Elizabeth M. Norman (21 page)

They did not talk about their guilt, of course. That was a private matter. Alone at night or sleepless in the early morning, the evacuees were haunted—there is no better word for it—by the ghosts of Malinta Tunnel, the ghosts too of the thousands of patients they’d left lying on the jungle floor.

On their second evening in Melbourne, the evacuees got word that Corregidor had surrendered. They thought of their friends, the women they had left behind, and were afraid, but they did not give voice to their fears, did not speak of the unspeakable. Instead they looked for a little light. At least their comrades were no longer under the bombs, they told one another. What’s more, the nurse corps had Davison and Nesbit to lead it. Surely they’d get the rest of the group through.

I
N LATE
M
AY
, wearing new, dark-blue uniforms and garrison caps, eight of the ten evacuees from PBY number one boarded a ship for San Francisco. (Catherine Acorn and Willa Hook had lobbied their superiors to remain in Australia because they wanted “to be near enough to be among the first to go back to Manila.”
⁸
) And on June 11, 1942, after an easy Pacific passing, the still weary but elated evacuees stood at the rail of the ship, looking at what to them must have been a halcyon sight—the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Oh, God!” Eunice Hatchitt said. “I’m home! God bless America.”
⁹

At Letterman General Hospital on the Presidio army base, doctors treated the women for jungle diseases, chronic fatigue and exaggerated weight loss. They needed to rest, required quiet to restore themselves, and the army tried to shield them, give them that sanctuary, but the interviews they had granted in Australia had been carried in papers at home, and now the relatives of the soldiers captured on Bataan were begging to talk with the nurses, and, ill or not, the women felt they had no choice but to receive them.

The worried, the tormented, the sick-in-the-soul lined up at the public relations office, and hour after hour the women sat listening to their pleas and entreaties.

Had they seen this mother’s son? That wife’s husband? This sister’s brother?

Did they remember a Bobby, a Billy Joe, a Mike or a Phil?

How about the third battalion—did they make it?

Anyone from Opelika, Alabama, come in wounded? See any boys from Murfreesboro, Tennessee?

Some of the relatives wept as they talked; others, unable to speak, just sat there. Now and then someone would faint, shocked into unconsciousness by the awful blow of not knowing anything at all—or hearing the thing they least wanted to hear.

The nurses, of course, knew the terrible truth of the battle—the
shortages, the starvation, the wanton sacrifice—but they held back these details. Why add to the weight of the losses, they thought?

When word of these sessions spread, people who could not make the trip west deluged the hospital with mail and telegrams and telephone calls. There were so many inquiries, the Red Cross sent a stenographer to help sort them out. It was a sad business, opening those letters:

“The boy’s mother is so ill from worry that I am writing this in her stead.”

“He was our only son and …”

“My husband and I weren’t married very long but …”

“We have three children and I don’t know what to tell them of their father.”
¹⁰

Such heartache was more than some of the nurses could bear. They already carried their own regrets and now some of them felt they were failing these families as well.

“The two hardest periods of my entire life were leaving our sick troops in bed on Bataan and hearing people beg, plead, and cry about their sons when I got home,” said Eunice Hatchitt.
¹¹

Most difficult of all were letters from the loved ones of the women that the evacuees had left behind. Difficult to read, these letters, and difficult to answer.

June 19, 1942

Dear Mrs. Whitwell [Eleanor Garen’s sister],

Sorry I have nothing more to report other than a rumor, you know what they’re like. But, a Red Cross worker here says five more nurses are in Australia—they’re supposed to have escaped
after
Corregidor fell. Now we’ll get some good dope even if Eleanor wasn’t among those lucky ones.…

Sue Gallagher

November 9, 1942

Dear Mrs. Whitwell,

Little Jeanne Kennedy was with [Eleanor] that last time I saw them. They were both well and had not been wounded or ill. I haven’t had any word from those over there since I got here in the States in July.…

I know that you do want to know what effect the situation there had on Eleanor and I feel sure that I might say that she took it as well as the rest of us and perhaps better than most of us. Her usual high spirits were undaunted and she was as jolly as it was possible for anyone to be.…

So far the Y.B.B.’s [“yellow-bellied bastards”] won’t give us a prisoner list.…

I feel awfully helpless … to think that I can do nothing to help get those back here where they belong.…

Sincerely,
Leona Gastinger
¹²

Dear Mrs. Gates [mother of Marcia Gates],

I can full well realize your anxiety over Marcia. I saw her last in the tunnel at Corregidor. At that time Marcia was looking fine. She seemed quite cheerful and was well throughout the terrible siege. She and I were quite closely associated and I grew to be fond of her. Just a few nights before I left, Marcia and I had quite a long chat together at which time she showed me your picture and discussed you at length. She truly thinks you are the grandest mother ever. She also showed me pictures of her sister.

I appreciate your deep concern and you have my sincere sympathy. Only were it possible that all could have returned.… Mrs. Gates, I don’t know how we were selected to be among the first to get out.… Please try to be brave and hopeful they will all return to us soon.

Sincerely,
Juanita Redmond

August 15, 1942

Dear Mrs. Gates,

Your letter was forwarded to me.… I may be wrong but I believe that the girls would appreciate little necessities such as hose, garters, cold cream, bobby pins, little light dresses, slips, panties, brassieres
[sic]
, Kotex, candy, soap, wash cloths, towels, nail files, tweezers, bath powder, sanitary belts, stationery, snacks, gum, life-savers, tooth-pastes—oh there are hundreds of light, inexpensive gifts that you could find in a dime store. In our experience, we found that it wasn’t luxuries we wanted but the necessities. I believe that money would be worthless.…

In the meantime I’ll try to find the addresses of some of the parents who have daughters in P.I. and will send the information on to you.

