“She’s almost gone,” MacArthur said.

  I turned in time to watch the last of the China Clipper disappear into the sea. The weight of the engines dragged her down backwards. The last I saw of my battered beauty was the tip of her graceful nose, undamaged by bullet holes, slowly slide out of sight, leaving no evidence of her existence save for the oil and gasoline funeral pyre still raging around where she had been.

  But that wouldn’t last forever. Nothing does. But I was determined to make certain that we’d last as long as we possibly could. I fumbled in my right pocket for my pen and smiled. Pop’s pocket Bible was there too; the perfect addition to our meager survival gear. I showed it to Ava.

  “Compliments of Rosie.”

  She looked up, still dazed. “What is it?”

  I explained while she listened, seeming to focus on my words, but not that much.

  “Three in a raft and Pop up there in heaven makes four,” I said.

  A tiny smile. Then she said something that I couldn’t hear at first. She repeated it. “Don’t forget Yoshi and Al. They’re up there too.”

  “Gunter and Charlie too.”

  She buried her face in her hands. Then ever so slowly she began rubbing it, then faster and faster. Finally, she looked up as if slapped, eyes flashing, mouth fixed. “Let’s get the hell out of this jam.”

  I smiled, nodded, and then whistled while I worked.

  First the compass.

  A surprising amount of wind coming from the northeast based on the direction of the smoke. Small comfort there. The Japanese had already conquered French Indonesia, where by my best guess we’d drift until we finally reached shore. How long might that take? My whistling dried up momentarily at the image of some native boy staring down at three emaciated skeletons in a life raft that washed ashore, months from now.

  “What do you propose?” Mac said.

  “Good question, sir. And one I’m trying to answer. Give me a minute.”

  “Please proceed. It would now appear we now have nothing but time.”

  I pondered and pondered, then finally said. “We’re in enemy waters, surrounded by enemy-held islands. India’s the only friendly territory, but it’s over two-thousand miles away.”

  “Not friendly for long,” Mac said. “Last intelligence report we received was that the Japanese were massing troop transports in Burma just across the border.”

  “Any friendly subs out here?” Ava said.

  Mac shook his head. “We lost contact with the Americans who braved the waters of the South China Sea.”

  “Sunk?” Ava said.

  “Not confirmed, but we can assume that no news is bad news.”

  “Still…”

  “I agree with you, hope can spring eternal but only when despair loses its grip.”

  Ava took this in with an understanding nod. Then her eyes narrowed. “Ask you a question, general?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you always talk like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Never mind.”

  I pressed onward. “We’ve got enough rations for maybe three days, and water for a week, tops. After that…”

  “Nature prevails,” Mac said.

  “Unless the Japanese prevail first. There’ve got to be ships sailing around out here.”

  “But in assigned lanes, of that you can be certain.”

  “Question is, are we in one of those lanes?”

  “Let us pray we are not.”

  Ava said, “What happens if they spot us? We’ve got to plan on that possibility.”

  While she was speaking, I’d been staring at the compass, when seemingly out of nowhere a wave of seasickness swept over me. I looked up as fast as I could to locate the horizon. That simple sight often silences the panicky inner ear that triggers seasickness symptoms.

  Unfortunately, we were at the bottom of a swell and nothing to see but greenish-gray water. I took a deep breath and held it until we rose on the next swell and I could gain the distant horizon.

  “You okay?” Ava said.

  “Stand by one.”

  No luck. The nausea swelled up inside, just like back on the Arizona , and like a piston it drove the contents of my stomach up and out into the air. Thankfully downwind to spare them the sight and smell of my noxious, long-ago digested breakfast.

  “Steady, colonel, STEADY!” Mac ordered.

  The mere idea of a five-star general ordering my body to obey made me laugh. And for some reason my laughter snapped the almost hypnotic spell that had held me in its nauseating grip. I rinsed my mouth out with salty sea water and felt better.

  “Thanks, general, I think you scared it out of my system.”

