Despite the experienced hand at the helm, the vessel encountered trouble when it ran aground on a sandbar. The pilot worked it free, but getting closer to shore was problematic in the confusion. Seeing the situation, one of the general’s staff on shore approached the beachmaster, whose job it was to manage all this chaos, about clearing a path for the general’s vessel.
But sometimes even a general became not much more than another headache for the beachmaster trying to ride herd on the incoming vessels laden with troops and supplies.
The man yanked a soggy cigar from his mouth. He had already dropped it in the salt water more than once, and it was sandy to boot, but he didn’t have time to notice. “They’re only fifty yards out. Tell His Majesty to walk from there!” he shouted.
The response relayed to the general’s craft was more diplomatic. Minutes later, the landing ramp splashed down, and General MacArthur waded ashore, head jutting forward, shoulders set, pipe stuck jauntily between his teeth, appearing as determined as a bull. He looked nothing short of magnificent.
Shutters clicked and film cameras rolled. The iconic photograph came from the lens of Captain Faillace. The moment had been captured, even down to Oatmire at the fringes of the scene, struggling ashore with a briefcase clutched in his arms.
In a larger sense, it was a perfect study in contrasts as the conquering American general came ashore in full view while the Japanese commander remained well hidden.
There hadn’t been any welcoming ceremony, but with so many troops on the beach, large numbers of soldiers had been witness to the momentous landing. A kind of excitement spread across the beach. The big boss had arrived. Decades later, they would be telling their grandchildren about this one.
MacArthur wasted no time making a personal inspection of the beachhead. But the general wasn’t there to bark orders. He was there to learn. More than one captain or major was surprised to find himself answering questions asked by the general, who nodded with satisfaction and the parting words, “Well done. Carry on.”
However, the general did have a specific reason for being at the beach. He waved Oatmire over, and the briefcase was opened. The briefcase contained documents that included the speech the general planned to give once ashore.
Almost immediately after completing his impromptu inspection of the beachhead, MacArthur issued a directive announcing that the Japanese would be held accountable for any war crimes against civilians or US prisoners of war. After what the troops he had left behind had suffered at the hands of the Japanese, notably during the Bataan Death March, MacArthur was more than bitter about their treatment. Liberating any current POWs was high on his list of priorities. He also feared that, in desperation or retaliation for setbacks in the field, the enemy might begin killing prisoners. MacArthur had put them on notice that there would be severe consequences.
Two hours after landing on Red Beach, he was standing before a radio microphone, relaying his famous message of liberation:
“To the People of the Philippines, I have returned. By the grace of Almighty God our forces stand again on Philippine soil — soil consecrated in the blood of our two peoples. We have come, dedicated and committed, to the task of destroying every vestige of enemy control over your daily lives, and of restoring, upon a foundation of indestructible strength, the liberties of your people.
“As the lines of battle roll forward to bring you within the zone of operations, rise and strike. Strike at every favorable opportunity. For your homes and hearths, strike! For future generations of your sons and daughters, strike! In the name of your sacred dead, strike! Let no heart be faint. Let every arm be steeled. The guidance of divine God points the way.”
Standing nearby, Oatmire listened to the words and found himself flooded with emotion. Say what you wanted about General MacArthur and his famous ego, but he had put that aside today. The general’s words had invoked basic American principles. His statement made it clear that the United States stood in stark contrast to the crushing regime of the Japanese.
Freedom. Democracy. It was what every man, woman, and child on this island was fighting for against Japanese forces. The goal was liberation of an entire nation. Considering that there were seventeen million Filipinos — more than twice the population of California at that time — this was no small achievement.
Maybe Captain Oatmire hadn’t stormed ashore into a hail of lead, but all the same he found himself proud to be on this beach, part of something much larger than himself.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The fight for Hill 522 and then for the town of Palo had left the men of Patrol Easy worn out and exhausted. Sleep and hot grub were fondly remembered without any real hope of experiencing them anytime soon, kind of like a kiss from a nurse at the USO dance back in Hawaii.
As they knew all too well, there was no rest for the weary, not when there was a war on. The army had pushed inland, but pockets of stiff Japanese resistance remained. They did not control the peninsula. They had taken Palo, but the port city of Ormoc — and its important nearby airfield — remained in enemy control on the far side of Leyte. Until they had taken Ormoc, US forces couldn’t claim to be in control of Leyte.
Nobody was going to forget Red Beach anytime soon, but Ormoc was the next square of the chessboard that was the Pacific campaign.
“Sounds like somebody else got the short end of the stick for a change,” Philly remarked, listening to the not-so-distant hammering of machine-gun bursts, punctuated by rifle fire.
“Poor bastards are catching hell,” Deke agreed. “Just as long as it ain’t us this time around, that’s fine by me.”
“Amen to that,” Philly said.
As the men dug into their rations, Lieutenant Steele came around. He wore a fresh bandage around his upper left arm, a souvenir of the fight on Hill 522. The bandage was none too clean, a little frayed around the edges, as if it had been torn from the tail of a shirt, and stained with blood.
“You ought to have someone look at that, Honcho,” Deke said.
“In a minute. I’ve got something to say to you all first.”
Lieutenant Steele carried his shotgun slung over one shoulder, the wood showing a fresh scar where he had used the stock to parry a Japanese sword during the fight in that godawful trench. The lieutenant looked a little beat up, but to be fair, Deke supposed they all did.
Steele’s one good eye fell upon the soldiers, taking them all in, one by one. If he liked what he saw, his expressionless face didn’t show it. Even though they’d been together since Guam, Steele remained something of an enigma. He didn’t talk much about his life before the war, or about Guadalcanal. On the other hand, he didn’t ask the men in his patrol much about their own civilian lives.
The lieutenant’s aloof nature didn’t mean that he didn’t care — just the opposite. You could tell from his tone of voice that when he called a soldier “son,” there was a fondness there — he just didn’t always show it. Steele had learned the hard way that an officer always had to keep his distance. How else could he give orders that put his men in the way of an enemy bullet? Outwardly Steele gave the impression that he had one interest, and one interest only, and that was killing Japs.
Deke would have followed the man anywhere.
“I’ll bet the Japs didn’t think we’d take this part of Leyte so fast, did they?” Deke wondered.
“Who knows?” Lieutenant Steele replied. “The enemy is still full of surprises, and the Japs are far from beaten. We’re just lucky that we have planes, and tanks, and naval artillery. The Japs don’t have much of that left. We’re winning this war because we can replace what we lose and they can’t. We’re pushing them back everywhere right now, so that’s something. But you know the Japs. They don’t give up. They don’t surrender — not many of them, anyway.”