Brave Hearts (14 page)

Logan tilted back in his swivel chair. “I don't doubt you, Jack, but we'll never get the story past the censors.” He looked down at the yellow sheets Jack had just handed him. There was more than a newsman's interest in his voice. His voice was thin with shock. “Is it really that bad?”

“It's bloody awful. They've got maybe four planes left, and however many B-17s they'd sent to Mindanao earlier.”

“How the hell?” Logan asked.

“They'd been up since they heard about Pearl, but they came down to refuel. That's when the Japs attacked. Maybe three P-40s took off. Five more tried, but it was like ducks in a gallery. Whoosh.”

Logan picked up a cigar, carefully cut off the end, lit it, and inhaled deeply. Then he looked up at Jack. “You know what that means, don't you?”

“Yeah. I know.” Without airpower, the islands would fall.

There was a weary silence for a long moment. Logan smoked some more, then, his voice a little high, said, “Why don't you check out civilian morale tomorrow and see what you can pick up around the banks? There was a run today.”

Jack nodded, then turned and walked out into the night. Back in his apartment, he didn't even take time to wash the smoke stains from his face or to get a drink for his parched throat. He dialed Catharine's number. The phone rang and rang.

No answer.

He yanked up the phone directory and found the number of the U.S. Residence.

It took a long time to get an answer. He asked for Catharine and, again, waited for a long time. Finally, a distant voice said, “I'm sorry, but we are unable to connect you with Mrs. Cavanaugh. May we take a message?”

“Tell her Jack Maguire called. Tell her to call me at noon tomorrow at my apartment.”

“Jesus, it's hot,” a man muttered in the thick darkness.

Catharine lay quietly on her mattress and wondered how many others bedded down for the night on the patio were awake and miserable. Probably almost everyone out there. Mattresses were arranged in groups of five, then enclosed by three-foot-high scaffolding draped with mosquito nets. The thick netting blocked any breeze, though it would have taken a gale to cool the sweltering temperature. She lay in pools of sweat, but it was better to be hot than to be exposed to the malarial mosquitos. She was hot and painfully thirsty, but the fear which had permeated her day was gone—she had her message from Jack. Somehow, she was going to see him tomorrow.

As she thought of Jack, her body relaxed, and she felt the beginnings of a smile. Unexpectedly, sleep washed over her.

The air raid siren woke her. Her heart thudded almost in concert with the hollow thump of exploding bombs. She struggled up on her elbow and listened and knew the bombing wasn't too far away. People began to struggle out from beneath the netting and to call out excitedly.

“The bomb shelter's in the cellar,” someone shouted.

Catharine stayed where she was because the bombs weren't coming nearer, but her feeling of ease and happiness was gone. Once again, she tasted the metallic edge of fear. Where was Jack? Where was he now?

The raid continued almost until dawn. Catharine got up as it ended, rolled her mattress up, and went inside to freshen up.

Amea hurried up to her. “Where have you been? Why didn't you come down to the shelter?”

Catharine shook her head. “It wasn't that near.”

“I suppose you can tell, after London.”

Catharine said drily, “You'll be an expert soon enough.”

After breakfast, the women gathered in the third-floor ballroom. This morning they worked swiftly and grimly rolling bandages. Mrs. Sayre made it clear they were badly needed.

“They've opened another hospital at the jai alai courts,” Amea said. “There have been so many casualties.”

Jack rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the Royal and began to type, his blunt fingers jabbing at the stiff keys. Occasionally, he paused and took a drag from the cigarette. It was hard to figure what the censors would let through. He couldn't describe the almost complete destruction of the air arm, but they couldn't squash the news that Clark and Iba had been bombed. He finished the wrap-up on casualties and an interview with a doctor at the jai alai courts, now converted to a military hospital. Then he glanced down at his watch. He'd called in and told Logan he would be writing at his apartment this morning, that he'd come into the office later in the day with a pile of copy. He shook his head and started another story, but while he wrote and the sentences crackled into life, he was thinking of Catharine. Was she frightened? Of course, she was. She knew what war was like. She'd lived through the Blitz. Now, she might have to face worse. He looked absently at the window, obscured by a driving rain. They should be grateful for the rain. At least the Nips wouldn't bomb right now. But it was time for the dry season. When the rain stopped, the bombers would return, and ultimately Japanese troops would come. If only he'd been able to convince Catharine to leave last week.

He was in the middle of a sentence when he heard the light knock at the door. He shoved back his chair so quickly it tipped over. He reached the door in two strides, jerked it open, and pleasure flooded through him. He reached out and pulled her into his arms despite her wet raincoat. She clung to him as he closed the door.

“It's all right.” He said it over and over again until she stopped trembling, looked up at him, and managed a smile.

“I know. I'm a fool,” she said huskily. “I make it worse than it is. Every time I hear a bomb drop, I'm afraid for you.”

His hand gently touched her cheek. “Hey, that's a waste of good emotion. You know about bad pennies.”

