A Pledge of Silence (19 page)

“You can’t. Not yet.”

She weeps quietly as she covers his body with sand. Sweat trickles from under her hat into her ears. She stops. “Do I have to go on?” she asks.

He gazes up at her. “Yes, you must,” he says matter-of-factly.

She nods, knowing it is true, but before she can resume her task, his body begins sinking, the sand sucking him under, covering his shoulders and neck, then his face, and finally his blue eyes.

Margie’s own eyes popped open, and her fingers dug at the bed sheets. Feeling suffocated, she gasped for air. Remembering, she began screaming, her shrieks echoing off rock walls.

By the end of April, the merciless Japanese bombardment of Corregidor stripped the once lushly gardened island of the last of its protective cover. Observation balloons, called Peeping Toms, hovered like vultures over the barren landscape, pinpointing strategic targets for Japanese bombers to obliterate.

With a gas mask belted to her waist and a lethal dose of morphine pinned in a tangle of her hair, Margie worked quickly to label morphine as aspirin and quinine as bicarbonate of soda. Tildy and Gracie hid as many medicines as possible in cave-like niches they found behind the walls.

The din of the final assault was terrific, booming artillery from both sides firing as rapidly as machine guns. The Japanese continued their relentless barrage from land and air until all response from Corregidor ceased. They had demolished the island’s gun emplacements, flattened the powerhouse, polluted the water supply, and severed all wire communications. Blasted to smithereens, ammunition dumps blazed like Kingdom Come. The Gibraltar of the East—impregnable—had become a pile of gray, smoldering wreckage. U.S. Army sound detectors picked up the rumbling engine noises of Japanese landing barges crossing the North Channel.

In the aftermath’s eerie quiet, a woeful tune drifted, a bugler playing “Taps.”

Our boys lowering and burning the flag.

Fear prevailed in the tunnel—fear of death, fear of assault, fear of being forgotten. Tildy wrote across the top of a bed sheet, “Members of the Army Nurse Corps and Civilian Women Who Were in the Malinta Tunnel When Corregidor Fell,” and the 54 women remaining in the tunnel signed their names. As Margie wrote her name in bold letters, Marjorie Olivia Bauer, she thought about her parents and their heartbreak if she didn’t survive this ordeal. Her yearning for home was so overpowering, she felt crushed by it. She sank to her knees in despair.

Chapter 14

Santo Tomas, July – August 1942

Margie lay on her bed in the Malinta Tunnel’s women’s quarters, sweat soaking through her clothes. The ventilation system was off—again—and she could barely tolerate the overwhelming heat. She thought about shedding her uniform: let the bastards get an eyeful of her in her slip, what did she care anymore? The Japanese had held her captive on Corregidor for more than two months, during which time she endured their petty cruelties during the day and faked sleep at night while they fondled her red hair.

“They’re dangerous,” Miss Edwards cautioned her nurses, urging them to stick close together and sleep in their clothes. The elderly lady took the bed nearest the quarters’ entrance to deter Jap soldiers from roaming through, but shifty-eyed guards still woke the nurses with their endless, damn inspections. Margie craved a night of uninterrupted sleep.

Gracie hurried to Margie’s side, sweaty and pink from her allocated hour outside the drab hospital tunnel. She glanced around before speaking in a furtive whisper. “I heard we’re leaving. I think it’s true this time, not just a rumor.”

Margie had heard the rumors, too. A new one sprouted every day, of ships spotted on the horizon, planes heard in the distance, their imminent rescue, their certain demise. She shrugged.

“There really are ships in the harbor this time. Several, Margie.”

At that news, she sat up and took notice.

Weakened by hunger and ill treatment, Margie stood in the small, wobbly boat, waiting to board the Lima Maru, a Japanese ship taking the evacuees to a university in Manila where there was a hospital and the nurses could care for their sick men. Margie was dubious. She didn’t know a single Jap bastard who had a kind bone in his body. A guard shoved her forward. Stumbling, she grabbed the bottom rung of the rope ladder hanging over the ship’s side and began the long ascent to the top. Brawny hands hoisted her onto the deck, where she landed near Miss Kermit, who was on her knees retching. Margie helped the older lady move out of the way and rubbed her back until she calmed and got her bearings.