  For the first time since this madness began, something faintly resembling a smile touched Mac’s lips. Maybe not. But like the man said, hope springs eternal, and we needed all of it we could get.

  It bore fruit an hour later when I spotted what I thought was a submarine on the horizon. Like a floating log, just the hint of a sail and the rest barely above water. Could it possibly be one of our missing Navy subs? I said nothing at first because I wanted to be certain. Unfortunately, at the next rise in the waves nothing at all.

  My imagination? Probably.

  I wanted a U.S. Navy sub to miraculously find us. I wanted sailors to cheer us, to pound us on the back and congratulate Ava and me for our heroic saving of General Douglas MacArthur.

  I wanted a Hollywood movie.

  I got the empty South China Sea.

  But Ava could read me like a book. “Spot something out there, Sherlock?”

  “Thought so. But I guess not.”

  “Like what?”

  I lowered my voice, pretending Mac wasn’t in the life raft and couldn’t hear every word I was saying. But maybe not, as he was leaning back against the raft’s inflated gunwale, his military cap covering his face, seemingly asleep.

  “A submarine. Conning tower, the bow rose out of the water for a second as it met a sea.”

  “You saw it?

  “Pretty far off…. Not positive. Anyhow, gone right after, so maybe not.”

  “But maybe yes.”

  Mac spoke from beneath his regal cap, “The USS Tang was patrolling the South China Sea when we lost communication. It’s conceivable her radios have malfunctioned and she is, in fact, still with us as a functioning unit attached to the British submarine fleet stationed in Surabaya.”

  “The Japanese haven’t taken that yet?”

  “Not likely, it lies too far south on their lines of communication. At least for the moment. But Tokyo’s octopus grows more tentacles by the day.”

  I dug into the signal bag and found the flares. Six small cartridges the size of shotgun shells and the pistol-like firing device. I held them in my hand but didn’t load. “What if it’s an enemy sub?”

  “A distinct possibility.”

  “Then the last thing we want is to do is let them know we’re here.”

  “I concur.”

  Ava said, “But if it is the Tang or a British sub, then…”

  A long pause. I started to speak but Mac beat me to it. “We must do our duty.”

  “Which is?”

  “The president of the United States has recalled me to America. I must make every effort to obey her order, including taking a calculated risk. Fire those flares.”

  I loaded a cartridge but hesitated. “If I do, three things could happen. One, it’s the Tang , two, it’s Japanese, three, nothing happens. I was imagining things.”

  Mac pondered this. “Then the odds are two to one in our favor. The sub or nothing, versus the Japanese. Commence firing, colonel. That’s an order.”

  Case closed. Three flares soared into the sky at two-minute intervals. Each one a spindly, smoking, upward streak at first, then a convincing flash of light and a bright red dot hanging high in the sky, clearly visible against the grey clouds as it slowly descended from its small parachute.

  We watched in silence, with every upward surge of the wave searching the horizon for any sign.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Ava sat up straight. “Just thought of something! General, ditch those stars of yours. Right now! Toss them overboard. Do it now .”

  Mac slowly turned, his head swiveling like a cannon. “I beg your pardon.”

  She pressed on. “What did you study at West Point? Quick, answer me. Other than all that military stuff.”

  He pondered for a moment. “Mathematics, chemistry, civil engineering – young lady, why are we having this discussion?”

  “Because if there is a sub out there and it’s Japanese, the instant they spot those stars on your shirt, you, my friend, are on your way to Tokyo for an appointment with a samurai sword, remember? But not until they make you the star attraction of the biggest propaganda film Tokyo’s ever produced. Savvy?”

  He looked out at the empty horizon. “I don’t feel it’s necessary to do so.”

  I saw where Ava was going and piled on. “Like it wasn’t necessary to disperse the planes at Clark Field? That the Japanese wouldn’t dare attack on two fronts? Ava’s not underestimating the enemy, sir. Don’t you either. Ditch those stars. Get rid of that cap. Toss it overboard. It’s like a billboard that says, ‘look, ma, I’m a general.’”