She looked up at him, her violet eyes dark with sadness. “You aren't a bad penny.”

“Sure I am. But the point is, the Irish never lose. You know why?”

She began to smile. “Why?”

“Because we're too handsome and wonderful. So don't worry about me, Catharine. I'm going to survive this war—and so are you.”

“I don't think so,” she said slowly, quietly. “I have a feeling . . .”

He broke in sharply. “Don't have feelings like that. It's bad luck.”

She looked at him steadily. “I've not had much good luck, Jack, and I've certainly never brought luck to anyone else. Now it's your turn. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be trapped here. You'd be in England. You'd be safe.” Her eyes were enormous now, enormous circles of pain and suffering.

“Stop it, Catharine,” he said harshly. “You carry around too much guilt and you aren't going to add me to your burden. I came because you were here, but the Japs would never keep me away. I haven't spent my life playing safe. I do what I want to do, and I want you more than anything else in the world, and I always will.”

“I've put you in danger.”

He gripped her shoulders and shook her. “Listen to me. I don't give a damn about safety. I never have. I never will. If it weren't for you, I'd be in the middle of the Western Desert right now, and the fighting's bloody awful there.”

Catharine licked her lips. “This may be worse than the Western Desert.”

“Yeah, it may be, but you know what will make it worth any pain, any price, any risk?”

She waited.

“You,” he said softly.

“Jack, oh, Jack, I do love you so.”

They moved together, their lips touched, they tasted each other, and they were warm and alive and afire.

The phone rang.

Catharine started to pull away, but his arms tightened around her. “Forget it.” His lips moved across her cheek, her temple, nuzzled her hair. Then he turned her toward the bedroom and closed the door against the continuing peal of the telephone.

When they were undressed and lying together, Jack loved her slowly, so slowly, his lips soft against her skin, his hands stroking, searching, caressing. There was no world but the sensual seeking between them. Nothing else existed or mattered. They were perfect and complete in themselves, and soon, like sparks crackling deep within an intense fire, their passion exploded in a tumultuous, exquisite union.

It didn't rain Wednesday, and the Japanese onslaught began. As Catharine and Amea rolled bandages, they listened to the radio announcer, whose voice crackled with strain.

“. . . the air is full of planes, full of them. Bombers . . . fighters . . . They are attacking Cavite . . . a Japanese convoy, hundreds of ships, has been sighted near Aparri.”

New bulletins carried increasingly worse news, and they could hear the faraway sound of exploding bombs. The bombing was over by one o'clock. When they went outside and stood on the lawn, they saw to the south twisting, bulbous clouds of oily black smoke marking the destruction of the immense naval yard.

“It's dreadful,” Amea said. “Dreadful.”

Catharine nodded, but she didn't answer because she knew this was only the beginning.

In the darkened garden, Spencer and Peggy clung to each other.

“If I'd left you in London, you'd be safe.” He said it softly against her hair.

“Don't, Spencer. You didn't know. And you tried to make me go home.”

“But not in time.”

She lifted her face to his. “Let's love each other—for whatever time remains.”

The bombers came every day at noon. Two Japanese convoys were sighted on December 22. In the south, Japanese troops landed at Lamon Bay. The race was on from south and north to reach Manila.

Catharine stood in line in the lobby of the U.S. Residence, waiting for another chance to use the single telephone allotted for private calls. She had been there since shortly after breakfast. Each time she reached the phone, she dialed the INS office, then Jack's apartment. It was almost five o'clock when she finally caught him.

The connection was very bad.

“What, Jack? What did you say?”

“. . . into effect . . . WP03 . . . the troops are . . . out . . .”

Catharine understood. The diplomats had talked grimly of it all day. MacArthur had ordered all the Allied forces to withdraw from the main part of the island onto the peninsula of Bataan.

The line cracked again and his voice came clearly.

“I'm going south tonight to cover the retreat up through Manila.”

He was going to the fighting.

“When will you be back?”

“I don't . . .” Static drowned him out. He raised his voice. “Catharine . . .”

“Will you be at your apartment this evening? I'll come . . .”

“No, don't try it. It's too dangerous. It would be dark before you started back.”

She knew he was right. It was madness these last days to be out in Manila after dark. Trigger-happy militia shot first and asked questions later.

The marine at the desk interrupted reluctantly. “Ma'am, your time is up.”

The receiver crackled with static. Catharine called out, “Please, please, take care of yourself . . .”

