. Remember, we are here to serve. Are there any questions?”

Yes, there were questions. Would the Japanese attack Manila? Would they bomb a hospital? How could they contact their loved ones back in the States to allay their fears? The director reassured her staff that they were protected. The army and navy patrolled the island, and Manila was secure. The director dismissed the group, but asked the surgical nurses to stay behind.

“Gather around, girls.” Miss Kermit’s demeanor was grave. “We’ve received word from Fort Stotsenberg. They are overwhelmed with wounded. The situation is serious, and they’re desperate for help. I’m asking for five volunteers to go there to assist.” Two hands shot up, and a third slowly rose. “Thank you. I need two more. Anybody?” Margie furtively glanced at her co-workers, all looking ashamed of their reluctance to sign on to help. She, too, didn’t want to leave the safety of the city. “Don’t make me assign this duty, girls,” the director prodded. Still, no one raised her hand.

“Why don’t we draw straws?” a nurse beside Margie suggested.

“Excellent idea, thank you. Does anyone object?” Quickly fashioning straws from cotton-tipped applicator sticks, Miss Kermit arranged them in her hand. After each woman pulled one, Margie and Tildy discovered they held the short ones. Margie’s jaw clenched in dismay, but she nodded her assent.

Finding Royce in the doctors’ lounge later, she told him her news. “I’ll be back before you miss me,” she tried to quip, but a tremor in her voice betrayed her true feelings.

He hugged her with a ferocity she slumped into. He whispered, “Let me talk to Miss Kermit.”

“No! The selection was fair. I’ll do what has to be done.” She stepped back and smoothed the worry lines from his forehead, caressing his cheek and chin. “I’ll be okay. I love you.”

As they kissed, she cried. She hated goodbyes.

Wearing her white uniform and carrying her wool cape, Margie boarded a bus with four other army nurses, 15 Filipino nurses, two doctors, and a score of enlisted men. She took the seat next to Tildy, who was knitting a cap for her sister’s new baby. Supply trucks packed with medical equipment and food followed behind. The convoy lurched, stop-and-go, through streets busy with people stacking sandbags, taping glass, and boarding up windows. Everyone anxiously watched the sky. Margie looked upward too, and saw nothing but a few fluffy clouds. After the bus left the city, the ride smoothed to a rhythmic rock, lulling her into a restless sleep.

She awoke with a headache. It was dark, and jungle trees formed a canopy over the narrow road. The bus engine whined noisily from the steepness of the terrain, and the lumbering supply trucks following behind growled like tired beasts.

“Where are we?” she asked Tildy.

“About halfway there. The going is slow.”

The trip dragged on endlessly. Just when Margie thought her bladder would explode, the convoy stopped. The driver jumped up.

“Stay in your seats,” he ordered, then beckoned to a group of soldiers, who put on steel helmets and bulky vests. They grabbed rifles and followed the driver out the door. Staring out the window but unable to see, Margie heard footsteps, shuffling, and muffled voices. It seemed a long time before the soldiers returned.

The driver explained, “There’s a downed plane partially blocking the road. I think I can get around it.”

Margie appealed for a rest break. She grabbed her cape to hold up for privacy, and several passengers left the bus for a brief visit to the side of the road. Just ahead lay the smoldering carcass of the airplane flipped on its side with one wing pointing to the sky. The pilot’s compartment gaped empty, and Margie’s first thought went to Abe. She had feared for him before, but the realities of what he might face—the twisted metal, the spiral of smoke, and the smell of fuel—had never before been so stark.

The driver eased the bus through the tight passage between the downed plane and the trees. A glow colored the sky orange, and an acrid smell permeated the air. Outside the window, Margie glimpsed a jeep nosed into a ditch and another thrown on its side. The bus hit a crater, jerking everyone inside. Slowing to a crawl, it continued to climb until it crested the hill. Sixty-three pairs of eyes witnessed the nightmarish scene below.