  “You’re way of line, colonel.”

  “From now on, I’m not a colonel and you’re not a general, got that?”

  He looked stunned. I turned to Ava. “What’s your take? Who is he going to be?”

  She pondered. And while she did, the raft continued to rise and fall. On the third rise, I thought I spotted something. Periscope? So damned hard to sort things out.

  “There it is again,” I said. “Step on it.”

  “Roger.”

  Ava snatched Mac’s hat off before he could react and flung it as far as she could. His balding head diminished his stature. She opened her hand, “Make with the stars and sunglasses, Dougie-boy. Give ‘em to mamma. From now on you’re Robert Allen, Chief Engineer of Allison Construction Company.”

  “Who?”

  “You were supervising tunnel improvements on Corregidor. The war caught you flatfooted and marooned you on the island – getting all this? You’re Bob, now, by the way.”

  “My hat…”

  “Your stars, too, sir. Will you give them to me or do I have to rip them off?”

  He instinctively reached for his precious circle of stars, but more to protect than remove.

  “She’s right, sir. You can’t be who you are. Not anymore”

  “I refuse to fly a false flag.”

  “You’ve got to do everything you can to evade the enemy, right?”

  “But if it’s the Tang? ”

  “They don’t need your stars to salute you. You look like a damn general.”

  His furious glare meant a direct hit.

  I said, “West Point grads have degrees in civil engineering, right? So it makes perfect sense for you to be a civilian caught up in the war. You know the lingo.”

  “I admit it’s a logical extension.”

  Ava said, “Do more than admit it, dearest Bobbie.” She reached up and slipped off his sunglasses. “Act the part.”

  Funny how Mac looked more human, and less a motorcycle rider, minus his gigantic aviator sunglasses. A frightened, defenseless man.

  Almost.

  I said. “Ditch the pipe too.”

  Sometimes last straws really are the ones that break the camel’s back. Mac’s “broke” with a sigh as he handed over his treasured corncob pipe. His general stars were almost an afterthought. All along I thought he’d regard them with some measure of regret, caress them, or something like that, but he unpinned them and flipped them into the sea like a cigarette butt.

  Go figure a man like that. I sure as hell couldn’t.

  Ava turned to me. “Now then, darling, let’s talk about you and me. You’re a missionary and I’m…”

  The raft rose on a swell. “Hang on, here we go again.”

  The wave action took us to the top, and once again not a submarine in sight. But just before we dropped back down, a slender stick broke the surface of the sea.

  “Periscope!” I shouted. “Duck down.”

  We did so instinctively and rode out the next two wave cycles flat on the bottom of the raft.

  Mac’s voice was muffled. “How will they know the raft is occupied?”

  Up we went, and I risked a quick look; the periscope was higher this time, and a smaller mast behind it, topped with what looked like a radar antenna array.

  Ava spoke in a rush. “As I was saying, we’re husband and wife missionaries. Your pop was a Quaker, right? Isn’t that what you told me?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “No buts. Shut up and listen. We worked in Manila, retreated with the soldiers to Bataan, escaped to Corregidor and – General, I mean, Doug, I mean Bob, what the hell are those speed boats called? The Navy ones?

  “Patrol torpedo boats. PT’s.”

  “Got it. Here’s the storyline: The army crowds the last of the civilians onto a bunch of PT’s. You, me, Bob, nurses, the whole bit. We head out. Japs attack, we abandon ship, and BOOM, we end up in this Navy life raft. Got all that?”

  Up we go again. This time the conning tower is coming into view.

  “Recognize it, sir?”

  “I’m Army.”

  “Uh, oh,” Ava said.

  “What?” I said.

  “Remember when we landed in Pearl Harbor? Those subs tied up in Battleship row? This looks exactly like one of them.”

  I’ve never been a fan of Ava being right when I was wrong. Today was no exception. Not only was this a Japanese submarine, but the biggest damned sub I’d ever seen. Four hundred feet long if a foot, and it kept on rising and rising, higher and higher in a rush of foam, compressed air and frothy steam.

