They nodded and described it for a few moments. Bataan was brutal, but O’Donnell was worse.
“And the Nips are shipping off boys to the coal mines back home, I hear,” Granger said as he poured tea in porcelain cups.
Pete described the hellship and their rescue at sea.
“We’ll get the bloody bastards eventually,” Granger said. “If they don’t get us first. I hope you realize that your odds of survival have improved, but in the end we’re all dead men.”
“Better to go down fighting,” Clay said.
“That’s the spirit. Our job is to create enough mischief to hamstring the Nips and prove that these islands are worth saving. We fear that the Allies might try to beat them without bothering with us. The high command thinks it can bypass these islands and hit Japan, and it’s entirely possible, you know? But MacArthur promised to return and that’s what keeps us going. Our Filipino boys must have something to fight for. It’s their property to begin with. Milk and sugar?”
Pete and Clay declined. They would have preferred strong coffee, but they were still thankful for the large breakfast. Granger chatted on, then abruptly stopped and looked at Pete. “So what’s the skinny on you?”
Pete went through a short bio. West Point, seven years active in the Twenty-Sixth Cavalry, then sort of a forced retirement for personal reasons. Had to save the family farm. Wife and two kids back in Mississippi. Rank of first lieutenant.
Granger’s eyes danced and never blinked as he caught and analyzed every word. “So you can ride a horse?”
“With or without a saddle,” Pete said.
“I’ve heard of the Twenty-Sixth. Expert marksman, I take it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We need snipers. Never enough snipers.”
“Give me a rifle.”
“You were at Fort Stotsenburg?”
“Yes, but only briefly before December.”
“Bloody Nips are using the base there for their Zeros and dive-bombers. Heavier stuff they moved out after Corregidor. I’d like to hit some planes on the ground but we haven’t put together a plan yet. And you?” he asked, looking at Clay.
Enlisted in 1940, Thirty-First Infantry. Mortar specialist. Rank of sergeant. A cowboy from Colorado who could also ride and shoot.
“Jolly good. I like men who want to fight. Sad to say but we have some Americans here who are simply hiding with us and want to go home. Some are mad. Some are too sick. Some went AWOL from their units and wandered through the jungles, I suspect. They’re deadweight, to be honest, but we can’t exactly run them off. The first lesson you’ll learn is to not ask questions of the others. Everyone has a story, and the cowards never tell the truth.”
He sipped his tea and pulled out a map. “A bit about our operations. We’re here in the middle of the Zambales Mountains, really rugged terrain, as I’m sure you’ve learned. Elevation of nine thousand feet in places. We have about a thousand fighters scattered over a hundred square miles. If we dug in and hid we could last for a long time, but digging in is not in our cards. We are guerrillas and we fight dirty, never in frontal assaults, never in the open. We strike quick and disappear. The Nips raid our camps at the lower elevations and it’s very dangerous down there. You’ll find out soon enough. We’re gaining in numbers as more Filipinos run for the hills, and after a rough start we’re finally landing some punches.”
“So you don’t worry about the Japs coming here?” Pete asked.
“We worry about everything. We pack light, always ready to pull back at the slightest danger. We can’t fight them one on one. We have almost no artillery, save for a few mortars and light cannons, goodies we stole from the enemy. We have plenty of rifles, pistols, and machine guns, but no trucks or carriers. We’re foot soldiers, with the advantage of the terrain. Our biggest problem is communication. We have a few old radios, nothing portable, and can’t use them because the Nips are always listening. So we rely on runners to coordinate things. We have no contact with MacArthur, though he knows we’re here and fighting. To answer your question, we are relatively safe here, but always in danger. The Nips would bomb us from the air if they could see us. Come along and I’ll show you our goodies.”
Granger sprang to his feet, grabbed his walking stick, and took off. He rattled something in Tagalog to his guards and they sprinted in front of him. Others followed as they left the camp and started up a narrow trail. As they walked Granger said, “The Twenty-Sixth, quite an outfit. Don’t suppose you know Edwin Ramsey?”
“He was my commander,” Pete said proudly.
“You don’t say. Bloody good soldier. He refused to surrender and headed for the hills. He’s about a hundred miles from here and organizing like mad. Rumor is that he has over five thousand men in Central Luzon and plenty of contacts in Manila.”
They turned a corner and two sentries pulled back a wall of vines and roots. They entered a cave. “Get the torches,” Granger barked and two guards lit the way. The cave became a cavern, an open room with stalactites dripping water from above. Candles were lit along the walls and the scope of the armory came into focus.
Granger never stopped talking. “Supplies left behind by the Yanks and taken from the Nips. I’d like to think we have a bullet for every one of the bloody bastards.”
There were pallets of ammunition. Crates of rifles. Stockpiles of canned food and water. Thick bags of rice. Barrels of gasoline. Stacks of boxes holding supplies that were not identified.
Granger said, “Down the hall in another room we have two tons of dynamite and TNT. Don’t suppose you have any experience with explosives.”
“No,” Pete said. Clay shook his head.
“Too bad. We are in dire need of a good bomb boy. Last one blew himself up. A Filipino, and a damned fine one. But one will come along. Seen enough?”
Before they answered, he whirled around. The tour was over. Pete and Clay were shocked at the stash of supplies, but also greatly comforted by it. They followed Granger out of the cave and began their descent. They stopped at an overlook and took in a stunning vista of waves of mountains that went on forever.
The general said, “The Nips won’t get this far, really. They’re afraid to. And they know that we are forced to come down for the fight. So we do. Questions?”
Clay asked, “When do we fight?”
Granger laughed and said, “I like that. Sick and malnourished but ready for battle. A week or so. Give the doctors some time to fatten you up and you’ll soon see all the blood you want.”
For the next two days, Pete and Clay lay about in luxury, napping and eating and drinking all the water they could hold. The doctors plied them with pills and vitamins. When they were finally bored, they were outfitted with rifles and pistols and taken to a firing range for a round of practice. A Filipino veteran named Camacho was assigned to them, and he taught them the ways of the jungle: how to build a small fire to cook, always at night because the smoke could not be seen; how to build a lean-to out of vines and shrub to sleep under in the rain; how to pack a rucksack with only the essentials; how to keep their guns and ammo dry; how to handle an angry cobra, and a hungry python as well; how to do a hundred essentials that might one day save their lives.
On the third day, Pete was summoned to Lord Granger’s post for tea and cards. They sat at a game board and chatted, with the general doing the bulk of the talking. “Ever play cribbage?” he asked as he pulled out a deck of cards.