Jungle Sniper

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Aboard USS Nashville, preparations were underway for another landing operation — much smaller but no less momentous than the storming of the beaches. This would be the landing that carried General MacArthur back to the shores of the Philippines.

Captured with movie cameras, it would become one of the most iconic moments of the war. MacArthur’s political enemies and even some cynical Americans would scoff at the film images as a publicity stunt. Others would find the scene inspirational, proof of American promises kept and a hard-won moment of victory in what had been a costly war.

But at that moment, the film cameras had yet to roll, and Captain Jim Oatmire was more worried about getting the chin strap of his helmet adjusted properly.

“Dammit,” he finally said in exasperation after trying for the umpteenth time to get the strap the right length to hold the helmet in place. Looking around, he could see that many of the other soldiers and officers simply let their straps dangle.

“Relax, Oatmire,” said Major Lundholm, who had watched in amusement as the staff officer fidgeted with his gear. “If the Japs decide to shoot you, that helmet won’t do you much good. And if you fall in the drink, the last thing you want is that steel washbowl dragging you under.”

“Yes, sir,” Oatmire said, gritting his teeth.

“You’re the one who said he couldn’t wait to hit the beach,” Lundholm pointed out. He spoke with the smug assurance of a man who was staying put on this mighty Brooklyn-class cruiser, safe from any Japanese snipers. “Your wish is my command.”

Not for the first time, Oatmire regretted ever lamenting that he wanted to see some action. Most headquarters staff were happy enough keeping their heads down and counting their blessings that they weren’t out there with the rest of the troops, dodging bullets and swatting mosquitoes. I had to go and open my big mouth. Major Lundholm had promised that he would get a chance to see a combat zone up close and personal. That had been back in Brisbane, when the planning for the invasion of the Philippines was still taking place.

The planning had become a reality when the US invasion fleet finally steamed toward Leyte with General MacArthur and his staff aboard. Not long after the voyage began, the major had informed Oatmire that he’d be going ashore on A-Day. Oatmire hadn’t been able to sleep for several nights, thinking that he would be going ashore with a combat unit.

Like any man, he’d had to face his fears. Chief among them had been the very real threat of death on the beach. Second, Oatmire had wondered how he would hold up. Would he act like a man, or would he be a coward? It was easy to be brave before the bullets started flying. To his surprise, Oatmire had eventually realized that he feared being a coward more than he feared dying.

But early that morning, just when he’d been ready to scrabble down the rope netting into one of the landing craft carrying the first wave of troops ashore, Oatmire had been pulled aside and told, “Not yet, Oatmire.”

Oatmire had been mystified at first, but then he realized it was all part of a cruel joke on Major Lundholm’s part. What the major hadn’t told Oatmire was that he wasn’t going to be part of the beach landing but would be part of the team going ashore with the general. It was just like Lundholm to let Oatmire stew over thinking that he would be baring his teeth into a storm of Japanese lead rather than the pop of flashbulbs. All those sleepless nights had been for nothing.

Hours later, he was fiddling with his chin strap. He didn’t even have a rifle or a sidearm. Instead, he had been given a briefcase full of documents to carry ashore. The briefcase was damn heavy. The primary beach landings might be over, but the paperwork was just beginning, Oatmire thought ruefully. Then again, if it came down to it, he supposed that the briefcase would do a pretty good job of stopping a bullet.

He glanced over at Major Lundholm and thought, You son of a bitch. What he’d like more than anything was to whip off his heavy steel helmet and beat Lundholm to death with it. Considering that he was younger and bigger than Lundholm, he had no doubts that he’d be successful. However, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his days in Fort Leavenworth. Lundholm just wasn’t worth it.

Deep down he had to admit that he’d experienced a sense of relief when he’d been held back from getting into that landing craft. He felt guilty about that. Worst of all, he was never going to be able to answer that question he had wrestled with for the past three nights, tossing and turning in the sweaty sheets of his bunk aboard USS Nashville. Was he a coward or was he a real soldier? Oatmire now feared that he’d never find out.

