W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps VII - Behind the Lines

"I suppose I'll have to check them all out and hope I get lucky," Weston replied.

Fifteen minutes later, on a sharp bend on a deserted stretch of road, the driver slowed and stopped, and pointed out Weston's window. The fire-blacked wheels and underside of an overturned truck were just visible thirty yards off the road, at the bottom of a ditch.

"I guess he missed the turn," the driver said. "At night, no lights, these roads are dangerous as hell."

"Might as well start here, I suppose. Thanks for the ride." The sergeant was standing by the side of the road looking at Weston by the time Weston got out of the cab.

Weston walked to the side of the road and, nearly falling, slid down into the ditch. After a moment, as if making up his mind whether or not to do so, Everly slid down after him.

Weston pretended to examine the truck, and then walked down the ditch a hundred feet or so. Everly watched him but did not follow. Weston walked back to him.

"Obviously, this isn't the truck," he said. Everly said nothing.

"I've been thinking, Sergeant," Weston said, wondering if he sounded as artificial as he felt. "We better get word to Major Paulson that chances are we aren't going to find the truck at all." Everly didn't reply.

"Tell him, of course, that I'll keep looking," Weston said. "Could I see that Thompson a minute, please, Sir?" Everly asked. It was not the response Weston expected. And without really thinking what he was doing, he unslung the submachine gun from his shoulder and handed it to Everly. Everly unslung his Springfield '03 and handed it to Weston.

"Sergeant, what are you doing?" Weston asked.

"Lieutenant, I'm trying to figure out what to do about you," Everly said.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not going back to The Rock, Mr. Weston," Everly said. "I made up my mind about that a couple of days ago. If I ever got off The Rock, I wouldn't go back."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't really know. Get off Bataan somehow. Go to one of the other islands. Mindanao, probably."

Weston didn't know what to say.

"And I decided I'm going to need this more than you do," Everly added, shrugging the shoulder from which the Thompson was suspended. "Would you give me the extra magazines, please?"

"What do you think you're going to do, even if you make it to Min-danao?"

"I'm not the only one who's decided he doesn't want to surrender," Ev-erly said. "Maybe I can link up with some of the others."

"And do what?"

"I don't know. Maybe do something about the Japs, maybe try to get out of the Philippines. The only thing I know for sure is that I'm not going to find myself a prisoner."

Their eyes met.

"You sure you know what you're doing?"

"The only thing I know for sure," Everly repeated, "is that I'm not going to find myself a prisoner. I seen what the Japs do to their prisoners."

"The reason I was sending you back to The Rock," Weston said, slowly, "is that I had reached much the same conclusion."

"I figured maybe that was it when I heard you bullshit them officers," Everly said.

"I'm a pilot," Weston said. "If I can get to Australia, I can do some good. I'm not doing anybody any good here."

Everly nodded but did not reply.

"Do you have any idea how we can get from here to Mindanao?" Weston asked.

Everly shook his head slowly from side to side. "Except that we're going to need a boat," he said.

"Do you have any idea where we can get a boat?"

Everly shook his head again.

Weston smiled.

"Well, we'll think of something," he said, and held out Everly's Springfield to him. With the other hand, he prepared to take his Thompson back.

"You ever fire a Thompson much, Mr. Weston?"

"Only in Basic Officers' Course," Weston replied. "For familiariza-tion."

"I got a Thompson Expert Bar," Everly said. "Maybe I better keep it." The Expert Bar is one of the specific weapon bars (the others being pistol, rifle, et cetera) attached to the Expert Marksman's Medal.

That's not a suggestion, Weston realized, nor even a request. It is an an-nouncement that he has taken over the Thompson.

"If you think that's the smart thing to do, it's all right with me," Weston said, and handed Everly the two spare magazines Major Paulson had given him.

Did I do that because it was the logical thing to do ? Or because there is something about this man that frightens me? And I didn't want to-have the balls to-challenge him ?

"The way I figure it, we're maybe nine, ten miles from Morong," Ev-erly said. "I don't think it would be smart going into Morong looking for a boat. But maybe we could find something a little out of town, maybe a mile or so. Either side of Morong. There's little coves, or whatever they're called."

"And you speak Spanish," Weston said, thinking aloud.

Everly grunted an acknowledgment.

"And I have five thousand dollars," Weston said, with a touch of enthusi-asm in his voice.

Everly quickly dispelled it.

"If we get caught by the Army snooping around, looking for a boat, we better hope your boat pass works."

"You think that's liable to happen?"

"I don't think we're the only ones trying to get away from Bataan," Ev-erly said matter-of-factly. "And what we're doing is desertion in the face of the enemy."

"Is that how you think of it?"

"That's what it is, Mr. Weston," Everly said, and then turned and started up the side of the ditch, back toward the road.

After Weston climbed up after him, Everly had something else to say:

"I think it would be a good idea, Mr. Weston, if we split your five thou-sand dollars. In case we get separated or something."

Weston didn't like the suggestion, if it was a suggestion. But he took out the envelope and counted out twenty-five hundred dollars and handed it to Ev-erly.

He found a little consolation in the thought that if Everly wanted to steal the money, all he had to do was point the Thompson at him and take it.

"Thanks," Everly said. He removed his canteens from their covers, di-vided the money into two stacks, shoved it into the canteen cases, and then, with some difficulty, replaced the canteens.

Then he started walking down the road. Weston walked after him, very much aware that he was no longer functioning as a Marine officer in command of an enlisted man. Everly had taken command. It was not a comforting thought.

On the other hand, this Old Breed China Marine seems to know what he's doing. And obviously I don't.

[TWO]

The village on the coast was at the end of a winding dirt road-not much more than a trail. It consisted of no more than fifteen crude houses surrounding a well. The houses were built on stilts, obviously as protection against surf and high tides; some were roofed with galvanized steel, others with thatch.

Weston wondered why they didn't build their houses farther away from the water.

The shoreline was mostly dirt and rocks, onto which boats could have been beached. No boats were in sight, however, and no marks were on the shoreline indicating any had been in there, not only since the last tide, but for a long time.

But Weston, his eyes following his nose, saw fish drying.

There are boats around here somewhere.

There was a cantina.

In the cantina were four tables, perhaps a dozen rickety chairs, and a bar onto which a metal Lucky Strike cigarette advertisement had been nailed. A shelf behind the bar held a dozen glasses and half a dozen empty Coca-Cola bottles. It was tended by a very fat Filipino woman with graying hair and bad teeth.

She eyed them suspiciously.

Weston looked at Everly, waiting for him to speak to the woman. After a moment, it became apparent that Everly was waiting for him to say something to her.

Not because I'm the officer in charge, but because he doesn't want her to know he speaks Spanish. Christ, why didn 't I think of that?