As the ship chugged away from the shore, Margie watched the scenery pass by. Less than a year ago, she’d made this same trip through Manila Bay in the company of exuberant soldiers and sailors. Then, bright sunlight danced off pristine water, and lush tropical foliage glowed a brilliant green against a cloudless blue sky. Manila had dazzled her with its beauty—the Pearl of the Orient. Today, however, the bay offered a dismal view, with oil-slicked water, denuded beaches, and the black, bombed-out city just ahead.

The men crammed in the ships’ holds got off-loaded first. They stumbled into the light after days in the dark without food or water. A sad-looking bunch, emaciated, dehydrated, and dirty, they clutched their few belongings to their chests. Some had open, oozing wounds; others could hardly walk and leaned heavily on their buddies. Once queued up, Japanese guards prodded them to march north, jabbing at stragglers with fixed bayonets.

Watching from the deck of the ship, Margie realized how cruelly Royce must have suffered. Her heart squeezed in her chest, unbidden tears streaming.

Seeing her sorrow, Gracie materialized at Margie’s side and took her hand. “It wasn’t like this for him, honey. He cared for his men up to the very end. It was just one sick guard—that’s all.”

Margie said, “You really think so?”

“I do. And you should too, or you’re going to go crazy with this grief.”

Margie sniffed and nodded.

Japanese soldiers herded the women onto flatbed trucks that transported them through the dock area before turning south.

“Wait!” Tildy said, standing up. “You’re going the wrong way. Our soldiers went that way.” She pointed north. Slapped on the face by a small, hard hand, she sat down again and kept quiet, hate showing in the grim set of her mouth.

It was a short ride to Santo Tomas University, a 60-acre campus not far from the docks and Manila’s busy city center. An idyllic setting of landscaped gardens, tree-lined walkways, and large limestone buildings greeted Margie’s eyes. As the truck drove along the winding campus road, she spotted a chapel, an athletic field, a gymnasium, and several shops.
Maybe it won’t be so bad here.

The truck stopped at the main building, an imposing three-story structure a block-and-a-half square. A great crucifix high atop a cupola marked the main entrance. Internees swarmed around the nurses, and Margie felt an orange being pressed into her hand.

A woman asked anxiously, “Have you seen my husband? Eddie Bailey? He was on Corregidor. He has dark hair and a small scar right here.” She pointed to a spot above her eyebrow.

He could have been any of the thousands of men Margie had attended. She gave the orange back, shook her head, and watched the woman’s face crumple.

Guards shoved the crowd back and hustled the nurses inside, where staircases and hallways teemed with men, women carrying babies, young children, teenagers, and gray-haired grandmas and grandpas. Margie peeked inside a classroom and saw more of the same. Their chattering voices echoed off yellowed walls, and the whole place reeked of unwashed bodies and overused toilets.

“Margie! Margie!” Whirling around, she saw her friend Helen. So she had survived the bombing of Camp John Hay! Wanting to give her a hug, Margie tried to break away from the group, but a guard pushed her back in line.

Questioned by Japanese officers about her family, her life in the army, and her experience since coming to the Philippines, Margie stood stiffly and answered minimally. Chattering soldiers searched her belongings while she watched with disgust as their quick yellow hands pawed through her letters from home and her few tattered clothes.

“What were they saying?” she asked Tildy afterward.

The daughter of American missionaries who grew up in rural Japan, Tildy said, “I could only catch a few words. Something about candy.”

Housed in an annex outside the Santo Tomas’ high stone and iron fences, the nurses had no contact with the other internees. Guards watched every movement. Fatigued, underfed, and ill with tropical diseases, they rested and regained strength sapped during the violent months on Corregidor. After a time in isolation, a chaplain visited.

“Being interned here is different,” he told the new arrivals. “Unlike the POW camps so brutally administered by the Japanese military, Santo Tomas Internment Camp, or STIC, as we scornfully call it—don’t tell anyone I told you that—comes under the governance of the Department of External Affairs.” He looked at the faces focused on him, his kind eyes gazing from behind round, rimless glasses. “That’s a good thing. The Japanese regard us with apathy.”