Nearly two and a half years had passed since MacArthur’s defeat at the hands of the Japanese during their surprise invasion of the US-controlled islands. Some still blamed MacArthur for the defeat, but the US forces had simply been overwhelmed from the air and from the sea.

His famous vow had been made at that time: “I shall return.”

On this day, that was just what the general was doing.

However, he was not making the trip alone. This was a symbolic landing.

Despite the seemingly spontaneous air that would be captured for newsreel, nothing about the landing had been left to chance. The general’s staff had made certain that there were plenty of film cameras on hand to capture the moment, both on the landing craft taking the general and his party to shore and on the beach itself. Perhaps more than any other general, MacArthur understood that the people of a democracy didn’t just need to hear the news of victory — they needed to see it on movie screens back home.

Along with the craft carrying MacArthur, there was another boat filled with newspaper and magazine writers. They had been handpicked because they had written articles that were favorable to the general. On deck, he had taken a few minutes to joke with the men and even pose for a group photograph. Long before he had been the commanding general, MacArthur had been a press officer. He understood how to work with reporters — he even liked them.

On the surface, these men seemed to be more cogs in the wheel of MacArthur’s well-oiled publicity machine, even if some of their bylines were semifamous. But in all fairness, the truth was that folks back home didn’t want to read any negative news about the war. They’d had enough bad news from places like Guadalcanal. They wanted to read about ordinary heroes and larger-than-life generals and admirals. The journalists were happy enough to give them just that.

In the small vessel bobbing alongside the ship, the official group assembled. The VIPs included Sergio Osmeña, president in exile of the democratic government of the Philippines.

Wearing a pith helmet and an army uniform despite his civilian role, Osmeña had acquired a rifle and appeared ready to use it on any Japanese. Oatmire had to admit that the wiry politician looked as though he could hold his own if it came down to a fight. Also along for the landing was General Sutherland, who was MacArthur’s chief of staff.

Front and center was General MacArthur, wearing his Philippine Army field marshal’s cap, a pipe stuck between his teeth. He wore a sharply pressed uniform and well-shined shoes — no combat gear for him. A pair of aviator sunglasses made his face appear stony and unreadable.

Oatmire got aboard last, tumbling the last few feet when a wave slapped the boat away from the netting, causing him to miscalculate the final drop. He landed heavily, hugging the briefcase to keep it from splashing into the Pacific. It was a less-than-glamorous arrival, prompting MacArthur to remark to the military cameraman, “Be sure to cut out that last bit.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then the boat was moving away, cutting through the blue waters of the Pacific. They had ten miles to go before reaching shore, but the hills of Leyte soon came into sight — along with the columns of smoke from burning fires.

The boat did not race to shore with any urgency. The experienced helmsman seemed to be taking his time, finding a path through the waves that didn’t kick up so much spray that his high-ranking cargo got soaked through before the photo op. During the trip, MacArthur chatted with Sutherland and Osmeña, but Oatmire couldn’t hear what they were saying over the sea breeze.

The breeze wasn’t enough to mask the sound of artillery, which grew louder as they approached the beach. Now and then the chattering sound of a Nambu machine gun carried out over the water. It was a reminder that the fight for the Philippines remained in full swing. The passengers in the landing craft seemed nonchalant about the danger, but the truth was that they were headed into a war zone. Oatmire touched his helmet and gulped.

The beach itself looked as busy as Times Square — if Times Square had been bustling with landing craft, tanks struggling through the sand, and hordes of soldiers moving in every direction. Planes roared over it all, sometimes no more than a hundred feet above the sand. As a backdrop, they could see more smoke and hear the steady thump of artillery and mortars.

Closer to shore, the water was filled with vessels of all shapes and sizes, so that the helmsman had to steer carefully through the competing wakes. He had a designated landing spot in mind.

Captain Gaetano Faillace, the general’s staff photographer, had gone ahead of the landing party to capture the moment. Oatmire could see him on shore, a solitary figure armed with a camera.

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.