Seasons of the Heart (9 page)

“Please don’t. With Phillip gone, we need each other. I wanted to ask whether you would consider my moving in with you? It would mean so much to me.”

“I would love that, my dear. But you know, Phillip’s old room is very small.”

“The size of the room doesn’t matter. Just the fact that it is his will make me happy. Now, on a less sentimental note, I’ve decided to take a job in a defense plant. The pay is good, and between that and Phillip’s allotment, we’ll get along.”

Eva realized this was a day of revelations. Ann had given her a great gift of love, but until this moment Eva hadn’t quite realized the depths of her generosity. Ann was going to assume Phillip’s financial responsibility toward his parents. Since his marriage, Phillip had continued to give them a portion of his pay, but the army paid him only one-half of what he had previously earned. He had told his parents that they would simply have to draw on their meager savings for the duration of the war. He had never suggested that Ann go back to work.

“Are you sure you want to do that, Ann?” she said.

“I’m positive. I couldn’t bear sitting at home with nothing to do.”

Eva leaned forward and took Ann’s hand. “My dear, you’re an extraordinary young woman. I can see why Phillip loves you.”

W
HEN ANN MOVED IN
the following week, Eva had no trouble welcoming her daughter-in-law’s offer to paint not just her room, but the living room and kitchen as well. Soon the apartment sparkled with soft beige and creamy white. For the first time since the crash Eva felt proud of her home.

Simon’s life improved too. Since the Depression he had had a series of jobs, none of which had lasted. Now, with the shortage of young men, Simon got a job selling shoes at Florsheim’s, where his skills with customers were quickly appreciated. He brought home a hundred and twenty-five dollars a month and felt rich.

Even Ann, whose work at the shipyard was often exhausting, was grateful that her job kept her mind off Phillip’s absence. When she got her first paycheck, she deducted ten dollars’ allowance and put the rest in the bank in Simon and Eva’s name. She left the passbook on Eva’s dresser with a note which said simply, “I love you.”

Eva and Simon were deeply touched, but at first they wanted to refuse. “Darling, we couldn’t think of such a thing,” Eva said. “It is lovely and generous of you, but ifs your entire salary.”

Ann glanced at Simon. He had insisted on using his own earnings to pay for rent and food. It gave him a new sense of dignity to be the head of his household again. But how long could he continue to work? His arthritis troubled him more and more, and his eyesight was gradually failing. When Phillip came home, he might have trouble finding a job, so it made sense for the Coulters to build a small nest egg. In the end Simon agreed and Eva went along despite her guilt. If she had known how grateful Ann was at being taken into Phillip’s family she might have felt better. As it was, Eva just kept writing her son telling him how lucky they all were to have Ann.

It was now March, and Ann hadn’t received a letter from Phillip in over a month. She knew he was being sent somewhere in the Pacific and she avidly devoured the newspapers, wondering where he’d been stationed.

At least today was Saturday and she could look forward to lunch with Ruthie. The Newmans had been lucky. Kenny had been attached to the Allied Supreme Headquarters and was currently as safe as one could be in England. Ann tried not to be envious as she described her fears at not hearing from Phillip.

“I know it’s trite,” Ruthie said, “but no news is good news.”

“Do you really believe that, Ruthie? I wish I did. The thing that bothers me is just that I haven’t heard anything. I can’t even look at the map and say, “He’s there.” And the newspapers don’t say a thing about any action in the Pacific. I guess I really shouldn’t torture myself. Phillip isn’t in a combat unit, and I suppose if anything terrible were going on, we’d have read about it. I mean, the government would have to tell us, wouldn’t they?”

“I’m sure they would. I wish I could say something to reassure you, Ann. I do believe Phillip is all right.” Ruthie spoke with more conviction than she actually felt.

“Enough about the war,” Ann said, forcing a smile. “You look wonderful, Ruthie. Five months’ pregnant and you barely show.”

“My doctor has a fit if I gain any weight. Besides, I want to be gorgeous when Kenny gets back!”

Would Phillip come back? Ann just knew that something was terribly wrong. Dear God, if only she had been pregnant, at least she would have had his child. It was hard to share her friend’s joy.