Apathy might be good,
Margie thought.

“We run the camp ourselves. We have Executive and Advisory committees and sub-committees: the Philippine Red Cross is in charge of the kitchens and the food; Social Services oversees education, recreation, religion, welfare, and the library; Administration handles discipline and work assignments; Essential Services supervises sanitation, hospitals, and fire prevention. The Japanese allow the Executive Committee 35 cents per internee a day to administer the camp.”

“Thirty-five cents?” Miss Kermit scoffed. “That won’t feed us, much less provide anything else.”

The chaplain nodded, “It’s barely a sustenance amount. For anything extra, we have a camp store, and Filipino vendors can sell food and wares inside the gate. Some enterprising souls have started their own businesses, such as a coffee bar, shoe repair, laundry, and beauty salon, to name a few. We’re like a small city here.”

“These girls have been living in the jungle and in tunnels. They don’t have any money. How are they going to live?”

“They have an income?”

“Yes, but it’s tied up in the States.”

“Is there anyone on the outside who can help? Clothing, food, almost anything can be delivered through the package line at the front gate. Inspected by the guards, of course.”

“No. We’re alone here.”

The chaplain paced as he spoke. “That’s a problem, but there are ways to get around it.”

“How many people live here?” Miss Kermit asked.

“Thirty-five hundred, give or take. They’re mostly foreign civilians and their families who worked or lived in the Philippines when the Japanese arrived; ‘enemy nationals,’ the Japanese call us. About 600 children live here. We have a varied and talented group of engineers, journalists, businessmen, missionaries, doctors, bankers, several teachers, and university professors. There’s even a golf pro.” He smiled at his attempt at frivolity. “Everyone is required to work two hours a day.”

“These girls should be working,” Miss Kermit said. “They’ve been locked in this building for weeks reading and playing bridge. Their time could be put to better use. The days are long and boring.”

The chaplain shrugged. “Boredom is a big problem, as is sanitation. Maybe the influence of your young nurses will help keep this place from becoming a swamp.”

Miss Kermit stopped pacing and asked, “What advice can you give to help us survive this?”

His manner grew somber as he addressed the young women, all riveted on his every word. “You must stick together. You’ll need each other for support. Keep a low profile, follow the rules, and pull your own weight. Always, always be mindful of the Japanese presence.” He paused before adding, “And don’t forget to pray.”

Old and fearless, Captain Hazel Edwards met with the Japanese commandant and negotiated for the nurses to work four-hour shifts in the hospital and the clinics scattered around campus. The nurses moved from the annex to the top floor of the main building, further crowding the 250 women already living there. The camp administrators issued each woman a metal cup, a spoon, an enamel plate, one thin towel, and a blanket, all of which they stored under their palm-fiber cots.

Every day began with music blasting over loudspeakers.

Margie yawned, scratched, and took her place in line for one of the four toilets. Standing behind her, Helen brushed her back.

“Sorry, Margie. It was just a bedbug.”

“Did you get it off me?”

“It’s gone, but your back’s really bit up. You want me to dab you with calamine lotion?”

“After my shower. Anything to stop the itching.” She sawed her towel across her back.

Margie circulated under the shower spigot she shared with five other women. One smoked while she showered, her lower lip thrust out to tilt the fag up. Two wore their underwear, and one kept her eyes shut as suggested by the hand-scrawled sign on the wall: Want Privacy? Close Your Eyes!

She dressed in a cotton uniform, mindful not to bump the women at each elbow, then packed a tote with her eating utensils and personal items. She and Helen left for the food service station, a walk across campus that took them through the shantytowns.

In these ersatz communities, internees built clusters of topsy-turvy huts, and gave the neighborhoods exotic names, like Foggy Bottom and Glamourville. Construction of the huts was as creative as their resourceful owners, who scrounged for bamboo, scrap wood, palm leaves, and reeds. Streets named MacArthur Boulevard and Fifth Avenue meandered in and around these day-hovels that offered the occupants a few square feet of shade and a semblance of privacy. At night, everyone returned to the campus buildings to sleep dormitory-style with the men separated from the women and children.