Be good and keep your chin up!

Sincerely,
Ruth Straub
¹³

M
EANWHILE IN THE
South Pacific, another group of evacuees were trying to make their escape.

Like most World War II submarines, the U.S.S.
Spearfish
was a small, crowded vessel, and now, carrying twenty-seven extra souls, passengers from Corregidor—twelve staff officers, a civilian dependent, two enlisted men who had stowed away, a navy nurse and eleven army nurses—there was barely room to turn in place.
¹⁴

As the
Spearfish
slowly and carefully picked its way through the minefields around Corregidor and slipped quietly under the Japanese patrols, the crew warned the passengers to keep still. If the enemy attacked and dropped depth charges, they said, the passengers were to cover their heads with pillows and blankets, and pray.

For many long, hot, malodorous hours, the twelve nurses sat silently and anxiously, waiting for the danger to pass and breathing the stale air. Some thought their rescue ship a shoe box, others imagined it a sardine can.

By the second night, Lieutenant James Dempsey, the ship’s captain, had brought the
Spearfish
beyond the blockade and decided to surface.
On deck the passengers got one last look at the Rock, now just a fiery dot on the South China Sea. Standing on deck and staring back at the horizon, they thanked Providence for their deliverance and their luck.

Life at sea in tight quarters “took some getting used to,” as one of the women put it.
¹⁵
Everything—eating, sleeping and daily ablutions—had to be done in shifts. The crew, of course, got first priority; the
Spearfish
, after all, was a combat vessel, and, passengers or no, it was on patrol in enemy waters.

Eight of the nurses were assigned to four bunks in the aft quarters, and the crew introduced them to the submarine tradition of the “hot bunk,” eight hours sleep for the first shift of four, then, sliding between the same sheets, the second shift took their turn.

In the tropical heat the
Spearfish
was a sweatbox and soon the nurses took to wearing men’s undershirts and cut-off dungarees. By day the ship ran submerged, but at night it would often surface and fill its compartments with fresh air.

Of all their trials at sea, the women most remembered (most laughed at) their daily struggles with the ship’s lavatories, the “heads,” as navy called them. The crew was assigned to the aft head, the officers to the head in the torpedo room, and the women to a head near the officers wardroom.

The instructions for using the head were posted on the bulkheads next to each commode, but some of the women felt they needed a degree in mechanical engineering to interpret them.

Before using, see that bowl flapper valve “A” is closed, gate valve “C” in discharge pipe is open, valve “D” in water supply is open. Then open valve “E” next to bowl to admit necessary water. Close valves “D” and “E.” After using—pull lever “A.” Release lever “A.” Open valve “G” in air supply line. Rock air valve “F” lever outboard to change measuring tank to 10 pounds above sea pressure. Open valve “B” and rock air valve lever inboard to blow overboard. Close valves “B,”
“C,” and “G.”
¹⁶

If the occupant missed just one step, she was showered with the contents of the bowl, and after a number of these “accidents,” the nurses pleaded for help and managed to convince a Filipino mess boy to perform the mechanics of the flush. The women were so grateful for this service, they awarded their official flusher the honorarium “Captain of the Head.”
¹⁷

As the ship cruised south toward Australia, the nurses, somewhat
rested now, offered the
Spearfish
crew their labor, and they worked in the galley and mess, cooking, washing dishes and helping serve the meals. Their willingness to pitch in made them popular with the crew, and soon their section of the ship seemed to draw a large number of visitors.

Submariners can get a little gamy, but on this passage the men began to show an unusual interest in their appearance and hygiene, changes observed by the crew’s resident humorist and poet, a yeoman named McDermott.

WHAT WOMEN CAN DO TO A SUBMARINE CREW
Beyond a doubt you will surely note
If you walk about, a change in the boat
.
Swede started drinking coffee
Beast started drinking tea
Pushover keeps buffing as pretty as can be
.
Petit Scanlon’s smoking cigarettes and washing clothes
And even our dear Yeoman stopped picking his funny nose
.
Joey’s up and about all the time off watch
Hanging around the mess hall playing the music box
.

I’m trying to say in all these verses
We brought aboard a flock of pretty nurses
On that eventful day in May
When we were out Corregidor Way
.

The nurses, in the person of Helen Summers, answered with some doggerel of their own:

And now you’ll hear our side of the story
.
Since we can’t take all of the glory
For Swede drinking tea
And the rest of the boys acting funny as can be
,
We want you to know we’re happy as can be
,
Being part of the Navy, though not permanently
.
The boat of the deep to us is salvation
.
If is wasn’t for it we’d be in concentration.
¹⁸

Around the third week in May the
Spearfish
docked at Rottnest Island off Fremantle, Australia, and Ann Bernatitus, the navy nurse, reported to a navy hospital there. The army nurses, meanwhile, boarded a
troop train to Melbourne, where army physicians treated their ailments. Then ten of the eleven—Hortense McKay elected to stay in Australia with the Allied forces—boarded the transport U.S.S.
West Point
for the trip home.

The
West Point
, likely taking the safest route home—shipping lanes beyond the enemy’s reach—steamed up the western coast of South America, through the Panama Canal, then north to New York.