But the 105th EOD Det spent most of its time blowing things UP, and Lieutenant Whittaker-who had learned the art at sixteen from a man who had blown a railroad tunnel through the Rocky Mountains-was the most skilled sonofabitch Withers had ever seen with any kind of explosives. He took down bridges, closed tunnels, ruptured dams, and laid trees across roads with a skill that could only be called artistry. And when he was not blowing something up, he was leaving lethal traps for the advancing Japanese.
The one thing Luzon Force had in abundance was field artillery ammunition. There weren’t, in fact, enough cannon and howitzers to fire all they had, although the cannon were seldom silent. Whittaker had decided that the less of this abundance that fell into the hands of the Japanese, the better. Thus bagged powder charges for rted into demolition material, and the the larger cannon were conve ler, integral ammunition converted to mines. smal Only lately had the advance of the Japanese been so relentless against weakening Philippine-American forces that it had been necessary to blow ammo dumps that couldn’t be moved in place. : Whittaker’s reaction to their inevitable defeat was to look for ward to blowing up the last three ammo dumps on the Bataan Peninsula. He made elaborate plans to do this the moment the first Japanese stepped inside the fence.
“It will look like Mount Vesuvius,” he promised.
Most Americans in Luzon Force based their hopes of survival on making it to Corregidor when the Japanese finally occupied the Bataan Peninsula. Whittaker had other plans. He had found an ancient thirty-four-foot boat, a bit damaged by smallarms fire, sitting with decks nearly awash on the bottom of a small harbor near Mariveles. But her engine was intact, and her tanks were full, and there was extra fuel in fifty-five-gallon barrels in her hold. When the time came, her pumps would work. Whittaker had scuttled her, and he intended to refloat her, make for one of the other islands, and take his men with him.
The major contributing factor to the high morale of the 105th Explosive Ordnance Disposal Detachment was their faith in their commanding officer’s ability to get them off Bataan. The rest of the Battling Bastards were doomed, and everybody knew it, but there was hope for them.
The officer who came looking for Lieutenant Whittaker had both a jeep and relatively clean clothes, although he was as gaunt from the three-eighths rations, no malaria pills, and overwork as anybody else on Bataan. The jeep and clean clothes identified him as a staff officer, probably from as far back as United States Armed Forces, Far East (USAFFE), at the tip of the peninsula.
He carried with him the astonishing information that Lieutenant Whittaker had been ordered to Corregidor, there to report to General MacArthur personally.
“Go back to him and say you couldn’t find me,” Whittaker said. “I don’t intend to get stuck on the Rock.”
“It’s an order, Lieutenant,” the captain said. “No one’s giving you a choice.”
“I’ve got all kinds of choices, Captain,” Jim Whittaker said. “I’m only a temporary soldier.”
=M:. aaw namuzo 3 21
“You’re wearing an officer’s uniform,” the captain said. “You took an oath.”
“Good Christ, under these circumstances, aren’t oaths and the rest of the trappings of officers and gentlemen pretty useless?” Whittaker snapped. “Jesus, the President of the United States gave his word to MacArthur that we would be reinforced and resupplied. With the Commander in Chief lying through his teeth, don’t talk to me about an officer’s honor.”
“Under these circumstances, Lieutenant,” the captain said after a moment, “I would say that an officer’s honor is more important than ever. I won’t try to force you to go with me, but I will not go back and say I couldn’t find you. It took gasoline to come up here.” Whittaker said something in quick, fluent Spanish, and one of his technical sergeants went to the pickup truck and returned with a gallon tin can of gasoline.
“You can have another five gallons if you’re really low,” Whittaker said.
“Hoarding gas, too? You’re a real credit to the officers corps, Whittaker,” the captain said, But he pulled the cushion off the passenger seat so the offered gas could be put into his tank.