The day before Christmas dawned bright, clear, and hot. A good day for bombing, Catharine thought. Would Jack be back in Manila? She would call. If he were, then somehow she was going to see him. She hurried downstairs to breakfast and was almost finished when she saw Spencer standing in the doorway to the dining room. When he came toward her, she realized with a shock that he looked ill, his face drained and white. She had scarcely seen him since Pearl Harbor. He was at the Residence, of course, but he worked from early morning to late at night on the gold lists. As he came nearer, she knew he was working far too hard. And what difference, for God's sake, could those interminable lists of gold make now? There were no ships leaving Manila. Every ship that could get underway left the week after war began. Many of them never cleared Manila Bay, victims of Jap bombers, and dozens of listing hulks still burned. Why did Spencer continue to work so hard? It was foolish, idiotic of him. Then she felt ashamed of herself. Spencer was just doing his job, trying to do what he thought was right. But inside, a clear, cool voice whispered,
Oh, yes, Spencer always does what's right and particularly when he is observed.
He was Spencer, trying to succeed and impress, even when his world teetered on the edge of extinction.

He stood before her and looked down, his eyes dulled with exhaustion. His voice was hoarse and scratchy. “I need to talk to you for a moment. Will you come out on the patio?”

Nodding, she took a last swallow of coffee and followed him outside. It was already hot. Spencer took her arm, and they walked toward the sea wall. The deep blue water sparkled in the bright sunlight. Only the twisting coils of smoke rising in the south destroyed the atmosphere of tropical perfection.

When they reached the sea wall, he offered her a cigarette.

“Odd way to spend Christmas Eve.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette, then said bluntly, “We're pulling out at noon. Get your stuff ready, but do it unobtrusively.”

“Pulling out?” She looked at him blankly. “Where? Where are we going? Where can we go?”

He gestured out into the bay. “Corregidor.”

Catharine looked south and west across the sparkling water at the low, dark island of Corregidor. She knew it was a fortress, a small island thirty miles from Manila that sat squarely in the mouth of Manila Bay. Its value lay in the immense guns which faced out toward the South China Sea. So long as U.S. forces held Corregidor, no enemy ships could enter the bay.

“The troops are withdrawing into Bataan,” Spencer explained. He broke off a frond from a palm tree and squatted down to scratch out the big island of Luzon. Manila sat in about the center of the great sweep of Manila Bay. About forty miles to the north, a narrow road led through sugar country to Bataan, the peninsula which poked down into Manila Bay.

“What good will that do?” Catharine asked.

Spencer leaned back on his heels. “The troops can hold out for months if they can reach Bataan. That's wild country, huge mountains, ravines, rushing streams. It's practically impassable. If the troops get to Bataan, it will take a hell of a lot to dislodge them.”

“If?”

“The troops in the north are going to have to hold off the Japs while the southern troops move up through Manila and into Bataan. It's all started, but it's going to be touch and go.”

Catharine looked again across the bay at the dark dot that was Corregidor. “Why are we going out there?”

“It's better than being captured,” Spencer said grimly.

A chill of horror moved in her. “Is the army giving up Manila?”

“Yes. It'll be an Open City.”

Catharine looked across the patio at the Residence. “What's going to happen to everyone?”

He shrugged.

“How many of us are going to Corregidor?”

“A couple of dozen.”

Catharine looked horrified. There were several hundred in the Residence.

“I know,” he said angrily, “but I can't help it. Just be grateful we're on the list. And don't tell anyone. Have your stuff ready and be out at the drive by noon.” He grimaced. “I've got to get back to work.” He took a step, then paused. “I've got to see about transferring the gold.”

As usual, there was a line for the one available phone. Catharine took her place, waited and prayed as the line slowly inched forward.

There was no answer at Jack's apartment. She left a brief message at the INS office which she hoped he would understand. Then she wrote a note and took it to one of the young MPs guarding the drive.

“Would you do me a very great favor?”

He looked at her and smiled. She knew it was the first time he'd smiled in days. “I will if I can, ma'am.”

She gave him her note and he promised that if he got into Manila, he would take it to Jack's apartment.

Catharine looked up at him, then stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

“It's all right, ma'am.” His voice was both gruff and gentle.

She saw the MP again when she walked down the drive just before noon. He lifted his hand to her.

She felt terribly conspicuous with a suitcase. People knew. They looked—then their eyes slipped away. Their faces were not judgmental or angry, just carefully vacant.

Catharine looked down at the ground and followed the line of people carrying suitcases. The buses waited at the foot of the drive.

Amea was holding a seat for Catharine when she climbed aboard the second bus. “Come sit with me. Woody and Spencer will meet us at the pier.”

“I know.”

They didn't talk on the drive. Both of them looked grim-faced at the shattered intersections and gutted buildings, and at the steady stream of refugees interspersed among the jeeps and trucks, all moving north.

Two PT boats waited at pier 7. The VIP party boarded first. It included High Commissioner and Mrs. Sayre; President Quezon, his wife, Aurora, and their three children; and General Douglas MacArthur, his, wife, Jean, and their son. Catharine had only a brief glimpse of MacArthur before he ducked below decks. His son, Arthur, stayed above with his nurse. Spencer and Woody were on the pier, directing the loading of the odd assortment of trunks and boxes which contained the gold and silver. Finally, Catharine and the rest of the party were waved aboard. Catharine looked back at the sprawling city cupped in its semicircle of low hills.