“The one who’s happy,” Ruthie was saying, “is my mother. She can’t wait.”

On the streetcar going home Ann stared blindly at the passing buildings.
Oh, Phillip, she thought, what has been happening to you since you left me?

The truth, if she had known, would have made her still more wretched.

P
HILLIP HAD EXPECTED TO
debark immediately for the Pacific theater of operations, but their ancient transport, the hastily refitted U.S.S.
General Pershing
, was still undergoing last-minute hull repairs at Oakland.

The men eyed the totally unarmed World War I relic with open mistrust as they boarded. As if to confirm their bad opinion, a musty stench of disuse hit them as they descended the companionways and eventually found their damp berths far belowdecks.

The first night aboard, jammed into the uncomfortable, stacked bunks, they exchanged bitter jokes: “Stink’s gonna get us before the Japs do” was the general consensus.

For seven long days nothing happened. On the morning of the eighth day they were rousted out an hour before dawn as the ship weighed anchor. Rumor had it that they were headed for New Zealand—easy duty there.

Phillip watched the winter sun struggling to pierce the low blanket of clouds and drizzle that concealed the Bay Area. His heart ached as they left the Golden Gate Bridge behind and slowly moved into Pacific waters.

Most of the men remained on deck and, pleased and excited to be under way at last, they began to exchange information on hometowns, girlfriends, and ball teams.

A group of older men was swapping tales of World War I trench exploits against the “Huns,” while some young recruits listened in awe, believing every word. One of them asked if America had fought the Japs back then.

Phillip’s heart sank. For many of these eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds, the Pacific war represented their first time away from home. How many would return? At least he had had a chance to finish his education and marry….

Leaning on the railing, he closed his eyes and pictured Ann’s face.

“Bored already, Lieutenant?” a mocking voice said almost in his ear.

Phillip blushed and turned around with a rueful grin. Beside him stood his commanding officer, Captain Jerrold Bugleman. Bugleman had gone through officer training at the University of Virginia, where he was noted and sometimes feared for his wit. During the dull yet anxious days while the General Pershing was at anchor, Phillip came to like and respect the man, who was obviously a born leader.

With his mane of auburn hair and his freckled face, Bugleman looked for all the world like an Irishman, but he had gone to Harvard under the 10 percent Jewish quota. He was an almost straight-A student and first-string quarterback for the Crimson. His size and strength were sufficient defense against all-too-common anti-Semitic taunts.

After graduation from law school, he had accepted a good job with a well-known Wall Street firm and married his childhood sweetheart, Alicia Goldstein, in one of New York’s most publicized weddings of the year.

With his money and connections, Jerrold could have easily avoided the draft. However, like Phillip, his first thought when Pearl Harbor was attacked was to sign up, but for a different reason: he felt indebted to America. His family had fled the pogroms of the Ukraine in the late nineteenth century, and, like the Coulters, had made their fortune in America. But the Buglemans had been shrewd enough to hold on to their money. Resisting the lure of fast profits in the bull market of the twenties, Jerrold’s father had patiently expanded his chain of grocery stores—and continued to expand them even during the worst of the Depression, when businesses were failing everywhere.

There could be no question: the United States had been good to the Buglemans, and Jerrold wanted a way to help repay his obligation. He realized that he probably wouldn’t be given a front-line role, but knew he would jump at the opportunity should the unexpected occur. His commitment was outspoken, and few dared question it to his face.

The two men watched in fascination as a school of whales cavorted off the starboard bow, oblivious to the rusty old transport ship with its cargo of men who had been taught to kill.

Phillip sighed. “Maybe they could teach us something,” he said, nodding toward the whales.

Bugleman said nothing. He had studied Phillip carefully and already concluded that the man had a quick mind, and would assume responsibility if forced to do so. But he was perhaps too sensitive, too reflective, to be a real asset to a general commanding a besieged garrison of half-starved, battle-hardened troops. The man would have to be tested. Perhaps he would break. Bugleman hoped not.

P
EARL HARBOR WAS STILL
a shambles. Plans had been drawn up to salvage some of the American warships, and much of the debris had been removed, but Hawaii had ceased to be the U.S. Navy’s most luxurious and sought-after post.