  Its impossibly long deck surfaced into full view, a five-inch gun aft of the conning tower, upon whose side was emblazoned in bright, white lettering I-401 . A sodden flag hung limply from a mast behind the twin periscopes. But when the wind picked up, the Rising Sun would rise again.

  Small figures raced out from hatches in the bulbous base of the conning tower and onto the forward deck. The scale of these full-sized human beings made the sub’s size even more daunting. Compared to a conventional U.S. Navy fleet submarine, this was a broadsword beside a penknife.

  One of the sailors grabbed a coiled rope and stood waiting, while a verbal thunderstorm of Japanese drifted across the open water between us and our destiny.

  “We are screwed and tattooed, Reverend Carter,” Ava said.

  “Amen,” I said.

  9

  My center is giving way, my right is in retreat.

  Situation excellent. I shall attack.

  - General Ferdinand Foch

  T he weighted line snaked across the thirty-yards separating us from the sub, but missed on the first try. Back it went. A petty officer screamed at the hapless sailor. The man had no concept of volume control. Either on or off. His was most definitely ON.

  Ava said, “Know any bible quotes, Reverend?”

  I patted its familiar shape in my pocket and thought of Rosie. “How about, ‘The meek shall inherit the earth’?”

  “That’s us, all right.”

  It took them two more tries. The third fell neatly across our tossing raft. I grabbed it and made it fast to one of the raft’s oar holes. The crew began pulling us in, hand over hand.

  Mac said, “You know, we had reports of enemy submarine crews executing survivors.”

  “You’re telling us now?”

  “A Japanese admiralty directive. Supposedly to prevent the enemy from furthering his interests, whether civilian or military.”

  “Where’s that knife of yours?” I said.

  “Gone with my rank, I’m afraid.”

  One look at the impossibly tight knot I’d tied, and the two sailors on deck training automatic rifles on us made the whole thing moot.

  The petty officer shouted and pointed as our raft bounced up against the sub’s ballast tanks, mostly-submerged to facilitate taking us on board.

  I did my best to stay in the moment, to focus on my feet gaining purchase on the water-soaked teak deck. As I helped Ava across, we exchanged a silent but intense look deep into each other’s eyes.

  Then we were onboard, half-soaked and terrified. Mac came next, surprisingly agile for his age, but in other respects appearing old and beaten down, which was what I wanted them to see; not a world-famous commanding general but the receding hairline and rumpled clothes of a 62-year-old man ready to drop from exhaustion.

  I dropped instead. Shoved down actually, and landed on my knees. Ava screamed as she followed suit beside me. More shouting, MacArthur shouting, “How dare you strike a woman!”

  Then he joined the party, too, forced down violently by two sailors, who then grabbed him and yanked him upright to match Ava’s and my kneeling positions.

  The shock at the swiftness of their actions gave way to a raging fury. I swung around and slugged a sailor hard as I could in his crotch and down he went. A rifle butt straight between my shoulder blades and down I went, barely catching myself before I bounced on the deck.

  They dragged me to my knees again. Clearly they wanted to do this a certain way. The petty officer shouted something in Japanese that even to my English ear sounded like a preparatory command. Dazed, I put my arm around Ava to protect her to the end. Nobody stopped me.

  “Baby…” I managed to gasp.

  Stunned silence, love in her eyes. Forgiveness, too. Understanding.

  A tremendous shout from far away. Thudding footsteps across the deck. Yanked to our feet to behold a short, stocky man, clearly an officer, what rank I hadn’t a clue, and standing beside him a younger, taller man wearing slacks, open collar shirt, light jacket and cap, who said in perfect, accent-free, American English. “Where you folks from?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I said…”

  “I’m Sam Carter. This here’s my wife Ava. Quaker missionaries. Manila.”

  Without taking his eyes off us he rattled off something in Japanese. The officer nodded, then pointed to Mac.

 

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