The bored, seasick soldiers and sailors on the General Pershing were allowed only two days to look for women, buy souvenirs, and get drunk. By that time the ship was refueled and had received its definitive orders: it was to proceed to Bataan and reinforce the embattled troops who were being cut to pieces by General Masaharu Homma’s 14th Imperial Japanese Army.

The American and Filipino soldiers had been forced to retreat into the Bataan Peninsula. Thirty miles long and twenty miles wide at its base, Bataan jutted into Manila Bay. Heavy jungle and rugged mountains made it a good defensive position. From this natural stronghold, the Luzon forces hoped to hold out until the arrival of the American fleet.

It was a long and terrible battle, with malaria and other tropical diseases taking their toll on both sides. The Japanese bombarded the defenders with artillery based on warships, and from the air. Their advance ground troops cut supply lines.

On January 2, 1942, General MacArthur, whose headquarters were in the tunneled and heavily fortified island of Corregidor, which overlooks Manila Bay, had been forced to order the already hungry defenders of Bataan on half rations. Malnutrition began to add to the already heavy casualties.

Shortly after the
General Pershing
left Hawaii, the U.S. High Command changed its mind. Given the enormous number of troops that Tokio had committed to the capture of the Philippines, the rescue mission was foredoomed. All ships heading for the Philippines were to await further orders.

Although the troops on board the
General Pershing
continued to drill for the landing, rumors began to fly about that the show was off. There was still no official confirmation, but discipline relaxed. Finally word came through that they were to head for Australia.

The sudden shift in American strategy might have meant that Phillip would miss the war entirely, but MacArthur’s headquarters on Corregidor badly needed Bugleman, and Phillip was on Bugleman’s staff.

Phillip was lying on his bunk, writing a letter to Ann telling her that she shouldn’t worry—he would probably spend the duration of the war in someplace nice like Melbourne—when Bugleman broke the news.

“Sorry, old boy—the old man decided he needs us. Six or seven of his staff have malaria. Not dead,” he hastened to add, “but sick enough to be out of commission.”

Phillip groaned and crumpled up the letter. He had heard that Japanese subs, mines, and patrol boats operated fairly freely around Manila Bay, and that the Imperial Air Force already controlled the skies.

Bugleman observed his glum look and slapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, old boy! Just think—you’ll be working for a living legend, the great Mac himself….”

The two men were picked up before dawn from a destroyer escort anchored in the South China Sea. The captain of the PT boat assured them that the area was “quite safe” and that they would reach Corregidor in a few hours.

Bugleman patted the Colt automatic and the double-bladed trench knife at his belt. “The wife should get a load of this—Terry and the Pirates.”

Phillip’s nerves were taut from the rough journey on the destroyer escort. “Captain, may I respectfully request that you shut up.”

Bugleman ignored the remark. “Listen, Phil … we’ll be safe with Mac. You really think he’ll let his ass get chopped up by the Japs?”

Phillip remained silent as he strapped on his life vest and the PT boat picked up speed. Soon he was seasick. He cursed himself for forgetting his seasickness pills. Bugleman stood peering into the mist, humming to himself. He appeared to be enjoying himself.

After some three hours, the PT boat captain called out, “Getting close now.”

Phillip breathed deeply. They were going to make it.

Suddenly the boat shuddered violently and seemed to turn on its nose.

“We’ve hit a reef!” Phillip remembered yelling. Then the deck dissolved under his feet and he was in the water.

The PT boat had hit a Japanese mine.

Phillip splashed about, coughing up saltwater. He tried to spot Bugleman or a crew member in the fog, but saw no one. There was another explosion and a fuel tank went up. Phillip dived to avoid being sprayed with burning fuel. When he surfaced, he looked for something to cling to, but every usable object in sight seemed to be on fire.

The captain or a surviving crew member appeared a few yards away. The man shouted something, then disappeared under the water.

A large wave with an empty steel drum balanced on its crest was bearing down on Phillip. He tried to duck, but the container hit him squarely on the forehead and he passed out.